Memoirs Of An Invisible Man (25 page)

I could feel the rough bedspread against my cheek and see the empty bed, still made up.

Empty!

The bed was empty!

Invisible!
I was invisible! My mind exploded into total, terrible wakefulness, and I knew exactly where and what I was.

Jesus!

I was trembling. How many more days would there be like this, waking up to that horrible shock of realization? If you’re lucky, and careful, and get control of yourself, maybe a lot more days. You have to stay calm, if you hope to keep going.

What about the food in my digestive system? Another layer of panic. I looked down at myself. I do not know what I hoped to find. Any outcome would have horrified me, I suppose. What I did in fact find was that I could just make out two short, translucent strands in what must be my colon. Some indigestible fiber or gristle. The moo shu, probably. Except for that, I was utterly invisible again. Somehow, during the night, the food I had eaten had been converted by my body to its own peculiar chemical or physical state. Or structure. Or whatever it was. Whatever I was. The whole thing — my condition — was incomprehensible. Preposterous. I felt like whimpering, and it may be that I did.

I had to fight down the panic, keep control of myself, figure out what to do next. Think things through calmly.

I had almost returned to complete invisibility. I tried to reason out whether that was good or bad, but my mind seemed unable to get hold of the problem. It didn’t matter whether it was good or bad: it was the way things were. I had to figure out how to proceed from here. Calmly.

First of all, I would take off my clothes, which were sweaty and uncomfortable. I hung up my suit and pushed the rest of my clothing into an empty laundry bag. I would have to keep track meticulously of every invisible possession. I emptied a dresser drawer and neatly laid out the contents of my pockets in it. What might I have left lying around last night? I walked into the kitchen and ran my hand over the surface of the table, finding the keys on top of the mail and carrying them back to the drawer. Everything in order.

As I sat on the toilet urinating, I tried to decide whether anyone would notice the little transparent bits of undigested food in my lower intestine. How long would it be before I passed them? I went to the sink and drank at least a quart of cold water, watching it cascade down and collect in the stomach. How long would it be visible there? As I began to brush my teeth before the mirror, I was startled to see the toothpaste suddenly whipped into a fierce, foaming, Cheshire Cat grin. Rinse thoroughly. The smile became an outline formed by traces of toothpaste trapped in the crevice between gum and cheek. A regular walk in the fun house, my daily life. Somewhere there was an electric razor. In the cabinet under the sink. I got it working and began to attack the two-day beard, stopping frequently to check my progress by running my hand over my skin. Not being able to see either the beard or my face made the process seem even slower and more tedious than usual. And I had never liked electric razors anyway. I supposed I would never use anything else now. Not much point in shaving at all, really, but I kept at it anyway. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about getting the sideburns even.

As I stood in the shower soaping myself under the hot water, I suddenly saw the form of my body outlined by the streams of lather, and I began rubbing the soap over myself furiously. Pointless. I got out of the shower and dried myself. The last traces of the Cheshire Cat grin were nearly gone, and the water in my stomach looked like a faint wisp of mist. I decided that it was very unlikely that anyone would ever notice the tiny threads of food still lodged in my colon.

It felt good to be clean again, and it would have been nice to put on some fresh clothes. But fresh clothes would look odd walking through the apartment without a body in them: all the shades would have to be kept drawn all day. The only invisible clothes I had brought into New York were the sweaty ones I had worn and slept in for two days. Well, that was a practical problem I could deal with right now. Do one thing at a time and keep going. I dumped my invisible clothing out of the laundry into the bathtub, turned on the cold water, and poured in some liquid soap.

I walked disconsolately into the kitchen. I had to eat. Some bacon and eggs would do nicely, and I found that I was salivating at the thought. But if I ate now, I reasoned unhappily, I would be an unsightly sack of half-digested food for the rest of the day. For how long, actually? Under nine hours: it was 10:17 A.M., according to the kitchen clock, and I had eaten last night around one in the morning. To be safe, I should fast during the day and eat at night, when there would be less risk of an encounter with other people. Was that possible? Can people live on one meal a day? I looked down at my belly and wondered again whether I had absorbed any nutrition from the food I had eaten. Perhaps I should eat now and plan to go out at night, when any opacity in my body would be less noticeable anyway. What reason would I have for going out anytime, night or day? What reason or hope would I have of doing anything except cowering in this apartment until they came to get me?

