Chapter 1:

“I’m not even that fucking old!” Alan gritted his teeth and tossed a cordless phone overhand like a grenade. The doctor recoiled and hid behind his own outstretched arms.

“If you’ll just stop throwing things at me,” said Dr. Steele. “We can talk about options in neurobiological research.” Allen watched a teapot shaped like an elephant fly out of his hand and over Dr. Steele’s head. It shattered over the intersection of shelves in a wooden bookcase covering the back wall of the office. The pudgy doctor dove behind a sofa like he had practiced it many times before. But the danger had passed.

“Hey man, are you ok?” Allen asked. “I’m sorry for flying off the handle. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll get you a new teapot.” Allen gazed at the couch, holding his open palms up like he was pleading with an angry toddler. “Richard?”

“Yeah, I’m ok…it’s just really cozy back here,” said Steele. His words were muffled as if he were talking through a door. “I had my assistant put a furry rug down. It feels like I’m lying on top of a highland cow.” A brief silence was filled with that snoring sound of someone trying to breathe through their nose and mouth at once. 

“Alright, get up! Explain yourself.”

“C’mon, Allen. Chill out.” The doctor breathed deep into the rug like he was exactly where he needed to be.

“Dementia? Are you screwing with me? That’s not funny!”

Allen lifted a heavy mug off the desk with a scrape, which the doctor evidently heard because he said, “Alright, that’s enough!” A hand landed on the top of the sofa, and Dr. Steele heaved himself up until they were face to face.

  “You keep telling me about your nightmares even though I don’t ask. Plus, I’m not a psychologist. That might be an indication of poor concentration and confusion with time and place.  Sometime over the next year, your brain may decide it’s unwilling to put up with the terrifying images projected by your subconscious. You’ll start to tune out in daily life. Also, you’ve been growing more angry and crazy since Rose passed away. Tendency toward emotion is a sign of dementia onset as well. Let’s discuss your symptoms another time once you’ve calmed down, and I’ve gotten all your results. I don’t want to give a firm diagnosis just yet.”

      Allen felt ready to surrender somewhat. He dropped his arms by his sides, shrugged, then ambled over to the couch. He fell on it and put his feet up on the cushions without removing his shoes. Gazing up at the ceiling, he pointed a finger at an armchair, “Sit. Sit over there.” Steele reluctantly obeyed. “Last night, I dreamt I was going to prison. It was constantly nighttime. I was fighting a charge that I would probably lose. I would go to jail if convicted. They were going to lock me up with a bunch of really crazy fuckers. For some reason, they let me visit jail during the trial. The whole place looked like it was built underground in a system of caves. Angry, muscly guys, all tattoos and testosterone, kept pouring out of the caverns wearing only towels like they wanted to have a fight in the showers. They looked like indestructible rapist battle tanks.” 

“Allen, please, again, with the dreams. It’s really not my special….”

“Then I dreamt I was scuba diving in a sunken ship in cold stormy waters. I didn’t know how much oxygen I had left. It was almost night, I was alone, and the whole place was full of sharks. Tiger sharks, hammerheads, bull sharks, and…” He hesitated. “A great white!” 

Dr. Steele shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable after watching Allen panic from his own story. Allen looked over at him. “Huh…would I rather be raped or bitten by a shark?” Allen glanced at Steele, suddenly aware he was thinking out loud. 

      Dr. Steele regarded Allen with concern, holding his hands in front of his lips in a teepee shape. “Yeah, this is bad,”  he said. 

      “What? You think I’m crazy? Hey, what are you writing?” The doctor was holding a notebook and pencil. Despite claiming not to be a therapist, he was observing Allen from a cross-legged pensive posture.

      “Me? Nothing.” Steele glanced off to one side without moving his head.

      “Oh yes, you are! What are you writing about me?” Allen got out of his comfy repose and started staggering around the low square glass table towards Steele.

      “Nothing! I’m not writing anything about you. It’s just…” Allen put a palm in his face and pulled the notepad out of his hand.

      “What the hell is this?” Dr. Steele was telling the truth. It was a drawing: A man lay in a floating doughnut in a lagoon. One hand held a bottle of rum. The other a lit joint. The man in the doughnut had his face obscured by a Panama hat that was shielding him from the sun, which had a smiling face drawn on it. Two busty dark-haired women in bathing suits stood next to palm trees and waved at the floating man. An arrow that pointed to his body read ‘Richard.’ A blue and pink bird flew upside down toward the sun. The title read: ‘Next week in Cuba.’ At the bottom of the page was written a task list:

‘1. Pull out cash.

2. Shave goatee into mustache.

3. Die hair black.

4. Find a weed dealer in Havana

      “Die hair black?”

      “I want to blend in,” Steele said. But Allen’s eyes went to the man’s short greying hair. “Not all of us have the luxury of looking as young as you, Allen,” said Steele, snatching his pad back.

      “You’re going to Cuba?”

      “I told you I’m not your psychiatrist.”

      “Speaking of which…

      “No, I’m not going to prescribe you Valium.”

      “You’re an asshole.”

Dr. Steele stood up. “Do you still want to play?” he said, revealing a tennis racket and hitting a yellow ball rapidly against the ground like he was preparing to serve. Allen considered the shorter, squishier man for a second with squinted eyes.

“No. I’m sick of watching you chase the ball around the court. It’s like watching a sheepdog trying to catch a butterfly.” Allen offered his friend one final sneer and opened the door to leave.

“You’re an asshole! You’re such an asshole! No wonder you’re losing your fucking mind.” Richard threw the ball into the air, then struck it in Allen’s direction. But he had already begun to close the office door, so the ball ricocheted and struck a crystal brain full of M&Ms, which shattered in six colors across the floor. 

Allen exited the parking lot of the Pacific Design Center: a complex of three modern glass buildings; one blue, one red, and one green. He drove out into an incredibly hospitable day. Hot, tennis-playing weather that would eventually give way to a perfect night. Across the street, Allen could see young and sexy people drinking white wine and Aperol Spritzes. They were smoking weed out of vapes and eating salads that were ridiculously priced because they were served in a place that looked like it should have been in Barcelona. It was awesome. But not for Allen.

Flower-child fuckheads! The sun didn’t shine as brightly for him. You can be rich and miserable here. But Allen wouldn’t admit that cliche out loud. He started driving home, though he had no reason to. He had nothing to do. The drive was one of elevation from the flatland of West Hollywood to the hills of mansions above. He always plowed up his street for no reason other than Why shouldn’t I get there faster? But he slammed the brakes and swerved a little. A housekeeper screamed. The two white children she was looking after screamed. Allen screamed back. “Stop fucking screaming!” 

Thank God he forgot to put his window down. Who knows how traumatized the kids would have been? “There are so many damn children here, and I don’t have any tear gas!” said Allen loudly to himself in the chamber of his Tesla. Why did I think of that? His face started to contract. He feared contacting the part of his mind that kept that information. That secret. His father, whose destiny he would soon inherit. It was being forced on him. He pressed up the hill. He was close to home. He needed to get there and hide his face.  Just get inside. A big house for one man: A library for all his issues.

He felt so drained by the way he left things with Steele. One of his few true friends. Is he my only friend? Steele would forgive him. He was just that kind of guy. Unfazed. Unbothered. Not one to hold a grudge. He laughed at absolutely everything. Allen was jealous of his ability to roll with the punches. The more he laughed, the funnier everything became. 

Allen thought about Steel’s description of ‘confusion with time and place’ as his thoughts drifted back to his father.