"S" as in Spider

[Tuesday, the first day after AI] Bedros Dolidze lay awake, still in the throes of being roused from his bed. It was 7:33 A.M., and he was comfortably laying on his left side, a pillow between his knees; partially balled in a fetal pose with the comforter bunched all about him. The bathroom light was on, and he couldn’t take his eyes off the undulating dance that the toilet paper roll affixed to the handle on the wall was doing. Hardly any paper was left on the roll, the majority of it streaming down from the handle, over the vent register. The cool, continuous breeze of the air conditioner made the dangling white paper dance in a lethargically forming “S” over and over again.

“You were talking a lot in your sleep last night,” his wife told him as she threw on a blouse, standing before her closet mirror. He could suddenly smell her as she spoke her first words of the day to him. “What was I saying?” She exhaled a soft chuckle. “I couldn’t quite tell; something about ‘not being all the way dead’?” Instantaneously, the image of a writhing black widow from his dream spasmed into his mind’s eye.

“Oh!” he recalled, rolling onto his back and rubbing his eyes. “I had another weird dream-hope I didn’t wake you?”

Nina Dolidze stood by their doorway smiling knowingly, dressed and ready for the day. She sipped from her coffee mug. “No, Beddy, I was already awake. I was making coffee.” Bedros grunted an apology as he made his way out of the warm comfort of the bed and traipsed into the bathroom to urinate. The silent waves that the toilet paper roll slowly danced suddenly ceased, as he placed his hand between the register and the paper. The cool of the register’s air was a balm. It would be another cloying August day, he knew.

They sipped coffee at the kitchen table. In his ruminative daze, Bedros sat in his bathrobe, both elbows on the table. He had a weirdly persistent itch on his chest. He kept rubbing and scratching it to no avail. His wife gathered her items of the day, slapping her laptop shut and stuffing it into her briefcase. “Today is the day,” she began, reminding Bedros of her firm’s appraisal.

“Oh! Right! Honey, I’m sorry-do you want me to come in, help with any tidying or anything? Vacuum the lobby?”

“A very sweet afterthought,” she smiled in the endearing way that always reminded Bedros what first stole him for the rest of his life. “Everything’s as…presentable as it ever will be, in that place. Hoping for a solid, rounded-up number.”

“Yeah-it’s always been prime real estate. Great location.” His eyes had already focused on something distant and intangible.

“How’s the writer’s block thing?” She asked.

Like misjudging a puddle’s depth, and feeling the immediate dread of cold liquid enclosing one’s foot; Bedros jumped out of his reverie. He suddenly remembered-she brought him back, bitterly, terribly, to yesterday.

“Beddy?” For the first time that morning, his wife looked concerned. Her smiling eyes and pleasant face sank into something akin to worry. He assured Nina that he was fine, and recalled his dream of the black widow, which kept coming back to him. As she left for the day, Bedros checked his phone-19 new messages, two emails from his producer, and seven missed calls-one being from his producer.

There was a feeling he was working up the courage to embrace: guilt. “No,” he said in a daydream, as he poured whiskey into his coffee. This is not cheating-this is what AI is for, isn’t it? I’m the composer-I know what all to put into it to make it matchless!

As he sipped his concoction into the unfolding day, Bedros fixated on his dream from the night just past: he’d been naked, stepping into their bathroom-only it wasn’t their bedroom’s bathroom. It was a cluttered, dusty small space with a dingy sink and a small mirror, blurred with splotches of abrasive chemical cleaners. There was a clogged toilet and a stand-up shower stall, and in lieu of any sort of bathroom wall he’d ever seen; in this dream the walls were composed of slabs of plywood. As he stepped into the shower, suddenly a large, bulbous black widow skittered just inches before him on a clear spindle of webbing. He ran back out, and hastily dressing himself, called for his wife. Instead, his father came in; though as with the bathroom, the person in his dream looked nothing like his father, but was understood to be him. With a bit of tissue paper, Bedros watched as his father squished the black widow as it hung upon its webbing. He tossed the crumpled mess in the kitchen sink, and spoke to his spouse. All he remembered from that point on in the dream was that the writhing black widow was not dead. He watched as it flicked its jointed tar-black legs, with more and more enervation. It suddenly flicked its way up out of the sink, landing sideways on the countertop. It began writhing now more furiously than before, and its black chartaceous skin began peeling. The essence of the spider was soon a mellifluous ooze of black, arcing into a black flatworm.

