“Hey,” Paul whispered. Although it still seemed inappropriate (no matter how unordinary a place this was) to say anything to someone relieving themselves in the same urinal, Paul wanted to hear a voice. A human voice.
The man shot him a bleary look. The whites of his eyes were webbed with red lines, sleep deprived. He looked like he was about to say something, but instead, he zipped up and walked out of the restroom.
Restroom. It certainly appeared like the genuine article. The porcelain sinks, the trough urinal, the aroma of antiseptic chemicals. The only thing missing was a mirror. Paul wanted to see himself--see the stubble which was growing into an itchy beard. How many days had it been now?
Then he felt it, the hint of a buzz. Time was up, and he quickly departed.
Out in the white space, he took his place in the shoulder to shoulder row of silent men. How long could this go on? His body ached, his brain throbbed, and he felt himself nearing a breaking point.
Paul had never been a manly man, one full of piss and vinegar and grit. He’d joked with Lacey that he was more of a Prius than a Ford truck.
“Who are you?” asked the black box.
I am Paul Demorest.
“Who is Paul Demorest?”
An accountant, a man, a son.
“What else?”
A human, an earthling, a mammal.
Round after round the telepathic questions were answered. He’d answered the same questions, in the same order, hundreds of times--thousands by now. So many times that they were empty soundless words that rattled like autumn leaves in his mind. He wished things were so resplendent with imagery. The black cube, hanging in the white vastness, forbade verbal answers. All was white, except for the cube.
“Who am I?” asked the black box.
My creator, my God, my reason for existence.
Early on, Paul had glanced at a man in the line who broke formation. He’d been reprimanded by an excruciating buzz, like a swarm of bees in his head. The censure had been brief, and he was quick to stand straight with his eyes ahead on the box. There were shrieks and other maddening noises that made him want to look at other times, but he learned that nothing would be tolerated but absolute compliance. Black and white.
“Do you fear me, Paul?” asked the black box.
Yes.
“Do you love me, Paul?
Yes.
“That will be all,” said the box.
This was new. In this timeless space, Paul’s only respite had been the brief bathroom breaks. Seven or eight times now? Everything was getting muddled, his mind loose and focusing was difficult.
Paul was in bed. He sat up.
“What is it?” Lacey asked in a voice of sleep syrup.
Unbelieving, he looked at her. Then he looked at the clock. The sun would be up in an hour. He was in his room.
“Lacey?” he whispered.
“Mmmm,” she answered, already falling back asleep.
“What day is it?”
“Mmmm,” she murmured again.
No, that couldn’t have been a dream. It had been too real. It had been more than a day, and yet he saw that it was still Friday, the 23rd of November. Smartphones may guilty of a lot of human misery, but they don’t lie about the time and date. As he slipped out of bed, he found that his feet were sore. More than that, he was exhausted. It had been--he almost said real, but already the dream was slipping. But his sore feet?
In the bathroom, he looked in the mirror, framed white by the cabinet trim. Only a night’s worth of stubble was on his chin. The room was too white. Was it always this white? Through the skylight, he saw that the sky was dark and starless. He thought about splashing water on his face. People did that sort of thing in the movies, but he never understood why. Instead, he turned on the shower and let the warm water pour over his skin and wash the residue of the nightmare away.
“Cold water, Paul,” said the voice of the black box.
Terror. It was more than terror because the voice was so clear, as if the box were hiding behind a dimensional veil. Paul began to hum--tried to hum. He was interrupted. A savage buzzing, the same censure as in the white space--compliance!
He shut off the water and stood, dripping. The buzzing stopped.
“Turn on the cold water,” said the unseen box.
I’m hearing voices. Is this dementia or schizophrenia?
But he had barely time to reflect when the buzzing resumed, harsh and electric in his skull. He was swift to turn on the cold water, and although the buzzing stopped, the shock of the cold made his muscles tense, his breath catch in his throat. It got colder and colder until he thought he could no longer stand it. It almost felt hot, the way it seared his head and shoulders.
“Turn the water off,” instructed the black box.
He did so. It had been under a minute in the freezing water, but now he felt exhilarated, fully awake. He stood, shivering, and waited for further instructions. Silence. He stepped out of the shower and toweled off. As he got dressed, he felt that he shouldn’t think. He felt that any thought he allowed to take shape could be met with the torturous zapping--the black box was real.
Later, in the office, Paul tried to throw himself into his work. The spreadsheets, the numbers, the shortcuts to algorithms he knew so well--all was executed with efficiency and an anxious focus. In the car on the way home, he looked up at a stoplight. It was red, but framed in a black box. It looked ominous, and his heart lept a little when the light turned green. Lacey’s car was in the driveway. The mailbox was still bent sideways, but all this familiar world wasn’t reassuring anymore.
“Paul, you’ll never believe it, but Gloria got a dog!” Lacey said.
