Not All There

This one is an original short story, the idea for which came to me sometime after midnight the other night. I felt compelled to write a character who is the sort of person I would never want to hang out with, and by God, I think I have succeeded in that.

Note: This story contains strong language and mature themes, as well as subject matter which some readers may find disturbing. (Author rating: R) For a list of possible triggers, please refer to the tags at the bottom.

“Oh, fuck, that hits smooth. Hardly any drip at all. Where’d you get it?”

She’s goddamn gorgeous. Clear complexion, healthy figure, not too skinny. Probably does hot yoga, or pure barre, or something. Definitely does squats. Looks like she has her shit together. Hard to believe she accepts drugs from strangers often. Maybe she’s pining for her sorority days? Or, more likely, she’s into me, and that’s screwing with her better judgement.

“Thanks, It’s my own private reserve.”

“Wait, so are you, like, a drug dealer or...?”

She gets real quiet towards the end of the question, almost whispering, as if she’s suddenly worried someone is going to hear her over the thumping bass in the next room and call the cops. It’s kind of adorable. She definitely doesn’t do this sort of thing often.

“I’m a PhD candidate at Berkeley, actually. Biochem.”

I flash her a practiced smile, 

“but yeah, I’ve occasionally sold drugs. Not these, though.”

“Well if you did, you’d be loaded, because ho-ly-fuuuuuuck, this shit is fire.”

I usually think it’s unattractive when girls swear, but I’m willing to let it slide. She’s paying me a compliment after all, and her awkward attempt to impersonate a druggie chick is flattering. She’s putting on a show for me, giving me what she thinks I want from her. She’s definitely into me.

“What makes you think I’m not loaded?”

“The way you’re dressed, for starters. Plus, you’re drinking well whiskey, and you cut the lines with a library card. I’ve dated plenty of Tesla owners, and you strike me as more of a ‘BART and bike’ kind of guy. No offence.”

I’m not offended. I know exactly how I come off, I spend a lot of time cultivating my neo-bohemian aesthetic. If you’re looking to screw democratic-socialist Berkley girls, you can’t read venture capitalist, even if you look damn good in a tailored suit. Besides, I know it’s just the drugs talking.

“You saying rich dudes don’t go to the library?”

“Fuck no, man, rich dudes don’t borrow, and they don’t read, they listen to podcasts.”

Fair point. I don’t go to the public library either, and the university library is mostly digital these days. The card’s just a prop.

“Alright, you caught me, I’m broke as shit. Still paying off my student loans from my last degree.”

Actually, I went to grad school on a full-ride scholarship, but I get the sense that she would prefer if I was broke. A sexy, struggling erudite, selling drugs to pay for school. An intellectual bad boy who doesn’t take himself too seriously. I’m going home with her for sure.

“That’s real. Our university system is fucked, it shouldn’t cost $60,000 a year for a bachelor’s degree when you need a Master’s at least to get a halfway decent job in this economy.”

“You said you were a psych major, yeah?”

Stimulants like these have a tendency to make people rant, and I’m not in the mood for politics.

“Organizational psych. I do freelance consulting. It’s boring as hell, but it pays for my apartment in Elmwood. Therapists don’t make shit for the first 5 years or so.”

“You ever take any psychopharmacology courses?”

“Ummm, yeah, I did, junior year I think. Super interesting stuff. Doesn’t it trip you out how everything we enjoy is basically just dopamine and serotonin?”

Well, and a few other chemicals too, norepinephrine, opioid neuropeptides, glutamate...no wonder she decided to go with org. psych. It’s amazing how many psychology majors don’t bother to learn their neurochemistry. 

“Totally, that’s what drew me to biochem in the first place. My focus is on psychopharma. Speaking of which, you want another?”

I gesture toward the compact mirror and rolled up 20 sitting on the booth next to me. She nods, trying to play it cool. She’s self-conscious. Doesn’t want to be perceived as too eager, but I know she wants more. They always do. I pour some out of my little blue baggie and separate it into two lines. I offer her the first one, but she refuses, just like before, telling me I should go first since it’s my stuff. Probably to make sure I’m not dosing her with something I wouldn’t ingest myself. I don’t take it personally. Can’t be too careful. 