[Monday, the day he used it] “I’m gonna need it this week, Dolidze. If it’s not in by Friday, we’ll have to exclude you from consideration.” Bedros hadn’t been the least surprised yesterday morning, hearing the disinterested voice of Daron. It was the last in a simple, debilitating downward slope that Bedros had found himself in for months. Nina had been early to call it what it was; Bedros himself had only affirmed it aloud recently. His wife had emailed him an article on writer’s block. “Writer’s block,” he’d bitterly read aloud. His directorial ballet debut had been what he kept focusing on; in Tbilisi back in 2017. It proffered his name on the ballet world map. His second show, a French choreography, was held later in 2018, in Nice. It was a show met with far less fanfare, and was reviewed in Pointe Magazine as “confoundingly average.” Bedros had spent a few months of recurring searches on the author of that article, had considered many times of writing a bellicose email. His wife had always been there to diffuse his rage. And raged to her he’d done, in recurring fashion: the ineptitude of his dancers, the ineptitude of the audience, the ineptitude of all those with whom he’d had to work…

Four rejections had bruised his confidence more than his budding pride. Who exactly was he, anyway? A choreographer on the brink of ballet world fame and prestige; on the brink of middle age? Nina and his friends and family had told him how big of a deal it was to have been the director of two major international ballet shows. But he felt as though he’d never amount to more than a State Ballet Conservatory teacher, with a grand show or two to his name. He knew he’d not be able to handle another pass by the company producers; he was probably already viewed as a gormster and hack, as it was.

“I can’t believe you’ve never considered it, honestly,” George had told him between mouthfuls of cheese grits. Bedros had been dismissive, but had hoped his friend would continue to encourage him in using AI. He did. “It’s only getting more seamless, everyday,” George continued. “It’s inevitable; people are going to use AI more and more-let it do the gruntwork. It’s just like using little figures, or sketches, to map out the dance, yeah? You’re still the choreographer. Look: if a kid learning basic arithmetic is given a complex trigonometry question, alongside a graphing calculator, what good would it do? He wouldn’t even know the first thing about how to use a calculator with that many buttons-wouldn’t know what most of the buttons mean anyhow. It’s the same with you. Somebody that knows zilch about ballet wouldn’t know how to use AI to make a good performance.” Bedros had felt himself warm to the notion, as he watched his loud and humongous friend eat the rest of his lunch. He suggested to his friend the idea that people in general despise AI; especially when it’s applied to the arts. George swatted a hand at the notion, continuing: “it’s the same thing people said about photoshop, back when it first came out. Now it’s utilized in almost every poster, every piece of photography worth its weight in salt.” He’s 100% right.

Using the AI program was a rush; as Bedros felt his heart pounding like a burglar finding an antique shop unlocked. George Hakobyan, his good friend and tech savvy helper, on whom he was constantly dependant, walked him through everything. The sway of the movements, of the generated dancers on the generated stage with generated inhuman effluence, it whirled like colors on a Turkish lollipop. Their liquid-like prose, their leaps and twirls would be possible amongst the very best dancers. He watched the hair of the female figures; dark streaks silently slashing through a simulated void of air. The dance of their long hair was like a continually rising smoke; a dance all its own. Before 5 p.m., Bedros had finished writing the choreography; copying and pasting every final detail; and had emailed it to the company. He’d had several rounds of wine with George afterwards, and was in a lighthearted and carefree state of mind when Nina returned from her day at the firm. It had been the most insouciant night he’d had since 2017. It was a night washed into obscurity, alongside the minutiae of things said and laughed about, with hearty toasting and many empty bottles of wine.

During the night, he’d been inundated with congratulatory voices; with elation and anecdotal applause. Yet the elation in their voices wouldn’t be enough, that Tuesday, to counterbalance that rising sensation. He’d always know how he got this job, how he’d won this second shot at fame. He knew the guilt was a force he was trying actively to ignore; for he couldn’t call her, he didn’t have the chops to sound as thrilled as he should’ve been. George Hakobyan also knows.

[Wednesday, the 2nd day after ] Bedros got dressed early, put on coffee before Nina awoke. Today was the day she’d hear the offer on her and her partner’s law firm. That isn’t why you got up before 6 this morning, washed your face…got dressed, and put on coffee. He paced the kitchen, sipping black coffee, growing more impatient with each passing minute that Nina didn’t awake. He knew, he knew, he’d have to get out of that 2,200 square foot house today. That house that was childless; and not because of Nina-she was perfectly capable of mothering children; that house needed to be changed with any number of buildings in Batumi. That house that was spotless and in fine working order-and not because of Bedros’ bare minimum maintenance-it was too dandy a confinement for him. His phone buzzed. It was 7:08 in the morning. At the same time as he glanced at his phone, he heard the bathroom water running through the pipes. His producer was phoning.

Nina had arrived in the kitchen, in her bathrobe, having showered and coming for coffee. It was there that he told her, revealed that he’d spoken with his producer, and he’d be the director for the International Yerevan Ballet. He smelled her wet hair as they embraced, and wished for a brief moment that the two could lie in comfort beneath the ceiling fan; so he could feel her drying hair on his face and in his hands. “Beddy! Beddy!” She kept whispering his name unbelievably; joyously into his ear, like a colleague or an associate in lieu of a discovery.They declared their love for each other. In that embrace, Bedros made promises that he would arrange for fertility testing that very Wednesday.

