LITMIR.BIZ

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readers. I hope this new edition of Man in A Hurry will pass on to you some of the delight and sense of wonder I have always enjoyed in the fantasy stories of Alan Nelson. You’re in for a real treat!

      Gary Lovisi

      Brooklyn, N.Y.

      June 1, 2013

      NARAPOIA

      “I don’t know exactly how to explain it to you, Doctor,” the young man began. He smoothed back his slick black hair that shone like a phonograph record and blinked his baby blue eyes. “It seems to be the opposite of a persecution complex.”

      Dr. Manly J. Departure was a short, severe man who made a point of never exhibiting surprise. “The opposite of a persecution complex?” he said, permitting one eyebrow to elevate. “How do you mean…the opposite of a persecution complex, Mr. McFarlane?”

      “Well, for one thing, I keep thinking that I’m following someone.” McFarlane sat placidly in the big easy chair, hands folded, pink cheeks glowing, the picture of health and tranquility.

      Dr. Departure stirred uneasily.

      “You mean you think someone is following you, don’t you?” the doctor corrected.

      “No. No, I don’t! I mean that while I’m walking along the street, suddenly I have this feeling there is somebody just ahead of me. Somebody I’m after. Someone I’m following. Sometimes I even begin to run to catch up with him! Of course…there’s no one there. It’s convenient. Damned inconvenient. And I hate to run.”

      Dr. Departure fiddled with a pencil. “I see. Is there anything else?”

      “Well, yes. I keep having this feeling that people…that people…well, it’s really very silly.…”

      “It’s quite all right,” Dr. Departure purred. “Feel free to tell me anything.”

      “Well, I keep having this strange feeling that people are plotting to do me good. That they’re trying to be benevolent and kind toward me. I don’t know exactly who they are, or why they wish me all this kindness, but…it’s very fantastic, isn’t it?”

      It had been a long, hard day for Dr. Departure. Somehow he did not feel up to any more symptoms. He busied himself the rest of the hour obtaining factual background. McFarlane was thirty-two; happily married; healthy, normal childhood; satisfactorily employed as a radio repairman; no physical complaints; no bad dreams; no smoking; no history of parental discord; no financial worries. Nothing.

      * * * *

      “Shall we say Thursday at eleven, then?” he smiled, ushering McFarlane out.

      At ten minutes to ten on Thursday, Dr. Departure looked at his appointment book and frowned. Well, maybe he wouldn’t show up. Very often that happened. He certainly hoped that this would be one of those occasions. Opposite of a persecution complex! Delusions of beneficence! The man must be…he checked himself hastily. He’d almost thought “mad.” At that moment, the door buzzer sounded and McFarlane was grinning and shaking his hand.

      “Well, well.” Dr. Departure’s affability seemed somewhat hollow. “Any new developments?”

      “Seems to me I’m getting worse,” McFarlane beamed. “This business of following someone, I mean. Yes, sir. Yesterday, I must have walked five miles!”

      Dr. Departure relaxed into his chair across the desk.

      “Well, now, suppose you tell me more about it. All about it. Just anything that comes to mind.”

      McFarlane frowned. “What do you mean, Doctor, ‘just anything that comes to mind’?”

      “Just ramble on—about anything—whatever comes into your head.”

      “I’m not sure I understand. Could you show me what you mean, Doctor? Just by way of illustration?”

      The doctor permitted himself a little chuckle.

      “Why, it’s very simple.… Well, like right now, I’m thinking how one time I stole some money out of Mother’s purse…and now I’m thinking about my wife, wondering what to get her for our wedding anniversary.…”

      The doctor looked up hopefully. “See? Just anything like that.”

      “Anything like what? I still don’t quite understand.” But McFarlane’s face was not puzzled; it was eager. “Could you give me just a couple more illustrations? They’re very interesting.”

      The doctor found himself relating disconnected, half-forgotten images. McFarlane sat back with a strangely contented expression.

      At the end of the hour, Dr. Departure was quite exhausted. His voice was hoarse; his collar and tie askew. “…and, well, my wife—she completely dominates me…I always was very sensitive that my eyes are slightly crossed…I never will forget—that time in the attic, with the little girl across the street…I was only eleven, I guess…”

      Reluctantly, he broke off, wiped his eyes and glanced at his watch.

      “I feel much better,” he heard McFarlane say. “Shall we say Tuesday at ten?”

      * * * *

      Next Tuesday at ten, Dr. Departure inwardly braced himself.

      “There’ll be no more nonsense like last Thursday’s session,” he assured himself, but he had no cause for concern. McFarlane was strangely silent and preoccupied. He carried a large cardboard box, which he carefully set upon the floor before seating himself in the leather chair. The doctor prodded him with a few preliminary questions.

      “I’m afraid I’m beginning to be troubled with hallucinations, Doctor,” McFarlane finally volunteered.

      Dr. Departure mentally rubbed his hands. He was back on old, familiar territory now. He felt more comfortable.

      “Ah, hallucinations!”

      “Rather, they’re not really hallucinations, Doctor. You might say they were the opposite of hallucinations.”

      Dr. Departure rested his eyes a moment. The smile disappeared from his face.

      McFarlane continued.

      “Last night, for instance, Doctor, I had a nightmare. Dreamed there was this big ugly bird perched on my short-wave set waiting for me to wake up. It was a hideous thing—a fat, bulbous body and a huge beak that turned upward like a sickle. Bloodshot eyes with pouches under them. And ears, Doctor. Ears! Did you ever hear of a bird with ears? Little, tiny, floppy ears, something like a cocker spaniel’s. Well, I woke up, my heart pounding, and what do you think? There actually was an ugly, fat bird with ears sitting on the short-wave set.”

      Dr. Departure perked up again. A very simple case of confusing the real with the unreal. Traditional. Almost classical.

      “A real bird on the short-wave set?” he asked gently. “With bloodshot eyes?”

      “Yes,” McFarlane replied. “I know it sounds silly. I know it’s hard to believe.”

      “Oh, not at all. Not at all. That type of visual aberration is a common enough phenomenon.” The doctor smiled soothingly. “Nothing to…”

      McFarlane interrupted him by reaching down and hoisting the carton onto the desk. “You don’t understand, Doctor,” he said. “Go ahead. Open it.”

      The doctor looked at McFarlane a moment, then at the brown box, which was punctured with air holes and tied with heavy twine. Disconcertedly, the doctor cut the string and folded back the top flaps. He leaned over and peered in—then sucked in his breath. Pouchy, bloodshot eyes leered up at him. Floppy ears. The upside-down beak. An obscene looking bird.

      “His name is Lafayette,” McFarlane said, tossing a few bread crumbs into the carton, which were quickly devoured with a noisy, repulsive gulp. “He rather grows on you after a while, don’t you think?”

      *

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