Lee Harper Oswald

4.1

The flight was, as expected, coach, paid for by the Spliphsonian. Rupert sat in the middle seat on the right side for the hour and a half flight—breathing in more recycled air, though with a more repulsive, organic flavor than the museum’s—then endured a four-hour layover in Atlanta, where he was assaulted by 24-hour news. A P-47 Thunderbolt had just crashed into the Hudson River. Sure, it was a Second World War-era fighter plane, but it was a plane, and sure, it was in New York, but the pilot was from Florida—bad juju. Businesspeople loud-talked self-importantly into their cell phones, and a large group of high school students traveling to compete in some worthless, inane sport milled about in cliques, screeching. It was co-ed, so whatever the sport—presumably cheerleading—it couldn’t have been good. Once in the air again for the forty-five minutes it took to finally reach the Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport, Rupert had sardined himself into another middle seat. Fortunately, he’d refilled his Xanax prescription two days before this surprise mission, not at all because he was afraid to fly, but because his large physical presence already put him in too close a proximity to the rest of humanity. A flight, no matter how short, would have been unbearable without being drugged enough to drool a little.

The entire ordeal was a perfect panorama for his field of expertise: Everyone boards in a somewhat organized fashion, and from there, it’s a quick descent into madness. Seats are switched, or downright stolen, shoes are removed, there’s yoga in the aisles, all asses and armpits and toenails. Then, as the plane finishes taxiing to the gate, seatbelts click open in a chorus and the slow-motion stampede commences, picking up as the mass of greasy, stinking humanity closes in on baggage claim, despite the fact that each and every one of them know full well that no one’s baggage is even there yet. Still, they jockey for position, getting as close to the edge as possible without rolling onto the belt (usually).

Rupert stood as far away as possible, numb and hypnotized by the rotating luggage on the belt, still somewhat sedated by the Xanax, half-listening to the din of the people around him and their various conversations. He thought his large duffle bag had made it to the carousel, but he wasn’t about to push through the too-tan locals coming home or the gelatinous, pasty Clevelanders going on “vacay.” He was already mentally exhausted. People talked on their phones to those whom they would see in five minutes about the flight and whatnot, which was uneventful. If human beings have mastered nothing else, they have certainly outdone themselves in the art of talking about nothing.

As everyone took way too long to retrieve their plastic and zippered vinyl boxes of travel garbage, Rupert wondered if he could fit his head between the side of the carousel and the belt, and if he could, was the belt moving fast enough to slit his throat? Passive suicidal ideation was so routine, it had been years since he’d been troubled by it. As that morbid image passed into his subconscious, he heard someone say something useful.

“Well, I didn’t have time to arrange anything. I don’t need a rental. I won’t be here long enough. I can hail one out front, with the pick-ups. Great. Thanks. See ya soon.”

Rupert rifled through the things in his cross-body bag—”no, sir, my carry-on is not a purse”—and located the file. He found his flight schedule, and various other disturbing, but already-known information, but no car rental paperwork.

“Fucking Spliphsonian,” he said out loud and a pink-haired old woman that came up to his hip tsked him. He didn’t want to, but he felt ashamed. He supposed he shouldn’t swear around his elders—old women in particular for some reason—although his mother was old and she swore like a . . . well, worse; she used expletives as frequently as prepositions, and occasionally as their substitute, which, he had to admit, did require a certain skill level. And he was in Florida now. Sarasota was included amongst the nation’s top ten counties with the largest populations of Over-65s. Rupert wondered if this woman would appreciate being called an “Over-65.” Or maybe she’d be okay with it, because he was pretty sure was she also an “Over-95.”

Much of the fleshy mass had cleared, and good thing, too, as his Xanax was wearing off (and he tried not to take too many—that stuff’s addictive!), so he eased his way forward. Most folks parted for Rupert, perhaps an intuitive measure, an unconscious fear of someone, or something, so large suddenly next to them. This was one of the few perks of his size. He grabbed his duffle bag, swung it over his shoulder, and hurried out front, following the taxi-hailing lady he’d overheard on the phone.

