The God Particle (18 page)

Meanwhile, Pamela Anderson goes on dating rock stars, and Paris Hilton is a celebrity for no good reason, and Larry’s boss e-mails Kelly Smith. And you just know she’s going to answer. You just know she’s going to write him back and say how
wonderful
it was to meet him on the plane and he is so
smart
and
handsome
and why don’t you drive over here to Dallas and have your way with me, you big stud?

And Larry gets Samantha Aizen, domineering female physicist.

Fucking Jillian. Why does he pin everything on her, anyway? It wasn’t she who caught him eating his boogers in fourth grade. She wasn’t the one who laughed at him or asked him what they tasted like. Not the one who laughed when he said butter. She’s not responsible for the smoldering front lines of puberty, for seventh grade, where other boys walked into the gym showers with hairy billy clubs and Larry held a towel in front of his two-inch pixie stick. Where boys kissed girls and felt their tits, and he jerked off to tattered, coverless copies of
Oui.
She
was
the one who wrote him the letter in high school, but not the one who called him FUCKFACE you didn’t say it HE did. C-ya!

He remembers his transformation in college, a change that seemed miraculous at the time. His body finally matured and he found reassuring confidence in alcohol. Somehow an entire cross section of women seemed undeniably approachable, and for the first time he could utter a few lines of bullshit to someone and find himself grabbing her tits in the front seat of his car. And grab Larry did, like a kid in the Willy Wonka Chocolate Factory.

Over time, though, Larry grew bored with his newfound success. The girls he hit on at these keg parties were average looking at best and downright dowdy at worst. He knew the alcohol was betraying him. He was settling for mediocrity when sexy sorority sisters paraded around campus in shorts and white tennis shoes and pink lipstick. There was no shortage of girls with slender arms, with smooth and shapely legs, with bodies toned by a lifetime of good nutrition and regular visits to the gym. And so he redefined his strategy. If alcohol-induced confidence worked on average-looking women, he didn’t see any reason why he couldn’t apply similar logic to the cream of the college crop. The starlets.

But, predictably, his capacity to approach a dazzling starlet and her willingness to acknowledge his presence were not related in any way. He was told to buzz off, he was laughed at, he was ignored completely. It became clear to him that adults were no different from children. Jillians were everywhere. It would be that way forever. Until Carrie. Carrie with the wavy blond hair, Carrie who genuinely smiled. Who was pouring a beer when the keg ran out and didn’t know how to change the tap. So Larry did it and spilled some beer on himself and they had a laugh. When she tried to walk away he asked for her number, and she looked at him with wide, surprised eyes. But she stopped. They talked a little more. He wrote down her number on the palm of his hand.

And then he made the mistake of bringing her to his apartment that night. Made the mistake of introducing her to Mike.

Back to dowdy women for Larry.

One could make the argument that he should be happy. That Carrie is ancient history, that Mike has spent his life since college apologizing. That Larry holds an important position at the top high-energy physics lab in the world and is well known in the Olney community. Occasionally he’s even able to cast his spell upon a fallen starlet from Wichita Falls, invariably a divorced or bar-worn former beauty queen looking (finally) for love and financial stability in lieu of muscles and height. But these women—whose untouchable magnificence at the age of twenty-two had been his holy grail—bore him now. They are vacuous and selfish and angry. He hates them as individuals and collectively. And so he is thirty-six and single and lonely, an intelligent man with so much love to give, so much to share, but unrecognized as such by any worthy woman. None since Carrie.

Which means he is left to pine for celebrities, Jillian-perfect women who occupy the culturally elitist and virtually identical social stratum refused to him in high school—pretty, popular girls who date only the richest and most popular men. He visits them on the Internet, reads about them in
People
and
Us Weekly,
watches them in movies and situation comedies and on CNN. And now he watches them on the local news. He imagines himself accidentally bumping into Kelly Smith in the supermarket, has even considered driving all the way to Dallas to shop at the Target Super Center near her house, guessing that Kelly must need paper plates and dish soap and shampoo like everyone else, like
Us.
For such encounters he has memorized a fleet of opening lines, has anticipated an intricate array of her possible responses, and now considers himself ready to prove his worthiness should such an encounter actually transpire.

But really it’s all for naught because of Mike McNair, who somehow stepped in front of him again, who has somehow managed to steal from him one more time. Because the more he thinks about it, the more Larry remembers that he has been in love with Kelly for months. Why else would he have reworked his satellite dish? And it’s obvious now that he should never have told Mike about that. Admitting to Mike that he watches Kelly every night on the news is the same as bringing her home to meet him. Because Mike could have reworked his own satellite dish. He could have fallen in love with her just as Larry did, could have used the Grid to hack into Travelocity and look up her address and travel arrangements, could have bought himself that seat next to her on the plane. He could have prayed that she would fall in love with him. He could have prayed to her. He could have written her an e-mail message. He did write her an e-mail message.

