Vapor

Chapter Two

I spent the following day doing my acting exercises. I was still quite depressed about my meeting with Aaron, but in the midst of this sadness, I experienced little sparks of joy whenever I happened to think about the subway incident and, more particularly, about Damon. Unfortunately, these thoughts interfered with my acting and spoiled my concentration. So I tried to push them from my mind, but to no avail; they were too pleasant.

I wondered if Damon would call to thank me, and if so, how he would thank me. I wished I knew more about him. Out of curiosity, I even looked in the phone book to see if he was listed. He was. I wanted to see him again. It was practically all I could think about. I felt so lacking in willpower that I almost regretted having saved the man. I finally decided to put an end to these thoughts by promising myself that if he were to call me and ask to see me, I would refuse. This decision put me in a grim mood, but at least I felt virtuous and dedicated to my craft.

My concentration improved, and I was able to work on my acting more productively. At least for a day or two. But the problem was that my virtue was unearned, and my sacrifice soon started to feel like a fraud. My mind began drifting again, because after all, Damon had not called yet, and I had not rejected him yet, which meant that the potential for happiness was still present, floating around in the air. I started doubting whether I’d have the strength to stick by my decision, were he to call. And why wasn’t he calling, anyway?

The situation finally came to a standstill one morning, when I was on the roof of my building, with my scene book, and realized I had reread the same simple line five times without grasping its meaning. I stood there, feeling powerless, not knowing what to do. Suddenly, the sky became very dark and rain started pouring. And the solution came to me.

I realized sadly that if I were to have any chance of regaining my concentration, I had to extinguish the sparks of joy completely. I had to speed up the rejection process. Since Damon had not called me yet, I had to call him. I would do it under the guise of a courtesy call, as if to find out how he was doing, which I was genuinely curious about anyway, naturally. After some small talk, if he asked to see me again, I would refuse, claiming that it was impossible, that I had no time, that I was swamped with work, and then the whole business would be over with, once and for all.

I felt strangely invigorated by this sad scenario. I was back in control. A flash of lightning suddenly lit the sky, which had become almost as dark as night. The rain was pouring over my scene book, and I quickly ducked indoors and ran down the stairs. When I entered my apartment it was dark, lit only by occasional lightning. I did not turn on the lights. I stripped down to my T-shirt and underwear, leaving my wet clothes strewn across the place. I sat on the floor with the phone between my knees. I felt that I was about to commit a very significant and symbolic act, not entirely unlike black magic that could very well turn my life around. I was, after all, going to perform a sacrifice. This instrument, this phone, resting between my knees was the key. It was the weapon with which I would sacrifice not life, but love.

The storm outside was undoubtedly adding importance and mystery to the occasion. I liked this atmosphere and desired to push it even further, to make the whole procedure even more formal and solemn, so I lit some candles and sat back down. The lightning lit up my phone and legs. This should be an hour of celebration, I told myself. Don’t be sad. Rejoice!

I dialed the number I got from the phone book, which I hoped was Damon’s number.

“Hello,” he answered, on the second ring.

“Hi,” I said. “Is this Damon?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Anna.” I paused for a second and added, “We met in the subway the other night.”

I think I heard a faint intake of breath. And then nothing.

“Hello?” I said.

“Yes,” he answered very softly, very seriously, with more surrender this time, and a hint of sadness.

“I’m sorry, you probably don’t remember—”

“Anna Graham, my savior. Please don’t think such a thing. Of course I remember.”

“Oh. Well, I’m just calling to find out if you recovered from the attack, and from the spray.”

“Yes. Thanks to you. I was going to call you. I was wondering if you’d be willing to have dinner with me sometime.”

“No, it’s really not necessary.”

“Why don’t we, for a moment, ignore the fact that that statement, other than being completely beside the point, is wrong. Having dinner with you would mean a lot to me. I would very much … enjoy it. That’s if you’re not too busy, of course.”

“Actually, I am very busy.”

He paused. “You don’t have any time?”

“I really don’t have much free time.”

