There was a long throng of potential actors chosen to play out their parts. I moved up and down the lengthy line, inquiring if any of them happened to catch sight of my friend. They were more concerned with landing their lines properly, and more interested in spreading bad rumours about their perceived competition in hopes of landing a part.
“Have you seen a lethargic man acting strangely, saying odd yet familiar things at intervals?”
I was greeted with stares of apprehension. My informal request was broad enough to apply to pretty much everybody in a countrywide cubical radius. I surveyed the long trail of people, expecting to find a familiar face. None were forthcoming, though there were a few recent faces I’d been introduced to recently.
When talking to the Sneezing Woman, she was reluctant to talk to me, the Brunette because she didn’t think she herself was that interesting, and the Blonde because she didn’t want to be a stereotypical display for pain. The latter was a ticking tightrope to talk to, since the slightest thing could set her off, causing her to cast vehemous threats my way emphasized with creative actionable words of anatomical impossibility of ripping my head off and stuffing it down my throat.
I always ask permission before I use someone’s story, even though I wrote an apt description:
The Sneezing Woman is an intriguing study of contrasts, two opposing personalities occupying the same body. She has a striking figure that you can’t help but lure your eyes around, which is unavoidable when she sticks her fingers up your nose and forces you to follow her around.
She can’t choose her friends, but she can pick her enemies’ noses.
Somehow, around our casual conversation, our topic of discussion revolved around asking her about ‘J’.
“You wouldn’t have happened to notice somebody with a cowlick tuft hairdo around here?”
“I don’t trust him. He’s always asking invasive questions.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t you start getting any smart ideas!”
“No, I’m asking about him, not you.”
She relaxed, loosening her vice grip around my neck. “He’s always asking pointless stuff, like what my name is, what I did, how I’m doing, that kind of useless trivia.”
“Does he ask about everyone a lot?”
“Just the ones that interest him. And he’s always disappearing at times, doing who knows what.”
“F’nzeene! He seems like a nice enough man.”
“What do you like about him?”
“He’s always so curious about me, asking what I like, what I dislike, what I’ve done, what I’m going to do. Never asking for anything in return. Most men always want something in return. Doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes.”
“What was his name again?”
“Come to think of it, I don’t think it’s ever come up.”
“You’ve told him all about yourself, and you don’t know a thing about him?”
“He’s always been around. Except for when he sneaking off to who knows where. Seems suspicious, but I’m sure he has his reasons.”
“Kachoo! He has reasons to keep his secrets to himself, and they’re all bad. He reminds me a lot of the (Wo)man who prowls these halls, regaling me with tales of Men who looked like Men, but weren’t Men.”
“What kind of Men - ”
“Don’t get her started! It’s ALL she talks about. Once she gets off, she’s impossible to stop.”
And that was where the conversation ended, with both of them refusing to speak any further on the matter. It took me some time for me to realize who they were talking about. I had trouble narrowing down the source at first since all the women I inquired remained tight-lipped in my presence. That was until I realized that her unusual accenting of the gender wasn’t a verbal preference, but referencing a specific person. They were talking about the (Wo)Man. After that, it was a challenge to find h(im)er and work up the courage to talk to h(im)er.
“Are you the one who talk about Men who look like Men, but aren’t Men?”
“Depends. Am I your type?”
“We’ve only just met. And we’ve met before. Am I your type?”
“I prefer girls!”
“Oh, phew. So, you’re a lesbian?”
“No. But within the boundaries of my forced definition, yes.” (S)He took a deep breath. “You have no idea how exhausting it is to constantly tell people over and over about how to talk to me. Oftentimes, it’s just easier to not let them know in the first place. Every new person I meet, it’s a struggle to determine whether they know about me or not, so I usually don’t bother. It’s much easier to stick with my circle of select friends who understand me.”
“How many?”
“One. But that’s better than none. My mother is the only one of my immediate family who still talks to me, and even that’s limited. Calls to the outside world are always strained. Our conversations are variations of:”
“You sound very nice. Are you seeing my son?”
“I am your son!”
“No, I don’t think so. I’d tell. How’d you two meet?”
