The Collection Page 4

  But those years, those ten long years of almost total iso­lation, were sheer and utter hell. I did not realize how im­portant communication was to me until it was denied. And after a decade of such isolation, I literally could not take it anymore. It was driving me mad. So one night, my blood running high with adrenaline and bottled courage, I decided to take the chance. I locked the door of my motel room, shut the curtains, sat down in front of the desk, and wrote on a blank sheet of paper: "I am black."

  My hand did not change color as I finished the last arm of the k. Neither did my other hand. I rushed to the mirror: neither had my face. God, the joy, the sheer exquisite rapture with which that simple sentence filled me! I danced around the room like a madman. I wrote all night.

  I still write prolifically to this day and have actually had several fiction pieces published in assorted literary maga­zines under various pseudonyms. I have six unpublished novels sitting in my desk drawer.

  But I am not a snob. I write anything and to anyone. Once a day, I make it a point to write to a business and complain about one of their products. You'd be surprised at the re­sponses I get. I've received free movie passes, free ham­burger coupons, several rebate checks, and a huge amount of apologetic letters.

  And of course I have several pen pals. They are the clos­est thing I have to friends. My best friend, Phil, is a convict in San Quentin. He murdered his brother-in-law and was sentenced to life imprisonment. I would never want to meet the man on the street, but I have found through his letters that he can be a deeply sensitive individual. Out of all my pen pals, he best understands what it is like to be isolated, alienated, alone. I also write to a middle-aged woman named Joan, in France; a young single girl named Nikol, in Belgium; and a small boy named Rufus, in Washington, D.C.

  I have not told any of them the truth.

  But how can I? I do not really know what "the truth" is myself.

  The first experience occurred when I was twelve. At least, that's the first instance I remember. We were playing, my cousin Jobe and I, in the unplowed and untended field in back of my grandmother's farm. We had just finished a fu­rious game of freeze-ball tag and were running like crazy through what seemed like acres of grass, racing to the barn. The grass was tall, almost above my head, and I had to keep straining my neck and jumping up to see where I was going.

  I did not see the rock I tripped over.

  I must have blacked out for a few seconds, because I found myself lying on the ground, staring at an endless for­est of grass stalks. I stood up, stunned and hurt, and started walking toward the barn where I knew Jobe was waiting, a self-satisfied winner's smile on his face.

  I must have hit my head harder than I thought, because I kept walking and walking, and still did not reach the clear­ing and the barn. Instead, the grass kept getting thicker and taller, and soon I was lost in it. I did not even know in which direction I was traveling.

  With the bump on my head still throbbing and with my heart starting to pound at the prospect of being lost in the grass, I decided to call for help. "Jobe!" I cried loudly, cup­ping my hands to my mouth to amplify the sound. "I'm lost!"

  I heard Jobe's older, mocking laughter from an indeter­minate direction.

  "I mean it!" I called. "Help!"

  Jobe giggled now. "Yeah," he called back, "the barn's a tough one to find."

  By now I was ready to burst into tears. "Mom!"

  "She can't hear you," Jobe said. He paused. "I'll come and get you, but you'll have to pay the price."

  "I'll pay!" I cried.

  "All right. Say, 'I'm a yellow belly, and I give up in womanly defeat.'"

  I was desperate and, with only a moment's hesitation, I cast my pride away and shouted out the words. "I'm a yel­low belly, and I give up in womanly defeat!"

  A minute later, I heard Jobe crashing through the weeds. He came through the wall of grass to my right. "Come on," he said, laughing. I followed him to the bam.

  That night, as I undressed for my bath, I discovered that the skin on my stomach, instead of being its normal peach pink, had somehow turned a dark and rather bright yellow. I was baffled; I didn't know what had happened. Perhaps, I thought, I had accidentally touched some type of chemical dye. But the yellow color would not come off-even after a full ten minutes of hard scrubbing.

  I did not tell my parents about this, however, and a few days later the color simply faded away.

  I had no other experiences for almost ten years.

  I was a history major in college. Midterms were over and, after nearly a full two weeks of nonstop studying, I decided to accompany some newfound friends and some recently ac­quired acquaintances to a club in Long Beach to hear the Chico Hamilton Quintet, the current musical sensation among the college crowd. I sat there in my shades, rep tie in place, smoking my skinny pipe and listening intently in the fashion of the day.

  After the set, one of the others at our table, a student named Glen whom I barely knew, took a long, cool drag on his cigarette and looked up at the departing musicians. "Crap," he pronounced.

  I could not believe what I'd just heard. "You're joking," I said.

  He shook his head. "Highly overrated. The music was banal at best."

  I was outraged! I could not believe we had heard the same group. "You know nothing about music," I said to him. "I refuse to discuss it with you."

  Glen smiled a little. "And I suppose you're a music ex­pert?" he asked, addressing his cigarette.

  "I'm a music major," I lied.

  And I was a music major.

  As simple as that.

  My whole life shifted as I spoke those words. I remem­bered the myriad music courses I had taken and passed; I re­called names, faces, and even particular expressions of piano teachers I had studied under. I knew details about peo­ple I had not even known existed minutes before. I knew what the band had just played, and how and why.