He paused longer. “Can’t I persuade you?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m so busy.”

“Oh. How disappointing. I wish I could change your mind, but not at the risk of being a pest. Hopefully another time then.”

“What other time?”

“Whenever you want. Like in a month, or whenever you’re less busy.”

“Hmm. Well, I don’t know, because unfortunately I’ll be even more busy in a month.”

“Oh. Well then, in six months, or whatever. No big deal.”

“Okay. Though in six months I will be even more busy.”

“Ah. I see. Well, it doesn’t matter then, don’t worry about it. If you want, give me a call whenever it’s practical for you.”

“Okay. Though since I will be increasingly busy, from now on, then, logically speaking, the most practical time for me would be this evening. But I don’t know if that’s convenient for you.”

There was a long silence.

Finally, he answered, “Yes, it is.”

We settled on a time and place.

When we hung up, I sat motionless, staring at the phone for a while before getting up. I left my apartment and climbed the stairs back to the roof, oblivious to the possibility that someone might catch me in my T-shirt and panties.

I walked out into the rain and sat on the ground, cross-legged, unblinking. My hair and T-shirt were quickly drenched. I was cold, but I did not allow myself to shiver. I forced my muscles to relax and let the cold enter me, hoping it would numb my body as well as my anger.

Maybe I could hang off my balcony by my hair. Or I could dump garbage all over myself. Or perhaps I should step in front of moving vehicles. No. Dying was not the point. Punishment was.

There would be a steep price to pay for that little number I pulled. If I thought I was going to let myself get away with it, I was wrong. I didn’t know what the price was yet, but I sure would think of it. And it wouldn’t be merely to be sitting out in the rain.

Strangely, my anger infused me with strength, making me feel invulnerable, invincible, even against the elements. The thunder and lightning seemed like a breeze. I felt in complete control. All I had to do was think of a bad enough punishment, and everything would be fine. I set my mind to work immediately.

I could fast for three days. I could deprive myself of sleep for four days. I could stop talking for a week. I could whip myself, slap myself. I could not blink.

These weren’t great; I was just warming up.

I could streak naked around my block. I could be a prostitute for one night. I could sleep out on the streets for a few evenings or spend an afternoon begging on the subway. I could shoplift and get arrested.

I was not satisfied with any of these ideas. They were not quite on target and seemed slightly irrelevant to the crime.

Torture. I could do something with bugs. I could try to get my hands on a cockroach and eat it. I could breed cockroaches in my apartment and set them loose. I could eat worms. I could do something horrible with my own excrement. I could sneak into a lion’s cage.

These were not much better. My difficulty in coming up with a suitable sentence made my crime seem all the more serious. The rain was beating down on me, wearing me down. I began feeling fragile in the middle of the lightning.

I could cut myself.

I could bruise myself, break a finger. Punch my fist through a glass window.

Enema.

I could stare at the sun.

Raindrops were running into my eyes as tears were running out. I had a block. I could not think of any more punishments.

Self-criticisms and reproaches, however, I had not run out of, so I indulged in throwing them at myself: How could I have been so pathetically weak? And deceitful? How could I have betrayed myself this way? Part of me suspected that I knew from the start that I was calling him to get invited out. I bet I knew all along I was going to accept. I even bet that if he hadn’t asked me out I would have asked him myself. In fact, that was pretty much what happened. And all that for a pretty face whom I didn’t even know. I was willing to jeopardize my future, my dream, for a pretty face. How shallow could I get? How superficial? While I was at it, why didn’t I just walk up to a total stranger in the street and tell him I wanted to sleep with him, right then and there? That wouldn’t be much worse than what I did. It would have saved time, been easier, more true to my lazy, undisciplined nature. I forced my mind to visualize myself accosting a man in this way. I made myself endure the distress of picturing the man’s reaction, the shock, the embarrassment.

I continued pondering with disgust this hateful little drama, when suddenly, to my horror, I recognized it for what it was: my Punishment. It loomed large and obvious in my mind. I had finally found it.

