A Deeper Cut

from Legerdemainia

Library Of Congress catalogue no. available on request

A Deeper Cut

Devon passed out.

That’s what they told him, anyway.

He’d been waiting in line like everyone else, and next thing he knew he was the center of attention for a ring of bystanders, a pair of old ladies were rubbing his arms, and the bank manager was asking if he needed an ambulance.

The worst part, initially, was the embarrassment. But on the drive home an icy fear crimped the back of his neck, made his shoulders lock up and his elbows seize, made his hands sweat all over the wheel. What if it happened again? What if it happened while driving? He could be barreling along nicely, completely absorbed in the intricacies of lane surfing, and—BAM: dead man. Or find he’d unconsciously plowed though a crosswalk full of horrified lunchtime toddlers. Splattered innocence, crippled joy. The image was so appalling

Devon had a phantom episode, imagining, in one missed heartbeat, that he’d blacked out again, and was surfacing anew.

He pulled over with excessive caution; using only the rear-view mirror lest, in looking back for even a moment, some inexplicable mini-seizure should send him hurtling into a compound bloody fireball. Perspiration bathed his face and chest. He’d always been the healthiest of men; didn’t drink, didn’t touch drugs, didn’t over-exert. Gradually the tremors passed. But not the terror; it was a vital shadow in the center of his skull. Devon called a cab and a tow truck. He sat slumped in the back of the cab, drawing faux calm around him like a horsehair shroud. The driver was a talker;

Devon let him roll on. All he could see was the cab’s windshield, streaked and bespattered, a broken mosaic of shocked baby faces that never had a chance to grow.

“Your scans are clean,” Dr. Goodman beamed. The clipboard, facing away, would not elaborate. “I think we can cheerfully write off the cause of this visit as one of those little anomalies that pop into our lives, shake us up a bit to give our egos some perspective, and then pop right back out as though nothing occurred. And who knows? Maybe nothing did. Sometimes nature just drops the ball for no apparent reason. I like to compare the body to a complex harp with one or more strings always out of tune, and hard work and healthful living as the elements that retune those—Mr. Devon?”

Devon blinked at him. A low hum had just passed through his brain like a train through a tunnel. There were things in there, moving around, clattering without sound. It was as if his thoughts were loose shingles on a roof, responding to a sudden high wind. He blew over.

Devon opened his eyes to another perspective. It was a skewed view, of three vulnerable specimens frozen in a brightly lit box. The action resumed: receptionist slipping out of room, staring strangely over shoulder, doctor frowning at clipboard, planted squarely before seated patient.

Goodman’s entire demeanor had changed. He tapped his pencil on the clipboard—thuda-thuda-thud—little alien heartbeats in rubber on pressed cork. “You’ve heard of narcolepsy, Mr. Devon? Once we’ve ruled out the obvious—epilepsy, tumor, arrhythmia—we have to rely on conjecture, which, in a mature practice, comes down to empiricism rather than guesswork. What I’m trying to say is: symptoms are templates. Narcolepsy is a known condition, but it’s not a common one. I’m not going to beat around the bush here. In narcolepsy, the brain’s steady-state waking electrical activity is abruptly interrupted—the subject goes to sleep on the spot, rather than drifting away naturally. Why? The current’s been cut off, the lights shut down. Why? We don’t know yet; and there’s that dreadful non-answer which seems, to the anxious layperson, an evasion rather than a helpful response. But it’s all we’ve got. That, and a medication I’m prescribing. Don’t worry about the endless string of Latin syllables. Although still in the experimental stage, it shows tremendous promise in the short-term. However, there’s a caveat: you must be prudent in your approach to everyday activities whenever a recurrence might prove injurious to yourself or to others, and you must curtail these activities any time you experience symptoms that are in any way out of the ordin—”

“Mr. Devon?” Goodman’s smile was frayed around the edges. “Are you feeling all right now? We were discussing your prescription when you appear to have remissed momentarily. I’ve checked your vitals and you’re good as gold. The episode was very brief, yet it absolutely confirms my immediate diagnosis of narcolepsy.” He nervously drummed his fingers on the clipboard. “Miss Aines is going to administer a single dose of your prescription, and you are thereafter not to approach the medication without my approval over the phone. As I said, it’s experimental, but entirely safe. Then I want you to go home and take a load off—a load off your mind as well as your feet. I’d prefer you walk rather than use a cab or bus. Moderate exercise is always a precursor to healthful recovery.” He pulled open the door, hesitating halfway. “If you experience a recurrence, or become morbidly anxious, or entertain any weird, traumatic sense of alienation, I want you to give me a call right away. Miss Aines will produce my home and cell numbers as soon as you’ve received your medication and taken that single dose.” He smiled genially while ushering

Devon out. “I know you’re going to be just fine.”

Strangest thing.

How can a man know what’s going on around him, behind him, within him—when he can’t see or feel a thing?

