The Nudge

Simon didn't know exactly when it was that he first began to Nudge the minds of those around him. But he was certain that the first time he realized he was doing it was one recent summer day at the Save-Rite grocery store, when the clerk showed him her breast.

She was about 40, dark-haired with a little curl of bang in front, a short woman with wide hips and wide breasts, all covered by her Save-Rite grocery store uniform, which included a button-down blouse. The top two buttons of the blouse were already unbuttoned when Simon arrived at the head of her line with two cans of salmon and a bottle of dishwashing liquid. A sliver of pink bra showed as the clerk leaned over to scan the soap, and Simon saw, too briefly, the soft shadow of cleavage before she stood straight again. He would remember, later, that he had had a brief thought -- right between thinking that salmon is too expensive and I wonder if 'Jeopardy' is on yet -- that she appeared to have pretty breasts and he wished her blouse was opened wider so he could see them better.

The thought, he recalled later, lasted maybe one second, so short that he wouldn't even remember, until hours later, that he had thought it. The thought wasn't accompanied by any kind of comment or look from him that the grocery clerk could possible have noticed. He had already moved onto other thoughts (I hope 'E.R.' isn't a re-run tonight) when she looked at him, smiled a small grocery-clerk smile at him, asked him if he wanted paper or plastic, and then, without waiting for an answer, unbuttoned her third and fourth buttons, pulled the right half of her blouse and bra aside and fully exposed her right nipple to him.

Simon stared dumbly at the nipple. It was dark red and rigid, with raised, dimpled red skin around its base, a crimson oval on the cream-white surface of her breast.

"Plastic," Simon said, weakly, because he couldn't think of anything else to say. "Sure," she said, still smiling her just-polite smile, still holding her blouse and bra aside and exposing her white breast and candy-red nipple to him. She stood like that a moment longer, then closed and buttoned her top as casually as she had opened it, grabbed a plastic bag from the metal stand next to her cash register and jabbed it in the air twice to open it.

Simon looked around him, feeling disoriented at the event and at the lack of any proportionate reaction to it. The elderly woman in line behind him was going through a stack of coupons in her hand, and apparently hadn't noticed. The other clerk, a young man, was ringing up a customer at the next cash register, and neither of them apparently had noticed. Simon was beginning to convince himself he had imagined the whole thing when he looked back at the wide-breasted clerk, saw the pale stillness in her face, and knew it had really happened. She was just realizing it herself, it seemed; her eyes had that inwardly focused, concentrated look of someone who is going back over the very recent past, second by second, reviewing every moment to make sure there hasn't been some mistake. Then she looked at Simon, wide-eyed and confused, and Simon made his face politely blank. I know nnn-othing!, he thought, in a sitcom-German accent, and he made his face look like someone who knew nnn-othing. You showed me your what? his face said. No, I don't think so, ma'am. I'm sure I would have noticed that. Maybe you imagined it.

He concentrated on keeping the polite-blank look on his face until he could see, in her face, that she was coming around, beginning to believe -- because she had to -- that it hadn't happened, that she hadn't done that just now, that she had just imagined it. By the time Simon left the Save-Rite, the plastic bag hanging from two of his fingers, heavy with salmon and soap, the clerk had, with Simon's silent help, completely accepted that it hadn't happened. But there was no longer any doubt in his own mind: This 40-ish, black-haired, wide-breasted clerk had definitely exposed one of her wide breasts to him, had exposed it as surely as there was salmon in this bag hanging off his two fingers. She had done it, and then she had been surprised at herself for having done it. Of that much, he was certain.

What he couldn't understand was why she had done it -- until hours later, lying in bed, looking at his ceiling, going back over some of the dialog from the "Cheers" episode he had just watched, when it came to him like a fly in his ear: She did it because I wanted her to do it!

* * *

"I think maybe I've been doing this for a long time," Simon told his fat white cat, Desi Arnez. It was after 1 a.m. and Simon was pacing the small kitchen of his small apartment, walking from his sink to his refrigerator, three steps, back and forth. The bright kitchen light threw his pacing shadow against the countertop, and down to the linoleum floor, and against the small dirty stove, and occasionally flung it off into the dark recesses of the apartment.

