Authors: David Means
Hystopia: A Novel (3 page)
2
General theory: objective cure to a subjective illness. Enfolding rejects etiological description of the specific illness and instead simply objectifies it
into
itself.
3
Avoid diagnosis. Submit to the fashionableness of the cure. Pure theater above all.
4
Inherent in drama and reenactment is a blurring of the distinction between the originating causal events and the apex events—“the moment.” Creating an artificial apex calls the originating events into question.
5
Replication alone isn’t sufficient to enfold the illness into itself. Asklepios must be invoked by way of communal rants, articulated gesture exercises, and ecstatic submission to pure chance.
6
All cures are bogus.
7
Without the drug Tripizoid the enfolding process doesn’t work and the reenactment of the trauma isn’t properly confused with reality. Tripizoid somehow incites a doubling-back of memory, a mnemonic riptide—the great drawback of water before the tsunami of pure memory arrives, except that it never arrives but is simply conjoined with the withdrawing currents. Conversely, in cases of
unfolding
, liquid memory returns to its original stasis, although, as has been noted, there may be slight “frustrations” in the form of alterations wrought by older, pre-traumatic memories, which may be discerned in the jumbling of proper nouns and subtle deviations in spoken syntax.
8
Theorists like to cite, by way of illustration, the example of two waves of identical amplitude but opposite phases, which cancel each other out when they coincide.
9
Enfolded memory can be
unfolded
in two ways:
Immersion in cold water. (Extremely cold.)
Fantastic, beautiful, orgasmic sex.
Original research on the processing of enfolding was funded by Kennedy Grid Project initiation grants at the University of Michigan. It was presumed that a state shaped like a hand capable of holding itself was superior to other states as a venue for enfolding projects. Florida was rejected on account of its unfavorable climate and its lack of clearly defined seasons. Extremely high humidity, it was found, early on, fosters too keen an awareness of the skin/mind division.
Although reenactment was initially tested in New Mexico and at a cavernous Chicago complex, these tests were both top secret. Michigan quickly became known as the Psych Project state. The process of enfolding was perfected in its lower peninsula with funding from Kennedy’s initiative.
EDITOR’S NOTE
Most historians of the curative technique commonly known as enfolding agree that its widely acknowledged bogusness was a necessary correlative of a bureaucratic structure created well in advance of the cure, just as the Eisenhower freeway project created a new cartography of driving needs. Most authorities now agree that the beauty of the enfolding cure lies precisely in the fact that its practitioners, inspired by the vastness of the project and by the excitement of Kennedy’s post-assassination survival, bravely admitted, early on, that the cure was a dreamy and even absurd concept, and that therein lay its wild effectiveness. The paradox was that the cure was actually often effective, so that the claim of its bogus nature was itself partly bogus.
EDITOR’S NOTE
Historians have speculated at great length about the concentration of veterans in the state of Michigan. Most have resorted to a geographical theory, in which its peninsular shape acted as a lure. (The same theory can be applied to other end points, Provincetown, Key West, etc.) Wayward souls find themselves longing for some terminus.
A smaller group of historians has argued that the Black Flag motorcycle gang, originally twenty or so in number, helped spark the mass migration of vets to the state. Others simply argue that a large number of vets, particularly those who served the second big escalation after the first assassination attempt, originally came from the Rust Belt region and were simply returning home. Whatever the reason, a decision was made to establish a transitional Grid stretching from the southeastern shore of Lake Michigan, north to Benton Harbor, east to Kalamazoo, and then straight down highway 131 to the southern border. A year later, the Grid was extended to include Battle Creek and the area west of Route 69. The extension area remained rebellious, with some farmers and townspeople refusing to evacuate.