The heat hit him like a quark-gluon plasma experiment at CERN’s Large Hadron Collider—9.9 trillion degrees Fahrenheit. Rupert squinted against the blinding, seashell-peppered asphalt, and cursed his extensive knowledge of the trivial and mundane, which apparently superseded his ability to plan ahead, particularly with such small notice. He did not own a pair of sunglasses, nor had he sunscreen to pack—as reclusive as he normally was, why would he? He hailed a cab and paid a ridiculous amount of money to be carted twelve miles from the airport to—Rupert looked through his file—the Royal Courtyard Econo-Regency Chalet. Well, that sounded nice.

* * *

“Me and a guy were laid up in a Royal Courtyard Econo-Regency Chalet for about three weeks once,” Shit Pail interrupts, then puts her head back, mouth gaping. She seems to be thinking, but the pause is long. Too long.

Rupert can’t see her eyes behind the sunglasses and thinks perhaps she’s fallen asleep. Or died. Just when he thinks being trapped here—potentially for days—with her and her shit pail is the worst that could happen, he can’t face accidental self-confinement with a corpse and its intestinal contents.

“I think his name was Stevie,” she finally continues. “He kept talking about space, but I was pretty spun, so I don’t remember much. We checked in to fuck, but just couldn’t get it going—go figure, aimiright? Next thing we knew, it was three weeks later and neither of us had gotten laid.”

“That’s . . .” Rupert begins, but stops. Then: “That’s a real shame.”

“Yeah, but the rates were reasonable, and not a bad place to work.”

“Oh, you also worked there?” He doesn’t know why he’s prolonging this conversational interlude.

“Nope,” Shit Pail answers abruptly, in a way that indicated the line of questioning had come to an end, and requests he continue with a level of irritation that suggests it was he who’d interrupted in the first place.

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3.2

It should take about three minutes walking at a normal, relaxed pace to get from Pyrdewy’s office door to the front entrance of the Spliphsonian, elevator ride included. It took Rupert a half an hour of elevator riding, hall walking, and stair climbing to finally find himself confronted by the large stone crawfish that ushered visitors down the steps and back out into the streets of our nation’s capital. He hadn’t run into Leenda again, and he was both relieved and disappointed. The disappointed part felt new.

But soon he was back at his apartment, making a batch of his favorite comfort food: an entire package of angel hair pasta slathered in a half-stick of butter, swimming in three 15-ounce cans of plain tomato sauce. Like a buttery pasta soup. Even at this stage of life—forty-two—he processed garbage pretty well, maintaining a reasonable waistline, and therefore had yet to address his food issues and problems with impulse control.

The D.E.A.T.H. folder was still in his cross-body bag, now slung over the back of a chair flanking his two-person dining set. Rupert’s apartment did not look like that of a shut-in. It was neat, not too much stuff, but not sparse. Wooden floors, hemp rugs, shelves and shelves of books, low, warm lighting. He liked to consider all of his furnishings handmade, because he ordered it all online and assembled it himself, rather than have extra people in his life to interact with.

Rupert’s dream home was a fake castle he saw once driving through Berkley Springs, WV. It was, in actuality, a large mansion in the shape of a castle built by some old rich guy to woo some young chick who wanted to be a princess. Presumably, things had gone sour in the six years it took to build and when he died not long before the completion of his princess’s perfect little castle, he stipulated in his will that she would get nothing unless she finished the building (which she did and then she blew through the rest of his estate. She moved to a tiny house in 1909 and raised chickens before one of her offspring whisked her off to Idaho to spend the rest of her days wondering what life would have been like had she just been a better sort of person—turns out, the joke’s on everyone. The Universe doesn’t give a shit).

Rupert didn’t think about that much, though he figured maybe relationships in general were problematic. He thought the stone turret kicked ass. He’d never been inside, but he’d seen pictures. Cush. He’d have filled it with books and dim table lamps.

He tested a strand of pasta for readiness, deemed it so, then set himself up at the table with his pasta soup, a massive glass of water, and a half-glass of pink grapefruit juice to follow up. He liked to stay hydrated. Now, the folder was out of the cross-body bag and in front of him, getting splattered with sauce as he slurped up noodles.

The study, as laid out here, bore little resemblance to the one he’d been helping Stanley with, however, much to his surprise, and shameless glee, it involved many more entropic ideas than Stanley had been willing to consider and allow. But they were small details, theoretical, and not remotely applicable.

