BODY PARTS-Chapter 4

A Head For Business

I was always the first to notice if things were amiss. If they were off somehow I’d see it and, before saying anything or causing any kind of panic, I would produce a graph with a list of statistics, to clearly express the new trend be it for better or worse. I saw the fiscal crisis on its way thirty years ago. I was presenting graphs to anyone who would listen and look and discovered that catching severely negative yet commonly unpredictable market trends pleased nobody. My science was too unique. I thought somebody would take me on board but that never happened.
I no longer live anywhere near K-Street or Wall Street but now live on P Street. That’s right—P Street. I live in an alphabet city. It is a strange and unfamiliar alphabet but I feel perfectly at home. My apartment is comfortable and I lack for nothing, nothing that I need. I cannot plead poverty but insist on wearing rags and have not bought a new suit in forever. I’m frugal. I haven’t been back to The Street in twenty years but despite this I still have a unique head for business. I’m a watcher now. I have a special set of eyes dedicated one hundred per cent to doing just that. They roll around the periphery garbage picking, making mental notes, spotting mutant facts. My problem was never my head, or so I'd always assumed. It was my stomach. I just could not stomach accumulating wealth for its own sake. This was no simple moral revulsion. Physically it began to manifest itself for the first time with the DOT.COM.BOOM-AND-BUST. I had a partner then. We made a good team for a while. He was the only one who ever appreciated my cognitive leaps and bounds but when they began running counter to his own somewhat deviant thinking, and he saw me negating, of necessity, his problematic stance, we both saw the writing on the wall. I presented the facts as objectively and as clearly as I could, and he saw me painting him as a demon. Later I saw it was paranoia pure and simple. He had no stomach for the truth just as I had no stomach for the lies. One day we both up-chucked at exactly the same moment ruining each others’ shoes, and the plan I’d proposed for getting us out of the mess we were in.
Back to P Street, my home. P Street is worthy of its name. It always smells of urine. If you didn’t know better you’d assume you were on the bad side of town. You’d know better than to be caught on its dank cobbles late at night. You’d see the torn posters and broken bottles, the signs of freshly removed graphiti and, sure enough, the homeless guys in their sorry cardboard shelters, next to their shopping carts full of rags and bones. Understandably you’d be alarmed but this is a street in remission. It truly is. The scavengers are of the meek and noble variety. They quietly save the planet every day with their recycling. They are not the violent type. Those who are certainly don’t want to waste their time rolling the bums on our block. During the day it is a hive of activity. The smell of fresh solder hangs in the air and the gas guys, the electric guys, the cable guys are all out digging, laying tarmac and wires for some company or other. The rents if you didn’t buy are beginning to climb. We are getting our house in order. I love P Street and probably watch it more carefully than most. From my perch in the Diner I observe the comings and goings, and with scrupulous care make notes in my everything book. I’ve seen this Diner reflect the street, rusting and neglected and then dust itself off and pull itself together full of new resolve. I sit brooding over my coffee, staring at an old padlock hanging on the door. My head is telling me something is up and the hairs on the backs of my hands stand to attention. The tone of the conversation behind the counter has changed. There’s a new chef—I’m sure of it—and the owner is none too pleased. He catches my eye and then quickly looks away. He is normally a stare downer. I get another coffee and decide to stay a while. Something is definitely off kilter and I have to figure out what. I take out my book and open it to the first blank page. I carefully lay three pens next to it confident it is going to be a busy day, and then I close my eyes to listen. Sitting at that table I hear a nation of poodle lovers with their over indulged pets, hapless spouses with their doting other-halves, who insist on straightening their collars and feeding them with a spoon. If he hadn’t met her he’d be outside on P Street with a cardboard box for a mattress. It occurs to me That marriage is one big animal shelter.
I open my eyes and see some suits walking in who definitely are not familiar and it doesn’t look like a regular business lunch. I order eggs.
Only when the eggs arrive do I see what the problem is. It’s me. It’s been me all along. My arms refuse to budge. A slow fizzing sensation has been traveling up my legs all morning and I’ve paid it no mind. Now it has climbed from my hands to my elbows but because I am so cerebral that is where my problem will end—in my head. The waitress looks concerned.
“Are you okay, Mr. Phillips?”
I don’t respond, not in words. My eyeballs flutter. I try to look at her and smile but my lips won’t move. The muscles at the corner of my mouth have turned to mush. I can move my eyes. The yolks on my plate appear to pulse like little emergency lights. The waitress raises her voice and waves her hands in front of me. “He follows them. Mr. Phillips, help is coming. We’ve called....” My head no longer belongs to my body. A lifetime of paying it no mind and my body has rebelled by developing a mind of its own. A crowd gathers round cell phones all a buzz. I'd always blamed my body if anything went wrong. Quietly my body regains its composure. Paralyzed no more it abruptly stands and then runs out cutting a swathe through the crowd. It's now "it" but I’m still me. Strange. I turn my head and through the periphery of my vision make out its departing form as it disappears past the dumpsters and on into the sunshine. I’d never really appraised my body honestly before but did so now. It wasn’t fit. My head tips bumping against my coffee cup. My ear quickly fills with the warm, brown fluid. I’m underwater. The waitress rescues me, saves me from drowning by efficiently mopping up the mess. She cannot save me from myself and nor can I and much against my will my head drops to the floor with a crunch and rolls erratically out of the door in the direction of that withering sun. The unswept street is brutal on my skin. I can only dream of growing wings.