Bagels and Nothingness

            That summer, I saw one eye specialist after another. Each one of them dismissed my symptoms. They turned to cliché-type statements like “idiopathic-neurological disorder triggered by some stressful life event" to explain my disease. A diagnosis seemed improbable.  Luckily, one of the patient referral forms led me to Dr. Marche, a neuro-ophthalmologist, at a clinic in my part of town, the southwest.

         The eye clinic was in an industrial building that was converted into modern medical offices. The hallways appeared endless with their white walls and grey doors. Dr. Marche’s bureau had the same color theme, except for the lime-green chair in examination room eight. The one I sat in.

            The doctor came in wearing the dirtiest glasses that I had ever seen. Papers were also dropping out of the files in his hands.

           He gave me a superficial smile,  and he said, slightly wheezing, “I apologize for being late. It’s insane today: our secretary overbooked the appointments, and we’re short-staffed. Most of my colleagues are still on vacation. Anyways, what brings you here?”

            “Are you familiar with the pointillism art movement?”

            “Why?”

            “That’s how I started seeing the world a few months ago. I see rows and rows of flickering white dots. They never go away. From time to time, I also get jarring attacks in which I also see floaters and disco lights . . . They make me dizzy and nauseous.”

            “Oh gosh . . . Don’t move! You most likely have visual snow syndrome.”

            He dashed out of the room and returned with two other doctors. “These two gentlemen accompanying me are doing a rotation in our clinic. I briefed them about your rare disease.”

            “Can you treat this visual snow thing?”

            “I’m afraid not. We don’t know what is causing it . . . The residents can finish answering your questions. There are still tons of people in the waiting room,” he said, and fled.

            At that moment, I felt like cutting my ear off from frustration just like Van Gogh did. It must have shown on my face because one of the two residents, who remained, patted me on the back delicately in consolation. I tried to get up, but it proved to be impossible. Then one of them squeezed my hand, giving me the support to stand up.

Eventually, I wandered home alone, thinking that Dr. Marche had butchered my hope of seeing normally again into fragments. From then on, fragments were all that I had left to keep it together.

            Living with visual snow proved to be a tiring existence. Little by little, anxiety crept its way into my soul, inadvertently, turning me into a partially reclusive being. One sleep-deprived night, after tossing and turning incessantly, I ventured out to see what lurked beyond my apartment door. It must have been late because it was dead quiet. I dressed quickly; I put on my long fall coat over my pyjamas and my crimson-red-faux-fur booties to head into the unknown.

            The elevator was out of order, forcing me to take the outdoor fire-escape stairs. Walking down those eight flights of metal, I probably woke up every light sleeper in the building. Upon reaching the bottom, I clenched my mobile phone in my right hand in case of a mugging or rape. Did I really believe a criminal would enable me to say, “Just a minute, I’ve got to phone 911 now.” 

            Being vigilant, I walked quickly to Saint-Rose Bagels, open 24 hours on Street Saint-Rose. It was a hipster place. It was such a small street that it did not even appear on Google Maps. Only one woman was sitting at the counter when I arrived. I seated myself next to the stranger, and I grabbed a menu from the pink-wooden holder. I read it over like the title of the menu would be Bagels and Nothingness written by Cream-Cheese Sartre.

            «Mademoiselle, avez-vous fait votre choix? », the waitress who came out of the kitchen asked. Looking up, I saw a 6’4 woman with roses tattooed on her fang teeth. By squinting my eyes, I was able to read her name tag: Marie Voyeur.

            «Une bagel Hawaïenne et une tisane, s-il vous plait», I replied startled by her appearance.

           “You can check the box of the tisanes once the other Madame has finished picking hers,” she said and walked back to where she came from.

            Restless in my seat, I began inspecting the surroundings. Contemporary paintings occupied practically every inch of their wall space. Then my left eye began to flutter when I noticed a portrait of a woman who strongly resembled me. The work of art seemed like it was a collaboration between Georges Seurat and Andy Warhol. Pointillistic-pop art. It reminded me of Warhol’s 1980 portrait of Debbie Harry, the lead singer of the new wave band, Blondie. The overabundance of the color antique gold used in it made my lookalike seem sophisticated and stylish. I, on the other hand, on most days, could be described as beige and boring.