As the designated Psych State, and with hospitals, reenactment chambers, and a release Grid area in place, Michigan received a vast share of federal Psych Corps funding. Before there was an established cure rate, or true understanding of the nature of enfolding, the great hospital boom was in full swing. Magnificent edifices of mental care sprang up in the countryside in every architectural style, from retro castles to immense geodesic dome structures. Grid signs sprouted in equal numbers. The Grid symbol appeared on handbags, paper dresses, and tattoo parlor walls. The idea appears to have been to systemize the unholdable.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The fires began in two places, the outskirts of Flint and the center of Detroit, before spreading house to house and across fields and uniting near Auburn Hills. All sparked by the raid on the Blind Pig in Detroit that night by the police, who were steeped in the dialectic of revolution and keyed into the idea that a revolt might start at any time. It was on the 266th anniversary of the day that Cadillac stepped ashore on what became known as
de trois
. The National Guard came in to shoot up at the “snipers” after the police were repelled. Soon the Detroit streets were ringing with the chants of “Motown, if you don’t come around, we are going to burn you down.” An aide to the mayor came up with the idea of burn squads. They would get ahead of the riots with Molotov cocktails and flamethrowers. Let it burn, the governor reportedly said. But the dynamics were simply too intricate to sort out accurately. The big map in police headquarters couldn’t handle the information that was being teletyped in—squad cars akimbo, nobody sure where anybody was, rumors spreading even faster than the fire. The governor had begged Kennedy for federal troops, telling him the whole state was at risk, and the federal troops were mustering along the Ohio border—the rumble of tanks could be heard in Toledo. The rumors had had a head start on the fires, anyway: a revolution was at hand. The Negro was going to avenge three hundred years of slavery. The uncured vets would join in; the vagabonds, the waywards. Already the structure of the Grid area was in negotiation; eminent-domain strictures were being argued in the Supreme Court that summer. Several thousand farmers and home owners were bracing for the order to move. Some had taken the offer and moved down to Indiana, where state law forbade the construction of Grid zones. If the wayward want to be wayward, let them do it in Michigan, Senator Clam of Indiana said. Senator Holly, of Michigan, led the fight for the creation of a Grid zone for Michigan, allowing for a safe place—not wilderness, but not urbane—in which certain patients, after treatment, might go to have a controlled transitional experience before being released into the general society.
By Eugene Allen
April’s the cruelest month, they say, but I wouldn’t go that far. At least not yet. I’m going to do my best to make it the cruelest, she heard him say, and then she slipped into darkness and woke, hours later, to the murmur of the engine, the power thrumming under the hood, the hood ornament far out, pointing the way. He had gone in and taken her out of the post-treatment Grid, slipping in, using his words and drugs. His hand was on her leg. Fingers spread. Above everything his talk, his voice ragged and deep, and then as she came up and out of it, his voice and radio static were all she had.
Something was close behind, a spiral of police sirens, the hospital’s clean simplicity, the sedation of the treatment, pre and post, that stayed with her when it was over, and she had to command herself to open her eyes and to look out the windows at the devouring slip of the road into itself …
Groggy, she found her mouth and made it speak, and she was telling him, Find the Ann Arbor channel, the one from the university, Stooges all the time
.
Stooges all the time, he muttered.
Then he began coughing and clearing his throat until he had something to spit, and he told her his throat was sore from screaming in Grand Rapids.
It had been a confusing couple of hours before they’d split that scene. The houses had been old, once dignified and fine, now slipping into decrepitude, uncomfortable beneath the trees arching over the wide streets. The trees were tired of shading structures of grandeur, optimistically huge Victorians. Slate shingles gone, hauled away by the looters after the riots.
Shaky had been asleep when they entered his bedroom, treading softly. Rake put the gun to his forehead and told him what he had to give them and how he was to do it and with what kind of movement, slowly, and how much shit he was in, deep, deep unbelievable shit, and Shaky did what they ordered him to do, but when he was doing it he stumbled or made a quick move. He was a tall dark man with knobby knees. One of the tallest motherfuckers you’re gonna see in the Middle West, Rake said.
Rake shot him point-blank, producing a spongy, wet sound, and an outbound spew of bone and blood hit the wall, making another sound that she heard and reheard and heard again.
That’s that, Rake said, kicking the body.
Then they ransacked the house, pulling drawers, spilling underwear, unfurling panties, frilly things that she held for a moment and dropped to the floor.
The feel of silk was still on her fingertips. She could still see the look in his eyes as he stared at the gun. The black barrel in the black pupil.
