Authors: David Grand
Louse (5 page)
“Based on your account information and your credit report, we decided that you were a worthwhile risk and at your request we authorized an open line of credit at 17.8 percent annual interest. Do you remember signing for this?”
“No,” I said as he handed me the form showing me another signature.
“When we tried to close your line of credit, you became very defiant.”
“I'm sorry. I don't recall.”
“We were forced to call Security and detain you in a holding cell on the premises. You calmed down and allowed Dr. Felonius Barnum, our in-house specialist, to examine you for a nervous condition.”
“A doctor?”
“Dr. Barnum, our in-house specialist. He treated you at your request for the past several weeks while you recuperated in one of our rooms. To spare you any more public humiliation, you requested that we treat you for your gambling disorder with whatever therapies we thought most effective.”
“I did?”
“You signed a release form.”
“I did?”
“You did.” Bender pulled the release form out of his briefcase and put it on the table. “You also signed a letter of intent, agreeing to consider services you could provide in exchange for your debt. After consulting with one of our in-house counselors, as well as a member of the credit union, you agreed that our terms were fair, and in the long run would be most beneficial to your future. You then signed this initial contract,” he said, pulling it out of the briefcase, “the nature of which I don't need to remind you will eventually relieve you of your debt, provide you with stock options in the organization, and give you a brand new line of credit as well as other undisclosed benefits that will become known to you as you ascend to the plateau of accumulating disposable income.”
Bender sorted through a long list of items on the paper trail; he provided examples of all he talked about, and assured me that other forms of evidence, including video and audio tape, live witnesses and depositions, were available for me to view at a later time. I didn't insist on anything. I was too dazed, all the time trying to remember what had happened. There was nothing at all that connected me to a larger story. Whatever language I had to describe my thoughts came from someplace a priori. I didn't know why I knew
what a release form was, for instance. Or why I cared about a credit report, and how it was that any combination of syllables could run out of my mouth for that matter. The fact that I understood what syllables were seemed somewhat curious to me.
“I want you to know,” Bender said, “that we have decided not to press any criminal charges.”
“I see,” I said, not entirely sure if I wanted to find out what my criminal activity was. “And my criminal activity would be⦔
“It is my understanding that when your line of credit went dead you became quite belligerent with one of the pit bosses. When a security guard tried to pull you away, you assaulted her and took her pistol from its holster. You first turned the gun on yourself and then on the pit boss and demanded a bag full of $1,000.00 chips. When the pit boss wouldn't give you what you wanted, you began to threaten his life. It was at this point that plainclothes security agents apprehended you.”
“I see,” I said, dismayed.
“Would you like to watch the videotape?” he asked.
“If you don't mind.”
“As you wish.”
He leaned over and pressed the “Play” button on the VCR. A surveillance tape with the time, date, and location showed me, and it was unmistakably me, doing exactly what Bender said I had done. I was relieved when I was able to recognize myself. I was wearing an oxford shirt and trousers and looked no different than any of the others around me. The tape was of very good quality and showed no signs of tampering whatsoever. I tried to recognize the layout of the casino floor, but was unable at this point to separate the greens and the reds of the carpeting.
“Now, Mr. Louse,” he said, pressing the “Stop” button, “if you accept our terms, this is what I have to offer.”
From his briefcase, he pulled out a diagram with a flow chart of the organization's various components and pointed at it as he gave me a speech about the role I would play as a future trustee.
