Herbert Sandstrom
Julian CartwrightHERBERT SANDSTROM IS MY NAME IN THIS PARTICULAR DAYDREAM. I AM NOT THE OPPOSITE OF MY REAL SELF, NOR AM I EVERYTHING I WANT TO BE. . .
But for some reason, I, Herbert Sandstrom, am created each time Julian slips away from reality. Not in a dramatic way, I know he’s not crazy, but in the boring way. When he is bored and also daydreaming, that is my call to duty. My alarm clock beeps and I am off to work. There is a lot of traffic, but I drive aggressively, weaving in and out of lanes like a madman. I have many deadlines to meet; new ones are created instantly. They appear in a folder in my PDA, which I check about every five minutes. I realize that time for Julian is much faster, that five minutes for me is not much of anything in the real world. But this is an extremely competitive occupation. If I fail to meet deadlines, there is no question Julian will fire me, lose faith in me in favor of some other, more exciting daydream. And there’s that constant reminder coming through my car stereo—“Herbert Sandstrom is an official man. He has amazing hair, which flows in the wind. His office is well-decorated but not very functional. He doesn’t feel like working today.”
Julian’s voice sort of makes me nervous. Sometimes he decides to give me a day off when I’ve alreadydriven half way to work. He sends me right back and demands that I read the paper and forces me to put on old Soul and Motown records with a cup of mint tea. I don’t want to do this! I would rather be out enjoying myself, but here I sit, liquid scalding my mouth, nodding my head to some music form someone else’s generation. Julian doesn’t appreciate this stuff either—what’s the big idea?
Such was my afternoon of misery until the phone rang.
“Herbert Sandstrom,” it said. “Herbert Sandstrom really likes Motown records. Herbert Sandstrom really wants a sex change. No, Herbert Sandstrom really wants a promotion.”
“Yes!” I said. “Herbert Sandstrom would like that!”
“NO.” the voice said. “Herbert Sandstrom didn’t get the promotion. In fact he is going to be infected with a freak strain of leprosy.”
“What! You can’t do that! Isn’t it lethal?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” the voice said. “But it won’t happen for another week or so.”
And that was it. The leprosy would kick in in a week or so.
IN THE MEAN TIME, HERBERT DECIDES TO TAKE IT EASY. HE POURS HIMSELF A HOT, AROMATIC MUG OF OOLONG TEA AND SAVORS ITS SWEET AROMA.
You can’t say that something aromatic has a sweet aroma, I thought. That’s redundant. Idiot.
I’LL MAKE YOU REDUNDANT
( Julian is not a nice guy. Julian is just about the worst person ever to have lived. He is an idiot.)
SAVORING ITS SWEET AROMA, HERBERT OPENS A CONTAINER OF HIS MOST FAVORITE DESSERT, PECAN SANDIES. HERBERT GORGES HIMSELF ON THESE SWEET-SALTY BUNDLES OF HAPPINESS.
I have just downed an entire box of cookies. I am about to vomit, but I am strangely unable to move. Herbert is tired and sick. Herbert is sick of this and just wants to go to bed forever.
HERBERT FEELS A SUDDEN BURST OF ENERGY. HE RUNS TO GET HIS TYPEWRITER AND POURS HIMSELF A WHOLE POT OF COFFEE, WHICH HE DRINKS.
A whole pot of coffee, which he drinks. It’s not even written well. Fine, I’ll drink it! Then I’ll spew it allover your precious typewriter. I can’t stand the thing. I’d rather write by hand.
HERBERT SPEWS THE CONTENTS OF HIS VERY FULL STOMACH ONTO HIS BELOVED TYPEWRITER. HE DECIDES TO WRITE BY HAND.
“I h a t e J u l i a n . H e i s a n i d i o t . H e i s t h e w o r s t p e r s o n e v er t o h a v e l i v e d.”
IT WAS CATHARTIC FOR HERBERT TO WRITE THESE WORDS, WORDS WHICH HAD BEEN WEIGHING SO HEAVILY UPON HIS TORTURED MIND. HE FOUND THAT, WITH EACH LETTER, WITH EACH STROKE OF HIS PEN, HE WAS ABLE TO FIND A MEASURE OF FREEDOM. . .
“J u l i a n i s a j e r k . I w i s h h e w o u ld d i e . “
AND SO HE BEGAN TO STEER THE DIRECTION OF HIS OWN LIFE. SLOWLY, METHODICALLY, BUT WITH GREAT PASSION. WRITE ON, HERBERT! WRITE INTO THE NIGHT!
The next morning I was too tired to think and my head began to pound every time I tried to blink. I got into my car, dreading an entire day of pain and exhaustion.
I sat at my desk, barely conscious, string at the neatly framed Van Gogh print on the opposite wall—the one with the crows circling this cornfield and everything is swirling. Then Carolyn comes up to me, white as a ghost.
“Herbert, what happened to you?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“But you’re all. . . Have you seen a doctor?”
“I don’t need a doctor. I’m just… exhausted and fed up and sick,” I moaned.
“Your face,” she said. “It’s—It’s covered in little black dots.”
Oh no. Not now—this is not the time, I thought.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have—”
“—Leprosy. I know. This is the worst day ever.”
It’s just inhumane to do that to someone, I thought, in the middle of the week.
“Could you at least give me a day?” I said aloud. “Or at least enough time to have my life flash before my eyes—cause right now it hurts to even open them.”
