“It never rains in southern California,” the man whispered to him over the counter of the Dog Kabob. Michael nodded in understanding. This was one of his real customers.
Michael wasn’t sure how it all got started. Perhaps it had been that suicidal housewife he had hugged in the supermarket once, completely reversing her depressive nature—or maybe word got out when he shook the hand of the guy who smacked his kids around, permanently melting his angry temperament into a cool, even disposition. Or maybe it was his father, who kept bringing Michael into his sales office, knowing that Michael could, with a single grin, woo people into feeling it was a pleasure to buy anything. In any case, a few months after moving to California, troubled people began to secretly seek Michael out, and ask for favors.
“How can I help you?” Michael asked the man at the Dog Kabob counter.
“It’s not me,” the man said. He looked around to make sure no one else was nearby, then he leaned in closer. “It’s my son who needs your help.”
The man looked to be fairly well off. A tailored suit, Armani tie. Michael wondered how much he’d be willing to pay for Michael’s services. Sometimes his customers paid very well. Well enough for Michael and his father to buy the beach house, and the sports car, and all the other trappings that made Newport Beach what it is. His father, having glimpsed Michael’s special talent, decided not to ask too many questions when money seemed to appear in the bank account. Besides, Michael had tweaked his father’s nature, turning the man into an incurable optimist, so how could he be anything but thrilled?
Usually people would show up at the Dog Kabob with melancholy tales of disappointment, depression, or despair. Some requests were heartbreaking; others were merely self-indulgent. “Make me feel better,” was always the bottom line, and Michael delivered. By now he was single-handedly putting the local shrinks out of business.
“Go on, I’m listening,” said Michael.
“My son’s a good kid,” the man whispered. “He does well in school—a shoe-in for the Ivy League . . .”
“So what’s the problem?” Michael asked, a bit impatiently.
“He’s got a problem with the girls.”
Michael felt his own toes start to get cold. A wind began to buffet the windows of the food court.
“What kind of problem?”
“Well, you see—it’s like this...” The man stammered, and gestured with his hands, fumbling to spit out what he was trying to say. “My son . . . he doesn’t entirely appreciate them—girls, that is. He doesn’t . . . he doesn’t have the requisite feelings for them, so to speak,” whispered the man desperately. “In fact his feelings are decidedly . . . off. Do you see what I’m saying?”
Michael cut him off curtly. “I’m sorry, sir, all we sell here are lemonade and hot dogs.”
The man reeled, confused. “But . . . but I was told—"
“You were told wrong.” Michael handed him a corn dog. “Take it. It’s on the house. May I help the next in line, please?”
The man, corn dog in hand, gazed at Michael despondently, then turned to leave. But even after he was gone, Michael couldn’t relax.
There had been others like this man. Too many. People who came in wanting to change their own natures, or the nature of someone they loved.
Michael knew it was in his power to do it, but a cold front always seemed to blow in whenever he considered it. Switching winds and easing depression was one thing—but altering a person’s sexual desire? His thoughts would instantly fill with the memory of the libidinous parasite that had violated his soul. The thing was a succubus, thriving on his member, driving him mad with desire for every woman around him, and filling those girls and women with the same desire.
But it had been dead for a year—and since it was gone, he no longer remembered how that felt. There was no one who aroused him anymore; his sense of passion—his sense of love—was stripped from him entirely, leaving him emotionally castrated. Yes, it might have been in his power to alter a person’s nature—but how dare he change the shape of someone else’s desire, when he felt no desire of his own?
It was easy to ignore when the world was a sunny day, and no one asked him questions . . . but a wind was blowing now, and stormclouds flowed in from all directions.
He was drenched by a relentless downpour on his way home, and when he got there, Drew was sprawled on the sofa, freeloading leftover Chinese food.
“What are you doing here?”
“Political asylum,” said Drew. “My parents go ballistic at least once a month, and today they took it out on me. So I launched a major counteroffensive.”
“You had a blowout?”
“We’re talking megatons. I doubt we’ll be able to resume diplomatic relations anytime soon.” Drew held out the leftovers to Michael. “Kung pao?”
Michael shook his head and deposited himself like a bag of laundry on the plush leather sofa.
“C’mon, Michael,” Drew taunted. “Hot and sizzling, fresh out of the microwave—I know it’s your favorite.”
Michael ignored him, trying to sink into the sofa as far as he could go. He wanted to disappear—not think, not feel—and he didn’t care if his mood brought in a season of monsoons.
Drew finished off the last few chunks of kung pao chicken, as he watched Michael.
“Tough day at the Dog?” he asked.
“Not in the mood,” Michael answered.
Drew picked up the remote, muting the annoying blasts of laughter from the sitcom he was watching, and Michael closed his eyes, listening to the rain on the skylight.
“You know, you oughta quit the Dog,” suggested Drew, “and spend some time out, you know? I hear Wendy Holt’s got it bad for you. Hey, if you ask her out, I’ll ask her friend, what’s-her-name. Sound like a plan?”
“No.” Michael closed his eyes tighter and tried to sink farther into the sofa. The rain was sliced by a crosswind, and its tattered edges pummeled the window.
“C’mon, what’s wrong with you anyway? You’re starting to make me feel depressed.”
Michael still had nothing to say.
“Hey, talk or I walk,” said Drew, "’Cause I’m not hanging unless I know why you’re pissed.”
Michael turned to Drew. Although he never had had a brother, he suspected Drew was what a brother might be like on a good day. Michael wasn’t gifted with words, but he didn’t want his silent storming to send Drew packing.
“My brain got a little fried before I moved here,” Michael began. “And now I don’t . . . feel things the way I’m supposed to. Certain things I can feel so intensely, you can’t imagine, but the things I want to feel—the things I need to feel—I get nothing but dead air.”
Drew shook his head sadly. “Drugs’ll do that to you, man. Saute your brain, and leave you impotent to boot.”
Michael dug his fingertips into the arm of the sofa, pushed himself to his feet. “I can’t talk to you. You have no clue what I mean.”
Michael propelled himself gut the back door, into the downpour, but Drew followed, and although Michael tried to run, Drew was faster. They were both drenched by the time Drew caught up with him and grabbed his arm, angrily forcing him to turn around.
“I don’t know what bolt you busted in your head,” shouted Drew, “but whatever it is, it’s not worth getting struck by lightning.”