And then, like in a nightmare, I could see someone, or something, walking down the hall toward me. My first thought was, It’s an elephant, and it’s coming to kill me, and I thought how weird it would be to read in the newspaper, BOY KILLED BY ELEPHANT IN NEW PARROT. Because that’s what it looked like in the dark: an elephant, or at least something with a trunk sweeping the floor as it came toward me. And then, as it got closer, it looked more like an elephant on its hind legs, or with only two legs, with its trunk sweeping the floor and making a squeaking sound, like a mouse. And then, when it was right in front of me, I could see that it wasn’t an elephant at alclass="underline" it was a man, an old man, leaning on an upright vacuum cleaner that wasn’t totally upright but was instead curved, like an elephant’s trunk might be, and squeaking, like a mouse might. It was like waking up in the middle of the night and seeing a man sitting on your floor and asking him who he is, what he’s doing there, and he doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t answer, until you gradually realize he doesn’t answer because he’s a pile of dirty clothes that you were supposed to put in the hamper, and you end up being relieved and then disappointed. The man pushing the vacuum cleaner turned it on when he got to within a foot of me. It whined.
It whined, but the man didn’t seem to want to push it any farther. He didn’t even seem to notice I was standing right there, in his path. He just stared at the vacuum cleaner, then at the carpet, then at the vacuum cleaner, maybe thinking about the relationship between that which is dirty and that which is supposed to clean it. I took the book out of my jacket pocket — my eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness by now — and looked at the author photo on the back cover, then looked at the man in front of me. Both the man in the picture and the man in front of me wore beards and had cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. The man in front of me looked a little thinner, a little more stooped, a little more wrinkly, a little more used, but that made sense: after all, he was — years older than he’d been when he’d written the book, when the picture on the book had been taken. I could see him smoking and drinking his way from the way he was then to the way he was now. He still hadn’t looked at me; he was still staring at the vacuum cleaner. But I knew it was Exley: it was definitely Exley. I knew it in my bones, too. I felt lucky. That’s what I was thinking — I am so lucky. My dad is so lucky—as I took a step closer to him and said, “Mr. Exley, my name is Miller Le Ray. My dad is a big fan, the biggest.” Then I stuck out my hand, as I’d been taught to do.
Exley looked away from the vacuum cleaner and at me, his watery eyes full of suspicion, if they were full of anything at all. I couldn’t blame him. Who knew how many of his adoring fans came to the New Parrot to get his autograph, to soak up some of his wisdom, to get something from him, some more of what the book had already given them? Who knew how many people had rung that bell, rung it so often that it had begun to go thunk and not ring? Maybe that’s why he didn’t shake my hand. Or maybe he wasn’t strong enough to raise his hand high enough to shake or be shaken. He made a sad, weak noise deep in his throat, staggered a little, then grabbed on to the vacuum cleaner for support. I moved closer to him, and when I did, I started to feel sorry for the vacuum cleaner. He smelled bad, like a baby who’d been left too long in his wet diaper, a baby who’d thrown up and then been covered with that powder that school bus drivers keep handy to cover throw-up, a baby who’d been drinking booze instead of formula. I swore I saw something crawl out of his beard and drop on the floor. I moved back a few steps and toward the door, in the direction of my waiting three-speed.
“Mr. Exley,” I said, “are you OK?”
He shook his head, then kept shaking it, for far longer than was necessary for me to understand that he wasn’t OK, just shaking his head and shaking it like he was rabid. I knew then I had a problem. There was no way I could bring Exley to my father in this condition, which was way too close to my dad’s condition. No, I had to get Exley better before he could do what I needed him to do. And the first thing I needed to do was to get him home, wherever home was.
“Let’s get you home,” I said.
He nodded and made another noise that I understood to mean yes.
“Good,” I said. “Where is it?”
Exley nodded again and opened his mouth to speak, but instead of words, a smell came out. It smelled like something had died in his mouth. The smell did all the talking for him, and what it said was that he wasn’t going to be able to tell me where his home was. But maybe, like a dog in a movie I once saw, he could show me the way home if I just got him out of the New Parrot. I couldn’t expect him to walk while I rode, though, and I couldn’t expect him to ride, either. And I didn’t think I could support both Exley and my bike. So I let him bring his vacuum cleaner. “Let’s go home,” I told him. He nodded and pushed the vacuum cleaner out the front door, out of the parking lot, and left, down the long, long hill into town. It’s working, I thought. I found Exley already and he’s leading me to his house, and as soon as he’s ready, I’ll lead him to my dad. It’s really working! But I should also say that even if it was working, it wasn’t working very fast: plenty of cars had time to pass us, turn around, and pass us again to make sure they’d seen us right the first time. I don’t blame them. We probably made quite a scene, me walking with my three-speed Huffy, Exley walking with his beat-up upright Hoover, making our slow way down Washington Street. If a book is made up of things that are hard to believe, then we were like something out of a book. Maybe, I thought, once I got Exley back into shape, he’d end up writing it.
Doctor’s Notes (Entry 4)
After three unproductive — unproductive and, indeed, counterproductive — meetings with M., I try a new approach and ask the patient if he has ideas as to how I might help him. M. considers this for several moments and then makes an odd request: that I become a different doctor, with a different name, a different manner of speaking and dressing. Even a different hairstyle. Even a beard. M. goes so far as to suggest — suggest and, indeed, encourage—specific things for me to say at certain moments during our meeting: when I first greet the patient, after the patient tells me his most innermost thoughts and fears, when I say good-bye to the patient, etc. Strangely, I agree. Possibly because M. is onto something. Possibly because normal strategies seem not to be working. Possibly because M. is right: possibly a change in doctoring is in order. Possibly Dr. Horatio Pahnee (the name M. has given me) will be able to heal M. whereas I have failed. In any case, I shall think of it as a study — a study and, indeed, a clinical study; if findings are satisfactory, I will present them during my speech at the North Country Mental Health Professionals’ annual meeting later this autumn.