Free and Clear by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
Download the book in PDF, ePub, Kindle for a complete version.
Chapter 8
Now that the last unannounced government visitor has departed I have the morning to myself; I hope. There is no sign of Two-tone and Reba and I’m not about to check their door as it might wake them. I’m going to attempt to have some fun and make some money at the same time. No, it’s not prostitution. I have a client who takes pleasure in seeing non-standardized hologram shows.
Jeremy Evidenza is an ancient refugee from the 1960’s. He lives alone in a tiny Arts and Crafts styled house at the foot of one of the many hills in town. None of the other Hologram Facilitators seek him as a customer as he will only pay for custom shows, necessitating hours of preparatory programming, which can only be used once. He is also weird and I suspect a closet misanthrope. But, most importantly to me, he pays well and in cash on the spot.
Perhaps, because of my recent experiences with futility, I have been getting ideas about a race of people I call the Gods of the island of Thwart. Thwart is situated off the coast of Greece, is small, and has no natural resources or beauty to attract interlopers. The population of fifty malcontents originally thought they had escaped what they saw as the self-defeating stupidity of the mainland, but over time came to see
Page 103
that they can’t even tolerate each other. Their days are spent scanning an internet search engine site, which has the enhanced ability to closely focus on individuals. They seek out any signs of hope or happiness and use their advanced powers of telekinesis, which has been simplified into a series of macros, to put an end to it. The Thwartians maliciously stare at their computer screens all day attempting to locate someone who has made the naïve mistake of thinking that they do not live in a world only capable of providing loss and pain. This should be right up Jeremy’s alley.
I spend the overcast, threatening, but ultimately do-nothing-other-than-make-childish-ugly-faces mid-morning creating seven denizens of disgruntled sequestering. The process wasn’t as difficult or as time-consuming as I originally imagined because when I was into the third inhabitant of the flat, rock infested departure destination of their choice, I found that I could use the attributes of characters I took from kid’s fantasy games.
When done I call Jeremy. I know he is home. He always is.
As is customary, I am only able to reach Mr. Evidenza’s answering machine. He always screens calls to avoid even remote contact with “human” nuisances. I sit by the phone anticipating a quick return call if Jeremy has not yet gone the suicide route.
Page 104
The phone rings and I briefly consider the notion of letting it get to the answering machine stage. Hell, this recluse doesn’t have any power over me; he needs me. Whatever distance he is capable of offering I am capable of matching, and can envision no other suitable protocol. I pick it up seven words into the answering machine message, somewhere around “no one is available,” and say; “Jeremy!” with an intonation intended to convey that I am glad to hear from him.
“George?” Mr. Evidenza says in a manner which sounds truly querulous.
“Yeah. George it is. How are you today and all those other social niceties?”
“How can I be in this prison?”
“Thanks for asking about me. It warms the heart. I’ve put together a program which might interest you. It’s about the Gods of Thwart. I think you’ll like it. Original, (I lie a bit, but who doesn’t?) post-utopian, malicious, and fucked up. Right where you’re at. But, it’s going to cost you.”
“Money’s not a problem if it’s any good. Perhaps you could expand on your thumbnail description.”
I look at the sky through a window facing west and can glean no hint of an end to the drear. I say; “I really am not sure of everything the ten characters are going to do or say.
Maybe some critic whose approach is to center on the
Page 105
psychological aspect of the work is more suited to feeling assured with a short synopsis than I am. I’ll only suffice to add that it is the depiction of gods, or whatever humans take for gods, who exist merely to obstruct anything good or hopeful humans foolishly imagine.”
“Still limited to reality?”
“Yes and no. Have you ever heard of the island of Thwart?”
“Yes and no. Whether or not it exists in material form is merely a function of one’s ability to go to the heart.”
“I can assure you that my heart has nothing to do with this story in the least. I merely thought about with which I perceive as being your mindset, as well as I possibly could, not having lived through the diametrically opposed change you actually experienced, from a world where all is possible to a world where nothing is possible.”
“Presumptuous.”
“A plea of guilty, with extenuating circumstances, too lengthy and boring to ask anyone to sit through. If I was wrong, then just tell me that you have no interest. It makes little difference to me.”
