The New and Improved Romie Futch Page 10

  “What the fuck?” I squawked. “You strapped me down?”

  “In case of convulsions.” Dr. Morrow gave me a stern frown. “Chloe will unstrap you in just a minute.”

  “Convulsions?”

  “Petit mal seizures caused by temporary electrical disturbances in the brain.”

  “What kind of electrical disturbances?”

  Before Dr. Morrow could swindle me with another stream of jargon, Chloe breezed into the lab, her face marred with a black eye.

  “See why we had to restrain you?” Dr. Morrow shook his head.

  “God,” I said. “I’m sorry, but—”

  “No prob.” Chloe smiled—a strained simper. “Part of the job description.”

  “But it’s not my fault,” I said. “I’m just a powerless guinea pig and these so-called electrical disturbances are side effects of the BAIT downloads. I wasn’t even conscious when I kicked you.”

  “Actually,” said Dr. Morrow, “you were.”

  “Only partially.” Chloe unfastened my Velcro leg straps. “And we’re ironing everything out. You should be fit as a fiddle now.”

  “What the fuck did you do to me?”

  As I struggled against the straps, Dr. Morrow eased away from me.

  “We installed a program that will block any unsolicited signals and microprograms,” he said sternly, “for your own good.”

  “Unsolicited signals? What the hell do you mean by unsolicited signals and microprograms?”

  “Some of the downloads may have contained residual data from previous digital models,” said Dr. Morrow. “No biggie.”

  “You mean viruses?”

  I said it. The nasty word festered in the silent room like an Ebola strain in a petri dish. As Dr. Morrow rubbed his nose and picked a dot of invisible lint from his lab coat, I felt my stomach liquefy and ooze into my large intestine.

  “Not exactly,” he said.

  “Very encouraging.”

  “Ha, ha,” said Dr. Morrow. “I am Ironic Man.”

  He even attempted to do the robot voice, very badly, which made me think he was unfamiliar with the Sabbath song. He grinned like a fox.

  Of course they’d been watching us all along.

  “We know about your little chemistry experiment, Mr. Futch,” said Dr. Morrow. “We detected alarming rates of alcohol, dextromethorphan, and toxic tropane alkaloids in your blood sample, which we have in cryogenic storage should we find ourselves in a legal suit. We trust you have read the consent form. We assume you are aware that we may nullify your participation in this study without compensation for consuming unapproved medications and/or intoxicants.”

  “But we’d love for you to stay on board,” chirped Chloe.

  “Look,” I said. “I know something funny was going on with Al and Vernon. I don’t think either of their conditions is listed under ‘Risks and Discomforts.’”

  “I think the unknown-side-effects clause has them covered,” said Chloe. “Though you should know that Al is feeling much better now after his scan.”

  “Also,” said Dr. Morrow, “since substance abuse increases the likelihood of suffering unknown side effects, you are the one who has put yourself at risk, as the consent form clearly indicates.”

  “This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been abusing intoxicants.” Chloe actually wagged a finger at me.

  “What about Vernon? He wasn’t drinking anything, and look—”

  “Vernon had other issues,” said Dr. Morrow.

  “Had?”

  “Still does, as far as we know,” said Chloe.

  “Where is he?”

  “Unfortunately, he opted not to continue the experiments,” said Dr. Morrow.

  “Sounds like a smart decision to me, though I have my doubts that this was a conscious choice on his part,” I said. “What if I choose to stop this madness now? Will I get any compensation at all?”

  “Well”—Chloe smiled brightly—“you’re only a dozen BAITs away from phase three testing. So you’re almost there! Why not finish the last sprint and collect your six grand?”

  “I thought I still had hundreds to go before reaching FCC?”

  “Change of plans,” Chloe said tightly. “We’re going to get you out of here earlier than planned.”

  “And we’ll throw in an extra thousand to compensate for your, um, setback,” said Dr. Morrow.

  “Just think about it,” said Chloe.

  “We can assure you,” said Dr. Morrow, “that after today, all unsolicited signals and microprograms will be blocked.”

