Being scolded by a girl maybe half his age; was his life working out, or what? “I wasn’t asking about the drugs. There was a watercolor painting in the bag, and I don’t remember—”
“Oh, that,” said Amber. “I wondered where that came from. It’s in here, safe and sound. Would you like me to take it to your room?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He took his shower—feeling as if he hadn’t bathed in a month—then cleaned off his shirt, dressed, towel-dried his hair, went back into the main area, plopped down in one of the surprisingly comfortable easy chairs, flipped around the channels until he saw what looked like a movie, and sat back to watch, fighting the effects of the medication every step of the way. Man did this stuff kick your ass in a hurry.
This scene in the movie took place in a dim, shabby room. An actor who looked familiar was lying in a bed. Next to the bed, a large black man, balding, sporting a goatee, sat in a chair with an oversized, dusty, leather-covered book on his lap, its pages opened to reveal—as the camera cut to a close-up—an illustration of a creature that might have been the twin of the camera-thing Martin had seen on the roof of the building last night.
Now it had his full attention.
Next to the illustration, encased in a delicately etched square of trellised lilacs, was a large dark A scripted in the most eloquent calligraphy Martin had ever seen.
It was, he realized, an ancient book.
The camera cut to a medium shot of the room, showing the bed and the man sitting next to it; the large black man cleared his throat, smiled, took a drink from a silver chalice, and began reading from the ancient book:
“‘An old magic man wakes one morning to find that the magic in his mind has grown so heavy that his head sinks down into his shoulders from the weight of it all. Since only his forehead and eyes are now visible, he knows it’s time to store some of his magic elsewhere, until such time as he needs it, or else he’s going to attract some very odd stares when he goes out.
“‘An old magic man rummages through his kitchen drawers until he finds the steel mallet he uses to soften up the tough but inexpensive meat he buys from the butcher. “Just a little hole,” he says to himself. “Only big enough to drain off the excess magic.”
“‘But an old magic man’s judgment isn’t what it used to be—he hits himself far too hard, and the hole he punches into his head is much larger than he intended; magic pours from his skull like a waterfall. “Well, shit-fire and save the matches!” he says, watching as his magic assumes various forms: an aviatrix with three rabbits’ heads; oversized clown puppets with severe curvature of the spine; gargoyles in expensive three-piece pin-striped suits; a large wooden mask with onyx-dark eyes that looks like the head of a soldier wearing a crown . . . all of these forms and more ooze from an old magic man’s skull as he searches frantically for something with which he can stuff up the hole.
“‘Never being one who thinks clearly when in the grip of panic, an old magic man grabs the first thing he sees that looks like it might do the trick—the drain plug from his sink. It does very nicely, but now his room is overflowing with bits and pieces of his magic; bobbing in the air as it eats his cookies, scurrying on multiple legs as it looks through the books on his shelves, unfurling massive rainbow wings as it smokes his cigarettes, dropping ashes onto the sofa. He asks it to stop behaving so inconsiderately, but it ignores him and eats all his groceries and makes rude noises and in general makes the morning quite unpleasant. An old magic man screams and shouts at the magic to sit down and for goodness’ sake behave itself. It doesn’t listen to him; it’s been cooped up in his head for so long that all this extra room is just too tempting to resist.
“‘Down in the street, a young boy hears an old magic man’s cries and, fearing that the odd fellow might be in some sort of trouble, rushes into the building and up to an old magic man’s cluttered room. He flings open the door with such force that all the escaped magic—except for the wooden soldier mask, which manages to hide beneath the sofa—is squashed into one enormous blob and bursts.
“‘Hours later they are still trying to scrub it off the young boy, but to no avail; it has soaked into the boy’s skin. “Well,” says an old magic man, looking down at the young boy who is very short, “it appears we have a problem.” “I’ve never felt magic before,” says the young boy, looking up at an old magic man, who is a giant. “Is it supposed to itch like this?” “You’ll get used to it,” says an old magic man, scratching under one of his arms, then: “Say, you’re not by chance looking for a job, are you?”
“‘And that is how an old magic man found his apprentice.’”
The actor in the bed tried to sit up but found his body was too weak, and in a moment that knocked the breath from his lungs and the strength from his arms, Martin realized that it wasn’t any well-known familiar actor, it was him. “Why are you reading this to me?” his on-screen self asked the large black man. The large black man winked. “Patience never was one of your strong points, was it?” Once again Martin-on-the-screen tried to move, but his limbs were useless. “I can’t seem to . . . Jesus! Help me, will you?” “That’s the idea,” said the large black man, wetting his thumb and turning the page. “By the way, Martin . . .”
. . . Martin . . .
“. . . Martin . . .”
“Martin!”
He blinked his eyes and saw Dr. Hayes standing over him, her hand still on his shoulder from having shaken him.
“I see you took your morning medications,” she said, smiling at him as she turned off the television, then sat down in the easy chair opposite his. “They pack a bit of a punch, don’t they?”
“Uh . . . yeah . . . yeah, they do.” He pulled himself up, stretched his back, and leaned forward. “Sorry about that. Was I asleep?”
“I couldn’t tell, but after you didn’t respond to me saying your name, I just assumed . . . .”
“I don’t remember falling asleep . . . I mean, it feels like I was maybe asleep, but
. . .” he sighed. “I’m babbling. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. The first day or two we have to go through a sort of trail-and-error with the medications, see which ones you best respond to. Most clients are fairly numb the first thirty-six hours or so. Some of the combinations do a real number on people. Are you okay now? You up for this?”
Martin shrugged. “I’d kill for a cup of real coffee right about now. That was a figure of speech, by the way, the ‘kill for’ part.” “I figured.” Martin stared at a large carry-out cup of coffee that Dr. Hayes had brought in with her. “I see that you covet my café mocha.” He looked up at her. “If I got an empty cup, could I have just a little bit?” “Caffeine is against the rules, Martin.” “Please? I promise you I’m not going to flip out or start bouncing off the walls or take hostages.”
“Actually, Martin, I’m a fairly selfish person—comes from growing up as the youngest child with three older brothers who never left my stuff alone. I don’t like sharing. However—” She reached behind her and picked up another cup of carry-out coffee. “—I’m also not inconsiderate.” She handed the cup to Martin. “Anyone asks, that’s decaffeinated, got it?”