The Visible Man

  28 His head struck one of the metal legs of the table, and it punctured the bone. Put a hole in his head the diameter of a golf ball. That’s exactly how it was explained in the Pioneer Press—the reporter was weirdly graphic about the trauma, almost like he was getting off on describing it. You can read it for yourself. The details are all online, if you’re curious. Their archives are free. It turns out Zug’s real name was Marion. Just like John Wayne! (11:59 [17])

  29 These are vivid memories. Vivid, vivid, vivid. I close my eyes and everything happens again. The toilet flushes and Dave flies out of the bathroom, his belt still unbuckled. He doesn’t scream. He just says, “Jesus.” He tries to help Zug, but what can he do? He gets blood on his hands, blood on his shirt, blood on his pants. It’s now a room of blood and amplifiers. It looks like a photo shoot for Vice magazine. Dave starts frantically searching for his cell phone. He calls 9-1-1, explaining the situation as best he can. He explains everything too calmly, actually. His voice was perfectly composed. This would come back to haunt him. I know they played that 9-1-1 call for the grand jury in an attempt to portray him as unfeeling. (12:10 [19])

  30 Waiting for the cops to show up was a strange fifteen minutes. Dave just stood over Zug’s corpse, kind of hugging his own body with both arms. The dude was so clearly dead. He turned white when he bled out. The cat started licking some of the blood, so Dave picked it up and patted its little orange head, real gentle. The cat didn’t care about Zug. He understood. Animals are like that. (12:12 [20])

  31 As soon as the police arrived, I left. A room full of police is not a good place to hide, even if you’re the best hider on the planet. People were constantly coming in and out of the door, so it wasn’t hard to exit. I read that they interviewed redheaded Tina the very next morning, and she told them about the loud argument. All the other heavy dudes gave depositions, too. The newspaper wouldn’t directly say what the relationship between Zug and Dave was, but several of the heavy dudes implied it was complicated. That was the word they all used: complicated. It was too frigid for me to go out into the night, so I spent the rest of it on the second-floor landing. They took Dave to the station around 3:30 a.m. He wasn’t in handcuffs, but they charged him with murder when he got downtown. I saw him walk out with two cops. He looked guilty. He did. Just before they went down the stairs, he asked one of the cops if he could run back and give his cat to the woman across the hall, but they said they’d take care of it for him. He said, “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.” (12:15 [21])

  32 I can tell you have questions, Victoria. I can see them on your face. But just let me finish. I don’t care if our session goes long. You can charge me extra. We’ll address your concerns next week. Next week, you can ask me anything you want. But I just need to power through. (12:04 [18])

  33 As you might expect, I’ve been following this case pretty closely over the Internet. The daily papers don’t write about it much, but some of the weeklies report almost everything. Personally, I don’t think he’ll go to prison. Maybe he’ll take a hit for manslaughter, but certainly not for second-degree homicide. That’s what the prosecution wants, but I see a lot of holes in their case. Why would you murder a man by pushing him through a coffee table? Is that even something you can do on purpose? Plus, Zug’s blood alcohol level was jacked through the roof, and he still had some uneaten mushrooms in his pocket. The fact that they had an argument hurts, of course. Tina’s testimony was a problem. And—of course—Dave’s lawyer won’t allow Dave to testify on his own behalf, which makes it seem less like an accident and more like an incident, especially with all this “complicated relationship” crap that the heavy dudes keep repeating. You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d be a little suspicious myself. I saw an AP photo of Dave in the courtroom, wearing an ill-fitting suit, looking like he hadn’t slept in weeks. His hand was over his mouth. He looked worse than Zug’s corpse. I hope this hasn’t ruined his life. I mean, I’m sure it hasn’t made his life better, but I like to imagine he’s got some grit. (12:58 [34])

  34 Part of me wanted to get inside Tina’s apartment to check on the cat, just because I feel like I owe it to Dave. I owe him that much. But now there’s too much risk, and I’m never going to Minneapolis again. Too many nutcases in that town. Too many weirdos. I’ll stay here. (12:51 [33])

  Heavy Dudes Part II (The Interrogation)

  [I’ve generally avoided using two-sided transcripts in this manuscript, partially to keep the focus on Y____ ’s words but primarily because I’m uncomfortable with my own elocution. However, I’m suspending that rule temporarily in order to illustrate why certain things were said in our July 18 session. My queries have been streamlined for clarity. This is not the full conversation; I am including only the opening thirteen minutes. I’m mildly embarrassed by some of the things I said in this exchange, but it was a confusing time.]

