Nobodies and Somebodies
By Eugie Foster

he first time I see a new patient, I try to fix upon something distinctive or idiosyncratic about them as a mnemonic to keep them straight. Oftentimes, a physical quirk or peculiarity is more effective than any amount of note taking, and there's nothing quite so embarrassing, not to mention unprofessional, as bringing up a salient point in a patient's case history, only to discover that I've misremembered their background. I've often wondered if some purported cases of repressed memories have been due to overzealous efforts on the part of my less scrupulous compatriots to cover their gaffes.

However, I found myself struggling to identify anything memorable about the woman sitting across from me. Her features were unremarkable, neither attractive nor homely, and her choice in apparel was wholly generic in cut, color, and style. Even her voice was neutral, being neither high nor low in pitch or volume, and lacking any discernable accent. Frankly, her most remarkable feature was that she was utterly unremarkable.

I was so distracted by this deficiency that I found myself inattentive during our introductory interview, going through the motions of collecting her information with only half an ear. I admonished myself for my reprehensible negligence, and undertook to give her my undivided attention when she began telling me her reason for this consultation.

" Atlanta in spring is a grubby place," she said. "Not the sort of industrial grime you associate with big factories or the refuse muck of farmyards; it's a powdered, thirsty sort of dirty. The trees shed a blanket of yellow pollen over the city, coating cars, houses, and people."

I nodded, finding it difficult to concentrate on her words, and inclined to dwell on my inability rather than her narrative.

"When I came out that spring day to get into my normally-silver car," she continued, "I was exasperated by the messy, ochre tint sifted over it. Fortunately, the excess of pollen only lasts a short while. That weekend I took my car to the corner gas station for a bath.

"While the soft cloth ribbons were spreading suds and lather on the outside, I wiped at the inside with a damp cloth. The pollen specks are large, almost granular. A tightly sealed window usually keeps them out. But a light film of yellow lay over my vinyl upholstery. I figured I'd probably left the window down a crack."

"A reasonable assumption," I said.

"The next day, a Sunday, I discovered I was out of milk. There's a Kroger's within five blocks of me no matter which way I go, so I hopped into my car and picked a direction. As I got into the driver's side, I noticed a residue of yellow on the maroon vinyl. It was pollen.

"It didn't occur to me until after I returned with two half-gallons of skim milk that the outside of my car was lustrous silver, without a hint of yellow. After storing away my milk, I swiped a damp paper towel at my car's seats until they gleamed.

"The next morning when I came out, juggling my lunch in one hand, my laptop bag in the other, I saw flecks of yellow on the upholstery. I dabbed at them with a crumpled tissue, irrationally furious.

"In the days that followed, I found I couldn't rid my car of the yellow dirt. Sometimes there were streaks on the roof or a smattering along the doorframe, but mostly it swirled and drifted inside. No matter what I did—vacuumed, polished, scrubbed—when I came out in the morning, the inside of my car was littered with yellow. I wondered if I was causing it somehow; I laundered my clothes, mopped the floors, and even refreshed the HEPA filter on the air conditioner.

"After two weeks, spring rains washed most of the pollen into a gray scum on the sidewalks, but I still had fresh, yellow pollen every morning in my car. It was terrible, Doctor. It became a crusade for me. After work I marched out to my car with chamois cloth and can of Endust, and polished and buffed until the vinyl gleamed."

I scribbled preoccupied by dirt, likely Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder in my notes, and contemplated which SSRI anti-depressant would obtain the best results.

"At first, I felt a sense of triumph after all that cleaning," she said, "but that faded to dread as the days passed. Every morning, I discovered pollen.

"What was worse, I was somehow bringing it into the house with me. Initially it appeared in unremarkable places: behind the couch, under the coffee table, behind the toaster in the kitchen. But then I noticed speckles of yellow on my countertops and on the seat of the toilet.

"I was not only losing the war with the interior of my car, but the pollen was encroaching into my living area. I felt that I had to draw a line, stop the foray before I drowned in yellow dust.

"I assembled my weapons in a kit—dust cloth, hand vac, Endust, flashlight—and took them to my car. Starting at the dashboard, I wiped, scrubbed, and polished my way over every crease and recess, inch by inch from front to back. It was dark by the time I finished, and I rested in the backseat, pleased with my accomplishment. Lulled by the smell of window cleaner, I fell asleep.