I immediately tried to reject it. I could never perform such an act. It was impossible, too hard, too awful and sinister.

Which, of course, was why I had to do it. Why I would do it. I already knew it was inevitable, that it was the only solution. And once my initial horror passed, I was awed by the perfection of it and relieved by the dreadfulness of it.

I would do it now.

I got up. The sky had cleared and the rain was letting up, as if handing me the reins of discipline.

I went down to my apartment, got dressed, and went out into the street.

Before I fulfilled my sentence there were a few factors that needed to be determined, a few rules that had to be set. Rules were necessary, or I’d try to get off easy. So as I walked down the street, I established in my mind all the rules of my punishment.

For instance, how, exactly, would I accost the man?

Well, for starters, I would approach him and say something along the line of, “Excuse me. I want you. Badly. Here and now or as soon as possible. I can’t wait.” I would then make an assertive physical pass, such as placing my hand on his backside and squeezing it. I would keep up this act, not forgetting to include some variations, like hugging and sighing.

The next very important point that had to be determined was: How long did this have to go on before I allowed myself to stop? I thought about that for a while and finally came up with: until he started running away. Yes. I would not allow myself to stop harassing him and pressuring him, verbally as well as physically, until he ran away. In fact, I would even begin taking off his clothes, if necessary, to make him run.

We’d see how good an actress I was, how much of a fool I was willing to make of myself. Great actors had to be willing to go to extremes.

But what if — oh horror of horrors — he were to reciprocate or take me up on my offer? Then I’d have to start running. Anyway, whatever trouble it got me into, I deserved.

All that was left for me to do now was to choose a man. The streets were wet and not very crowded. I gazed at every man that crossed my path. I wanted to check out a few before making my selection. There was no point in rushing things. I walked three of four blocks, occasionally stopping in stores along the way to see if I could find some good ones lurking around.

I finally entered a store selling musical instruments and saw a man who was quite appealing, more so than I deserved for my punishment. But after all, I had not specified in the rules that the man had to repel me. And anyway, an attractive victim did not really make the task any easier. On the contrary, in a way — it created its own challenges and barriers.

I had decided not to bother trying to not be myself during my punishment. The act I was about to perform was so unlike anything I would normally do, that I would automatically be acting unlike myself, without even trying.

I stood behind a harp and stared at my prey through the strings of the instrument. He was checking out a piano. While I contemplated him, I was absently plucking at a chord from the harp to seem busy.

“May I help you,” asked a salesman, coming up behind me.

“No, thank you. I was just looking,” I said, leaving the harp and checking out a cello (my favorite instrument) before moving on to the synthesizers.

I pressed a key and it made the sound of thunder. I punched a few buttons and made the sound of a lashing whip.

My prey was still at the piano. I did not want to accost him inside the store, as it might make a scene. So I would have to appear busy until he left.

I continued to mess around with the buttons, and by accident I pressed a key that made loud, consecutive kissing sounds that did not stop. I tried punching various buttons to make them stop. I even tried taking a step back from the instrument, but it didn’t help. My prey glanced at me with an amused expression, so I quickly moved away to another synthesizer and tried to look absorbed.

The kissing sounds went on, embarrassingly loud and persistent. I pressed a key on my new synth, hoping to camouflage them with a more neutral, less suggestive sound.

To my regret, the key I pressed produced a panting sound. It was real, quick, earnest, human panting. And to my horror, it did not stop either. The store was now filled with kissing and panting noises and no one came to stop the racket because the salesmen were all busy.

I looked at my prey. He was smiling, and called out, “You have a way with those!”

I nodded and chuckled politely and edged my way out of the store. I could not accost him now. He practically knew me.

I walked a few blocks, breathing deeply, and entered a sporting goods store. I soon spotted a possible prey. I followed him discreetly. He stopped in the water sports section and examined a floating mattress. I stood a little ways off, and tried to look interested in the diving masks. He poked at the mattress and squeezed it, testing its firmness. I placed a mask on my face, pretending to be testing its suction power, while through the mask I watched him tentatively sit on the mattress. As soon as his whole weight was on it the air plug popped out and the mattress went limp, expiring with a wheezing sound. The man got up and glanced around to see if he had been observed. Since no one was nearby except me, his gaze lingered in my direction. So I made sharp jerking motions with my head, to seem utterly engrossed in the suction power of my mask. He relaxed and walked away, believing his dignity to be intact. I followed him.

