Bad Glass

My eyes darted from the pill bottle back up to her face. She was still smiling, a sly understanding smile. This is how it happens, I told myself. This is where I become indebted to her. It’s one thing to accept antibiotics. Narcotics, on the other hand … that’s a completely different beast.

If I accept these pills, I become complicit.

I moved to return the bottle but stopped with my hand only partly extended. Sharon raised her palm and shook her head, warding me back like a traffic cop. “Don’t worry about it, Dean. Really, it’s nothing. Your hand is injured. It’s messed up pretty bad. I’d feel awful if I didn’t help.”

“What do you want?” I asked, letting out an exhausted sigh. I was too tired to argue. I just didn’t have the strength. “What’s the price?”

“Nothing. This is a community service, an act of fellowship. Hershel out there would call it a mitzvah.” She nodded toward the kitchen, and I guessed she was referring to the rail-thin man working at the griddle. “We’re in a dangerous situation here, and we all have to look out for each other. Am I right?”

I nodded in wary agreement. Then I waited for the other shoe to drop, for her mercenary intentions to become clear. I didn’t have to wait long.

“Although,” she said, that sly smile returning to her lips, “if it’s not too much of a problem, there is an errand you could run for me. A simple errand. Actually, it’s something you might enjoy, something you might find … illuminating.”

And with that, her smile widened.

Sharon put new bandages on my hand. She dug antiseptic and clean gauze from the depths of her bag, then cleaned and dressed my wounds, going about the task with the care and competence of a trained nurse. Every now and then, she glanced up and gave me a reassuring smile. It was the smile of a confident mother. A saint. A perfect, loving angel.

And it bothered me.

The way this was going, I couldn’t tell if she was trying to fuck me or trying to tuck me in for the night.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I pulled my hand out of her grip. “Don’t you think this whole thing is incredibly crass? What you’re doing here, to these people?” I nodded out toward the crowded restaurant. “You’re taking advantage of the situation. You’re gaining profit and power from these people’s misery.”

Sharon sighed and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly alone in that boat, now, am I, Dean?” She seemed exasperated by the accusation but not surprised, as if she’d been waiting for this, as if she’d seen it coming. “Think about it. Think about what you’re doing here. You’re not coming into this situation as a scientist or a policeman; you’re here as a photographer, a journalist.” She nodded toward my camera bag, and I fought the urge to push it back behind my chair, out of sight. “You’re not looking for a fix or a cure. You’re not invested in the situation; you don’t have family to protect, or even property. And you’re certainly not trying to save lives. No, what you’re doing … you’re looking for the next cool shot. You’re looking for fame. Your own special kind of fame.”

She leaned forward and patted my knee. The annoyance was gone from her eyes, and now there was nothing but sympathy and understanding. “I’m not operating under any illusions here, Dean. I’m no saint. But you might as well face that truth yourself. You’re invested in the status quo, just like me. You’re invested in the city staying strange. So you can take your pictures. So you can explore and report. And the reason you’re here, the reason you came here, of your own free will, is because you’d rather be here, inside this weirdness, than anywhere else in the world.”

I leaned back in my chair and looked away. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. “I’m still getting my feet wet,” I said lamely. “I’m still waiting for the big picture.”

Sharon let out a laugh. It was a loud, barking laugh, and it surprised me. “Big picture? You’re waiting for the big picture? Well, let me tell you, Dean, from where you’re standing, you won’t see a thing.” She smiled and gave me a wink. “From where you’re standing, you won’t be able to see the forest for the forest fire.”

She waited for me to respond. When I didn’t, she gave me a nod and went back to work on my wounds.

Her words struck hard. They were a sucker punch to the gut, a big, strong jolt of truth.

And it is the truth, I realized. That’s why all of those people out there in the restaurant gave me those withering looks. I came to the city to take pictures, while they scratch and scrape just to survive. I’m exploiting their hardship. I’m turning it into a product, something to study—dispassionately—and consume.

I could have lied to myself right then and convinced myself that I did have noble intentions, that I was looking for the truth, trying to show the world what was going on inside the military’s oppressive media blackout. But that wasn’t the truth. Carrying my camera, street to street, day to day, I’d never even thought about those things.

I just wanted people to see my pictures. I wanted them to be amazed. By me. By my skill. I wanted to save myself from a mundane future.

Not exactly a noble endeavor.

I was lost in thought when Sharon finished with the bandage. After a vague, shapeless length of time, I looked up and found her leaning back on the edge of her desk, studying me with cool, sympathetic eyes.

“Don’t worry about it, Dean,” she said. “Whatever’s happening here, it’s not the real world. We all just have to do what we do and hope there’s no judgment in the end.”

“If it’s not the real world, then what is it?” I asked, my voice high, almost pleading. “What the fuck’s going on?”

She shook her head. “If you’re suggesting I might have some real knowledge, I don’t. If, on the other hand, you’re asking me what I think … well, I think we’re all going insane. I think there’s some previously unknown agent at work on our minds—something synthetic, maybe, or some naturally occurring ergot. And what we’re seeing, what we’re experiencing, it’s all just the ravings of a city gone mad.”

“But my pictures … all the shared experiences …”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have all the answers,” she said with a dismissive shrug. “It’s just what I think, what I feel.”

I nodded, preoccupied. I was considering her suggestion.

Could an insane mind grasp its own insanity? And if not, what would a city full of insane minds look like? Would they share delusions? Would they create their own scattershot mythology?

“Well, one thing’s for certain,” Sharon said, offering me a gentle smile, “you’re not going to find any answers sitting there with that confused look on your face. It’s time to get moving, Dean. My errand’s not going to run itself.”

I took Sabine with me on the delivery. That was Mama Cass’s final request before she pushed me out the door. It’s important, she said, for Sabine.

Taylor was there when I swung by the house—I could hear her voice up on the second floor—but I managed to grab Sabine and get out without attracting her attention. Certainly, I wanted to see her, to set things straight, but I figured that this was not the right time. Not while I was out running errands for Mama Cass. And besides, my own feelings remained ambivalent. I wanted to be close to her, but she kept pushing me away—both literally and figuratively—and that was driving me nuts.

I needed more time. I needed time to figure out what she wanted from me … and what I wanted from her.

It was nearly six o’clock when Sabine and I hit the streets, and the last traces of sunlight had already fled the sky. The moon and the stars were hidden behind a thick layer of clouds, and again I was struck by how unnatural the darkness seemed.

Cities were never supposed to get this dark. That was their purpose, right? To keep the darkness at bay.

Both Sabine and I had flashlights, and as we walked back toward the river, we sent twin beams racing across the pavement ahead. Objects emerged from the darkness like strange alien fish swimming up from the depths of a deep, dark sea: ordinary items, cutting sharp shapes across our wavering circles of light—cars, mailboxes, trash cans—made alien in their stark isolation. I played my light across a snow-shrouded yard and found a ten-speed bike lodged up in the branches of an apple tree.