S. M. QUARANTA

       If Mr. Warneck had sold a forgettness pill, I'd take a handful today to forever delete May Westby's face.

       Well, mainly I'd take them to undo her words, which have wore out their welcome in my mind but will not leave... and so I can sleep at night again. But also I'd take them to erase her face.

       I started working as manager for the Chamber of Commerce two years ago, an organization, an association, really, of men and women who promote their city's best interests, in the eyes of most people an organization wrapped up in important projects, which is true. But we have another side, and for the first time, I'm entering my own comments into the Binghamton chamber files; 15 days ago I began playing the roll of sleuth after a letter arrived in my mail:

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       Chamber of Commerce                                                                                  May 8, 20**

       Sun Bldg. Binghamton, N. Y.

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              I am writing you this letter in regards to some possible help that you might oblidge (sic)

       me in. At one time there lived in your city a person by the name of Clarence A. Warneck.

              Mr. Warneck was selling a Tonic or Food Supplement known then as "Nesco."

              It was a blood purefyer (sic). I had at the time a skin condition that was considered

       incurable by our Medical Doctors, but I had tried some of the medicine and it helped me well

       & cured my condition permanently.

              That was back in 1992, but here recently it has returned in a mild form, returned, but

       still considered incurable by our Doctors.

              I believe at the time they were manufacturing at Binghamton on Robinson Street, but

       can't recall the company's name, only by the name of "Nesco."

              Mr. Warneck also had two sons that lived in Kirkwood. The oldest son's name was

       Clarence A. Warneck, Jr.

              Would you be kind enough to follow thru for me, and supply me with the company's

       name or his son's address?

              I would gladly pay for any expense incurred for your troubles. Please let me hear from

       you in regards to this matter. It is very important that I get in touch with them for their

       medicine. And thank you very much.

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                                                                                                     Yours Truly,

                                                                                                                   May Westby

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       After I sat down at my desk, opened the envelope and read the letter, a staff member, Joi Jung, consulted the American Druggists Blue Book for me, some other reference works and called some Greater Binghamton area pharmacists, wholesale and retail, with the following result:

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       May Westby                                                                                              May 13, 20**

       Box 143

       Nevada City, California

 

              The firm who made Nesco, Miss Westby... is now out of business, and Mr. Clarence A.

       Warneck is deceased.

              However, we have been fortunate enough to locate two, four-ounce bottles of Nesco for

       you. We understand that these two are about the only ones still in existence.

              If you would like us to secure them for you we shall be happy to do so upon receipt of

       your money order or check for $9.98, plus $3.95 for postage and handling.

              We have asked the pharmacist to hold these for us, pending your reply. I have included

       my card with my telephone number and Email address, if you prefer, for any other questions

       you may have.

 

                                                                                           Cordially yours,

                                                                                           Binghamton Chamber of Commerce

                                                                                           Heather Williams

                                                                                           Manager

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       May Westby's reply, which came via the internet, consisted of "Thank u, Thank u, & hope u r having a Happy Spring. This mild skin condition of mine, caused by my lice, can once in a blue moon be a bother. I will send u a check today." The Email was followed by a check for $13.93 that arrived on May 22.

       The Binghamton chamber file was officially closed, but I contacted May Westby by Email on May 23 and, preferring to speak to her face to face, so to speak, on what was going to be a touchy subject, asked her whether she happened to have Skype. I was mildly surprised when she replied "yes I do."

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       At first I didn't notice anything too unusual about the woman on the chamber's computer screen. She had a creased and pleated face with grandmotherly eyes that looked at me as though I was family. I instantly warmed to her. May Westby's hair was cotton candy blue, rather pyramidal in shape, it twirled out on both sides almost horizontal over her small shoulders.

       I spoke to her as politely as I knew how.

       "Miss Westby, the pharmacist who located the two bottles of Nesco has advised us that after a further search he found another bottle in cold storage. We've taken the liberty of forwarding all three bottles to you."

       May charmingly crinkled her deeply wrinkled face. "You're such a big help," she said to me.

       Then I repeated to May what the pharmacist had told me. Nesco may relieve a certain kind of itch. But it wouldn't exterminate an infestation of head or body lice. "I'm sorry," I said to her. "I'm afraid you'll need something a bit more... aggressive."

       May shook her head. "Oh, I don't want to get rid of them," she said. "My dear, we've always housed lice. Since we were maladjusted apes, and all through our stages, we housed lice. Adam and Eve had lice."

       A bunch of pixels ran amuck near her ear, only lasting for maybe half a second.