  VV:

  Last week, you said you’d be open to questions about what happened in Minneapolis. Are you still open to that?

  Y____:

  I am. Did you read about the case online? I’m curious as to whether you were curious.

  VV:

  I did not. Is that important to you? Is this something you want me to be interested in? Is it something you need me to know about?

  Y____:

  I don’t need you to know anything. I was just curious. I’m curious about what interests you.

  VV:

  A great deal of what you said was interesting. And …

  Y____:

  And?

  VV:

  Troubling.

  Y____:

  I accept that. What troubles you? I’m open to all of this. I want you to understand this, Victoria. I don’t need you to, but I want you to. And I must admit—I’m a little surprised you didn’t look this up on the Internet. Why didn’t you do that? I’m just curious. I would have done that immediately, had I been in your pumps.

  VV:

  I wanted to talk about this first, before I did anything. I wanted to talk about if this really happened.

  (Long pause.)

  Y____:

  I don’t follow you.

  VV:

  Did this really happen?

  Y____:

  What do you mean? Is that a nonliteral question? Or is this some René Descartes horseshit?

  VV:

  My question is self-explanatory.

  Y____:

  I just told you to check the Internet in order to read about it. Wouldn’t that be a pretty stupid thing for me to say if I’d made the whole thing up? I don’t understand where this is going.

  VV:

  Oh, I’m confident that the event you described happened. I do not doubt—if I rummaged around the Internet—that I’d find a story very similar to what you described. But I want to know if you were actually there. I want to know if you actually played a role in what happened, or if you merely saw it happen, or if maybe you just read about it and decided it would make a good story. I’m not trying to catch you in some sort of a lie. I just want to establish the real reason you told me that story.

  Y____:

  So … even though you’ve seen me cloaked, and even though you believe that I can become what you classify as “invisible,” and even though I stood in front of you and you could not see me—you’re still skeptical of what I tell you. You’re skeptical of my story.

  VV:

  Don’t misinterpret what I’m saying. I’m not making accusations. I’ve seen you when you can’t be seen. I know that’s real. I know you have the ability to be unseen. But that doesn’t mean everything you tell me is real. Sometimes people tell stories about themselves that aren’t impossible, but still untrue. Do you know what I mean? I’m not saying I think you’re a liar, or that there’s no way this could have happened. I’m just asking if everything you told me is how it really was. All you have to do is answer yes, and I’ll move on.

  (Pause.)

  Y____:

  I see what you’re doing, V
ictoria. (Another pause.) This is actually a little sophisticated. I can’t deny that you’ve thought about this. I appreciate that. It’s sort of like television, I suppose. Right? From your perspective, my stories are like reality television: You start with the idea that what you’re seeing is real, even though everyone watching at home knows it’s constructed entertainment. But then there’s another level, where an actual reality emerges from the simulated reality. All the fake relationships become real relationships. And then there’s a third level after that, the level of received realness, where all that universal fakeness ends up being closer to formal reality than the show’s original intention. That’s impressive, Victoria. You should get a job at MTV.

  VV:

  Does this mean you’re not answering my question?

  Y____:

  You already know the answer to your question. You’re taping these conversations, right? Go back and tell me what parts you think are unreal. I would be fascinated to hear which parts you think are fabricated. It would be truly fascinating.

  VV:

  Please don’t be offended. That’s not why I’m asking you these questions. You said you would be open to whatever I wanted to ask about … You know, I’m curious about something else: Have you ever heard of something called the Theory of Mind?

  Y____:

  Of course I have.

  VV:

  Of course you have.

  Y____:

  And? So?

  VV:

  Tell me what it means.

  Y____:

  Are you serious? Don’t you know what it means? This is idiotic.

  VV:

  Humor me.

  Y____:

  Okay, fine, whatever. (Exhales deeply.) The Theory of Mind. The Theory of Mind13 describes, basically, the ability to understand what people are really thinking. It’s what autistic people don’t have.

  VV:

  Keep going.