The pasta gone and the water glass empty, he then grabbed the folder and his grapefruit juice, relocated to the sofa, stretched out his long legs, and flipped through the pages one more time.

So, basically, Rupert’s job (if he wanted to keep his job in the form that it was) was to observe and collect data on the social interactions within the addict communities from which the “workers” that participated in the D.E.A.T.H. program came. The part that almost sounded like a proper study was: 1) to see how well the addicts took to certain types of work, and 2) which types would be most productive to society and could be optimized for addict participation, while at the same time, 3) benefiting the addict to the highest extent possible. This almost sounded reasonable, and entirely typical of the Federal Government—do good works, but not without benefiting The State first. Rupert was instructed to observe any entropic patterns that might emerge within the program’s execution so that it might be better designed to avoid chaos.

Avoid chaos, he thought. That’s rich.

Rupert would have to somehow infiltrate the society—societies?—of Meth- and Crackheads. Where?

Sarasota County, Florida.

He shuddered. He’d seen the headlines: “Florida Man Claims Wife Abducted by Holograms;” “Florida Man Arrested for Urinating on Waitress at Nightclub;” “Florida Man Attacks Mom’s Boyfriend with Samurai Sword Over Missing Can of Shrimp.” You couldn’t make this shit up, so of course it would be Florida.

Rupert tossed the file onto the floor and thought, emptying his glass of juice. He felt that the author of the file must have been tipped off on what a social idiot Rupert was, because some of the language sounded as if they’d met before it was written. It stressed that, no, Rupert could not ingratiate himself to small time cookers; he had to get into the larger super lab operations. It wasn’t explicit in the file, but meager information peppered throughout—stupidly, in Rupert’s opinion—indicated that part of the program was also a front for the DEA to identify and bust big pushers. Why, if Pyrdewy felt so charitable, would he risk the program to have it potentially exposed as a meth/crack Donnie Brasco operation? Rupert doubted Pyrdewy cared, but more rewards for the Feds meant more funds from the program. And, apparently, despite his conservatism, he liked government money when it suited his needs.

None of this felt safe, and worse, it left Rupert open to all sorts of clinical social anxiety scenarios. The file itself read as if answering every possible protestation Rupert could have (and, evidently, Pyrdewy didn’t like black folks protesting). Infiltration meant finding out how they lived, not just how they worked, so it would have to be up close and personal. It also required the actual recruitment of addicts for the program, which was a big nope for Rupert. He didn’t like to talk to the cashier at the store when stocking up on tomato sauce. So, going undercover in the workspace of the program wasn’t good enough to gather the information the study required. He must gain their complete trust, out there, “in the wild” (the file read). He was to report at regular intervals to Pyrdewy the activities of the leaders of the group or groups. It was all in order to better improve the D.E.A.T.H. program and, thus, better improve the lives of these “poor, lost sonsofbitches.” (Rupert wondered exactly who revised this study and whether or not Pyrdewy was in any way qualified to do so. He suspected the red-faced carbuncle of holding an MBA, despite presumably-failed mandatory ethics classes.)

Rupert’s mind ached, so he pushed all the papers off the sofa, pulled a pillow over his head, and slept. He was not at all equipped to do any of this.

When he woke, it was dark, so he melted down into a medium-sized anxiety attack—muscles tense, chest tight, hands shaking. The one-way ticket to Sarasota in the file put him at the airport at 4am. It was only nine o’clock in the evening, so he still had time to pack, think as well as he could, and consider if maybe mopping floors wasn’t such a bad job. It was certain to give him a first hand look at individual mental and emotional entropy, but then, he was already a veteran of personal experience.

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3.1

So, Stanley was missing. Rupert had known Stanley for a few years, having met him when he’d started his non-janitorial job at the Spliphsonian. Stanley was a social anthropologist and with Rupert’s entropic background, they’d often worked on various studies and projects together. They’d made a good team, as Stanley was far more extroverted, more outgoing. In the past, they had bonded over their screwed-up childhoods. Rupert was who he was and Stanley had managed to somehow resemble a whole human being despite coming from a family of chronic addiction. Most of their work had been projects focusing on individual self-worth within the family units of certain cultures, but Stanley’s current project—the one Rupert had been in the process of consulting on—dealt directly with drug use, thus tackling Stanley’s pet issue and not Rupert’s, so Rupert was happy to help in any way he could.