            Meanwhile, the woman sitting next to me was still rummaging through the tisane box, trying to settle on one flavour. She had picked the house special St-Rose Celestial Tea before she turned around to acknowledge my presence.

            “Hey, it happens when you haven’t slept for a while,” she said.

            “What happens?”

            “The mind can’t function when it has been running without sleep. You look pale. Should I get you some ice from the kitchen?”

            “No, no, I’m fine, thank you.”

            “By the way, I’m Suzanne, Suzanne St-Laurent.”

            “Jovie Dupliquat. But everyone calls me Jojo.”                  

            “Jojo, may I ask? What brings you here at such an hour?”

            “I see blizzards in my field of vision. It keeps me up . . .”

           “Oh, I can’t remember the last time I had a decent night’s sleep. My excuse is innocuous, though. I’m a TV show producer and I wake up at 3 a.m. and finish work around midnight. I figure, what’s the point of sleeping for three hours? This place saves me from going insane if you know what I mean.”

            “Who would have thought that bagels could be such a lifesaver?”

             “At least, you still have your sense of humour.”

         Marie reappeared with my food, which I immediately devoured. This is when my bagel-groundhog routine had started. For months, I would leave the place at dawn, giving me a few hours to sleep. Upon getting up, I would immediately shower and eat breakfast in high-speed mode to dive into my freelance work before ten. I earned money by writing obituaries and eulogies employed by local papers and funeral-home directors. If I had to interview family and friends of the deceased, I would make sure to come home by six or so to have dinner and a nap. Afterward, I would read until midnight before heading out to meet Suzanne. 

            It took me a while to realize that Suzanne St-Laurent was part of Québec’s who’s who. Producer of Quebec’s hit show: Le thérapeute et les zombies. A drama about disgruntled zombies who rant about their unhappiness of semi-living on the couches of their psychoanalysts. It was peculiar that I had never heard of the show since I used to be an Assistant Arts, Culture, and Entertainment Editor for a local English daily newspaper. At the beginning of our friendship, I enjoyed listening to Suzanne’s stories: the power struggles behind the scenes of her show, the trials and tribulations of dating a man half her age, and how during her Friday-night dinners, her kids would lecture her to behave her age.

            One late night, heading home and strolling down Notre-Dame Street, I realized that Suzanne had never asked me anything about myself. Strange, I thought. But then the train of my thoughts was stopped by these large masses of snowflakes emerging from nowhere. They made my visual snow multiply, leaving me partially blind; I slowed down my pace even if the streets were deserted.

            In a matter of minutes, I was surrounded by eight holographic duplicates of myself. They were holding hands and dancing like in Matisse’s painting, “The Dance.” This made every cell in my body flinch. The dancers copied my every move in reverse. When I stepped back, they stepped forward. When I stepped forward, they stepped back. I rushed home, and they had followed me. As soon as I was in my apartment, I jumped into bed and covered myself over my head with my sheets. This was their cue to vanish, and they did.      

            But then the married couple who lived above me started quarrelling. If I remember correctly, the wife was a social worker, and the husband was an addiction counsellor.

            “There’s no way in hell your passive-aggressive mother is staying here,” he yelled.

            “You can leave!”

            Then I heard one of them throw unknown objects to the floor.

            And she said, “Grow up.”

            Then one of them slammed a door shut. But they carried on . . . The door separating them was not a strong enough barrier to silence their anger.

            Ironically, their arguing put me into a deep sleep. The next morning, I realized that I needed to take a mental health break. After all, there are not too many people who have holographic clones of themselves making cameo appearances in their lives. I sent an email to my employers stating that I would not be accepting any new assignments for two weeks. I would finish off any of the outstanding ones.

            After sending that email, I decided to avoid contact with the outside world, except for going to my local library. In the library, I would get strange looks as I read Haruki Murakami’s books on my Kindle. During my hiatus from reality, I also hardly said a word. Words only materialized due to a delivery from Amazon.             

            “Thanks for delivering my sound blockers. I live below the Doctor Phil Show. My neighbours seem to have made their night-time ritual to trash each other,” I explained.

            Before he walked away, the deliveryman had just nodded and said, “Try meditation.”

            And I did.

            The more I tried to quieten my mind, the more restless it became. One night to relax, I watched an old movie: Sliding Doors. In the middle of it, I felt a presence next to me and turned to see what it was. It was a hologram of the portrait I had seen of myself at St-Rose Bagels. She had a serene look on her face.