  Y____:

  Um, well … Christ, I didn’t expect the GRE today … one way of looking at it is … Okay, let me start again: It’s the ability to know what other people mean when they say things. The ability to understand how your own words are received by others. The ability to understand how words and actions are understood differently by different people. Is that what you’re looking for? I don’t know—I mean, I know what the Theory of Mind is, okay? But I probably can’t explain it in the way you want me to. I’m not some fucking Wikipedia writer.

  VV:

  Oh, you understand it. You do. You understand it completely. But sometimes I think you understand it so intuitively that you use it to manipulate others. To manipulate me.

  Y____:

  Really.

  VV:

  Your stories, in many ways, are all the same. They’re so similar, in fact, that I suspect you’re pre-anticipating my reactions in order to make me conclude certain things about who you are and what these stories represent. The Beatles, for example. Whenever you talk about observing people, you inevitably make some reference to music, and that music is inevitably the Beatles. There’s no possible way that this is a coincidence. It makes me think that you assume the Beatles are so well known that everyone—including someone like me—will take that repetition in some explicitly metaphoric way. It makes me think you’re trying to make me conclude something, even though I don’t know what that something is.

  Y____:

  The Beatles are popular.

  VV:

  Pardon?

  Y____:

  The Beatles are fucking popular. People listen to their music all the time. Different kinds of people. All generations, all subcultures. They’re ubiquitous. I mean, seriously, what the fuck are we debating here? I like music. I took ten years of piano and four years of classical guitar. All mathematicians love music. I can’t relate to people who don’t. Also, and not to be a jerk about this, but do you remember when I told you that story about watching the kid through his bedroom window? Who did I say that kid was listening to? Rush. He was listening to Rush. So why didn’t I lie about that? Why didn’t I claim he was listening to “Strawberry Fields”?

  VV:

  But that’s exactly what I mean. That story, the one about the boy and the window and Rush—I’m certain that story is authentic. I have no doubt whatsoever. I think that story would be almost impossible to make up. But that story is different from some of the others you’ve told me. That story is a pure memory. It doesn’t have an intention.

  Y____:

  I must admit, Vicky, this is not what I thought you’d want to ask me about when I came in here today. I accidentally kill a guy, and you want to talk about the Beatles.

  VV:

  But did you really kill anyone? This is important. We have to face this. Did you really kill him?

  Y____:

  Well … I didn’t murder him, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t intend to kill him. That wasn’t my intention. It just worked out that way.

  VV:

  I just can’t believe you killed someone, Y____. Or, more accurately, I can’t believe you could kill someone and simply move on. I don’t think you could kill someone without feeling anything, and I don’t think you’d joke about someone you killed accidentally. I don’t think you’re that kind of person.

  Y____:

  What kind of person is that? I already told you that I didn’t murder him. I’m not a murderer. I’m not that kind of person, if that’s what you’re implying. It’s much worse to want to kill someone and fail than it is to successfully kill someone by accident. And I do feel guilt. I never said I didn’t feel guilty. What I said is … I just don’t think I should feel guilt, which is why I came to you in the first place. Because I haven’t done anything wrong.

  VV:

  I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong, either. I don’t think you could do the things you’ve said you’ve done. I think you possess the ability to do bad things, and you’ve overstepped some significant social boundaries. I think you fantasize about doing terrible things, just as we all do. But I don’t think you have the capacity to end a stranger’s life—and to wreck a second stranger’s life—without feeling profound grief. You don’t think I know you, but in some ways I do. I know you’re not the person you want me to think you are.

  Y____:

  I suppose I do want you to like me, Victoria.

  VV:

  I know that.

  Y____:

  But not so much that I’d lie to you.

  VV:

  Try to see this from my perspective, just for a moment. You end up in a room with a bunch of large, hairy men. I think you referred to them as “gorillas.” And from your description, they all seem roughly identical. But you have no idea why they’re meeting at this apartment, who these people are, or why this is happening. Don’t you see how this might seem implausible? It seems more symbolic than realistic.

  Y____:

  I’m sure it does. But this isn’t a play. Isn’t that obvious? If that had never happened—if this was just something I concocted in my head—I would have made up a reason for those guys to be in the apartment. I could have said it was a birthday party, or a meeting of anarchists or One Percenters,14 or some kind of orgy. I could have said a hundred different things. If I was lying, I would have the answer to every question you ask. But I can’t control the parts of the story I don’t know, Victoria. Sometimes things happen and we never know why. That’s the difference between fiction and nonfiction. Only fictional stories require an explanation. Only fictional stories can’t have accidents.