And all this, remember, was before the interview.
Over the last several years of my life my speculations have reached a more desperate pitch. I feel time is running out. And I may never solve the central mystery of my life. A mystery I could not confront that day, lacking the courage, the skill or, perhaps, both. And these days I swing from thinking this was all an elaborate hoax, to some truly paranoid science fictional postulations, to the possibility that I myself was the intended subject of the interview.
But at that time, all I knew was that my client was some unknown captive. My employer was the U.S. Government. And my citizenship depended on my discretion.
I am embarrassed to admit that I suspected my task was a part of the greater "War On Terror." When I sought to subtly confirm this explanation, I was not discouraged. And I must admit, I felt pride at that time, proud to have been elevated from the status of my ordinary duties, proud to serve my country, proud to exercise a little "payback" in whatever modest fashion I could. If you remember, we all felt so enraged and helpless back then. Now, you can imagine how duped and betrayed I felt a while later when the photos of those naked prisoners in a pile became public. And I saw my compliance with retribution in a new light. "Prisoner." This unlikely alternative is one that truly haunts me.
Excuse me, I have to vomit.
Three days after the interview I pulled up an hour early to the tar pits to deliver my report. At a café across the street I had a croissant with butter and a latte. My skin was slightly burned, and I had a hazy feeling, a satisfying mental and physical fatigue. I had gotten drunk the night before when I finally finished printing the report and recording my summary. It had been a somewhat pleasant break from my routine of patients, consultations, and courtrooms.
The report, I mean, was pleasant. The interview was awful.
When I returned to my rental car, I found my briefcase had been stolen from my trunk. All my notes, all my reports, my recorder—they were all gone. I was tempted to file a police report, but I thought better of it. I flew home. After a very overwrought week I received my check in the mail confirming they had indeed gotten my report.
I vowed never to work for the government again.
Since then I have had recurring dreams where I am being interviewed by an alien. His skin is white. His large head is mostly black eyes. He wears silver gloves. He admits to having stolen my report, and he promises to return my notes as soon as we finish the interview. Finally he hands over my notepad, and I see my notes are an unreadable scrawl. But his remarks are very clear indeed. In the upper right hand corner of the notepad’s first page, in bright red cursive, are the following Teacher Remarks: "Dumb. Artificial. Pass."
And he laughs.
The pits themselves are black. Obsidian is the correct color, I believe. Tar has the sheen of those alien eyes, the mirror black of a bubble of petrified lava. The museum is nice. And you can actually watch through the glass as paleontologists pick and brush the tar off the bones of ancient dead creatures who died because they were going for the easy meal, squirming to death in that unforgiving black quicksand. This deadly process was repeated and repeated until there were more bones in the pits than fruit in a fruitcake.
We talked before a huge backlit wall comprised of yellow plastic cubes that held small skulls that over the years had been retrieved from the black taffy of the pits. At no time during the interview did I lay eyes upon my subject. He/she? was a voice of indeterminate ethnicity (obviously distorted, like a witness under anonymous protection)—a voice that emerged from a black Bose speaker on a white marble table. It was a rather large public space, but since this was after hours, no one intruded. A friendly black security guard unlocked the front door to let me in, guided me to my seat, and, after my notepad and recorder were set up, left me alone.
I waited about five minutes; then I heard a voice.
I am going to reconstruct our dialog with the greatest care. I have a photographic memory, and I can assure you that what you read is what I heard. You may form your own conclusions as to its veracity.
I am not afraid at this late stage of any repercussions as it is one of those tales patently easy to dismiss as moonshine.
Also, I should admit that I am a terminal cancer patient. I do not expect to live through the next month. I have no need for celebrity. I merely want history to be told with accuracy.
I am a father, too. I love my son. He is my caretaker now. He has encouraged me to do this. To settle, as he put it, "a long unsettled score."
And I am a patriot. I love my country but not as much as I love the truth.
As you read our words please remember this: I was told nothing about the patient.
Hello.
Good evening. I am Doctor
So I am told.
I’ve been asked to ask you some questions.
By whom?
I am not at liberty to say.
Neither am I. Do they bind you, too?
Bind?
Bind. Bond. Chain.
You are chained?
In a manner of speaking. Conditions. Limitations.
I chafe under these.
Not… literally.
No.
Then we are in the same boat.
At this point the "patient" laughed. It was a most distressing sound, which I could not be sure wasn’t distorted by the speaker or the echoing effect of the large chamber I was alone in. Suffice it to say that its laughter…
Oh my god.
Excuse me.
Sorry.
No, I’m fine.
Its laughter
… was always unexpected and always—how do I put this? Had it been at a cocktail party, or some other public venue, it would be considered totally inappropriate. Like laughter at a funeral. A chilling laugh. A laugh that could stop all the conversation in a bar. Such laughter I have heard in many mental hospitals. It was wretched and contained an unmistakable echo of despair. Remember, this is what I mean when you read the word "laughter."
It was the first clue that something was out of joint. However rational and clever his answers were, there were always, sprinkled throughout, these false notes of mirth that at the very least conveyed a sense of cross purposes, hidden agendas, and unspoken torment that could never be addressed directly.
I will say it this way. It broke my heart to hear.
It spoke of an unbearable gulf between us that could never be crossed.
A final aloneness.
It broke my heart.
Have you sat next to a firing rifle lately?
No.
Any nearby explosions?
No.
Have you ever been caught in a collapsing building?
Yes.
When the building fell on you, what were you doing?
I was in the bathroom.
Yes?
Yes.
How do you feel when a man touches you?
That would depend on the man.
The last time you made love, were you happy?
I have never made love. She did.
Okay. What was the last thing you heard?
A wailing sound and a gigantic ripe apple falling to the ground. Imagine a scream, a rumble and a thump.
Where were you?
New York. We were all there.