“All right. All right. You needn’t advertise your independence. It’s merely a posture easily and often feigned by anyone. Bring it over. You have a knack for presenting things in a manner no one else does. ........ Before you get too enthused
Page 106
with an incorrectly deciphered compliment, let me advise you that it was not intended as such. I didn’t intend to imply that you are right or insightful; just different.”
“Can we get an agreement on the money? I really don’t give the least degree of a fart over the rest of the wind.”
“How’s a $750 guaranty and the possibility of more if it’s any good?”
I consider $750 pretty good for a partial day’s work and figure that anything additional was too subjective in which to put any credence. Besides, Jeremy didn’t get a slew of visitors and would thereby be compelled to be overly nice to me, his one and only benefactor, mercenary or not. I say; “I trust your fair-mindedness. I’ll be right over.”
He says; “I’ll be here,” as if there was any doubt about the matter.
I bring my laptop to the car and head for the hills. The hills are always a source of visual pleasantry. While I know that they are pale reflections of the mountains, aesthetically they are gigantic improvements over the faintly rolling land where I spend most of my days. As I drive I drift off into a dream of a time when I will be able to see awesome projections from the earth, in bold display, contrary to the New Jersey ground potential of the calculated possible. I simultaneously see this vision as a hazard to the present’s demand for
Page 107
remaining in one’s own lane and the worry inducing recognition of the potential of other vehicles’ ordinary and predominant laxity in traversing the non-judgmental road’s desire to randomly curve at points most startling to a well-conditioned mortal. The few times I drift into the other lane I remain unharmed as no one is there. A 9-5 workday is the norm in all of Hunterdon County. The retired seek less expensive accommodations in non-New York-commutable Pennsylvania or the sun magnets of Arizona and New Mexico.
The hill country imposes itself on me. It’s often disdained ability to shield the sun’s light from those living in the shadows of the would-be mountains is totally irrelevant. The only possible sunlight contented itself to remain hidden by the dense congregation of amorphous masses of the pious and timidly prudent. The drear of the tired, but previously promising firmament has succumbed to the onslaught of darker specters which previously had searched to destroy, but found no point of entry to the skyscraping inclinations of the land based growth; at the same time pragmatically deciding that they were content to hold their ground, not admitting that their secondary space was all they could ever hope to accomplish. The unopposed illusions found their supposed and unreal merit in their solely current and therefore temporary ability to obscure what is real.
Page 108
I would have preferred to have made this trip tomorrow or the day after. However circumstances were such that the compulsive, yet misleading dictates of the now was irrefutable in its logic for me to be on this road at this moment, even while I knew that it heralded its lack of beauty in defiance of anything I consider tolerable.
The hills display their early season light smattering of green, holding out a promise of things that might possibly come.
The horses and cows waiting at the bases showed no emotion or expectation as they languidly picked at the offerings laid at their hooves by a yet-to-be-fully-heated Mother Nature; her early light sustenance not a deterrent to the large and experienced four legged.
I see the beginning of Jeremy Evidenza’s circuitous dirt driveway. Coinciding with the road is a weathered wooden mailbox which once held paint no longer visible, except in the deep cracks which appear black, without the aid of a microscope. Each time I have seen it the flag has been down. I’m reminded of how much Jeremy annoys me. I know that America has gotten increasingly fucked up since Ronald Reagan, with a precipitous dive taken in the years of Dubya. We all do. We don’t need to be reminded by any one note, idealistic hermit. But, this one pays.
The driveway not only curves. It zigs and zags, so as not to be inviting to the business seeking forays of tree trimmers,
Page 109
bug sprayers and real estate facaded malefactors. I slowly pass through the open land near the road and enter the dark canopy of the woods. The willows have just commenced blooming, their greenery still peach fuzz; but the sheer density of the intertwining branches is a sufficient shield from the sun; even on break through days. I turn on my car lights to get a better view of where I’m attempting to go.
As I approach the cottage I see that Jeremy is standing at his open front door. He doesn’t wave or smile. I didn’t expect him to. He has not practiced these pleasantries since David Foster Wallace told everyone to fuck themselves in 1998. He is thin to a fault, appears to be utilizing the frame for support, and his hair is shoulder length; though white and stringy. A wide, blue bandana covers some of the bald spots.
