Amanda Filipacchi - Vapor

He was still sitting on the bench, his head in his hands, when I returned.

“I’m back,” I said, and helped him lie down on the bench. His eyes were closed. I kneeled next to him and opened a bottle. “Okay, I’m going to pour water on your face now, so hold your breath.”

As soon as the water hit his face he groaned. The wetness must have revived the sting of the pepper spray. He wriggled his body with discomfort as I kept on pouring, and suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I perceived something that was arresting: a unique, rubbery, loose and rapid jiggle, that, as far as I knew, could only be produced by one thing. I believed that, for an instant, through the fabric of his pants, I had seen his penis.

His singular outfit, which I had hitherto been aware of only vaguely and subconsciously, had now abruptly jumped to the forefront of my consciousness: his loose-fitting pants and shirt were made of cloth that was thin, white, and extraordinarily transparent. I looked again at his crotch, but without much luck this time, because the angle had changed; he kept shifting in discomfort.

I was tempted to ask him why he was wearing transparent clothes, and why in this cold weather.

He suddenly sat up, groaning again, this time not so much with pain as exasperation, which I was afraid was because he caught me looking.

“Enough,” he said.

I leaned back on my heels. His legs were open in front of me, but I didn’t dare look. My eyes were fixed on his chest, a neutral point. His reproachful silence became unbearable, so I slowly raised my eyes to his face, only to discover that my fears were unfounded; his eyes were still closed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“The pH is very uncomfortable.”

“The pH?”

“Yes,” he said, and asked: “Isn’t this Evian water?”

“Yes.”

“I would be so grateful if you could get me water with a lower pH, like Volvic.”

I tried to register his words, but I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Are you still there?” he asked, like a blind person.

“Yes,” I replied. “You’re saying the pH level is uncomfortable? Don’t you think it’s maybe just the wetness that has revived the stinging of the spray?”

“Yes, but the alkalinity of this water is also the cause. I’m in no condition to have to endure a gap.”

“What gap?”

“From seven, neutral pH. Please get me Volvic water.”

“Okay,” I said, and went and got him Volvic water.

He was lying on the bench again when I returned. I kneeled next to him, opened a bottle, and started pouring it on his face.

He sighed, and said, “Yes, that’s better. Thank you.”

I opened a second bottle and emptied it on his face as well. It drenched his collar.

“Now open your eyes so I can rinse them,” I told him.

“I can’t,” he said, so I held his eyes open with my fingers, one at a time, and poured a third bottle into them. My fingers on his eyelids started to feel a little nervous as I noticed, once again, his attractiveness. His face was sinuous and his features aquiline, with no sharp edges. His hair was blonde, shoulder length and slightly wavy. He seemed to be in his early thirties.

By the fourth bottle, my eyes had started wandering down his body again, and I had all but forgotten the matter of the pH, because, to be frank, the matter of his humanness interested me more than that of his super humanness. Accordingly, I tried to get a glimpse of his penis again. But maybe I had hallucinated.

I leaned toward his crotch slightly to get a closer look. I hadn’t hallucinated. It was really there.

The man suddenly grabbed my wrist. Straightaway, I imagined the worst: that he caught me looking. But no, he was simply readjusting my aim, repositioning my arm over his face, because I had begun pouring the water on the sidewalk.

“You seem distracted,” he said, keeping a hold of my wrist. “What were you looking at?”

They say that when you lie you should try to stay close to the truth: “I thought I saw a policeman for a second, but I wasn’t sure if I had hallucinated.”

“You weren’t hallucinating. But ignore him, because he won’t make any difference.”

I suddenly realized with discomfort that he knew perfectly well I was looking at his penis, and that it was the subject of our conversation. That being the case, I wondered what he meant by telling me that his penis wouldn’t make any difference.

“Then why is he there?” I ventured.

“It’ll emerge in time.”

I wondered if the “it” referred to the answer to my question, or what. I decided it was probably to the answer, but possibly to what.

I started to rinse his hands and asked, “Do you know why these men attacked you?”

He shook his head.

“Do you think we should report it to the police?”

He shook his head again.

“Do you want to go to an emergency room?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’d like to go home. If you could just hail me a cab, I’d be grateful. And would you mind also giving me your phone number so that I can thank you properly?”

I took out a piece of paper on which I wrote Anna Graham, and my phone number. I handed it to him, and he squinted at it, still unable to open his eyes completely.

“Thank you,” he said, shoving it in his pocket. “I’m Damon Wetly. I won’t shake your hand in case I’m still contaminated with your spray. How far do you live?”

I told him, and since we didn’t live in the same direction, we decided each to take our own cab. I hailed two and before Damon climbed into his, he gave my cabdriver a twenty-dollar bill. I told him it wasn’t necessary.

“It’s the least I can do,” he said. “It was a relief to meet you, and almost a pleasure, which is saying a lot under the circumstances. And again, thank you.”

It was only once I was in the taxi going home that it occurred to me we could have asked to use the supermarket bathroom. But then I recalled the pH problem: the tap water’s pH level might not have been to his liking. This seemed preposterous to me. I didn’t know what to make of it.

When I got home I sat on my couch for an hour, wondering why in the world I had put my life at risk to save this man. Was I a courageous person and just hadn’t known it? Was I noble, deep down? I wasn’t sure, but these possibilities made me feel good.

Or maybe my risk-taking had simply been caused by the frustration of having tried so hard to succeed at something and failed. And I certainly had tried hard to improve my acting.… In addition to striving to erase myself, I did all sorts of other acting exercises. Among those, of course, was the standard practice of performing scenes in front of the class. But apart from that, I had my own strange little activity that I performed exclusively at my other job, at Copies Always, the Xerox shop. I was supposed to copy documents, but actually, I also copied people. When customers came in, I immediately copied their mannerisms, behavior, and tone of voice. Since the customers didn’t know my true self, they had no idea I was imitating them. One day, however, I think a client did notice it because as he was paying the bill he said, “Your prices are quite reasonable here. And you didn’t even charge me for your Xerox of me.”

I think the sound of the copiers triggered off this need and ability within me to become a copier myself. It wasn’t unlike singing along with a song on the radio: I felt quite competent as long as the real singer’s voice was there to support, guide, and slightly drown out mine, but as soon as I tried to sing that same song alone, the result was usually less gratifying.

I knew I had tried hard at my acting. Yet perhaps I had to try still harder. But what did trying harder consist of? What more could I do? I mean, should I just abandon acting?