But, apparently, Stanley was gone.

Rupert found Pyrdewy’s door, the sort with the mottled glass panel in the top half. Pyrdewy had had the letters MUSEUM DIRECTOR removed—letters that had been there since at least 1900—and replaced, in a flashier modern font: MR. CLAYTON PYRDEWY, and in much smaller letters below: MUSEUM DIRECTOR.

Rupert knocked, and a loud, nasal voice pierced the glass, causing Rupert to wince.

“Just come in!”

Rupert shut the door behind him.

“Sit,” Pyrdewy said, not yet having looked up from the papers on his desk.

Rupert wedged himself into a chartreuse vinyl and chrome chair that looked less like a chair than something that should have been across town in the Spliphsonian Museum of Art, though bad art it would be. Pyrdewy was absorbed with the two sheets of paper he held, so Rupert looked around, palms sweating. The office was period to the building’s initial construction—around 1860—and although it was furnished with beautiful birch shelves that lined the walls and high-gloss maple floors, Pyrdewy had gone a great distance out of his way to modernize, hence, this non-chair chair that squeezed Rupert’s hips like a vice.

The area rug—which still contaminated the air with its factory-toxic stink—was black and grey and white, with offensive geometric shapes that smugly insisted that one’s natural preference for the organic could go fuck itself. What had once been shelves full of antiquarian books on various intellectual, scientific topics had been replaced with current mass-market paperback thrillers and military/spy/special-ops testosterone fiction, and only just a few at that—it was mostly empty space punctuated rudely with one piece of “art” or another.

There was a marked absence of family photographs. This single, pathetic aspect particular to Pyrdewy served as the sole comfort to Rupert’s threadbare sense of ease.

Pyrdewy’s face was red. He looked to be red all over, or as much as Rupert cared to see. At first glance, one might think it was from over tanning, but for lack of the telltale Trumpesque white rings around the eyes. Whole-body rosacea, perhaps.

“Did you hear about those Goddamn Nig-Nogs over in Baltimore?” Pyrdewy asked without looking up from paper number two. There wasn’t much text on either sheet, nor did he seem to be reading the words—he just stared.

“Um,” Rupert began. “I heard there were some protests.”

“Protesting against what? You act like a thug, you get treated like a—”

Pyrdewy’s small, black eyes finally met Rupert’s.

Silence.

“We’ve never met,” Pyrdewy said, getting up, as if the conversation hadn’t yet started. He did not reach for a handshake and Rupert was relieved for a number of reasons.

“No, we have not.”

“Well, as you know,” Pyrdewy said, pacing the area behind his desk slowly. “Stanley’s dead.”

“He’s not dead. He’s miss—?”

“Whatever. The point is, he’s gone. But his work must go on.”

“It must?” Rupert couldn’t imagine what possible interest this man could have in continuing to fund a study on the effects of addiction within a family of addicts and the disintegration of that family and the community concept of “family” as a whole.

“Yes,” Pyrdewy answered and looked out the window at the imposingly critical Department of Justice. It was open a tiny crack, enough to hear the faint sounds of traffic and people. “I know you worked with him, I know you consulted on this study, and I know your specialty is Endocrinology . . . ”

“The study and treatment of the endocrine system—?”

“ . . . and I know you are only qualified to mop the floors here.”

Rupert’s stomach did a slow, confused flip.

Silence.

“Are you listening now, smart ass?” Pyrdewy didn’t so much ask as state, still gazing out the window, and Rupert discovered that a self-satisfied smile had its own intonation.

That’s interesting.

“This study is going to continue, though it has been altered, about which you can educate yourself tonight.” Pyrdewy turned and pushed a thick file across his desk toward Rupert. It was labeled D.E.A.T.H.

Rupert’s eyes widened.

“You’re on a plane for Florida tomorrow morning,” Pyrdewy finished.

“Wait. But. Wait, what?” Rupert definitely did not want to go to Florida. He didn’t even want to leave his apartment to be here.

Pyrdewy heaved a deep sigh.

“Should I read the whole file to you?”

Rupert stared at him. He thought of the military/spy/special-ops novels dog-eared on the shelf behind him and found it difficult to believe that it wasn’t perfectly obvious to anyone looking at him that he was no Jason Bourne. All that was inevitable now was a series of explosions. And surely that would not happen.

