SHOWING: First 60
Jeremiah Hawkins
Make Believe
I.
Nicole and I were fifteen when we happened upon our fountain of youth. We were young, still in the honeymoon of life, unformed and slightly straddling the unbroken threshold into adulthood. One could liken us to putty, vaguely sculpted, awaiting the hardening hands of values, basic beliefs, responsibility and lasting consequence.
We fell in love in that fountain we called the creek. And, as dreamy minds do, we swore we’d be together forever. Surely our love would overwhelm any deep currents of contrasting selfhood that flowed dormant below the surface of our budding beings. Surely our enchanted years together would mold us into each other, as if our pubescent blossoming took place within the same unstrained cocoon.
The art of make believe comes easy to romantic minds.
-----------
The last time Nicole and I swam in the creek, we were twenty-five and grasping onto the few threads of a weathered and frayed relationship.
“Has it rained lately?” Nicole asked, her streaked brunette hair stroked back by murky river water. She looked so beautiful to me in the creek-washed purity of no makeup or hairspray. She, however, couldn’t feel beautiful—despite my countless declarations—without the supportive weight of mascara, lipstick, and base.
“It rained for about thirty minutes yesterday afternoon,” I said. “Why, is the current strong today?” I began to swim from the bank towards her position in the middle where a thin current veined through in serpentine fashion. On a normal summer’s day, the current could only be felt mildly by feet swaying the deep. Following a good rain, however, the current’s slither became quite breezy.
Before I reached Nicole, she said, “Just look.”
I stopped. She tilted her head back and brought her body horizontal atop the surface. She knew I could discern the flow beneath her by the residual surface draft evidenced by her drift.
I watched her float slowly away from me. My eyes fanned her body from her watery lips to her small, shapely breasts to her smooth belly to her glistening legs. My stomach told me with a smoldering churn that I needed to touch her at that moment.
I hovered over to her, aided by that same gentle surface current. Reaching her, my right palm distributed itself with spread fingers around her belly button and my left hand turned her face towards mine to extinguish my lips upon hers. I was gentle so as not to disturb her wavy levitation.
“You see,” she said, our faces an inch apart, “you don’t want to leave me.” She smiled. But it wasn’t her normal smile. I hadn’t seen that smile in a couple months.
“No, I don’t,” I said. My feet worked hard against the current’s unwavering push to afford my hand’s soft rest atop Nicole’s delicate buoyancy. I kissed her again as we floated through leaf shade sprinkled down from overhanging limbs peppering the water like sparse puzzle pieces.
“Tell me a story,” she said, rolling her head to face the sky.
“I can’t think of any.”
“Come on, use your imagination. I’ll help you. I’m a princess and you’re a knight.”
I chuckled. “I think I’ve told that one a few times already.”
“Just talk, then. I love to hear your voice,” she said and then closed her eyes.
It was true. I know this because I would, at times, grant her request for a story with a monologue of anthropology—my college major. She didn’t mind. When I was writing my senior thesis, for instance, I only spoke of it. And, it wasn’t until about the fourth time I explained it that she could say what the thing was even about. As she said, she simply desired to hear me talk, as if I were singing a song pleasant enough to disregard lyrical content.
I expressed once that I didn’t know how to take that. I mean, it was a complement and show affection that she enjoyed listening to me speak. But not to care about the ideas and values my mind exuded vexed me. Or, at least, should have vexed me. But the complement along with her amorous eyes washed away any sticky discontent and confused my heart, provoking within it an emotional blank.
As we glided together—her feet slumbering on the surface, mine treading the depths—I spoke for the next fifteen minutes about a man and a woman of different dialects. They were in love and met often in a fantastic patch of thin forest that could magically break the language barrier, releasing a pent up flood of loving communication. They were happy there.
-----------
The creek did that to us. In its embrace, we were somehow able to recapture the whimsical days of our beginnings. And so, to us, it truly was a fountain of youth. Its waters held the mysterious ability to soak through our shells of selfhood, soften us, and return us to an age of easy compatibility. A long forsaken harmony was returned to us in that garden of boulders, terraces, trees and bath.
Almost everywhere else, I’m sorry to say, served as a battlefield on which to knock each other down so as to raise flags of solidifying identity. The undertows of our nature at some point in our early twenties had begun to pull us apart with increased force, as if playing tug-of-war where our arms were the rope and clasped hands the knot.
What was once Romeo and Juliet had somehow morphed, over the years, into Montague and Capulet. A not-so-uncommon tragedy, but a tragedy, nonetheless.
II.
Burdened by the day’s syrupy humidity, Nicole and I arrived late to a luncheon with her Uncle and Aunt and two single-digit children. We had just concluded a fight over my attire. Apparently, what I was initially wearing said, in so many unspoken phrases, that I didn’t take care of myself, that I was lazy, that maybe my head was in the clouds too much, that I didn’t care about the things I should care about.