I tried to think what to do next. What did it matter? It was all absolutely pointless. My body surely couldn’t survive in this state. And if it could, they would find me soon. They would track down everyone who had been at MicroMagnetics. I couldn’t manage this alone; I needed help. I should call Anne. With someone I could trust to help me, I would be all right. Risky. I had to calm down and figure out what to do next.

Just keep moving. One thing at a time. I sat down at the kitchen table and began automatically going through my mail. Invitations to subscribe to the
Kiplinger Letter
and
Newsweek.
I tossed them into a discard pile. Save the whales. Catalogues from L. L. Bean and Talbott. Why do they keep on sending them? I cannot remember ever having bought anything from a catalogue. Certainly not likely to in the future: no use for the blucher moccasins or the Moose River hat now. No, wait — if I was ever going to buy anything again it would be through the mail. Or by telephone. I set the catalogues aside to save. Personal appeals from Ronald Reagan, Edward Kennedy, Jesse Helms, and Coretta King, each of whom had singled me out as a Concerned American and favored me with a computer-generated letter. Bills from New York Telephone, American Express, Manhattan Cable. Any point in paying these? What difference could it make? I was outside the whole economic system now. Outside the human race. No. I absolutely had to pay them. That was my only hope. I would go on paying my bills, meeting my obligations, treating the outside world as if I were still there, occupying my position in the usual way. Everything as usual. Then I might go on indefinitely, living here in safety, just like anyone else. I opened the bills and put them on top of the catalogues. Pay them later. No. Pay them now. Have to keep going. Do each task as it comes up. Otherwise I’ll sit here staring at my intestines until they come for me.

I took the bills in to the desk in the bedroom, where I made out the checks and sealed them in the return envelopes. How would I mail them? Wait till the middle of the night and try to sneak them unobtrusively down to the corner mailbox? Stupid. I wouldn’t get away with that very many times. Damn. I would think about the problem later. Not now. I left the envelopes in a pile on the desk. I was going to have a lot of problems. A lot of uninteresting, everyday things would prove insolubly difficult.

I needed someone to help me with these things. The question was whether I could count on Anne not to say anything to anyone. I should call her anyway. But what would I say? How much should I tell her? She might know what Jenkins and his men were doing. Ought to think this through before calling. Without having thought anything whatever through, I rang the
Times
and was told Anne was out. I left a message and then tried her home number. No answer. I realized that I wanted very badly to speak to her. I began to imagine her rushing over to take care of me.

I drank another glass of water, watching first the esophagus and then the stomach abruptly take form and then gradually fade from view. It all went so quickly with water. I should try to find out how the body digests food. Perhaps I would find the process less repulsive if I could follow it analytically. I remembered the sickening spectacle created by my meal the night before and decided to defer eating until I was ready to sleep again. Colonel Jenkins would be systematically tracking down everyone who had been at MicroMagnetics, and I knew that above all I could not afford to be full of food just when some government investigator arrived to interview me. Of course, if someone came I could not answer the door anyway: I would pretend I was not home. But what if they knew I was home? They would call before coming. Should I be answering the phone? Anne would be calling soon, and I wanted to talk to her. They would probably try to reach me at my office first. What would they be told there? That was the most urgent question. That, or how I would feed myself when the meager supply of food in the kitchen ran out. The most urgent question was: what should I be doing right now? So far, I was moving about the apartment aimlessly, in a trancelike panic, unable to make myself think clearly. It was like one of those dreams in which it is absolutely vital that you run, but you are somehow unable to make your legs go. I ought to talk to someone. Get a handhold on the human world. Settle myself down.

I dialed my office number.

