Some Assembly Required Read online

  First published by Roundfire Books, 2017

  Roundfire Books is an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd., Laurel House, Station Approach, Alresford, Hants, SO24 9JH, UK

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  Text copyright: Michael Strelow 2016

  ISBN: 978 1 78535 627 8

  978 1 78535 628 5 (ebook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016958229

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publishers.

  The rights of Michael Strelow as author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY, UK

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  Chapter I

  Of all the things you can imagine in the world—there are even more.

  First let me tell you about the voices—no, the storm outside. No, the voices first. In some ways, the same things. The storm is full of voices; the voices full of storms. But that’s way ahead of myself.

  My voices have always pointed out the world to me. They never told me to do things—good things or bad things. No fiend in my ear with an evil agenda and no religious ecstasy with the privilege of God’s command. A voice would say, “Watch what the sun does just as it disappears over the horizon.” Or, it would point out the river surface, how it rippled up the poplars and broke the greens and yellows into shards. The voices sometimes (my personal favorite) out of a quotidian silence would suddenly just say, “Jake.” Maybe they were only fooling around. Turns out there’s a lot of only fooling around that goes on in the world.

  But a voice would do that. And then nothing. Never did it say to kill so-and-so or drown puppies or let the air out of the neighbor’s tires. Never. As complicated as the voices ever got, before Rex that is, was blathering to me about the violet color necessary to paint that cloud-gray color on a fall afternoon. The voices came out of what I was thinking, it seemed, but not part of the thinking, just invited by the thinking. They were clear and separate and suddenly there like a voiceover, like sudden attention. Blah, blah, blah. They said, blah, blah, blah.

  And I always respected the blah. At first I didn’t know any better. I don’t really remember how it came up, but I must have been about five or six. I mentioned the voices to an adult (I figured everybody had them), and suddenly there was a shit storm around me that included my teacher, some professional counselor at the school, my parents and even the interrogation of my friends. “Those voices,” they’d ask me, “do they ever … you know … ask you to … want you to DO anything? Do you want to hurt yourself?” Finally, I convinced everyone that the voices just went away. They just stopped I guess, I told them. Maybe there weren’t really any voices after all, I said; I might have just been talking to myself. Everybody talks to themselves, don’t they? “And how are we today?” the counselor was fond of greeting me. “I’m fine,” I replied with singular emphasis. “I’m just fine.” I had realized at this young age that not everyone heard the voices. And it also became clear that my job as a young man would be to figure out just what part of my world I shared with everyone else, what parts were mine alone.

  This voices business. I learned later, of course, that this is a very old epistemological problem: what is there we can know? And how do we know it? It’s the next questions, though, that grabbed me by the ass very early on, earlier than if I had had no voices, I think. Who else knows what we know? And all the corollaries: who else knows stuff we can never know? That one has kept a circus of philosophers very busy. I think philosophers come in the quantity of one circus, two circuses, three or more circuses. The voices, I now believe, made me a philosopher at a very young age. I learned to be discursive. All adults questioning me about the voices gave me a chance to try out my interrogation judo. Whatever anyone was looking for, they would not find. Looking for voices? Find no voices. Looking for how that makes me feel? Find I don’t own that feeling at all. Look for a troubled young man? You must find a young man of great joy and good humor. This strategy worked for a while only. I made it through my twenties using this judo. But the coming of Rex blew up the whole counterpunching enterprise.

  But for a while the dodging was lots of fun. Almost everyone in the shit storm I unleashed on myself by first copping to the voices was earnest … and thoughtful … and solicitous … and, finally, in my humble opinion, for some reason shallow and silly. It seemed I had somehow collected all the soft-brains in my locale and called them down on my poor self. Voices? I should say not! Voices? You should also say not. Just own the fuckers and get on with your life. They’re just extra wiring, I came to think. I got a little bonus in the neuron tangle that makes it seem like someone’s jabbering at me. Big deal. In the wild, I probably would have been a shaman and claimed all kinds of god-contact. Later, I found one investigator of consciousness, Julian Jaynes, who claimed that 3,000 years ago everyone heard voices. Before the development of what he calls the modern mind, all of us wandered around hearing voices, having visions and waking dreams. And now there are organizations like Hearing Voices Network (HVN) and Intervoice, the international equivalent (big convention of hearers in Paris this year), organizations for all the people who hear voices that aren’t mental illness.

  Powerful shit in the wild, those voices. In the second grade, not so much. So I dodged—fake left, go right.

  And so, I was … just fine. As long as, I had learned well, I never mentioned the voices again, nor any of that business, as Macbeth’s witches say, “by the prickling of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.” Marnie and I had been together for three years before I opened the subject. I thought I’d start out from pretty far away and test the water.

  “I read today that St. Thomas Aquinas had ten proofs of the existence of God. And one of them was hearing voices in our heads, you know, the way we talk to ourselves. He figured that we were made essentially double—God and ourselves in one package. And the talking to ourselves part … that was God keeping channels open or something like that.” Insert pause here. Thumb magazine. “So do you ever, you know, hear voices?”