I park my car in front of the door and carry my laptop up the two porch steps. The Arts and Crafts nature of the little house has given way to a lack of attention and old repairs not in keeping. Just in case the decrepitude is a function of finances rather than distaste for company, I greet him with;
“You got the cash?”
“Yeah.”
“Give it to me.”
Jeremy staggers back from the door. I brush by and place my laptop on the Turkish revival hassock which masquerades as a
Page 110
living room table. I remain standing and look at him. He says;
“Money! The root cause of every weed.”
“Unless you grow your own. Look, man. I’ve spent days preparing this custom show. Nobody else will want to see it.
I’ve got a co-obligor and two homeless people to support. And you promised.”
“I didn’t say up front.”
“You said guaranteed. So, what’s the difference?”
“Let me see a little bit first.”
Jeremy’s reticence strikes me as strange since we had previously done mutually satisfactory business. I decide to bluff. I pick up the laptop and walk back toward the door.
“All right! All right! If it’s that big of a thing to you.”
He walks into another room and quickly comes back with the money. He hands it to me in a mock-polite manner; utilizing a perfunctory curtsey and tight lipped one second smile. He says;
“I know that was a bluff. You told me yourself that no one else will want to see it.”
For no good reason I feel guilty with the money in my pocket. I say; “I’m sorry. I’m getting nervous about everything.
I got two complaining homeless people in my house, Martha’s hlooping and two branches of the federal government are on my ass. And it all happened this month.”
Page 111
Jeremy shrugs and stoically says; “One problem compounds the other; ALWAYS. You should have seen it coming.”
“I’m supposed to be Nostradamus?”
“Once we declared a perpetual war on terrorism and passed the Patriot Act, imperial government took over. They can do anything they want now.”
“I’m not Methuselah. I grew up with all that stuff. But, nothing happened until now.”
Jeremy could not hide his facial expression which said;
“Schmuck.” He audibly asked; “And what’s hlooping?”
I felt like annoying him in a playful badinaginal manner.
Ha. Ha. He had no monopoly on the tactic. Since the biggest insult one could lay on Jeremy was to suggest that he was constrained in some way, I said; “For those trapped in the limitations of the Merriam-Webster world; hlooping may be used as a noun which is believed to have had its origins in the parlance of migratory feathered vertebrates. They most often utilize it in times of distress, though to a lesser extent it is used to rudely wake up land dwellers. Its sound is much like its name. Humans use the word for similar reasons, though a medically induced version may be displayed during events of breathing difficulties. Used as a verb, to hloop, is to make a noise like that of hlooping. There can be a bit of confusion as a hlooper, that is, one who hloops, is also a noun, while to
Page 112
characterize one as a hlooping person relegates the word to an adjective status.”
Jeremy’s eighty plus years of disgust were titillated by the absurd presentation; seeing banal humor in the obviously overplayed realm of supposed faux nerdity, the common fare of talk show hosts since the invention of TV. He wryly grinned and said; “I thank you for the edification. I will be sure to make use of it during my next birdbrained conversation with my egret pals. ......... I trust that your hologram show will be of comparable quality.”
“Don’t count on it. I’ve had much more experience with hlooping.”
“Play the gem.”
We both sat on two of the fringed, dark green pillows which surrounded the hassock centerpiece and I turned on the holograms.
Seven Thwartians appeared. I glanced sideways at Jeremy and he seemed fascinated. The four men looked much like the shaved-head, Mephistophelean pointy bearded, sullen and hoping-to-appear ominous denizens of today’s USA. The three women had not yet gone bald, but two were working on it, with crew cuts, apparently not yet secure in going all the way. The other bore the looks of young Linda Ronstadt, and maximized her distance from the pack.
Page 113
They all sat in the rocky sand in front of laptop computers. The machines could not help but display more attractive images than their waste strewn beach. Maybe that was their rationale in focusing on the eye straining screens, rather than the haphazard garbage they had created. The infinite supply of miniscule fragments of rock produced no greenery, perhaps the seeds mortified at the thought of joining the defiled.