I could see that.
“Sorry we’re late,” Nicole said to her family with her smile spread full.
They weren’t upset. But even if they were, how could they remain so after being lighted by that smile? I’ve seen it so often I know it better than my own face, and still it heals my emotional ills once it appears.
Though, since that mid-April day I told Nicole I was planning to leave for Pennsylvania for graduate school, that smile, when aimed at me, became starved. It tightened, thinned and, soon, shrunk to downright emaciation. Others received the full, hearty version with its intoxicating rewards. I remember wishing, as I beheld it from the side that day, that there were such things as contact buzzes in romance.
There aren’t. It’s quite the opposite, unfortunately.
The restaurant Nicole’s uncle chose carried the young family theme to its pinnacle. Our tabletop was a dry erase board with permanent tracings of animals and forests and oceans and balloons awaiting the breath of life from the arrays of markers held loosely in the overexcited hands of children. The servers were all adorned in costumes of cartoon characters. We were served by a big SpongeBob with a trail of children behind him itching for a hug or a joke or an autograph, and, if they got one, would frantically bounce about like kernels popping in a pan.
“Richard, sorry again for being late,” I said after we ordered and SpongeBob departed with his train of children, acquiring two more from our table. “I called, but got no answer.”
“That’s okay,” Nicole’s uncle said. “We were entertained.”
“And,” Nicole’s aunt, Liz, said, “even if we had our cell phones we probably wouldn’t have heard them here.”
“What happened to your phones?” Nicole asked.
“Oh nothing,” said Liz looking at her husband affectionately. “It’s our new Sunday tradition.”
“Sunday is family day,” Richard said. “We’ve decided to unplug from the world once a week and just be with each other.”
Nicole, with a look of surprise, said, “What if something happened and someone needed to get a hold of you?”
Richard shrugged and said, “Well, I suppose the same thing that would have happened when we were newlyweds in the early ‘80’s, or before.”
“Nicole,” Liz said, “I thought the same as you at first. But, you know, I spend too much time worried about all kinds of things. Sundays I have my kids and my husband, and placing my cell phone in the drawer is my way of putting away all the drama and worry, and just be with them.”
“I think that’s really great,” I said. “Seriously.” I placed my hand on Nicole’s thigh and gave a slight squeeze.
“Sounds weird to me,” Nicole said.
“And it feels weird at first, trust me.” Liz looked from Nicole to me and said, “But anyways, Alex, when do you leave? It’s really soon, right?”
Nicole’s leg twitched beneath my hand.
“In a few days,” I said and then coughed my discomfort into my hand.
The truth was that I hadn’t fully decided to go. No one knew this. Well, Nicole knew, but not because I had told her. She just knew me that well. She could see my indecisiveness in every facial fidget and distant expression. And she saw many of these, for she was the hinge on which I swung, dangling between here and there, pivoted in the present as my mind probed the past for the future, trying to figure out the rest of my life.
Nicole shifted in her chair, her gaze pasted to a tracing of a grinning elephant on the table. I took a deep breath and ran my hands through my hair. Liz, apparently recognizing the effects of her question, reddened.
“So,” Richard said, puncturing a growing silence, “what do you guys think of this place? Pretty whacky, huh?”
-----------
If only we could live forever in the creek. Or, take a piece of the creek everywhere with us and have it work its magic like fairy dust fusing our very separate sensibilities. As long as our pockets seethed with the sands of the creek the frog would always remain the prince, my kisses could always awaken my sleeping Beauty from her far away slumber, and my Beauty would never tire of her Beast.
If only.
III.
I loved Nicole—of this there could be no doubt.
The last couple of weeks with her resembled no other except the first—that spellbinding beginning at fifteen. Just as my stomach fluttered back then with a hundred flailing wings shortening my breath and muddying my mind, it did so again. When around her my hands roamed restlessly, like a drug addict seeking release in powdery skin, inhaling her soon to be absent presence.
With just a couple days left, I arrived at a stunning conclusion: I couldn’t leave. I just couldn’t.
If I left, it was over. We both knew that. Without the commonalities provided by our history—our mutual friends, favorite hangouts, nostalgic reminisces of shared adolescence, and, of course, the creek—we had nothing. Outside of these commonalities we could agree on nothing.
Still, I couldn’t leave.
I couldn’t leave even though I knew we weren’t right for each other. I knew as surely as the sun would rise tomorrow that if my last name replaced hers, a contradiction in terms would ensue. But only my brain knew this. My heart held a different story altogether, and held it in pounding iron grips.
School could wait, I told myself. And on the day before my scheduled departure I decided to tell Nicole.