Desi Arnez, sitting on the countertop, sniffed once at his food dish, but the salmon was long gone. So he sat and twitched his tail and watched Simon's shadow pace the room.

"I think maybe I've been doing this for years," Simon told Desi Arnez, who said nothing.

Thinking back now, trying to pinpoint the day and hour that he believed he first employed the Nudge, Simon theorized it might have been four years earlier, when he had been packing up his bedroom into two cardboard boxes and preparing to leave his mother's house, where he had lived for thirty-four years. They had had that fight, him and his mother, about the car and the mechanic's bill and some other things. None of that mattered now, except for the last part, when she had given him the money. Simon had been navigating out the door, a cardboard box under one arm, Desi Arnez curled up under the other, preparing to leave without saying goodbye -- that would show her -- when he had suddenly thought: I don't have any money. I don't even have enough money to eat tonight. He remembered specifically that he had thought that, because two seconds later, there was his mother, standing in front of him and holding out a small stack of cash folded in two. She had offered it without saying anything, and he had, a moment later, accepted it without saying anything, and then he had left. It had seemed odd to him at the time, because she had stopped giving him money years earlier, and because he had just been thinking that he needed some when she had offered it. The timing had been odd enough to make him wonder, momentarily, whether he had said it rather than just thinking it -- but, no, he was sure he had only thought it.

"Desi, I think maybe I made her give me that money," Simon whispered now. Desi Arnez said nothing.

Simon paced some more and began retracing the four years since, reviewing all the times when people had done things just when he had been thinking he had wanted them to do those things. There were, it seemed, many of those times. He had been hired at the library a week after leaving home, just a janitorial job, nothing supernatural about it at all, except that the older man who had given him the application form had told him, almost rudely, that they were looking for someone older. "We generally like to give this job to seniors," the man had said, coolly, as Simon took the form. "It's something they can do. Have you thought about something in the trades? Construction or something?" Simon had understood the hint, and was preparing to hand the form back to the man, even as he thought: I really want this job. He liked the library, the silence of it, the smell of the books. Cleaning the library would allow him to think, something he liked to do when he wasn't watching TV. I really want this job, Simon had thought again, as he handed the blank form back to the man. And then, strangely, the man hadn't taken it. He had looked at the form, looked at Simon, and said: "I can see you really want this job. Fill out the form."

"Desi, I think I made them hire me," Simon whispered now, as he paced his kitchen. Desi Arnez said nothing.

Simon had had sex twice in the four years since leaving home. The first time had been with a short, big-thighed blonde woman named Mary, who had come into the library the first year Simon worked there and had asked him if he knew where the self-help section was. Simon had pointed out the area in the rear stacks, and she had smiled a thank you and turned and walked over there and began examining the books. Simon had watched her there, a few feet away, trying not to be obvious about it. She was busty, and he had been hoping she would turn a little so he could see the jutting profile of her breasts, and -- yes, remembering it now, he was sure of it! -- that's exactly when she did turn. He had looked at her bustline a moment, then at her face, which was still facing the books, and he had thought: She had a pretty smile. I wish I could see it again. Pacing the kitchen now, he searched his mind, challenged the memory, making sure it was accurate; yes, he had definitely been thinking that. And just then, she had turned her head, for no apparent reason at all, and had smiled at him. He had smiled back, unable to believe his luck. They had had coffee after the library closed and had had sex in his apartment after the diner closed. She had left in the morning, after giving him a tense kiss and a smile and a vague promise to call, and he had never seen her again.

"Desi," Simon whispered, horrified, "I think I made her have sex with me!" Desi Arnez blinked, and said nothing.

The second woman he had had sex with in the previous four years was a tall, dark-haired college student named Carrie, who he had met at a party given by his young upstairs neighbor. She had been very drunk, and Simon had been half-drunk, and they had teased and flirted half the night before sneaking down to his apartment and having sex on the gray couch. She had vomited later in the night and was gone when Simon awoke.

"Okay," Simon told Desi Arnez in his kitchen, "maybe that was just a regular one."

