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A Strange Addiction The initial signs of Trevor Stockton's strange addiction appeared when he was exactly eighteen years, eleven months, and twenty-eight days old. The first eighteen years, eleven months and twenty-seven days of his life had been unremarkable. His early childhood and adolescence were no different from others of his age. During his teenage years, he listened to rock 'n' roll music, watched scary movies, played video games and developed an interest in girls. It was his attraction toward one young lady, in particular, that played a crucial role in his acquiring the monkey on his back. After three months of admiring Shantel Desmond from afar, Trevor finally summoned the courage to ask her out on a date. Perhaps if he had taken her to the roller rink or the fireman's carnival, things might have gone differently, but he made the mistake of taking her to the AMC Theater in the Valleyview Mall. As cruel fate would have it, Roddy McNeil, who had graduated high school with Trevor the previous year, happened to sit next to Shantel in the theater. Trevor's second mistake of the evening was in getting up during the coming attractions and going to the lobby to buy refreshments; for when he returned to his seat, two sodas and a large tub of buttered popcorn in hand, Shantel was deep in conversation with Roddy. Thankfully, the movie started shortly thereafter. While the plot was interesting and the acting above average, Trevor could not keep his mind on the movie. He was far too preoccupied with imagining the goodnight kiss that awaited him when he took his date home. Halfway through the film, however, his confidence began to fade. What if Shantel wasn't a girl who kissed on the first date? She was, after all, a nice girl, not one with a reputation for being easy. Still, if he did not get to first base on the first date, he was sure there would be other at-bats. By the time the movie ended, Trevor was completely relaxed and confident in his ability to handle either the goodnight kiss or the temporary rejection, but he was not prepared to have his young heart broken. He was completely unsuspecting as he turned toward Shantel and observed her holding hands with Roddy McNeil. Thunderstruck, he stared at the two words on the screen: THE END. How apropos! he thought despondently. It was as though, in case he had not already gotten the message, the powers that be decided to spell it out for him on the screen so there would be no doubt whatsoever. Next to him, Shantel fidgeted in her seat, picking up the empty popcorn bucket, finishing the last of her soda and grabbing her handbag. Meanwhile, Trevor's shock and disappointment were so great he could not move. He simply blinked backed his tears and read the credits as they rolled up on the screen. "I'm going to go to the ladies' room," Shantel announced when her date showed no sign of getting up to leave. "I'll meet you out in the lobby." Trevor was alone in the theater when the last of the credits finally vanished from the screen. With monumental effort, he stood up and walked out into the lobby. Roddy was there, but Shantel was still in the restroom. Not wanting to face his rival, Trevor walked over to the posters announcing movies that were NOW PLAYING and those that were COMING SOON. He read the titles as well as the names of the actors, directors, writers and producers. As though from a great distance, he heard Shantel tell him, "If it's all right with you, Roddy is going to take me home. He lives right down the street from me, so it's on the way for him." Trevor silently nodded his head, not trusting himself to speak as he finished reading the copyright information on the last poster. Forlorn, the jilted young man left the theater and walked back to his car. In a desperate attempt to put Shantel from his mind, he examined every vehicle he passed, reading the make and model of each, the license plate numbers and the occasional bumper sticker. Many drivers proudly displayed ribbon-shaped magnets proclaiming WE SUPPORT OUR TROOPS. There were a few old, fading KERRY/EDWARDS campaign stickers as well as some anti-George Bush sentiments. On a less political level, there were several stickers proudly announcing MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT AT CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL and even one humorous sticker irreverently claiming MY DROPOUT BEAT THE CRAP OUT OF YOUR HONOR STUDENT. Trevor finally got to his Subaru, started the engine and drove home. Along the way, he read every street sign, traffic sign, billboard and advertisement he passed. By the time he pulled into his parents' driveway, he was well on his way to being a