The Ambidextrist. Peter Rock
none that I know of. Not that I spend a lot of time weighing myself.” As he speaks, he gestures with his hands; blue and pink feathers swing from a roach clip attached to his jacket’s collar.
“You say you’ve been in Philadelphia three months,” Lisa says. “What brought you here?”
Scott can tell by how she is sitting, how she leans away, that she is uneasy, that she wishes she was the one close to the door.
“You have family here?” she says. “Planned to meet someone?”
“I heard it’s a serious city,” he says, “so I wanted to try it out. I mean, there might be bigger ones—hell, there are bigger ones—but there aren’t any that are more serious.” He looks up at the acoustic tile in the ceiling, the fluorescent light flickering at him. That answer is the truth, partly; it is also true that he plans to meet someone, a woman, though he does not yet know who she is.
Out the window, the city spreads itself. The office they sit in is on the ninth floor of the university hospital, and he can see buildings, full of people, people driving in cars and walking in the streets below, disappearing under trees. Wires and signs fill the air.
“And your last employer was Kenny Rogers?” Lisa Roberts says.
“That’s true, technically. I been all over, since then.”
“Have you ever been convicted of a criminal offense?”
“No, I have not. Did you want to hear more about Kenny?”
“We have a lot of questions, here,” Lisa Roberts says.
“Shoot, then.”
“Do you believe you get enough exercise?”
“I stay in shape,” he says. “Jujitsu. That’s a martial art.”
“Yes,” she says. “What would you say is your best characteristic?”
“Perspicacity,” he says. “That means being real clear-sighted, if you didn’t know. Real acute.”
“And what would you say is your greatest weakness?”
“I’m pretty gullible,” he says. “I can really get taken in.”
That is a lie, but he’s found it works sometimes, opens people up a little. He wonders if perhaps being gullible is the opposite of perspicacity, and if that is what Lisa Roberts is writing now. He tries to read her face for some reaction, for some indication—they always say there are no right or wrong answers, but that isn’t true. Looking at her, he bets she is ten years older than he is, that she takes a shower every day. She wears dark tights, without any runs he can see; perhaps her toes poke through, inside her shoes, or the skin of her heel shows. A framed picture of a man with thick sideburns rests on the back of her desk, and frames hold two little girls, on either side. The same girl, Scott decides, at different ages.
“Gullible,” Lisa says, writing it down. “Have you ever taken medication for depression?”
“No.”
“Ever considered suicide?”
“Never.”
“Do you feel others are better, smarter, and better-looking than you?”
“I reckon they’re out there,” he says, “but I try not to think about them too much.”
“Are you satisfied with your current state of sexual activity?”
“Just how personal is this going to get?” Scott says. He is not answered, and he pauses, trying to figure how to slow the questions, so he can get some purchase on the situation.
“No,” he says softly. “I’m not. Now what would you say is your best characteristic?”
“Sorry,” Lisa Roberts says. “We don’t have time for that. I ask the questions, you answer them.”
“Feel a little rude, just talking about myself the whole time.”
“Well, this isn’t exactly a social conversation.”
He shrugs, as if to say he knew that. He wants to tell her not to underestimate, not to disrespect him, but she’s already resumed her questioning.
“Does it often seem,” she says, “that objects or shadows are really people or animals, or that noises are actually peoples’ voices?”
“No,” he says.
“When you look at a person, or yourself in the mirror, have you ever seen the face change right before your eyes?”
Scott leans close, his eyes on her, then eases himself back again.
“Are you the same person who asked me that last question?” he says.
“Yes,” she says, and begins writing.
“Easy there,” he says. “I was only joking with you—I never see anything like that.”
“Seriousness is necessary,” Lisa Roberts says. “We need to be certain of a few things, so when we administer the tests to you we can compare the results to those of our schizophrenic patients. You’re part of what we call the ‘normal control group.’”
“Not yet, I’m not,” he says. “First I got to answer the questions, and you still got to check my piss, my urine, and all that.”
“Right,” she says.
“That’ll be clean.” He pulls at the roach clip on his jacket. “You might of noticed this, here—it’s just for decoration. Found it somewhere. I’m clean.” He almost stands to speak, thinking it might help her believe him. “I’m a perfect specimen—that’s why I do this. I mean, not that I turn any money down, but I want you all to learn something from it.”
“Are you nervous?” Lisa says.
“This is just a real different situation. It’s a little disorientating, all these questions.”
“That’s normal,” she says. “Feeling that way.”
“Then I’m off on the right foot.”
“Take this piece of paper, fold it once, and put it on the floor.”
Scott does so, then watches Lisa pick it up.
“I heard they’re going to take pictures of my brain,” he says. “While I’m thinking. Here’s a thing that’ll interest you to know—I’m ambidextrous. Right hand, left hand, that’s all the same to me. Could help the tests, what with the hemispheres of my brain and everything. It’d be like testing two people for the price of one. Right brain, left brain, all that business.”
“Do you play any musical instruments?” she says.
“No,” he says. “What would that tell you?”
“Just curious,” she says. “Your jacket made me wonder.”
“It would be easier,” he says, “if I knew which questions are part of the test and which ones aren’t.”
“Would that cause you to change your answers?”
“No,” Scott says, after a pause. “Forget it.”
“Now,” Lisa says. “How about some True/False questions?”
“True,” he says.
“Answer these questions as they apply to you,” she says, ignoring his joke. “My body parts, or my skin, sometimes seem strange and not belonging to me.”
“False.”
“People don’t always appreciate me.”
“True.”
“I see things or people around me that others do not see.”
“Maybe the connections