Brian had been sleeping peacefully--and now this.
The object was cool in his hand, and so smooth it might have been machined. Was it a ball bearing? But from what, and how had it come into his hand before the sun was even up?
A dream, of course. So he waited for it to end. And waited. He hefted the thing. Totally real.
The thought crossed his mind that Hitler might have been angry at him for some imagined slight--but don't cats always go in their boxes? Was it softer than it seemed? Gingerly, he squeezed the thing.
No, this wasn't something extremely unpleasant deposited by the cat. It was a little squishy, though. Not a ball bearing. Not rubber. More organic.
Brian sat up. He opened his hand.
No. No, I am not looking at what I'm seeing, and it's not looking back at me.
Except--why did I wake up with an eyeball in my hand?
It was a green eye. His eyes were green.
Being extremely careful not to wake up Julie, he got out of bed and went toward the bathroom, holding his cupped hand out in front of him.
In the thin light he made a mistake and slammed into door jamb so hard that a sheet of white lightning went through his head. He reeled, caught himself, stood gasping, getting his bearings. The pain was considerable, but not terminal.
He took a deep breath and continued into the cool tile bathroom with its mix of catbox stench and Ivory soap. He closed and locked the door and turned on the light.
The eye stared up at him. It was definitely green, and it had little black flecks in the iris. It was a human eye, no question.
Dear God in heaven, did Julie have green eyes?
No, blue. Beautiful pale blue eyes. So...where would an eyeball come from in the night? Had somebody thrown it in the window? No, they were thirty-four stories up and the windows were closed. So no.
Thinking hard, trying to understand, he stared straight ahead...and therefore into the mirror.
He managed--just barely--to stifle the scream. All that escaped was a woebegone quack, like a duck reacting to bad news.
He was aware that Hitler was rubbing against the door, growling like an old DeSoto. The cat had seen Brian get up, and wanted to be fed. Not catfood, not from him, but the hand that offered it.
Never mind the cat, think back over the past few minutes. What had waked him up? Not the alarm, it was too early. Dimly, he remembered that his left eye had itched and he'd rubbed it--
Again, he looked down at the eyeball. But you don't just rub out your own damn eye!
He needed a doctor. He needed to get this thing back where it belonged. But maybe it would be too late if he went to the doctor. And as for the emergency room, there'd be the usual six hour wait.
He looked into the big, black soc ket where the eyeball had been. How could he go to work like this? And what about navigation. He'd already damn near knocked himself on his ass hitting the door.
Truth: his damn left eye had just plain fallen out of his head in the night.
This time the scream escaped, but terror reduced it to a rattling hiss, no louder than the sound of a dying tire. He hung over the sink gagging, fighting his rebellious stomach.
Finally, he regained control of himself. Gagging, he listened for Julie. Nothing. Thank God his struggles hadn't awakened her. Right now her involvement would be strictly no-win. If she saw no eyeball, then he was crazy. But if she did see it this was real and it must not be. Could not be. Because nobody who could just rub their own eye out of their head was healthy. No, he had some kind of muscle deterioration or something. Terminal disease, no question.
Or crazy. There was great uncle Erath, he'd ridden a horse into the First Church of Christ in Sumpter, Alabama back in the seventies. Would've been tolerated if he'd remembered to put on some clothes. Aunt Janet who worried about copter squads, whatever the hell they were.
Just enough crazy in the family to make him think that he was probably headed for straitjacket territory. Shock therapy.
He reached up with his free hand. His fingers were trembling so fast they were a blur.
Control that.
Nope, can't.
The shaking hand felt toward the socket. Fluttered so much he could feel a kind of breeze inside his brain.
Mega crazy. He was done.
He touched the edge of the socket. Slick. He could feel the pressing fingers. There was no pain, only a dull, deep itch that made him wish he could scratch the inside of his brain. He felt deeper. Gooey. Warm. Something back in there pulsating. Blood vessel, had to be.
He pulled his fingers out. This was not crazy, it couldn't be, it was just too damn real.
Too damn real!
He started to hyperventilate, grabbed the edge of the sink, hung on.
Ok, now get yourself together. There must be some explanation. Oh, yes. He knew the problem. He was under pressure at the office. Today he had to get up in front of twenty efficiency experts and convince them that his department had a function. But his department did not have a function. And when they reported that, George Walton was going to have the pleasure of firing him. So ok, this was a temporary psychoma caused by stress. And it would go away.
"No matter what you see and what you feel, your eyeball cannot be in your hand," he said to the reflection in the mirror. The socket gaped back at him. Black, deep, just visible at the back, that pulsing vein.
There was no blood, no sign of any damage in there. He examined the eyeball. It was slick and clean. To tell the truth, it looked like it had just fallen out.
