Ungeziefer

Henry Hill was celebrating his twenty-fourth birthday by sitting in a dark corner in front of a flickering computer screen that could not seem to decide whether it wanted to be purple or not. The guy at the store had smiled wide and practically shoved the Korean made monstrosity down Henry's throat, claiming that it would be years before this monitor gave him any trouble. Three months had passed and Henry was not surprised to find that the slightest vibration or shift in humidity could send the monitor into an epileptic frenzy/identity crisis.

He leaned back into his chair, it creaked and he let it roll back a couple of feet before stopping it with his sneakers. It was an unconscious habit; the need to distance himself from the problem, as it were, and look at what was going on from an objective vantage point. The first step towards solving a problem, he thought, was to stop being a part of it; it did not help in the least.

The day had not gone well at all. Henry had known beforehand that it would be a difficult one. There's a pattern to these things, he always said: one day you're up, the next, you're down. The short lived euphoria of a pleasurable moment faded the instant you realized that it wouldn't last. Was this, cyclic behavior of luck, a fact? Was life really that simple to explain: a series of peaks and troughs, suffering endless alternations without a plateau to offer some respite? It certainly did seem cyclic. How many times had he experienced this phenomenon in all its causal glory? Or did he experience it just because he expected to? Was this 'bi-polarity' internal or external? The nagging voice at the back of his mind never ceased to provide him with nearly plausible theories about his personal interpretation of life.


The alarm clock had failed to wake him up that morning. When he did finally get up, it was almost too late. Running downstairs, half dressed, half asleep, tooth brush in his mouth, he exploded out into the morning air and willed his muscles to not complain till he reached the bus stop. He completed his toilet in the bus, then shoved his tooth brush in his pants and ended up stuck in the bus' hydraulic door. It hissed and snapped shut when he was halfway through and then refused to let go of his arm. He kept running along with the bus, screaming at the top of his lungs, tapping with his free hand on the door; somewhere half-way between terror and mild amusement.

Fifteen minutes later, he found himself outside his psychology Professor's room; he had had an 'appointment' with him half an hour earlier.He knocked lightly on the door and waited, staring at the gold plaque that read: “Professor Gaslow” this was followed by his academic achievements -abbreviated in gibberish. This was not the end of it, however, for another, smaller plaque read: "Student Welfare and Advice". He knocked again, a bit louder, cautiously, simultaneously trying to rub tooth paste off his shirt. Somehow he always ended up with tiny white dots that would not go away.

"Come in." said a muffled voice and Henry opened the door. He always felt contempt for these corny professors who decorated their work spaces with what were meant to be encouraging and reassuring messages, plastered all over the walls, for instance: "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again!" and "You only fall down so you can learn to pick yourself up again!" that sort of thing. Henry thought them cunning aids to deception and subjugation.

"All right son?" asked professor Gaslow, peering over his bifocal lens and flashing him a toothy smile that reeked of overkill and routine. Henry thought he looked like a toad wearing a suit but kept that bit of information to himself.

"Sorry about my...thing..." mumbled Henry, trying to come up with a good excuse for his tardiness. Unfortunately he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind: "my cat...it got stuck in the car exhaust and...broke its leg...so I had to...set things right and..."

"Yes well, fascinating as that is," the Professor cut in impatiently and gestured for Henry to sit down, "the thing is, son, yawns are addictive, you know what I mean? If one person does it in class, it spreads like wild fire! It becomes an epidemic. Now, once I start yawning, it's embarrassing. So, if you could please just get some sleep before you wake up...I would be much obliged."

"Yes sir, of course, I mean it was..."

The phone rang and Gaslow answered it a split second before it came close enough to his mouth. It was like watching conditioning and muscle memory in action, thought Henry and wondered whether whoever it was on the other end had heard the 'hello' or not. Instantly, Gaslow turned into a servile larva and put on his most subservient tone. Henry could see the physical manifestation of this change spread all across the Professor's face except for his eyes. Evidently someone higher up in the food chain had called; a lot of "Yes sir's" followed.

"Well son," he said, putting the receiver down, "that's about all I wanted to see you for. Initially I had a good long sermon planned but there's a faculty meeting and I really have to be ready...so..."

He left the sentence hanging there while he ripped up some official looking letter into tiny bits and threw it in the waste basket. Henry nodded but didn't move to get up. He was thinking, deliberating his course of action; planning. There was something on his mind but he wasn't sure if it was worth a narration or if any good would come from telling. He was anxiously tapping his foot very fast without making any noise on the fluffy new carpet. Instead of coming out with what was on his mind, he asked something entirely unrelated.

"Sir...psychology, I mean, is it possible that somebody with a screw loose, that is to say, a twisted mental disposition, could study psychology and...you know...fix himself...self-help?"

Professor Gaslow did not look up but gave a quick, seemingly well-rehearsed answer as if he had been anticipating the question ever since he had got his job.

"There's nothing wrong with you son. Nearly all students of psychology -or medicine for that matter- think they suffer from one thing or the other; if not everything that they read of in their text books. But that's no reason to doubt or quit or worry. If you want my advice: keep studying psychology, it's good for you. Pharmaceutical companies will pay you insane amounts of money to prescribe their pills to unwitting patients. It's wonderfully lucrative and if you stay focused and manage to kill them quickly enough, you'll never be bothered by unsatisfied patients. Will that be all?" asked Professor Gaslow staring intently at his finger nail and waiting for an answer.