We both do our lines, and just as the crystalline powder hits my sinuses, I get the urge to ask her. She took psychopharm, she might remember reading about him... No, I shouldn’t ask, I’m too keyed up, and what’s the fucking point, anyway? What am I going to prove? I tell myself not to do it, not to blow it like the last time, but I don’t know, maybe she’ll be impressed.

“You remember hearing the name Dr. Jorn Peerson come up in any of your classes?”

She narrows her eyes a bit.

“Hmm, definitely rings a bell…”

“No, you’re thinking of Pavlov, he’s the bell-ringer.”

She hits me on the arm, playfully. A little harder than she meant to, probably, but it doesn’t hurt.

“Ha Ha, very funny. But no, I do remember that name, Peerson. He’s more recent. Didn’t he discover some, like, breakthrough treatment a few years back? For Alzheimers, or something?”

My pulse is rising, which could be a side effect of the substance coursing through my bloodstream, except for it isn’t. It’s contempt, and now I’ll have to fight to keep it off my face, out of my voice. I knew I shouldn’t have asked.

“Well, sort of, but yeah, that’s the guy. He was my professor at Johns Hopkins, he oversaw my master’s research.”

“Wow, that’s cool. He’s like a pretty big deal, huh?”

“He was nominated for a ton of awards in biomedicine, including the Lasker, so yeah, you might say that.”

You might also say he’s a pretty big fucking fraud, and a steaming pile of dog shit shaped like a human being, but it probably wouldn’t get you any closer to seeing this girl’s apartment in Elmwood if you did. Especially if you told her the rest of the story.

“Oh, impressive. Remind me what he did again?”

“He and his team discovered a drug that induces temporary dementia, which allowed us to better study it and develop novel treatments. With the new inhibitors, if we catch it early enough, we can delay the worst of the symptoms by 15-20 years.”

That is assuming that grandma can afford the $50k/year price tag. Most of the patients diagnosed today will probably expire before the patent does. 

“Damn, that’s actually really dope. My freshman year roommate’s mom died of Alzheimers. It’s a scary disease. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

“Really? Not anyone? I could think of a few people who deserve it.”

“Okay, like, maybe someone truly evil, like someone who murders your family, or who commits crimes against humanity, like those warlords in Africa who recruit child soldiers.”

Really, she can’t get any more specific than “Africa”? Not as woke as I would have expected for a Berkley girl.

“It might be kind of a waste though. Eventually they would lose the memories of all the atrocities, all the terrible things they’ve done, and get to live out their final days guilt free.”

“Oh yeah, I didn’t think of that.” 

“Sort of defeats the purpose if you’re looking for karmic retribution.”

If you ask me, it’s better to keep them semi-cognizant. Let them have moments of lucidity from time to time, just enough so that they’re aware of what’s happening to them.

“Mhm. So, what did you do your master’s thesis on?”

She looks uncomfortable. She’s trying to change the subject. I should just be vague and look for an excuse to walk this back to something more lighthearted. I need to calm down. I knock back the rest of my drink.

“Nah, you don’t want to hear about that. It’s...complicated stuff.”

“Oh, I see, you don’t think I’m smart enough to understand, is that it?”

I think she’s joking for a moment, but she looks genuinely pissed. I’m kicking myself for not being more careful with my choice of words. Of course she's sensitive to perceived insults to her intelligence. She’s educated, but she’s hot, and men probably tend to assume that’s all she is, at first glance. I should have known better.

“No, no it’s not that at all. It’s just, not that interesting, you know, to most people.”

“What makes you think I’m ‘most people’? I went to Stanford, dude. Not that you asked. And besides, you’re the one that brought it up. Did you just want to brag that you studied under someone sort-of famous?”

I have to take a different approach if I’m going to salvage this. She’s a psych major, she might respond well to a show of vulnerability. It’s a gamble, though. Some women are turned off by that sort of thing, but I’m losing her fast.

“To be honest, yeah, I...I don’t know, I thought it might impress you. I guess felt a little insecure when you said you’ve dated a lot of rich dudes. I wanted to show you I’m more than just a ‘BART and bike’ guy. I’m sorry if it came off as arrogant.”

She lets me stew for a second, and then her face softens, and she smiles and shakes her head.

