Chapter 2

By the time Isaac got home from therapy, he wanted to forget the entire session by indulging in the comforts of his routine: a hot shower, a cold brew coffee, and a lukewarm Fleshlight, in that order. Of course, now that he no longer held onto the dream script and it was safely in the hands of his therapist, the whole event could be dismissed as just that, a bad dream. But, try as Isaac might, these diversions, delusions, and flights of fancy were of no use. He couldn’t relax, never mind climax.

Instead, he felt squeezed and excited, even after he removed himself from his fleshlight. It was as if his skin was too tight and no longer fit him. It was making him itch. He didn’t feel human. His Slytherin test results had changed everything. (Was this snake shedding his skin?)

Yet everything remained precisely the same as before he left for Dr. Rousseau’s. Isaac looked around his one-bedroom apartment for confirmation. The fattened flies remained right where he had left them, perched on the rims of the empty beer cans marking the path from his futon to his empty fridge. The virgin surfboard in the corner of the room was still untouched by sex wax, and all the walls were as bare as the day he moved to Santa Monica. The change was, therefore, easy to identify. It had to be him.

Isaac shook his head. But was it even possible to change in the course of an afternoon? He didn’t think so. He had seen Dr. Rousseau a hundred or more times in that pink-lit room, and each time was as unremarkable as the last, each session blending into a blur of “explore those feelings furthers,” “what do you think the shape of your Patronus would be?,” and “would you like another La Croix?”

Aside from today, the only notable exception was the session where Isaac took the Harry Potter Sorting H.A.T. exam. He mulled over the idea of those test results as the source of the discomfort in his head. It made sense, but only if viewed at a certain angle, like a Rubik’s cube with just one of its faces solved. That could explain his dread but not the electric excitement coursing through his veins.

That surge of energy jump-started his legs and carried him to his apartment’s second-story balcony. Isaac reasoned that some fresh air would help, but there wasn’t any. Instead, the meteorological phenomenon known as the June Gloom enveloped him as soon as he stepped outside. It was suffocating.

Even at night, the bastard front rolled in from the Pacific Ocean. It crept over the 100-foot bluffs that protected the city and strangled downtown in a gray shroud that swallowed buildings whole and turned palm trees into shadows with the silhouettes of giant spiders. Isaac couldn’t hear the wind, but he could feel it. The clouds were thick enough also to hush the cars and the busybodies idling on the bordering boulevards. Wilshire had never been so quiet. Isaac could only hear the gentle thrum of the corner liquor store’s neon sign and the telephone wires crisscrossing into a canopy above the alleyway.

Isaac grabbed his bare arms for warmth.

Coyote weather.

Isaac braved the chill for a moment longer, savoring the view of his neighborhood through the fuzzed filter of the fog. He couldn’t leave this place for the Twin Towers. Santa Monica was the only home he knew. It was special. It had history. Whitey Bulger was arrested only a few blocks down the road from Isaac! The man who had been the subject of the longest FBI manhunt on record risked everything to live in this little slice of paradise, fog and all. What could be a better endorsement than that?

Isaac’s building held significance, too, having once been the residence for LA’s Chiller Killer, the serial killer infamous for murdering Ashton Kutcher’s girlfriend. Isaac looked across the alley to the opposite building, to the second-floor apartment where the Chiller Killer’s last attempted murder occurred. It was like living in a Netflix series. Or a white girl’s podcast. What a privilege. How could Isaac leave?

The only light in the night came from the giant billboard above Isaac. Fog ringed the billboard’s twin floodlights, forming halos, just how the marketing department must have drawn them up since they illuminated an image of Super Jesus. There he was, the man, the myth, and the messiah, larger than life and depicted as described in Isaac’s script [See: Appendix A], but this wasn’t an advertisement for Isaac’s script. This was for the franchise’s upcoming sequel, “Super Jesus 2: the Return of the Prodigal Son.

The “S” in “Super" was in the shape of the middle school “S” as was customary for the Super Jesus logo. The billboard also advertised the film’s release date, which was set for December 25th, and underneath that was the movie’s tagline, “The second coming of the second coming!”

Based on the billboard's imagery, Isaac didn't get the sense that Super Jesus would be fighting the vampire villain from his dream script and felt unexpectedly bitter about it. A vampire would be cool! But opposite of Super Jesus on the billboard, balancing the image equally, was Captain America. The two rivals eyed each other coolly to tease the conflict between the two biggest Marvel superheroes.

Whatever. The movie didn’t have to have vampires so long as it didn’t feature zombies. Isaac refused to engage in zombie-centric media, suffering an irrational fear of the stumbling, mumbling movie villain. The idea of becoming a zombie and developing a craving for craniums upset Isaac so much that he purchased protection in the form of a handgun that he kept in his nightstand for easy access with the safety off.

