Hothouse

By John Thompson Guillén

“How many times, say, in the last month have you felt like exploding?” asked Dr. Anjeline Charles. 

“Many times,” I said. 

She asked, “There’s not a specific number?” 

“There’s not.” 

“You mean there’s not a specific number, or you weren’t counting?” 

“I wasn’t counting.” 

Dr. Anjeline Charles shifted in her swivel chair, said, “Thank you for your honesty. Now, would you say the explosions are a recurring or reoccurring feeling?” 

“Reoccurring, I think.” 

“As in it happens regularly, but not in a pattern or in intervals?” 

“That sounds right, yeah.” 

“They’re random?” 

“Yeah, they’re random, Doc. But I can’t stop them from happening. Write that down, write that down. I can’t stop it from happening.” 

Dr. Anjeline Charles scribbled on a notepad, asked, “When was the last time it happened?” 

“What do you mean, Doc? You mean the last time I felt like exploding, or the last time I actually exploded?” 

“Both, or either one.” 

“Well, the last time I felt like exploding was when I was seated in that chilly waiting room right before I came in here, and the last time I actually exploded was, well, last night. No, scratch that, scratch that. Don’t write night. Write evening.” 

“Last evening?” 

“Yes, it sounds prettier. The sun was just about down, sky fading purple.” 

“And where were you?” 

“I was on Fourth Street. Late for the bus again after getting held back at work again.” 

“And is that a recurring development?” 

“That’s one of those questions that necessitates its own answer, Doc.” 

“Okay, so these developments, then, you might say, is what often leads to the explosion?” I looked down at my own toes and couldn’t see them beneath my shoes, so I looked at my shoes. I said, “Sometimes, but not all the time. And definitely not this time.” 

“Could you elaborate more on why ‘definitely not’ this time?” 

“I mean, the reason I exploded yesterday was because of this person  I had to walk behind. And before you ask, Doc, I’ll tell you.” Dr. Anjeline Charles set her pen down, met me in my eyes. “The person I walked behind yesterday was, easily, the slowest person who had ever learned to walk. Doc, you could roll a corpse faster than this guy. No phone, no food—nothing. Just these slow, wide steps one after another on a busy city sidewalk. I’ve thought about this, Doc. The only reason for anyone to walk as slow as him is if he was carrying something in his pants. And by that I mean if the guy had just robbed a place, and then stuffed the haul into his pants. That’s the only reason for someone who looked that healthy to walk that slowly. If that had happened, then, well, what’re you going to do? The guy’s got a salmon filet in there or something and that’s why he’s moving so slow. Fine. But at the time, I suspected nothing of the sort. He was just slow. If I were braver I’d have said something about it to him, like buddy, look around, look how fast everybody else is moving and compare yourself. That’s if I was confrontational, not braver, I mean. If I were braver I’d have said excuse me, or, sorry but I’m in a hurry here. If I was twelve years old I’d have just clipped the back of his shoe until his heel popped out and caused him a real pain in the ass.” 

“The pace of this man, then, you might say, prompted an explosion?”

“That was part of it, but then this other thing happened. After walking behind him for so long, it got me, well, frankly, curious. I mean, I spent so much time behind the guy, I started asking myself these questions about him, like where did he come from? What is he headed so slowly towards?  Have we ever crossed paths before? Will I ever see him again? I went so long looking at the folds in the back of his neck, the length of his socks, his movements and mannerisms, I convinced myself I could recognize him again if it ever came to it. But then, coming the opposite way, walking towards us, emerged out of the crowd this comically tall woman wearing a trapper hat. Like nothing I’d ever seen. She was wearing a trapper hat with the flaps over her ears, and in that same instant she stopped, and her face lit up happy. The slow guy then stopped in his tracks, right after she had stopped, and I almost barreled over him. But I realized what was going on. These two fucking know each other. Right there in the middle of the sidewalk they began to chat and hug, asking how are you? How are you? I couldn’t stay and listen, of course. Neither one of these people were a part of my life. I kept walking, and then some ways down, I exploded.” 

“There, that’s when you exploded?” 

“Yes. Right there on the street I blew up. I sent the cars parked curbside crashing into boutique shop windows and dress mannequins, eviscerating outdoor patio restaurants and landing all my debris onto the fine evening dining dinner plates of hungry people, bourgeois hungry people, and caught nearly everything on fire.” 

“And after the explosion, what did you do then?” 

“Well, I kept my head down and took the bus all the way home. It’s stuck with me, though. And you know how they are, I got a few gnarly looks from the shoppers, but soon they lifted up all the fallen wall plaster, swept the glass, kept on browsing the racks like nothing happened. The folks having dinner, they wiped some ceiling rubble off their tables, but didn’t let it ruin their meal. I kept my head down and took the bus all the way home.” 

Dr. Anjeline Charles unclasped her hands, picked up her pen. She said, “You mentioned earlier, briefly, that you thought the evening sky looked pretty?” 

“Oh, yes. Yeah, it was one of the more gorgeous evenings I’d ever seen.” 

Dr. Anjeline Charles wrote that down in her notepad. For quite a while she did not say anything. 

Finally then, I asked, “Well, Doc? What do you think? Can you fix me?” 

Dr. Anjeline Charles looked up from her notepad, seemed to be contently startled. She said, “Yes. Oh, of course yes. But we’re going to need a magnet. A massive, gigantic magnet. Maybe the largest magnet you’ve ever seen…