I planned a picnic. I chose a location in a park that bore no place in our history up to that point. I wanted a picnic in that place to chisel itself as a monument in the intertwined timeline of our lives. A new beginning of sorts, a new covenant, a new commitment I would offer, and I would do so atop a quilt that could become our magic carpet ready to fly us together into our shared future, no longer living in the past. It would replace our fountain of youth that we bathed in as a mystical crutch. We no longer needed to look backward.
It was to be a special picnic, indeed. I wanted her all to myself so I could give my all to her.
I insisted we leave our cell phones at home and, in so doing, leave the world behind, just like her Aunt and Uncle. I mean, I couldn’t allow our magic carpet to be tethered to the ground by pestering phones lines, transforming carpet to kite to toss us haphazardly in airy currents, going nowhere.
Nicole wore a sultry sundress and sandals, her streaked hair pulled back in a ponytail. As my eyes journeyed and shuddered along her small, subtle curves and fluent skin, I wondered how I had ever won the heart of such a beautiful woman.
I was surprisingly nervous sitting across from her beneath a large oak tree as a breeze periodically poked her ponytail, sending it rocking side to side like a floppy pendulum.
“How are the sandwiches?” I asked.
“Good,” she said, her eyes momentarily meeting mine in fleeting acknowledgement. Was she nervous, too? No, she was more likely sad, maybe even a bit bitter.
“I’m really glad the weather cooperated,” I said with a nervous chuckle.
Nicole looked around us, blank faced, scanning the open field of ankle high grass and infrequent trees. I observed her with needy eyes, for she seemed to be out there somewhere, far away.
“Yeah,” she said and raised her iced tea to her lips.
This isn’t good, I thought. We had been together long enough to know when something was wrong. Her terse responses and scant eye contact reflected a barrier between us slicing our quilt in two, allowing indecisive winds to propel us in differing directions. How easy this was to do!
“Nicole, I want to tell you something,” I said, hoping to bridge the distance with my good news.
“Okay,” she said with a hint of what could have been impatience or maybe agitation.
“Um, you know how much I love you. You do something to me that no other woman can. And, I know we’ve had our problems, but everyone does, right? I mean, when I’m around you, which is almost all the time, I have trouble keeping my hands off you.” Nicole shifted uncomfortably and I continued. “I can’t imagine a future without you in it. So, I’ve–“
Nicole sighed and I paused. One would think my words would begin to squelch any sadness or bitter sentiments over my departure, that they would nullify the currents separating us. I was confused.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said without hesitation. “I just, you know…”
“What is it?”
“I…”
She sighed again, breathing out her contagious agitation for me to inhale.
“Tell me.”
“I don’t understand why we’re here and not at the creek,” she said, staring into my eyes. “That’s our place. That’s always been our place and that’s where we should spend our last day. And I don’t know why we had to leave our cell phones at home. It doesn’t make any sense to me. What if something happened and someone’s trying to call me?”
“We’re here because it’s different,” I said, failing to keep my irritation from spilling over into my tone. “I thought we could do something new. And, we left our cell phones so we could truly be alone.”
“We’re alone a lot, even when we have our cell phones.”
“No, not really.”
“Yes, really.”
I paused, looked down and shook my head. All the fight in me dissipated in a rush and flood and permeation of understanding. “You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t,” she said.
Just then—in that one moment—that single, tiny quarrel opened my eyes to a panoramic vision.
I saw a storehouse, and all our differences were contained within, as well as all the fights our differences caused. I could see disagreements we had dating back to when we were fifteen. There were few back then and didn’t take up much space. Unfortunately, they grew in size and frequency. In fact, in the last few years they multiplied exponentially. I saw them all, compounded and displayed. I saw it all, and the vision was strong enough to send the sentiment forcefully from mind to heart. My hope and my denial—my fantasy—dissolved and disappeared as a result, swept away by the epic currents of a final day.
“Are you done eating?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Okay, let’s pack up and get out of here.”
We gathered everything together, and I rolled up the magic carpet.
IV.
I cried that night.
The following day I loaded up my car. I loaded it with possessions saturated with the scent and unique memory of Nicole. My favorite shirt, for instance, that Nicole gave me that said, “Lost in Thought. Please Send Search Party.” My favorite pen engraved with my name on one rounded side and Nicole’s on the other. My favorite flip flops I found floating in the creek and decided to keep despite Nicole’s funny banter that far out lasted the day.
Et Cetera.
“Well, that’s the last one,” I said, cramming a box into my box of a car.
“So, you’re on your way, huh?” Nicole asked with a lean of disbelief.
“It’s time.” My hand raced over to hers and cradled it.
“I guess,” she said, her hand lying limp in mine, “it is what it is.”
“It is.” My head sunk and my eyes rested on our disparate, though joined, hands. I ran my thumb along the back of her knuckles.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
She sighed and then said, “Why is this happening? It doesn’t seem necessary at all.”
“What? Me leaving?”
“Not just that. Everything.”
She paused.