He thought about that. Lots of strange diseases in the world these days. Fukushima maybe did it? Or some kind of genfood? Frankenfood? Or maybe it was the iPad. He was basically in it all the time.
Whatever, he decided to see if the thing would just go back in.
He lifted it to his face, positioned it so the pupil was facing out and pushed it in.
It felt like shoving a golf ball into a ball washer at the club. He blinked. Looked. To his amazement he see--sort of. The world looked like it was behind a sheet of Glad Wrap, but it was definitely there. He blinked again and things got clearer. Damn thing was dry, though. Real dry.
He poured in some Murine. Even better. After a series of hard blinks, the thin, nervous face of Brian Mitchell swam and shuddered in the mirror. A godawful case of bloodshot was all that told of his ordeal.
He needed a drink. Warm booze flowing down his gullet. Relaxing him. A Manahattan at Silver Lining over on West Broadway be good. Except it was seven in the morning and he needed booze right now, then he needed to tail it with a beautiful toke of something like Blueberry Yum Yum and good night Charlie.
Bar closed, no grass in the house.
Listerine. Alcohol in there. He took the big bottle out. Yep, alcohol in there. He took a long, hard pull, and yes, this was a bad idea.
Now his mouth tasted like the floor of a hospital. Still, he waited for it to work.
It didn't.
He looked at himself. Two eyes, both seeing ok.
Hell, it was time to shave, get showered, get dressed, go off to the office to face his hell bound day.
He lathered his face and got out his razor. Stroked his left cheek. Normal. Everything normal. He was calming down. It had been a dream. Crazy dream. Had to be. Eyes don't fall out. No, they do not.
When he bent over the sink to rinse off the shaving cream, the eye fell out with a rubbery "plop." He grabbed it and pushed it back in. No problem, fixed just like that.
Out in the bedroom the alarm buzzed. "Brian," Julie called softly. The sound of her voice made him turn--far too quickly. Both of his eyes flew across the bathroom and hit the door.
As he leaped after them his right foot sucked out of is ankle and arced into the toilet. He fell against the door.
He was now blind, unbalanced and scrabbling. An eye slipped between his fingers. Julie rattled the knob. "It's locked, Brian."
"Hitler's trying to kill me!"
"Muffin only has four teeth. And stop calling her Hitler."
"The teeth are so very sharp," he muttered as he swept the floor with his hands 'Give me an eye, any eye! And that damned foot!'
"Open this door. I'm running late!"
There! His fingers closed around a slippery eyeball and he returned it to its socket. He spotted the other one beside his knee. God forbid, he'd almost knelt on it and popped it!
"Unlock the door, Brian!"
He put the second eye back into his head and twisted the doorknob. As the door opened he remembered his foot. Desperate, he shoved the stump of his ankle in after it.
Julie stared. "Your foot is in the toilet!"
"The drain--"
"You don't unclog a drain with your foot! Go get the plumber's helper. It's in the hall closet, I think." She started her bathroom ritual.
Slowly, his heart whanging in his chest, he began to withdraw his leg from the toilet. The question was, would the foot come, too? It felt seated in the ankle. Surely it would come. It had to. Julie must not see this, no. It could not be anything except a crazy, crazy nightmare of some kind. That's what it had to be.
The foot came out of the toilet with a sucking gurgle. He wiggled his toes, rocked his ankle. Oops! Careful, there. It wasn't exactly tight, but if he was cautious...
Sliding carefully, not daring to lift his feet, he got back to the bedroom in one piece. He opened the closet door. Hitler was in there somewhere, he knew, ready as always to leap at him. For whatever reason, the cat hated his combover. Wasn't even a major one, just a little hair lifted across and laid down on the bald spot. No biggie. Still, Hitler hated it and would go for the top of his head every damn time.
He could not afford to tear off the cat, not with his feet and eyeballs feeling this loose.
But the cat did not attack, and aside from the fact that a couple of fingers almost got away from him while he was knotting his tie, he had no trouble getting dressed.
Julie was still in the bathroom, which was strange. She was one efficient lady.
"Julie?"
"Shut up!"
"We're gonna be late."
"SHUT. UP."'
So OK, bad mood. This was Julie, it happened.
When she finally emerged, she had a big towel draped over her head and shoulders, and was fooling with something underneath.
She'd taken so long that they didn't have time for breakfast. By eight thirty, they were on their way uptown in their previously owned BMW. Brian took deep breaths, trying to meditate while negotiating the Sixth Avenue traffic. He visualized his eyeballs reattaching to the eye muscles, his joints getting tighter, his skin thicker.
There were cars here and there on the roadside, some of them at funny angles. As they moved off the avenue and onto forty-sixth street, a curious hush fell. But for an occasional scurrying figure the sidewalks were empty.
