by Sean Ennis
fMRI
People sometimes need a good look at their own rainbow-colored insides from which the self emerges. I’m picking up my friend Shadow from work at the Bramble Radiology Center. His professional title is Clinical Trial Participant, and, to hear him describe it, he has grown in esteem among the scientists and doctors. In recognition of his reliability and positive attitude, my friend Shadow no longer has to swallow mysterious pills. These days, he mainly lays in the fMRI machine while they play music, or ask him to recount terrible memories, or do math.
Even my friend Shadow hasn’t quite figured out how to make sense of this part of his life. Sometimes, he positions himself as just another alienated drone, trying to make ends meet as he puts himself through cosmetology school. At other times, especially around his wife Wanda, he presents himself as a vital part of cutting edge research into the nature of consciousness. Regardless, he had been acknowledged by name in three peer-reviewed scientific papers, now framed in their upstairs hallway.
My friend Shadow explained over Ultimate Long Island Iced Teas and lunch at the TGI Fridays in the Bramble Mall, that the scientists were trying to map the system of ethics in his brain. They asked him strange questions and watched how his head lit up. Is it wrong to lie to an animal? Would lab grown meat violate a vegetarian lifestyle? What’s more terrifying: the death of all human beings or the death of most human beings? The doctors told him his code of ethics was well-defined and colored correctly, so he was perfectly normal. At first, he found this disappointing, another dent in the notion that he was special, but by the time lunch came, my friend Shadow had reinterpreted the data as proof that he was always right. It was Long Island alchemy. Let’s remind ourselves what’s in that terrorizing drink: vodka, tequila, rum, gin, triple sec.
I’ve never known my friend Shadow to be prone to violence, either physical or verbal, but I wouldn’t dare call him a guinea pig, or even think it. He knows his wife Wanda wants a baby, and she hates these experiments. It’s not the money. We can’t find my car in the mall’s parking lot. There’s hundreds of silver sedans, and it’s an orange dusk. We may even be on the wrong level.
THE SAPPHIRE BLUE
Vivian’s white hair was like shredded paper. Her teeth were proclined, most likely from years of thumb sucking. She was on my arm. I was holding a piece of receipt paper that was supposedly worth one hundred dollars. It was our second date. She claimed to have won a weekend at the The Sapphire Blue Hotel and Casino on a gameshow, but could not reveal which until it aired. I was wearing sunglasses at guest services, through the ridiculous lobby, between the metal detectors, and onto the casino floor. The whole place was alive with the tenor and vehicle of metaphor. The players were doubling down, raising the stakes, and going all in. Vivian was wearing her Old Rats Motorcycle Gang leather jacket.
The receipt supposedly worth one hundred dollars was part of Vivian’s prize package, and she insisted we use it on a single bet. At the craps table, she whispered “boxcars,” and won three grand. She bet her winnings on two sixes again, and now that’s ninety thousand dollars. I’m sensing that people just want to know if Vivian kept her Old Rats leather jacket on when we made love, but there’s more to say about craps first. One more roll, a six and then a six, and Vivian had won two hundred, seventy-nine thousand dollars.
I got lost in the carpet. It was labyrinthine, and cyan, azure, then blue, swirling back towards the center of the casino floor. Someone was pushing me out of the crowd and I felt the need to duck. The elevator to the suite was so fast.
Vivian offered to split her winnings, claiming I was good luck and a good sport. I reminded her that my late wife was the heir to an artificial flavor fortune, and I already had plenty of money I did not earn. She said The Old Rats did business with the Sapphire Blue Hotel and Casino, and the optics would be problematic. We didn’t want the money. Vivian—confounding so far, un-ugly, I could be in some danger—tore the check and gave me half.
I’ve frontloaded those aspects of the evening that might be of the most interest. As a second date, it was a success. We had good conversation over dinner, and discovered some common interests. She didn’t want steak, but she was pleased with the sea bass. No silly, cute flattery. Vivian never bragged about personal or professional triumphs, and she didn’t inquire about mine.
COMMON AND NEW
The wrong foot for sure. My girlfriend, Vivian, the Communications Director for the Old Rats Motorcycle Gang LLC, is talking about how she rescued her pet rabbit from a cosmetic lab where it was a test subject. Its fur was still stained and its ears had been pierced. The poor rabbit only had a barcode for a name, so she called it Dwayne. The purpose of the story was to entertain, and also to give evidence of her caring nature. What Vivian did not know was that my friend Shadow was currently employed as a Clinical Research Subject, and was also preparing for his cosmetology exam. He was wincing, paranoid, conflicted by her story. It had been time for my friend Shadow and his wife Wanda to meet my girlfriend for dinner at the Outback Steakhouse by the Bramble Mall. In an attempt to be chic, Vivian had not worn her Old Rats leather jacket, and something Hydean was becoming apparent. Vivian tried again, volunteering a corporate icebreaker she used on new employees for the Old Rats LLC: Will you be screaming when you die? Why or why not? No one answered the question, but my friend Shadow’s wife Wanda said, I love that. Vivian released my hand under the table, and the women whispered their answers to each other. My friend Shadow was pouting with his Long Island iced-teas. I now realize I was experiencing jamais vu, something common and familiar feeling strangely unknown. It was a nice moment.
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Sean Ennis is the author of Hope And Wild Panic (Malarkey Books).
Kingcup is a friend of the magazine.
Unstamatic 