“Drug Enthusiast Activity Treatment Harborage,” Pyrdewy said, clipped and matter-of-fact.

“Harborage?”

“You know, like a safe haven.”

“Activity.”

“Productive employment.”

“Enthusiast?”

“Look, we can’t have the public . . . ” Pyrdewy stopped, then inhaled through his nose and turned back toward the window.

“The Drug Enthusiast Activity Treatment Harborage is a charitable program designed and implemented by Yours Truly.”

“That’s very nice of you.”

“Shut it.”

Rupert did.

“It is a work program designed to help those who are addicted to methamphetamines and barbiturates get clean, save and administer an income, and become productive members of society.”

“I—” Rupert began, but Pyrdewy swung around and hairy-eyeballed him. “—am very impressed. Stanley would have approved. I would like to help in any way that I can.” Rupert imagined the apparent alternative: tossing sawdust over some kid’s puke outside the museum’s historical crawfish exhibit. “Where is the program located?”

“You won’t know until you’ve infilt . . . found a worker within the community who will show you. Top secret.”

Pyrdewy returned to his study of the Department of Justice across the way. More silence. Rupert looked around, breathed in, then out. Slow and cautious, he laid his hand on the folder and began to slide it toward himself.

“Who are you voting for?”

Shit.

It was mid-May and already 2016 was shaping up to be a banner year for Rupert’s theories on all forms of entropy, social and cultural. Texas had voted to allow public open carry firearms, the water situation in Flint, Michigan, was finally declared a state of emergency, Ammon Bundy had lead his band of Three Percenters in a forty-one-day standoff against the FBI in Bunkerville, Nevada, and a man had opened fire near the visitor center at the US capitol—too close to home for Rupert, but that’s what you get for living in Ground Zero of this national shit show.

Twelve hundred protestors had been arrested for demonstrating against campaign finance corruption and a rigged electoral system and the Secretary of the Treasury was trounced for announcing that a former slave—a woman to boot—would replace a white, male genocidal maniac on the twenty dollar bill—something Rupert didn’t believe for one moment would be allowed to happen. But on the bright side, Space X did a cargo run to the International Space Station, landing its “reusable main stage booster on an autonomous spaceport drone ship,” or so he’d read, and he didn’t know what the hell that even meant, but it sounded pretty bitchin’. If that wasn’t enough, NASA had announced just days ago that it had discovered more than 1,284 exoplanets. Exoplanets! Over 1,284 of them! We now knew everything about the Universe, and space, and all of the planets, right?

Across the nation, people had died in shootings, stabbings, and machete attacks, in high schools, office buildings, and at Ku Klux Klan rallies; they died from freak winter storms and record floods, Lancair IV microplane crashes, Amtrak train derailments, and rolling charter busses; they died from the Zika and the Elizabethkingia meningosepticaviruses; they died from goddamn Malayan tiger attacks, and Rupert was pretty sure his fellow DCers would likely be dying from some form of cancer within the next decade with the three-chemical 175-CSX freight car derailment near the Rhode Island Avenue Metro station at the start of this month, but Justice Anton Scalia got to die in his sleep after a day of quail hunting and a nice dinner.

The country had watched in fascinated horror as Donald Trump slowly racked up the necessary votes to win the Republican primary—O’Malley dropped out, then Rand Paul and Rick Santorum, then Christie and Fiorina, then Ben goddamn Carson, Rubio, Cruz, and Kasich, until the unthinkable had happened. The first primary—New Hampshire—considered to be a political bellwether, called it for Trump and Bernie Sanders on February 9^th. The predicted Republican primary winner was confirmed just a couple of weeks ago, to the shock and befuddlement of anyone breathing. Rupert, though—a professional Entropologist—wasn’t surprised. As of this meeting with Pyrdewy, it was obvious New Hampshire was batting 2/2 and Sanders would be nominated. Obviously. The DNC smelled rotten.

