Transformation

Transformation

By Stephen Myer

I speak to my psychology professor regarding the rash of suicides. “Yes, I’ve read about it,” he says. “Not to worry. It is a series of coincidences. Things go badly for a while, and then they change. There is nothing you can do about it.”

“It seems more like a transformation than coincidence.”

“Well, mania cannot be ruled out. Still, it runs its course, and our species moves on. Humanity is a dynamic system in search of balance.” The professor pats my shoulder. “Forget it. All this will soon be over.”

His words fail to convince or comfort me.

I take my evening walk as the autumn dusk shrouds the town. The weather on the bridge is cold and windy. A splash. Someone has fallen or jumped into the icy water, yet I hear no cry for help. A crowd gathers and peers over the railing. The police arrive and act as if the situation is an inconvenience. They attach a rope ladder to a girder, climb down, and pull a shirtless young man from the frigid river. He is missing an arm and struggles to catch his breath. They shake him out of his stupor in front of the onlookers.

“Hey, what’s the idea?” an officer says. “Have you gone mad like the rest?”

The jumper does not answer. His hair is plastered over one eye, and his body shivers. Water flies from him like a dog’s shake-off, his body smoking in the cold air.

“No other way,” mutters the man.

“Come on. Give us your name!”

“Have pity. If not for me, then for yourselves. I have no reason to live.”

“How did you lose your arm?” asks the officer.

“Cut it off myself. I thought it would be enough. Please. Throw me back.”

Faces turn away in disgust, and some in disappointment at the sight of the mangled shoulder, blood already congealed in a clump of purple flesh struggling to heal itself.

“The guy’s crazy. I’ll show him pity,” says an angry bystander, raising his fist.

“Stand back,” says the officer. “We’ll handle everything.”

“Throw a blanket over him,” I say. “He’s in shock.”

“Are you a doctor? What exactly is your connection to this insect?”

“He is a man, not an insect.”

I offer my overcoat to the victim. The officer grabs it and tosses it back. “Why get involved? You must have troubles of your own.”

I don’t recall any troubles. I am overwhelmed by the paroxysm of self-murder. I’ve never witnessed such an incident, let alone considered it. The officer opens the door of the police wagon and shoves the survivor in.

“What will become of him?” I ask.

The officer snickers. “Same as the rest. Book and release. Not much you can do for those bugs bent on self-destruction.”

The crowd disperses as the siren cuts through the night. An attractive woman lingers on the bridge.

“Living has become too much for him,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“There is no reason other than life itself.” She turns and disappears into the darkness.

Malcontents roam everywhere. What are they thinking? Suicides and failed attempts occur at an alarming rate. Survivors provide no reason for their actions other than the conditions of life, just as the woman on the bridge said. Until now, living seemed to me, more or less, the same as always.

Four students at the university jump to their deaths from the roof of a dormitory. No reason is given. A young man and woman wrap their arms around each other’s waists, step off the sidewalk, and face an oncoming bus. Killed instantly. Again, no reason. Shopkeepers pour water and vinegar over the blood-stained pavement and scrub away the redness with stiff-bristled brooms.

I cinch my collar in the unexpected rain, arriving home soaked and in a bad mood to find a congregation of cockroaches crawling out from the cracked wainscoting. Their tight queue breaks into a scrambling mob, jostling to possess fallen crumbs. I stomp on them, listening to the crunch of chitin, then kick the carcasses toward the wall. I light the fire, pour a glass of brandy, and press my forehead against the cold window. My breath creeps up the pane until the outside world disappears.

I read about a certain survivor who worked the Tenderloin. According to the newspaper, her moniker is M46613—likely not her real name. Women must protect themselves. The rain stops mid-afternoon. The sun waits for an opportunity to break through the clouds, but the moment never arrives. I ride the bus down to the district and walk along the squalid streets, closely watched by prostitutes, pimps, and indigents. A young woman, provocatively dressed, approaches and starts a conversation, a prelude to a come-on.

“Look,” I say. “I’m not interested. Can we talk?”

“What are you, a eunuch? No one comes here to talk. You must be a cop.”

Her contentious words are unbefitting of such perfect lips.

“No. I’m here on my own account. I want information about M46613, the woman who attempted to kill herself. I don’t know how to locate her. Perhaps you can help.”

“Who do you think I am?”

“I mean no disrespect.”

She turns and walks away. A young man with a scarred face points at me and scowls. His pants hang loosely from his hips beneath a tight leather jacket that hugs his torso. A logo embroidered on his cap signifies membership in one of the local Leagues.

“Wait,” I call to the woman. “The weather is unpredictable, and you’re hardly dressed for the unexpected. You’ll freeze to death in those skimpy clothes. Let’s go to a café. I’ll buy you a hot tea, even pay for your time.”