Carolyn was gone. She has to compete for Julian’s attention just like the rest of us. She was just being polite, but I mean, what would it matter to her if I dropped dead?
“Are you up there!” I yelled. It was like I was trying to debate with the Great and Powerful Oz, unable to state any reason why he should listen to me. I tugged at my hair, waiting for the clock to strike five.
HERBERT SANDSTROM DROVE HOME IN THE PERFECT SILENCE THAT HE CRAVED. HE TOOK THE LONG WAY HOME BECAUSE HE WAS FEELING SENTIMENTAL. HE LONGED TO VISIT THE PLACE WHERE HE FIRST FELL IN LOVE.
My nose keeps falling off. It’s hard to drive that way. There must be a penalty for driving noseless. It’s probably worse than passing a schoolbus. I felt like I was losing sensation or something—I really couldn’t feel my feet. I parked near the boardwalk and walked a few blocks on my stone-feet. This was the place. It had been a rainy day, when I was a teenager.
A DAY HE WOULD NEVER FORGET, A DAY HE COULD NOT FORGET. . .
There was a little ice cream place. I just got out of the funhouse, which I thought was a drag. But there was this girl in the ice cream line and we talked about how we preferred gelato. I was a major snob even then, I realized. But I couldn’t stop thinking about this girl who didn’t like ice cream but ate it anyway. But it didn’t matter because there was no gelato there anyway. I felt sort of embarrassed to have had the conversation at all.
Looking at myself noseless in the funhouse mirror with my body starting to decay, I just lost all hope, not necessarily in a bad way, but it was easier than I expected. . .
My eyes began to overflow with tears. This is really not my life, I thought, in the way you can say, “this is my job.” I started to think that growing up is basically giving up control over your own life, while gripping more tenaciously to your instincts. I guess I’ve grown up then.
AND HERBERT SANDSTROM BROKE DOWN ON THE BOARDWALK IN A FULL REALIZATION OF HIS USELESSNESS, SOBBING UNCONTROLLABLY, HIS DISTORTED IMAGE SO GROSS, SO HIDEOUS THAT IT MADE HIM ILL TO THINK…
I dialed 9-1-1 on a payphone with my remaining finger.
“Hello? Yes, I would like to order an ambulance. . . well, not exactly. I’m nearly dead, but I think I’ll pull through.” I reminded myself of the Monty Python movie, the one that Julian has never seen. The guy says, “I’m not dead yet,” right before someone bops him on the head. (Probably ironic for Julian): as I called to mind this scene I lost consciousness in a matter of minutes, or maybe they were just seconds, or possibly even less than one second.
Before I knew it, I was in the hospital. My whole body hurt, and I was beginning to wish that Julian would just finish me off. The nurse who was there looked sort of bored and sort of concerned, as if she were ready to pull the plug. Whether she would or not I couldn’t say—probably not, because I just woke up. Damn it! Maybe that means I’m getting better. There’s really no way to tell. I sort of preferred staying in this state. It makes transitions easier. I would say ‘choices’ but I don’t want to push my luck.
Someone came by with a food tray, but I really had a hard time believing the food was for me. If I am really a leper, no one should be in the room with me, I thought. They’re probably lepers too. The nurse prepared to empty a half spoonful of mashed potatoes into my weakened mouth. When it was safely deposited, I started to move. I felt pretty numb, but motile. I started to choke, and I guess my voice was fine because I heard it all craggly.
“I hate hospital food,” I said. The nurse managed to crack a smile.
“I’m glad you’re up and eating,” she said.
“I have leprosy,” I said.
“You hit your head on a telephone booth,” she said. “You’re going to be just fine.”
I groaned. This was a perfect time to ask myself “What is life?” and to be, as usual, completely unequipped to even go into the problem. So I didn’t ask it to myself.
I felt kind of like a child. I didn’t get any flashback to childhood—in fact I felt like a different child, someone who was not me. All I could do was stare at the wall. I was not interested in television.
“You’ve got to have something to eat and drink. You’re dehydrated.”
I ate, but decidedly without gusto.
Or pesto.
HERBERT SANDSTROM WANTS PESTO.
I finished up the tray pretty quickly, quickly covering up that weird feeling of babiness.
BUT WOULD HERBERT SANDSTROM EVER REALLY BE THE SAME AGAIN?
Hopefully not.
I was released from the hospital that same day, but I still felt like crap. I didn’t have any will to do anything. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep.
When I got home, I started writing stuff down. Stuff that had happened to me.
THUS HERBERT FORGED A NEW IDENTITY. ALAS HIS FATE WAS NOT TO SERVE BUT TO CREATE!
THENCEFORTH HERBERT WOULD BE A WRITER!
I took a pair of scissors and cut off all my hair, then fell asleep alone in my bed in my room in a matter of seconds (after writing out this dialog).
AND THAT IS HOW HERBERT SANDSTROM SCRATCHED HIMSELF OUT OF EXISTENCE—PERMANENTLY AND IRREFUTABLY.
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(LOOK, I’M THE ONE WHO’S MAKING UP THE STORIES HERE, AND I DON’T NEED THE COMPETITION! …I SORT OF JUST REALIZED, HERBERT WAS BOUND TO BE DAMN GOOD BECAUSE HE HAD LIFE EXPERIENCE !!
I THINK HE’S PRETTY MUCH DONE. RIGHT?)