reading junkie. * * * Mr. and Mrs. Stockton first noticed the change in their son the following morning at breakfast. Hazel Stockton was making pancakes when her son walked into the kitchen. "How did your date go last night?" she asked. "It was okay," Trevor replied halfheartedly as he opened the refrigerator door and took out the carton of orange juice. His mother would have questioned him further, but when she turned to speak to him, she saw her son reading the ingredients and nutritional information on the back of the juice carton and correctly assumed he was not in the mood for conversation. Unaware of the turn of events that occurred the previous evening, she was not alarmed when he put the orange juice down, picked up the gallon of milk and began examining its label, too. "Are you on a diet?" she asked with a laugh. "I've never known you to be so interested in the nutritional value of your food before." "Just curious," he explained, as he put down the milk and picked up the Mrs. Butterworth's syrup bottle. Trevor had read the labels on nearly all the items on the breakfast table by the time his father walked into the kitchen with the Sunday edition of The Daily Record. Trevor's eyes lit up when he spied the newspaper. "Mind sharing the paper with me, Dad?" The parents exchanged surprised glances. To say that their son had never been much of a reader before was an understatement. "Sure," his father replied. "Which section do you want?" "It doesn't matter. Whichever one you're not reading right now." Arthur Stockton kept the world news and handed the sports pages to his son. Trevor had never developed an interest in football, basketball, hockey or soccer, and although he had been a closet Yankee fan most of his life (in Massachusetts one did not dare admit to favoring the Bronx Bombers over the Boston Red Sox), he only followed baseball from September through the end of the postseason games. Yet that Sunday morning he devoured every word of the Record's sports section with as much gusto as he devoured his mother's pancakes. After breakfast, he raced through his chores—to the delight of his parents—and quickly gathered up the remaining sections of the Sunday paper, reading every article and advertisement, as well as the captions below all the photographs. "What do you suppose got into him all of a sudden?" Arthur asked his wife. "I don't know, but I'm willing to bet it has something to do with that Desmond girl he took out last night." "A girl, huh? I'm glad to see she's having such a positive effect on him." Meanwhile, in the living room, Trevor had finished the newspaper and was reading his way through the stack of magazines on the coffee table. * * * Monday morning ushered in a new week, and Mr. and Mrs. Stockton went to work as usual, unaware that their son was about to have the worst day of his life. It began during the drive to his morning class at the university. He had been so intent on reading the name and address printed on the side of a pickup truck in the next lane that he rear-ended the car in front of him. It continued when he got to his American History class. Professor Upton's lecture would normally have fascinated him, but that morning Trevor just could not concentrate on Sherman's march from Georgia to the sea. His eyes scanned the walls, reading every chart, poster and map in the classroom. After reading everything on display, he picked up his textbook and made his way through the copyright page, table of contents, foreword, introduction and the first few pages of unit one by the time the bell rang, signaling the end of class. "Trevor?" The boy looked up, startled to see the classroom was empty except for him and Professor Upton. "Did you find my lecture interesting?" "Y-yes," the student stammered. "Yes, I did, Professor." "Then perhaps you'd be so good as to summarize the key points for me." Trevor hung his head sheepishly. "I'm sorry, Professor. I was distracted." "See that it doesn't happen again. You won't pass this class if you can't pay attention." If Trevor thought his day could not get any worse, he was wrong. That afternoon he was fired from his part-time job at Pathmark for reading the cereal boxes instead of stacking them on the shelves. * * * Hazel Stockton was surprised when her son pulled into the driveway an hour early and was even more surprised when she saw the dented front end of his car. "Are you all right?" she asked. Trevor looked at her, confusion clouding his face, and admitted, "No, Mom. I don't think I am." The young man then told his mother about his ill-fated date with Shantel and the compulsive reading that followed. Even as he spoke of his strange addiction, he could not resist the urge to read the manufacturers' names