“Pay attention, Paul. Show some enthusiasm,” said the black box.
“Wow,” said Paul, “That’s amazing. Good for Gloria!”
“So, I was telling her to name it Snoop, you know? But she wanted to name it Jiodee.”
“Fantastic!” Paul exclaimed.
“Jiodee--you know, like G-O-D? You know, like God?--which I think is kind of cool, but also a little strange because Gloria, well, you know Gloria’s mother will have something to say--she always does. Anyways, Gloria says it’s just ‘dog’ spelled backwards. So cute, I’m telling you!”
Paul’s ear to ear smile was strained.
“You okay?” Lacey asked.
“Yeah, wonderful. Why?”
“You look like you really need to pee or something.”
Paul’s mind was catapulted back to the bathroom of the other dimension. The smells, the silent man he had whispered to, the trough urinal.
“No, I’m just excited for Gloria,” he said. “A dog, that’s great for her. Good for Gloria. Fantastic.!”
“Did you remember to pick up a copy of the Tribune?” Lacey asked.
“Oh, no,” Paul said, slapping his forehead. “Slipped my mind. Real hectic day. Sorry, babe.”
“Damn,” Lacey said, “I really wanted to email Susan about her op-ed piece. She keeps going on and on about it.”
“If you want, I could head back--” A zap stopped him. The box’s will enforced.
“What’s wrong?” Lacey asked when she saw Paul wince.
“Nothing, I was just--” Paul stammered. “What’s for dinner?”
“I hope you like it,” Lacey said. “I wanted to try a different Teriyaki sauce. The other one tasted too much like sesame, don’t you think?”
Paul loved the other sauce. Suddenly he was afraid to answer--afraid he might offend the black box if he lied. He nodded, smiled and said, “New is good.”
Lacey made a face, squinting, the height of incredulity and asked, “Since when do you like to try anything new?”
“New can be exciting and--” A cattle prod on his brain.
“Don’t lie, Paul,” said the box.
“Oh my God, Paul, are you alright?” Lacey asked. Paul had reached up, clutching his temples.
“Fine, I’m fine,” he said, “Maybe new is scary, but I’ll try it.” The pain abated. He lowered his arms and stretched a smile across his face. If only that were the rule: no lying. But it wasn’t really the rule, was it? He certainly didn’t love the box and believe that it was ‘God’. He took a deep breath to clear his head. Any stray ruminations would get him zapped again.
“You don’t look so hot. What was that about?”
“Just a--” he stopped. The box had just warned him not to lie. He had been about to say that it had been a long day, but that would be a lie. Wouldn’t it? Shaky rules. Paul shrugged.
“Sure you’re okay?” Lacey asked.
He nodded. “I’m fine.”
“Anyways,” Lacey continued, “that dog is adorable. Gloria--can you believe she named her dog Jiodee? I mean, this is Gloria we’re talking about and, she…”
Paul was nodding, grinning like an imbecile, but Lacey didn’t appear to take any notice. If she did, she had decided to go with it. She wanted to talk about the dog. The box had told Paul to show enthusiasm. He was being uncharacteristically enthusiastic, but, if anything, Lacey seemed to appreciate it rather than disapprove of the profaned gratuity of his shit eating grin.
“...but you know, I think Gloria’s mom might laugh, now that I think about it,” Lacey finished with her patent three chuckles and a sigh. She took a sip of merlot.
“Laugh, she might, Lacey’s mom,” Paul said. Unoriginal and typical, Paul often repeated people’s last words. He switched their word order to sound like Yoda, but as he didn’t do the Yoda voice, nobody ever thought it was funny.
Lacey turned from him to flip the chicken over. It hissed, almost like a complaint submission to its doom. A new smell, from the new teriyaki, rose up from the wok which contained bright vegetables which were all steaming and ready.
“Paul, do you lover her?” asked the box.
Paul was caught off guard by the question.
In the white space, the questions had all been the same. Who was Paul, and who was the box? Did he love the box, and did he fear the box? There were further questions to clarify his answers. The box wanted Paul to be completely honest as to what he was, but then it would only accept responses in the affirmative--regardless of what Paul really wanted to think--when it came to itself. It wanted to be recognized as God, and Paul realized that he would say anything to make the pain stop. After that, the words were just words. They meant nothing.
With her back to him, Lacey began to sing an Ani Difranco tune and poke around at the sizzling chicken.
Who are you? The instant Paul mentally voiced his question--sincere or not-- the box delivered another excruciating vibration in his head which made his eyes slam shut.
“Okay, okay!” Paul yelled.
“What?” Lacey said, spinning from the stove. “Oh my God, Paul, what’s the matter?”
“You’re God, you’re God!” Paul cried.
“Silence!” bellowed the invisible black box.
“What?” Lacey asked. Her eyebrows were unable to further express the urgency, nearly to her hairline in distress.
You’re God, my creator, my reason for existence. As in the white space, Paul shut his mouth as he mentally told the box what it wanted to hear. The answers. He knew the answers. He’d never dared ask a question of his own, and now he knew not to. No, he’d known that before.
Idiot, what were you thinking?
“Paul?” asked Lacey.
“I’m fine,” Paul insisted, a ragged edge in his voice.
“Do you lover her?” asked the box.
He blinked, but he couldn’t answer. Did he love her? He needed to be honest, and after five years, he had often told Lacey that he did love her. Like everything else, once he had said it a few times, confessing his love had been easy, almost boring, losing its edge with each repetition. It had been a long time since he deeply reflected and questioned the way he truly felt about Lacey.
“Paul, I’m going to call Dr. Ferguson and see if--”
“No!” Paul bleated. “I’m just--I just have a headache.” I’m fucking possessed!
“Yes, Paul. I have chosen you,” said the box.
“A headache?” Lacey asked. “You kept calling me God.”
“No, I wasn’t talking to you,” Paul blithered, and then regretted it. She would ask him who he was talking to, and then what would he say?
Lacey looked at him quizzically and then delivered one of her snort giggles--classic Lacey--and surmised, “Oh the dog! Gloria--I know, right? She named her dog, God. Well, she spelled it--oh no, the chicken!”
Lacey spun back to the stove, and switched off the burner, flipped the chicken, and heaved an exasperated sigh.
“Well, I hope the new sauce will cover up the taste of burnt chicken,” she grumbled.
“Do you love her, Paul?” the box asked.
“Lacey, do you love me?” Paul asked, deciding to go all in on his intuition. The black box--he could feel the underlying current of its will.
She didn’t look up, and set the cast iron skillet in the center of the table on a wooden cutting board. “Of course, babe,” she said. It had been a while.
“I love you too,” he said. He half expected a buzz, but instead there was a warm sensation that spread through his heart. He flushed.
She looked up at him.
“Oh my God, are you crying?” Lacey shuffled over and hugged him. “Paul, baby what’s the matter?”
“I have to go now,” Paul realized. He didn’t know why he’d said it. Everything was in motion, and he felt something calling out to him--impossible to clarify. The box.
“What?” Lacey asked, pulling away. She looked him from eye to eye. “Paul, we can get the Tribune tomorrow. Where are you gonna go? I don’t need to read Susan’s article tonight.”
Paul’s chest was humming. In a trance, he turned away from Lacey and started walking toward the door.
“It’s cold. Shouldn’t you grab a coat, babe?”
“I love you Lacey. Goodbye.”
Paul walked down the driveway, each step increasing the internal rapturous sensation within him.
“Who are you?” asked the black box.
I am Paul Demorest.
“Who is Paul Demorest?”
An accountant, a man, a son.
“What else?”
A human, an earthling, a mammal.
But all of it. All the answers seemed funny now. Was he really a human, an earthling, a mammal? Was he Paul Demorest? A halo of light flickered around everything. It flickered in time with his heart that seemed alive in his chest. It felt expansive, about to burst.
The wind was cold, and the overcast sky was darkening. Leafless branches clawed at the horizon, as did the rest of the houses along Paul’s lane. Everything wavered and tilted as he breathed, each breath expanding his unknowing knowing. His peace.
“Paul!” he heard the voice of Lacey, six houses behind him.
“Run,” said the black box.
And Paul ran. He ran hard, he ran fast, but then he stopped. Was stopped, rather. A force, the box, the inconceivable alien entity, halted him.
“Are you ready, Paul?” asked the black box.
Yes.
The headlights were bright--almost as bright as the other dimension. After a blinding flash, Paul was in the white space again. Standing there, blood pooling around his feet. His head ached. His wrist was broken--the bone poking through the skin. He started to take inventory of his injuries when there was a buzz--just the onset of a censure--and he looked up to the box.
“Who are you?”
Paul… Buzz!
“Who are you?”
I don’t know.
Who am I?
God, my creator, my reason… Buzz!
“Who am I?”
A fucking black box! You’re a fucking black box. The buzzing, it was there, swift and violent in its onset. Paul screamed, “A black box! You’re nothing but a floating--” but then he seized and fell. Red and white. In the pool of his own blood, collecting where he lay, reflected the white light that emanated from nowhere and everywhere.
“Who am I?” the black box demanded.
“Fuck you!” Paul spit. He moaned it aloud thinking the pain couldn’t increase anymore than it already had. But it did.
“Who am I?”
I don’t know. The buzzing let up. He’d tried this answer before, back in the beginning, but it had never worked. The relief was so immense that Paul whimpered.
“Do you love me,” asked the box.
I don’t know.
“What do you know?” Paul didn’t blanch at the new question.
Nothing.
“Will you obey me?”
Yes.
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