For in Isaac’s mind, a gun would be all he needed when the inevitable outbreak occurred. No go bag. No exfil strategy. No emergency food storage. Just a gun that he’d use on himself after eating an In-N-Out double-double for his last supper. There was no need to suffer. What terrified Isaac most about zombie apocalypse scenarios was their lose-lose nature. Would he rather live as a ravenous monster motivated solely by the need to feed or live in a post-apocalypse America that didn’t have reliable WI-FI? Isaac would take the third option, thank you very much.

Isaac’s cell phone alarm sounded, reminding him to take Dr. Rousseau’s nightly medication. Fine, he thought. It was time to go inside anyway. His TV was calling him, and his breath was visible, but he couldn’t tell if that was due to the cold or if he was just returning the borrowed fog to the night. He guessed it was the latter since he could taste the pier: the sea, the weed, and the hot pretzels that were as salty and twisted as the intermingling teens hiding under the pier.

Isaac couldn’t escape Super Jesus’s gaze even after heading back inside and turning on the TV. There he was again, standing still, exactly where Isaac had left him last night. Frozen. Paused. Isaac didn’t press play on the movie, but he didn’t turn the monitor off either. He liked having Super Jesus stare him down like a disapproving parent, forcing Isaac to finish his homework and think about how he would save a cat.

This question was the source of Isaac’s manic energy, fueled by an overwhelming sense of shame that must have been growing gradually inside Isaac, like mold, waiting to be exposed by the soft pink light of Dr. Rousseau’s sea salt lamp.

Isaac didn’t want to be a boring villain. How had it come to this? He had always felt so busy. His hands were not idle. As far as he knew, they were not tools the devil used. Life was exhausting. By the time he caught the latest show or movie, read through the latest Atlantic articles, did the minimal amount of exercise, made himself a meal, and watched the latest news cycle, it was time to call it a night. Honestly, he didn’t know how those with kids and careers could manage it all. However, it was clear to him now that his activity amounted to no achievement. He had consumed, consumed, consumed, but what had he produced?

Stolen story; please report.

Isaac didn’t know how to save a cat. He had never been known to have a winning personality and certainly not one that would ingratiate himself to an audience. What could he do? He quickly dismissed ideas such as getting involved at his local church, helping the homeless, and volunteering. While those were good and noble deeds, they would not improve his boring quotient. He wouldn’t want to watch those activities as an audience member, nor did he suspect anyone else would like to either.

He had a thought: maybe he could work backward. Perhaps he should endanger a cat, thereby creating an opportunity to save a cat.

No. No. No. Isaac talked himself out of that idea until he had a better one: What would Super Jesus do? There was ample evidence that people, Isaac included, would be compelled to watch whatever Super Jesus did. The support for the movie was universal, uniting both critics and theatre-goers alike when it became the #1 box office earner of all time and swept its year at the Oscars. But it was more than that. It was a lifestyle brand. Adding to the ranks of the Little Monsters and the Beyhive was the Disciples, a fandom dedicated to supporting Super Jesus and spreading his views. The only backlash to the movement was from a small minority of trads who decried the group as an idolatrous cult. Still, from what Isaac could gather from scrolling Twitter, those concerns were mostly shouted down by the mainstream Church, which was happy to be back in the popular cultural conversation again.

Isaac sighed. He was no Super Jesus, so he was forced to return to the idea of finding a cat to endanger. He couldn’t perform miracles. He couldn’t turn the water from Flint, Michigan, into unleaded water with the snap of his fingers like Super Jesus did in the movie, so why even try?

Perhaps Isaac would be served well by crowd-sourcing the answer. He could throw the question out to Reddit, but would that be cheating? Redditors were guaranteed to come up with some creative ideas. Or maybe he should rely on another dream for inspiration. He was about to turn off the TV, take a fistful of melatonin tablets, and turn in for the night when opportunity knocked on his apartment door.

Isaac opened up, and a man bearing flowers greeted him.

“Condolences,” the man said, stuffing a bouquet of poppies into Isaac’s chest as he pushed past him, entering the apartment. Isaac eyed him with bewilderment. The man was tall and broad-chested, a sharp contrast to Isaac’s more gangly appearance.

“You’ll want to put those in some water right away. The trick is to add a little sugar in there,” the man advised. His voice sounded like crushed gravel under the wheel of an F-150.

“What are these for?” Isaac examined the flowers, which were a bit smushed after Isaac fumbled the handoff.

“A Slytherin test result is a real tough titty. These should perk you up.”

“You’re from the state Slytherin department?” Isaac asked with a hushed voice, carefully closing his apartment door so nobody in his building would overhear his dirty little secret. This was not who Isaac had been expecting or when. The clock read 10 PM. Isaac envisioned something more official, like someone in a suit. Instead, this man dressed in clothes best described as “comfortable,” although that did not affect the man’s imposing presence or his excellent posture. He looked like a marine out of Central Casting with a flat top crew cut and a square jawline to match.

“Seth,” he said.

“Isaac,” Isaac said.

“Abrahamson. I know. Got your file right here.” Seth pointed to his temple and laughed. “That’s why I’m here, but you know that already.”