"I was awakened by movement. The click of the driver side door disengaging brought me wide-awake, and a ragged man slid in. He could've been young under the thicket of beard, the lines etched in by sun instead of time, or he could've been ancient. His clothes were shapeless layers of gray and brown, covering him from head to toe in layers of flannel and wool. Unlike the transients and destitute I sometimes see on the subway, the old man didn't seem dirty. He certainly didn't smell rank or foul. Rather, the car overflowed with a sweet, musty smell. It made me think of attics, heirloom memories, mothballs, dust. And pollen.

"Before I could weigh the wisdom of startling a strange man who had invaded my car, I slammed my hand into the overhead light switch.

"Surprise was clear on his face, carved there by the dim illumination. Also clear was the smattering of yellow pollen that clung to the straggle of his hair, filling the folds of his clothes, and peppering his hands and face.

"'Who are you, and what the hell are you doing in my car?' I demanded.

"'I didn't mean no hurt,' he said. 'Just needed a place to sleep.' It was the reply of a harmless old man looking for a shelter against the night. I felt for him, but surely there are better places for people like him.

"'I understand you didn't intend anything criminal,' I said, relieved and peeved at this mundane solution to my pollen mystery. 'But you can't go breaking into people's cars.'

"'Didn't break in,' he said, sounding sullen.

"At his change in tone, I wondered if he wasn't so harmless after all. I wrapped my hand around the heavy flashlight in my anti-pollen kit.

"'Just opened the door,' he continued. 'So's I knew it was okay.'

"'I call illegally entering a locked vehicle breaking in. What do you call it?'

"He shrugged. 'The door opened.' The man squinted at me. 'Locks and noticing, neither of them's for us.'

"The jury was still out on harmless, but crazy was a definite.

"'You walk right past me all the time,' he continued. 'Look right through me. All a sudden you want to chew me out for sleeping in my spot?'

"'It's not yours. This is my car.'

"The man opened the door and slid out. 'Guess I gotta find me someplace else then.'

"He ambled away, and I watched, bemused. But when he strolled up my driveway, I scrambled after him.

"'Where do you think you're going?' I called.

"I might have been shouting at the wind. With a turn of his wrist, he defeated the front door I had carefully locked.

"'I'm calling the police!'

"He laughed, a rasping, hoarse sound.

"I dashed after him, flashlight raised like a club. But what I saw within had me stumbling to a standstill. There were people in my home, strangers. There was a woman, tangled in hanks of her own gray hair and layers of mismatched skirts, sprawled and snoring in my foyer; a bald man with wild eyebrows curled up under my coffee table; and a cluster of children in ragged shorts and worn t-shirts asleep in a jumble of limbs in a corner of my kitchen, like a pile of puppies. And over them all, in a haphazard sprinkling, was yellow pollen. It streaked their faces, glittered in their hair, colored their clothes. Most of it clung to them, but dots and speckles flecked off to drift to my floor and over my furniture.

"The man from my car clumped upstairs. I trailed after, astonished. In the hallway, a grizzled man in the tatters of an old, tweed suit slumped against the wall where my Aunt Augusta's picture hung. His white hair was freckled with yellow, like fairy tinsel dandruff. My dowager aunt seemed to glower down at him from the faded photograph. Passing the bathroom, I saw a leg, sheathed in tattered long johns and ending in a scuffed combat boot, dangling out of the tub.

"My car sleeper ignored the litter of dirty socks and still-damp towels flung over my bedroom floor. Lizardlike, he crawled under my bed and immediately began to snore.

"I knelt, reaching out to shake and tug at him. 'Hey! You can't sleep here.'

"He grunted and shrugged my hands away, as immovable as a mountain. 'You called the car, I got the bed,' he mumbled.

"No amount of prodding could stir him again. He snored over my protests.

"'Your own fault.' A child, grubby with faded gold lamé pollen on her face, glared at me from beneath the lintel. She flicked a fall of yellow dust from her raggedy sleeve. 'You had to nose about.'

"'What?'

"The child put her delicate hands, slender as a monkey's, on her bony hips. 'Now you see me.'

"'Of course I see you.'

"'I don't like being seen. Mostly, nobody notices us. We like it that way.'

"'Who are you?'

"'I'm Janie.' She grinned. 'Maybe it's 'cause you're going to be a nobody. That's okay then.'

"'I'm calling 911.' I reached for the phone beside my bed.

"'Dummy. They won't see us. They're somebodies.'

"When the police showed up, I unlocked my front door and let them in. As Janie had declared, they couldn't see the squatters who had invaded my home. To prove her point, she stuck her tongue out and flipped an officer the bird; they didn't even blink.

