Bredenberg - Imagine a Large-Breasted Woman

By Jeff Bredenberg

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GOSSAP THE ATTENDANT began the unpleasant task of disconnecting the waste tube from my rectum. He did it somewhat gently. Must be an important visitor here to see me, I decided.

He tilted my restraining trough until I stood nearly erect, and the white tile of the floor rocked into view. The motion set my arm and leg frames turning in squeaky-steel circles. In prison, you see, I am allowed to move my limbs in constricted patterns even exercise. The appearance of mercy is still important occasionally, even in cases such as my own.

Gossap was whistling The Stars and Stripes Forever, which hes not bad at, except when he botches the piccolo trills. He released my neck brace with a metallic snap and eased the rubbery tongue tie out of my mouth. Then he sprang the locks on the pin-wheeling limb restraints whack, whack, whack, whack. My stomach turned as I leaned out of the trough. Standing had become such an unnatural orientation. The corners of the room seemed cushioned by randomly shifting hydraulic supports, I took a halting step, and Gossap was there tugging at my shoulder, eager that I get my land legs back.

Who is it? I asked. Whos the big-fuckin-deal visitor? My tongue was packed in peat moss, or so it sounded.

Gossap frowned surely I was not so doped that I had forgotten the rules. He looked away and whistled the refrain again, ever more didactic. (Be kind to your web-rooted friends)

I waddled toward the rooms plexiglass door, a thick slab of laser-dissipating material. I shuffled down the corridor to the processing room, where I surrendered my gown and allowed several federal employees to conduct their body search. One peered up my anus, where he found nothing but the bonding gel left behind by the waste tube. The motive was more humiliation than security a rough reminder of whom I would answer to when my visit was done.

In the interview room sat a small, balding man with a round face. He wore spectacles which, these days, meant either an arty affectation of the wealthy or a necessity of the lower class. Anyone with health insurance can afford ocular surgery.

The fellow wore a bow tie and a lived-in Harris tweed. His cheeks had that baby-smooth look of a permanent laser depilatory job. So.

You got more than one of those white shirts, Ill bet, I said to him. He did not stand. The little man motioned to an empty chair. He peeled the lid off of a styrofoam cup and set it in front of the chair he wanted me to take. Steaming black coffee.

You dont know me, the man said. His eyes darted toward Gossap, who was locking the three of us into the room.

Oh, gawd. Things were getting complicated already a terrifying prospect when your mind has been a bowl of inert jelly for six years. Just when I was starting to think I recognized this gentleman, he said that I would not. He clearly had intimidated the hospital staff, yet Gossap seemed to make him nervous. I rolled my head in Gossaps direction.

They never leave me alone, I said. No telling what Ill do, left unsupervised.

The little man gave a knowing nod, a mannerism that sparked memories. I recalled the same man nodding knowingly to something I had said cons ago: in a restaurant. He speared a marinated artichoke in his salad bowl, and a small tear of juice blipped onto the tablecloth. And he was nodding just like he was now. A decade back, maybe more.

Youre an editor, I said. You bought a manuscript of mine once. We had lunch in here in Manhattan.

The little man shook his head. Gossap was still over by the door, frowning now.

Mack, you should drink your coffee, my visitor said. Itll dear your head.

I took a sip. It had a rancid chemical taste, reminiscent of bathroom tile cleaner. The editor bored into me with his stare, his eyes two half-inch bolts anchoring me to my seat and prohibiting me from reacting to the horrid taste.

Delicious, no? he murmured evenly.

Mmmm, I replied.

But he had told the truth about rearing my head. A sparkling sensation fizzed across my tongue, whirled down my esophagus, and erupted into my limbs like minuscule fireworks. Ah. Nice coffee.

I imagine, the editor said, that you have been sedated for some time. They tend to use A2 mist here, I think.

None of that! Gossap interrupted. You may not discuss hospital, um, treatment techniques.

But the editor was far ahead of Gossap. He wanted me to know that the gut-souring chemical in the coffee was releasing me from the grip of A2 mist. A veil was being lifted from my eyes. Suddenly the little man leaning into the marred table between us had a name Angus Doggler. He had a taste for antique clothes, martinis, and rare filet mignon. These things had been absent from my mind for many foggy years.

So then, Angus Doggler said to me cheerfully. Feeling up to it now, are we, Mack?

Up to what? I asked.

Up to what? asked Gossap, who was fidgeting by the door. A large circle of the doors plexiglass glowed orange and melted into fiery rivulets that seared Gossaps shoes. The attendant shrieked once, but a sickly crack-crack-crack tossed him to the floor, lifeless. Someone no, some people had entered the room through the circle that had been burned through the door. They were blurred images, the sort of figures you glimpse out of the comer of your eye. They were a presence, although barely detectable, scuffling about the tile. And they had just killed Gossap. Newly sure of my body, I stood. Doggler smirked at my confusion.

I would like you to meet Iris and Cochran, he said. They are wearing FPJs, garments that help the user avoid detection. Optical and psychological illusions.

FPJs.?

I heard ripping Velcro, and a mans face appeared over Dogglers shoulder

Cochran, I assumed. Another rip, and Iris was showing her face, too.

Fluoro-Protective Jumpers, Cochran said.

Or, if you wish, Fuzzy Pajamas, said Iris.

Gossap stared up at us from the comer of the room with large, round, dead eyes. His neck looked broken.

I would like to understand, I said.

You will, Doggler said in a near whisper. But we have to get you out of here first. Iris, give us our FPJs. Cochran, get the photonic cannon out of the corridor and break it down we shouldnt need it again.

Out of here? Were escaping?

Iris handed me a wooly ball of fabric. A few inches from my face, its color swam with gray, green, and violet. Held at arms length, it was virtually invisible. I found the arm holes and started to dress.

What is it, Cochran? You seem disturbed, said Doggler. Cochran looked up from his work and pointed at the cup from which I had sipped the ghastly chemical. You didnt catch it, Mr. Doggler? He said the cup was styrofoam.

Ah, said Doggler.

And he called the door plexiglass, Iris threw in.

Goodness, said Doggler.

The footies on my FPJs were a bit loose, intended to cover street shoes which I no longer owned. Iris helped me with the Velcro straps at my wrists.

I dont get it, I said.

Styrofoam is a trademark, Doggler said. Its capitalized, for one thing. And they dont make coffee cups out of Styrofoam anyway. You should call it plastic foam a generic term.

Okay, I get it. But who gives a shit?

The door, Iris said, is made of ferroplex, a completely different substance from Plexiglas. Which is spelled with a capital P and one S.

Doggler, who the fuck are these people.?

Doggler was fastening the front of his suit, and he gave me an irritated glance.

We have no time for chatter. We must hurry, he said. He nodded toward his accomplices. What kind of muscle did you think I could round up? Cochran and Iris are copy editors.

Doggler pulled his face flap closed and disappeared like the Cheshire cat. Doggler took the lead, and we formed a hand-in-hand chain. Into a freight elevator, down to a delivery tunnel, through a series of building maintenance rooms that whined with high gray machinery. At a final, battered door we removed our FPJs. Cochran handed me a yellow T-shirt and matching drawstring trousers and slippers. I pulled them on, cursing his taste in clothing, and we stepped into a public subway corridor.