            “What do you want?”

            Sheer silence enveloped the room.

            “Can you talk? If you can’t, close your eyes to say: no.”

            She remained motionless.

            It was like talking to the dead. But then, I recalled who would speak to me at 1:00 a.m.

            The second Suzanne saw me walk into our bagel place, she screeched, “I’m so happy to see you. Where have you been?”

            I sat down next to her, and I blurted, “I saw holographic clones of myself. What is happening to my mind?”

            “Please sit down,” Suzanne said calmly. This is when I felt something jumping at my legs. Gazing down, I spotted a Black Russian Terrier.

            “Terry is comforting you,” Suzanne said. “You’re going through the holographic-clone-attack known as HCA. Try to accept it.”

            “Where did you get the dog?”

            “My mom recently passed away, and she left him to me.”

            “I’m sorry!”

            In unease, we both then sat there silently until I dared to ask, “What is an HCA?”

            “Kid, I think it’s about time that I tell you about this diner. I’ve been doing the night shift here as long as I can remember, guiding stubborn souls like yours.”

            “Oh,” I said, perplexed.

            This is when Super-Tall Marie approached me with a menu in her hands. Oddly, the roses had disappeared from her fang teeth. The design of the menu was also different. Upon opening it, I noticed that there were only three choices: go home, stay, or pick a tea from the tisane box.                 

            Turning toward the tisane box, I said to the hologram of myself that surfaced there, “I’m afraid to cross over . . .”

            Somehow, I lost my balance and fell off the pink stool. As I regained my stability, I noticed that my clone was walking out of the restaurant with a tea bag in her left hand. My eyesight was not sharp enough to read the small print, so I was in the dark about what flavour she had selected. Frankly, at that instance, I was aware it did not matter, but I needed to know.” 

            “It’s time for you to make a choice,” Marie said soberly.

            Hoping Suzanne would comfort me, I fixed my eyes on her face, searching for answers. But she was unhelpful. When her mouth opened to speak, instead of words pouring out, small chunks of black velvet materialized. The velvet pieces nose-dived to the floor, creating a pile of darkness, and then, they dissolved. Next, Suzanne hit her chest, and bit by bit, the color antique gold overtook reality.

           Watching the scene unfold made me go blind, triggering a wave of shivers down my spine. “I just died, didn’t I?”

            “Not exactly . . .” I could hear in the gold realm.

            “What?”

            “Well, I’m not really sure how to tell you this . . . you actually died this past spring.”

            Feeling faint, I digested the breaking news of my death. It didn’t make sense. I had been writing, working, and meeting people in person. The interviews... the stories I had written and gotten paid for. 

            Like she was reading my thoughts, Suzanne explained, “When someone is not ready to let go of their life, we send them to the 'waiting centre.’ You’re stuck between death and another reality.

            “What happened to heaven and hell?”

            “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure if they even exist. My job is to befriend and comfort people between their existences. Here . . . nothing is real. The life you think you’ve had for the last little while was created by your energetic mind to help you cope with your death.”

          “How did I die?”

         "You died here while eating the Hawaiian bagel special. You had a stroke that killed you in minutes.”

            In a flash, I understood the selection on Marie’s updated menu. I did not wish to go back. Reliving a life would be tedious and full of déjà-vu moments. Choosing to stay in this dimension would equate to what Bob Dylan sang, “He not being busy born is busy dying.”

            Knowing the choice I had to make, the chronic heart palpitations I had been experiencing for the last little while had finally stopped.

            Suzanne was standing next to Marie; Marie had the tisane box open. They both had silly grins on their faces, knowing it was time . . . Walking over to them, my vision of them disappeared. I bumped into a gold door with a “do enter” sign on it.

            I slowly opened the door to find myself inside a room with rusty-bricked walls in a long and narrow hallway. The wall had reproductions of the portrait I had seen of myself on my first visit to St-Rose Bagels. They were mounted one after the other in a perfectly straight line.  

            I knew I could no longer turn back, even if I had wanted to. It was too late. The waiting-centre realm had already faded away. Accepting this, I walked forward and followed the line of illustrations, taking short steps. And when I reached the end of the hallway, I began to fuse with the last image of Jovie Dupliquat. These replicates of me, hanging on the wall, lead me out of the gallery below the surface to discover what waited for me above it.