They sat on the ground in an awfully flawed circle. An overhead view would have found the outline to be that of a diseased and withering watermelon, with one anomaly. Each faced the outside of the defective sphere, so as not to be compelled to view the others of their stripe. Determined, stoic and somber faces prevailed.
One of the men hit gold and openly sneered, a Thwartian derivation of a laugh, when his scanning screen found a couple in New Mexico enjoying a train ride. Their trip was not one of gray, tired and weary commuters on their way to a job they hated; but rather one in which they marveled at the changing scenery. The fields of corn gave way to woodland; then a river.
Hills persisted in going out and in, interspersed with flat land which appeared to sway in the rising waves of heat. Each segment of the visual spectacle went by all too quickly.
The pridefully prudent Thwartian converted the fool’s gold to the lead of plausible reality. He almost displayed happiness
Page 114
when his powers over matter caused a separation in the train tracks triggering the procession of cars to de-rail and roll end over end into a gulley. He sought no approval and received none; the others engrossed in their own search and destroy missions.
A crew cutted woman whose physical glory days, if any, ended their brief appearance with the first audience chortle, used her palsied left hand to pretentiously push back her gray hair, which, to all accounts, was not condescending to drop to her forehead. Her “excitement” was the result of her screen detecting the imminent dalliance of a young boy and a young girl, who had found each other in the sea of wreckage. Their wonder in finding that their icy world contained another who understood the simplicity of this rarely-experienced-happiness, made their eyes widely open to the assurance of a life spent in love and caring; never again having to be alone and crying into a disinterested pillow.
Ms. Gray Crew Cut had seen the ridiculous, temporary phenomenon on numerous, previous, failed occasions and had a
“world-wise” disdain for the stupidity exhibited by those who will, invariably, suffer the “enlightenment” of the predictably coming cold luminosity. Her overly studied confusion rules and always will.
Her crooked fingers made a well-practiced entry into the domain of currently-thought-to be-all-encompassing cyberspace.
Page 115
Her simple and un-arguable, one-keypunch macro substituted her programmed lack of feeling for the other to a feeling for preservation of the lonely self.
At the last minute the girl mentally questioned the boy’s need to express his love for her as the possibility of something he slyly manipulated; the thought of which was inherently anathema to her natural benevolent feelings of warmth. She didn’t want to hurt him, but couldn’t get over the notion that his passion was contrived as the result of a biological idiosyncrasy attested to by modern science. Compounding matters, she suddenly visualized her own mirror reflection; and it wasn’t that of Marilyn Monroe. He didn’t understand her reticence and thought that what he was trying to fulfill was a confirmation of his love for her beauty; a need he thought was fostered by the un-inspired, past motivated, conditioning inflicted on a young woman. His hurt and feelings of subtle rejection first made him agonize his failure and inadequacy, and most importantly, he considered the possibility that she didn’t love him. He wondered if he had been too abrupt and should have spoken more of his feelings. He didn’t know. He didn’t understand. He thought of the happiness he felt in being with her and, as far as he was capable of empathizing; he wanted this revelation to be something good for her; and him. It seemed that there was no escaping the fact that it was a mutual thing and that was part
Page 116
of the beauty and mystery of it. He actually could have made due with the inconclusiveness; just being able to hold and be with the one he loved more than his own life; every night drifting off into a dream he begged God for all his hopeful days and prior lonely evenings. What kind of life did this world offer without her? Nothing; absolutely nothing. He knew that the act many incorrectly view as a finishing had its self-serving nature too. It would make him feel more assured. For the first time in his melancholy life, he would no longer have to spend his time crying. The anticipated feeling was so perfect; to be able to embrace her and to fall off to rest, while all the hateful demons had no choice but to go somewhere else, leaving all there is to be the warmth of her, and her, and her, and her, and only her; until the end of time.
Ms. Crewcut had as much interest in understanding the youthful delusional dynamics on her screen as she had in being told of the Easter Bunny. And she really didn’t want to endure that which her existence had lacked, in its inability to feel and with inadequate sympathetic understanding of the complex brain, and absolutely no recognition of her hurtfully faulty and coarsened, walking-dead, survivor’s heart. She activated another old macro.
