When we are back in our own building, we go quickly into our individual offices. I sit down and start to reach for the fan. I stop myself, and then I wonder why I stopped myself.
I do not want to work. I want to think about what it is they want to do to my brain and think about what it means. It means more than they say; everything they say means more than it says. Beyond the words is the tone; beyond the tone is the context; beyond the context is the unexplored territory of normal socialization, vast and dark as night, lit by the few pinpricks of similar experience, like stars.
Starlight, one writer said, perfuses the entire universe: the whole thing glows. The dark is an illusion, that writer said. If that is so, then Lucia was right and there is no speed of dark.
But there is simple ignorance, not knowing, and willful ignorance that refuses to know, that covers the light of knowledge with the dark blanket of bias. So I think there may be positive darkness, and I think dark can have a speed.
The books tell me that my brain works very well, even as it is, and that it is much easier to derange the functions of the brain than to repair them. If normal people really can do all the things that are claimed for them, it would be helpful to have that ability… but I am not sure they do.
They do not always understand why other people act as they do. That is obvious when they argue about their reasons, their motives. I have heard someone tell a child, “You are only doing that to annoy me,” when it is clear to me that the child was doing it because the child enjoyed the act itself… was oblivious to its effect on the adult. I have been oblivious like that, so I recognize it in others.
My phone buzzes. I pick it up. “Lou it is Cameron. Do you want to go to supper and have pizza?” His voice runs the words together, mechanically.
“It is Thursday,” I say. “Hi-I’m-Jean is there.”
“Chuy and Bailey and I are going anyway, so we can talk. And you, if you come. Linda is not coming. Dale is not coming.”
“I do not know if I want to come,” I say. “I will think about it. You will go when?”
“As soon as it is five,” he says.
“There are places it is not a good idea to talk about this,” I say.
“The pizza place is not one of those places,” Cameron says.
“Many people know we go there,” I say.
“Surveillance?” Cameron says.
“Yes. But it is a good thing to go there, because we go there. Then meet somewhere else.”
“The Center.”
“No,” I say, thinking of Emmy. “I do not want to go to the Center.”
“Emmy likes you,” Cameron says. “She is not very intelligent, but she likes you.”
“We are not talking about Emmy,” I say.
“We are talking about the treatment, after pizza,” Cameron says. “I do not know where to go except the Center.”
I think of places, but they are all public places. We should not talk about this in public places. Finally I say, “You could come to my apartment.” I have never invited Cameron to my apartment. I have never invited anyone to my apartment.
He is silent a long moment. He has never invited me to his home, either. Finally he says, “I will come. I do not know about the others.”
“I will come to eat supper with you,” I say.
I cannot get to work. I turn on the fan and the spin spirals and pin-wheels turn, but the dancing colored reflections do not soothe me. All I can think about is the project looming over us. It is like the picture of an ocean wave towering over sorneone on a surfboard. The skillful surfer can survive, but the one who is less skilled will be smashed. How can we ride this wave?
I write and print out my address and the directions from the pizza place to my apartment. I have to stop and look at the city map to be sure the directions are right. I am not used to giving directions to other drivers.
At five, I turn off the fan, get up, and leave my office. I have done nothing useful for hours. I feel dull and thick, the internal music like Mahler’s First Symphony, ponderous and heavy. Outside, it is cool, and I shiver. I get into my car, comforted by all four whole tires, a whole windshield, and an engine that starts when I turn the key. I have sent my insurance company a copy of the police report, as the police suggested.
At the pizza place, our usual table is empty; I am earlier than usual. I sit down. Hi-I’m-Jean glances at me and looks away. A moment later Cameron comes in, then Chuy and Bailey and Eric. The table feels unbalanced with only five of us. Chuy moves his chair to the end, and the rest of us shift a little: now it is symmetrical.
I can see the beer sign easily, with its blinking pattern. Tonight it annoys me; I turn a little away. Everyone is twitchy; I am having to bounce my fingers on my legs, and Chuy is twisting his neck back and forth, back and forth. Cameron’s arm moves; he is bouncing his plastic dice in his pocket. As soon as we have ordered, Eric takes out his multicolored pen and starts drawing his patterns.
I wish Dale and Linda were here, too. It feels odd to be without them. When our food comes we eat, almost in silence. Chuy is making a little rhythmic “hunh” between bites, and Bailey is clicking his tongue. When most of the food is gone, I clear my throat. Everyone looks at me quickly, then away.
“Sometimes people need a place to talk,” I say. “Sometimes it can be at someone’s place.”
“It could be at your place?” Chuy asks.
“It could,” I say.
“Not everyone knows where you live,” Cameron says. I know he does not know, either. It is strange how we have to talk about something.
“Here are directions,” I say. I take out the papers and put them on the table. One at a time, the others take the sheets. They do not look at them right away.
“Some people have to get up early,” Bailey says.
“It is not late now,” I say.
“Some people will have to leave before others if others are staying late.”
“I know that,” I say.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There are only two visitor slots in the parking lot, but I know there is room for my visitors’ cars; most of the residents do not keep cars. This apartment building was built back when everyone had at least one car.
I wait in the parking lot until the others have arrived. Then I lead them upstairs. All those feet sound loud on the stairs. I did not know it would be this loud. Danny opens his door.
“Oh— hi, Lou. I wondered what was happening.”
“It is my friends,” I say.
“Good, good,” Danny says. He does not close his door. I do not know what he wants. The others follow me to my door, and I unlock it and let them in.
It feels very strange to have other people in the apartment. Cameron walks around and finally disappears into the bathroom. I can hear him in there. It is like when I lived in a group residence. I did not like that much. Some things should be private; it is not nice to hear someone else in the bathroom. Cameron flushes the toilet, and I hear the water running in the basin, and then he comes out. Chuy looks at me, and I nod. He goes into the bathroom, too. Bailey is looking at my computer.
“I do not have a desk model at home,” he says. “I use my handheld to work through the computer at work.”
“I like having this one,” I say.
Chuy comes back to the living room. “So — what now?”
Cameron looks at me. “Lou, you have been reading about this, haven’t you?”
“Yes.” I get Brain Functionality off the shelf where I put it. “My— a friend loaned me this book. She said it was the best place to start.”
“Is it the woman Emmy talks about?”
“No, someone else. She is a doctor; she is married to a man I know.”
“Is she a brain doctor?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why did she give you the book? Did you ask her about the project?”
“I asked her for a book on brain function. I want to know what they are going to do to our brains.”