Mark Leyner - Et Tu, Babe

“I’m charging you all with public lewdness,” I said, and I looked at my watch in order to log the correct time on my report. It was 10:45 A.M.

The occupants looked at me and began to speak. But they didn’t use words. A soft crackling sound, a kind of modulated static, issued from their mouths. I looked at my watch again. Incredibly, it was almost 12:45. Somehow two hours had passed.

The female Hispanic proffered a stick of fluorescent chewing gum. I chewed it.…

When I came to, I was in a hospital room. Four days had passed. Dr. Larry Werther, Baby Lago, Joe Casale, Rocco Trezza, and Carmella were pacing around my bed. I had a severe headache.

“Where are the bodyguards?” I asked.

“They’re out in the hall, Mr. Leyner,” Joe Casale said, as he worked the remote control on a television set cantilevered from the wall opposite my bed.

“What about Arleen?”

“She’s got clients till ten, then I’ll pick her up and bring her over.”

“Larry, what was in that chewing gum?”

“When they pumped your stomach, Baby Lago took samples and analyzed them in the lab back at headquarters. Gas chromatography, mass spectrometry, nuclear magnetic resonance — she did the works. It was ibotenic acid. A powerful neurotoxin — destroys nerve cells in the brain. It’s a good thing Joe Casale had tailed you.”

I gave Joe the thumbs-up. “Thanks, babe.”

Joe turned his gaze momentarily from the TV and gestured with his flipper. “No problem, Mr. Leyner.”

“Joe also found this stuffed in your mouth.”

Larry handed me an ivory mah-jongg tile with the words Vote for Iron Man Wang engraved on one side.

“Damn …”

“Forget about it, man, that’s Hong Kong,” Trezza said, taking my hand in his. “You can’t worry about that shit now. You’ve got your books and your liner notes to write — that’s your life, man. Not chasing Iron Man Wang and his posse of hotwired sex freaks around the world. That’s chump shit, man.”

That’s why I loved Trezz. He always knew exactly what to say to make me feel better. I playfully snapped the elastic waistband of his black latex jockstrap.

“Trezz, y’know if you ever decide to stop bakin’ dough—”

Trezz’s eyes flared instantly.

“… if you ever decide to stop doing whatever it is that you’re doing, I’d love to have you come work for us over at headquarters. And that’s a serious offer.”

Trezz was about to respond when Joe Casale interrupted from across the room.

“Hey, Mr. Leyner!” he said, gesturing at the TV with the remote control. “Look at this—”

The Brazilian actress Sonia Braga, Elle MacPherson, two Victoria’s Secret models, and Claudia Schiffer, the German model featured in Guess? jeans ads, were sitting around talking about what kind of man turns them on the most.

“I like a guy about five-seven,” said MacPherson.

“Yeah,” said Braga in husky, heavily accented English, “five-seven and about a hundred and thirty pounds.”

One of the Victoria’s Secret models, a voluptuous redhead in burnished gold satin and black lace demi-cup bra and bikini, was staring into space as she conjured her ultimate turn-on. “Light brown hair … and balding.”

“Oooooh yeah … balding!” enthused the other Victoria’s Secret model breathily. She sported a black velvet bustier and leather miniskirt.

“My Liebchen must have some broken blood vessels on his nose and he must be bowlegged,” said the pouting Guess? jeans model, squirming a bit in her chair as she spoke.

MacPherson was distractedly tracing abstract figures in the rug when she looked up and announced: “To really turn me on so that I just melt, a man must have an irritable colon and epaulet-like patches of hair on his shoulders.”

“A muscular upper body, skinny legs, and really small feet — about a size seven,” Braga asserted.

The German cover girl vigorously nodded her assent. “And hazel eyes and a mole in the right eyebrow,” she added.

The others swooned in unison. “Oh yes, a mole in the right eyebrow!”

The auburn-maned Victoria’s Secret model had shut her eyes. Her hands were crossed over her breasts as she swayed from side to side. “I can even picture what he’s wearing,” she whispered. “He’s got a leather blazer on over an Oakland A’s T-shirt, black jeans …”

“… and snakeskin boots!” MacPherson growled.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” squealed everyone.

Todd was fidgeting nervously with one of the strings of his green paper smock when Dr. William Carlos Williams entered the examination room.

“Hi, Todd,” Dr. Williams said.

“Hi, Dr. Williams.”

“How are your folks, Todd?”

“Well, my dad was just made chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee — but I guess you saw that on TV — and Mom is curating an exhibit of Viking jewelry at the Smithsonian.”

“And how are you doing — have you finished graduate school?”

“Yeah, I finished grad school last June.”

“Are you working?”

“No … I’m not really sure what I want to do yet, so I’ve just been hanging around, really … doing a lot of reading … and stuff.”

“What’s your degree in, Todd?”

“I’ve got two. I’ve got a master’s degree in Norse mythology and a master’s in chemical weapons. The trouble is that I’m not really interested in specializing in one or the other, so I’d like to try to find some kind of job that combines both fields … but I’m not really sure what that is … so I’ve just been kind of a couch potato lately … mostly reading, watching TV …”

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today? What seems to be bothering you?”

“Well, a couple of weeks ago I started noticing that my hands were numb every morning. And soon they began to really hurt — my hands and my wrists. It was really awful pain. It felt like someone was squeezing and twisting my nerves with a pliers.”

Dr. Williams took Todd’s hands in his. Todd winced.

“The pain’s really that bad, huh, Todd?” Dr. Williams asked gently.

“It’s really terrible.”

“Does it hurt when I do this?”

“No, not so much.”

“How about this?”

“A little, but not so bad.”

“How about this?”

Todd howled with pain, tears welling in his eyes.

“OK, son, why don’t you get dressed and come into my office. I’d like to talk to you.”

Dr. Williams washed his hands in the sink and exited, closing the door behind him. Todd put his clothes on and poked his head out the door.

“Nurse, should I go into the doctor’s office now or wait until he comes back?”

“No, Todd,” said the pretty nurse, “you can go right in now.”

Dr. Williams was seated behind a burnished mahogany desk, writing something with a Mont Blanc pen. On the wall, there was a large painting by LeRoy Neiman of a macrophage ingesting salmonella bacteria.

“Todd, have a seat,” he said, signing the document with a flourish and placing it on a stack of other documents.

“Todd, how do you occupy your time? What sorts of things do you do?”

“Well, I don’t do too much of anything, really … mainly reading and watching TV and stuff.”

“Do you do anything athletic, participate in any kind of sports?”

“Not really.”

“Is there anything you do with your hands, anything that you do over and over again that you think might be contributing to this pain?”