The Visible Man

  Now: Does that satisfy you?

  [I say nothing.]

  The decision you’re going to have to make, Vicky, is how much this mental hurdle is going to impede your ability to work with me. I understand how strange it must sound. But here’s the thing: It’s not that strange, or at least not as strange as it feels at this specific moment. What the military wanted—and what I eventually finished—was simply a way to be unseen. They probably wanted to be unseen in order to murder Afghani dissidents, but my motives were different. I’m not a terrorist. I’m just a person. So can we get back to the problems that matter?

  [“Yes,” I say. But then I casually said something that enraged Y____. I said, “It’s just hard for me to accept that you’re the Invisible Man.”]

  Jesus Christ. Did you really say that? Am I drunk right now? Are we six years old? Are you really a therapist? Where did you go to school? Did they make you read books there, or did you get one of those online degrees? I am not an invisible man, Vicky. It’s not the fifties. I’m not black. People can’t be invisible. Sorry to disappoint you. You can’t see directly through something that’s not, you know, made of fucking Plexiglas. I didn’t drink a potion and disappear. I’m not fucking Gyges. There’s no magic ring. I don’t wear a cape. That’s not how it works. I was never invisible. I was always there. Jesus fucking Christ. Don’t you know how the human eye works? An invisible person would be totally blind. You realize that, right? A transparent retina wouldn’t register color. This is a little offensive, to be honest. More than a little. I spend all that energy explaining the cloaking process to you—despite my apprehensions, knowing you’re not a scientist—and still, this is what happens. You think I’m H. G. Wells. Actually, that’s not true. I’m sure you have no idea who H. G. Wells even is. They probably don’t cover that at the University of Phoenix. He’s probably not pictured on their home page. Do you know who Chevy Chase is? He was the invisible man, once. Maybe you think I’m like Chevy Chase. Do you know who that is? Did you ever see Fletch, or was the plot too complicated? Or maybe you’re more of a Kevin Bacon fan.

  [I inform Y____that his behavior is abusive. I inform him that I will end the session if he continues speaking to me in this style.]

  Then maybe we should end this session.

  [Long pause.]

  Okay, fine. Fuck my intentions. I was wrong to say those things. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I shouldn’t have said that stuff about Chevy Chase. You’re not like a six-year-old. I know you’re not an idiot, and I know that you know that. It’s just that … I mean, seriously? Invisible? You should know better. You do know better. Tangible objects can’t be invisible, ever. But they don’t need to be. That’s the crux of the concept. One of the most meaningful things I’ve learned from this is that people barely see what’s openly in front of them, much less things that are camouflaged. We all have a fixed perspective on how the world looks, and that perspective generates itself. We mentally change what we see to fit our unconscious perception of order. I’m sure you’re familiar with the phrase “People see what they want to see,” but that’s not really accurate. A more accurate phrase would be “People see what they assume must be seeable.” If there’s no sense of movement and no unexpected sounds, we typically let our mind produce a backdrop that matches our memory. People will look at the world without seeing anything beyond their unconscious expectation.

  I can vividly recall a few nights I spent in Dallas, imbedded inside the home of a man with a high-stress, physically taxing job. This was maybe two years ago. He was a man who would leave home very early in the morning and return two hours after sundown. He’d return dirty and mentally exhausted—his phone would ring and he’d totally ignore it. Never answered it once. Wouldn’t even check the caller ID. He’d take a shower, put a frozen pizza in the oven, drink a tumbler of iced tea, and watch MSNBC on the television, ninety percent naked. He usually went to bed before eleven. From an observational standpoint, the man did not give me much to work with. But I’ll always remember how detached he was from the room itself. It was like the room wasn’t even there. He had four pictures on the walls of his living room … images of vaguely sexualized women. Not photographs, but graphic art. Did you ever listen to Duran Duran? These paintings were sort of like the cover of the Duran Duran album Rio: Cheesy, I suppose, but tasteful to someone with blue-collar sensibilities. I’m sure when he originally bought ’em, they were replacing posters of Megan Fox or Dirk Nowitzki. He probably thought they were symbols of adulthood. On the third day I was inside, I swapped the location of two of these Rio-esque portraits while he was away at work. I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t notice they’d been moved. I’m sure I could have switched them around every afternoon. I probably could have painted one myself. That night, I sat unnecessarily close to this tired, seminaked man. I crouched on the carpet, maybe eighteen inches to the left of his couch. His sofa was in the middle of his living space, right out in the open, sort of like an island. Geographically, I was completely exposed. Except for the suit, I wasn’t even hiding. But his behavior never changed. He just stared straight at the TV screen with his big, brown, bottomless eyes. He had eyes like a horse. In every way possible, he was horselike. I wondered, “Would this horse-man even notice me if I were uncloaked?” Frankly, I doubt it. I really doubt it. What would he have seen? I don’t think he had the potential to see anything, real or imagined. But he was not the only one.

