THE ADVOCATE
by Barry B. Longyear
The point of this exercise, Dr. Hunter, is to relieve me of the eternal burdens of appointments, health plans, mind-numbing medications, nitrous-inhaling physicians, and malpractice-paralyzed neurologists so that I may do this thing I do: Write Stories. I’ve seen my last needle, spent my last hour in a waiting room, and explained for the absolutely last time how important it is for a writer to have a working brain and that, without such keeping the remainder at temperature is a medical, not literary, ambition. From now on let Craig deal with all of that, for that is what I have named my imprint bio. I have copied my engrams into a Biotronics stock meat suit, and he is fully authorized to advocate on my behalf concerning health matters. One of his chores is to keep track of me and pass on anything significant to the medical community, such as it is. I’m keeping a record of sorts to aid in this endeavor. It is my earnest hope that a cure to my ailment can be found—Craig will do all I could do to aid in that quest. If it will be one big waste of time, though, I won’t be the one who is wasting it. I’ll be writing.
Ta,
Larry Cragan (send)
—
Note: Call Jennifer tomorrow and find out how I can work having Craig pay all the bills, take care of the correspondence, and maintain the house, too, without signing over my power of attorney. This could be the answer to several of my prayers. (Encrypt).
Craig. I decided to call the biological carrier of my imprint Craig because—well, you look like a Craig. Have you seen the Biotronics brochure? I don’t know whose DNA was used, but you look like a used-car salesman who aspires to higher things: New cars, perhaps. Excepting that you haven’t been around long enough to complete first grade, I would’ve pegged you as a college football hero.
I’ve been looking into getting back to that novel set in Ancient Rome, the one about St. George. The maps, notes, papers—everything is covered in heaps of dust and the occasional dead insect. Get the materials down for me and clean them up.
On the health front, headaches at normal levels, eating okay, not taking any of the medications, which I think has lessened my nausea.
I want to go back to drinking coffee. Go buy some. You know what kind.
Larry (file)
Creepy looking at that strange face knowing that the brain behind it is identical to mine—Was identical to mine. With each passing second our experiences differ more. Leave us not forget I carry the Nuyune’s Disease. Yes, leave us not forget, except that’s what Nuyune’s Disease does.
What’s that?
What Nuyune’s Disease does?
Yes. What’s it do?
I’m afraid I’ve forgotten—oh, that’s right! Presenile dementia. Nuy-une’s Disease causes one to forget.
Thanks. I’d forgotten.
—
Find us—find me a cure, Craig.
—
Note: I wonder if Craig will come up with ideas different from my own. Different paths lead to different experiences. Different input results in different output. Will I need to remind him to write down our (his) story ideas? He is a writer, after all. Never made a sale, but has all the experience. If Craig’s ideas differ from my own and my own experience, are they truly my ideas? I don’t want them if they’re his.
Bigger problem: I may have to invent a new pronoun.
I’ve neither filed, sent, nor encrypted any of the last few entries. Screw it. Craig, I can’t be bothered. You know what needs to be done. A patient must be his own best advocate, they say, and that is your mission. Go and advocate. Just take care of the stuff.
We have to meet as infrequently as possible, Craig. I can’t put the threat of Nuyune’s aside and concentrate on writing if you’re hanging about all the time. I know I’ve been using you like an errand boy and I apologize (to myself yet!). Craig, you say it bothers you to see me, too. Your legitimate papers came through and I have you on the payroll. Money, freedom, a brain: Go get a room.
Doesn’t like to see me but he sure doesn’t mind seeing himself in his new body. Thirty pounds lighter, thirty years younger, lots of hair, no back pain, two working knees—his brain isn’t turning into a neurofibrillary jungle either. Bastard.
Envying myself: strange sensation—
Oh. Brain note: Trying to sort out the St. George project notes. What a mess. Can’t seem to get it together. Maybe I’ll get started on that fantasy novel I wanted to do. Set in the thirties about the young girl from Alabama whose parents die and she has to go live with an uncle she’s never met in Maine. Forget the damned plot now...
...and Uncle Gregor awakened to find he had become a giant black fly—
Maybe something else.
What is the easiest kind of story to write? A how-to. So, what do I know how to do? I can write, but I already wrote that book. Used to collect coins until I got bored with it. Skiing, until the knees went. Hunt-and-peck piano playing. Some squirt and dabble watercolors. How-to. How about a mediocrity how-to: How-To Not Do Anything Really Well, split infinitive and all.
One Hundred and One Steps to Step One Hundred and Two.
Health. Feeling slower. Stupider. Knuckles hurt. Very low.
Carla just left, Craig. My sister wants to know why I just don’t cut-and-paste my imprint into a bio and turn sick old Larry into fertilizer. I told her doing it the way I did it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Well, why not do it now, she wanted to know.
A problem with that, Carla. See, I can already tell there’s substantial erosion of Larry’s mental faculties, much of it in recall memory. The whole point of preserving Craig’s imprint intact was ... oh, I dunno: to preserve his imprint intact! What would be the point of copying over it with an imprint eaten full of holes by some damned disease?
Well, then why not simply let Craig go on and zero out Larry, she’d like to know?
Zero out; that means to blank out the brain, leaving the medical community free to pick through the leftovers: An eyeball here, a lung there, a liver here, whatever. What do you think, Craig? We turn me into giblets and you go on and write?
What the hell. Call Jennifer and ask if there’s a legal way to do that now. On second thought, I better ask her. If you ask her it’d sound like you might be planning something naughty.
Installed the voice recognition software. Getting tough controlling my fingers. Wonder if it makes any difference.
Tough to put all this aside. The words get on the paper but it’s like pulling teeth. Three to five thousand words a day, finished and ready to send to an editor: I remember taking that kind of production for granted. God, what an ungrateful snot I was when I was young. Lucky if I get that out in a week now, and although it may be all through, it’s not finished.
Haven’t heard from Craig in three weeks. Four weeks. Told him not to call unless he had really important news. Guess he hasn’t any important news. Check in anyway, Craig. I miss you, or me, you-me. Never did invent that damned pronoun. Youme? Meyou? Meow.
Wonder what I’d do if I was no longer chained to a desk. Good back, strong legs, a bright future, a decrepitating alter ego back home in the wings. I used to ski. Loved it. Still dream about it. I wonder if Craig can ski. I know he wants to. Lot more fun than taking care of Larry. I’ll ask myself if I ever see me again.
Wet the bed last night. I can rebel against the damned diapers all I want, but cleanup is a bitch.