John Gardner - October Light

He scratched his head, pondering, then raised up by little jerks, uncertainly onto one elbow, and prepared to speak. Where am I? he thought of saying, but he changed his mind. “Pig’s ass in hell,” he said. He squinted at the man.

“My name’s Nit,” the man said. His eyes were red at the edges, the color of steamed lobsters.

The outlines of things were clearer now. The things on the desk were electric eels. They lay side by side, a few inches apart, apparently nailed down to the table in some way, and they were connected by wires. Just in front of their heads, carefully lined up so that the tips of their noses made a line as straight as a ruler line, there was a wooden thing like the paddle on a butter churn, with a crank at the end like the wooden crank on an ice-cream freezer, apparently designed so that all the eels could be bumped on the nose at once. Peter Wagner rubbed his eyes, then looked again. They were still there. There were other things — stacked up pieces of electrical equipment cluttered with wheels and dials and knobs, old pieces of rope, and under the table, coils of insulated wire.

“My name’s Nit,” the man repeated. He added, this time, “Jonathan Nit.” He smiled exactly like an eel.

Peter Wagner now thought about this for a time, compressing his lips, then nodded. “My name’s Peter Wagner.” When he tried to sit up he discovered that his legs were tied from the ankles to the hips like a roll of carpet in a warehouse. He threw a look at Mr. Nit, who went on smiling, the shadow of his turned-up nose growing longer and shorter as the hanging lamp swung beside him. The smile did not hide the fact that Mr. Nit was distressed, for some reason disappointed and perhaps at the same time, paradoxically, relieved.

“Jesus,” he said. “You been sleeping like a dead man.” He gave a laugh. His face was heavily lined, and under his eyes there were great gray sacks like dead things hanging by the hooves.

“How come you tied up my feet?” Peter Wagner said.

Mr. Nit’s hands clutched at each other and he began frantically popping his knuckles. “Oh that,” he said. He rolled his eyes up, trying to think of an explanation, but nothing came, so he went on sitting with his eyes rolled up and his head to one side like a saint in a medieval painting. Peter Wagner pushed up on both arms, threw his feet over the side of the bunk, and began untying the ropes. Though he was not looking at Mr. Nit now, his whole attention was focused on the man, listening for the first sign that Mr. Nit might try to prevent him from freeing his feet. Mr. Nit made no move. Peter Wagner stood up, leaning toward the table for balance.

“Don’t touch the eels,” Mr. Nit said, as if involuntarily.

He caught himself and drew back his hand in the nick of time. A surge of panic went through him. The eels were wired like light-bulbs in series. Touch one and they would kick back, together, a charge that would light up the whole West Coast for minutes. When the first instinctive horror passed, he remembered his latest attempt at suicide and saw in a flash of inspiration that here lay the perfect instrument; a jolt, a flash, a smell of burning flesh that he would probably miss, and Zero. He smiled grimly and reached toward the eels again. But he happened to look up. Mr. Nit sat bent over and sideways at his desk, tightly covering both eyes with his hands, except that the left eye was peeking through the fingers.

“You want me to!” Peter Wagner said, shocked and, in fact, somewhat hurt.

“Oh no!” Mr. Nit said, throwing himself so violently into the look of innocence that he nearly fell off his chair. “I warned you, didn’t I? Wasn’t it me that—”

But Peter Wagner wasn’t fooled. “You don’t even know me!” he said. He could have cried. “You want me dead. You pull me out of the fucking ocean and you waste my time and inconvenience me, and then you try to get me killed on a fucking eel!” He was suddenly furious. He clenched his fists, dangerous weapons, he knew from experience. “God damn you, it isn’t right,” he said. “I’m a human being!”

The words had a powerful effect on Mr. Nit. Tears flooded down his cheeks and he popped his knuckles wildly. “Human!” he said, and laughed, sobbing. “Human. God knows! Terrific!” He popped his knuckles and shook his head from side to side and drew up his knees in spasms. Peter Wagner calmed himself and covered his mouth with his hand, thoughtfully, watching the strange performance. “You’re crazy,” he said.

“I’m crazy,” Mr. Nit said. It sent him off into peals of tragic laughter that tipped the chair over backward, leaving only his jerking feet in sight. Cautiously, Peter Wagner made his way around the eel table and went over to bend beside the desk and study Mr. Nit. The little man wiggled and jerked and writhed, laughing as if heart-broken. At last he stopped. They studied each other, their faces no more than two feet apart, Mr. Nit looking thoughtfully up from the floor, with bloodshot eyes, Peter Wagner looking thoughtfully down, like Zeus at Sarpedon.

“You all right?” Peter Wagner said.

Mr. Nit pursed his lips, thinking, then nodded.

“Let me help you up.”

“I’ve been under a strain,” Mr. Nit said when he was back in his chair. He corrected himself: “I’m under a constant strain.” He glanced furtively at Peter Wagner to see if he believed him. “I’m an atheist.”

“I see,” Peter Wagner said.

Mr. Nit looked away, folded his hands, resisted the temptation to pop his knuckles. “It’s very comforting, talking to you.” He slid another glance at Peter Wagner, then away.

Peter Wagner’s mouth smiled sickly.

“Actually, what’s got me so upset—” Mr. Nit struggled to find words, bit his lips together, and squinted. He looked so guilty, all at once, that Peter Wagner glanced around half expecting to see the old man in the long black coat sneaking up once more to brain him. But there was nothing, or nothing but the table of eels, the electrical equipment, and the smell. Or smells. Two distinct smells, it came to him now. The zoological smell and something else, the smell of … He strained, and at last it came to him: pot! He breathed deep, confirming the suspicion, and Mr. Nit’s eyebrows lifted in alarm.

“I’m a scientist,” Mr. Nit said. He snatched at Peter Wagner’s sleeve. “That’s my joy and my curse. Can you imagine where civilization would be without science? Inventors have taken the place of God in the modern world. Are you aware of that? Come look!” He jumped down off his chair and ran over to the table of eels. “Look!” he said again, spreading his arms and stretching the sides of his mouth out and downward. “Eels,” he said. Lovingly. “If we could harness that power …” He turned some knobs. A red light came on. “Watch that dial,” he said, stretching his arm toward a dial to Peter’s left. The dial had a range from zero to fifty thousand volts. “I merely turn this crank and bop their noses—” he turned it, “—and zap!” The machines all suddenly hummed, and the dial went nearly to the top.

“Whooey!” Peter Wagner said.

“Yes,” he said, rubbing his hands. The eels writhed a little, then lay still. “Terrific animals, eels. They can live either in water or on land, they’re cheap to feed, they make no great mess—” He sank into thought, smiling darkly.

“That’s very interesting,” Peter Wagner said. They were ugly things to look at: snakelike, sharklike, flat-bellied as snails, the color of a rushing subway train going through smog.

“A man would be famous if he could harness that power. More famous than Benjamin Franklin,” Mr. Nit said.

“I imagine he would.” Then, politely: “You should do it.”