So did Larry.

He puts down the magazine. Ambles into his study. The monitor winks to life as he grabs the mouse, and soon he is staring at the anonymous Yahoo! e-mail in-box he created for just this purpose. He’s going to send her another message. Get down on his knees and pray to her. But he doesn’t remember what he wrote last time, so he opens the
SENT
folder and finds it:

My darling Kelly,

Do you know how truly beautiful you are, how incredibly sexy you are? When you come on the television at six and ten I cannot do anything but watch you and think about you and think how crazy those guys on the set must be to sit right next to you and not be able to kiss you . . .

He reads all the way to the end, where his eyes widen, and this is why it’s a good idea to read again what he wrote last time. Because he doesn’t remember what he wrote last time.

ONE OF ITS HEADS SEEMED TO HAVE A MORTAL WOUND AND THE WHOLE WORLD WORSHIPPED THE BEAST AND IT WAS ALLOWED TO RULE FOR 42 MONTHS AND MAKE WAR ON THE SAINTS. AND THEN I SAW A NEW HEAVEN AND A NEW EARTH AND BEHOLD> BEHOLD>>>BEHOLD? AND THE TIME IS NEAR BEHOLD I AM COMING SOON I AM the ALPHA the OMEGA the FRIST and the LAST the BEGINNING and the END. Amen.

What are you going to do?

GOD IS GOD.

Okay. That sounds crazy. It sounds like a crazy person wrote that message. Larry isn’t crazy.

Loneliness isn’t craziness.

He goes into the kitchen and pours himself another Crown and Coke. Sucks it down and pours another. Double shot.

Back to the computer. Distracts himself from that scary e-mail by browsing around the Internet and its endless catalog of images. Its two-dimensional dreams. Sparkling smiles. Shadowy cleavage. Red carpet dresses. Silk and diamonds and shiny hair. He finds a high-resolution image and opens it in Photoshop. Zooms in until the image of her fills his screen.

He needs music for this. With his mouse he calls up something from his trance library, heavy and methodical. Settles into his chair. Extends his legs to their full length. Relaxes his posture and slows his breathing. Gazes over her perfect skin, the female shape of her, the abyss of her eyes.

He reaches for himself. Succumbs to the darkness.

A smile spreads like oil across his face.

1

Steve fidgets as he waits. The dizziness in his head is connected somehow to the swirling silence of the field, and the best way he’s found to maintain his tenuous hold on sanity is to find ideas and situations to occupy his mind. Try to find out what is real and what is not. So he looks around the room, looking for anything, praying for some kind of help before the field swallows him whole.

The walls might be paneled in oak, the floors could be covered with spongy gray carpet. He is definitely the only waiting patient. The receptionist’s painted red fingernails click sharply on the keyboard, and occasionally she looks up and smiles at him. Steve smiles back, reassurance that his abnormality will not get the better of him here, that the peaceful environment of this office is dutifully performing its purpose.

It’s been a week since his breakdown. Seven days since he walked away from his interview and out of AE’s offices forever. Oh, they would probably take him back if he wanted, offer company-paid counseling and less-demanding work while he struggled to regain form. But the VP job is gone, and without a forward-moving career path, Steve has no desire to continue his employment at Automotive Excellence.

He doesn’t clearly remember what drove him to walk out or what ground he covered after departing the office on foot. Dreams—hallucinations—have plagued him night and day, especially at night, and he debated for several hundred continuous hours before deciding that he was not being followed after all. Certainly it’s ludicrous to believe, even for a moment, that he is somehow part of a conspiracy involving a Russian prostitute, an evil Swiss doctor, and the nurse who let him in on the secret by going out of her way to provide false information.

But to ensure he is applying reasonable logic to the reality of Svetlana’s death and the absence of his medical records from Zurich, Steve has made an appointment with this psychiatrist. He remembered her name—Dr. Shelly Taylor—from some long-ago conversation with a golf buddy, and now sits here awaiting his turn to unload problems on her.

Steve would still like to contact Dobbelfeld. He is a little surprised, in fact, that he hasn’t heard from the man. But considering the nature of his delusion, the conspiracy and Dobbelfeld’s conceivable role within it, it seems reasonable that Steve should first solicit the opinion of a third party. If Dr. Taylor listens to his story and agrees that his fall and Svetlana’s are mere coincidence, that the nurse’s misdirected assertions are unrelated, then he will hand over Dobbelfeld’s card and ask her to contact him.