“I’m just messing with you, man. But I appreciate the authenticity, really. And hey, I’m not knocking public transit, or cyclists, you guys are doing your part to combat climate change, that's for sure. And I bet your calves look fucking amazing.”

30 minutes later, we’re making out in the back of an Uber to her place in Elmwood. We stumble inside. It’s a nice place, well-decorated. No roommates. She puts on some music, something sultry and RnB-inspired, and definitely not subtle. She wants me to know she's not fucking around, here. I sit down on the couch while she pours us both a nightcap, scotch on the rocks, a 16 year single-malt. She’s got good taste. Maybe I underestimated her. Maybe this will turn into something more than a one night stand. She sits next to me on the couch, closer than she needs to, and suddenly I'm at a loss for words, which isn't like me.

“This is damn good scotch.”

“Thanks, I got it as a graduation present from my dad. He spoiled me, I can’t tolerate the cheap stuff anymore.”

“And yet you seem to tolerate me, just fine.”

She smirks. Guess I can always fall back on self-deprecating remarks if I'm caught speechless again.

“I guess we’ll see about that once we finish our drinks, won’t we?”

“What should we do in the meantime?”

I lean in, ever so slightly, but she lifts her drink to her lips to signal that she's not ready for my approach. That's fine. I can be patient.

“I don’t know, you could...tell me about your master’s thesis?”

“What makes you so curious?”

“The fact that you don’t want to talk about it, mostly.”

What the hell, if she wants to know so badly, I’ll give her the sparknotes version. She probably won’t believe me anyway.

“Ok, you know how I said I studied under Dr. Peerson?”

“The Lasker award winner, yeah.”

“Nominee. He didn’t actually win. And that’s for the best, because he didn’t actually deserve to win.”

She cocks her head a little, like a puppy. Puzzled, but intrigued.

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that he didn’t actually discover the drug that induces dementia. The one that led to all the breakthroughs. I did.”

“Get the fuck out of here!”

“I’m dead serious. I was experimenting with deliriant-hallucinogens in the lab after hours, hoping to make something that would appeal to the ket-heads. I had a druggie friend who volunteered as a guinea pig for the research chemicals I synthesized, and look, I know that’s unethical but trust me when I say that they gave their enthusiastic consent. Less than 30 minutes after oral administration, they were a mess: crying and disoriented, drooling all over themselves, confusing me with people from their past. They didn’t know where they were, or who was president, or what year it was. It got ugly. I stayed up with them all night, and when the effects didn’t subside after 24 hours, I had them admitted to the psych ward. Told the intake nurse that they called me after taking something. I was fully prepared to go to prison for manslaughter.”

“Holy shit dude, that’s some heavy shit.”

“I know, believe me I know, and I swear, that was the last time I ever tested on anyone else. I was careless back then. But my friend was discharged a few days later, and in perfect cognitive health. Or, at least back to their personal baseline, because they did have a long history of drug abuse. Anyway, I knew what I had found and I knew it had no potential as a recreational drug, but I thought that it might be useful for research. So I took another risk and told my mentor, Dr. Peerson, about the drug. Told him I’d tested it on rats I stole from his lab.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t rat you out.”

Yikes. At least she’s trying to keep it light, that’s probably a good indicator that I haven’t scared her off just yet.

“Me too. It was pretty stupid, but at the time I honestly thought it was the right thing to do. I knew my discovery was profound. He was pissed at first, but he was also smart enough to know what had fallen into his lap. He helped me construct a legit research study on the drug and approved it for my master’s thesis. He advised me on every step of the process, told me to keep my findings hush-hush, confirming my suspicion that I had something groundbreaking on my hands. He found trustworthy lab assistants for me and had them sign NDAs. When I was down to the wire, he said not to worry, he’d help ghostwrite the study for me, because my work was too important and I needed to focus on the research.”

She nods, in understanding. I know that she knows where this is going.

“He stole the credit for your discovery.”

“You’d think I would have seen it coming, myself, but I had been sleep deprived for weeks, and he had given me no reason not to trust him. He told the faculty I had never submitted an application for my master’s thesis, so I had to start over from square one. He said he would report me to the university for improper use of laboratory facilities and to the police for selling drugs if I tried to contradict him. My career would have been over before it began.”