But there had been nothing regular about all the times he had seen Mrs. Foster naked in the apartment across the courtyard from his. As he paced his kitchen, Simon had purposely been avoiding thinking about that, because it was, he knew, the most damning evidence yet that he was, in fact, Nudging people with his mind.

Mrs. Foster was a widow, about fifty years old, pleasantly heavy, with short brown hair and a round face. Simon had passed her a few times in the courtyard between their buildings. She had been polite, but nothing more. The first time Simon saw her naked was a pure accident; he had been sitting on his couch early one night, watching a "Happy Days" rerun, with his lights out, which is how he preferred watching TV, when he happened to glance out his window to Mrs. Foster's lit window, twenty yards away. The window opened to her living room. He saw a shadow move in there and then, as he watched, her naked pink figure appeared there. She was walking across the room with a towel in her hand, completely naked. Simon had only caught a glimpse of her -- full left breast, round and heavy and topped with a wide pink nipple, and a thick black spray of hair between her legs -- before she had noticed the open blind, startled, and stepped out of view. A moment later, the blind had gone down.

That had been that, until two nights later, when Simon had again been sitting on his couch, watching TV, occasionally glancing at the closed, lighted blinds of Mrs. Foster's window. He saw a shadow move behind the blinds, a head and, it seemed, the square angles of a towel. It was the same time as the earlier night, and he supposed her routine might involve showering at that time. He had specifically thought (he remembered it very clearly now): I wish she would raise that blind and stand naked in front of that window again. And then he had looked at the TV ("Green Acres") and then back across the courtyard, and there was Mrs. Foster, standing naked in the window, looking like framed art. She was facing directly forward, so Simon saw everything there was to see from her knees up: creamy white thighs, a thick black triangle of pubic hair, a notable but not unpleasant bulge at her navel, both heavy breasts, hanging low and forming a deep fissure of cleavage between them, light-pink nipples pointed slightly off to either side. Simon had stared, opened-mouthed, as she had stood there like that -- naked in the window, for no apparent reason -- for two minutes. He stared hard at every curve and crevice in his view. Then she had closed the blind and turned out the lights. He had turned off the television, slipped into bed and masturbated furiously, letting himself believe that she had known he was watching and had stood there for that reason. Why else would she have been standing there?

"Oh, Desi," Simon said now, standing in his kitchen, running a hand through his short, graying hair. "I -- I didn't know." Desi Arnez said nothing.

Simon had seen Mrs. Foster naked four times after that. Each time it had been the same: He had been watching TV in the dark, he had seen her lights on behind closed blinds, he had seen a shadow move, he had said to himself, I wish she would stand there naked again, and then she had opened the blind and done just that. She had never looked directly at him or gave any indication she knew he was watching. The final time, he regretfully remembered now, he hadn't waited to go to bed before masturbating, he had done it right there on the couch, staring at her fully displayed naked body. When he was finished, he had closed his eyes for several seconds, confronting post-orgasmic guilt, and when he had opened them again, her blinds were down and her lights were off. He had passed Mrs. Foster in the courtyard the next day. Her brow was tight and she wouldn't meet his eyes. She had moved out two days later.

"Desi, I think I drove Mrs. Foster out of here," Simon said now, pinching his eyelids with his fingers. "I think she couldn't understand why she kept standing naked in front of her window. I think it scared her that she kept doing that. I think I made her leave."

Desi Arnez said nothing.

* * *

Simon set out the next morning to test the Nudge, to determine, scientifically, whether it was real. He doubted it now. He had finally fallen asleep at 3 a.m., and the morning sun had dispelled much of his theory as if it were a bad dream. He was, in fact, so embarrassed now about his theory that he found himself greatly relieved that he had told only his cat.

He decided the best place to test the Nudge would be a window seat at Ned's, a noisy corner cafe with good coffee and a bus stop in front. It gave Simon a perfect vantage point from which to conduct his experiment. He wasn't sure how he should start; he was more less counting on opportunities for mental Nudging to present themselves, and he would record the results. He had a small pocket notebook and pre-sharpened pencil, bought from the Wal-Green's down the street, tucked in the breast pocket of his shirt, ready for his notes.