“Mr. Keeley?”

Steve looks up at the receptionist. He wants to ask about the new man in her life, the one she talked to on the phone for nine hours last night, but this would probably frighten her since she hasn’t told anyone about him yet.

“Dr. Taylor will see you now.”

“Thank you,” he says. The door is on his right, beside the chair. He carefully opens it and steps into a room of similar décor, identical carpet and wall paneling. Also a couple of overstuffed leather chairs, a larger desk, and the obligatory sofa. Dr. Taylor, sitting behind her desk, rises to greet him.

“Hello, Mr. Keeley.” She is vaguely attractive, a little severe, and he knows she struggles with her bisexuality. She gestures in the general direction of the sofa and chairs. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

“Do I lie down? Or sit?”

“Whichever you like. My chair is the one nearest you. You may sit and face me or use the sofa. Your choice.”

The field seems more manageable when he is at rest, so Steve decides on the sofa. Dr. Taylor approaches from the desk and takes her seat beside him.

“I have a little background information,” she says. “But why don’t you go ahead and explain why you chose to come see me.”

“Where would you like me to start?”

“Start from the beginning as you see it. I’ll ask if I think I need more information.”

The beginning. Does she mean of the observable universe or sentient life or his earliest memory? No, she means the beginning of these delusions. This story.

“I guess the beginning is that I suffered serious brain trauma after surviving a fall from three stories up. I was in Zurich. I was taken to a hospital there, where a doctor performed emergency brain surgery. I was in a coma for four days. And since awakening I have spent an inordinate amount of time fighting off hallucinations.”

“Have you contacted the surgeon in Zurich about these hallucinations? Or your local physician?”

“No,” Steve says. “That’s part of why I’m here. These hallucinations, delusions, whatever, involve Dr. Dobbelfeld. And to be honest I don’t think my HMO doctor will be able to help me.”

“Why don’t you go into more detail about the hallucinations so I can better understand why you desire the opinion of a third party?”

During the next ten minutes, Steve tries to relate his story in a logical and organized manner. He begins with Janine’s phone call, his visit to Cabaret, the bouncer, the fall. He explains the initial, potent belief that he could levitate and tries his best to describe the field, the presence, its infinite entirety. He describes how the nurse seemed to go out of her way to lie to him about the ring, reveals the odd nature of Svetlana’s death and her visits to him, how he has felt watched and followed since arriving in Los Angeles. That he seemed to read thoughts from Serena’s head. That after abandoning his job at AE he was certain he could detect, through some mechanism in the field, pursuit by men from Zurich.

“Now I know,” he concludes, “that much of what I have just described to you results from hallucination. I recognize that and accept it. What I find difficult to reconcile are four distinct facts: that Svetlana died the night I met her, that her accident was remarkably similar to mine, that the nurse lied, and that my company could find no record of my stay in a Zurich hospital.”

In Dr. Taylor’s silence, Steve reads no judgment whatsoever.

“First,” she says, “allow me to distill your concerns into two salient points: One, you believe yourself to be experiencing certain hallucinations that have manifested themselves as an ability to sense an invisible field, a force that seems to bind the world—the universe—together.”

Steve smiles. “It sounds like
Star Wars
when you describe it like that.”

“Yes, it does. And two, because of the odd circumstances surrounding Svetlana’s death—that, and the lack of proof that you were ever in a Zurich hospital—you’ve considered the possibility that you are involved in some kind of foul play.”

“That’s pretty close,” Steve says. “But don’t forget the nurse.”

“Right. The nurse.”

And then silence again. Fleeting, atmospheric sensations of the doctor’s girlfriend, how kissing her is more tender than kissing even the most sensitive man, how they spend hours exploring nothing more than the elemental planes of each other’s lips.

“Can you describe to me in more detail how this field manifests itself?”

“Well, I first thought there was the one field, which permeated everything. But now it seems like there are lots of fields. Some are conductors and some are just . . . stuff.”

“And you thought, in Zurich, that it might be possible to alter . . . reality, I guess . . . so that you could levitate?”

“That’s close enough. But I guess it isn’t a purely physical thing, because I also thought I was sensing Serena’s thoughts.”

“Well, considering her brain generates electrical impulses that are certainly detectable—we do it every day with EEG—your hallucinations are at least consistent. If you can affect these conductors to counteract the force of gravity, why couldn’t you also use them to detect electromagnetic waves? Conceivably, you could ‘see’ in ways not limited to the visible light portion of the electromagnetic spectrum.”