As a
future trustee
, a ward of the resort town of G. is expected to follow all orders given by higher ranking members as well as precepts written into a social contract. The social contract is a legal document, which is to be signed by the ward as well as counsel witnessing the ward's induction. The social contract is function- and site-specific: Depending on the job the ward is assigned and the floor on which he works and lives, he is to follow a set of respective rules for his individual tasks, as well as a particular set of decorum appropriate for the security level on which he functions. The system is designed so that
future trustees
with the most debt begin their work on the higher floors alongside those with the most stature, so that those with the most stature can observe
newcomers
and decide when these newcomers are to be promoted to the lower floorsâa process which moves them closer to eradicating their debt. In theory, debt is not eradicated by
time served
, but rather by
merit gained
, which is based on efficiency and obedience. In other words, in order for a ward to move up
he has to move down, and in the process of moving down, he will move up. If the ward follows these guidelines he will not only be eligible to grow beyond the point where his line of credit is restored, but will be granted
trustee
status. With trustee status the ward will be automatically entered into a lottery system in which he will be able to start his ascent to the level of
Officer, Manager, Middle Manager, Executive, Member of the Board of Directors
, and
Controlling Partner
, potentially rising one level with each drawing. Simultaneously, he will be entered into a lottery system that goes into effect when the
Executive Controlling Partner
passes away, at which time, lots are drawn and a new leader is randomly chosen from the pool of all organization members.
Footsteps approach in the outer corridor. They approach slowly and softly but are still audible. When they reach the main entrance of Poppy's chambers I find that they belong to the woman I am to call Madame. I assume she is his wife. I do not know her proper name. She appears in Poppy's chambers every night when he is sleeping. She is tall and walks with the graceful posture of a dancer, with her head cocked back, her shoulders square, her arms resting gently at her sides. She is always dressed in mourning from head to toe. I have, therefore, never seen her face. She wears a long and loose black dress, and a veil that only reveals the crescent shape of her eyes. They, and her hands, look like those of a woman much younger than Poppy. When she speaks, her voice is always hushed in a whisper. I am not to ask her anything. I am to provide for her needs and respond only in the way I have been instructed to respond.
When Madame enters the room, she carefully walks over the newspapers, approaches Poppy's bed, and kneels before his sleeping body. She bows her head, clasps her hands together, and begins praying in silence.
After a few moments, she lifts her head.
“Has he asked for me this evening, Mr. Louse?”
“Yes, Madame,” I say.
“And what did he say when he spoke of me?”
“He said that âyour radiance and beauty went unmatched by any other and that you were the sole proprietress over his will to live.'”
She looks at Poppy and begins to weep.
“I love him so,” she says. “He is my refuge, my heart, my⦔
And she weeps some more.
At this point I walk to her side and offer my handkerchief, which I keep in my pants pocket for exactly this task.
She takes the handkerchief from my hand and dabs at her eyes and her nose through the veil.
“You will tell him I love him,” she says.
“Of course, Madame. As always.”
She raises her head and momentarily looks at me. “Very good, Mr. Louse. Will you please give me a moment alone with him?”
“Of course, Madame.”
Madame hands the handkerchief back to me. She bows her head in prayer again and begins humming the third movement of Mozart's “Requiem.”
I exit the chambers through the corridor that leads to Bathroom Number Three. I walk between the television and the hologram of Jane and go directly to the incinerator in the supply closet where I dispose of the handkerchief and replace it with a new one.
When I arrive back in Poppy's chambers the woman is gone.
As she does every night, on Poppy's eastern nightstand, she has left behind a narrow glass box filled with three large butterflies.
They are mounted on pins that stick up from a piece of Styrofoam. The wings are extended and rest against the glass. Tonight the butterflies contain the colors of red, yellow, green, and black.
I return to my spot by the wall and listen to the ambient noises of the casino on the television at the foot of Poppy's bed. And as he does every night, Poppy opens his eyes to the butterflies on the table and turns to me.
“Herman?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Did I ask you to wake me?”
“Not to my recollection, sir.”
“Then what am I doing awake, Mr. Louse?”
“You woke up, sir.”
“On my own?”
“As far as I can tell.”
“Is there anything unusual to report at all, Mr. Louse?”
“Nothing unusual, sir.”
The old man presses the button of the intercom on his remote control and speaks.
“Mr. Sherwood. Play back last three minutes of my chambers.”
The television fades to black. Poppy is asleep in his bed. Madame delicately places the box of butterflies on the table. She gracefully exits the room. I return to my corner. We are motionless. His eyes open. He sits up.
