No Hope for Gomez! (3 page)

5.

Blog entry: Every once in a while you come across a novel that reminds you why you think you enjoy reading in the first place. A novel so fresh and new that it reacquaints you with feelings of childhood wonder. The novel my neighbor Warren wrote was, quite possibly, the very first example I’d come across of the exact opposite of this. Which presented me with a dilemma: should I tell him the truth and risk hurting his feelings, or should I lie and risk him spending more of his precious time on such a hopeless venture?

After much soul searching I decided to take the middle road and let Warren know that his effort was a piece of singular happenstance for which the literary world was unlikely to be ready in the next one hundred years or so. To ensure that I got my point across clearly, I decided to tell him in his own language, by boiling a pot of fresh salamanders above his balcony at 3:12 a.m.

Blog entry: Awoke optimistic and invigorated. Didn’t suffer at all from my late night adventure. Arrived at the store only a little late and helped Hicks carry some prime examples of antique-hood out to the curb. Today I’d really try to sell something.

Told Hicks to keep an eye on the weather. First sign of rain we’d have to bring the prime examples back in.

Hicks seemed happy enough, so I proceeded to ignore him and started on my blogs.

Blog note: It occurs to me that, in order to stop test subjects from making up strange experiences to mess with the researchers’ heads, it’s good to have the test subjects
like
like their doctor. This means it’s possible that Dr. Hargrove added something to the trial drugs to facilitate this effect. Some kind of aphrodisiac maybe.

It also occurs to me that if this
is
the case, then that’s not very nice of Dr. Hargrove. You can’t mess with a person’s feelings that way.

I try to get upset with Dr. Hargrove about this but don’t manage. All I feel is vague disinterest. Which means I probably am on some kind of aphrodisiac! It’s not like me to tolerate dishonesty.

Or maybe it’s just that it’s hard to get upset about some virtual dishonesty you’ve just made up in your head.

I’ll let this matter rest for the time being.

Blog entry: First rain in weeks. Carried the prime examples back inside, carried some old crap back out. Some of my stuff’s so ugly, a little water damage could only help. Might even make it look older than it is. Don’t know much about antiques, but think this may help with sales.

Went back inside. Toweled off. Did some blogging and waited for customers to be overcome with the urge to buy pre-owned, pre-discarded crap.

No such luck.

Blog entry: Asked to borrow Hicks’ watch. When he wasn’t looking, I moved the time forward 2 hours and 4 minutes. Gave the watch back after 1 hour en 2 minutes.

Headed home at 2:56 p.m.

Blog entry: Ran into my neighbor in the elevator. It was awkward. He asked how the manuscript was coming along and I told him I’d read as much of it as I was going to. After a silence that didn’t last nearly long enough, he asked what I thought of it. I toyed with the idea of telling him it was very neatly printed, and I especially liked the tack he’d put through the left top corner for my convenience, but I opted against it. Instead, I inquired if he had perhaps misinterpreted my feedback for the lonely sounds of a madman boiling salamanders on his balcony late at night for no other reason than that it gave him pleasure.

Warren thought this over, told me he had indeed misinterpreted my feedback. He apologized. I told him not to worry about it.

I tried for another uncomfortable silence but Warren broke it almost immediately. He brought up his manuscript again. I tiptoed around the subject for a while but, as we passed his floor and rose on to mine, I realized I wasn’t going to get rid of him without answering his question. At any rate, I needed to get him off my back before I stepped off the elevator; I couldn’t risk him following me to my apartment.

The elevator slowed and an ominous ‘ding’ told me I was out of time.

Decided to make a final attempt at regaining my freedom; turned to Warren and told him that I’d said everything that could possibly be said with the salamanders and that, as an artist, he should understand I could never sacrifice the intensity of my work (or my feedback) by translating it into a lesser medium. Moreover, it would be an unforgivable waste of perfectly good salamanders.

Warren could do nothing but agree.

Blog entry: Watched some TV. Browsed the net. Ordered in.

Blog entry: First truly quiet night in weeks. Slept well. Woke early and thought some more about Dr. Hargrove and the trial. Wondered again if the drugs were making me like Dr. Hargrove.

Tried to think of reasons why she
shouldn’t
be likable. I couldn’t find any. She’s funny and intelligent, well-mannered and clean, and her smile is exceedingly cute. Also, she has big tits.

Tried to think of other reasons why
I
shouldn’t like her, things that made her ‘not my type.’ If I could find a reason I shouldn’t like her, then I’d know the drugs were making me like her. Unless there was something else making me like her that was neither natural nor the drugs.

Realized I was giving myself a headache.

Decided to get out of bed and find some socks.

6.

Blog entry: Slow day at the store. Decided to comb the net for references to Joseph Miller. If I knew more about the guy, I might figure out what happened to him. Better yet, I might be able to rule out the drug trial as the main cause of his demise, which would allow me to enjoy my visits with Dr. Hargrove once again.

Checked the news sites to see how the police investigation was going. Came across a few articles I hadn’t read before, but none offered up much about the investigation. I did learn Joseph’s age (38) and his marital status (single), plus, there was a reference to some volunteer work he’d done for a local zoo. I made a note to check up on that later – zoos are an ideal place to come into contact with a range of chemicals, poisons, and exotic materials.

Then I checked the various online exhibitionist portals. The sites that allow you to set up a home page, create a blog, or make a book for your face. I weeded out a slew of J. Millers who were either too young or lived too far away, then filtered out all the J’s that weren’t actually Josephs. I was left with three very small, very sober sites.

