Бен Маркус - Notes from the Fog - Stories

“We didn’t know each other before,” said Trish. “Now we do. We’re in each other’s lives. This is real. And it’s good. You’re not just going to go home and forget me. It won’t be possible.”

George would sign off on pretty much any press release about what had happened last night, and what they now meant to each other, so long as it featured him catching his plane at 9:30 a.m. and never seeing her again.

As he was leaving, Trish grabbed him.

“I would say ‘one for the road,’ but I don’t really believe in that. Just that whole way of thinking and speaking. It sounds sorrowful and final and I don’t want that to be our thing. That’s not us. I don’t like the word ‘road’ and I definitely don’t like the word ‘one.’ Two is much better. Two is where it’s at.”

She held up two fingers and tried to get George to kiss them.

George smiled at her, pleaded exhaustion. It was sweet of her to offer, he said, and normally he would, but.

“You know, research shows,” Trish said, not giving up, “that really it’s a great energy boost, to love and be loved. To climax. To cause to climax. To cuddle and talk and to listen and speak. You’re here! You’re standing right here with me now!”

“I’m sorry,” said George. “I guess it’s all just starting to hit me. Dad. Being gone. I don’t think I’d bring the right spirit right now. You would deserve better.”

It didn’t feel good or right to play this card, but as he said it he found it was more true than he’d intended.

Trish was beautiful, but given the growing privacy of his sexual practice, such factors no longer seemed to matter. He would probably love to have sex with her, if she could somehow find a way of vanishing, and if the two of them could also find a way to forget that they had tried that already, last night, and the experience had been deeply medical and isolating. It was just too soon to hope for a sufficiently powerful denial to erase all that and let them, once again, look at each other like strangers, full of lust and hope.

“Is that a bad thing,”George asked his therapist, after returning home and telling her the basics.

“And please don’t ask me what I think,” he continued. “The reason people ask a question is because they would like an answer. Reflecting my question back to me, I swear, is going to make me hurl myself out of the window.”

Together they looked at the small, dirty window. There were bars on it. The office was on the ground floor.

“I’d hate to be a cause of your death,” said the therapist, unblinking.

“Well, I just wonder what you think.”

“Okay, but I don’t think you need to lecture me in order to get me to answer a question. You seem to think I need to be educated about how to respond to you. There are also many other reasons people ask questions, aside from wanting answers. You’re an imbecile if you think otherwise.”

“Okay, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

“Well, then, I think it must be lonely. I do. To find yourself attracted to a woman who also seems, as you say, attracted to you—if that’s true—and to think you’d be more content to fantasize about her than to experience her physically. So it sounds lonely to me. But we should also notice that this is a loneliness you’ve chosen, based on your sexual desires. Your sexuality seems to thrive on loneliness. And I can’t help but sense that some part of you is proud of that. Your story seems vaguely boastful.”

“Plus her being my father’s widow.”

Dr. Graco frowned.

“What was that?” she asked.

“You know, her also having been involved with my father, before he died. I guess I left that part out.”

Dr. Graco took a moment to write in her notebook. She wrote quickly, and with a kind of disdain, as if she didn’t like to have to make contact with the page. A fear of contaminants, maybe. A disgust with language.

It had sometimes occurred to him that therapists used this quiet writing time, after you’ve said something striking, or, more likely, boring, to make notes to themselves about other matters. Grocery lists, plans. One never got to see what was written down, and there was simply no possible way that all of it was strictly relevant. How much of it was sheer stalling, running out the clock? How much of it just got the narcissist in the chair across from you to shut up for a while?

She wrote through one page and had turned to another before looking up.

“I am sorry to hear about your father.”

“I should have told you. I apologize.”

“He died… recently?”

“Two weeks ago. That’s why I was away. My missed appointment. Which I paid for, but. I was gone. I’m not sure if you.”

“I see. Do you mean it when you say you should have told me?”

“Well, I found the prospect of telling you exhausting, I guess. I was annoyed that I had to do it. To be honest, I wished you could just, through osmosis, have the information, in the same way you can see what I’m wearing and we don’t need to discuss it. It’s just a self-evident fact. You could just look at me and know that my father is dead.”

She resumed writing, but he did not want to wait for her.

“That’s not a criticism of you, by the way. I don’t think you were supposed to guess. I mean I don’t think I think that. Maybe. You know, to just be sensitive and perceptive enough to know. I am sometimes disappointed about your powers, I guess. That’s true, I should admit that. I just wish I had, like, a helper, who could run ahead of me to deliver the facts, freeing me up from supplying all of this context when I talk to people. Otherwise I’m just suddenly this guy who’s like, my father died, blah blah. I’m just that guy.”

“But you weren’t. Because you didn’t tell me. You were not that guy.”

“Right, I guess.”

“So then who were you?”

“What?”

“You didn’t want to be the guy who told me your father had died, so by not telling me, what guy did you end up being instead?”

For some reason, George saw himself and Pattern, as kids, waiting on a beach for their lunch to digest, so they could go swimming. Pattern was dutifully counting down from two thousand. It was a useless memory, irrelevant here. He remembered when he shopped and cooked for his mother, when she wasn’t feeling well, and then really wasn’t feeling well. He cleaned and took care of her. His father had already planted his flag in California. He was that guy, but for such a short time. Two weeks? He’d been very many people since then. Who was he when he didn’t tell Dr. Graco that his father died? Nobody. No one remarkable. He’d been someone too scared or too bored, he didn’t know which, to discuss something important.

“That just made me think of something,” he said finally. “The word ‘guy.’ I don’t know. Have you heard of Guy Fox?”

“I assume you don’t mean the historic figure, Guy Fawkes?”

“No. F-o-x. Porn star, but that’s not really a good label for what he does. It’s not clear you can even call it porn anymore. It’s so sort of remote and kind of random, and definitely not obviously sexual. Or even at all. I mean almost, just, boredom. Anyway, it’s a new sort of thing. He provides eye contact. People pay a lot. He’ll just watch you, on video. You can stream him to your TV, and he’ll watch you. People pay him to watch while they have sex, of course, or masturbate, but now supposedly people just hire him to watch them while they hang out alone in their houses. Whenever they look up, he’s looking at them. They are paying to have eye contact whenever they want. They want someone out there seeing them. And he’s just amazing. Apparently there’s nothing quite like getting seen by him. It’s an addiction.”