on all the kitchen appliances, the labels on the spice jars and the spines of his mother's cookbooks. Hazel was at a complete loss for words. She had never heard of an addiction to reading, yet she assumed her son's sudden obsession with the printed word was not healthy. Hopefully, since the habit had plagued Trevor for less than forty-eight hours, it could be brought under control relatively easily. "You'll just have to fight this thing," she advised. "Tonight, you'll watch television with me and your father." Hazel's plan to keep her son from reading failed. He read not only the opening and closing credits of every show but also every word appearing on the screen during commercials as well as the writing beneath the buttons on the remote control, the television and the DVD player. "I think we should call it a night," Arthur suggested when he saw his son's eyes repeatedly darting to the cover of the TV Guide like a hungry dieter eyeing up a hot fudge sundae. Neither parent heard Travis sneak back downstairs after everyone had gone to bed. Hazel found him the next morning, sitting in the living room, reading the phonebook. "Trevor," she sobbed when she saw his eyes red from lack of sleep. "Mom, my head hurts," he moaned. Hazel took the phonebook from her son's hands and cradled him in her arms. Meanwhile, Arthur went to his computer to find out if psychiatric services were covered by his insurance. * * * The psychiatrist in the Stocktons' HMO network had never seen nor heard of a case such as Trevor's, but that did not stop him from making a diagnosis of clinical depression and prescribing Zoloft. He also suggested Trevor meet with a therapist twice a week. Neither the antidepressant nor the therapy had any effect on the patient, however. Trevor still could not control the urge to read everything in sight. Dissatisfied with their son's treatment, the parents sought information on possibly similar cases. After a good deal of research, Arthur found an article on the Internet about a girl in Allentown, Pennsylvania, who had the same symptoms as Trevor. "What did they do for her?" Hazel asked her husband. "I don't know, but the name of the attending physician is given. I think we should contact him and see if he'll examine Trevor." Not only did Dr. Monroe Truman agree to see their son, but he also traveled from Pennsylvania to Massachusetts at his own expense to do so. So rare was the condition that afflicted the young man that the doctor was most eager to observe Trevor firsthand. "I know of only three previously recorded cases in history. The first was in Germany in 1856, the second in China in 1902 and the third was the girl from Allentown, just two years ago." "Is it depression like Trevor's psychiatrist said?" Hazel asked. "Or could it be obsessive-compulsive disorder?" "Neither," Dr. Truman explained. "Your son isn't suffering from a mental disease or an emotional disorder. His problem is neurological. You've heard it said that humans use only ten percent of their brains, haven't you?" The parents nodded their heads. "Well, in your son's case, the remaining ninety percent—or a good portion of it—is developing in much the same way cancer cells reproduce. The portions of the brain that are inactive in other humans are hyperactive in your son's brain. It's as though this unknown portion of the brain is seeking energy to reproduce, and the compulsion to read and gain information is overpowering." A single question hung in the air. Hazel finally found the courage to ask it. "What can we do to help him?" "I'm not sure," the doctor admitted truthfully. "What about the girl in Pennsylvania? What happened to her?" Arthur asked. The doctor turned away but not before the Stocktons saw the pained expression on his face. "The girl's parents did what they could. They tried therapy and medication. Finally, they resorted to surgery. Unfortunately, the surgery failed, and the girl was left with severe brain damage." Hazel squeezed her eyes shut, and a sob escaped her lips. "What do you suggest we do?" the worried father inquired. "You do realize that any treatment in this case is purely experimental, with no guarantee of success?" The words were deliberately not encouraging since the doctor had no desire to give the parents any false hope. "We have two options," he continued. "We can treat your son's condition as an addiction and have him kick the habit, or we can treat it as an actual hunger and feed it." Hazel wiped her tears with a Kleenex and asked, "How would you treat it if it were an addiction?" "I would suggest placing your son in a controlled environment where he would be denied all reading material. There won't even be a manufacturer's label on his mattress or a