The physically young, but suddenly mentally old young girl stiffened as visions of personally unintended, but biologically
Page 117
taught, “logical” inevitabilities took over her mind. The adolescent boy more strongly sensed her sudden reticence. He didn’t want to see the reality in front of him and tried to conjure other scenarios for her shyness. Without an inkling of what to do he tried to proceed as if his persistence was necessary to overcome her understandable last minute doubt; in no circumstances wanting to show anything which she might infer as a lack of desire for her. When he sensed that she was experiencing more than merely a momentary re-evaluation, he held back his tears and he tried to make his concerns that of her mind; not her body. He thought that he had some ideas, but had no certain and falsely overconfident way to address them. His eyes lost their radiance and instead displayed the non-gleam of one attending a requiem. He kissed her lips and smiled as he tried to give her the illusion of a conviction which was actually shaken to the core and re-assure her through his frustration and increasingly demanding and impending tears. He said; “I love you. I love you more than my life,” realizing that despite his sincerity she could easily interpret this as a self-serving tactic. His efforts were hampered as his waterworks were getting increasingly insistent as he thought it unbearable to have come this far; thereby leaving a cruel close-up view of their failed attempted entry into Paradise. Moses, who, after a lifetime of striving, was further damned to have to clearly see
Page 118
the Promised Land, but be heartlessly denied entrance. He felt unduly abandoned. He thought that at least Moses was allowed to grow old before it happened to him, leaving less time to spend with desolatation. But, he and she were only fourteen. A thought raced through his mind; “Are we doomed to re-live and re-live all the ancient stories of failure? We were sure that we were creating a better, new time. We do have new ideas. Don’t we?”
She got increasingly stiff and he got more flexible. Her eyes looked away and she seemed to shiver. He bit his lower lip and moved away. She said; “No, no. It’s all right. Don’t be so overly sensitive. I want to,” while her unsuccessfully searching eye ambiance conveyed the impossible-to-hide blues of the opposite thought. He easily detected what was the real communication, kissed her cheek and left a tear. She said that she was sorry and he said that it was all right.
They rolled onto their sides, facing apart. She stifled tears as she thought of how this misadventure might make for a difficult future. He did the same.
Ms. Crewcut considered them another ridiculous, would-be manifestation of humanity’s penchant to seek the glorious unseen fantasy; that which has left no evidence; thereby eluding all scientific investigation. The Thwartian pragmatically saw this as just another adventure in anti-Paradise, in being able, with the activation of a few ancient macros, to effectively squelch
Page 119
the predictably fleeting dreams of the desperately naïve and vulnerable. She briefly thought that she may have mistakenly done some good in giving the young duo a prodigy’s course concerning the way things really are. Her momentary fear was assuaged when she made the analogy to having shown a two year old that there was no Santa Claus. With that idea now in her arsenal, she couldn’t wait for Christmas.
The vicious gleam in the eyes of another Thwartian becomes as obvious as a thick laser on a void. Her closely cropped hair is that of another crew-cutted senior, this one having neglected maintenance for a few months. Perhaps she has been abnormally occupied in her primary work and pleasure. Her hair is further curious, as despite it’s less than inch length, the bottom half is gray and the outer half is black. It is as kinked as the leash of a stubbornly disobedient mongrel. Her red shorts and white top are embarrassed by the yellow and brown intrusions of further neglect, which she wishes to be interpreted as a disinterest in other opinion. She is not and never has been immune to the judgments of others. She is severely depressed, which manifests itself in another contrivance; a braggadocio of hate. She is still adequately devoid of delusion to fully understand that she matters to no one. Her solitary screen shows the potential of topping all her previous efforts at sabotages.
Page 120
There is a broken hearted old man. For decades the pain has been so regular that he has been able to acclimate himself to it. He thinks that he has managed to forget his early dreams and doesn’t know that one who has had the same experience can see that his sadness, like hers, is overwhelming. While existing in anger, he thinks is concealed to himself, in this pit of rejection, he sees a young girl of seventeen; going on sixty.
She flip-flops in the heartache of the flame. He knows that he loves her. He loves her. He loves her. He always has and always will. The sad story of her life, though she is not one to tell it or seek sympathy, is that of a star-crossed angel, who was waiting for him. He yearns to make things right. More than anything his inadequately coping life has desired, he passionately wants to give this angel what she needs. But, he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t even know what it is. He fears that it is much too late. He is shy.
He recoils from the mindset which was suggestive of his being something good. He knows that he is not. But, every fabric of his being shouts at him to love and help this beautiful woman he has dreamed of all his existence. He thinks he knows her good intentions and resultant pain. It is identical to his. He cannot accept the decree that someone so wonderful would have to suffer so. He thinks he feels her hurt more than he feels his own. It seems obvious that there is no other reason for his existence
Page 121
other than helping and loving her, simultaneously helping himself.
He is unhappily married and he feels guilty that he focused his love and passion on another; yet sees that it is not a matter of personal choice. It is cruel that she has to know that, but it is only fair to tell her. It is not fair to his wife. She has been a support in bad times, especially when she has tacitly forgiven him for not knowing what to do. It is not fair to him. It is not fair to this beautiful and guileless dream of a beautiful life. The entire situation must have been conjured up by a cerebral devotee of the Marquis De Sade.
He is reminded that the solace of death and painless oblivion is the only possible satisfactory personal retort to his caring, yet self-indulgent fantasy. There is no question of the perfect happiness he would have found with this young girl/older woman, who was caught in the same conflagration which devastated him. She was his lifelong dream; his ideal even before he had seen or talked to her. At the age of fourteen he had pictured her, mentally and physically. He cried himself to sleep countless nights begging god to let him be holding her instead of his pillow. Now, she was here; her warm glow still intact. He loved her without any limit; other than the shyness he always had and because of his ridiculously advanced age.
Page 122
He cried uncontrollably. He drank wine with a loss of all propriety and shame. He smashed his confused head against the hardness of the unmovable stone wall which separated the kitchen from the living room, as he cried for the irreplaceable, perfect she who, he feared, may have doubted his integrity. He understood her reticence, or thought that he did, through his empathetic observation, which he thought discarded any possible male preoccupation with the self. While he bled, he struggled to retain his necessary and Narcissistic youthfully abstract visions of his own grandiosity, as he disparaged his possible love of his own sadness. He had finally seen her and there was nothing more grand. This was the most difficult vision for him to endure. He tried to wish it away, but once it had materialized it took on a devastating and obstinate presence, as, no matter what he used to divert his mind from the vision of her external and internal beauty, it kept coming back to him in waves of historical hopes validated by the magnificent current reality of her. Trapped in a circle, not clear on whether it was one of hell or heaven, he again recalled his youthful nights when he tearfully begged the god he was taught to fruitlessly worship to let him meet her. At the time it seemed a small wish compared to the common hopes of becoming Barry Bonds or Bill Gates. He knew that he would be too shy to do anything other than fail, but he thought he at least deserved a chance.
Page 123
Now, though he and she had finally and unreasonably cruelly been allowed to meet in supposedly mature years, every time he saw her he was again a pathetic, pimply-faced, awkward fourteen year old who collected stamps and coins. All the dreams he had of holding her as they drifted off to sleep were contained in the possibility of this intimidating day. Everything crystallized into this one event.
She told him of her life. He told her of his. The parallels were clear. Though she was born privileged and he was not, their hearts and minds were such, that it seemed markedly clear to him that in her place and gender he would have been her and in his place and gender she would have been him. They were one. She said that she needed no help, but immediately followed by screaming at him asking why it took him so long to get to her.
She cried. Without addressing the specific reality she said;
“Why do we have to get old?” suggestive of the sad reality of unrecoverable time and then countered that with a passionate yell for him to replace his love letters with a chest-beating, passionate plea of; “Don’t write it. Say it to me!”
He said that he would as she drove away and his hands went cold with apprehension. He knew that she was too good for him and he was afraid to have her directly confirm that, ending all of his rekindled hope. She so often changed her mind, just like Jean Seberg in Godard’s “Breathless”. His head could not live
Page 124
with her rejection. But, what could he do? If there was any logic in the whole thing, he also couldn’t live with the memory of being too much of a wimp to have tried. He found comfort in the thought that if he failed, he could die. He derisively laughed at the perception of how others would take this as only the remembrance of a fantasy-inspired, youthful infatuation.
They could never understand how his dreams of her had shaped his searching and striving life. Those born to sweet delight had no interest in or understanding of the boring and impossible explanations; excepting their periodic, fashionable interest in pathetic, comedic farces. He and she had learned to keep their obstructed visions to themselves. ................ Until now.
In the solitude dictated by the solar reticence with which he was becoming all too familiar, his despondence was extinguished when he saw her in the sky; companion of the soaring night birds. Her jet-black long hair, parted in the middle had given way to jet-gray long hair, parted in the middle. She retained the bangs, which served to provide some visual shelter from the incessant inferno. He saw her and heard her cry and his heart became one with hers. He saw her tears, despite her attempt to bravely hide them. Just as that for which he had prayed, more than anything he wanted to hold her, but was too shy and earth bound to make the attempt.
Page 125
He saw that she wore the tiniest of glasses, no doubt a result of her lifelong passion to escape into reading. He tried to look into her eyes, but she gazed in the other direction; at the effortlessly flowing river; tumbling over rocks, while it made subtle, soothing and constant sounds. He lingered for a time he could not gauge, and as an excuse for his inhibition, he absurdly wished that he could be certain of what she was feeling. He had spent a lifetime waiting for this, and now that the possibility was in front of him, it was much too important and he was much too nervous to do anything other than gutlessly think. This saddened and perplexed him further. He forgot himself and thought of what she might need. He attempted to display an over-the-top confidence and immediately felt ridiculous.
He again commenced thinking and he thought that the only possible rationale that he could imagine for this behavior was akin to a basketball players’ shooting of free throws. At inconsequential times he is relaxed; his hands are pliable and warm; and he feels no pressure. However when he is shooting free throws, with thirty seconds remaining, in the seventh game of a close final everything is reversed. His hands feel as stiff and cold as ice; the weight of the world is upon him; and he doesn’t want to be the goat; thereby ensuring that he will be. With no exception, we all seem destined to mess up every important
Page 126
event. He knows many will laughingly disagree, but those same many never played any ball. He pleads dreadfully and unhappily guilty.
He got a second chance. He saw her waiting at the park entrance. It had to be now. He was un-nerved and excited at the same time. He approached, took her hands and told her that he loved her. She acted as if she was shocked and pulled away, telling him to never again use that word. He spoke of his longtime dream. She departed and he cried.
The next day he was already at the park when her car came down the road. He thought it best to hide and turned away, but she frantically blew her horn at him. He went to her car and she apologized for her prior day’s behavior. She said she cared for him. He asked her to go with him on a picnic date. She said;
“I’d like that very much.” He substituted “forbidden word” for
“love.” It was the best day of his life.
The Thwartian dropped her a macro of doubt, shame and self-consciousness. She could not forget his and her advanced years.
After that, things got unexplainably complicated as the woman flip flopped on a dime and increasingly continued to send out mixed messages, like a schizophrenic.
This became the ultimate tragedy of his and her unhappy life’s experience. He’s not sure that he lives. His life was destined to be with her and only her and he failed. Something
Page 127
integral inside is broken. He knows that he is useless. He had one main purpose in life and he flunked the course. He feels the empty spots constantly. He doesn’t fear the corporeal death, which hovers like a self-important premonition of something presumptuously portentous. He thinks it merciful and innocuous.
He knows that the rational will find this disgustingly romantic.
He doesn’t care. He thinks them limited in their inexperienced judgments. Yet they seem protected from the deepest of depressions. He has no choice about what he feels.
At her dictate, they see each other less and less. He can’t think of anything, but her. Their dialogues become increasingly restrained, as they remind each other of what might have been, had they met while still young, rather than making the most of the present. They have no solution, but to go back in time. He tries to find a way there, but comes up with nothing other than the realization that time travel is not necessary. They need the fountain of youth, and he can’t find that either.
Thwartian #3 has little more to do, but laugh at the pitiful show. However, she suspects that she has been inadequate in her stated profession. She may have not added to what could have been a predestined agony. She invokes a random macro. She is lucky and not at the same time. The couple never sees each other again and after five years of fruitless hope, the man hangs himself. Thwartian #3 broke an island rule when she
Page 128
excitedly screamed; “Yes!” in the throes of her version of a particularly good orgasm.
A male Thwartian in a straw hat glanced her way in open disdain of her disgusting show of emotion. His gaze was short lived as he was drawn back to his laptop screen, which displayed a more mundane tragedy. A couple in their late twenties had just purchased their first house; with the 95% aid of the mortgage company. The Thwartian move was routine and effective. His macro resulted in the man losing his job and the woman becoming pregnant. The Thwartian stared impassively. His work was quick and simple. He had plenty of time left in the day to find more.
Another old Thwartian woman with dyed blonde hair, which imitated Eminem, a drill sergeant or a little boy took a more active role. She found a couple who grew up on Long Island and had been together since sophomore year in high school. They were perfect for each other and moreover they were rather unique.
Unlike their peer group, they didn’t make getting rich their first priority. They planned to live in a “family” neighborhood where kids play in the streets. They would add a few of their own to the crowd, as well as supplying canine companions. They are now both 25 years of age, have amassed enough money to attain their dreams and the wedding is a week off.
“How nicey, nicey,” the Thwartian thought as she used one of her nastiest macros. The husband to be is shot dead while
Page 129
driving to work through the Lincoln Tunnel. No shooter or motive is found. The authorities think it is a random act as they do not know of the Thwartians. The woman lives on as an emotional wreck. The Thwartian savors every moment, as she’s not sure she can top this one.
Jeremy rushes toward me and pushes my laptop switch. He says; “Enough, enough.” The holograms shrink to a dot and almost disappear. It’s hard to be certain.
I say; “Hey. That could mess up my machine.”
“I hope I did.”
I am surprised. I conclude that Jeremy has creative objections to what I have presented. I did take the bulk of the images from standardized and universally available files. I say;
“Hold on. I’ve got better. There’s one where a crying woman, being beaten by a man, is helped by a male do-gooder. He rescues her and takes her in. She returns the favor by proceeding to gather all his personal information. She then relays it to the guy who was mock-beating her and he uses it to perform complete identity theft on the sucker. I thought you liked this kind of stuff. My apologies if I was banal.”
“I like shows which confirm my miserable beliefs. I don’t want to see anything new. Things are ugly enough.”
I revise my original take on Jeremy’s objection and make a plea for 2035 truth. I say; “Post-modernism, man. Little kids
Page 130
massacred in school every day; nuclear accidents the authorities say are okay; sex offenders everywhere; heroin available over the internet .......
Jeremy grabs my upper arm and pulls me to my feet. He screams; “Get out of here. Get out of here.”
I’m very upset as Jeremy is one of my best customers and he is one of the few who pays well and promptly. I’m glad I got today’s cash up front. I try to appease him and get another appointment at the same time. I say; “What would you like to see?”
“Nothing. I’ve had it.”
“These are just stupid holograms, only in existence for your entertainment.”
“I know that this is not a complete fantasy. I’ve never seen you as being all that creative. I don’t want my mind occupied with the tales of those you put in your rendition of post-modern reality? Just get out of here, all right?”
He pushes me to the door. I’m careful not to trip on my extension cord, which drags on the floor. Jeremy slams the door behind me. I think; “There’s no telling what’s going to set off an old fart. ........ Maybe one of the stories was his. Maybe, like every codger, he fancies his misremembered youth as a kinder, gentler time. Who knows? It’s impossible to try to deal with the Hardy Boys when they have now been abandoned by their
Page 131
progenitors and are in prison for desperately selling pharmaceuticals to an undercover cop wearing a badge. I suppose that it is my job to present that which the audience is comfortable viewing; at the same time keeping it relevant to today, at least somewhat real, and most of all entertaining.
That degree of talent deserves to be better rewarded.”
I have difficulty traversing Jeremy’s circuitous driveway in the dark; but manage not to collide with any budding, predatory trees at 2MPH. I am back on the main road and I try to think of a way to re-approach Jeremy. I think; “War recreations?
Mmmn. Better stay away from the innocent dead babies. I don’t know if their absence would leave me with any credibility. All I know for sure is that I need the damn money and the gas gauge is on ‘EMPTY.’”
Page 132