  “The awesome thing about the final series,” said Chloe, who looked pretty pitiful with that black eye, “is that you get to choose among a number of arts-related subjects: dance, music, painting, sculpture. We’ll show you the program tomorrow. You should be able to knock them out in two days.”

  “And then what?”

  “A few days for the downloads, a few for testing, and you’ll be good to go. You’ll even get out of here a week before planned, with seven thou jangling in your pocket.”

  “As a taxidermist whose career has reached a rough patch,” said Dr. Morrow, “I think you would benefit from the visual arts modules. But don’t answer now. Take a night to think it over.”

  “Can you fucking unstrap me now?”

  “In just a minute.”

  He popped on my brain hologram. I watched it twirl in the empty air.

  “Everything’s pretty much back to normal!” said Chloe.

  Dr. Morrow pressed a few buttons on his micropad and I felt the waning of adrenaline, the fight leaking out of me. Cautiously, Dr. Morrow unfastened my straps.

  • •

  I stood beside the railing of my budget balcony, watching dark clouds roil over the parking lot as I checked my messages: texts galore from Helen, a few semiurgent lines from both Crystal and Lee, an assortment of irate taxidermy customer e-mails, a terse voice-mail blip from Dad, and one sarcastic voice mail from Chip Watts, who—clearly wasted and shouting in a crowded bar—said he’d buy me a round of Jäger the second I busted out.

  In several redundant messages, Helen declared that our friendship was important to her: You’ll always be a formative influence in my life no matter what. She accused me of being unfairly judgmental toward Boykin. Begged me to please call, text, e-mail, E-Live poke—show some sign of life, some indication that I was breathing, still on this planet, still the same old Romie Futch she’d always known and . . .

  No, she did not complete the sentence with the tender word loved, or use ellipses to imply it. She ended this message abruptly, probably in a fluster of furious emotion, and started on another harangue, raving about my potential, about the dark path I’d taken in life, about the countless ways I needed to grow up. Clichés, all, from the realm of romantic comedy.

  While she worked part time at Technomatic Quick Lab, sucking the flabby man boob of a sugar daddy, she had the nerve to talk about my immaturity and potential—as though she need not aspire to the same standards due to her gender.

  You’ve internalized your status as Other, I wanted to write. What the hell happened to your dreams of becoming a marine biologist? I wanted to write. Why do you succumb to the socially prescribed role of cheerleader to a privileged white male? I wanted to write. At least I try to express my artistic vision in my own humble way—I actually did type this into my phone—though you probably look down your nose at taxidermists now that you’re dating a possum-faced pen pusher and patron of the arts who wouldn’t know real art if it crawled up his butthole and painted Sistine Chapel frescoes on the inside of his rectum.

  I deleted this message, however, and opted to maintain a state of mysterious, sulky silence. Prodded by the Imp of the Perverse, a nihilistic jolt of self-destruction, I decided to go ahead with the fucking downloads—give my brain one final dose of High Art before heading back to Hampton. I needed a drink, badly. But our Pep cooler had been confiscated. It was almost six o’clock. I realized I was starving, so I
walked down to the cafeteria to see what the BAIT boys were up to.

  • •

  Sans Vernon, they were huddled around Irvin. Even Al was there, looking mildly concerned, and I hoped against hope that the virus scan had restored him. Sprawled in a chair, Irvin pressed a bloody tissue to his nose.

  “What the hell?” I said.

  “Dude just kicked Dr. Morrow’s ass,” piped Skeeter.

  “Hyperbole,” said Irvin, his voice a nasal croak.

  Irvin sat up, removed the tissue, gave us a full look-see at his battered nose, which was swollen and oozing a rivulet of blood.

  “Told them I wanted out,” said Irvin, reapplying his Kleenex, “fuck their stipend. According to the contract, I could still split with a piddly two grand after their vampiric prorate. But Morrow said any BAITs conducted after our foray with substance abuse were bogus, that I’d get nada if I didn’t submit. Can you believe he actually used that loaded term?”

  “But then you wupped his ass,” said Skeeter.