You’re gonna come out of it,
the look said
. You’re gonna survive this. I’m dead but you’re going to live. I’m just one more in the wrong place at the wrong time. One more who wakes up into a nightmare. I’m not going to plead with you too hard, no girl, but I’m gonna give you this last little glance to carry with you when you go
, the look said before the gun took it away
.
In the kitchen he removed a loaf of Wonder from the bread box, a glass bottle of milk with a paper cap, and some cheese, and then they headed off into the morning light.
I’m afraid we didn’t leave a single print, he said. We’re on the lam. That’s part of the deal. We’ve got to mix it up. Sometimes I leave prints, other times I don’t. Got to give the Psych Corps something to think about, got to leave some tracks they can obsessively follow. He talked and talked as they drove the Grand Rapids streets, turning now and then to make sure she was listening or at least awake, poking her with his long fingers, gripping her thigh.
* * *
Do I talk too much? He said.
Do I ramble on, the king of non sequitur? He said.
Do you listen to me? He said.
Do you listen to me going on and on? You most certainly do. He said. Said. Said. He said. He said. He said.
If you’re good for anything you’re good as a listener, set to let me ramble while you nod into it. That first time back there, when I finally got to you, I tried that classic dosage, a big 400-microgram dose, the king of all tabs. You get a girl tripping on that and you’re free to do what you want depending on the structures you’ve set up for yourself and I’ll admit that I have set some up for myself. I’ve got my codes and credos just like the rest of them. That’s all we had over in Indochina. All we had to live with were the rules and regulations.
Them
. It’s us against
them
and they know it, and the thing about
them
is that the only thing they really know, if you get my drift, is that they failed me. They failed me big-time by not taking care of me when I returned from the war. They took me down to Texas and put me into one of their reenactments and pumped me full of Tripizoid, and then all they did was double it down, increase what they were trying to decrease. If they knew how bad I was feeling, they’d never sleep at night. They’d lock the doors and nail the windows. They’d put me in their prayers and ask for protection specifically against me. They’d walk faster and glance back more often. If they had even the slightest idea that I was wandering their streets they’d unlock their gun cabinets and get their rifles cleaned and make sure the ammo was dry. Some of them have a vague premonition, an ill-formed vision comprised of Vetdock escapees, Black Flag wannabes, trigger-happy acid freaks, and Year of Hate troublemakers. Guys with bad scars, he said. Then he ran his fingers across the scar that ran from his scalp—the part where the hair wouldn’t grow—down his neck to where it disappeared under his collar. He touched it, pulled his shirt open, and stared down as if seeing for the first time the way the scar tissue radiated across his chest in weird formations that had once been his nipples, and into his belly button, where the splash had pooled. (That fiery goop spread over me while I watched—and yeah, I did watch it because I was hit such a blast of dopamine that I flew out of myself and stood there on the battlefield resisting the temptation to pound my chest like Tarzan.)
In Grand Rapids, before going into the house, he had pulled over to the curb, letting the car murmur and hum, the long hood shuddering, waxed, a glistening tongue touching the trees in reflection.
You want to know what my credo is? he said. And without waiting for her to answer he continued:
My credo’s: never kill for a
good
reason. If you’re going to be a failed enfold, then do it wholeheartedly and with all the gusto you can muster. When you kill, do it quickly so that you pluck the proper method from the situation itself. But never ever, ever be efficient. I mean don’t go for the easy kill. At the same time don’t stretch it out too much. If there’s a scream I want it to be the brutal, loud, quick kind that it goes in one ear and out the other. You can blame that on Nam or you can blame it on the way my mind works. The one thing I hated over there was hearing a fellow grunt crying, stuck out in the fire zone while we gave the Marine credo a workout (never leave the dead buddy behind and all that). He looked at her and examined her eyes and then reached up to touch her face. For a second there was a softening in his features. He had a lean, sharp chin and a gaunt jawbone that led up to an unusual fat brow. Then he gave her a swat on the top of the head and said, Shit, man. We’ve got to go in, take care of this Shaky character, and leave a calling card for the police, who will give it to the authorities, and then eventually it’ll go up the chain to some poor Psych Corps agent. Their job is to find some semblance of order in all this madness, and mine, as I see it, is to give them something to think about …