  I was, of course, just making shit up. Aquinas had five ways, not ten. He never really mentioned voices. But he could have, given the nature of the five ways that prove God’s existence.

  “Yes,” she said, fully aware that I made shit up. “And they keep telling me to murder you in your sleep.” Casually then. “But I never do, do I?”

  Marnie was as funny as she was beautiful. She knew funny. Good thing, too. It would prove to be essential to everything. Without funny, many mistakes would have been made, many unnecessary mistakes regarding Rex. Many things would have gone terribly wrong—or at least wrong-er. She sat on the couch looking over at me as if the topic of murdering me in my sleep were closed. Over and done. Not so fast. She pulled back her beautiful dark hair. I know for a fact she never used conditioner. And still it shone.

  “Yeah, but …” I continued. “But do they tell you how you should do it, the murder? Like what to use, what to do with the body afterward? Do they—are there more than one?—do they want any kind of ritual with it? And garbage disposals? Any mention of … ?” Flashback to my you
thful voices interrogation. I laugh now, but in those days my voices seemed to be on the mind of every adult around me. It was as if they got together each day and contrived to make a group effort to root out my irregularity and interrogate it out of existence. Those solicitous wide eyes as they waited for reports on my voices, the hand patting my arm, rubbing my shoulder in sympathy—I wanted to scream: NO VOICES NOW. BIG FUCKING MISTAKE TELLING YOU IN THE FIRST PLACE! LEAVE ME ALONE. But, of course, I would never. I laugh now about the “middle way” claimed by the Buddha, my inner Buddha. All that excess and ado and bad proportion that the middle way would mitigate, all the jackass moves and thoughtless shooting from the hip I could have avoided if I’d really made my voices go hide out in a cave. Not so easy a thing, it turns out. Rex, the voice of thunder, my Loki and coyote trickster there sitting on my shoulder though I could deny and deny and deny.

  Marnie, dipped in droll, went on. “Not garbage disposals. Not exactly anyway.” She had one leg folded up under herself, one sock on the coffee table. And that’s how she always pulled it off. Casual elegance while intoning the most thoroughly outrageous twaddle thrilling my inner twelve-year-old that shared space with my inner Buddha. She said, “They’re kind of foggy about the details, but there’s some kind of grinder thing involved or maybe an ore crusher of some kind. Anyway, a big sucker. More like a big blender maybe, but I’ve never seen a blender this size. And the way they want me to hack off … well, I’ve said too much already. I really don’t listen to them, like I said.”

  And she went back to her magazine. It was fully two minutes before the smirk let me know how pleased she was with herself.

  “Remind me not to play poker with you,” I said. And the subject was closed. Temporarily, as it turned out.

  Marnie was a lady but not so much that she couldn’t pull off the murder-you-while-you-sleep thing. That was one of the cool parts of the whole package. Whatever appeared in her right hand would have its balance appear in her left. All her yin worked a little yang too. She did things with her hair as she read as if she were inventing a hairdo to go with the text; she twisted and coiffed and plumped with her free hand. Turn the page, then twiddle and flick and pull hair away from her head. I watched her and thought she might be trying out antenna formulae. The poet Theodore Roethke had a poem about a woman “lovely in her bones.” Marnie was lovely in her kinetic reading habits, in her soft and delicious ironies.

  So I made an early deal with the voices: aural hallucinations, spooky connections, spirits in the crystal spheres. Bad wiring correctible by a cocktail of chemicals right off a shrink’s pharmacology pad. We can fix you, Big Pharm says. Whatdya need? A tweak here, a pat there? Or we’ve got the full chem-deal that will oust that tired, old, raggedy self and that crabby anxiety and give you a brand-spanking new You. Take it for a test drive? I picture those adults from my childhood with one hand behind the back crammed with pharmaceuticals for me, to smooth me out and return me to the herd.

  I thanked my genetic stars that I got a set of amusing, even soothing, voices. I knew, after a little research, that there were much worse versions: anxious, screeching, do-bad-shit voices. But mine, they seemed interested in the world and, well … self-contained. As if they only needed me like a hired limousine to carry them around while they had a good time hooting out the sunroof. The one I came to like best (who must have thought it was just a funny thing to do) was the one who just said my name out startlingly loud and clear. Just once, like tapping me on the shoulder and then not being there when I turn around. Very funny. Like a lot of funny, repetition was apparently the key to hilarity. And as far as I could tell, maybe they were all the same voice, just saying different things. But the clearest one, the one I didn’t need to double-take on to understand, that was the one that just said, “Jake.” I should have given him a name, just to tame him. But I didn’t. Alas, Rex was already taken.

  When you’re a kid you want to be like all the other kids. So the voices got stuffed. But afterward, in my early thirties especially, I thought of the voices like owning up to a quirk that might become sort of charming in the longer run. You know, like a funny way of sneezing that everyone seems to like. Or a chuckle that always catches other people off guard and makes them laugh about your laugh. And anyway, the voices weren’t going away apparently, so I thought Marnie would be a good place to try out their charms.