  “Not exactly. Of course they offered me an inky backroom deal, promising a full return with an extra thou if I’d agree to a couple more sessions and some tests. Said they’d forget they had a damning DNA sample stashed in cryogenic deep freeze. So I let that sink in—tried to figure out how they got that off me—if they crept into my room while I was slumbering. Naturally, this pissed me off, so I jumped up out of my chair, and Dr. Morrow tried to push me down. Then bam—I got him in a crippler crossface, but he’s stronger than he looks. Elbowed me in the nose. At least I got in an uppercut to his jaw before the security guard materialized to put me in a headlock.”

  Everybody let out a whoop in unison and raised clenched fists.

  “When did this happen?” I asked.

  “Maybe twenty minutes ago?” said Irvin.

  “Can you even detect intoxicants in a DNA sample?” asked Trippy. “Sounds like a hustle to me.”

  “Only way to find out would be to blow my stipend on some low-rent lawyer,” said Irvin, “probably end up paying the monthly on his Porsche with nothing to show.”

  “Totally,” I said.

  “Chloe had the audacity to start rubbing my arm,” said Irvin. “Tried to sweet-talk me into staying on.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Said I had to think about it, but only so they’d give me some space, give me the opportunity to cut out. Wanted to let y’all know what happened. See how everybody else was doing first.”

  We compared notes: everybody else had been coerced into submitting to the same scans I’d received in a state of unconscious innocence. Al stated that he had “undergone the procedures,” but would reveal nothing more about it. Skeeter had done so reluctantly, only after Morrow mentioned the extra bucks, while Trippy had managed to bargain for an extra two grand, which pissed the rest of us off. Irvin, ever the levelheaded patriarch, decided he was going to refuse any more procedures.

  “Cutting my losses, youngbloods,” he said. “Prorate or no prorate, seizures or no, I’m out of here.”

  “Where you going, Irv?” asked Skeeter.

  “Gonna toot in a square beach band for a few months, hit retirement communities in the Myrtle Beach area. I’ll be revitalizing the sluggish blood of elderly shaggers with my golden horn. After that, maybe Florida; depends on what this cat Turtle’s got lined up. Swears the geriatric dance scene is ripe for plundering. A couple thou per gig, plus tips if there’s booze involved, divided six ways after overhead, grub and lodging not provided.”

  Irvin said he’d be departing ASAP, before those bastards tried to stop him, and he advised us to think hard about our next move.

  “Don’t let that money blind you,” he said, unstanching his nose to give us a fatherly stare before reapplying pressure. At this point everybody but Al looked down at the floor, and I knew that Skeeter and Trippy would go on with the last round, just as I would.

  “I figure the damage is already done.” Trippy sighed. “So why not reap what’s mine?”

  “Exactly,” said Skeeter. “They already revamped our brains from the bottom up. What more can they do?”

  “That’s the thing,” said Irvin. “No telling. But I see I’m the odd man out; call me old-fashioned. Here’s my digits.”

  Irvin passed around an actual card—Irvin Mood, Trumpeter, The Fifth Dementia—e-mail and phone number inscribed.

  “Alas, the band’s defunct,” he said. “But the contact info’s good. We ought to keep in touch, compare notes. No telling what’ll go down years hence. And I want to see how it all shakes out.”

  We sent Irvin off with a round of handshakes and gruff hugs. I felt like a coward as I watched him walk away, the only one among us with the integrity to resist the pull of Mammon. And then we sat down to a grim institutional supper of deep-fried nuggets and assorted potato products.

  “What do you think’s up with Vernon?” asked Trippy, breaking a round of silence.

  “Probably wallowing in a ditch someplace,” I said. “Still spitting out endless streams of verbiage.”

  “We all know the official story,” said Trippy. “Signed a release form, yada yada.”

  “I smell a rat,” said Skeeter.

  “Who knows?” said Trippy. “Maybe Vernon did have the balls to skip out.”

  “Vernon doesn’t strike me as particularly blessed in the testicle department,” said Skeeter, a lame attempt at levity. “I see his junk as mouse-like and bald, with a webbing of veins and reeking of baby powder.”

  Everybody forced out a laugh except Al, who’d been strangely silent the whole time, and who now started sputtering as though a speech impediment was preventing the delivery of some urgent bit of information.