       "It's a mutually profitable relationship rather than simply host and parasite. It's a kinship people misunderstand; there's blood-chemicals exchanged."

       As the elderly woman sat at her computer, a louse crawled out of her spun sugar hair, crept along a deep furrow on her forehead, skirted the edge of her eyebrow like it was a hedgerow, and then crawled behind her ear.

       "It's our lice that causes our evolution. Living a louse-free life, we go backwards. No flying cars, my dear, no cities on Mars. Nitless and witless, I like to say."

       I heard a noise behind me in my office but couldn't take my eyes off the computer screen. May smiled at my openmouthed surprise.

       A louse- not a pixel- ventured onto May Westby's otherwise nondescript chin. Then there were two, and then three, and before I could blink twice there were perhaps hundreds of lice traveling at a slow simmer around her wrinkled face on their conjoined routes and avenues.

       Staff member Joi Jung squealed behind me, then must have clamped a hand over her mouth.

       "I'm the land of plenty," May exclaimed firmly. "Two or three daily meals for each of these prefect little creatures, gives me this-"

       May moved back from her computer like a ghost retreating into the back of a photograph. A cracked teacup on a saucer slowly floated into view and stopped, clinking delicately: a teacup in hover. Something deep inside of me, an instinct, froze me to the chair.

       A crew of lice rode aboard the saucer rim. They settled into May's open hand as she rose into the air as if buoyed by invisible air currents, then she drifted out of view to reveal an open window behind her. A constant line of chipped plates, bent utensils, and even an old teapot, levitated in and out the room. I watched the armada of makeshift airships crossing over the window sill, finding myself strangely engrossed by the variety of aircraft and their tiny, clever parasitic passengers arriving and disembarking at an unplugged hotplate near the window.

       "Isn't it exciting?" said May Westby, returning to the screen. "A long, long time ago they lost the fun of having wings for a materialistic existence, and now they want their independence back. All lice are not created equal!"

       Joi, whose head was now adjacent to my own, whispered, "Independence?"

       May smiled at us. "Some ride my teacups... some like to pilot their homemade rocket ships, or the measuring cups... oh, and some took a trip in the letter I mailed to your office."

       Joi pulled back her head from mine and squealed again.

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       I don't squeal. I may scream when prompted, but it's always within acceptable Asian restraints. My name is Joi Jung, it's October 4, and I have unexpectedly replaced Heather Williams as Binghamton chamber manager. These are a few comments I would like to add before closing her file.

       I do not squeal. I would, though, catch Heather catching herself unconsciously scratching her head. She'd pull her hand away, and then look closely under her fingernails as if something, someone, were in there. I believe she believed not only in the genuineness in the old woman's story, but of the digital visuals as well. She would whisper to me daily, "They're in my clothes but it's bad manners to scratch," or, "The mother lice are now laying their eggs." She swore me to secrecy. Our co-workers were asking me why she hadn't changed her clothes in over four months. That she had worn a layered outfit that day, much like a traditional Korean dress, is a blessing from Buddha or God or whomever.

       "You don't need to do this," I told her yesterday, the 3rd, as she was heading down the stairs to leave the building. "You don't need to quit your job."

       "I want my independence," she said. "I want to fly. What more needs to be said?"

       "But don't believe everything you see on the internet," I told her.

       She laughed.

       Heather must have come in early on her last day. I found her laying face down with her head on the bottom stair. She'd been carrying a box of her personal belongings when she fell, they were scattered on the stairs around her bent limbs and over the freshly Pine-Sol mopped foyer floor. I touched her arm, and then her broken neck. If she hadn't been killed by the fall, she'd stopped breathing soon after. I called 911.

       And waited.

       And as Heather's broken body grew cold, I watched them crawl out of her layers of clothing. In an orderly, single reddish-gray file. It didn't take long before they all climbed aboard Heather's coffee cup. The cup had a Starry Night design. Its handle was missing. Shattered into an uncountable number of white slivers.

       The Starry Night coffee cup lifted three feet off the foyer floor. It banked to the left, noticeably faltered in the air, and then started falling. The impact with the floor broke the cup into pieces.

       I forced myself over to the  crash site. I stood staring down at Heather's wrecked coffee cup for a moment, then knelt. I held my breath. All I could see were broken shards of Van Gogh. Where are they? I thought.

       I saw them. I placed my right hand on the floor, with my palm up, and offered the little beings a lift. They crawled up my sleeve.

       Ever since childhood I've wished I could fly.

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