Steve searches for traces of irony in her voice and, amazingly, detects none.

“In fact, that you could sense Serena’s thoughts and not be able to levitate also makes sense. Sensing waves and energy would be, by many orders of magnitude, easier than manipulating them.”

“Why does it matter, though? If I’m just hallucinating everything?”

“Because a good understanding of the delusional architecture might lead us closer to the source of your problem.”

“Okay,” Steve says.

“Let me ask you something. This might offend you, but we at least need to consider all possibilities.”

“Shoot.”

“Obviously it appears you have sustained a head injury of some kind. The bandage and shaved head are a dead giveaway. But can you demonstrate proof that this injury occurred in the way you described? For instance, can you say for sure that you were actually in Zurich?”

“Sure. My parents came to the hospital to see me. They flew back to the States with me a little more than a week ago.”

“What about the fall? Have you spoken to someone who actually saw that occur?”

“No,” Steve admits. “The man who pushed me was never found. No witnesses were. And Svetlana is dead.”

“After all,” Dr. Taylor says, “it’s remarkable that you survived such a fall, especially with nothing more than head trauma.”

“I know. But why would the doctor in Zurich believe it then? Surely he would have been able to tell the difference between an ordinary head injury and one so severe.”

“Good point,” Dr. Taylor says. “Especially considering your parents were there, and conceivably heard everything the doctor said.”

“Right.”

“But you must see my point. That since you have experienced a nearly constant hallucination since returning from Zurich, until I speak to your parents or Dr. Dobbelfeld, I, as your doctor, cannot be sure that anything you have experienced during that time is real.”

“I see your point, yes.”

“For the moment, however, it appears that you are able to distinguish between your hallucinations and reality. Can you give me any good reason why Svetlana’s death and your misfortune in Zurich might be part of a conspiracy?”

“Not really,” Steve says. “I fell out a window, the ambulance came to pick me up, and a Swiss doctor saved my life, right? Except I wouldn’t have gone out the window if it hadn’t been for that bouncer. I know they’re supposed to be aggressive, not take any shit from customers, but I was just lying there, passed out. And then Svetlana falls to her death, and the business closes down, and the nurse lies to me. No hospital records. Strange hallucinations. What am I supposed to make of all this?”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Taylor says.

“I’ll tell you what
I
know: A woman is dead. You can call this Baltensperger and ask him yourself. He thinks I was the last person to see her alive.”

For a long time Dr. Taylor says nothing. So long, in fact, that Steve begins to wonder if she has simply vanished, evaporated into the field the way Svetlana did after her two ethereal appearances.

“Let’s talk a little about Svetlana and the way she has appeared to you in dreams,” Dr. Taylor says.

“Okay.”

“The first time she came to you, she expressed regret and explained that she had found a new job. The second time she again said she was sorry, and also told you she was there if you needed her. Does this make you think of anything?”

“That she’s trying to help me? Protect me from something?”

“It makes me think of a guardian angel,” Dr. Taylor says. “We haven’t talked much yet about the ‘presence,’ the metaphysical, sentient consciousness that seems to follow you everywhere. To be honest, it sounds to me as if you’re looking, subconsciously, for God. And your first, tenuous steps toward finding Him are through Svetlana, who is dead. Who, you could postulate, was partially responsible for your fall from the window, since she may have summoned the bouncer. So perhaps now she has been given the job as your guardian angel.”

“I should probably tell you that I’m not religious, Dr. Taylor.”

“All the more reason for you to be searching for some sort of guidance. Especially after suffering the emotional trauma of Janine’s betrayal and the physical trauma of your head injury.”

Steve has to admit that such a thing never occurred to him.

“In fact, the field doesn’t have to be separate from the presence. It could just be the medium in which the presence—in this case, God—moves and operates.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Let’s agree, for the sake of argument, that I’m looking for God. What do I do now? Because to be honest, I don’t expect to find Him any time soon.”

“That’s hard to say. If your problem is purely psychological, then a series of sessions with me could help you. But considering you never experienced anything like this before the injury, I’m inclined to believe that your problem is physiological.

“Some studies of the brain have linked an area of the parietal lobe to intense religious experience and the sense of self. If a neurologist ran tests on you and determined that this area of your brain exhibited irregular blood flow and electrochemical activity, that might explain your problem. Perhaps there are surgical procedures that could help you. I don’t know.”

Steve allows a moment to pass while he digests this.

“What have you been doing since Tuesday, when you walked out of the office?”