“We didn’t meet! We’re the same person!”
“So, you’re dating yourself?”
audible grumblings of incoherent rage lasting longer than expected, slowly dying down until greeted with the response, “...yes.”
“It’s a shame you’re locked up here.”
“You need to find my wife. She can clear this whole thing up.”
“I don’t know where my son’s gone off to. He’s simply disappeared on me. It’s not like him.”
“Look a little closer, and you might find him.”
“I may have to live with the realization that he’s just gone. You’re a very nice lady to listen to an old mother’s problems.”
“I’m NOT!”
“Manners. It’s not becoming for a young lady to shout.”
“You don’t get much chance to engage in regular conversation, do you?”
“Does it show?”
“Well - ”
“People around here have absolutely no respect! The world has been taken over by cheap imitators who have absolutely no respect for others. All those imposters who try to get by without any social status of their own.”
“Have you been in contact with a young man asking questions? Goes by the name of ‘J’?”
“I’m a man despite what the paperwork says about me! But everybody demeans me just because of that one niggling detail! A simple misplaced checkmark in the wrong box. Now, I’m regulated to the degrading status of a plebe not worth listening to. If it weren’t for that, they could treat me with reverence if they’d just get to know me a little. That’s all I ask.”
“If you’re having trouble talking to the male patients, you could try talking to the females.”
“Why should I? They’re all women!”
As interesting as these tangential discussions were, these people weren’t who I was looking for. When I wasn’t talking to the random patient about their views, most of my time was spent standing in line, which promoted boredom, a fount for providing inspirational ideas that needed to be jotted down in a hurry, lest the original material be lost. And with a restriction on writing supplements available, I had to confine these wandering thoughts in my mind while enduring the eternal torment of waiting for my turn until I could retreat to my private chambers to jot down these concepts while they were still fresh in my mind, only capturing the barest glimpses of inspiration.
This task was made doubly difficult while surrounded by an everlasting cacophony of perpetual background noises, peppered by the occasional perpetual scream.
It was much easier to concentrate on my writings when I wasn’t surrounded by distractions, so I’d pass the time until nightfall came, which was difficult to tell with no timepieces or windows to gauge the passage of time. I’d been searching for wayward patients, looking in unexplored passages to the point of exhaustion without success, wandering the vast hall of vacant haunted faces when I came across a familiar face.
“I was beginning to think I’d made you up.”
“Sorry for the sudden absence. I was feeling uncomfortable.”
Standing before me was the individual only known as ‘J’ who’d introduced me to the Director, who’d conducted a sudden disappearing act just when I needed his presence the most. Somehow, I’d managed to get on the Director’s good side, though not without reservations. After that impromptu meeting, I was responsible for providing plethora of stories, which I was under immense pressure to produce, despite the material not being up to the Director’s exacting standards.
“I asked around, and there were a lot of people suspicious about your presence. You were asking all kinds of invasive questions.”
“How convenient that you should have the Director as your Playwright.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” I coughed.
“Are you saying you don’t know who you’re working with? In fact, he’s my main reason for sneaking in. Don’t you know what he did?”
“When he’s ready to reveal his story to me, I will.”
“I have to admit, I’m jealous. I’ve been trying to get into the Director’s good graces, but he’s always refused me, and you’ve managed to impress him in a short time. You’ll have to teach me.”
“It’s not much of a trick. He was impressed by my writings. I don’t know why. I don’t have a creative bone in my body. All I can do is combine stories that already exist. I am incapable of creating anything new. Anybody could do what I can do if they put their mind to it. Not that I got much rest lately. I was kept up at all hours, from them playing that noise they call music.”
“Technically, ALL music is noise.”
“I know music, and that noise is no music.”
Apparently, I wasn’t the only renowned celebrity in here. These guys were famous in their own right. And I always thought of them as being annoying.
“You mentioned something about the Director directing a controversial play?”
“A play based on a banned piece of work that drove everybody who played a part in it mad. From the original screenwriter to the actors to the publicist to the audience. Everyone was affected and no one was left intact.”
