The open-ended man is in the streets, walking like the vibrato of consciousness, the violin string tremble of all the people. There is sunlight, starlight and heartlight coursing through his veins, seeping out his pores, drenching him in the lacquer of happy delusion. Sometimes he feels like singing, skipping. Sometimes he does. He is so beloved, and very compliant too, the open-ended man.
Once, he had resisted treatment. It was not the novelty of the experimental physico-hypnosis that he had found repugnant, but its method, so crass and even embarrassing. That was one thing that the man, in his former life, could never stand for: he would not permit himself to suffer the humiliation of exposure. But the man had so endangered all of his relationships, some of which he truly valued, that the amalgam of different persons’ ultimatums had really left him without a choice. It was either face the Lethe machine or perish, and he supposed that he had better not perish.
And so, with grit teeth grimaced, he had crossed across the OR’s threshold, draft breezing the skimpy back of his gown, begging that the interested gaggle of pre-meds pass over him and go, but the surgeon assured the man that, within just a few minutes’ time, the presence of anyone would no longer bother him. Thusly the man determined— looking back and into the hopeful, desperate eyes of his wife, his children (boy and a girl), his mammam and his boss from work, his number one bartender, his gardener, his accountant and his dog and his cat, all of whom were dutifully assembled in smock and hairnet and latex accoutrements and mutely lending moral support— that he would submit himself to the attending pre-med throng’s ogling and to the self-consciousness brought on by the professor-doctor’s expository lecture:
“Nascent sclerosis. Note the precise angle of the back and the tightness of the shoulders. See how the shoulders bunch up? Telltale sign, one we look for, try to catch early. Here, it’s quite pronounced, a posture that’s persisted for far too long. But this man’s malady grows below the flesh. Diagnosis requires that a number of peculiar symptoms present constantly, enduringly, and reinforcingly— that is to say, they must worsen one another. And please note the undressing of the patient and the complete application of plasmic elastic to his body. But what else? The locking of the jaw, the wringing of the hands. Shallow breathing concomitant with inverse diaphragmatic movement— that is, that the stomach expands as the patient exhales, and contracts during inhalation. Dilation of the pupils. Inability to make eye contact. The habitual grabbing of the pectoralis major, that’s right, and other self-soothing gestures, besides. And pay attention. Though the mechanisms of Dr. Lethe’s machine will not be on this semester’s exam, it doesn’t hurt to get acquainted. Two dozen manacles, now fastened quickly, tightly, facilitate musculature rearrangement and postural correction. See the comparative thinness of those ligatures around the patient’s torso and head? It is precisely to the abdomen and front portions of the brain that the greatest amount of Dr. Lethe’s substance must be applied, quantities enough to kill a healthy man. For this patient, however, it will be— more than safe— positively curative. See his inability to shed tears, even while under duress? Typical. Also the spasmodic clenching of the hands. Also the thrashing. Also the guttural ejaculation of certain animal-type sounds, which I’m sure by now you’ve noticed. This is an ideal candidate. This is a specimen. Okey-dokee. Goggles on.”
Terminal illness and steady decline, dryness of spirit, the ossified fossilization of every nervous part over slow, tumorous years. These things were not preferable to the breakthrough treatment, and yet that was the fate most often elected by the afflicted. The Lethe machine’s rigors were dire and, more than any mere bodily adjustment, it was the interior work that made it hurt; success dependent on whether or not the patient could be oriented outwards, whether the sway of external connections could overbear upon the patient’s inward self and induce a permanent, irreversible change to every cell and cortex and marrow-rich inch of bone.
Presently, the professor-doctor is directing his class’s attention to the way in which a complex mechanism is applying tactically precise pressure to the man’s upper-half via a series of interlocking pushers and gears, shoring up the top vertebrae of his spine into a straighter arrangement. Special attention is being paid to the frontmost middle portion of the man’s brain, roundabout where the skull curves in and separates his two sockets. The medical community hasn’t yet consented to say why it’s that small segment of matter that seems to matter most, but the bleeding edge journals concur that it’s right precisely smack dab there that the sick are most afflicted, that that’s the heart of the disease. Side effects may include: that spot, left shriveled, puny and raw. Sensitivity to be managed by a regimen of protective bandages and helmets. Otherwise, anticipate no complications.