  I looked around at my companions. Doug, Don, and Justin, the three people at the table I knew best, were glar­ing at Glen. "That's right," they concurred. "He's a music major."

  They were serious.

  I did not know what was going on. I retained a full mem­ory of my "previous life," yet I knew that it was no longer true. Perhaps it never had been. And I knew that whereas a few minutes ago I could have recited the names of all the battles of the Revolutionary War and the outcome of each but could not have played the piano to save my life, now the opposite was true.

  I slept fitfully that night. I woke up still a music major.

  I decided to check my school transcripts to find out ex­actly what was going on. I went to the Office of Admissions and Records, got my files from the clerk, and took them over to a booth to study. I opened the folder and looked at the first page. The words typed there stunned me. I was officially en­rolled as a music major with an emphasis in piano composi­tion. I had never taken more than an introductory history course.

  This can't be happening, I thought. But I knew it was, and something in the back of my mind made me push on. I looked up; the records clerk had turned her head for a mo­ment. "I am a history major," I said to the transcripts in front of me.

  The music classes were gone.

  And then I knew.

  Of course, the first feeling was one of power. Incredible, uncontrollable, unlimited power. I could be anything. Any­one. And I could change at will.

  But that disappeared almost immediately and was re­placed by the more penetrating feeling of fear. Could I con­trol this power? If so, how? If not, why not? Would it eventually fade? Or would it get stronger? Did this power or curse or miracle change only me, or did it change my im­mediate surroundings, or did it change the entire world in which I lived? Could I alter history? What exactly were the implications, ramifications, and all the other -cations of this? A million thoughts voiced themselves simultaneously in my mind.

  A test, I thought. I need to test this out. I need to make sure this isn't some type of elaborate hoax or psychologic
al mind game being played on me.'

  First, I tried thinking of a command. I am a giraffe, I told myself.

  Nothing happened.

  Well, that proved something. To effect a change, the statement had to be said aloud. I was about to speak the phrase when I stopped myself. If I said, "I am a giraffe," and actually became one, it was quite possible that I would per­manently remain that way. A giraffe cannot speak. I would not be able to say, "I am a human being," and change my­self back.

  The fear hit again; stronger, more potent. I began to sweat. I would have be very careful about this. I would have to think before I spoke. If I did not consider all the possibil­ities and potential side effects of each statement I made from now on, I could permanently alter my life. And not just for the better.

  So instead of testing out my newfound proclivity then and there, I returned my transcripts to the clerk, mumbled a simple "Thank you," and hurriedly returned to my room. Once inside, I closed and locked the door and pulled all the | curtains. I left all the lights on. I wanted to see this.

  I had a full-length mirror on the back of my closet door. 1 Being something of a clotheshorse, I had always considered I such a mirror a necessity and would never have been with- I out one. Now it really was a necessity. I opened the closet J door, took off all my clothes, and stood before the mirror. "I am fat," I said.

  The change was not visible. That is to say, it did not occur in time. I was thin, then I was fat. I did not bloat up or sud­denly gain weight or anything of the sort. In fact, I did not physically change. I did not change at all. Rather, reality changed. One second, I weighed my typical 145 pounds. That was a fact. The next second, the facts changed. I weighed nearly 300 pounds. This too was a fact.

  And it altered the world.

  I retained a full memory of my "real life," but I also had a new and completely different life-my fat life. And the world corresponded to it. I knew that I had always had a bit of a weight problem, and that, after my girlfriend died from leukemia, eating had become a compulsion, a neurosis, a se­rious problem. I had tried several diets since then, but noth­ing worked. Eating was a need. And I loved pistachio ice cream.

  I looked in the mirror at my triple chins and my over-flowing gut. I looked like nothing so much as a big ball of white dough. "I am thin," I said.

  The world changed back. I was not fat. I had never had a girlfriend with leukemia. I hated pistachio ice cream.

  This was a different reality.

  That was as far as my "tests" or "experiments" went. I quit then and there. I did not understand this power; I did not know how to use it; I did not want to cope with it. And I was determined not to employ it for any reason. I vowed never to utter another sentence which contained the word.

  But it is amazing how people adapt how human beings have this sort of innate ability to adjust themselves to change, no matter how radical. People living next to chemical dump sites soon stop noticing the stench; people living on the beach soon cease to hear the endless crashing of the waves.

  All this is rationalization. For I got used to the power rather quickly, though I kept my vow and abstained from its usage. The power became an accepted part of me. It became comfortable.

  And it happened.

  One day, having failed miserably on a final in one of my more important classes, sitting in my room, feeling depressed and sorry for myself, I thought, Why not? Why not use the power? Why not use it to get something I want out of life?

  I planned my speech carefully. I did not want to screw this up. Finally, I had worked out what seemed a perfect statement for my purposes and was ready to say it. Once again, I stood before the mirror. "I graduated from Harvard with a Ph.D. in political science, and I am now a presiden­tial consultant," I said.

  And it was all true. The knowledge of my previous life as a financially and academically struggling history major at the University of Southern California during Eisenhower's administration was still there, but it was a memory of the past. I was a different person now-establishing myself as one of the more brilliant minds in the popular Stevenson White House.