"'No one's here. Don't see any sign of break in,' the first policeman said. 'You sure you heard something?'

"What could I say in the face of such incongruity? I shook my head and watched them file out.

"'Told you.' Janie crossed her arms over her birdlike chest.

"'Okay, fine. Now what?'

"She shrugged. 'I suppose you got no choice 'cept to become a nobody. That's happened before, people taking an interest in us. Had a social worker try to make me a somebody once. She ended up invisible too.' Janie blew a mist of yellow pollen onto my floor and flashed her feral smile at me. 'Or you could sleep in the car.'

"In a patter of ramshackle shoes, she was gone.

"Baffled, I crept over the slumbering bodies, went out my front door, and climbed into the backseat of my car. What would it be like living like that—drifting through life unseen, unnoticed by the rest of society? Mad is what it would be like.

"I woke up stiff and cold, convinced the night's events had been a dream. But back inside, the first thing I saw was the old lady in my foyer. She blinked at the early-morning sunlight I'd let in and began tugging her skirts straight. Around us, other waking nobodies stretched and stirred.

"Janie appeared at my elbow. 'Still see us, huh?'

"I ignored her.

"'Being a nobody ain't all bad,' she said. 'It blows at first, but you get used to not being able to own stuff and having to scrounge other people's leavings. It can be fun not minding your manners and being free of schedules and all. You might like it.'

"I gazed at a spot a foot over her head.

"'That's the way,' she said. 'Keep it up.'

"I stepped over the legs kicked out beneath my coffee table, pretending I didn't notice them. In the kitchen, I got out a frozen bagel to toast. I tried not to hear the woman lounging in front of my refrigerator, weighing the virtues of the two-week old bread heels versus the leftover pizza from last weekend.

"I stopped responding to them, the nobodies, even when they ran and laughed, belched and farted, in front of me.

"The rains washed the last of the yellow-grey grime away. I stopped cleaning off the covering of pollen I found in my car and in my house.

"Summer arrived, bringing evergreen needles and wildflower petals to not see along with its burning sun and kudzu. Then came Fall. When I started finding gold and crimson leaves in my car, I ignored them too.

"I told myself if I didn't see the nobodies they'd go away. But it's been a year and they're still everywhere—in the parks sleeping in bushes, in restaurants under tables and slouched in entryways, slumped across dark alleyways.

"That's why I'm here, Doctor. Because no matter what I do, I can still see them. I need to know it's a sickness, something I can be cured of. Please tell me I'm still a somebody."

I glanced at the clock on my desk. "We're just about out of time, but from what you've told me, I believe you may be suffering from an Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder exacerbated by delusional episodes. I've got a couple prescriptions I want you to start taking; one will treat your hallucinations—you should see an effect in the next few days—and the other will decrease your obsessive impulses, although it may take several weeks before you experience a noticeable result. I'd also like to schedule weekly sessions with you to further explore this, if you're amenable."

She nodded, and I was pleased to see relief on her face.

I handed over the requisite paperwork for her medications and ushered her to the door. "You can set up appointments for the next month with Brenda, my receptionist." I held out my hand. "It was a pleasure meeting you."

She shook hands and departed, and I thought nothing more of her case until I noticed the sprinkling of yellow pollen on my hand. I brushed it away and spotted a similar dusting over the chair she'd sat in.

Upon further reflection, it occurred to me that it might be prudent for me to see her twice a week. I went to notify Brenda.

"Can you get me the file for Ms—" I frowned. "Drat my memory. Her name escapes me."

Brenda grinned. "They say the mind is the first thing to go, Doctor."

I chuckled. "Don't they also say not to heckle the man who signs your paychecks?"

"I must've missed that part. I figure you won't remember anyway." She winked. "So, can you give me a hint whose file you want me to pull up?"

"The woman who was my 10 A.M. She's a new patient, couldn't have left more than ten minutes ago."

Brenda cocked her head. "There's been nobody here for the last hour, not since your 9AM, Mr. Patterson, the somatoform."

"You must be mistaken. I just had a session with her."

Brow furrowed, Brenda brought up my morning schedule on her computer. As she'd said, I had nothing between Mr. Patterson and my next appointment, Mrs. Hale, the bipolar.

Confounded, I apologized and turned back to my office. Before I had taken a step, I went sprawling. As Brenda exclaimed and hastened to assist me, I surveyed the reception area. Someone had tripped me. I'd felt a shove and a foot tangling my legs as I tottered off balance.

But there was nobody there.