I hadn’t meant to say all this. Maybe it’s the drugs loosening my tongue, or, more likely, it’s the sympathetic look she’s giving me, the way she offers me her undivided attention. She’d have made a decent therapist, I think. It felt good to tell someone the truth. I had been carrying it around with me for so long. 

“Fuck. You’re really saying he was nominated for a Lasker award because of your discovery?”

“Yeah. I’m not surprised if you don’t believe me. I wouldn’t believe me. But it’s true.”

I polish off the rest of my scotch. She’s looking at me with a mixture of pity and doubt. She thinks I’m lying, thinks I’m pathological. She’s had me pegged from the start. She opens her mouth and I’m sure she’s going to accuse me of bullshitting her, but she seems to think better of it, and instead she just nods, solemnly, and kisses me on the cheek. 

“I believe you.”

“Thanks. That means a lot actually.”

I feel like I’m going to cry, which isn’t like me at all. I didn’t cry when I had to restart my graduate thesis - all that work, all those late nights -from the very beginning. I didn’t cry when my fiancée broke off our engagement, once she found out about my burgeoning drug habit. I’m not that kind of person. I feel drunk, but I shouldn’t feel drunk because I know the stimulants are still in my system. She takes my empty glass from me and walks over to the kitchen to wash it. The music has changed. I know this song, I saw the artist perform it live once. What was the name of that group?

“Aren’t you still bitter about it?”

“What?”

She’s in the room again, standing near the couch where I’m sitting.

“About Dr. Peerson stealing your work, your career? It could have been you in my textbook. Could have been you nominated for the Lasker-DeBakey award. You could have been a wealthy, world-renown academic at age, what, 27, 28?”

I don’t say anything. I don’t know what she wants me to say.

“But instead, look at you. You’re nobody. You don’t even have enough game to pick up a girl in a shitty club without using drugs as bait. It’s pathetic.”

She’s angry at me, but I don’t know why. I didn’t do anything to her. She’s so pretty, and she was being so nice earlier, but now she’s making fun of me?

“Why are you being mean to me?”

She rolls her eyes and folds her arms. She’s definitely angry at me. Did I say something wrong?

“Look, Thomas, I know it’s hard but please try to keep up.”

That’s my name. She knows my name but I don’t think I know her name.

“Hey, what’s your name again?”

She lets out an exasperated sigh and turns to face the window.

“He’s always been a piece of shit. Arrogant. Manipulative. I remember when I first learned about Narcissistic Personality Disorder in Psych 101, the DSM diagnosis might as well have been his horoscope. But that’s what I don’t understand, and maybe you can help me out here.”

What is she talking about? Who is she talking about? I’m feeling very frustrated all of a sudden. She lowers the blinds. 

“To be the recipient of one of the most prestigious biomedical awards in the world, second only to the Nobel prize, it’s a narcissist’s wet dream. I don’t know if you know this, but they don’t release information about nominees until 50 years after the fact. Which means that if he knows he was nominated, and you know he was nominated, then he won, and you were there when he got the call.”

I don’t understand. Did I do something? This all seems very wrong to me. She’s not supposed to be like this.

“What are you doing in my apartment?”

“Jesus christ, dude, it’s my apartment, remember?”

No, no no no. This isn’t my apartment. I don't know where it is but I think I’m not supposed to be here. I try to tell her I’m not supposed to be here but she can’t hear me. I’m starting to cry. My mom isn’t listening to me. She’s ignoring me. 

“And since it wasn’t awarded to him, that means he declined it, and he would never in a million years have done so of his own volition, just like he would never have resigned his tenured position at the University and driven up to Newfoundland and Labrador to ‘live off the grid’. So maybe you can clear this up for me, because neither the FBI nor the RCMP have been any goddamn help.”

She’s shouting now. I’m in trouble but I’m not feeling well. I want mom to look at me. I want my mom to pick me up and tell me everything is going to be ok. I feel tears rolling down my cheeks.

“Mom, please, I feel sick, don’t make me go to school.”

She’s laughing. She leans in close, and speaks very slowly.

“Aww, shoot, looks like I overdid it a bit, huh? This is your area of expertise, after all, not mine. But don’t worry, sweetheart, you’re going to stay right here with mommy for the weekend, and then you and I are going to have a little chat about what you’ve done with my father.”