"Coffee?" the thin orange-haired waitress asked him. She was in her late 30s, with bony hips and small, high breasts and a perpetual scowl on her face. Simon had seen her there before, and had wondered if perhaps she lacked the physical ability to smile.

"Yes, thank you," said Simon. Show me your breasts, he added, mentally.

"Cream and sugar?" the waitress asked. Simon noted that she wasn't making any apparent moves toward disrobing.

Show me your breasts, RIGHT NOW! "Just cream, thank you."

"All right, then." And she was walking away, every bit as clothed as she had been before. Simon watched her walk to the counter, say something to the cook, take a steaming white coffee cup and a handful of thimble-sized cream containers, and walk back -- and still, no breast exposure.

"Coffee, with cream," said the stoic, orange-haired, fully clothed waitress, setting down the coffee and the handful of cream containers. "You decided on something?"

"Yes," said Simon. I've decided I want you to show me your breasts, dammit! "I'll have the number four. Over-easy." And she nodded and left -- again without exposing her breasts.

Simon took out his notebook and pencil, opened the notebook importantly to the first clean white page, touched the pencil point to the page, then lifted it off the page. Everything he thought of writing was some variation of, "The waitress won't show me her breasts," a scientifically worthless observation and one that would take some explaining if anyone happened to look over and read it there on his notebook. So instead, he doodled with the pencil on the paper -- a circle with a shadow behind it, a stick-person giving some kind of salute, two overlapping squares connected at the corners so that they looked like an ice-cube -- and he thought of Jennifer.

She was one of the librarians, a soft, pretty, woman with soft brown hair and soft brown eyes and soft curves and a soft voice. Jennifer exuded softness, in Simon's view. She worked late afternoons, after her college classes, so that the end of her shift overlapped the beginning of Simon's. She was friendly to him. She'd ask him how he was doing, and she'd occasionally ask how Desi Arnez was doing (Simon had told her about his cat, and he knew she owned a parakeet, that's how much they'd talked). Even when they didn't talk, she would always look up and smile her soft smile at him once or twice. Later, when she closed up the library and left and Simon was cleaning up in the back stacks, he would think about whatever conversations they might have had and would come up with ideas for new ones next time.

Now, sitting in Ned's and doodling on his notebook, Simon allowed himself to think what he'd been avoiding thinking since the previous night, since the moment he first entertained the theory that he had the power to mentally direct the actions of those around him: Might this have some ramifications on his future with Jennifer? He hadn't wanted to think it before, because he knew how it sounded, but now he explored the notion, carefully. It wasn't like he had to use his Nudging powers to make her have sex with him or show her nipples or stand naked in a window; they could start with a cup of coffee, right? Certainly, there would be nothing inherently wrong with Nudging her into a cup of coffee. (This was all assuming, of course, that he even could Nudge people; the unsmiling waitress was approaching with his order now, and she still hadn't unveiled her breasts!)

"Number four, over-easy," she said, setting the plate in front of him with a ceramic click. "More coffee?"

"Yes, thank you," said Simon. Maybe she'd respond better to the experiment if he broke the ice with a little joke. "You know," he said, "these meals might taste better if they were named something other than numbers." And by the way, why don't you show me your breasts now?

The waitress stared at him blankly, as if waiting for some further explanation about the meal comment. Simon reddened, looked down at his plate and thought, Christ, lady, it wouldn't kill you to smile! He picked up his fork, jabbed it into the hashed browns, put a little clump of them into his mouth, and looked up. The orange-haired waitress was still standing there. On her face was the biggest, toothiest smile Simon had ever seen.

* * *

"I think I've got it figured out," Simon told Desi Arnez, cheerfully, as he scooped two cans of tuna fish into the bowl. Desi Arnez stuck his nose into it before Simon had completely emptied the cans.

"I think there are limits to how far I can Nudge people," Simon said. "I think I can only make people do things they might be inclined to do anyway, with the right circumstances." Desi Arnez said nothing; he was busy eating. He was the fattest cat that most people who met him had ever seen.