“We love each other, right?” she asked, piercing my eyes with hers.
“Yes, definitely.” I squeezed her hand.
“Then why?” She looked up to the sky deploringly, and my eyes dampened.
“I...I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” she said, dropping her head and then peering down at our hands as her fingers finally embraced mine back. “You know, and it’s why you’re leaving.”
Struck by this, my eyes suddenly blurred from flooding moisture. I inched towards her and said, “You’re so smart.”
“No, I’m not.” Her head still down, shaking it slowly.
I placed my free hand under her chin to lift it. Then, I kissed her.
She pulled her face from mine and dropped her gaze again.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s nobody’s fault. No one’s to blame.”
I brushed away the hair dangling over her downward face. “It is what it is,” I said.
She sighed as a tear broke the threshold of her lovely lower left eye’s rim. I wanted to hold her so bad, but I knew I had to let her lead this now.
“Yes, it is what it is,” she said, wiping away her own tear.
Once the tear was gone, her face hardened and she slid her hand out from between my fingers and thumb. She reached for the car door and opened it.
“It’s time,” she said. “You should go. You have a long drive ahead of you.”
I inhaled deeply and wiped my wet eyes before they could run lines down my cheeks. Pulling out my keys, I neared the car’s opening.
She stopped me. She kissed me. She held me tight. I held her tighter.
“Make me believe,” she said into my ear with unexpected calmness.
“Believe what?”
“That things will be okay. That this won’t hurt forever. Alex, make me believe.”
“We’ll be fine,” I told her, and then slowly pulled my shoulder from her head so my eyes could find hers. Once our eyes met, I said, “You’re my family, Nicole. You’re a huge part of who I am, as well as everything I will become. We’re going to stay in touch. We’re always going to be in each other’s lives. Everything will be fine. Don’t you see? You’ll always be my princess and I’ll always be your knight.” A subtle grin graced her face, and I said, “Do you believe me?”
Following a small pause, she said, “Yes.”
I descended into my car seat and Nicole shut the door. I turned the ignition and rolled down the windows. Nicole stepped back.
She then said, “When you come back, Alex, meet me in the creek.”
I took a deep breath, taking in the moment as a tear rolled down my cheek. My lip quivered its way into a grin. And I nodded.
I put the car in drive and drove with a gentle wind at my back.#46,270,266textWoman Who Flew Home
By Jeremiah Hawkins
I‘ve decided to write of my mother, something I swore I would never do. Let her rest in peace, I would always tell myself, don’t excavate those events, don’t resurrect that story from the comfortable shadows that have blanketed it over the years. Hasn’t enough been written about her already?
Although, when I reread her letters one rainy Saturday morning, letters always signed “Love, your mother, Wu Sibi,” I felt compelled to dig up the past and let my memories of her be documented. And do so for my own purposes rather than setting any records straight.
Wu Sibi was the name given to her by her acquired family in Africa, loosely translated: The Woman Who Flies. …But, Africa is where this story ends, not begins.
My mother, Anne Eldridge, was a woman of old money, wealthy beyond most normal people’s comprehension, and so was never without the protection that money provides. Though, of course, we must all agree there are tragedies from which no amount of money can shield.
My mother lost both her parents at a young age. Her mother suffered from some sort of undiagnosed mental illness, while at the same time her father suffered from a mental illness that was far more easily diagnosed: infidelity. The two were a recipe for tragedy, to say the least.
While my grandmother remained home pinned to inner darkness by depression, her husband shopped around for a brighter future—new wife, new kids, new everything. A torrential cycle inevitably ensued: the more he stayed away, the worse she got; the worse she got, the more he stayed away. And so on. Though, it wasn’t until the actual abandonment that my grandmother swallowed three full bottles of aspirin and assured the success of suicide.
My mother was twelve.
She never spoke of this. In fact, she rarely ever spoke of her parents at all. Well, except for the pies. From what I’ve heard, my grandmother made great pies.
Fortunately, my mother had loving grandparents who took good care of her during her adolescence, cheering her on as she maintained a GPA that kept her in the top five percent of her class, as well as openly appreciating her passion for painting, never discouraging her from pursuing art as a career. I always assumed their unyielding support of my mother was derived from their pity for her, along with their own grief over the death of their daughter.
She got into Yale and it was here that she met my father, Steve Millard, who came from even wealthier origins. Like her, he was a dreamer—his eyes and thoughts so often wooed by the clouds, and as a child he dreamt of soaring in and around and through them. Flying was an undying passion to my father that never faded and never grew too familiar to be exhilarating. My mother loved his emotional stability, and he adored her quirks and shiftiness.
And so, regardless of wealth or rank and all the resulting superficiality that saturates all that is social, they fell madly in love and remained so the rest of their lives. They were wed a month after graduating college.