keypad on the telephone." "I have an HMO ...," Arthur began, hating to bring up the subject of the possible expense involved. The doctor waved aside the father's concerns. "No need for you to worry about the cost. I shouldn't have any trouble getting a grant to fund the study of such a rare condition." Arthur was relieved that he would not be saddled with enormous medical bills, yet he was not sanguine about his son being cast in the role of guinea pig in Dr. Truman's experimental treatment. * * * Trevor was placed in a specially constructed suite of rooms with cameras to monitor and record his movements. Everything from the furniture to the dishware was checked thoroughly and all writing was removed or covered over. So that he would not be too bored, he was provided with music CDs and carefully edited movies on DVD, all without identifying labels. Or, if he preferred, he could do a jigsaw puzzle. Naturally, all the writing on the box was blacked out with a thick black marker. The young man was also allowed to receive visitors, but they would first have to be searched for reading material. "I'm not smuggling in any books or magazines for my son," Arthur declared indignantly when an orderly asked him to empty his pockets. "It's not books and magazines we're worried about. We don't want your son to get his hands on your driver's license, credit cards or any other documents you might carry. We need to be sure you have no monograms on your shirt, no brand names on your shoes, no tags on your clothing, no ...." "Okay! I get it." "During your visit," the orderly instructed, "you can play chess, checkers or Parcheesi. All these games are in unmarked boxes on the living room shelf. Feel free to talk about anything you like, but do not take out pens, pencils or any other writing materials." When he finally walked through the door into Trevor's new living quarters, Arthur was upset at the sight of his son. The boy had been there only three days and already he had the haunted, desperate look of an addict going through withdrawal. As his father leaned forward to hug him, Trevor reached into the man's jacket pocket. "What are you doing?" "Where's your wallet?" the son asked. "Didn't you bring it? You never go anywhere without it." "The orderly took my wallet before I came in," the father explained. "Do you have any money in your pockets? A gas receipt? A parking validation ticket? An old gum or candy wrapper? Anything at all I can read?" Arthur was horrified. His son was behaving like a true junkie, willing to beg, borrow or steal to get a fix. "I don't have anything with words on it." The young man fell to his knees, put his hands to his head and cried, "I can't take any more of this. If I don't get something to read, I'll go insane." "Why don't we play checkers? You always used to beat me when you were a kid." The change in the patient was swift and dramatic, even more upsetting to his father since Trevor had always been a well-behaved child, one never given to tantrums. "I don't want to play checkers!" he screamed, upsetting the table and tossing the chairs across the room. "Calm down, son," Arthur warned, but Trevor was out of control. "Why did you put me in this place? Can't you see what that doctor is doing to me?" Trevor began wreaking havoc, tearing up the sofa cushions and smashing the lamps. Two orderlies raced into the room, wrestled him to the ground and placed him in a straitjacket. He kicked, screamed and cursed before he was finally reduced to a sobbing, drooling caricature of his former self. Infuriated by what he had witnessed, Arthur left the room, demanding to speak with Dr. Truman. "So, this is how you hope to help my son? By turning him into a raving lunatic?" "There's no reason to get upset, Mr. Stockton. We've sedated Trevor. When he wakes, we'll begin administering medication to keep him calm. I promise you he won't hurt himself or anyone else." * * * At the end of three weeks, Trevor had become little more than a zombie. True, he was no longer violent, but neither was he responsive to the world around him. Hazel was reduced to tears every time she visited her son, and soon even Dr. Truman lost faith in his course of treatment. "Perhaps we should have gradually tried to wean him off his addiction rather than expect him to go cold turkey." "What do you intend to do now?" the irate father demanded to know. "I think we should provide him with reading materials but only for a limited amount of time each day." The look on Trevor's face when Dr. Truman handed him an issue of People magazine was one that could only be described as pure bliss. For three solid hours, the patient read the magazine, stopping only when the orderly turned out the lights at bedtime. The