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PharmaceuticamanuensisA short story by Martin Marks, inspired by Mirabai KnightPart One: It was a Thursday when I got the call. I remember that distinctly. "I'm calling for M—." "Speaking." "You're a typist?" "A stenographer," I said. "How fast?" "With a steno machine, two to three hundred words per minute." He paused for a moment. "How do you feel about drugs?" "I'm sorry?" "Drugs. Performance-enhancing drugs. How do you feel about them?" "Well... are we talking about the Tour de France here or what?" "I'm talking about hypertrazine," he said. "Yellow 9. Have you heard of it?" "What is this all about?" "You posted an ad on Craigslist, right? Said you were 'flexible'?" "I meant I was willing to come downtown." "So you're telling me you don't want to make a quick $5000?" I paused at that. "I don't think this sounds like something I can get involved in, Mister..." "Signaler. Thomson Signaler." "What—who?" "Fort Tryon Park, behind the museum. Tomorrow at seven. I'll be in red—you wear blue. Come alone." "But..." He hung up. "It's not Thom Signaler," Rabbit said. "It might be." "But it's not." "How do you know?" "Because he hasn't been seen in public for, what, eighteen years? Why would he be calling up typists and asking their opinions on Yellow 9?" "Stenographers. Do you have it or not?" She sighed and handed me a dogeared copy of The Whim of Grit. "Thanks," I said. "I'll get it back to you." "It's not him," she said. "It's some weirdo." "I bet I can get him to autograph your book for you." "I bet he murders you and sells your organs to support his Yellow habit." I stared at the grainy author photo on the back of The Whim of Grit as I took the subway home from Rabbit's. Thom Signaler? I didn't even realize he was still alive. Rabbit's protestations aside, I didn't find it particularly hard to believe, actually. What would be the point of claiming to be Thomson Signaler? Besides, I hadn't forgotten the number he mentioned. Five thousand dollars for one job? Imagine, being able to walk into my building without having to hide from my landlady! I was getting sick of the very limited Ukranian vocabulary lesson focusing on such terms as "rent" (рента), "money" (гроші), and of course "eviction" (виселення). And it wasn't as if I was exactly getting swarms of other offers. When it came down to it, I didn't have much choice in the matter. Maybe if I was lucky he'd just take a kidney. There was no question: the man in red skulking behind the Cloisters was Thomson Signaler. Forty-odd years old now, left eye faded blue, but the same man. "Mr Signaler?" "Don't call me that in public," he hissed. "Would you mind telling me exactly what you want a stenographer for?" I asked. "Walk with me," he said. Beneath a spreading oak—and after making me sign a nondisclosure form—he told me the story of the writer's block that had begun the very day The Whim of Grit hit the bestseller list, about eighteen years lived on royalty checks, staring at a rusting typewriter and a well-oiled gun, knowing that if he couldn't be inspired to use the one, he would end up using the other. Then he told me about his first Yellow trip. He had woken several days later bathed in sweat, with a ringing headache and twenty pages of sketchy notes. "I wasn't fast enough," he said. "I would write a word, and by the time I got to the end of it, my mind was fifty words ahead. But I knew that if I could only get it all down, it would be brilliant." "Did you try taping yourself?" I asked. "I tried everything," he said. "I've spent half my savings on Yellow 9 and tape recorders over the past year. But when I sobered up and listened to it, I couldn't grasp the thread. I knew there was something there, but it was like hearing someone else's dream. I need it on paper, and I need it before I come down. That's why I need you." "So you want me to write everything out as you're talking, then give you the transcript so you can edit it while you're still high?" "Exactly," he said. "That shouldn't be too difficult..." "There are two problems," he said. "You said you typed at two, maybe three hundred words per minute?" "Something like that. People typically speak at 150 to 200 wpm. I imagine that under the influence of Yellow 9..." "Four hundred," he said. "That's how fast I spoke on those recordings." "That's impossible. Even auctioneers only speak at 250, 300 max." "I had the tapes analyzed. Four hundred." "What's the other problem?" "Last time, I spoke for two days straight." "Two days?" I said. "I'm sorry, Mr Sign—I mean, sir—but there's no way I could possibly hope to take dictation at more than three hundred words per minute for longer than a few hours." "There's one way," he said. "You'll have to take Yellow with me." When I got home that night, I looked up Yellow 9 on Wikipedia. This is what it said: Hypertrazine [haɪ̯.ˈpɛɹ.tɹə.ˌzin] (popularly known as Yellow 9) is a a synthetic stimulant drug used primarily for recreational purposes. It was first synthesized on December 13th, 2010 by Dr Tina Crawford, a food scientist at the Monsanto Company, who was attempting to create a new yellow food coloring based on tartrazine. Instead of reducing the undesirable side effects of tartrazine, however, hypertrazine concentrated and focused the effects.
Effects of a hypertrazine "high", which may last as long as four days, include:
Hypertrazine "hangover", which typically lasts at least 24 hours, is marked by:
Effects of chronic use of hypertrazine include:
Psychosis has been reported as a possible result of extended hypertrazine use. Death has also been known to occur in those with pre-existing heart conditions or due to acute dehydration; in some cases, hypertrazine users have committed suicide while under the influence.
Some hypertrazine users claim that the drug causes increased creativity and inspiration; most authorities contend that this is a myth.
In the United States, hypertrazine is considered a Schedule I drug under the Controlled Substances Act, meaning it is considered to have no legitimate medical uses and has a high potential for abuse...
Back on the park bench: "Five thousand dollars," he repeated. "Jesus." "And, if you're one of those idiots who thinks fame is anything but a curse, your name on the cover of my next book." "This is a lot to take in, Mr Sig—sir." "Call me Thom." "I don't know." "Think about it. I'll call you tomorrow." As he stood up to walk away, I remembered the book in my messenger bag. "Wait, Thom—can I ask you a favor?" "What?" I pulled out Rabbit's The Whim of Grit. "Would you mind..." His eyes narrowed. "Now it's four thousand dollars." "What? A thousand dollars for a damn autograph?" "No. A thousand dollars for asking. There will be no autographs." He turned and walked away without a word. Part Two "Oh, you have to do it!" Rabbit said. "What?" I said. "Yesterday you were trying to talk me out of even meeting him, now you want me to get high with him?" "Yeah, well, before I didn't think he was really Thom Signaler. But apparently he is." "So it's a good idea to take illegal drugs with strange men if they're celebrities?" "Good point," Rabbit said. "I'll have to go with you." "Rabbit, I'm being serious here." "So am I! Look, Yellow is
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