Following my father’s short commission in the Air Force, they started a small airline with two private jets donated to them by my father’s uncle. They named it Northway Airlines. With as many connections as they had between them, along with their financial backing and youthful personalities, the airline grew rapidly, profiting millions of dollars within the first ten years.
The logo, I think, also helped.
My mother painted many things, but nothing did she enjoy painting more than pies, various kinds with various backgrounds, but always pies. My father chose his favorite and had it painted onto the tail of the first two jets, as well as every plane they bought thereafter. “Pie in the Sky” was the official logo.
About the time the airline soared from private industry to commercial, they had me, Kay, the only child they would have. We were a happy family. I retain vivid memories of playing board games and laughing, exploring the downtown area near our penthouse atop my father’s shoulders and stopping at any theater or museum that might look appealing. I remember vacations to exotic locations like beaches, mountains, and historic places where my father would tell me the story behind a particular monument or landmark in just the right way to keep a child’s attention.
My early childhood was more than anyone could ask. Things were good, at least, that is, until the day my father’s plane went down. I was eleven. I remember it well. It changed everything. That day split my history as the life of Jesus split Western history, branding an A.D. forever into my memory. We were at my mother’s country club.
“You flirt,” my mother said as she, Ashley, and I sat down at a table, me with my strawberry-banana smoothie, and them with their thick green mess they called a smoothie. They attended yoga class twice a week at the country club. Since there was plenty of activities a kid my age would enjoy, when I wasn’t in school, I tagged along. Plus, back then, I adored my mother and followed her around whenever possible.
“Who me?” Ashley said with a sly smirk. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on. What were you and Guru Gary discussing for so long after class?” Guru Gary was the yoga instructor—a tall, muscular man with a nice smile. I’m not sure if he called himself that or if the ladies gave him that nickname.
“That was nothing. Totally innocent,” said Ashley with a wave of her hand.
“Spit it out, Ashley,” my mother said.
“All right, all right, he invited me to some get together. That’s all. Totally innocent, like I said.” Ashley reverted her eyes and sipped her swampy smoothie.
“A party?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“Are you going to go?”
Ashley laughed. “Yeah, I think I will. And—you know what?—I’m not going to tell Blake.”
“You’re so bad,” my mother said and laughed. But then, after spotting something unexpected in Ashley’s expression, her smile slipped off her face. “You’re serious.”
“Well, maybe.”
“You can’t do that,” my mother said matter-of-factly.
Ashley paused, and then said, “Oh come on, Anne, not everyone has what you have with Steve. Blake is never home. And even when he is… Look, a girl has to take care of herself.”
“He’s busy, as you always say. He’s got a lot on his mind. It won’t always be like that.”
“Anne, dear, I can’t live in the future. Just as Gary always says, we have to live in the here-and-now.”
“I don’t know. I—”
“Hey, I have an idea,” Ashley said, bringing back her smile. “You should come. You can chaperone and keep me in line. It’ll be fun.”
“When is—”
“Anne!” a voice sounded from the bar area of the lounge. “Come look at this!”
My mother and Ashley rose and made their way to the bar where the bartender was turning up the volume on the television. I wasn’t far behind. On the television was a live feed of a plane crash in northern Iowa. The reporter, as well as the words running across the bottom of the screen, made it evident that the plane was one of ours. As the television reported this tragedy—a death count in the hundreds—club members crowded around to give support to my mother, saying such things as: “It’ll be fine. No one watches the news anymore, anyways” and “Every airline goes through this at some point” and “The airline will bounce back, they always do.” My mother merely nodded in silence.
She then suddenly jerked her head to her right and said, “What? Who said that?”
“Who said what?” asked Ashley.
“Someone said something.”
“Mom, almost everyone said something,” I said.
“No, some other voice.” She shook her head as if to shake a disturbing thought out of her mind. “My left shoulder feels funny.”
“Are you okay?” Ashley asked.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”
It was about this time that the news arrived. The reporter, his right hand pressed against his earpiece, told me that my father was on that plane, that my father was dead.
We were informed that he had personally offered to take some big-money investor on a random commercial flight, a spontaneous decision to demonstrate to the investor how confident he was in the quality of his airline. Some even say that he allowed the investor to draw a flight number out of a hat to insure randomness.
Following the news, the crowd of club members slyly dispersed, saying nothing, leaving my mother and me peering up at the television. Alone.
I grabbed her hand, and a couple seconds later, in the corner of my eye, I saw her head twitch twice. Then, she fainted.
The months following my father’s death, I only remember my mother. I forgot myself. I forgot my life. I know I went to school, but I don’t remember it. I remember my mother. My pain was my mother’s pain, and I don’t know if I bore my own grief independent of hers. As I said, I was eleven.
My mother locked herself in a dark place. However, it wasn’t the depression, but her disorder that made life hell for me. In the middle of the night she often woke up screaming such things as, “Leave me alone! Shut up! Why? Why?” and I would jerk myself out of bed and run to her room to console her back to sleep.