  “Dtho, dtho, dtho,” he spat, bobbing his head like a chicken and clenching his fists in frustration. And then he went silent, leaned back in his chair, and gazed down at his last french fry, a twisted, burnt mutant that looked like some undead witch’s pinkie. He plucked up the morsel. Took a rodent nibble. Swallowed. Frowned. Gingerly placed the remainder on the edge of his plastic plate.

  “What’s the matter, Al?” said Skeeter.

  “What?” Al blinked.

  “How you feeling, man?” said Trippy.

  “Never been better,” Al replied, without enthusiasm.

  “You being Ironic Man?” asked Skeeter.

  “I am speaking in earnest,” said Al.

  “What kind of download you scoping for tomorrow?” asked Trippy, trying to get us back into play.

  “I have not yet perused the options,” said Al, taking a careful sip of Sprite.

  “I’ll prolly go with music,” said Trippy, giving me a covert what-the-fuck look. “Ever since I saw that Eurhythmics video in 1983—‘Sweet Dreams Are Made of This’—I always wanted to rock a cello, though back then I was too tough to admit it.”

  “Talking ’bout that masked neo-romantic babe in the eerie cow pasture?” I said.

  “Word,” said Trippy.

  “I know what you mean, man.”

  “Funny you should say that, bo,” said Skeeter. “I feel the same way about the violin, but it was ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’ that put the fire under my ass. I’ve still got some postcolonial lit to get through, a half day at most, they said, and then I’ll have my pick of arts modules.”

  “Gnu, gnu, gnu,” said Al. “Gnu.”

  “What’s happening, man?” asked Trippy.

  “Nothing.” Al stood up, scooped up his tray. “Now, if you’ll please excuse me, gentlemen, I shall be returning to my room forthwith.”

  Balancing an imaginary pile of books on his head, Al strode stiffly from the cafeteria.

  • •

  “Yay!” squealed Chloe, looking even younger as she clapped her hands. “You decided to go for it! You won’t be sorry.”

  “What’s up?” said Josh. “You ready to make your selection? It’s all pretty cut-and-dried.”

  He handed me yet another form, the usual consent sleaze, co
upled with a list of BAIT categories: Music: History, Theory, and Practice; Visual Arts: History, Theory, and Practice; Theater: History, Theory, and Practice; and Dance: History, Theory, and Practice. After selecting visual arts, I had to choose among Graphics and Computing, 3-D Design, and Illustration and Painting. Without hesitation I went for 3-D design, scrawled my John Hancock beneath several dense blocks of fine print, and, with a devil-may-care toss of my thinning ponytail, climbed into the hot seat.

  Josh initiated a high-five and pounded my tentatively raised palm. Chloe daubed my temples and cranial bald spots with especial gentleness. Brushing bagel crumbs from his chin, Dr. Morrow emerged from his sanctified office to do the honors of applying my electrodes. I still wanted to smash his chiseled jaw, but I pulled myself together.

  Orbed in a halo of light, the neurologist receded as I began the familiar descent into the dark well that always preceded the onset of a BAIT session. I braced myself for whatever random memory would soon come swirling up from the obscure convolutions of my frontal cortex.

  Nine years old, shirtless, I padded down the hallway of our old ranch house, the algae-green carpet spongy beneath my bare feet, my head stuffed with unsettling dreams. My mother was at the end of the hall in her sewing room, bent over a chugging Singer, her hair a glossy spill, the deep auburn of dry pine needles. She looked up at me, smiled slyly, and held up a tiny pair of trousers for Dad’s new novelty line. The bookcase behind her displayed a variety of miniature squirrel athletes: a gray squirrel hurling a football, a brown squirrel shooting hoops, a rare white squirrel from the North Carolina mountains teeing off with a tiny club. Mom pressed the fairy-size britches against Dad’s golfer squirrel and chuckled.

  Her laughter filled the room like a cloud of furry moths. I was still coltish, silk-skinned, could still press myself against her mammalian warmth without shame. When she hugged me, I got a deep whiff of lavender talc, plus obscure pheromones that calmed me. She never rushed me back to bed. Never complained about the insomnia that’d started to torture her after she hit thirty-five.