It was the first week of summer, and I was on a one-day job on Randall’s Island, building a Nike set for Governors Ball that would sell custom-stitched NBA attire to festival goers—a two-story, full-size court we assembled on a slant, that it took forever to shim level, with sewing machines, stacks of every team’s jerseys, except just blank canvases, no numbers or team names on em.

During lunch I shot her a text like Hey, in town for a job. Drink later?

She responded immediately.

No. And I changed my mind about the manuscript, I don’t wanna submit it anymore. And tbh I don’t wanna spend time with you in any other capacity. I’m too busy with work and wanna spend the free time I do have with people I’m actually close with. Have a good summer!

IV

Fall

1

X

Late September 2018

This new drug cyclosporine Dr. Botox was switching me over to, now that I’d run out of roid re-ups.

How it worked was, it suppressed the system’s immune response—something one generally wouldn’t want to do; only, in my case, my immune system was over-responding.

Was confused about what was happening and so was going full tilt, tryna fight off whatever was attacking. But incorrectly.

It was still unclear whether anything—and, if so, what—was attacking. Diet, airborne allergens, psychic trauma, or some endocrinological anomaly there weren’t yet tests for—all possibilities.

But regardless. The response, whether warranted or nah, was causing issues.

Immune system too keyed up, reacting gratuitously, disproportionately to the purported attacks.

Inflaming things.

The theory went, if we just shut this bitch down completely, maybe my bod would chill out.

This of course left the door open to risks the unsuppressed immune system generally protected against. Liver problems, lymphoma, viral infections.

It was sorta like: I was out at sea, getting fucked by the waves, skin tore up, and now I was nixing my life vest—the one thing designed to keep me afloat—since the life vest had malfunctioned.

Had started weighing me down.

I mean, chances were I’d get fucked if I went ahead and started taking the stuff since…I was out at sea! Nixing my life vest! But would for sure be fucked if I did nothing, how fucked shit was already—was the case Dr. Botox made, over FaceTime.

Other side effects included confusion, gum enlargement, trouble breathing, increased hair growth, nausea.

Generally used for transplant patients, to prevent their immune systems from spazzing on the new organ that had set up shop in their bod.

To help em adjust to the new, foreign heart they were learning to live with.

I sat on the stoop, reading all this.

Confused. Breath short.

Feeling, vaguely, like I was about to puke.

Scanning the Wiki page for anything even remotely reassuring.

Cyclosporine, cyclosporine…

Cycles. Spores.

Was there a shroom connection?