Sleep was difficult for me, as well. I think it was during this period of time that I formed the habit of embracing a plush pillow to get to sleep, a habit that remained with me into adulthood. Nights were rough on both of us, and so we often looked forward to the sunrise. But with the rise of the sun, all anxieties were not always dissolved.
Maybe to cope, or maybe to pass the time—who knows why?—but my mother began talking to herself. At first she merely rambled on while performing daily tasks, but as the days passed these self-talks became heated conversations. Some were so fiery and intense that she’d lose her train-of-thought, and in so doing would say something to herself and then look about the room in a daze, and respond, “Huh?”
Within a few months, her self-talk gradually became focused, in that, she began conversing with a consistent imaginary friend—a friend she never called by name. She was fond of this friend, a friend who, in difficult times, would place his/her hand on her left shoulder, a feeling she described as warm and tingly. I thought it merely nerves. During her sobbing fits, she would usually sit or lie down with her right hand resting on her left shoulder, apparently holding on to her friend’s hand.
The summer before I began High School, I discovered the identity of this friend. But, that night isn’t locked in my memory because of the discovery alone. I remember it well because it was the night my mother left… in more ways than one.
It was a stormy night as she fought with her friend, a bitter argument about the state of her life, one of which was like, to me, listening to someone fight over the phone. The degree of her anger frightened me.
“What are you talking about! Everything is fine! No, no, I have plenty of friends. It was just yesterday that Sharon and I had lunch. It was very nice. What? What are you talking about? Are you crazy?” She stood up and began marching about the room. “Why do you say that? You don’t know how I feel! You’re always telling me how I feel! It’s infuriating!” She grabbed a lamp and threw it down on the floor, shattering it. “I am calm! Oh how? How can you do that? Well, so what? Aren’t I entitled to it? You just died! You were everything to me! Dammit! How is that to help me?” She sat back down. “I know you do. I never doubted your love. But what you’re saying is crazy.” She listened for a couple minutes and then cried. “Why are you doing this to me? Haven’t you put me through enough? I don’t care about me! Can’t you see? I don’t care! I don’t care! I will never be happy again. It would have been better if I were on that plane with you. I know. Yeah. I understand.”
She quieted for at least fifteen minutes. I would have gone back to my room, but I knew by the occasional nodding of her head and other minor indicators, that the discussion was still underway. My eyes were getting heavy, as it was nearing midnight. Then, some sort of epiphany spilled across my mother’s face. She rose to her feet and paced about again, but this time with an air of determination.
“Yes, I see that. That makes sense. Honey, that sounds good, I can do that. Yeah, you’re right. And, it...” Her eyes shot up to the ceiling, wide open and glistening with tears. She took in a deep breath, covering her open mouth with both hands. “I will make sure of it, my love, my beloved!” With immense resolve and energy, she threw on her shoes, grabbed something out of her purse, and flew out the door in utter disregard to the rain.
I quickly found my shoes and umbrella and followed. My intention wasn’t to bring her back home. To be honest, I don’t know why I chased after her that night. I suppose I felt I had no choice; sleep wasn’t an option knowing she was running around at night in the rain, and waiting up for her return would have been a torturous worry fest.
I followed her to an all night grocery store where she proceeded straight to an ATM and pulled out a large stack of money, probably the maximum withdrawal amount. Her pace was speedy, forcing me—a short girl—to jog in order to keep her in sight.
Not far from our penthouse was an alley where homeless people congregated and slept. She stormed right into the middle of this alley and began causing a raucous, throwing off cardboard shelters and exposing the residents to the weather. I was frightened of the alley, so I remained on the major street. She woke everyone, flung herself on them, embraced them in the rain, and forced money into their hands. As she disturbed each homeless person, I saw by his or her expressions that I wasn’t the only person frightened by her that night. She flew about like a mad woman. As soon as the money ran out, she power walked home, grabbed clothes, food and whatever else she could carry and returned to the alley. She continued going back and forth all night. After the third trip, I ceased following her, went to my room and locked the door. I don’t remember if I slept, but I do remember crying.
That night, that conversation with my dead father, that insane revelation was what changed her forever. That was the point of demarcation: she had transformed from my mother into Wu Sibi.
Around the next year or so, she made the media for the first time. It was a touching story about a wealthy woman giving to the poor where the journalist likened her to Mother Theresa.
She kept busy and I never heard her scream at night anymore—that is, when she slept at home—and so, I tried to live my own life, separated from the chaos that had possessed my mother. This turned out to be near impossible.
There was a time during my junior year of High School that she didn’t come home for five consecutive nights. I worried, of course, but in a forced attempt to maintain my freedom, I made myself shrug it off. If something’s happened to her, I would tell myself, it’s her own damn fault. She fortunately returned unharmed, but smelling and looking awful. She told me she’d been staying with a girl named Jennifer who ran away from home.