“I think I might’ve heard something about that.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“It might’ve come up in conversation.”
I recalled talking to the Director about revising some lines that were lengthy run-on sentences, and the need to either cut them down for screen time or breaking them down into proper sentences to let the actors breathe, cutting the bare bones of my overwrought prose down to the bare essentials, as I have a tendency to overwrite. He was contributing to the editing process when the Director casually mentioned bragging about being responsible for a groundbreaking play. The subject had come up several times, and I got the impression it was something he was hoping to talk about.
“Your play drove people crazy?”
“That’s a slanderous lie! Spread by critics who couldn’t possibly appreciate the genius behind my adaption that could only be comprehended by devoted watchers paying close attention to the subtle machinations working behind the scenes!”
“Care to explain that?”
“Certainly.” Then the lighting changed into a softer shade, slowly revealing a spotlight surrounding the Director, the Albino Doggie and Dodo beside him accompanied the score with rhythmic contributions of their own. He brought out a microphone capturing his controlled breathing as background music setting the tone swelled, and was just about to belt out his first lyric when I requested,
“Without singing.”
“No, I cannot.” he replied, the lighting suddenly reverting back to normal, tossing the microphone behind him. “Do you have any idea - how much time and effort I sunk into that production? There’s no way I’d be satisfied with having it reduced to a simple song and dance!”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“No, no, rejection is one of the necessary traits needed to grow a thicker skin. It’s only to be expected of an unreceptive test group too incogitative to appreciate the higher arts to refuse my generous trial performance offer. I’ll just have to wait until a more receptive audience comes up willing to embrace my work. That’s the thing about us artists - we’re a temperamental lot, unable to function in daily life. Just know that you passed up being exposed to a masterpiece you’d hardly notice time passing, even as it lasted for ages!”
Thanks to the not-a-lawyer lawyer’s intervention, I was now shuttered in with patients who were shown to have some kind of artistic benefit. I had just traded one wing of madness for another. Everybody there had an opinion about something or other, and weren’t shy about letting others know on the subject. Others were more reclusive and tended to shy away, never letting anybody see the results of their genius. This led to one of my latest discoveries borne after trying to engage with some of the residents there: Never try to argue with an artist. No one told me about any of this. I had to figure this out on my own.
“You had the chance to hear about the play from the source himself, and you passed it up?!”
“Look, you’re free to listen next time, as long as you don’t run away.”
“You don’t understand - the Director only gets inspiration to share his past every once in a rare moon. Who knows when that’ll strike ever again.”
“You already know plenty about his play. Why does this matter so much to you?”
“Well, I was hoping to hide it but I might as well confess... I’m a Journalist.”
“You?”
“Talking to the patients in here is extremely difficult... under normal conditions. Normally, interviewing anyone within these wings is heavily restricted, always in the company of supervisors to ensure that no improper actions from the patients are taken. And there are many actions that can be considered improper. Gaining access without supervision is a long labourious routine with very little payoff. The fastest and surest way of doing so was to feign madness. It’s remarkably simpler than you think. I got in by borrowing the ID of a teacher who’d gone crazy from one student who simply wouldn’t take ‘Because’ for an answer. It’s hard to convince people you’re not crazy when you’re in an institution for the crazy. The more you insist ‘I’m not crazy!’, the crazier you seem, so it’s better not to bother. All that’s needed for admittance is for someone to claim that you’re insane. To get in, it is easy. But to get out, is not so easy. Unless you have someone on the inside or the outside who can vouch for you, leaving this place is a mountainous ordeal. And that’s not even counting memorizing the insane amount of personal information that’s in danger of being forgotten if left inside for too long.”
“If it’s jotting down notes that won’t get noticed, it’s easier to hide them where they won’t get noticed. What I’ve found is that oftentimes, if you’re trying to reveal forbidden knowledge that the censors would prefer remain hidden, it’s easier to pass it off as a background detail inside a story instead.”
For instance, I tried to unveil the controversial details surrounding the Crater, and was stymied for my efforts. But somehow, that piece of trivia remained unscathed in the tail end of another piece of media, Memoirs of Babyface.
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