"But that's, sort of, unethical..." began Henry but was cut short.

"Tut tut, son! When I do good, I feel good; when I do bad, I feel bad. That's my religion. And I just don't feel bad when I make a lot of money, ok son? Listen, it's not only fine feathers that make fine birds...it's having a lot of money! Honestly, the greatest tragedy of mankind is that rather than striving for self-actualization we encumber ourselves with something as petty, as farcical as ethics."
"Son, tell me, what do you do when you encounter a patient in a nut-house who can't stop smiling?" asked the Professor.

"Er...I'm not sure, sir...the subject may be manic?" suggested Henry but Gaslow made a noise like a buzzer at a game show and said:

"Wrong answer son! You diagnose acute schizophrenia and then prescribe the most expensive medication available. Then you send your son to Princeton! Get smart boy...now scoot off!"

Stepping out of Gaslow's office with his mind even more in a jumble than ever, Henry went back home to stare at the flickering monitor.
Henry's friend Pig came over in the evening to wish him a happy birthday and borrow some money.

"I like your monitor...very psychedelic." said Pig and flopped down on the bed behind Henry.

"Yes it's my own invention. I call it the ‘isore’. Sort of like the ‘ipod’, only it melts your brain faster." said Henry.

Pig was a decent distraction from the mundane but Henry was still preoccupied with these thoughts that constantly plagued him. Pig was never really the best choice for a confidant. Although, he was reliable when it came to keeping a secret on account of the fact that he had the attention span and memory of a gold-fish.

"Say Pig," he began, "have you noticed something..." but before Henry could say another word, Pig jumped up from the bed and with strange, but not uncharacteristic zeal, shouted: "Yes God! Yes! I didn't know you knew what's going on, so I couldn't be sure if I could trust you with this knowledge or not..."

"What are you talking about man?" interrupted Henry, surprised by Pig's uncalled for outburst over something which was clearly not what Henry had in mind at all.

"The water supply man! It's all in the water supply...I've figured it all out!" said Pig lowering his voice to a whisper, like a conspirator.
He looked around and then turned to face Henry. His eyes were open wide, his pupils dilated and his conversation was hasty, broken, bordering on mania.
"The government is behind it...they're pumping anti-depressants into the city's water supply! It's Neo Imperialism like never before...mind altering rays from television screens! Haven't you felt the temperature rise every time you turn on the hot water? All around us! Like tiny bugs crawling over the dead, laying eggs. Now stop thinking and get rid of this crazy machine! It's giving me a headache." said Pig and started laughing then stopped abruptly and pocketed the money he had come to borrow and left through the window.

Henry could never tell whether Pig was kidding or just crazy. Either way he was a useless parasite but good company sometimes when Henry was in a whimsical mood. Having nothing better to do, he decided to leave everything, go upstairs and tune his guitar.

It was a hopeless cause. The instrument had such awful intonation that six frets up it felt like you were playing a different guitar.
Nothing works right around here, thought Henry, replaying the events of the day in his mind, especially the psychologist who advocated murder, the mad monitor, and the bus. He wondered why he had asked Gaslow about ‘self-help’. Henry considered for a moment and then decided to call Pig on his cell-phone and ask him for advice about the guitar.

"Well Henry my lad," said Pig in a mock scholarly voice, "Maybe you're just not cut out to go beyond the sixth fret. Perhaps these are your limitations young one, so make the best of what you have. Learn to live with baby chords or something. I hate to do this to you buddy but this call will end in three seconds, two...one..."

Before Henry could say anything, the line went dead.

Henry did not know what to make of that or anything else but in any case his thoughts were disrupted before they could take on a reasonable form by a sharp chirping sound. He turned around to find the source of the noise and saw a large dirty-green insect, much like a beetle, on his study table. Henry had trapped it earlier in a clear, plastic cup that the beetle-like insect had now chewed through over the course of the day. Henry wondered how the insect must have felt after having invisible walls erected around it all of a sudden and nothing but its pincers to aid it in its pointless quest for freedom. There were walls beyond walls here and even if the insect had successfully escaped from the cup, it would still have to bore through brick walls to get outside and even then it would never reach the moon; its ultimate ambition! The most it would ever manage would be to fall in ill-advised love with a street lamp, thought Henry half humorously. Either way, the bug had earned some reward for its labour. Henry scooped the bug back in the cup and threw it out the window. "At least it might get a good look at the moon or a 'street lamp named desire'." thought Henry to himself. Life was a series of invisible bubbles, mused Henry, each bigger than the previous and progressively harder to pop. You can't always expect help but it's always nice.

He could hear his mother's footsteps now, slow and heavy, as she climbed up the stairs, getting nearer and nearer to his room. He heard his bedroom door being locked from the outside and then saw the key slid from under the door to his side.
Henry bent down, picked up the key, then smiled and turned the lights out.
Tomorrow is going to be a fine day, he thought.

a. j. prufrock

er...nothing.