“A girl named Jennifer?” I asked. “What, on the streets?”
“Yes, she was living on the streets,” said my mother.
“You’ve been living on the streets.”
“Yes, dear, I’ve been living on the streets.”
“That’s just great, mom. Just fantastic!” I said, my voice increasing in volume with every word.
“Are you all right, Kay?”
“Yep, just dandy. Actually no, mom, I’m not all right.”
“We can talk about it, if you like,” she said.
“I have nothing to say. I mean, where do I begin, right? You have no idea who I am or what is going on with your own daughter. You’re off—you know—doing whatever you do, giving all our stuff away and I’m living my life alone. You don’t care what is going on with me. All you care about is yourself and your… your dirty, homeless people. Look at you. Just look at you!” I felt like I was riding a river of emotion where the current sped up floating me right into the rapids, out of control. I could foresee a waterfall up ahead and yet there was no avoiding it. “You’re a mess, mother. You look like a bum and you smell like garbage, garbage that, that’s been in the sun all day! You’re a stupid woman, do you know that? A stupid, selfish woman! I bet you didn’t even know that I’m making A’s in all my classes, while on student council, while on the softball team. Did you know that? Don’t nod your head! Don’t act like you know anything about me!” As much as I fought it, tears began to stream down my cheeks. “You’re selfish, you’re so selfish! You don’t give a shit about anyone else except yourself! You don’t give a shit! You just don’t care.”
My anger running its course, I stood there before my mother, sobbing, waiting for her to respond, fearing her response. During the brief silent interlude a lone tear traced down my mother’s cheek.
“I—can’t…” She paused and her body seemed to shiver. She then closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I love you, Kay. I really do.”
Then, my mother turned and walked up the stairs. Midway up she placed her right hand on her left shoulder. I understood then—maybe by the way she shivered or maybe the way she looked at me when she told me she loved me—that her choice to become who or what she had become was no choice at all. She could not tolerate this life being anything else.
I learned about her five-day tour of the streets from the newspapers. Apparently, Jennifer was a sixteen year old daughter of a rich family, almost as rich as our own. She ran away from home a year prior and got into drugs. She was heavily addicted to heroine when my mother stumbled upon her. Jennifer told the reporter that my mother did nothing more than stay with her, feed her, hold her, and at night, sing to her. My mother never told her what to do, not even when Jennifer went to prostitute herself out. The reporter quoted Jennifer saying, “I forgot what it was like to be loved, and when I got a taste of it again from Anne, I decided to return home. I needed to return home.”
When I went off to college, my mother sold the house and moved into a small one-bedroom apartment. I had to read of it in the papers. I didn’t know what she was doing with her money, and I didn’t care as long as tuition got paid and I received my allowance. The media was still calling her Mother Theresa as they spoke of her extreme generosity, as well as her financial intelligence, which came as a surprise to me. She wasn’t merely throwing money about haphazardly, but dealing it out strategically, “maximizing her money’s effort,” wrote the reporter.
During my second year of college, I got a call from Charles, my father’s close friend and business partner. He said my mother agreed to meet with him and he thought I should be present, as well. After inquiring into my mother’s current state of mind, Charles thought it wise for the meeting to be as informal as possible, just the three of us.
It was held on a cloudy Wednesday morning. We met in the Northway Airlines conference room. It had been awhile since I’d been there and my mother’s painting of a pie adorning the walls, as well as the smell, brought back memories of my father.
“Anne, it’s so nice to see you,” Charles said, addressing a woman that looked nothing like the woman he remembered. She was dressed in the plainest of clothes, a gray short-sleeve shirt atop a brown skirt that stretched down to her ankles. Her hair had hardened and decayed from blonde silk to beige straw. No makeup.
“It is nice to see you, too, Charles. It’s been a long time.”
“You don’t mind that I asked Kay to be here, do you?” he asked.
“Oh no, not at all. I haven’t seen my daughter in weeks.”
“Months, mom. It’s been months,” I mumbled under my breath. She hugged me and we all sat down.
“Well Anne,” Charles began with a very business-like clap of his hands, “I know you’re a busy lady now-a-days, so I won’t beat around the bush. I asked you here today to talk about the company. Now, ever since Steve’s passing, I’ve devoted my life to Northway Airlines. And, to be honest, I think the company has done pretty well. I’m sure by the size of the checks you’ve been receiving, you are aware of how well we’ve been doing. But, we want to do better. We always want to do better. The thing is we are considering a merger, one that will be in our best interests as to who we are now and where we want to go in the future.”
“All right,” She said. “What are the significant terms of this merger?”
