Less Than Hero (9 page)

As I’m thinking about sitting in the dentist’s chair with my mouth open and a dental hygienist all up in my molars, a tingling starts in my lips, at first like they’re being tickled by a feather and then as if a small jolt of electricity is being pumped through them. Before I know it, my lips turn numb.

“I’m going to work.” Sophie walks up and gives me a kiss on the lips. “Can you feed Vegan his dinner?”

“Sure,” I say, barely feeling her kiss.

“I love you, Lollipop,” she says as she walks out of the bathroom.

“I love you, too,” I say. Only it comes out sounding more like
I lub you, too
.

Once Sophie leaves, I close my eyes and force myself to imagine I’m at the dentist, lying in the chair with my mouth wide open and the light of doom shining down on me, the sound of the suction tube sucking saliva out of my mouth and threatening to take my uvula with it as the dentist pulls out a needle and syringe. I see the needle going into my mouth, disappearing into my lower gums, the contents of the syringe emptying as the plunger depresses and my lips go numb.

Exhaustion rolls over me, thick and heavy, like a dense fog blocking out the light of consciousness. A yawn builds up in the base of my throat, a tangible object with weight and mass, pushing up from my esophagus, through my larynx, and into the back of my throat—a fully formed fetal yawn about to be birthed into the world. My excitement at finally having achieved this is matched only by my exhaustion.

The only problem is, I don’t have anyone to test it on.

When I open my eyes, Vegan is sitting on the toilet seat, staring at me with either disdain or impatience, I can’t tell which. Probably it’s a little of both.

“Meow,” he says.

“Hold on,” I say and let out a yawn that feels like the godfather of all yawns. When I’m done, I feel invigorated and refreshed, like I’ve just woken up from a long winter’s nap.

“Oh shit,” I say.

Vegan is on the bathroom floor, out cold.

D
oes this place serve anything edible?” Frank asks, looking over the menu.

Frank is wearing sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt, which makes it harder to guess his weight, but from the fullness in his cheeks, he seems to have put on a few more pounds since last week’s poker game.

“They have a bunch of awesome sandwiches,” Randy says. “I’m getting the chopped-egg-salad sandwich. Packed with protein. It’s so Pink Floyd.”

“Please don’t tell me this has anything to do with going to the dark side of the moon,” Vic says, looking over the top of his glasses at Randy.

Randy does a double-biceps pose. “It’s money.”

“What’s the dark side of the moon?” Charlie asks.

The seven of us are grabbing lunch in the East Village, waiting to order while I look around at everyone, trying to figure out a way to tell my guinea pig comrades about this brand-new ability I’ve developed.

After giving Vegan an unplanned catnap, I made three humans
fall asleep—not all at the same time, but spread out over a couple of days: a homeless man in Chinatown; a woman sitting on a bench by the Bethesda Fountain; and a guy reading Plato in the philosophy section at the Strand. Although to be honest, he was probably going to fall asleep without my help.

Still, this is most definitely a pattern.

My inner child is excited to tell my friends about what I discovered, while the adult Lloyd wonders if I should keep this to myself. I still haven’t told Sophie. I’m waiting for the right moment. I just haven’t figured out when that will be.

“I don’t see any dishes with meat,” Frank says.

“That’s because this is a v-v-vegetarian restaurant,” Isaac says.

“Vegetarian?” Frank turns the menu over. “Are you fucking kidding?”

“Mostly vegetarian,” Randy says. “No pork, beef, or fowl.”

“Why didn’t we pick someplace that serves meat?” Frank asks.

“They have tuna burgers,” Charlie says, trying to be helpful. “And fish and chips. And salmon croquettes.”

“Fish isn’t meat,” Frank says. “In order to be meat, it has to have legs.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I think they have that listed on the FDA labels.”

“Did you guys know that in addition to food and drugs, the FDA handles sanitation requirements on interstate travel and disease control on products from household pets to sperm donation?” Blaine says.

Randy nods toward a pair of twenty-something women who walk past our table. “I can get behind the idea of sperm donation.”

“Well,” Vic says. “I guess I won’t be ordering the rice pudding.”

“Can we please have a meal where you don’t talk about anal sex or body fluids?” Frank says.

“What about s-s-snakes?” Isaac says.

Everyone looks at Isaac, who doesn’t provide any additional information.

“Is that supposed to be a metaphor for something?” I ask.

Isaac looks at Frank and tilts his head. “S-snakes don’t have l-legs.”

It takes us a moment to realize he’s referring to Frank’s definition about what constitutes something being meat.

“When was the last time you saw me eat a fucking snake?” Frank asks.

“Hey Frank, have you considered anger-management classes?” Randy says. “Or maybe meditation?”

“Have you considered kissing my ass?” Frank says.

“There’s a lot of it to kiss lately,” Vic says. “Can you narrow it down to a longitude and latitude?”

The waiter approaches our table. “Are you gentlemen ready to order?”

Everyone looks at Frank, who stares at the menu like it’s written in Hatfield and he’s a McCoy. “Goddamn it!”

The rest of us place our orders while Frank tries to make up his mind. He finally decides on the smoked-whitefish sandwich with a bowl of vegetarian chili, but isn’t happy about it. When the waiter leaves, I figure this is my chance to bring up my newly discovered ability to make people fall asleep, but Charlie starts asking questions about his upcoming clinical trial for an experimental drug to combat seizures and the conversation inevitably turns to business.

“What are some of the side effects?” Blaine asks.