But as to Pyrdewy’s question—who would Rupert vote for?—in the words of Jesse Jackson, the question was moot. The DC Republican primary had already passed, with Rubio as the victor and who suspended his campaign three days later. Presumably, Pyrdewy had concluded that Rupert was a liberal and would be voting next month, but he would be wrong. Rupert considered the twelve thousand arrested last month over the ten-day demonstration against corruption in campaign finance and dubious election laws, which currently shut out third (fourth, fifth, ad nauseum) parties in myriad ways, among other deeply undemocratic concepts. Voting, Rupert had concluded, was like holding a piece of tissue paper over your head as protection against a fatal deluge of socio-economic entropy and thinking—believing fanatically—that you could stay dry in that flood of abject chaos.

Rupert cleared his throat and looked at the Department of Justice—recently under fire over its mishandling of encryption software as it worked with Pear, Inc to access the oPhone of the 2015 San Bernadino attack suspect—and he was happy he did not own a cell phone, for reasons that should be obvious by now, both personally and culturally.

“I . . . haven’t . . . I don’t know.”

Another deep, disgusted sigh from Pyrdewy

Rupert opened his mouth, said nothing, and closed it again. As Rupert got the folder into his hand and was about to slip it into his cross-body bag, Pyrdewy said his second-to-last thing.

“Let me tell you, when we win back the office, shit’s going to change around here. You folks can kiss your upper hand good-bye.” He paused. “These Federal dollars sure are nice, though.”

You folks. Upper hand. Federal dollars? It was too much to address quickly, so Rupert decided to let it go and GTFO. Then:

“Is that a purse?”

“What? No, it’s a bag, a man’s bag. It’s a cross-body bag. It’s ergonomic and very good for your . . . .”

But Pyrdewy was back at his two papers, studying them with an intensity that Rupert was sure he was faking. Rupert felt dismissed, but it was hard to register because he often felt this way.

He zipped up his cross-body bag and closed the office door behind him as he left. Now, if he could only find his way out.

Rupert’s head swam, not just from this sudden, inconceivable assignment, but from having to think about the state of the country over the last few months, though he, of all people, shouldn’t be too taken aback. Larger, macro entropy trickling down into the micro—his life. Things were going to change, alright, and that he expected. When you put zero effort—literally energy—toward keeping entropy at bay and only work neutrally to keep up superficial appearances, things will fall apart. Merely painting a hundred-year-old bridge won’t keep it from deteriorating underneath and eventually collapsing. Society, though, refused to apply this simple, basic law—the Law of Thermodynamics—to its own culture (let alone physical infrastructure). It lets its figurative bridges rot alongside its literal ones. By all intents and purposes—or a complete lack thereof—we should all be dead by now.

Rupert’s stomach growled. Time to feed.

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2.2

He noticed she was a little pear-shaped, not overly so, and as she neared, she came scented of unidentifiable berries.

“I’m sorry. Hello.” Rupert’s voice rarely needed to go above the level of funeral volume.

She leaned forward to better hear him among the chattering kids and their exhausted, penitent parents.

“Hello,” he said a little louder.

She smiled and put her hand out.

“I don’t think you know my name,” she said. “I’m Leenda.”

This was the first time he’d heard her speak and he found her voice faintly irritating. He thought he could look past that and congratulated himself on being a good, tolerant person.

Rupert forgot whether or not he knew her name, decided he had known, and he felt that not telling her so constituted some kind of lie on his part. He was screwing up already. He didn’t dare shake her hand with the deluge now issuing from his palms. He took a half-step back and nodded, not merely his head, but most of his torso.

What did I just do? he asked himself. What the shit? Now his forehead beaded with sweat. He took a deep breath that he hoped wasn’t noticeable and attempted to release it in slight and gradual increments through his nose.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Leenda.”

“Are you . . . Latina? Is that the term?” he asked, already regretting the words, getting up that morning, and also being born.

“I don’t know,” she said, puzzled. “I mean, I don’t know if that’s the word to use or not. I’m not, um, Latina? Why do you ask?”

Some kids ran between them causing Rupert to pull in his long limbs, an instinctive reflex. Linda? Is her name Linda? Had he misheard?

He said her name in his head a few times—Leeeeeenda. Was that racist? Great. I will never really know what her name is.

“I’m sorry. I have no idea. Stanley’s mentioned you,” he said. “And your work.” He added that quickly to avoid looking like he and Stanley locker-room-talked about her. “Mostly your work. I mean, all of your work. Nothing about you at all.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

There was an awkward pause.