Devon was unconscious. The infinitesimally vague electrical discharges were unlike anything he’d ever experienced, so he had no point of reference, but he knew his brainwaves were somehow being manipulated—by somebody or something from somewhere bleak and far away—for reasons of cold research, for inhuman experiment, for purposes that made no sense whatever in regular terms. He could tell, by focusing, that a kind of frustrated enmity pervaded the ether connecting whoever he was with whatever they were, and that if he let go for even a second they’d—

“Sir?” A thumb peeled back Devon’s eyelid. Sensible impressions were returning. The sounds of traffic. The inside of a paramedics’ van, seen gurney-up. A man’s face; a face like any other. “Sir, can you feel the pressure of my hand on your arm?” A pinching above the elbow. “How about now?” The full-screen thumb splintered into five fingers on a rocking hand. “Follow my hand with your eyes, sir.” The face turned. “He’s receptive.” The face turned back. “You’re in an ambulance, Mr. Devon. We’re taking you to the emergency room at Mother Of Mercy Hospital. But we’ve determined this is no emergency; that’s why we’re not using the siren. So just relax; what’s going on is purely procedural. You appear to have blacked out while sitting on the bus bench at White and Lincoln, yet no one observed any evidence of seizure or foul play. There’s no indication of brain trauma, no signs of physical injury, and all your responses to outside stimuli are well within the normal range. Do you feel okay now?”

Devon’s voice phased in and out. “Yes, I’m fine. I just need to—”

Two strong hands gripped his biceps. “You’ll have to remain quiet, sir. Until you’ve been thoroughly examined you’re under our supervision. It won’t be long. There’s the hospital now. We’re pulling up to emergency. Try to stay calm.”

“I can’t be strapped down. That’s what they want.” Devon’s mouth was too dry for more.

The paramedic rattled a prescription bottle. “The label reads fifty. The count is forty-nine. I’d call yours a pretty extreme reaction. Now just relax.”

The van stopped with the gentlest jolt. A moment later the rear doors swung open, and the paramedic said, softly, “You’re under restraint only for your own safety, okay? We can’t have you blacking out and rolling off the gurney now, can we, Mr.

Devon?”

A hydraulic whine, a rocking and settling. A new voice said, “Okay to roll.”

The bright assault of antiseptic fluorescence made Devon’s eyes burn. Faces looked on curiously as he was wheeled by; faces as indifferent as the paramedic’s, as indifferent as Dr. Goodman’s, as indifferent as that burned-out receptionist behind the glass, as—

The electrical activity, Devon realized, functioned incidentally as a conduit. They were getting into his head, and they were learning what it means to be human, but it was hard work. Through this connection he’d become electrically empathic—able to glean their drive and exasperation, to know that, through their resolution, they were going to learn what they needed, if they didn’t kill him in the process, or if he was unable to kill himself first. He was experiencing their excitement as well as their frustration, their urgency and their demand. He was losing hold, losing self-control. He knew it. He could feel it.

“Well, I’m taking him off the medication, at least for the present, and I don’t give a good holy crap what you or Lancet have to say on the matter, is that clear enough for you? As of right now he’s under our care. Your prescription arguably precipitated this patient’s arrival, and there’s absolutely no reason to believe it’s mitigating his condition in the least. Fine. You can talk to the coordinator in the morning. I’m presently handling Mr. Devon, and this conversation is officially concluded. Now go back to sleep!”

Devon embraced the room’s hard white light like a lover. He kept his eyes fixed wide, afraid to even blink, as Dr. Grant firmly replaced the receiver and turned, hands clasped behind his back.

“Mr. Devon, you’re doing great. You’ve been through a bit of a scare, but there’s no reason to worry. Your provider has authorized any necessary procedures, though I’m confident we’ve no cause for alarm.” He raised

Devon’s prescription bottle like a dead lizard. “As of this moment you’re off these. I’m going to give you a sedative to help you relax. We’re calling a cab. I want you to go home and get some sleep. You have an appointment with Dr. Randall for Thursday at nine.”

“No, please . . . give me something that’ll help me stay awake. They’re getting closer. If I fall asleep they’ll be right back in.”

Dr. Grant stood quietly, his expression sour. “Who’s getting closer?”

Facets of his identity were falling like flakes of dandruff. Memories were being stripped, copied, filed;

Devon’s humanness was being assaulted, weakness by weakness. The excitement was palpable; he was naked, he was down, he was roadkill. His flaws were being recognized and categorized, in some universal way only a natural predator could understand. Humans were easy, they were fait accompli. Devon could struggle all he wanted, but he was pinned and purpling, a pretty bruised butterfly. He thrashed, but didn’t budge, called, but didn’t peep, screamed—

“The more you fight me,” snarled the security guard, “the harder I fight back. You got that?” He shoved

Devon into a plastic chair, one of many lined against the wall.

“Listen to me!” Devon begged. “I can’t hold on any longer. Please. Something.”

The guard sneered over his shoulder. “I’ll give you something.” He pressed the intercom’s call button. “Security on floor one, east wing. I have a disturbed patient who somehow got out into the hall. Not a biggie, but Riley and Forbes, I’d like you to assist.”

The feelers were in. He was going. A great company was in his skull; a kind of delirious clamor and buzzing crescendo.