Charlie reads off the list of more serious ones, which include mood and behavior changes, depression, thoughts of suicide,
muscle pain, weakness, tenderness, easy bruising or bleeding, swelling in the hands or feet, and rapid weight gain.

“Hey Frank,” Vic says. “Did you take this medication?”

Isaac lets out a snort and Frank silences him with a glare.

We spend the next fifteen minutes talking about other upcoming clinical trials and sharing information about which ones to volunteer for and which ones to avoid; then our food arrives and we all dig in. Even Frank, though he complains the whole time about how he was in the mood for a bacon cheeseburger.

While we’re eating lunch, a fat guy in a Hawaiian shirt who weighs at least two-eighty walks past us and sits down at a table with his buddy, who’s wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt and playing Laurel to the other one’s Hardy. The skinny one lets out a yawn that I catch, which prompts Frank to ask if I’m still having trouble sleeping.

“Not lately,” I say. “But I think I’ve figured out what was causing it.”

“Sorry to eat and run.” Blaine tosses his napkin on his plate and a twenty on the table. “I’ve got a two o’clock in the Bronx.”

“Is that the trial for the West Nile virus vaccine?” Charlie asks.

“Irritable bowel syndrome,” Blaine says.

“Well, I’m done.” Frank pushes the last of his vegetarian chili away.

I pick up Blaine’s twenty. “How much change you want?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Blaine flashes a smile and dual peace signs like Richard Nixon before he leaves, walking past the table where the obese guy in a Hawaiian shirt is ordering half the menu while his skinny companion sits slouched so far down in his chair it looks like he’s taking a nap.

And I decide that’s my cue.

“Anybody have anything weird happen to them lately?” I say.

“Weird?” Isaac asks. “What k-kind of weird?”

“The kind of weird that makes you wonder if there’s something going on that you don’t know about,” I say.

“I get that all the time,” Charlie says. “It’s called
women
.”

Randy claps Charlie on the shoulder. “I can help you with that.”

“When you say
weird
,” Vic says, “are you talking about with you or with other people?”

“A little of both,” I say.

“Does it have anything to do with body spasms or convulsions?” Charlie asks, running a hand through his disheveled red hair.

“No,” I say. “Why? Did something like that happen to you?”

Charlie looks around the table like he just farted and doesn’t want to own up to it. “Maybe.”

“Did you report it?” Frank asks.

Charlie shakes his head and Frank launches into lecture mode about personal responsibility and the Guinea Pig Code, which we’re all pretty sure is something Frank made up.

Isaac stares at me and cocks his head, as if waiting for me to continue.

Outside the restaurant, a homeless man starts shouting something about being impregnated by aliens and pounds on the window a couple of times before he runs off down the street.

Never a dull moment in Manhattan.

“Can we get back to Lloyd’s question about things being weird?” Vic says.

“Yeah.” Randy scratches at his chest, which is something he’s been doing a lot lately. “What do you mean by
weird
?”

I look around at everyone, then lower my voice and fess up, telling them everything about the girl on the Staten Island Ferry and the kid on the skateboard in Central Park.

“And they both passed out right after your lips went numb?” Vic asks. “At the same moment you yawned?”

I nod.

“Are you s-s-sure it wasn’t just a c-coincidence?” Isaac asks.

“I don’t think so,” I say. Then I tell them about the others I’ve made fall asleep over the past few days.

“That
is
weird,” Randy says.

Everyone looks around the table, but it seems like we’re all trying to avoid eye contact. Like we’re hiding something.

“Any of you feel nauseous?” Vic asks. “Not right now, but I mean in general?”

“No,” I say.

“Only when I’m forced to eat vegetarian food,” Frank says. “Or contemplate Blaine’s IBS study.”

Charlie and Isaac both shake their heads.

“I haven’t been feeling nauseous,” Randy says, scratching the back of his head. “But I
have
been getting these rashes.”

Frank, who is sitting next to Randy, scoots farther away.

The thought occurs to me that Randy might have had something to do with what happened to that punk on the subway a few weeks ago. I’m about to ask him when Vic leans forward so only we can hear him and says:

“I think I’m making other people throw up.”

Vic stands in line at the Deluxe Food Market, waiting to pay for three boxes of pork dumplings and a couple of steamed buns. As usual, the market is crowded with a mixture of young and old, Asian and Caucasian—with the Asians in the majority. Mandarin- and Cantonese-speaking voices dominate the conversation, a cacophony of
shee
s and
tong
s and
aiya
s, people shouting or talking loud, and everyone sounds angry. As far as Vic is concerned, Chinese people are always pissed off. They could be making dinner plans or discussing classical music and still sound like they’re about to beat the shit out of each other.

But in the Deluxe Food Market, getting angry is easy to understand.

Everywhere up and down the narrow aisles people elbow and shove their way between each other and cut in line, violating everyone else’s personal space with complete disregard. About every thirty seconds, one of the Chinese workers shouts out
Hello!
at anyone who isn’t paying attention, usually some white person who is so overwhelmed that they don’t know whether to laugh or run out the door screaming. Inevitably some douche bag tries to navigate his way down the aisles with one of those folding shopping carts, running into people’s knees or up the backs of everyone’s legs.

It’s barely controlled chaos, a banana republic teetering on the verge of anarchy, hot and humid and thick with the smell of greasy food and human perspiration. To quote Charlton Heston, it’s a madhouse. And to Vic, the place doesn’t smell a whole lot different than a holding cell for unwashed carcasses. But the prices are cheap and the food is worth fighting for, so long as you stay away from the deep-fried stuff.