The man turns and heads toward me. “Yes,” I say. “You can come, too.”

We find a secluded table. She introduces herself as D011F4C3. The man sits opposite her but remains silent and nameless.

“So, regarding this woman who—”

“Yeah, I know her. How about a whiskey?”

“Depends.”

D011F4C3 stands and clutches her purse. I yield to her request.

“M’s a good soul and smart, too,” she says. “The police found her lying in the gutter, poor thing. She was like a sister, helping me through some rough times. Then this happens. Thank God she didn’t die, but I doubt she’ll ever be the same. Us girls—I mean friends—took up a collection for her. She’s in no shape to work.”

“I’m sorry. Nice of you to help her. Any idea why she tried to kill herself?”

“No one knows but her. Take N31113. She killed herself after losing a jacket. Is that a good reason? Then there’s 4N6314, who’s pretty tough. Some creep insulted her. She took his words to heart and did herself in. Was that a good reason?”

D011F4C3 gulps the whiskey and shivers. “I don’t like talking about this stuff,” she says.

“Why do you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you seem like you care and want to help, though I can’t see how.”

“I have no motive other than understanding why people choose to snuff it.”

“Not everyone chooses to. Haven’t you noticed I’m alive?”

D011F4C3 sways in her chair as if moving to a lilting melody only she hears.

“You’re very much alive and I’m glad.”

“I intend to stay that way, Mister, for as long as possible.”

“You’re not thinking about—”

“No. I’m pretty good at handling dark moments.”

D011F4C3’s eyes sparkle and she blows me a kiss. “You’re sweet,” she says. “The world could use more men like you. I certainly could.”

“Use?”

“Oh, you know what I mean. Look, I’ve made you blush.”

The pimp fidgets in his chair. He removes a string from his pocket and winds it around his finger. It must be a signal.

“I have to get back to work,” she says.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Huh?”

“For your time.”

“Oh, that. We only talked for a few minutes and you did buy me a drink. Call it even, Mister.”

The pimp clenches his fists. He seems upset.

“Be here tomorrow at 3 PM,” she says. “I’ll bring Maggie and maybe you’ll get a reason.”

“Who?”

D011F4C raises her hand to her lips. “I mean, M46613.”

I lean in and whisper. “Perhaps we could have dinner sometime. Just us.”

Her eyes shift between me and the pimp.

“I’ll think about it,” she whispers back. “We don’t even know each other’s real names. Maybe that’s for the best.”

The pimp grabs her arm and forcefully pulls her off the chair in an attempt to escort her out. She looks uneasy, perhaps in pain. I stand and block their way. “Take your hands off her.”

“It’s all right,” she says. “That’s just his style.”

I despise him. Yet she accepts his abuse. They exit the café, and I flop back onto the chair, close my eyes, and imagine D011F4C3 safely in my arms.

The following day, she and the pimp enter the café accompanying a woman who walks with a cane. I barely recognize her. She is the woman from the bridge when the one-armed man jumped into the river.

“See, Mister. Told you I’d bring M. Make it a double shot this time, extra compensation for my dependability.”

M46613 sits. Her body trembles as if her condition is the reward for surviving. Her words tumble from her lips in broken cadences. M says the reason she attempted suicide is nobody’s business, though she readily complains about the conditions of life.

“Everyone has their ups and downs,” I say. “That’s no reason.”

“Then no reason is the reason.”

“How did you decide on the method of death?”

She forces a grin. “Are you looking for a way out, too?”

“Just curious.”

“Most choose LD. It’s worth the pain—if it works.”

“What’s LD?”

“Lavender Death. It’s new. You don’t get around much.”

The pimp scowls and finally speaks. “LD is plum juice and strychnine.” He turns to M46613. “Next time, don’t screw it up. Take a bullet to the head and end it,” he advises. “I can’t afford the hospital bills.”

If anyone behaves like a heartless insect, it is the scar-faced man.

M runs her unsteady hand along the pimp’s thigh. “Each to her own, Baby.”

She holds up a vial of LD that glows in the soft light of the café.

“Here, Mister. I dare you to resist its charm.”

“Resist? I think I can.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

M suddenly buries her face in her hands and sobs. Distress. D011F4C3 wraps her arm around her friend’s shoulders. Empathy. The pimp stares into space. Emptiness. There is no point in continuing the conversation.

“Take care of these women,” I urge.

The pimp scoffs at my words and shuffles away. I tuck the vial of LD into my coat pocket and thank M for coming. I hug D011F4C3. Her arms tighten around me, and her warm lips brush against my neck.