He went to a corner of the store and wandered behind a display case. I couldn’t follow him there because the space was too tight and he would have seen me. He stayed there awhile, and I wondered what he was doing. By some unexpected stroke of luck, there happened to be, on the other side of the display case, a minitrampoline, on which I climbed after slight hesitation. I bounced, tentatively at first, and tried to look innocent. I was not bouncing high enough to see over the display case, so I bounced higher and caught glimpses of him examining a jump rope. He unraveled it and began jumping rope in that tight corner, the fool. Over the display case, in midair, our eyes met. And then there was a crash, on his side. He must have knocked some things off a shelf.

I decided that he would not do. He was awkward and clumsy to a degree that made him worrisomely unpredictable.

I spotted the next potential victim in a mirror store. We strolled among the mirrors before he stopped to examine one that was full-length and three-way. Being able to see him from three sides simultaneously was wonderful; it gave me a more complete, well-rounded perception of my prey. What ruined it for me was a subtle movement he made, a mere brush of the hand against the back of his pants, but performed in a manner that did not please me. There was nothing horrendously vulgar about the gesture, but it was enough to make me decide he would not do.

I don’t believe I was being picky or trying to get out of my obligation. These last two specimens were clearly not possible, by any standard. I mean, if I had accosted the jump rope one, he probably would have said something like, “Am I on Candid Camera?” And this mirror guy’s response to my statement “I want you now,” might have been something like, “Why? Is it my appearance or my personality that attracts you?”

I had to find better. I wandered into a florist and spotted a man who struck me favorably. I stood behind a high-perched pot of daisies and observed him through the stems and petals. Now this guy was not like the last two. He looked sane and well-balanced, simple and straightforward, sensible, alert, confident, possibly intelligent. He did not hide in a corner of the store and knock pots over. His movements were efficient and coordinated, economical. No frills. He did not touch his own body appreciatively. Though he did have a rather nice body. He was tall, solidly built, with an okay face. When accosted, he was not likely to complicate the situation in some tiresome or whiny way. All in all, he seemed like a real “no-nonsense” type of guy. It was refreshing. I watched him for a while and he did nothing to disappoint me.

He left the store without buying anything, which was just as well since I preferred not to make advances on a man encumbered with a bouquet. I followed him down the street, suddenly nervous because I realized the time had come. I was not likely to find a more perfect accessory for my punishment, a more appropriate recipient for my offensive, than this man.

I trotted up behind him. My tongue stung and my heart was pounding. I was four feet away, my hand was extended toward him. I had to do it now. I cleared my throat and was about to touch his arm when he turned and entered a deli. I followed him in, hurried to the back of the store, and stood behind some jars of mustard. I would accost him as soon as he exited. My mouth and tongue were stinging more than ever, which was something that always happened when I was nervous, particularly before I got on stage.

He paid for his purchase and left. I hurried after him. This time I did not stall. I firmly placed my hand on his arm and said, “Excuse me.”

He turned and looked at me politely, considerately, and said, “Yes?”

Suddenly I wanted to chicken out by only asking him what time it was. No, not allowed.

Then I wondered if I could cut a deal with myself by toning down the punishment to asking him merely if he wanted to have coffee one day. I could then combine this semi-punishment with one of the others, like dumping garbage all over myself.

No. I had to do it: out of respect for my acting. And it couldn’t be a half-hearted attempt either; it had to be convincing. So I dived. I dived into his eyes and said, “I want you. Now or somewhere close. I can’t wait.”

He looked at me, almost with pity, I think, though this might be my imagination.

I placed my hand on his backside, squeezed it, and began to repeat “I want you,” when he slapped my face with the back of his hand.