Rupert was not a virgin, but he preferred not to discuss it with anyone, ever. Though, his most memorable sexual experience was the first that didn’t involve just himself and his hand, but also did not involve another person either.

His first massive growth spurt coincided with puberty, so by the time of this experience, he was in a significant amount of pain—his legs, his back, his shoulders. Despite this, like all boys, he’d become fairly adept in the masturbatory arts. When he was fourteen, his father began taking him to monthly chiropractic appointments—this lasted until he was sixteen. The doctor had been a friend of his father, so before every session, Rupert would be instructed to lie face down on the electric drop-table and relax while the adults shot the shit in the office for about ten minutes or so. The first appointment was uneventful, but the second was an epiphany.

Bored, face down on the table, his face cradled in a cushioned donut and waiting for the chiropractor to return and give him his adjustment, he’d absently let his already-long arms drop and he lightly grasped the metal legs of the table. There must have been an issue with the wiring, because when he did this, two things happened—first, a mild jolt of electricity buzzed through his body, and second, it had gifted him with the most personally impressive erection he’d achieved up until that moment, all his young life. He held on and a third thing happened, the evidence of which he’d covered up as best he could when the adjustment was over and he’d gotten up to leave.

This became a monthly ritual, and his parents thought the adjustments must be helping, and Rupert so looked forward to them. In actuality, they did little to alleviate the growth pains he’d been experiencing. But when he turned sixteen, the appointments ended, despite his protests. Money had become tight. And so, he’d begun experimenting . . . .

Leenda shot her thumb over her shoulder to the glass display case from which she’d come.

“Wanna come take a look?”

Rupert wondered if Leenda had any experience with power tools.

He moved one foot in front of the other like a robot, and he cursed the white slice of his genetics, wishing his black-half instincts could kick in at moments like these, when not being a complete spastic would be evolutionarily beneficial. He tried to be cool.

“So, what are you working on over he—?”

His gaze fell to the display case—a Native American set piece, where an older, gracious-looking native is handing a pipe to a younger, grateful-looking white man. Rupert abruptly half-turned, far enough so as to not have to look straight into the scene. Leenda appeared not to notice.

“Well, it’s a scenario of acceptance. With this particular tribe, we found that there were certain rituals in place for tribal integration from another social or racial group.”

Though his stomach growled, Rupert felt like throwing up now more than ever. His body, he was sure, would find something to throw up.

“Foreign men were assigned a native mentor and went through a long period of training in order to attain full integration with the tribe.”

“And the women?” Rupert eked out so as not to come across like a complete mental wreck.

“Oh, they just let the women in. They pretty much knew they weren’t going to do anything too stupid.”

Rupert nodded, still turned, not at all looking at what she referred to and pointed at.

“Anyway, at the end, there would be this very private ceremony where the white man would be given this pipe to smoke—it’s an interesting pipe. It’s got this long stem and a kind of bulbous end into which the tobacco would go . . . .”

Rupert was miles away, some might say mildly catatonic. He knew all about this tribe, this ritual, this pipe:

He’s ten years old, sitting on the floor in front of their massive 1978 Sylvana console television set, watching PBS. Most of the things in his family’s unit are pistachio- and cream-colored and off-putting in a vague, indescribable way. It’s 1984 and everything they own is several years outdated.

The program is about “Indian” customs. His parents prepare for some kind of social gathering. Rupert doesn’t care, he is ten, he is watching a totally awesome show about Indians, and at this point he’s learned to block out the argumentative din and tune in on what he wants to hear.

At this time, the man is ready . . .

His mother screeches something about her own idiot friends from work.

. . . and his guide passes to him a special pipe . . .

His father yells that “these people are scientists”—her own peers—but that pisses her off more, so she screeches louder.

. . . it is filled with powders and herbs . . .

There’s a knock at the door, and everything is silent for a moment before his mother yells, “Rupert, get!” But he doesn’t hear. All he can hear is:

. . . specially foraged for this distinctive occasion . . .

And as the white man takes the pipe and looks gratefully to his social-spiritual guide, Rupert’s mother opens the front door and twenty boisterous people rush in, voices raised in jubilation, because, hey, it’s a party and they’ve brought Bacardi, tequila Blanco, maraschino cherries, and yesss, there’s fondu.