  END OF PHONE SESSION 2

  NOTES: This is going to be a problem. I am at fault. By agreeing to Y____’s terms (re: sustaining a one-way dialogue that he controls), I’ve only served to enable his delusions. He now believes he has the right to create any self-mythology for his own benefit, almost as if I am not there. Moreover, his anger at my mild skepticism prompts me to conclude that he’s more fragile than I initially realized. He has built a massive interior world for himself—a comic book where he’s a brilliant scientist who’s turned himself into an amoral superhero. Moreover, his detail-rich fantasies about hiding inside the homes of strangers suggest genuine psychosis and a real measure of danger. At present, I don’t believe that Y____ has committed any acts that would constitute felonious activity. But it’s not outside the realm of possibility. This has to stop. During our next phone discussion, my goal is to convince Y____ to meet me for a face-to-face session; after that, I will concentrate on directing him to a medical facility for psychological testing and possible medication. I am not equipped to deal with this level of disorder. Extremely despondent over this turn of events, but what else can be done? I can’t help this man. I am not a doctor.

  The Third Meaningful Phone Call

  APRIL 25 (Y____ calls office line, 10:01 a.m.):

  Vicky. Hello. I hope you’re not sitting in a puddle, soaked to the bone. [Reader’s Note: It had been raining heavily throughout the greater Austin area.] I tend to have bonko dreams when the weather is like this. Surreal, non sequitur vision quests, even within the surreal, non sequitur context of vision-questing. Last night I dreamed that I was talking to my gay sister. I don’t even have a sister, much less a gay one. But I did in this dream. We were discussing her adopted children, and I had all these insights about the kids and how to discipline them. I knew all these highly specific details about these imaginary children, adopted by a person who isn’t real. Plus, I could reference all these historical facts about my nonexistent gay sister—games we had played in our youth, bad relationships she had in high school. All of this arcane, distant background. But then, suddenly, the dream was different. I was no longer talking to my gay sister. I was in Venice. I was walking around Venice, alone, looking at the gondolas in the canals. Of course, I’ve never even been to Venice, I’ve never even thought about it as a place I’d like to visit. So I guess I was looking at whatever I must imagine Venice looks like? I’m not sure I’ve even seen photographs, although I suppose everybody has at some point. How else would I know what a gondola even was? But regardless, while I was walking around
this city I’ve never visited, I realized my gay sister was dead, even though she’d never actually existed. I started to worry about her imaginary kids again—who would raise them, who would pay for their tennis lessons, that sort of thing. I think there was a cat swimming in the canal, or maybe a thousand little cats and one big cat. It’s really too bad that dreams don’t mean anything. I wish I could learn something by sleeping. But, of course, I can’t. Nobody can, ever. Dreams are fake. Freud was a cokehead, you know. No different than Scarface. Who else would believe that shit? Dream talk is crazy talk, delivered by the drowsy uncrazy. Except for maybe those dreams where you look into the bathroom mirror and your teeth start to fall out—it does seem strange that everyone has that same specific dream. What does chewing represent for our collective unconscious? Probably something to do with horses.

  Okay, before we begin I’d like to take a little—

  [I stop Y____ and ask if I can pose a few questions—not conversational directives, but a few specific queries that I need him to confirm or deny. I tell him that it’s essential I verify certain facts before we discuss anything further. He agrees to my request. These are my questions and his responses:]

  Q: You are a scientist. Would you say that statement is true? Are you a scientist?

  A: Uh, yes.

  Q: And you have a college degree, and you’ve worked in the capacity of a scientist?

  A: What? Yes.

  Q: And one of the places where you worked in this capacity was at Chaminade University in Hawaii, and your central scientific project was the creation of a suit that—while not making you invisible—allowed you to appear invisible to other people.

  A: Yes. Sure, sure. Yes. What are you getting at? Am I missing something?

  Q: And you eventually used this suit for your own personal gain?

  A: No. Not for my personal gain. That’s an incorrect reading of what I’ve described.

  Q: Did you use this suit to enter people’s homes?

  A: Yes. To observe them. This was a scientific endeavor. I’ve stated this countless times. I wasn’t robbing them, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I’m not a thief. I wasn’t peeping for thrills. I’m no peeper. Is that what you’re suggesting? That I’m some kind of thieving peeper?

  Q: I’m not suggesting that. But I do need to ask one more question. Can I assume, or would it be safe to say, that the reason you have contacted me is to talk about how the process of using this invisibility suit to spy on strangers has negatively impacted your day-to-day life?

  A: Yes. Yes. Yes! Have I been talking to myself for the past two months? Why are you asking me to explain the only things I’ve already explained at length?

  [At this point I made a request for Y____to come in to my office in person. I tell him that I can no longer help him over the telephone.]

  What? Why? Where is this coming from? What will that accomplish? I thought we agreed on this. There were certain terms I outlined as imperative. Relatively speaking, this seemed like a minor one. You’ve expressed no problem having these conversations in this style. It’s never been an issue. I’m more comfortable on the telephone. It allows me to think more clearly. And … it’s more convenient. I’m a busy person. Don’t you realize I’m a busy fucking person? Why do I need to come to your office and sit there like some housewife with postpartum depression? I’m not going to do it.