next day Trevor was given a newspaper, which he promptly devoured. That evening, he was also allowed to watch Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. It was the happiest the young man had been since he walked into the AMC Theater with Shantel Desmond at his side. * * * "We're right back where we started, aren't we, Doctor?" Hazel asked as she watched the video of her son reading the classified section of the Gazette as though it were the final chapter of a Dan Brown novel. "Yes, but now I hope to teach him moderation." Once Trevor was no longer medicated, though, all attempts to curb his insatiable need to read were met with renewed bouts of violence. After several months, Dr. Truman again had to revise his treatment plan. "I now believe that rather than starve his hunger for books or try to offer him little 'snacks,' we should go ahead and let him glut himself until he fully satisfies his voracious appetite. Once that happens, he might return to normal." The young man's parents were understandably frustrated. "You believe he might return to normal?" Arthur cried. "All these months we've heard nothing from you except 'maybe this' or 'perhaps that.' Why don't you just admit that you haven't the slightest idea of how to help our son?" Dr. Truman looked defeated. He had tried his best, but in Trevor's case, his best simply was not good enough. "If you want to call in another doctor, I'll understand." "What good would another doctor do?" Hazel asked. "If this condition is as rare as you say, it's likely no one has any definitive answers." Later that morning when Dr. Truman walked into the patient's suite of rooms, Trevor immediately became suspicious. He clutched his book to his chest, prepared to fight for it if need be. "Don't worry," the doctor assured him, "I didn't come here to take away your comic book. On the contrary, I've decided to give you something more substantial to read." At the doctor's signal, the orderlies brought in several cardboard cartons containing a complete set of the Encyclopedia Britannica. The patient's eyes widened, and he eagerly grabbed the first volume when Dr. Truman removed it from the box. As usual, the teenager began with the title page and read through all introductory information before moving on to the actual encyclopedia entries. In his attempts to read every word inside or on the covers of the book, he was as thorough as an IRS auditor. Trevor was concentrating so hard on his reading that he ignored the headache that had developed halfway through the "A" entries. By the time he turned the page where the "B" entries began, the pain could no longer be ignored. He put down the volume and asked his nurse if he could have two aspirins. "What's wrong?" Dr. Truman asked when the nurse conveyed the patient's request to him. "Trevor has a headache. I'm not surprised with the way he's been reading." Not wanting to take any unnecessary risks, Dr. Truman conducted a quick examination before giving him medication of any kind—even aspirin. "Your eyes are red," he told Trevor, "but other than that you seem healthy enough. If the headache persists, let me know, and we'll run some tests." But after being under the physician's care for close to a year, Trevor had come to distrust him. He saw Dr. Truman not as a man who wanted to help him, but rather as the one who first deprived him of all reading material and then tortured him with magazines and newspapers that he would take away from him after a few hours. Trevor eyed the encyclopedias possessively, fearing the doctor might send in the orderlies to remove them if he mentioned the headache again. He could not risk such a thing happening, so he took his two aspirins and vowed not to call any further attention to his burning eyes or his aching head. It was not until he was up to the entry on Big Ben that the pain became unbearable. Yawning dramatically for the benefit of the nurse and the cameras that recorded his every move, Trevor closed the book and went to bed. When the nurse came on duty the next morning, the patient was still asleep. "Come on, Trevor," he called as he carried a tray laden with eggs, toast and orange juice. "Time to get up. I've got your breakfast here." When there was no response from the young man on the bed, the nurse phoned Dr. Truman. * * * Mr. and Mrs. Stockton clung to each other and stared at the doctor, trying to understand exactly what had happened to their son. "We've done a full spectrum of tests—CAT scan, MRI, EEG. We can't pinpoint the exact cause, but it's evident that several key areas of your son's brain are not functioning properly." "What do you think might be causing it?" Arthur asked. "This is purely conjecture on my part, mind you, but I