Jeff Jackson - Mira Corpora

It’s true the scarlet slash across my hand hasn’t properly scabbed. Maybe I have contracted a virus. Who knows what kinky microbes cling to hostel mattresses and bus station toilet seats. It’s not like I feel ideal, either. I’ve had all kinds of health issues. But are my persistent cough and acidic stomach manifestations of something more sinister? I find myself starting to back away.

The man claps his hands to regain my attention. It’s a weirdly authoritative and almost parental gesture, the way you’d deal with a distracted child. “You are sick, my friend,” he says. “This is a tragic reality. Why would I lie about something like this?”

I shake my head. Not to indicate one thing or another, but to try and clear some mental space. “Do you think I am trying to take your money?” the man asks. An injured and indignant expression squirms across his face. “Look at me. Do I look like someone who needs to take advantage of anybody?”

The man is Germanic, early thirties, stylish blond crew cut, clean shaven, trim physique, blue sweater and tan slacks. “Look at my shoes,” he says. “I am not joking, look at my shoes!” They’re brown leather loafers with a discrete black circle, doubtless some chic designer insignia, stitched above the toes. “Tell me why someone wearing these shoes would take advantage? I do not require anyone’s time or money.”

He brushes his fingertips along the small of my back, subtly guiding us in the direction of a shopping thoroughfare off the main boulevard. “Call me Gert-Jan,” the man says. “I would be very pleased to help you. This is my nature. I know a doctor. It is very fortunate that he is not far away.” I haven’t agreed to anything but there is something about his demeanor that feels reassuring.

Gert-Jan maintains a brisk commentary while we walk. There are details about his sick friend and the location of the doctor, but I’m more interested in the store fronts. The shops are closed and the lights extinguished. As we pass, I scour the glass for signs of illness in my reflection. I try to detect what Gert-Jan has noticed. Maybe others have seen it and been too polite or indifferent to react. Of course we’re moving too quickly for a proper diagnosis. But I do strike myself as particularly pale and hollow-eyed.

We hurry through a small concrete courtyard and descend a flight of metal stairs to a basement office. “Here it is,” Gert-Jan announces. We stand in front of a frosted glass door with the emblem of a medical cross neatly etched across the front. A comforting sight. There’s a doctor’s name and traces of some other information in a smaller font. Gert-Jan brandishes a silver key and lets us inside.

The office is deserted. The overpowering odor of disinfectant stings the air. The wooden floor is scarred with scratch marks. Narrow windows line the top of the walls so that only the dingiest light filters in from the street above. I would feel better if the staff was present but before I can voice my concerns, Gert-Jan hastens to explain.

“Of course it is Sunday,” he says. “Naturally, everyone is at home. They have the equipment you need. This doctor is a good friend of mine. We went to medical school together, only I never finished.” I find myself caught in a constant and slippery stream of information and it’s all I can do to keep my balance. I’ve felt invisible on the streets for so long that I have no idea how to cope with this unfamiliar undertow of kindness. Gert-Jan leads us down a narrow hallway to a circular room. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I know exactly what to do.”

Inside the operating theater, Gert-Jan unspools a fresh roll of paper for the examining table; positions the swiveling lamps so they shine brilliantly overhead; explains how he will run several quick and painless tests. He scrubs his hands, snaps on a pair of rubber gloves, and rummages for supplies. He sets about his tasks as precisely as a technician preparing a movie set for the next shot.

While I lie on the examining table, I make a mental note of my surroundings: Small cabinets on wheels, monitors with digital displays, thin steel tools soaking in jars of colored fluid. The sidewalk is visible from a rectangular window near the ceiling and several pairs of shoes march past. On the counter lies a nylon muzzle. On the back of the door hangs a poster of a golden retriever snaring a Frisbee. I flash on a terrifying thought: This is a veterinarian’s office.

I don’t bolt out the door. I don’t scream for help. I can’t explain why I continue to lie prone on the chilly exam table. Maybe part of me is still hoping Gert-Jan will cure my supposed illness. Maybe part of me doesn’t care anymore. My eyes remain shut until it’s over. I struggle to keep my body wholly unresponsive while Gert-Jan ties my wrists, but my left pinky keeps bucking and jerking, as if it’s acquired its own nervous system.

Afterward, he removes the gag and cups my chin while I cough. “You are cured,” he announces. He still wears one of the powdery green surgical gloves. It’s dappled with droplets of blood.

For a long time, I lie motionless on the examining table. Everything feels unreal, as if a critical part of myself has been unplugged. When I finally sit upright, he regards me with something approximating tenderness, maybe what you might feel for an injured pet. Gert-Jan holds out a handful of neon yellow pills and I swallow them without asking what they’ll do. They tingle on my tongue and dissolve in a quick fizz.

Gert-Jan strokes my shoulder. He tousles his fingers through my hair. He leans in to kiss my lips. “You are a sad person,” he says. “But I promise you will never feel any more pain.”

Ignore the dead body on the floor. It’s just earning a living. Gert-Jan instructs the partygoers to step over it as they ferry rounds of drinks from the kitchen to the den. Everyone is careful not to disturb the body’s composure. It lies face-down in a puddle created by the unplugged refrigerator. Its skinny arms are bound behind its back with black bandanas. The tag around its neck reads “My Name Is Jeff.” The body is mine, technically speaking. But let’s not get hung up on unnecessary details.

The body is in its typical corpse pose. One of them, anyway. Its white T-shirt is soaked and ideally transparent. Its mouth emits discreet bubbles in the puddled water. Its eyes are open but unmoving. They’re perfectly dull, which takes more skill than you might imagine. The body isn’t paying much attention to the party. I’m there but I’m not there, which is as close as I can come to describing the situation without devolving into metaphysics.

The body’s eyes register a new shape swimming in front of them. A middle-aged woman with bushy chestnut curls and tiny sparrow hands. She stares intently at the body. She occasionally bends low to study its nonexistent expression. There is eye contact, of a sort. The body can’t tell whether the woman wants to buy it or not. Her gaze has an unfocused intensity that would be hard to read even in the best of circumstances.

A clock chimes in the next room. Corpse time is over. Too bad. It’s always been one of the body’s favorite tasks. Gert-Jan unties the body and arranges it into a more traditionally enticing pose: Seated on the floor, hair ruffled over its eyes, arms tightly hugging its scuffed pink knees. “This is for your own good,” Gert-Jan likes to remind the body. He hands it another yellow pill which it dutifully swallows.

The main room of the brownstone has a shimmering crimson glow. The walls have been painted silver. Red scarves are draped over the lamps to lend the place an even more exotic atmosphere. It makes the dozen people hovering over the body look like crew members on a low-budget slasher film. Grips and gaffers, maybe. Someone throws an empty wine glass into the cold black fireplace, but nobody bothers to react.