“I, uh, don’t think I quite got the memo. I’m not sure what to expect. What can I do? What do I do?”

Seth sat down on the couch, making himself at home. “You can start by getting me something to drink. Something bubbly, pretty please.”

“This is sort of all I got. I hope that’s okay,” Isaac said when he returned from the kitchen.

“A beer? Classic Slytherin. Very true to form.” Seth took the beer and drank from it.

“Am I being tested?”

“From here on out, kid.” Seth sighed despite being no older than Isaac. “All the need-to-knows are in here.” Then, from out of nowhere, he handed a large three-ring binder to Isaac.

Isaac opened it up and closed it after seeing page after page of legalese written in size eight font. He was not literate in legalese. The horror. This was a nightmare on par with the scene he dreamt up from the night before. “Can I see some sort of identification?”

“It’s going to take a lot more than that to get rid of me,” Seth snickered, shifting his weight, pulling out his wallet, and flipping it open to reveal a golden U.S. Ministry of Magic badge seal stamped into the shape of Hogwarts’ coat of arms. It was very official.

Isaac coughed. “Well, you did sort of show up unannounced.”

“Good, that’s on purpose. We’ve had some people run out on us in the past when given the heads up.”

“Oh, I see. Makes sense.”

“It’s nothing personal. It’s routine.”

“Got it. Well, it was great to meet you. How does this work? Weekly sessions like with Dr. Rousseau?”

“Yeah, no. I live here now. That’s page 72 in your booklet. As Super Jesus would say, ‘Su casa es mi casa.’”

Isaac flipped to the back of the booklet. What Seth said was true. Not only was Seth Isaac’s caseworker, but he was also his new roommate.

“How else would I be able to watch you sleep?”

“...”

“Page 53. Sleep study. S.O.P. for patients who write down their nightmares as screenplays.”

Isaac pulled up Dr. Rousseau’s contact information on his cell phone.

“You don’t want to do that.” Seth grabbed Isaac’s wrist and placed it back down by his side with gentle strength. “Suspiciousness is something a Slytherin would do. Let’s change the narrative. How about you try some hospitality on for size? Maybe you’re really a cuddly, little Hufflepuff under all that gruff exterior.”

“I don’t know about that or this,” Isaac said, pointing to the big binder.

“This will be painless. Promise. You’re looking at this all wrong. Here’s a hint: when you pour my next beer, pour it into the glass half-full. Get it? It’ll go a long way in helping your case.” Seth took the binder back from Isaac’s hands. “You’ll find that I’m pretty chill. You made out well by getting me. I’m not going to lie. You could have had Wendy Wickersham assigned to your case. She’s a real hard-ass. She’ll actually try to stick to the program.” He stared hard at Isaac, sensing his distrust. “You’re still resisting.”

Isaac nodded.

“Eye to eye, between you and I, I will say that all this Hogwarts stuff is fucking garbage, total nonsense. But Dr. Rousseau and the exam is right in one respect though - that much is obvious - you’re using your lizard brain to think.”

“My lizard brain?”

“Yes. Your primal instinct, the machine code of the mind. Fight or flight, or, in your case, fetal position. You view me as a threat, and you don’t even know why other than the fact that I may disrupt your life, which is ironic because your life fucking sucks. And you never even considered the idea that this might be fun. Don’t think of me as a live-in therapist. Honestly, I’m more of a professional best friend. Here’s what’s going to happen next: we hang out a little, I change your life for the better, and I go home. Correction: I go onto my next home. Call me Santa Claus.”

“Mary Poppins,” Isaac corrected.

“That’s the one,” Seth grinned, “You seem like a nerd. That’s good. Most of my patients, er, best friends, are nerds, and most of them beg me to stay after my assignment ends.”

“...”

“Trust me. Here’s another fun fact: I was once you. They branded me a Slytherin, and I didn’t wise up, okay? So, I kept hustling, kept running with the wrong crowd, and you know what? I ended up in jail and, worse, the Twin Towers.”

“For what?”

“Counterfeiting parking validation tickets, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is that I know what you need. If you play your cards right, you could be me.”

“I could be you?”

“Do you fuck? Because I bet you don’t fuck. Don’t worry your pretty little head because we can get you to fuck. In my professional opinion, that solves the Slytherin problem nine times out of ten. Tame the snake, save the Slytherin, as I always say.”

“...”

“Relax, Isaac. It was a rhetorical question. I’ve got your file, remember? You don’t fuck. Now go brush your teeth. It’s time for bed. The sleep study/slumber party begins now.” Seth followed Isaac into the bathroom to coach him on his brushing technique and to criticize Isaac’s choice of fluoridated toothpaste. As Seth tucked him in, Isaac was overwhelmed but admitted to himself that it was nice to hear someone wish him “goodnight.” Isaac couldn’t remember the last time someone had told him that.

“Sweet dreams,” Seth cooed, “the rest of your life begins tomorrow.”