I felt swatted. Like a mosquito. Or, to be fair, perhaps like something a bit worse: a wasp, or a flying cockroach. But swatted, definitely. It wasn’t a particularly hard slap. I don’t think it was meant to knock me out or anything, but he was wearing a rather sharp ring that cut my upper lip. When I touched my mouth there was blood. I looked up at him, stunned, but he was already walking away.

My lip hurt, and the blood was running into my mouth and down my chin. I pressed my fingers on the cut to stop the flow, but it simply ran down my wrist as well. Dammit. I couldn’t afford to have a scar on my face. My non-existent acting career would be ruined. I probably should get stitches. It was a drag, but I had to be conscientious, to minimize the wreckage.

Perhaps I should go home first and see how bad the damage really was. I hesitated. I was quite far from my apartment, and the hospital was in the opposite direction. I looked at the faces of people who passed me, trying to read from their expressions how serious my cut was. Was it really as bad as all the blood on my hands led me to believe?

Their gaits slowed, but steered clear. In their faces I detected shock, curiosity, and, to my surprise, fear. Why fear? Did they think I was dangerous, that I would attack them, that I had murdered someone? And yet there was no question that they were afraid of me, which was puzzling, until I remembered why and felt like an idiot: the fear of modern blood.

I finally just walked up to a parked car and craned my neck to catch a glimpse of my face in the side-view mirror. I was horrified.

I tried to hail a cab, but none stopped until I wrapped my scarf around my face and hid the blood. All I could think about in the taxi was that I would have a huge, disfiguring scar that would annihilate my chances at acting. A scar could never attain the same caliber, glamour, and cachet as a mole, even if situated in approximately the same place. Come to think of it, even a facial tattoo didn’t seem as tragic as a scar.

I went to the emergency room, and after examining me, the doctor said I didn’t need stitches, that in fact it was generally preferable not to stitch that area of the face. He said it was unlikely that I would get a scar, but that to play it extra safe I should avoid smiling or laughing for a couple of days. Talking and eating, however, were okay, he said.

He then went on to explain the situation in more detail. “Cuts on the mouth are a delicate case. One cannot completely rule out the possibility of scarring, because the mouth is an area that normally moves and stretches a lot, which can cause delays in healing. As we know, delays in healing can mean the formation of unsightly scar tissue, especially when the cut extends beyond the lip’s outer limit, as yours does, slightly. That is why I advise you to avoid all social contact during the next two days. If that’s not possible, then you should restrict your contact to people who are not likely to make you laugh or smile. I do realize that this may be impractical. If it can’t be managed, you have only one other alternative, and it is of utmost importance: you have to perform the MMO procedure.”

“What is MMO?” I asked.

“It’s an abbreviation for Manual Merriment-Obstruction. It consists in pressing the tips of your hands on either side of your mouth, like so, to obstruct the formation of a smile.”

He demonstrated the procedure on himself, which was very unflattering to his appearance.

He continued: “The MMO procedure must be performed each and every time anyone in your proximity says, or does, anything funny, and every time you sense you’re about to smile or to — God forbid — laugh. Obviously, alertness is of vital importance, because smiles can be diabolically quick. And be warned: you have to press hard — smiles have tremendous muscle, more than anyone ever imagines until they actually wrestle with one.”

I left the hospital feeling unnerved. There was no way in hell I would not go to that dinner. After everything I had gone through to pay for my sin, I had a right to enjoy it. The doctor had no conception of how dearly I had earned this dinner. Not only would I go, but I would relish every moment of it, absorb it with all my senses, enjoy it to the fullest.

At home, I stood in front of the mirror and practiced the MMO procedure. It looked awful. Something like a cruelly designed cartoon of something that held a vague resemblance to a chipmunk. I would not do it. I would just have to have enough self-control not to laugh or smile. But what if I did not, actually, have enough self-control, and ended up having unprotected laughter? I could just imagine my cut stretching and opening, and the little scar tissue cells getting to work, multiplying. I tried not to think about it. I’d simply have to muster the necessary self-control, period.