“My adopted family moved away, I won’t tell you where they are. But get out your pen because you’ll want to write this down. My biological mom? She was institutionalized.”
“That must have been hard. What was the—”
“She was a strung-out, crank-addicted cannibal, dabbled in vampirism and shamanism. My mom, she worshipped some major devil when I was a toddler. Blew her welfare check every month on black candles. Sure, Satan would do her favors now and then, but there’s always a catch with the Devil. Always a catch.”
A pause from Arnie, then, “Is that true?”
“No. This, this silliness, it’s what I do when I’m nervous. She was bipolar, that’s all. Couldn’t keep a house. Isn’t the other story better, though? You should use it.”
Arnie gave me a practiced look of reporterly sincerity and said, “I thought you wanted to get the truth out, your side of it. If not, then why are we even here, Mr. Wong?”
“You’re right. Sorry.”
“Now, since we broached the subject, you spent your senior year in high school in an alternative program . . .”
“Yeah, that was just a misunderstanding,” I lied. “They have this label, ‘Emotionally Disturbed’ that they put on you, but it was just a couple of fights. Kid stuff, no charges or anything. Craziness is not hereditary.”
Arnie eyed me, both of us aware of the fact that juvenile records are sealed from public viewing and that he would have to take my word for it. I wondered how this would end up in his article, especially in light of the utter batshit insanity of the story I was about to share.
He moved his gaze to the other object on the table, from his perspective, a small, innocent-looking container. It was about the size and shape of a spool of thread, made of flat, brushed metal. I rested my fingers on it. The surface was icy to the touch, like it had spent all night in the freezer. If you set the thing out in the hot sun from morning to night it would still feel that way. You could mistake it for a stylish pill bottle, I suppose.
“Well,” Arnie began again, “either way, mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of. We just get sick from time to time, part of being human, you know? For instance, I was just talking to a guy up north, a high-priced lawyer- type who spent two weeks in the psych ward himself a little while ago. Name of Frank Campo. You know that name?”
“Yeah, I knew him a little.”
“Frank wouldn’t talk to me, but his family said he was having hallucinations. Almost daily, right? Guy had this car wreck and from then on he just got worse and worse. He freaked out at Thanksgiving. Wife brought in the turkey, but to Frank, it wasn’t a turkey. Frank saw a human baby, curled up on the platter, cooked to a golden brown. Stuffing jammed in its mouth. He went nuts, wouldn’t eat for weeks after that. He got to where he was having incidents every few days. They figured it was brain damage, you know, from the accident. But the doctors couldn’t do squat. Right?”
“Yeah. That’s about it.”
“And now,” said Arnie, “he’s cured.”
“Is that what they say? Good for him, then. Good for Frank.”
“And they swear that it was you and your friend who cured him.”
“Me and John, yeah. We did what we could. But good for Frank. I’m glad to hear he’s okay.”
A little smile played at Arnie’s lips. Acidic. Look at the crazy man with his incompetent, crazy-man haircut and his crazy little pill bottle and his crazy fucking story.
“Tell me about John.”
“Like what? In his midtwenties. We went to school together. John isn’t his real name, either.”
“Let me guess . . .”
The images start to rush in again, the mass of humanity spreading across the globe over centuries like a time-lapse video of mold taking over an orange.
“. . . John is the most common
“That’s right,” I said. “And yet there’s not a single person named John Wong. I looked it up.”
“You know, I work with a John Wong.”
“Oh, really?”
“Let’s move on,” Arnie said, probably making a mental note that this David Wong guy isn’t above just making shit up.
“You guys already got a little bit of a following, don’t you?” he said, flipping back to a page in a little notebook already riddled with scribbles. “I found a couple of discussion boards on the Web devoted to you and your friend, your . . . hobby, I guess. So, you’re, what, sort of spiritualists? Exorcists? Something like that?”
“You have eighty-three cents in your front pocket, Arnie,” I said quickly. “Three quarters, a nickel, three pennies. The three pennies are dated 1983, 1993 and 1999.”
Arnie grinned the superior grin of the “I’m the smartest man in the room” skeptic, then scooped his coins out of his pocket. He examined the contents, confirmed I was right.
He coughed out a laugh and brought his fist down on the table, my utensils clinking with the impact. “Well I’ll be damned! That’s a neat trick, Mr. Wong.”
“If you flip the nickel ten times,” I continued, “you’ll get heads, heads, tails, heads, tails, tails, tails, heads, tails, tails.”
“I’m not sure I want to take the time to—”
For a brief moment, I considered taking it easy on Arnie. Then I remembered the grin. I unloaded.
“Last night you had a dream, Arnie. You were being chased through a forest by your mother. She was lashing you with a whip made of knotted penises.”
Arnie’s face fell, like an imploded building. As much as I hated the expression on his face a few minutes ago, I loved this one.
“You got my attention, Mr. Wong.”
“Oh, it gets better. A lot better.”
“It started a few years ago,” I began. “We were just a couple of years out of high school. Just kids. So that friend of mine, John, he was at a party . . .”
JOHN HAD A band back in those days. The party was happening Woodstock-style in a muddy field next to a lake in a town a few minutes outside of Undisclosed city limits. It was April of that year and the party was being put on by some guy, for his birthday or whatever. I don’t remember.
John and I were there with his band, Three-Arm Sally. It was around nine o’clock when I strode out onto the stage with a guitar slung over my shoulder, greeted by a smattering of unenthusiastic applause from the hundred or so guests. The “stage” was just a grid of wooden pallets laid together on the grass, orange drop cords snaking underfoot from the amps to a nearby shed.
I glanced around, saw a set list taped to one of their crackly old Peavey amplifiers. It read:
