INCOGNOLIO Read online

  “No room.”

  “No room? What about the phone you’re holding?”

  “No phone. I’m just a disembodied voice,” he says matter-of-factly. “Now if you don’t mind I’m going to hang up.”

  “Hang up? But you said—”

  “I know…there’s no phone. I was speaking metaphorically.”

  Minor “hangs up” and so do I.

  “Fascinating,” says Pizza Guy. “Even lacking a body, Minor is as real as we are.”

  I scratch my head, perhaps to make sure it’s still there.

  “Of course, there are drawbacks to being creatures of fiction,” adds Pizza Guy.

  “Drawbacks?” I repeat.

  “Sure. Everything you value could vanish in a flash.”

  “How so?” I don’t think I like where this is headed.

  “Well, take that humongous schlong you’re so proud of.” Pizza Guy reaches for another slice of pie. “What if the author feels that it’s shallow for men to base their self-esteem on something as random and superficial as the size of one’s penis, so she decides to shrink yours?”

  I shrug nonchalantly, as if I’m way more mature than that, and then shriek when my penis does indeed shrivel down to its original size.

  “Or take your girlfriend, Delphia,” says Pizza Guy. “You probably think you love her, right?”

  “Um…sure,” I mumble, still stunned as I stare at my shrunken genitals.

  “But what if the author senses that your affection for Delphia is primarily based on physical attraction and decides to test this notion by increasing her age by, let’s say, thirty years?”

  No sooner does Pizza Guy utter these words than Delphia changes before my eyes from a ravishing woman to a still handsome, but gray-haired elderly lady.

  Delphia doesn’t appear surprised, so perhaps the Faloosh enabled her to anticipate this development. I, on the other hand, am mortified. Delphia is a sweet gal, and intelligent to boot, but I simply can’t envision myself making love to a 60-something-year-old woman.

  Bright side, squawks Yazzle, no more condoms!

  “Yeah, thanks pal,” I say.

  “So, as you see,” says Pizza Guy, “if you’re a character in a fabulist novel such as this, you have to be prepared for unexpected transformations.”

  “No shit.” Feeling more modest now, I walk over to the closet and throw on my trench coat. “But how the hell did you predict the changes? Do you have the Faloosh?”

  “Don’t need it,” says Pizza Guy. “I’m at one with Incognolio.”

  “And what, pray tell, is Incognolio?”

  Pizza Guy pauses, then opens his mouth as if to speak, pauses again, and now the whole living-room scene becomes hazzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  DILDORPHIANS

  I wake up with the dawn and gradually come to realize that instead of lying in bed, I’m hunched over in my desk chair, the side of my face smooshed up against the keyboard, a bit of drool smeared across several of the keys.

  I slowly get to my feet and then do some stretching exercises to loosen up the stiffness in my limbs and lower back.

  I can remember returning home from the Womb Twin Survivor meeting and then working on a Muldoon chapter, but my recollection of what I wrote is vague and dreamlike. Curious as to whether the material is any good, I sit back down at the desk and read through Chapter Seventeen, chuckling at the bits with Pizza Guy and Minor Character and pleased with how my nose landed on the perfect key when I fell asleep.

  Then, to my astonishment, I find that I’ve already started the next chapter—this one—in which I describe how I woke up and stretched, read through the previous chapter, and discover that I’m in the process of writing at this very moment.

  This is a revelation—even while I am seemingly going about my everyday life, I’m actually still typing out the story on my laptop.

  But how could this be?

  The truth is that I have been misleading readers all along. I am not actually living at Paige’s bungalow by the sea. The reality is much stranger. So strange, in fact, that I have not the smallest hope you will believe it.

  One week ago, I dreamed that I’d been abducted by aliens and was being held captive on their spacecraft, which was orbiting the Earth. Only it turned out that it wasn’t a dream.

  These alien creatures, called Dildorphians, have journeyed from the far side of the Milky Way, in search of Incognolio. Technologically, they are far more advanced than humans. But however brilliant they may be intellectually, the Dildorphians lack imagination. This is where I come in.

  The Dildorphians believe that the human unconscious holds the key to Incognolio, which they hope will fulfill their spiritual longings, for despite all their technical knowledge they feel empty inside. So they have abducted me, a novelist, a delver into the psyche. Unlike so many accounts of alien abduction that detail how various orifices are probed, the Dildorphians are only interested in probing my mind. Specifically, they wish to gain access to the depths of my subconscious mind, where Incognolio supposedly dwells.

  To this end, they have placed me in a small enclosure with dim lighting, and confined me to a comfortable zero-gravity chair, employing some sort of force field to prevent me from escaping. I recline, naked, with my laptop floating in mid-air, right in front of me. When I type English words that form comprehensible sentences, the pleasure center in my brain is electrically stimulated. However, if twenty seconds lapse without a word being typed, my bare feet receive a mild shock. Every ten seconds thereafter, the shocks double in strength.

  Because the vehicle’s cloaking device is on the fritz, time is of the essence; the longer I take to complete my task, the greater the likelihood that earthlings will detect the spacecraft. Therefore, to avoid delays, I am fed intravenously and all waste products are removed by a process that I prefer not to describe.

  Having discovered that sleep deprivation deepens my access to the unconscious, the Dildorphians limit me to two hours of sleep per day, just enough to keep me from becoming psychotic. Meanwhile, machines monitor my level of wakefulness, and administer injections of amphetamines and other stimulants as needed.

  The aliens have treated me decently up to this point, but that could be simply because I presumably have what they want. Their silver faces have a somewhat sinister appearance, so I can’t help wondering how the Dildorphians will react if I fail to deliver what they seek. All I can do, I figure, is to relax and let the writing flow, try not to censor anything, and allow the story to go where it wants.

  Therapists are guides to the unconscious, so I decide to see whether I can get some assistance from Baraka, my therapist in the story. Let’s say that I’ve been emailing Baraka each new chapter of Incognolio as I complete it, and discussion of the novel-in-progress has been dominating my therapy sessions.

  “I’m finding it harder and harder to write about Muldoon,” I tell her. “And when I do, it turns into farce.”

  “Yes, Micaela, you appear to be distancing yourself from the character.” Baraka rocks gently in her rocking chair. Shadow, her black Lab, settles down at my feet and starts licking my ankle. “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “I’m not sure.” I pause, mulling it over, until a shock to the soles of my feet prompts me to resume writing. “Ever since Muldoon realized that he’s a fictional character, I find it tough to empathize with him. I me
an, what would that be like, discovering that you’re just a figment of someone’s imagination?”

  “Disorienting, to say the least.”

  “Yes, and that’s exactly how I feel: disoriented. I’m so confused as to which direction to take the manuscript that I end up paralyzed. And I’m terrified of developing writer’s block.”

  “Terrified? How come? You’ve struggled through bouts of it in the past and come out the other end.”

  “I know, but I never felt this desperate, Baraka. It feels like if I don’t finish this novel and get it just right, the consequences could be perilous.”

  “How so? After all, it’s just a book.”

  I reach down to pet Shadow’s head and she licks the back of my hand. I don’t want to tell Baraka about the Dildorphians or she might have me committed. Instead, just as I’m jolted by another shock, I change the subject.

  “I’m tired of torturing Muldoon,” I say. “That’s what you have to do in a novel: put your protagonist through hell. But if my brother had lived, I’d like to think that I would’ve treated him lovingly.”

  “Like in the scene when Muldoon enters the alternate universe?”

  “I was wondering how long it would take you to bring that up,” I say. “I assumed you were freaked out by it.”

  “Not at all. Were you?”

  “Well, it’s a little embarrassing to write about attempting to seduce one’s brother.”

  “I don’t view it as a matter of incest, Micaela.”

  I am aware that I’m blushing, and appreciate that Baraka’s smile is sympathetic and not teasing.

  “No, I view that scene as portraying your wish to reunite and merge with your split-off self.”

  “Explain, please.”

  “I believe that as a young child you split off from a deep and authentic part of yourself, and took on a false persona to gain your parents’ love and acceptance. This enduring split is what drives your preoccupation with a missing twin, your search for a soul mate, as well as your longing for some sort of mystical union, represented by Incognolio.”

  “So how can I get back in touch with my split-off self?”

  “Keep writing, my dear.” Baraka smiles. “Keep writing as if your life depended upon it.”

  Little did she know that it very well might.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE HEIMLICH PROPHECIES

  “I’m afraid you’re losing control of the narrative, Micaela,” says Piper, who is hosting the writers’ group at her home tonight. “Abducted by Dildorphians? I mean, come on…”

  The first half of the meeting focused on Paula’s novel-in-progress, The Heimlich Prophecies, and now the discussion has shifted over to Incognolio. During the break, Piper brought out white wine and a large glass platter of raw oysters that are now nearly gone.

  “I have to agree with Piper,” says Paula. “Alien abduction is old hat. And why add science fiction to a plot that’s already overstuffed?”

  I sip my Pinot Grigio and remind myself that they’re only trying to help.

  “Your continuity at this point is awfully tenuous,” Piper says. “Whatever happened to Scout and the black box? Not to mention all the Muldoon subplots? You pique our interest and then leave us hanging. It’s all a big tease.”

  “That’s what I find so intriguing about the manuscript,” Paige says. “The story keeps forging ahead, defying logic, and refusing to conform to our expectations. Perhaps you just prefer conventional storytelling.”

  “I’m open to innovation,” says Piper. “But you can’t thwart the reader at every turn and expect her to keep reading.”

  “So stop reading,” I say, crushing a napkin in my fist. “Better yet, I’ll drop out of the group.”

  “Now, Micaela, don’t get defensive.” Paula reaches over and massages my shoulder. “Piper’s entitled to her opinion. And you know I love your writing, but I’m also frustrated by certain aspects of the story.”

  My jaw muscles clench. “Such as?”

  “Well, for starters, I wish you’d stuck with Muldoon’s story. He’s charming in a strange sort of way, and I was growing attached to him when you suddenly shift over to your life. Frankly, it’s just not as entertaining as Muldoon’s. And your new narrator sounds pretty much like the old one.”

  “Okay.” I take a deep breath. She’s hit a sore point: I’m useless when it comes to differentiating narrative voices. “What else?”

  “Well, first Incognolio is a cult’s mantra, then it’s a weird epidemic and the name on a creepy headband. Fine. But then it’s also a psychedelic drug, a password, the combination to a lock, and the spiritual quest of some alien race. For goodness sake, why not settle on a meaning and stick to it?”

  “Because I don’t know the meaning, damn it!” I press my skull with both hands, feeling like I could lose it at any second. “Look, that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Everyone’s searching for something that’s ultimately unknowable.”

  “How profound,” Piper says.

  “Cut it out, Piper.” Paige runs her hand through her close-cropped hair. “I think it’s a good thing that Micaela’s story makes us uncomfortable. Her novel is meant to be disturbing. Readers all too often just want to be entertained, to lose themselves in the illusion of a make-believe world. Incognolio systematically shatters that illusion.”

  “To what end?” Paula asks. “Merely to upset the reader?”

  “To philosophically explore ultimate questions.” Paige glances at me, as if to make sure that I’m okay with her going to bat for me. I nod, urging her on, relieved that someone can explain what I’ve been attempting. “Worlds flicker in and out of existence in the story. Time and again, we buy into the reality of a scene, only to be rudely reminded that the whole thing is contrived—a fictional construct. Eventually we’re forced to wonder whether our reality could be fictional as well.”

  Piper and Paula laugh nervously.

  “I’m pretty confident that we’re flesh and blood.” Piper points to the bandage on her left index finger. “I cut myself while shucking oysters, and believe me, the pain was all too real.”

  “Well, then let me put it another way,” Paige replies. “Readers may experience the shattering of fictional worlds as analogous to death. Although Micaela is writing what appears to be a comic novel, it shrewdly confronts us with our own mortality. That’s what’s so damn disturbing.”

  There’s a lull in the conversation that grows increasingly awkward, with everyone avoiding eye contact. Paula finally breaks the silence.

  “Well, no offense, Paige, but I think that’s a load of bull waffles. You’re taking a rather silly manuscript that revels in sophomoric absurdity and endowing it with undeserved depth.”

  “Well, fuck you, too, Paula!” I stand up so suddenly that my wine spills and my chair crashes to the floor. “And by the way, I was lying when I said I enjoyed The Heimlich Prophecies. I actually think it’s banal, maudlin, mind-numbing, cliché-ridden rubbish. In the words of Dorothy Parker: ‘This is not a book to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force!’”

  I grab my manuscript and storm out of the room, slamming the front door on my way out. Once outside, I pause on the front stoop, taking measured breaths while I wait for Paige to catch up so we can go home. She soon emerges, shaking her head, and opens her arms for me. I go in for the hug. Her arms are strong and comforting, and I immediately dissolve into tears.

  “Don’t let those boneheads get to you,” Paige whispers. “They wouldn’t know good writing if it bit them on the ass.”

  On the drive back to the bungalow, I feel increasingly angry.

  “Douche bags,” I say. “Whatever happened to constructive criticism?”

  “Forget them. We can start our own group.”

  As Paige cruises down the highway, I sit in silence and stare into the headlights of the oncoming vehicles, feeling forlorn.

  “I’m done writing,” I say softly.

  “What do you mea
n?”

  “I’ve had it. I don’t want to continue.”

  “How come?” Paige gently touches my knee. “Because those two idiots are jealous of your talent?”

  “No, I’m just drained. Mentally exhausted. My imagination is tapped out, and the story is making me crazy.”

  “So put it away for a month or two and come back to it when you’re ready.”

  “No, Paige, I’m done.” And then an idea occurs to me. “I think you should take over.”

  “Huh? What do you mean?”

  With every passing second my enthusiasm for this plan grows, along with my certainty that this is the right path. “You’re so passionate about the story. Hell, you understand what I’m trying to do better than I do! So I want you to write the rest of it.”

  “Jesus, Micaela.”

  “Anyhow, you’re not working on anything right now. This’ll snap you out of your writer’s block.” It’ll be good for both of us: I’ll get the rest I need, and Paige will have a reason to write again.

  “I don’t know what to say.” Paige pulls into her driveway and shuts off the motor.

  “Then say yes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CRYPTOPHASIA

  Although I genuinely admire Micaela’s manuscript, I had no intention of fulfilling her request to take over authorship of this strange tale. But Micaela was relentless in her campaign to convince me otherwise, and after three days of nonstop arguing and another three of the silent treatment, I reluctantly agreed to give it a shot, if for no other reason than to restore peace to the household.

  My hesitation is multifaceted.

  First, I’m uncertain whether it’s feasible to take over someone else’s novel and truly make it one’s own. Especially a novel as idiosyncratic as this one.

  Second, I am fond of Micaela, and I worry that completing her manuscript could wind up disrupting our relationship. What if Micaela isn’t happy with my writing?

  Third, to stay consistent, I would need to write from my subconscious, a prospect that scares the shit out of me. I tend to steer clear of introspective fiction, and always meticulously outline my plots. What sorts of inner demons might emerge if I just type whatever comes to mind?