“Herman?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Did I ask you to wake me?”
“Not to my recollection, sir.”
“Then what am I doing awake, Mr. Louse?”
“You woke up, sir.”
“On my own?”
“As far as I can tell.”
“Is there anything unusual to report at all, Mr. Louse?”
“Nothing unusual, sir.”
The old man presses the button of the intercom on his remote control.
“One more time, Mr. Sherwood.”
The television fades to black. Poppy is asleep in his bed. Madame delicately places the box of butterflies on the table. She gracefully exits the room. I return to my corner. We are motionless. His eyes open. He sits up.
“Herman?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Did I ask you to wake me?”
“Not to my recollection, sir.”
“Then what am I doing awake, Mr. Louse?”
“You woke up, sir.”
“On my own?”
“As far as I can tell.”
“Is there anything unusual to report at all, Mr. Louse?”
“Nothing unusual, sir.”
The old man presses the button of the intercom on his remote control.
“Thank you, Mr. Sherwood.” He turns to me as he lifts the glass box of butterflies from the night table. “Herman?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Please place the box in the safe.”
“Yes, Poppy,” I say, fully aware of what's to be done.
He holds out the box of colorful butterflies for me to take away. I step up to his bed and gently remove it from his outstretched hand and cradle it in my arms.
In the middle of the southern wing is a tall and wide wooden coffered door with an iron handle in the shape of a pyramid. I remove the study key from my pocket and insert its silver teeth into the iron latch. When I push the heavy door open it makes a long, scraping sound. It disturbs the stale air of the small vestibule adjoining the larger room, which is separated by an exact duplicate of the door I have just opened, only of smaller dimensions. I close the larger door behind me and step through the smaller door. An electric eye turns on the air conditioning as well as the cameras. Flashing red lights glow in the corners and from the ceiling. I am always tempted to look into one of the cameras to let Mr. Sherwood know that I am aware he is watching me. However, this is considered intolerable behavior.
Becoming self-conscious of the camera defeats the sincerity brought to the act of surveillance. You better serve the staff by remaining candid and forgetting that the cameras are present. To make eye contact with the view finders will be considered an act of defiance. Acting out for the camera is strictly forbidden. You are to maintain an austere respect for the authority of the camera and for those individuals behind it
.
I imagine a pair of passing eyes in a corridor, a stranger's eyes I don't know, nor wish to know. This way if I accidentally do peer into a camera it appears that I am looking through it, as if it is invisible.
Every night when I have the opportunity to walk across this room I catch glimpses of all the objects that inhabit this space, everything that makes the room smell like leather and dust and the
timeless decay of the past. I categorize, make an inventory of what I see to remember for later when I am not here: art deco and art nouveau furniture; rolls of carpeting; parts of old movie sets; open cartons filled with Juvenia watches; unsmoked and half-smoked cigarettes; bars of soap; aviation trophies, plaques, and medals; movie equipment; Tiffany lamps; marble statues; ceramic quails; scrap books and articles regarding flying records; footlockers filled with screenplays; pilot logs; a gold cup from a golf tournament; hearing aids; a two volume set of H. G. Wells'
The Outline of History
; a large ceremonial plate from William Randolph Hearst; double breasted suits; white sport coats; leather flight jackets; brown glass medicine bottles; snap-brim Stetson hats; white yachting caps; leather bound law books; piles and piles of white paper memos and yellow legal pads; a solid silver pistol with a note reading:
Captured from Hermann Goering
; German SS binoculars in a black leather case; a cut-glass bowl inscribed: “To Herbert Horatio Blackwell from Hubert Horatio Humphrey”; hundreds of Campbell's soup cans overflowing with canceled personal checks made out to the Brown Derby, The Stork Club, and El Morocco; corporate checks from EKG Productions and Transit Air; a passport; an aged pair of brown wing tip oxfords with curled-up toes.