Rupert is surrounded by swinging, stomping feet, coat hems fwapping him in the face. Some guests notice him and either announce how “darling” he is, or question whether or not he should be in bed. The program has gone on. What happened, he has no idea, but there’s music now, a drum, the tempo of which sounds with the feet clomping around him, the chants and native singing blending in with the, “Hazel, did you bring those little wieners?” There’s a sharp needle scratch, and then, even the soothing sound of The Commodores’ “Zoom” could not help him, lost beneath the tribal tattoo from the television as he was.

He tries to escape, struggles to get up from his cross-legged position. His knees and hips and shoulders ache as he’s already begun the growth spurt that wouldn’t stop until he outgrew everyone he’d ever known and ever would know. He can’t find leverage, more people flood in, flared trousers and patent leather, plaid, plaid, and so much plaid. Too much plaid. He feels sick. He can’t move. He’s nowhere. He screams, and his mother screams back, “I told you to go to bed!” Then, he can’t breathe.

This is the scene of Rupert’s inaugural panic attack, the first of many thousands to come.

“Rupert?” Leenda leaned toward him a little, but aware and careful of his space. He saw this and a small, but noticeable piece of him crumpled. He trembled and grasped his cross-body bag. If he were lucky, he’d make it out of this without a panic attack. Since the night of The Pistachio-Plaid Party of 1984, Rupert hadn’t been able to see any kind of pipe, in particular a native relic, without his throat constricting, his heart rate elevating, and more often than not, his lungs simply forgetting how to act. Next thing he’d know, he’d be on the floor, gasping, and waiting. Waiting the long, long wait to take that urgently needed in-breath, as his face became tight and red, as his sight went TV static and his brain clouded over, and then without warning—an eternity later—his lungs kicked into gear and there’s air, there’s oxygen, and he’s crying because thank fucking God.

“Are you okay?” Leenda’s concern appeared genuine.

“Sorry. Fine,” he said, his throat tight. “I’m fine.” He took a deep breath. “Tell me . . . then what happens?”

“Well, okay. If you feel alright. I could get you a glass of water.”

Rupert shook his head and waved his hand. No, I’m fine. I think I am dying. It’s fine.

“Well, the white man who wants to enter the tribe must smoke the entire contents of the pipe, which we understand had a hallucinogenic effect, and then­­—and this sounds odd—then he must fight his mentor. If he beats his mentor, he’s welcomed into the tribe as a full-fledged member and treated as such, and the mentor himself is honored for having produced such a good tribal citizen out of the white scum who had otherwise been such a pestilence.”

“If he doesn’t win?”

“Social outcast. He can either go back to the white devils, or he can choose to stay with the tribe, but never within the tribe. Always on the outside. Not allowed to socialize, not allowed to take part in the rituals, not allowed to marry. None of that. Either way, it’d be a pretty sad life.”

Rupert nodded. He felt a little better. He realized, not since the night of The Party had he ever heard the conclusion of that documentary. And here it was, live. And lovely. Her profile was a bit off, but Leenda was in fact pretty, if you got to look directly at her, close like this, and not from down a corridor or around a corner. And if she didn’t smile.

“So what are you here for?” she asked.

“Shit.”

“Well—”

“I’m late. I think I’m late. I’m supposed to see Pyrdewy. I can’t find his damn office.”

“Ugh. Come on.”

Leenda grabbed his hand and pulled him with her as all sorts of stress chemicals fired in his brain. They jogged down one hallway, then another, turned left, turned left, turned right, and they were at the elevators, a little out of breath.

She’s more attractive out of breath, he thought and his face went red as if he’d said it out loud. Most of the time, he was as embarrassed with himself as much as he was embarrassed in front of others.

“Thank you,” he said instead.

“No problem.” Leenda pushed the button for him. “Third floor, right off the elevator, you can’t miss his door.”

The doors dinged and slid open.

“Oh hey, I’m sorry to hear about Stanley. I liked him a lot. I know you guys were friends.”

Rupert frowned as he stepped into the elevator, nodding, trying to think of a reply.

Before the door shut, he heard Leenda say: “But he’s only missing. He’ll turn up. I’ll bet you dinner.”

And she was gone. Rupert had no idea what the hell she was talking about.

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