Daron, his producer, had wanted to see him yesterday; he’d sounded almost miffed that the entirety of yesterday, Tuesday, Bedros had been apparently ghosting him. “Where in the blue hell have ya been?!” he’d demanded to know. Bedros apologized bounteously. His first destination of the day, per his producer’s insistence, had been to his producer’s office.

“Well shave my face and call me Shirley!” Bedros smiled at the platitudes his once-indifferent producer showered on him. The exclamation was repeated in so many expressions and words: I thought you were another one-trick pony; you really put something together! This is genius!” Bedros accepted the generous lunch Daron and his aides treated him to at the Vardi Cafe on the Batumi coast. Afterward, Bedros approached the bijou bar in back of the cafe, and ordered rounds of mimosas, which devolved into vodka on the rocks with a squeeze of lime juice. He’d been able to call a ride share home, and the rest of the day was a sweet onyx tarp of nullity.

Nina had been disappointed, when she woke him on the couch. The two ate dinner and, as Bedros wasn’t much for conversation aside from the most superficial of details on the law firm’s sale, a reasonable bedtime came that night.

[Thursday, the 3rd day after] The sober breakfast of black coffee and fried eggs had brought Bedros to fully agree to all of Nina’s requests of the day: that he’d get a haircut, that he’d find out the estimated timeline for rehearsals-and the cutting and dicing of chicken breast, and prepping of the cubes, for supper. Nina left the house, and in the silence following, as Bedros sat at the kitchen table, sipping his coffee, he heard it. Something made a soft sliding sound; yet it was impossibly loud. Something was being dragged across, against something. It was a sound, something impossibly coarse and soft.

I know what you’re doing. I hear how you describe me, in every waking second of my life. I hear what you say about my wife. You think I don’t struggle with the fact that I’ve become a total fraud?! I’m still a choreographer! I don’t want to hear your voice, anymore!

[Thursday, later] Bedros drank himself into a stupor, and was sleeping on the couch when Nina returned. The blackness was what he sought, and what he got, after drinking the remainder of the vodka in the freezer.

[Friday, 4 days after] Bedros was painfully questioned by Daron; it was the incredulous grilling by his chief producer that was most untenable. The disappointment in Nina was unbearable, but her soft scolding was just that, soft. It ended with the joy of hopefulness. They embraced. They kissed. It had ended on promises of Bedros; to hold off on drinking so much. Guilt became poison in his veins; would he cease from vodka or wine-could he possibly decrease?

“I don’t know what’s more major, Beds: the show you wrote, or your mindboggling MIA status for the past week! You submit the most genius work of your life at the beginning of the week, and then disappear?! Who in the blue hell does that? What’s goin’ on with you anyhow? Can’t respond even via text about the biggest job of your career?!” It was more a dizzying incredulity from Daron, than an outright scolding. But his lack of any reasonable answer was eardrum rapping all the same. He sat meekly across from Daron’s desk, idly looking over the khanjali sword used by the male dancers in the simulated battles. On the desk before Daron were several dance and ballet publications; including Pointe. “San Francisco Ballet School” adorned the cover-the baroque “S” in red splashed stylistically-

“SHUT UP!”

“Don’t you come at me with that look of confusion! Why does this pommel have hair?” I got his attention. I showed him the strand of black hair strangling the pommel of the khanjali. But he pretended to not see it. So be it. I left Daron there; his idiotic face and Neanderthal eyebrows beneath his thinning hair. But Daron’s not the only voice. Dizzying Incredulity!”

[Saturday] “Nina didn’t come home last night. But, I don’t recall-”

Yes you do, Bedros. You knew, even before your lunch with George.

“George!”

Focus on Nina-what do you not recall? Where did you go after leaving Daron in that state? He stands now, for perhaps the first time, with conviction; if only he were gripping a sword, and gallantly facing a grand view atop a wind-whistling mountain. There is sweat on the back of his neck; and he is hot. The thick toilet paper sits like a giant coil of cables; there is not cool air in this house. But this room isn’t the only room in your house!

Where are you going, Bedros? “I see them now. They wave, all watery, like kelp.”

Ah. He walked to the strands of black hairs, softly undulating out of the walls. “Nina?!” The hairs are growing out of the hallway walls too, Bedros. But, there is more to your house than this hallway.

See now, he runs down the hallway because the tendrils tickle him, and he fears they will impatiently begin to constrict him, holding him in place.

“NINA?”

At last he reaches the living room of the home, and sees Nina asleep on the couch. Her back is to him. Her dark hair he grabs tenderly, turning her face to him. Her name is endlessly in his desperate throat.

Wait, though; haven’t you turned her over, Bedros?

“Nina…” Where is her face? There’s only hair, and he digs with his fingers in it, thinking he’ll see the woman’s face? He makes out then, through the terrible strands, the onyx orbs-two rows of four, about either side of the forested nest of hair. He feels the motionless worm in his mouth, just before the incisive pinch of unseen maws.