“Mr. Halloway’s office,” my secretary answered. I felt comforted by the sound of her voice, and for a moment I thought I would weep.

“Good morning, Cathy.”

“Hi!
Where are you? I was afraid you weren’t going to show at all.”

“What do you mean?” I was startled by both the question and the urgency in her voice. I usually came in after ten and often not at all: there was nothing unusual about my not being there now. And as for yesterday, I had told her I might be out of town.

“You’ve got a Mr. MacDougal in reception.”

“MacDougal?”

“Gordon MacDougal. Of Hartford Oil. Your ten o’clock appointment.”

“Damn!” I had forgotten all about him. Who exactly was he? I could remember only that he was someone I had not much wanted to see but had not wanted to offend either and that I had made the appointment weeks ago, pushing it as far into the future as I decently could. He would have some kind of story he wanted to sell me. I had probably meant to keep rescheduling this meeting toward the horizon, in the hope that the whole thing would eventually fall off the edge of the world.

“I completely forgot about this one… Actually, I’m not feeling very well. I’m home in bed. Let me see… you’d better switch me over to him… No, wait. Do you have me down for anything else today? I don’t have my book.”

“No, nothing today. But Roger Whitman wanted to arrange a time to get together this afternoon. Said he wants to find out something to do with natural gas, or transporting it or something. Monday—”

“Look, switch me over to MacDougal so I can make my apologies. Tell him I’ve got a flu. You apologize too. And see if you can figure out who he is or why I made an appointment with him in the first place. Tell him you’ve never known me to miss an appointment and then make another appointment — as far in the future as you can without pissing him off even more. You can make it at his office. Then, when you’re done with him, call me right back. I’m at home.”

There was a clicking, and I was on hold. Then a male voice with a very restrained overtone of grievance said hello.

“Hello, Gordon?” He started to answer, but I went on talking. “This is Nick Halloway. I’m really sorry to have stood you up this way.” He tried to interrupt with an assurance that it was quite all right, but I kept going. “But I just woke up with a hundred and two fever. To be perfectly frank, I just slept through everything. I must have some sort of flu. I’m perfectly happy to come right in now, although I hate to keep you waiting there any longer. And the way I’m feeling I’m not sure I’d be much use to anyone.” He said it sounded as if I should stay in bed. “I’m really sorry to have dragged you there for nothing.” He said that was all right and that he had to be in New York anyway. Damn. Where had he come from? I wondered whether there could possibly be an oil company with its headquarters in Hartford. Maybe there is a Hartford, Texas. “Well, I’m sorry for my own sake to have missed you. I’m really interested in what you people are doing — an intriguing situation.” I didn’t know what they did or what their situation was, but every situation seems interesting to whoever is in it. My own situation, I remembered, was horribly interesting. I had to end this call and get on with it.

“Listen, Gordon, I’ve asked my secretary to reschedule with you whenever it’s convenient for you. I’m supposed to be out of town most of next week — assuming I’m out of bed — but anytime after that.” I hoped he would only be in New York for the day. He would want to get back to wherever it was. Hartford, Oklahoma? “In fact, I’d really welcome a chance to get out and look at your operations directly.” Get up? Down? Hartford, Alaska? “It’s better if you schedule it with Cathy: I don’t have my book in front of me… Well, I’m really sorry… Yes, I look forward to it too… Goodbye.”

It was true: I didn’t have my book. The little black book I always carried with me, containing all my appointments, business and social, and, in the back, fifty pages of names, addresses, and telephone numbers. And, scattered through the calendar, birthdays, annual reminders, tax-deductible expenses, lists of obligations and things to be done. Utterly invisible, unreadable, useless. Not that it mattered. I would have entirely different things to do now, and it was difficult to imagine many future occasions for calling those telephone numbers.

I picked up the phone again, before the first ring had ended.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Nick. It’s Cathy.”

“How’s MacDougal? Give you any trouble?”

“He’s fine. You have an appointment with him here at two p.m. on the twenty-third.”

“Good. Sorry to stick you with that situation. Can you give me my messages for the last two days?”