"Look out," Julie screamed.
Brian avoided the leg, but in the process almost rearended a stalled bus.
"It must be artificial!"
"No, it's real," she said, her voice faint.
"Nobody would put a argyle sock on a wooden leg. It'd be...undignified."
He turned into their building's parking garage. He was forcing himself not to be confused. Not to face...whatever it was.
His reserved space was gone. "Not a good sign, obviously," he said as he found a place in the guest parking. He noticed Robert Wilson's car at an odd angle nearby. He sat motionless in the driver's seat, his head thrown back.
Julie said, "Has he had a heart attack?"
"Hopefully." Robert owned the company. Robert was worth billions. His car was a Bentley with a custom hybrid conversion. Everything in his office was organic. In his life. At meetings, you munched kale. The company dining room was free but extreme vegan. Until Steve Jobs had died, Robert had also been a frutarian. No longer. Kale, chard, quinoa of course. The truth: a heart attack would be hilarious.
Brian said, "He must be napping. Hungover, probably. Too many smoothies at the raw bar last night."
"Is that supposed to be funny?"
"Yes."
"OK, thank you for telling me."
As they headed for the elevators, Julie clutched herself, arms tight around her chest. She was in IT development. Her job was real. So why did she look like she was walking a gangplank?
"You OK?"
"No. Yes! Shut up!"
"OK, sorry! Jesus..."
She said, "You squeak," which, strangely enough, was right. Take a step, creak. Smile. Cr-r-r-eak!
As they lurched toward their building he noticed that she squeaked, too.
The guard in the lobby sat still and silent, his head bowed. He hid something in his cupped hands. Brian only glanced at him, but he formed the distinct impression that the man was forlornly trying to arrange a fistful of teeth.
Brian was loose, there was no doubt about it. He feared the elevator. He pictured his arms dropping to the floor as the car shot upward. But he had no reason to fear. One of Robert's many eccentricities was having an elevator operator in the executive car, and old Danny had decided on this particular morning to run the thing at a crawl.
It crossed Brian's mind that he might not be the only one with his problem. Then it further crossed his mind that this had to be nonsense. A thing like this couldn't be catching.
By the time he reached his own office he felt like he was stuck together with chewing gum. "Hold my calls," he barked into the intercom. His secretary replied with an hysterical little shriek. He could feel his knees coming undone, his shoulders, elbows, knuckles--every joint in his body.
There was an uneven knock at the door. As Brian whirled toward the sound he lost both ears, his scalp and his right arm. When he grabbed for it, his whole left side went to pieces. The big leg bones tumbled out of his pants like a couple of bowling pins. He toppled.
"Wait a minute," he hollered, desperate to keep whoever was out there at bay. The yell had been too intense, causing his teeth to fly out of his mouth with such force that they battered the door like bullets.
He crawled out of his remaining foot. Then he felt something on the floor. He jammed the scalp back onto his head.A s he was trying to reattach an ear the door swung open. His secretary came flapping and collapsing into the room, legs and torso held together only by a popping complex of rubber bands.
Brian had no legs, no arms, no ears. And his scalp was sliding down the back of his neck. He saw George Walton feeling along the hall with the only hand he had left. Around him was a spray of fingers, teeth and eyes.
"It's in the quinoa," George gargled.
On the distance a siren ground to silence. Outside, planes could be seen spinning down.
With a great, sighing roar all the city, the nation, the world became a mass of fallen limbs, rolling eyeballs and escaped teeth.
It wasn't just in the quinoa or the organics, it was in everything. Whatever it was.
An industrial accident? Some kind of nuclear thing? Terrorism that worked too well?
Whever, some final catastrophe had to happen sometime. After all, mankind is only one incident in the long, long history of this big, old world. Many have come before and gone, and many will follow.
We didn't end with a bang or a whimper, but we managed quite a clatter.
Back at the apartment, Hitler methodically shredded one of Brian's ties. She was happy. Thrilled, in fact. Like all animals everywhere, she knew in her deep instinctive heart that she was now free.
For the first time in hundreds of years birds could land in the streets of New York and San Francisco and Djakarta, and rabbits hop through Rekjavik and Moscow and London, where evening was falling.
A king snake that had been living in the walls of the White House since it escaped from one of Nancy Reagan's soothsayers came out and sunned itself on the floor of the Oval Office. Wolves strolled the streets of many cities, sniffing their way through the forest of limbs, choosing the best and freshest. A coyote dragged a disconsolate face out of a side door of the White House. In Moscow, a ferret curled up in Vladimir Putin's torso and went to sleep.
It was quiet in London's soft evening, so quiet the smallest sound rang clear in the still air.
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.