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the archive(s):
issue no. 4:
Visitation Rights / Ilya Zaychik
I have a friend. He is a very dear friend. He wears the expression of a puppy who has just been pulled out of the water and is about to apologize for falling in. With his left hand in the pocket of his green corduroy slacks, leaning on the side of his turn-of-the-century brown loafers, he turns the right one, thumb out and palm up, and says sorryı with the aplomb of a Nova Scotian tourist when asked how he is doing (all the while half-shrugging and curling his lower lip deferentially, then turning to you with big blue eyes and mouth slightly open to tell you to tell him where to get coffee or what to think about sunsets). He is a very dear friend.
His name is Macdonnell but we call him lots of things: Mac the Knife, Mac the Finger, Mac the Truck, MacAttack, Big Mac, AFLAC, Maxi Pad. We substitute amusing, skin-deep monikers for core-cleansing conversation, painting over our problems with one coat of jokes. We all live by ourselves, in large apartment buildings. It just worked out this way from the start, and it suits our needs perfectly. A destructive support group, alcoholics anonymous with all members still on the sauce.
Macdonnell, though, is a very nervous sort, and recently I have begun to worry that he is slipping away from us. We are all teetering on the edge of our high-rise balconies, but Macdonnell no longer has full control of his equilibrium. We suspected as much from him, him most of all. I have never known him to relax, to slow down, even. Always he is moving, scurrying about, tending to some task he never seems close to finishing. That is why our visits to his apartment are tense until we hear his jumpy voice on the other end of the intercom before he buzzes us in, warning us that his place is a mess. A pristine mess. Then, our mission accomplished, we wonder what we have left to do here.
Lately he has been worse than usual. His three a.m. coffee and ice-cream binges only serve to destabilize him further. Now he cannot sit in one place for more than two seconds and every time I scratch my nose he asks me if anything is wrong, seeking justification for keeping me there so late in my frustrated assurances that everything is fine. Every time he gets up he asks me if I want anything. Tonight he has already served me coffee, made me a salad, and almost shined my shoes.
I want to sleep, WackyTomaccy,ı I whine, exhausted from a night spent consoling. What did you want to tell me?ı
Oh, sorry, man. I donıt mean to keep you,ı he protests while washing his stove. Just give me one second.ı He emphasizes one.ı
Finally I convince him to sit still, though I concede him the ability to roll around the room in his office chair.
Listen, man, I am freaking out. I havenıt been able to fall asleep lately, right, and every time I get close, at exactly four-thirty in the morning, I hear the elevator door clang open, two steps to the right and three successive ³thuds², the last one right at my neighborıs door. Itıs driving me insaaane, man.ı
He runs his hands through his hair and exhales noisily. I can see he has not slept in a week. He continues:
I donıt know, Iım beginning to think heıs doing it just to spite me. He probably stops in front of my front door and laughs at me because he knows heıs not letting me fall asleep. The first night I didnıt notice the elevator when it opened, just the dull crash of the papers. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, itıs the Gazette delivery boy. I donıt know, man, and the next night, I just stayed up and waited for it because I figured if I could prepare myself for his arrival, he wouldnıt catch me by surprise and I wouldnıt be so freaked out. But when I heard the elevator door clang open again and the two steps I got the fear, man, hardcore. I thought he was going to kick down my door and demand I subscribe to his shitty paper.ı
I sigh. I put my elbow on my knee, my head in my hand and rub my forehead methodically while sighing. I consider calling for backup but quickly realize that the other Sultans of Solitary are likely to be asleep at this hour. I raise my head to the ceiling and rub my eyes in exasperation. Iım keeping this whole dam operation from bursting, but I also live alone. I donıt have a nickname. Who has got their finger in my mind-hole?
I sigh and picture Macdonnell sitting up in bed at four-thirty in the morning, covers pulled up to his chin, dripping with cold sweat, dreading and yet needing that elevator door, the two steps, the three thuds, so he can continue conjuring up the demonic paper boyıs motives in driving him to insanity. I consider shining a rational, logical light on the situation, hoping I can assuage Macdonnellıs fears by pointing out that there is no way the paper boy knows him or cares about him, and that perhaps he, Macdonnell, should invest in some stress-relieving massage therapy. Quickly, though, I understand the futility of the endeavor. For Macdonnell, the paper boy is already a CIA agent sent to investigate his connection to the mysterious disappearance of a lemon-scented moist towelette from the bathroom of a Greyhound bus traveling from Raleigh, North Carolina to Savannah, Georgia in late August of this year, on which Macdonnell was allegedly spotted by a senile, one-eyed Confederate. It is no use; even Macdonnellıs own violent aversion to public restrooms will not dissuade his conviction in such a sensible scenario. I sigh again and check my watch. Three forty-five. I look up at Macdonnell who has stopped, momentarily, and is slouched in his chair, staring helplessly at me. I even sympathize with him a little. Many times I myself have instigated a conspiratorial fantasy regarding some minute detail of my routine. It is a game I-we-play. Even a delusional paranoid maintains a modicum of excitement in his life, an all-consuming exercise in mental gymnastics, no matter how trivial, unhealthy, or utterly insane. It passes the time, keeps you near the fulcrum, in a twisted way.
He wants me to tell him that it is nothing, just a paper boy on his route, and that he is a freak, a paranoid freak that needs serious help. This is also a tactic I know too well; if I oblige, I apply the counter-pressure Macdonnell craves and his deluded reasoning gains momentum. He is faced with the challenge of converting a skeptic while simultaneously elucidating his logic, the sound of his voice validating his crazed ravings.
But tonight I am too tired, and I cannot be bothered to convince a determined lunatic of his sanity. He does not want to know that everything is going as planned, and it is the plan that has failed him. He wants me to scratch his diversion behind the ear by denying its existence. He must look within and discover nothing. This is the first step. This is what I have discovered. If I cannot sleep it is because I have nothing to dream about, while the high-rise always snores with marked regularity.
Jesus, Macdaddy 3000, itıs four. I donıt know what to tell you. Why donıt you stare through the eyehole when he comes, that way youıll see if heıs really mocking you or if he doesnıt even know you exist?ı I get up to go.
Hey, man, thatıs a really good idea. I think I just might do that. I really need to get some sleep, man. Iım soooo tired.ı
I know, man, I know.ı
We part ways and I hurry to the elevator and to the exit. I check my watch: four eleven. For ten minutes I stand on the sidewalk and breathe in until my nostrils hurt. I watch the lights twenty floors up on the huge buildings that surround me and wonder how they maintain their equilibrium. I see a TV flickering.
Suppressing a smile, I march back into Macdonnellıs building and head to the elevator. It is four twenty-nine as I enter. I press his floor. At four-thirty, the elevator door clangs open. I take two solid steps to the right and turn. I can feel him blinking, shivering, smiling, on the other side of the eyehole. I grin wide and tomahawk the rolled-up paper at his door. I hear him scream.
He is a very dear friend.
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