“You don’t have to leave,” I say.

I walk through the university library toward the professor’s office. People mill around empty bookshelves. They behave as normally as I do, and their faces appear as boring as mine. Who among them now contemplates suicide, which of them suffers from death’s cruel denial, who will be alive tomorrow?

“The professor’s due to return in a day,” says his prim secretary, 5M17H. “He visited two young colleagues under review by the administration,” she flatly states. “The professor arrived at their flat to find the couple had hanged themselves. They were always so cheerful. Guess they had enough.”

The secretary’s voice lacks the resonance of compassion. Perhaps she hears death’s footsteps heading her way. Even the intelligentsia has submitted to a new order bent on crushing its own spirit. I am not shocked by the bad news, only by my insensitive reaction. I have gotten used to the unexpected.

On my way home, people wander the streets. Their crooked bodies and misshapen faces resemble the tortured souls painted on the canvases depicting Hell. For the man who cut off his arm before jumping into the river, such an offering was insufficient. The human condition demands the ultimate sacrifice.

I sleep well, considering the circumstances, and eat breakfast while perusing the local newspaper. The obituary column has grown into the largest section of the tabloid.

M4Y3r4, female student, age: 18: Lavender Death.

5H4P1r0, female teacher, age: 22: Lavender Death.

814KM4N, male entertainer, age: 19: Asphyxiation.

5M17H, female secretary, age: 24: Lavender Death.

K311iN65, female addict, age: 16: Lavender Death.

The entries run for several pages. The dead are young, and almost all expire by ingesting LD. Beside each name is a picture of the deceased, some of whom I recognize. No motives are given. I return to the university and slam the newspaper on the professor’s desk.

“Now, do you believe me? The trouble is getting worse.”

The professor looks tired and pale, the hop in his step, gone.

“What can we do?” he laments, scratching his unkempt beard. “I am not saying we do not need to fight against the outbreak of suicides. But where do we start? Nothing will likely come of it, no matter what efforts are made and who makes them.”

“Are you giving up, too?”

Tears roll down his cheek. “You heard about my colleagues. They were strong-willed but not prone to foolishness and did nothing more than question authority. The administration asked them to account for their actions. Neither side issued recriminations. A minor disagreement degenerates into an act of self-annihilation. My secretary. She poisoned herself, and for no reason I can imagine.”

“Yes. But the point. What is the point of all this?”

“Perhaps we are losing our adaptation to stress. Do you realize the implications?”

“Extinction comes to mind,” I say.

“Precisely. Consider that you are the last person alive. Sounds appealing, at first. Life is paradise, answerable to no one. Quite the opposite. Loneliness is the root of unfulfilled desire. We are victims of a great paradox, and who can say if this turmoil will ever resolve itself?”

He drapes his overcoat over one shoulder, opens his desk drawer, removes a vial, and slips it into his pocket.

“Please, Professor. Don’t do it.”

“When do I need your permission to go home?”

I return to the cafe, hoping to find D, the woman I have come to adore. The pimp sits alone, slouched in a chair. The brim of his cap shades his eyes.

“Where are the others?”

“M46613 and D011F4C3 decided to visit the morgue,” he says. “This time, the LD worked. Not that I care about those selfish whores, but it will take time to replace them. My business is headed for ruin.”

“Goddamn it. You should care. Everyone should. I told you to look after them.”

“Did you think M46613 wouldn’t try again, and D011F4C3 would let her friend die alone?”

The pimp tosses his cap at me. “I’m done with the League. Done with everything.”

“The League of Insects, you bastard.”

I want to thrash him, but it would do no good. I am losing everyone. The pimp leaves the café. I know we will never meet again.

On the way home, I toss his cap into a dumpster, loathing myself for entrusting him with the women. Worse, I had deceived myself with the notion that D would choose me over death.

I flip on the light switch in my flat. A brigade of armor-clad cockroaches marches toward me. Their hard bodies are those of insects, but their heads are human with faces I recognize from the obituaries—now an army of altered humanity. Their number has grown so large that one man cannot stop the tiny conquerors.

“Come with us,” plead M46613 and D011F4C3, who, among those ranks, sense my disquiet.

I remove the Lavender Death from my pocket. A beam of autumn light illuminates the luxurious color. I uncork the vial, releasing the compelling scent of plum. M was right. I cannot resist. Sweetness lingers on my tongue before penetrating me. Muscles contract and bones snap as if crushed beneath the colossal heel of a madman’s boot. I offer a litany of regrets to ease the suffering of self-betrayal. As the world spins toward its end, D011F4C3 returns to banish my affliction. “Take comfort,” she whispers, “knowing that once you were a man.”

END