  I still didn’t tell anyone—well, just her—about the voices. The shit storm was still too clearly painful. The dodged shit storm—that’s how I saw it. No voices, really, I told them in second grade. Just must have been listening to myself blither. Or is that blather? But the voices, like The Dude, abide, and abide in a kind of negotiated détente. That is, any momentous slipup and I’d be surrounded by wide-eyed solicitous people meaning well but hovering over me with a handful of pharmacology to save me from myself. Talk about your sword of Damocles hanging by one horsehair. But that’s ground already covered. Just wanted to be clear.

  I make my living in the world of science. I think of myself as an interpreter who listens to the palaver of the assembled group of scientists who speak Science, and then I turn to the puzzled hoard of magazine buyers, and I render the science into foundational English, maybe with a cute metaphor, a diagram, a piping of my own flute. Not so different, really, from hearing voices and reporting the results to the world. What writers do. Probably how I was attracted to the science-go-between job; I was already there. So this job is what took me to Doctor of Philosophy, Ph of D, Alfred Sewall. Call me Al. Call me Fred.

  The storm, threatening all morning, broke out in a gentle rain after all those apocalyptic clouds, that cumulonimbus bluster and posturing. It hissed on the rooftop, clattered in the downspout, rattled the trees into joyful dances, and smelled of ancient and perfect geometry of God’s hair.

  Of course, there were voices in the rain as there are in rivers and wind, but not my voices.

  I went, at my editor’s urging, to the academic conference on biogenetics, and because of the amplification system I could understand only some from the first speaker, just patches from the second. And the third, Alfred Sewall, a short man in a frumpy gray suit, didn’t even bother to speak into the microphone. He read his paper in a monotone, like a funeral oration.

  The difficulty wasn’t because the material was too technical for me. I had done my homework as soon as my editor sent me to cover the business end of the conference. I had been doing science reporting long enough to know my alleles from my genotypes. The reason I could understand so little of the third speaker was a combination of bad P.A. system, hall acoustics like a grade-school gym and the speaker’s complete disregard for the dynamic range of the twenty-buck mike there waving over his head as he putzed through his paper. He looked like he was ready to flee or fade away below the podium.

  I had a sensitive little tape recorder that I could turn up to get the gist of what the guy said, so I just flipped it on and let it do the listening while I played games with the fragments quacking out over the speaker system—weird analogs to my own voices and their diffident comings and goings.

  I got “intelligent strings,” and that turned into cat’s cradle in my idling mind. Then I heard (I think) “low-volt engine” and “crude encryption.” I went with the crude in crude encryption and my notes wandered off into sexy anime and then visions of the girl with one eye and the tank top in “Futurama.” Every time I write, I get the ADHD collywobbles in which I consider all sides of all words and fly off to what I began to call association picnics. Bingo, bango, bongo. And I’m off. Only the last D, the disorder part, I’ve never acknowledged. I don’t know how other writers do it, but attention deficit is actually how I write: this brings up that, these words uncover those until I’m in the word stream and getting shit done. All stories are connected by roots; they tangle into each other like Darwin’s metaphor of the tangled bank of nature in which all things are part of each other. Stories to me are made by simply lopping off one part from all the others
, the great continuum where all tales reside, and giving it a title. And, yes, I also see the pitfalls in that. When the whole brain-babbling runs together with getting along every day, it is important to check the faces around you for puzzled looks. And then make corrections back toward some kind of negotiable reality. Say, “Hi there. How are the kids?” Check for small cracks in life and repair them early. That should be written on a T-shirt somewhere.

  So the gray little guy, Professor Alfred Sewall, mumbles on while I play, and the audience begins to wander off to pee (I suppose) and even start conversations with the people next to them. I guess nobody can really hear, and Dr. S doesn’t seem interested in getting the mic near his face. Mercifully, he brings it to an end after about twenty minutes, there’s polite applause, and a general fiddling with papers as always happens at these events. I have written down the fragments of what I heard, drawn a pretty good version of the girl with one eye and made a grocery list in my notebook. Dr. S, Dr. Seuss. I have a fair rendering of a Lorax drawn peering at fragments: “super points,” “compression technology,” “a biological brewery” and “social engineering.” Turned out these smatterings would assemble themselves very soon like sentences trying on suits of different grammars.

  Dr. S is gone immediately. That evening I do my recording-device magic and reconstitute the doctor’s speech and make plans to find him in the morning as soon as I can to ask him questions. He said, essentially, that he could, someone could, break down an animal into its component chemistry and register that recipe into zeroes and ones and then compress the whole set of instructions into storage and then later bring out (hash functions) the recipe and reassemble the critter. Cold storage? Cryogenics? Please! All we’d have to do is take someone apart, record the particulars of his or her unique set of algorithms and then wait until we wanted it back together again. Number ghosts. Songs in the wires.