  [In response, I give Y____ a host of valid reasons why face-to-face meetings would be to our advantage: they’re more intimate, nonverbal language has significance, trust cannot be galvanized over the phone, etc. These are all fake reasons, but I express them out of courtesy.]

  That’s horseshit. That’s fiction. You would have mentioned those things immediately if they were true. You have an ulterior motive here. Your lies are transparent. What are you trying to get for yourself? Is it that you want to see the suit with your own horsey eyes? Or is it that you want to not see this “Invisible Man” you can’t stop yourself from mentioning? Are you falling in love with me? Are you falling in love with some childish notion of an invisible man? The Invisible Man is not real, Vicky. It was a book. There is no such creature. You need to come to grips with that. I’m just a person. You’ve seen men like me before. Don’t you have a husband? Try loving your husband.

  [I ask him to remain calm. I tell him this is a professional decision, not a personal one.]

  But a professional decision would be based on reason. It would be built on specifics, and those specifics would be clear to both of us. You’re communicating through abstractions. Your arguments are horseshit—you’re just throwing around buzzwords to sound like you’re not making an arbitrary, personal choice. Which, I would argue, is exactly what you’re doing. If you can’t tell me the real reason you want to meet with me in person, I don’t see how my doing so could be helpful.

  [On this point, I concede that Y____ is correct. I apologize. I proceed to tell him my actual reasoning for wanting a face-to-face meeting: It’s because I do not believe the things he is telling me, and I suspect he needs a different kind of help. I tell him that he is not a bad person and that I can sense his intellect, but that his intellect is the reason he came to me in the first place—he knows that he has significant mental health issues. As such, he also knows it’s not too late to become the man he used to be. I tell him that I am probably not the person who can provide that help, but that I can connect him to someone who can. Again, I reinforce the likelihood that he already knows I’m right about this. Y____ listens without interrupting, and then he says this:]

  This is interesting, Vic-Vick. I’m surprised to hear you state your feelings so directly. I’m not surprised you thought these things, but I am very surprised you said them. I’m actually impressed. I’ve kind of been waiting for this.

  I’ve told you who I am and I’ve told you why I called you. And you don’t believe me. You think, “This is some kind of new insanity.” Or maybe you think it’s just the old insanity, repackaged as bad television. This is what your mind is telling you to believe. You view yourself as a therapist, which—in a broad sense, from your perspective—makes you a certain type of scientist. A rationalist. You view yourself a rational being who assists other people in driving their flawed relationships toward rationality. That’s essentially your job, isn’t it? Your job is to talk to people who see their lives irrationally, and you try to coax them toward a rational balance. You can’t tell them how to feel or how to think, even if that’s what they want. You can only ask them leading questions that force them to talk to themselves. “If they could just hear what they themselves are saying,” you think to yourself, “they’d see how their view of the world is skewed.” That the view they hold is unrealistic, or maybe unnaturally personal. In order to do what you do, this is how you need to think. So when I call you up on the telephone, and I tell you I’ve done these unbelievable things, and I explain how I am unlike every other person you’ve ever met, you can’t accept what I say. Your whole self-identity tells you that my unbelievable stories are literally unbelievable, and that I’m just a normal person with a delusion. So you ask me to come to your office. You want to prove to yourself that I have a different problem than the one I’ve outlined over the past two months. Now, honestly, I think you know that everything I’ve told you is true. I don’t think I’ve said one thing that you don’t believe. But there’s no way you can admit that. It would make your own relationship with rationality unmanageable. So maybe you want to avoid the collision. Maybe you think if you demand my physical presence, I will refuse to comply, thereby ending our relationship on your terms. Or maybe you think I will show up at your office door and admit that this has been an elaborate hoax, perpetrated by one of your colleagues, and you will be a little embarrassed and a little relieved. You’re in a peculiar position right now: You can’t believe what you believe. And you want to void that feeling, so you’re changing the rules. This is by no means irrational. I understand completely. I do it all the time.

  Let
me tell you a story. I don’t know if it will help you understand where we’re at, but I’m going to try nonetheless. It happened in Cleveland. This was a few years ago. Three years ago, if I recall correctly. I spent four months in Cleveland, following a variety of random Clevelanders. This was difficult, because absolutely everyone in Cleveland drives. It’s like L.A. It was hard to find a decent mark, because I’d have to find an unlocked car in the afternoon, wait in the vehicle for several hours, and then stow away in the backseat while they drove home. Then I’d have to figure out a way inside their house, and—very often—the homes would be in suburban areas, like Lakewood or Mayfield or Cleveland Heights. The upside to this was that it’s much easier to sneak into a freestanding home than into an apartment, because modern houses have a lot of vulnerable openings. The mechanics are pretty simple. But the downside to watching someone in a suburb is that you’re often trapped in the middle of nowhere. If things went wrong, it would take forever to get back to the center of the city, which is where I was temporarily living. Sometimes I’d have to walk the whole way back, because there’s really no public transportation in Cleveland and I didn’t like the risk involved with stealing cars. But these details don’t matter right now. What I want to talk about is a particular guy I watched for almost a week. His name was Bruce.