Jeff Jackson - Mira Corpora

A women in curlers turns to me: “You here for the show?”

I must look confused because she points to the empty twin bed pressed against the far wall. It functions as a couch. Or maybe a stage. But here’s the important detail: A child’s plaything lies atop the bare mattress. I’ve been staring at it but not really seeing it. My brain has balked because the implications are too startling. My breathing becomes shallow. My mind spirals. I sense Hank and Lena also struggling to process the sight. “Here comes the something,” Lena whispers, from a favorite lyric. The object on the bed is a miniature guitar.

“Don’t get too excited,” Hank tells us. “It’s only a toy.” But the tone of his voice betrays the fact that his expectations have been raised as well.

There’s the sound of activity in the hallway behind us. A man in a red track suit makes an entrance. His coffee-colored skin and regal features are offset by a flat nose that appears to have been broken numerous times. A few hushed murmurs of a name: “Morrisot.” He gracefully navigates the room, tousling kids’ hair and shaking a few hands. His cleared throat resounds like trumpet fanfare.

“Welcome,” Morrisot says in a rich baritone. “A friend of mine is going to provide entertainment for us this afternoon. He’s a bit unusual, but don’t be alarmed. He’ll do whatever I say.” He signals the man in the black ski jacket to flip off the overhead fluorescents and turn on the bedside lamp. Mood lighting. He produces a small plastic packet of yellowish powder from his sweatshirt. He shakes the packet briskly between thumb and forefinger. The sort of precise gesture aristocrats use to ring a service bell.

The man we’ve been following lopes to the edge of the room, rubbing his gums and flashing a hideous grin at no one in particular. The way his eyes are locked on the plastic packet, the rest of the apartment might as well be empty. Morrisot tries to coax him deeper into the room but the man sticks with the shadows. He refuses the bait for several moments, then lunges for the packet. Like a matador working with a tiny cape, Morrisot flicks it out of reach and the man crashes headfirst into the bed. The crowd offers murmurs of approval.

Morrisot helps the man to his feet and smoothes his tangled bathrobe. He speaks to him in a voice that’s soft but firm, precisely enunciating each word so there’s no misunderstanding. “You want some,” Morrisot says, “then you have to play us a song.” He nestles the pint-sized guitar into the man’s hands.

The man unwinds his red scarf, sheds his bathrobe, and faces the crowd. It’s Kin Mersey. There’s no mistaking him. Only Lena seems unfazed by his extravagant deterioration. There’s an arctic paleness to his flesh. You can map the blue veins coursing throughout his bare chest. His face is scarred with pink pustules. His eyes are yellow and liverish. His teeth are rotted. The cuticle of every nail has been gnawed past the quick. My heart sinks, but then Kin licks his lips. You can clearly see the tip of a full crimson tongue.

Morrisot whispers something in Kin’s ear, coaxing him the way you’d handle a skittish show pony. It’s suddenly as if he’s more of a manager than a dealer, and it occurs to me that we may be about to hear a preview of the new sounds Kin has been working on.

Kin tentatively touches the frets of the guitar. A preternatural alertness has crept into his expression. Kin’s slender fingers tremble as they adjust the tines, but they approximate a sound that’s in tune. Lena squeezes Hank’s hands and mine. None of us is prepared for what may be about to happen. I shake myself loose from the circuit. I have to experience this for myself.

As Kin starts to strum, I’m surprised by the volume that ripples from the toy instrument. He beats out a rhythm that replicates the headlong urgency of his steps. At first the chords seem to coalesce into a familiar song, but then they violently fracture, suggesting something entirely new. My body begins to ignite. Kin leans into the rapidly splintering sound but can’t seem to find his entrance, as if the words are locked in his windpipe. His lips foam and quiver. His eyes swing back in their sockets. Sweat crowns his forehead. When he finally opens his mouth, he unleashes a terrible howl.

The sound comes choking out in convulsive yelps. The children burst into peals of hysterical laughter. This is the punch line they’ve been awaiting, but it’s no joke. A tormented expression strangles Kin Mersey’s features. He begins to weep while continuing to play. Drool collects around the edges of his lips. There’s a tragic, desperate intimacy to the performance. It’s so overwhelming that I shut my eyes. I can’t face Hank’s knowing contempt or Lena’s romanticized rapture. Everything around me feels like it’s turning to ash.

Kin lets loose another round of high-pitched shrieks. I have to get out of here. I abandon my friends, push past the crowd, and scramble through the hallway in stocking feet. I bound down the stairs three at a time, trying to forget about the spittle massing around Kin’s mouth, not waiting to discover the fate of that one still expanding bubble of saliva.

(15 years old)

“What will we do to disappear?”

— Maurice Blanchot

I’M NOT PAYING ATTENTION TO TRAFFIC SIGNALS. My gaze is trained on my rotting sneakers. I’m in a half-zombie state, shuffling across the street wherever I feel like it. Let them honk if they’re about to hit me.

Not that there are many people out on this gray Sunday morning. I can’t remember exactly where I’m wandering. It’s one of those indistinguishable neighborhoods on the outskirts of the city. The blank modern façades try hard to appear antiseptic but the structural rot peeks through even the freshest coats of paint. The narrow streets are empty except for a lone figure dressed in molting clothes and cradling a bandaged hand. That’s me. I’m prospecting for a promising corner to collect change for a bus ticket. The final destination doesn’t matter. I just want to be in a different city. I’m too hollowed out to be picky.

I’m heading through the intersection of the main boulevard when something tugs at my shirt. A man yanks me back onto the curb. He immediately apologizes, speaking in a foreign-inflected English. “I am so sorry,” he says, looking genuinely aggrieved. I figure a truck must have been careening toward us, but the street is empty. There’s not even any slow-circling taxis, chumming for fares. “I am so sorry you’re sick,” the man continues. “It is painful for me because a dear friend of mine had the same disease. This is a terrible thing to see a young person in such a state.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. Maybe there’s a glitch in the translation of his thoughts. “This may sound strange,” he continues. “But you should know how lucky you are to run into me. I can help you.” The man spots my bandaged hand and stops short.

My mind starts to hum. I slashed my palm several weeks ago while scurrying up a chain-link fence. The cut is an aching inconvenience, but at least it generates sympathy when I need to solicit cash. But now I start to wonder if it’s also initiated some creeping systemic infection. I’ve been living by myself and haven’t made a careful inspection of my reflection in days. Or maybe it’s even been weeks. Maybe this person sees something I can’t.

“Did you not know?” the man asks. “Your hand has been very slow to heal, has it not? Didn’t you find this unusual? It is a symptom of the disease. Do not be ashamed. At first my poor friend did not recognize it either. But I know how to help you.”