Flying High : Part 2

Electroboy: A Memoir of Mania
by Andy Behrman

(Page 2 of 4)

Just see him as a moving target and feel the urge. It doesn't hit him, or his dog, but he looks up and curses. Asshole. I give him a slight nod. Go through the mail. Pay some bills. After twenty minutes I realize that the pills aren't working. I can't get myself to fall asleep. This stuff is crap. Thank God the fucking insurance company foots the bill for this shit and not me. I get into bed and try jerking off to a video, but that doesn't work either. Probably because I'm so fucked-up and exhausted. I'm not in the mood for phone sex either. I throw on a pair of jeans (no briefs) and a black cashmere turtleneck. I've got to get out of my apartment and go somewhere. A diner, another after-hours bar, or for a walk up Madison Avenue.

Early-morning window shopping. Fuck it. I pack my passport and prescriptions, a suit, and a dozen rolled-up canvases, then reach into the freezer and grab a rubber-banded wad of money. I feel like I should wear a matching black cashmere mask over my face. I'm stealing from my own freezer. An inside job. I've got an appointment with Dr. Kleinman at 8:30 a.m. He'll get his cash either way. Press for the elevator. Beer in hand. Good morning to the doorman. I'm not worried what he thinks. I hail a taxi. Where to? Kennedy Airport, I guess. I open the window and let the breeze blow on my face as we cross the park. We're picking up speed. Thank God.

9:30 a.m.

There's a flight to Tokyo stopping in Los Angeles, so I buy a ticket with cash. $8,600. Grab a hot dog with ketchup and onions. $3. The plane smells like Dove soap. Everyone in first class was probably showering at the same time this morning. It's a nice smell. Still, something tells me that this is going to be a painfully long flight. Usually it's fourteen hours. Time for "life-jacket follies." I already feel restless, and we haven't been in the air for more than two hours. That must be Ohio down below. The plane is filled with Japanese tourists. On my way to the bathroom I notice a few Madonna look-alikes with bleached blond hair sitting in coach. I squeeze a pimple on the side of my nose, and some pus squirts on the mirror. I leave it. I hate this flight. I really prefer to keep moving, and the layover makes me anxious.

I stay on the plane. It's like coming down from a good cocaine high and waiting for the next "crew" to arrive with a supply of new "provisions." But it was the first available flight, and I'm in a rush. Got to get to Tokyo to sell art and make some deals. I've done it tens of times before, but this time I feel strange. Too energetic. I haven't slept in two nights. And none of the medications are calming me down. We're flying near clouds that seem like they're in arm's reach. If I could just stick my tongue out the window and suck one of those amorphous nimbus or cumulus or whatever-Mrs.-Robinson-called-them-in-fourth-grade clouds deeply into my lungs, maybe I could get rid of this feeling. I turn toward the young Japanese woman sitting next to me. Eigo-o hanashi masu ka? Yes, I speak English.

In fact, she speaks perfect English. Her name is Emiko. Emiko Kawaguchi. River-Mouth. That's a silly name. At least in English. She could be an Indian maybe. Little River-Mouth. That sounds normal. She's wearing a Jewish star around her neck. She could be Jewish, too. I ask. She giggles. She tells me that a Jewish friend gave it to her for Christmas. I tell her I'm Jewish. She gets excited. Don't get so excited, Emiko. She asks me about the skateboard with a skull and crossbones dangling from my left earlobe. I tell her that I'm not in a religious cult or anything and that I recently had it pierced in Milan. I'm an art dealer, I tell her. That sounds strange. She loves Haring. Basquiat? Yes, but not as much. The conversation is painfully staccato. I can't keep this up for eight more hours with Miss Emiko. I want to bail out. I ask the stewardess for a vodka to wash down a Klonopin. There's turbulence. I could do a much better job flying this jet plane than our pilot. I should walk into the cockpit and demand to take control. Ask nicely like my parents taught me. How hard could it be? Don't you just switch on the automatic pilot? But I wouldn't want to go to jail. Emiko looks at the yellow pills in the palm of my hand and giggles with her hand over her mouth.

We're flying at 35,000 feet, and the sun beats down on me through the window. I've slipped into the Land of Stiff Neck and Drool, a warm and sunny place. I'm just about to start kissing and sucking on my ex-girlfriend Allison's breasts when the stewardess bumps into my left shoulder and I abruptly straighten up in my seat. Dream ruined. Is it a dream? Is it day or night? My contact lenses are dry and I'm thirsty. I take two Prozac, two more Klonopin, one lithium, and one Anafranil. I try to squeeze my feet back into my boots, but I think I've gained some weight on this flight. I flip through Vanity Fair for the eleventh time. I do not care for Demi Moore.

I sample all the scent tabs. Descent. Seat backs in their upright position. I walk off the plane with my carry-on bag and canvases and wait for my luggage at the baggage claim. Then I make my way through customs after my long and rehearsed explanation that I am carrying my own paintings and that I'm an artist. I am. I take a cab to the Akasaka Prince Hotel. I don't know if I'm exhausted or wide awake or hungry or horny. I phone the concierge and ask them to send up extra towels. I take a half-hour shower. I check out the view from the thirty-eighth floor onto Akasaka-tons of bright neon and Tokyo Tower. For a minute I think I can see H&H Bagels in the distance. That must mean I need to get something in my stomach. The last thing I really ate was a hot dog at the airport. God, Manhattan is fourteen hours away. By plane.

About the Author

Andy Behrman is a manic depressive who has undergone nineteen electroshock treatments. He has worked as a PR agent and an art dealer. His writing has been featured most recently in The New York Times Magazine. A graduate of Wesleyan University, he knows most of the all-night diners and after-hours bars in the major cities across the country. He currently lives mania-free on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.