The Ambidextrist. Peter Rock
the most lucrative trials were, or where they would be.
In that trial they got checked with the tongue depressor and the flashlight, after every pill. Only half the subjects were on the cold medicine—Scott was—and the rest were on the placebo. While he’d been unable to stay awake, those on the placebo, like Oliver, must have been jacked up on some kind of speed. They never slept.
This was back when Scott carried substantial amounts of cash on his body, before he knew better. The company provided lockers for valuables, but no one trusted them. Half-awake, fighting to rise, he had found the money gone. Oliver sat in the next bed, staring at him, though the television was on. He denied the accusation before Scott even got it all the way out.
“No, man,” he said. “I been watching you the whole time, to make sure nothing like that happened. I only stepped out once or twice, sneaking a smoke, and some fucker must’ve slipped in then.”
That was the end of drug trials for Scott. He disliked the idea of Oliver watching him while he slept, and the likelihood that he’d touched him made it even worse. It was the money and the principle of the thing, both, neither one more than the other. Never again will he let himself be locked into a place with friends who aren’t friends.
Now, sitting on the steps of the museum, he can only remember this. It’s the middle of the day and the sun is straight overhead. There are no shadows. It’s not so hard putting up with these temperatures, since it means the nights don’t get too cold; he’s not yet sure what he’ll do once winter returns. Now heat shivers the air, makes it harder to see. He squints. A man sits facing away from him, on a bench at the bottom of the steps. Two girls rollerskate past.
The waist of these pants is cinched in with a safety pin. In the drug trials, once, they’d been given leather hobby kits, and he’d made a belt—he’d meant to center his name, right across the back, but misjudged how skinny he was, so it rode above his hip. The belt had been stolen with his other pants, a few nights before. These pants are not as good, their hems gone ragged; taking out a match, Scott singes off the loose strings.
He’s found a new backpack, but one of the straps is gone and he’s replaced it with a piece of twine, doubled back. Next to him, and a step down, his boots stand with the socks draped across their tops. His T-shirt dries on his other side; he reaches for it, flips it over. He’s rinsed it in the fountain, along with the socks, after his hair. He rakes his bangs back, wanting them to dry right, feathered over his ears. It’s important to look good, he knows, if he wants to be treated decently; he has a trial tomorrow, at the hospital, where he won’t have to deal with any other subjects, won’t be taking any drugs. They’ll just be taking pictures of the inside of his head, checking to see what his brain looks like when he puts it in motion.
He has been watching the man at the bottom of the steps for over a half hour now. Plenty of people look alike, and sometimes he has to see someone move, hear them speak, before he is certain. Whether or not this man is Oliver, the similarity has made Scott remember those times. That has made him anxious.
He moves closer, quietly, and it’s clear before he gets halfway there. Oliver always wears a stocking cap, regardless of the heat. He is eating a stick of beef jerky, drinking a can of V-8, and there’s probably some strategy in that—some say drinking four gallons of water the night before will hide a dependency; others drink mineral water or vinegar, eat pounds of raisins and spinach, liver barely cooked. Scott’s heard all the tricks, though he doesn’t need them; he thinks that’s selfish, dishonest. If it throws off the tests, it could hurt someone down the line.
He stands transfixed, twenty feet from Oliver, whose back is still turned. He is about to retreat when Oliver, with a quick jerk, looks over his shoulder.
“Scotty!” he says. “Wondered if that was your ass, sitting up there.”
“It was,” Scott says. “It is.”
“Come on over here.”
Oliver wears running shoes with no socks, a tweed vest with nothing underneath it. His age always seems to vary, swinging between forty and sixty; today he looks old. His face is fleshy, and blood vessels line the bridge of his nose.
“Been missing my sidekick,” he says.
“Where is he?” Scott says.
“Talking about you, of course. Spare a few bucks?”
“No. How about you?”
“Touché,” Oliver says, chuckling. His brow folds down, almost hiding his eyes. The stocking cap is brown, a white stripe around it. “Haven’t seen you around the trials,” he says. “You haven’t done something stupid like getting a job, have you?”
“Nothing like that,” Scott says. He takes off his sunglasses, rubs the lenses on his pantleg, then puts them back on. What frustrates him most is he can’t prove Oliver crossed him, though they both know what happened. That knowledge is in the tone of Oliver’s voice.
“Word is there’s real money in St. Louis,” he’s saying, “and four thousand a month down in Baltimore.” He tears the jerky with his teeth, talks as he chews. “Play pool, watch movies, eat free food.”
“That’s not for me,” Scott says.
“Networking,” Oliver says. “Some of these trials I’m talking here haven’t even been posted. What’s your problem?”
“I’m tired of moving all the time, is what it is. Feel like staying in one place for a while.”
“And you picked this one?” Oliver says. “Sometimes, though, sometimes I almost know what you mean. Right now, for instance, I got a woman in a place over on Market Street.”
Scott yawns to show Oliver how impressed he is.
“One quarter at a time, I admit that, but she knows I’m there, she talks to me.”
“Pathetic,” Scott says.
“Scotty, Scotty.” Oliver crushes the V-8 can in his fist. “I got to love your high horse. Missed it. You know, we’re going to have a little get-together tonight, little party. You might do a little better for yourself if you mingled more. Could make it easier on yourself.”
“Never said I wanted it easy.”
“You’ve got to come down a little, is all’ Oliver says. “Or someone’ll bring you down.”
A cheap metal ringing sounds, and then the bicycle clatters by—horns and flashlights lashed to the handlebars, music blaring from the single speaker, a tangle of wire bending and recoiling over the back wheel. The old man’s legs spin as he sits rigid, churning past, not even glancing at Scott.
“Wow,” Oliver says.
“Have to talk to that guy,” Scott says, turning away.
“Hold on,” Oliver says, “I’m not through with you,” but Scott’s already gone.
Vaulting up the steps, he jams his feet into his socks, then his boots. His damp shirt in one hand, he throws his pack over his shoulder. Stumbling, he picks up speed as he heads along the paved path, around the side of the museum. He meant to follow only beyond where Oliver can see, to escape him; then he sees Ray—fifty feet away, stopped, not looking back; he begins to ride again, unsteady until his balance finds its speed.
Scott doesn’t stop running. He rocks from one leg to the next on the heels of his boots, passing joggers, almost tangled in the leashes of dogs. He’s not sure why he’s following, but he doesn’t want Ray to escape, to believe he’s put one over.
“Whoa there, cowboy,” someone says.
The twine cuts into his armpit, and still he runs. He hears voices, music, on Ray’s radio; classical music floats back like a soundtrack to his pursuit. When he doesn’t feel he can run any more, he lets momentum take over; he forgets about stopping. Past boys carrying long oars, around women with baby carriages. Ray could lose him if he wanted to, and Scott suspects he’s