  There was no transition period. I knew my job and was good at it. Everyone knew and accepted me. The transfor­mation had gone perfectly.

  The power was an annoyance in my everyday life, how­ever. I would greet people with the customary, "I'm glad to see you," and would suddenly find myself overjoyed that they had stopped by. Or I would say to people, "I'm sorry you have to go," and, by the time they had finally departed, I would be near tears. On particularly frustrating days, I would mutter to myself, "I'm sick of this job," then, feeling the effects immediately, I would have to blurt out, "I love this job, it makes me feel good!"

  But I could function. The power caused me no major problems.

  Until June 5.

  A particularly nasty and involved crisis had come up in­volving both Germany and the Soviet Union, and we were at an emergency cabinet meeting in the president's office, arguing over our course of action. The secretary of defense had suggested that we "bluff" our way out of the possible confrontation with a first-strike threat. "Hell, they're already afraid of us," he said. "They knew we've dropped the bomb once, and they know we're not afraid to do it again."

  A surprising number of cabinet members agreed with him.

  "No," I argued. "A diplomatic solution is needed in this instance. Military threats would only aggravate the situa­tion."

  The secretary smiled condescendingly. "Look," he said, "your theories may be fine in college classes, they may work in textbooks, but they don't work in real life. I've been around these matters for the past twenty-six years, most of my life, and I think I know something about them. You've been here a little over a year. I hardly think you're in a po­sition to decide these things."

  I was furious. "I may not have been here as long as you have, but I do possess something which you seem to lack- common sense. Do you honestly think threats of a nuclear war are going to put an end to this crisis? Of course they won't. I know that and you know that. Furthermore, I be­lieve that such actions would lead to a full-scale military confrontation. And none of us want that. We have to talk this out peacefully."

  The arguments soon wound down and the president, looking tired and a little strained, thanked us for our contri­butions and went off to make his decision.

  I was in my office when word came that the Soviets had launched an all-out nuclear attack. "Please file into the fall­out shelter," a voice said through the speaker above my door. "Do not panic. Please file into the fallout shelter. This is not a test."

  The realization hit me immediately. "I believe," I had said. "I know." The fate of the secretary's plan, the country, and, possibly, the entire world had been in my hands, and I had not known it. I had botched it horribly. The attack was a direct result of my statements.

  I panicked. I was not sure that I could think fast enough to stop the impending death and destruction, and prevent the holocaust. But I knew that I had to save myself. That much was instinctive. "I'm a history major at USC trying to get fi­nancial aid from the Eisenhower administration," I screamed.

  And I was on a couch in the financial aid office. A woman was staring at me, as if waiting for the answer to a question. I was sweating like a pig and shaking as if palsied. I am not even sure I was coherent as I ran out the door and to my room.

  But it was not my room. The same Expressionistic prints were on the walls and the same furniture was arranged in the same way, but the room was different. I was in room 212 in­stead of room 215.

  This was not quite the same reality I'd started from.

  Thus I learned that my statements could have delayed ac­tions and unforeseen consequences. If I did not study in de­tail all the possible meanings of all my words and/or did not phrase my sentences carefully, things could change beyond | all reason. And once again, I grew afraid. Only this time the fear was deeper. This time it did not go away.

  I made the decision. I would speak no
more. I could not afford to gamble with the lives of other people, nor could I j bear the responsibility of changing reality or even particular circumstances. Even the most innocent comments, devoid of f all malevolent intent or meaning, could, I realized, wreak havoc I could not envision. I could not take the chance of speaking ever again.

  I had to leave school. That was my first move. It was im­possible to live in a college environment without uttering a word, and I knew that the temptation would be too great for me. My friends would talk to me, teachers would ask me questions, acquaintances would stop and engage me in casual conversation. I had to leave.

  I quickly gathered all my belongings together and packed what I needed. I took all my money. I left.

  Once on the street, however, I realized that I had no idea of what to do next. I did not even know where to start. Time, I thought. I need time to think, time to sort things out, time to formulate at least some semblance of apian. I felt in my pockets and counted out all the money. One hundred dollars. That would buy me some time.

  I did it all without saying a word. It's amazing, really, how well one can function without even the slightest form of verbal communication. I rented a small shack on the beach for a week and bought enough groceries to last me for that time without saying so much as a "yes" or a "no" to anyone. I got by with noncommittal grunts, quizzical looks, nods, and various gestures.

  And then I was ready.

  I had already decided never to utter another word again. Now, I knew, I must enforce that vow. I had to wean myself from the world of people. I had to cut off all ties with hu­manity. I had to isolate myself from everything-go cold turkey, as it were. And I had to do it in a week. In seven days, I had to reject and unlearn a lifetime of thought pat­terns, habits, and behavior. I had to de-acculturate myself.

  It was hard at first. With the absence of human contact, I found myself wanting to think out loud. I felt, like the he­roes in radio dramas, compelled to talk to myself.

  But I overcame that compulsion. Soon, the urge disap­peared altogether. I spent my days walking along the empty beach, occasionally swimming and reading good books. I grew used to my solitude.