The first was an attempt Joseph had made at setting up his own poetry site. After posting five or six bland poems, which received virtually no comments, he’d abandoned it. This was about two years ago.

The next site was his old high school site. On it, he introduced himself and wondered whether any of his former classmates wanted to get back in touch.

The last site was a personal blog page he’d apparently updated only rarely.

Blog entry: Guy came into the store carrying a box. He tried to sell me some of his old stuff; a barometer, a dresser from a child’s play set, two hand mirrors, and an ancient looking coat hanger.

He asked me what I thought it was worth, but I had no idea. I put my laptop away and looked his stuff over, offered him a hundred. He didn’t seem happy. It took me a while to realize he wasn’t sure whether I was offering too much or too little. Shrugged and told him he could take it or leave it. He took the money.

Mental note: always hesitate before mentioning monetary amounts. Sellers don’t like it when you just drop a number off the top of your head. Even if it’s higher than they expected.

Blog entry: Told Hicks to update the window displays with the new crap, then set about uploading my edited blogs. While my laptop purred away, I found some time to wonder about talents and the significance of fate and timing. Lately, I’ve been worrying about people born in 1432 AD, who would’ve had a real knack for electronics. It falls short of keeping me up at night, but not by much. Similarly, I tend to fret over people who would’ve been brilliant at a double reed-width manual loom, but who were born last Friday. Definitely, these people were born with a talent not matching their era, which is a terrible waste.

Similar misalignments occur for entire nations, although this is admittedly less tragic. One nation of explorers might do well in the 16
th
century, while another, with a knack for just-in-time production systems, might fare better a few hundred years later. Then I begin to see cycles; the first nation rising back to the top of the economic markets as they explore space, after a nation with a knack for building efficient, high-powered thrust systems creates the necessary equipment to get them up there.

For nations I reserve no worry, but for individuals my heart bleeds.

Blog entry: My laptop beeped to indicate it had done all it could to drop my files off in cyberspace and it was ready for a more challenging task. I told it to try and stop just one piece of Nigerian spam.

Blog entry: Hicks came over to ask me to check the display. “I think you’ll like it,” he said. “It really showcases the wide range of antiques we have to offer.”

“There’s no need,” I said, feeling particularly lazy. “I trust you implicitly.” By which I meant that I didn’t really care. “There are some boxes with old tax papers in the back that you can carry to the storage room.”

Hicks’ shoulders dropped.

“On the other hand,” I said, not wanting Hicks to suffer any more attacks, “a good display is vital for business. Let’s have a look at what you’ve come up with, shall we?”

I hoisted myself out of my chair and followed Hicks to the front of the store. He had indeed displayed a wide range of antiques in the windows. Sadly, I lacked the necessary skills to judge whether the display was any good. As, I suspected, did Hicks.

“Good,” I said. “Well done.” I pointed out a few random objects. “The antiques are, eh, very well displayed.”

Hicks nodded proudly. “Aren’t they?”

“They are.”

“So, what do you like most?” Hicks looked at me expectantly.

“Well, I guess I would have to say, eh, the coat hanger. The way it holds up, eh, that coat, it’s very eclectic.”

“Eclectic?”

“No, esoteric.”

“What?”

“Ironic?”

“Ah, ironic.” Hicks nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I guess it is rather ironic.”

I gave Hicks a pat on the back and watched him amble off to the back, in search of the tax papers. I waited for that warm, fuzzy feeling of having done good, of having successfully motivated a troubled young man, but it didn’t come. Hardly fair. Returned to my desk and started up my laptop.

Blog entry: Back to my Joseph Miller investigation. For lack of better clues I began to read Joseph’s blog. They chronicled his life as a meatpacker for a local slaughterhouse down by the docks. He didn’t seem to enjoy his job much. What I assumed would be a set of amusing work anecdotes, or some boring events described in interesting and unexpected ways, sadly turned out to be dry descriptions of random days. No turns of phrase, no witticisms, not even any good old sarcasm. I couldn’t work out why he’d bothered writing any of it – who the intended audience was. I was hard pressed to believe even a spouse would’ve found anything of interest.

As I read on (scanned, really), it occurred to me how cool it would be to find Joseph’s trial blogs. If I could somehow gain access to his entries on how he’d been progressing during the drug trial, I could make some real progress. He would’ve described any unexpected feelings related to his well-being. Perhaps I’d see a problem developing, something the researchers missed because it progressed slowly and they hadn’t known what was coming. I might be able to distill some kind of early warning signs, something to tip me off if it started happening to me.

(What if it started with paranoia about the trial, then progressed into liking Dr. Hargrove, and ended up with worrying about manual looms?)

Sadly, all I had was this meatpacking blog, which, apparently, chronicled the whole truth and nothing but the truth about meatpacking. Which was quite a lot more than I ever hoped to learn about the subject.

Blog entry: Decide to give the detective work a rest. Hicks returned from the back to tell me he’d succeeded in moving a box. As it turned out, moving boxes of tax papers gave him redeye. He asked for something else to do. Told him to do some sweeping.

Blog entry: Far from five o’clock. Got bored. Wondered if I was perhaps born in the wrong era. If there was something else I should be doing. Something I’d not only be good at, but which I’d find meaningful and, at a pinch, fun.

There was no way to be sure, of course. Not until I found evidence of any kind of special ability within, and that would only happen if and when the opportunity arose.

A catch 22: You can’t find out what your knack is if you never get to do it.