The promise is that of a spiritual cure, quasi-religious, a little pretentious but still very real. Ten bad minutes of desperate endurance is all it takes, then no more worried looks from the kids, no more incessant questions about why daddy takes so many naps or where the fucking checkbook went or will you please remember to get the dog groomed or pick the kid up or to just make conversation at dinner with friends. Everything’s treatable, and what can’t be healed? Say So long! to furtive looks exchanged between coworkers and their raised silent eyebrows asking What’s his problem and Why? A little breaking of the anterior claviers and the injection of 20cc’s of liquid libido on top of 50 volts of psychical zoom juice, some vitamin D and a red light beam, ten minutes spent uninterrupted in the pore pouring substance that’s sustenance, surfeit, and self- unconsciousness all at once. To rearrange the body and make it strong, to turn sunk and beady eyes into big, striking things, dagger sharp pupils that see right through you, projecting swollen confidence, the bloat of good health. He’s made-up in an instant, compelled to drink deep from the effecting well of hale vigor. His cowardice should be turned into a kind of thought-form musculature, and the living thing in him that makes him shy needs to be eradicated, beamed by medical light into salubrious oblivion. So, Irradiate me, Doc! becomes the watchword, consent given to an atomic bomb’s worth of gamma beams pointed at a point.
When the man steps down from the Lethe machine he’s open-ended. Everything about him is changed. He shakes hands with the doctor, slaps his wife on the ass and, lifting his daughter up and balancing her on his shoulders, winks to the nurse and nods to the operating technicians. He steps out the door and into fresh air and life, not bothering to reflect on how much this scene resembles that same moment as dramatized in the adverts.
The following months are easy; the following years, better. He’s roundly loved by all. His wife recommends the “miracle treatment” to several of her close friends, and the man lends his testimonial to the Lethe Foundation, and is honored to receive an invitation to speak at one of their conferences. He protests. He hasn’t much to say, and he shouldn’t take the time out of life for such a thing when, surely, there are more qualified people. There’s too much goodness, too much succulence to sup from the everyday for him to make a big to-do in a hotel ballroom at a lectern under lights, showing before and after pictures and giving voice to a transformed sentiment. But at last he relents, and he catches an economy flight to Vegas where he’s been convinced to do just that.
It’s the little things, he explains, gesturing before a crowd of one thousand physicians and patients just like him. Little things that add up. Little things that come easily. Like a new nature had been growing verdant and lush below the hard topsoil of his old life and needed only the gentlest of tilling to suddenly bloom in thickets and rose bushes. Everyone applauds. He beams a quiet rectitude.
He mingles. He’s nodding and smiling and being very debonaire. He makes the rounds, chats with some doctors, freely gives his number to anyone inquiring about the possibility of a later consultation for this or that paper. At last he finds himself standing with three or four other patients whose good experiences with the Lethe machine unites them. They compare notes, nod knowingly, and congratulate one another on their wonderful advancements.
How taken he is with the calm pleasure that’s infectious and which permeates his demeanor. Still, he admits to having noticed no change in himself at all, and that, if anything, it’s more that the entire world had changed around him. True enough, you never would’ve used to catch him dancing in the street, but that just feels so natural, he avows.
The only moments of reflection he permits himself are brief, so infrequent as to be easily dismissed. They come to him in in-betweens, usually early morning or at night, or now, standing in the hotel ballroom and drinking a peach drink of mild alcohol content. There’s a thought that never fruits, remains half-matured and fast forgotten somewhere in his head; fizzling out, in fact, right around that soft spot he’s careful never to touch too brusquely, lest it squish and maybe cave.
This partial reflection, which never quite reminds the man of the certain thinky feeling that he never will recall, is simple enough. It has to do with the cessation of its own mental track. It’s that his reflections, like the dirtied surface of a mirror, seem sometimes scummied, dulled, obscure. What was it? What was it that he’s gotten? Or was it… lost?
Soon enough that’s gone. The open-ended man is basking in another moment altogether. There are platters of entrées being served across the hall, and he thinks he overheard something about banana nut muffins, which are his favorite.
— Eitan Zion is essays editor at APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL. He lives in the desert, writing fiction, reading philosophy. He’s on Twitter @natienoizy.