think the ninety percent part of his brain that most people never use is growing so rapidly—not in size but in strength—that it's shutting down other parts of the brain to sustain itself." "Is there anything at all you can do to stop it?" Hazel sobbed. "Surgery is always a last resort, but in this case it might ...." "Surgery?" Arthur bellowed angrily. "Not the type they tried on the girl in Pennsylvania? It left her a vegetable, for Chrissake!" "Each person is different. Your son may come through the operation without any permanent damage." "What will happen to him if we don't agree to the surgery?" the distraught mother asked. "I imagine parts of his brain will continue to shut down. He'll lose one ability after another. At the rate he's deteriorating, I estimate that in a week—maybe less—he'll need to go on life support." "So, my boy is doomed if we don't give our consent to the surgery and possibly doomed if we do," Arthur exclaimed bitterly. "I'm afraid that about sums it up." In the end, the Stocktons had no alternative but to agree to the surgery. Even though the chance of success was slim, at least there was a chance. * * * The anxious parents waited beside their son in the recovery room, listening to the drone of the monitors and life support apparatus. Neither had any religious convictions, yet they prayed, desperately hoping someone or something would answer their prayers. Hazel's heart leaped with joy when she saw Trevor's eyes flutter open. "Look, he's awake!" she cried. "Trevor?" Arthur called, clasping his son's hand. The young man's eyes traveled from his mother to his father. "Thank God!" Hazel cried. "He's all right." The grateful parents were shown to the waiting room while their son was wheeled to the neurological intensive care unit. Trevor stayed in the NICU for a week, yet he showed no sign of improvement. His eyes followed people's movements and he responded to sound, but there seemed to be no recognition of people or objects and no response to verbal commands. Dr. Truman's prognosis was grim. "Your son's brain activity continues to be far beyond that of the average individual. His readings are off the scale." "Well, that's good, isn't it?" Hazel asked, desperate for reassurance. "I'm afraid not. The brain activity is all occurring in that mysterious ninety percent region." "And the other ten percent?" "It doesn't seem to be working. I'm afraid there is a very real possibility your son will have to be kept on life support indefinitely." * * * It was a decision no parent should ever have to make. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Stockton wanted to end Trevor's life, but there were many things to consider. After a great deal of discussion and soul-searching, one question took precedence over all others: what kind of life would their son have confined to a hospital bed, hooked up to machines and tubes for the rest of his days? Was it humane to condemn him to live in perpetual infancy with a brain to which nothing would stick, as though it had been coated with Teflon? "At least he's not in any pain," Hazel said, avoiding the emptiness in her son's blue eyes. "How do we know that?" her husband countered. "He couldn't tell us if he was. How do we know that in that mysterious portion of his brain, our son isn't crying out for help, perhaps begging us to pull the plug and end his misery?" In the end, Arthur and Hazel Stockton signed the papers to turn off the life support equipment. * * * The line on the heart monitor made its last weak vertical climb and then went flat. Dr. Truman took off his stethoscope and nodded to the nurse, who then turned off the monitors while the doctor recorded the time of death on Trevor's chart. Meanwhile, outside in the hallway, the Stocktons began mourning their son. * * * After the tearful services at D'Agostino's Funeral Home, the body of young Trevor Stockton was laid to rest in the Pine Grove Cemetery. There, underneath six feet of earth, inside the satin-lined, stainless-steel casket, the recently deceased young man was dressed in his only suit, the same one he had worn to his senior prom and beneath his cap and gown at his high school graduation. His heart no longer beat; his lungs no longer expanded and contracted with air. Embalming fluid, not blood, filled his veins. He could no longer hear, see or speak. Yet in that unknown region of his brain—the ninety percent other people did not use—Trevor was still very much alive and still in the dire throes of his addiction. He would remain in this agonizing state until such time as his brain decayed and his body returned to dust, leaving behind only the skeletal remains, swathed in a rotting suit.
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