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Authors: Jeffrey Moore
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things all the time. “Her middle name is not Jennifer.”
“Nile, for Christ’s sake—”
“Of course I didn’t.”
“Then what the hell were you doing with her?”
“I took her to a zoo. As requested.”
“As who requested? Which zoo?”
“Brook. Cape May.”
“Without your ex-wife’s permission.”
“She’s not my ex-wife.”
“But you lived together.”
In the background I could hear the faint strains of “Earth Angel” by the Penguins. Along with keyboard clicks, as if he were double-tasking. Even when you spoke to him face to face, you got the impression he was double-tasking.
“Yes,” I replied.
“At the funeral you guys seemed like such a great couple. And your father just loved her—and was ecstatic about having a grandchild. What killed it, Nile? You and your … problems?”
I’m getting an abortion so get used it: my ex’s words. “No, it was just … you know, one of those things.”
“Your Wehmut or Weltschmerz or whatever the Germans call it?”
“No.”
“You still hearing things, seeing things? Prehistoric beasts, fairy-tale monsters, that kind of stuff? What’s it called again?”
My father, who could no more keep his mouth shut than a catfish, must have told him about this, about my visit with a neuropsychologist in Frankfurt. “Pareidolia,” was Doktor Neefe’s conclusion. “A condition,” he explained in accented English, “in which the brain interprets random patterns as recognizable images. We all have it to some extent, ja ? When we see faces or animal shapes in clouds or flames, or the Virgin Mary’s face in a piece of bratwurst, or a sex organ in a fig. Or Steckrübe … turnip. Or a rat in toilet bowl stool. Or when we hear hidden messages on a Beatles record played backwards. Many artists have had it—Bosch, Blake, Munch and Magritte come to mind. Munch painted The Cry after watching a sunset whose clouds looked to him like ‘coagulated blood.’ Hamlet and Scrooge had it. Lewis Carroll. Many scientists too, especially Hermann Rorschach. But you, Herr Nightingale, you have a rather interesting form of it. A psychotomimetic form. Your visions would seem to be neurological reverbs, after-sensations, from the barrage of psychedelic chemicals you’ve been subjecting your brain to.” A bit like pro football players, I thought at the time, the shocks and hits that come back to haunt them, debilitate them, years after they’ve retired.
“Hello? Nile? You still there?”
“Meine Halluzinationen betreffen Sie nicht.”
“Whoa. Slow down. What?”
“My visions are neither here nor there.”
“So you took the child a hundred miles away from home without the mother’s permission.”
“Brook phoned me, said she missed me, said her mom gaveus the green light, Girl Guide’s honour. She was waiting for me at the end of the driveway.” With a pink plastic suitcase.
“But you never made it to the zoo.”
“No.”
“But you made it to a motel.”
“Was it my fault the car broke down?”
“No, it wasn’t. An antique like that is bound to break down. But it was your fault you ended up in Atlantic City. Which isn’t exactly the closest town to Cape May now, is it.”
How does one say no to a young girl who’s crying? I’ve never been able to. “Brook asked me—pleaded with me—to take her there. Said she’d never been, said she wanted to go on the world’s biggest roller coaster.”
“Don’t say that in court.”
“Because …”
“Because it’s not in Atlantic City.”
“So we found out.”
“And so you took her to a casino instead.”
“Are you serious? How would she get in? She’s got braces, for Christ’s sake.”
“Your ex-wife claims that you applied makeup to her and entered a casino, where she won … let me see. Eighty-nine dollars and fifty cents. She found it in her … pink suitcase.”
“Nonsense. A pathetic lie. About the makeup, I mean. She did win some money.”
“And where did she win the
“Nile, for Christ’s sake—”
“Of course I didn’t.”
“Then what the hell were you doing with her?”
“I took her to a zoo. As requested.”
“As who requested? Which zoo?”
“Brook. Cape May.”
“Without your ex-wife’s permission.”
“She’s not my ex-wife.”
“But you lived together.”
In the background I could hear the faint strains of “Earth Angel” by the Penguins. Along with keyboard clicks, as if he were double-tasking. Even when you spoke to him face to face, you got the impression he was double-tasking.
“Yes,” I replied.
“At the funeral you guys seemed like such a great couple. And your father just loved her—and was ecstatic about having a grandchild. What killed it, Nile? You and your … problems?”
I’m getting an abortion so get used it: my ex’s words. “No, it was just … you know, one of those things.”
“Your Wehmut or Weltschmerz or whatever the Germans call it?”
“No.”
“You still hearing things, seeing things? Prehistoric beasts, fairy-tale monsters, that kind of stuff? What’s it called again?”
My father, who could no more keep his mouth shut than a catfish, must have told him about this, about my visit with a neuropsychologist in Frankfurt. “Pareidolia,” was Doktor Neefe’s conclusion. “A condition,” he explained in accented English, “in which the brain interprets random patterns as recognizable images. We all have it to some extent, ja ? When we see faces or animal shapes in clouds or flames, or the Virgin Mary’s face in a piece of bratwurst, or a sex organ in a fig. Or Steckrübe … turnip. Or a rat in toilet bowl stool. Or when we hear hidden messages on a Beatles record played backwards. Many artists have had it—Bosch, Blake, Munch and Magritte come to mind. Munch painted The Cry after watching a sunset whose clouds looked to him like ‘coagulated blood.’ Hamlet and Scrooge had it. Lewis Carroll. Many scientists too, especially Hermann Rorschach. But you, Herr Nightingale, you have a rather interesting form of it. A psychotomimetic form. Your visions would seem to be neurological reverbs, after-sensations, from the barrage of psychedelic chemicals you’ve been subjecting your brain to.” A bit like pro football players, I thought at the time, the shocks and hits that come back to haunt them, debilitate them, years after they’ve retired.
“Hello? Nile? You still there?”
“Meine Halluzinationen betreffen Sie nicht.”
“Whoa. Slow down. What?”
“My visions are neither here nor there.”
“So you took the child a hundred miles away from home without the mother’s permission.”
“Brook phoned me, said she missed me, said her mom gaveus the green light, Girl Guide’s honour. She was waiting for me at the end of the driveway.” With a pink plastic suitcase.
“But you never made it to the zoo.”
“No.”
“But you made it to a motel.”
“Was it my fault the car broke down?”
“No, it wasn’t. An antique like that is bound to break down. But it was your fault you ended up in Atlantic City. Which isn’t exactly the closest town to Cape May now, is it.”
How does one say no to a young girl who’s crying? I’ve never been able to. “Brook asked me—pleaded with me—to take her there. Said she’d never been, said she wanted to go on the world’s biggest roller coaster.”
“Don’t say that in court.”
“Because …”
“Because it’s not in Atlantic City.”
“So we found out.”
“And so you took her to a casino instead.”
“Are you serious? How would she get in? She’s got braces, for Christ’s sake.”
“Your ex-wife claims that you applied makeup to her and entered a casino, where she won … let me see. Eighty-nine dollars and fifty cents. She found it in her … pink suitcase.”
“Nonsense. A pathetic lie. About the makeup, I mean. She did win some money.”
“And where did she win the
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