Charles chuckled, leaned forward in his chair, and said, “Well, here it is: if we merge, we will become an international airline, which would take us to a whole new level. Just a few minor changes will incur as a result. The only one that concerns you is the logo and the name, Northway Airlines. They will have to go. Our prospective partners think a change is necessary. You know, freshen things up a bit.”
“No, no,” said my mother, shaking her head, “we can’t get rid of the logo or the name. They will have to agree to new terms.”
“Well, um,” Charles coughed into his hand, “The board has already voted unanimously to the current terms, and contracts are already being drawn up.”
“What? But that would be like erasing our names from the company we built from scratch, Charles.” My mother’s face tensed and I grew uncomfortable.
“No, not really. You will still control a good deal of stock, and the dividends will be through the roof. Trust me. If you sign off on this, you won’t believe the growth we will experience.”
“Stock? Dividends? No, absolutely not. I will not agree to that. Steve will have a fit.”
“Oh, come on, Anne, don’t be dramatic. I don’t believe Steve would have had a problem with it.” He sighed. “Please don’t take offense to this. You see, you knew him far better than anyone else in most ways, but I knew him better as to his business side. I think he would be on the front lines of this merger. Anne, I know he would.”
My mother quickly turned to her left and said to the air: “Hush, my love, I can handle this,” and then tapped her left shoulder. “No absolutely not. This will not happen.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Anne, come now, you aren’t making a sound judgment. It’s just a logo. You’re not being wise, and you’re letting your emotions get the best of you.”
“Wise?” My mother leaned forward in her chair. “Charles, let me tell you something. Wisdom is one’s breadth of awareness, and mine is plenty broad right now. Let me ask you something. What is more important: money or a logo? Or, what is more significant: your name or the cash in your wallet? Your name remains, cash comes and goes. What good is the acquisition of the whole world at the expense of your name and your identity? I tell you, if you were wise, you would keep the name.”
“Anne, you’re not being reasonable,” said Charles, his body squirming in its chair. “Okay, hold on. It’s just a logo, think about it. What is a logo, really? It’s just advertising, it’s petty. Anne, be reasonable. Think of your husband’s legacy.”
She looked to her left again and paused, as if listening.
“What are you doing?” he asked. He leaned forward and gripped her shoulders. My mother stared down at his right hand on her left shoulder. Then he said, “Please, you have to let go of the past. You have to stop living for him. He’s gone. You need to come back down to Earth. You can’t base your decisions on some event that happened years ago. You have to snap out of it. All we have is here and now. Do you understand?”
“Yes Charles, I understand, trust me. But, I’m still not going to let you get rid of the logo. Do you understand?”
Charles let go of her shoulders and leaned back in his chair, defeated. Then he said, “Kay, do you have anything to say?”
I told him I didn’t. He understood that my mother was a bit loony, but what he didn’t understand was that she was no longer my mother. She was something else. Therefore, thinking I would have any leverage for persuasion was a misjudgment on his part.
“Anne, just think of your daughter,” said Charles as a last resort, “this merger will set her up far beyond anything you can dream of, not to mention her children and her children’s children.”
“Is that why she’s here, Charles?”
“Well… no, she—”
“Charles, just forget it,” she said, and then stood up to leave. “It was nice seeing you, but we’re done here.”
The merger never took place, and so the planes continued to fly under the title of Northway Airlines with the logo: Pie in the Sky.
About the time I was entering graduate school, as well as therapy for not being able to maintain a romantic relationship for any significant amount of time, my mother founded the Pie Foundation. It began humbly, with one office in one city and one underpaid, charitable employee. Its purpose was to creatively search the city for odd jobs and tasks that have often fallen victim to neglect, and pay homeless people to do them. Some of these odd jobs were what most deemed “community service,” while others fell into a different category, like helping the elderly and handicap, working at an orphanage, visiting those in prison, etc. Any task would be considered. The money to pay the employees and homeless people came solely out of my mother’s pocket, and so the work was free to those who benefited.
As anyone would guess, the Pie Foundation spread rapidly from city to city, and then from state to state. My mother conducted all interviews and did all the hiring. The job description was to connect suitable homeless people with a suitable task, and pay them proportionately while remaining within a budget. Finding good people to perform this job was easy because the pay was terrible. It’s ironic that in the business of charity, as opposed to almost all other forms of business, those who will work for less are the good ones.
My knowledge of her activities was still governed by the media, for we rarely spoke. All heralded her, and I even heard talk of a Nobel Peace Prize. The only negative reports at the time were the complaints regarding her refusal to be interviewed, and even then, for every person that complained there was a person who celebrated her for this. She was famous worldwide, a hot topic. All I wanted to do was forget about her, and yet I couldn’t avoid hearing about her, couldn’t go more than a few days without someone inquiring about her. And, during my weekly therapy sessions I was forced to talk about almost nothing else.
In time, her fame shifted in polarity, from positive to negative, which augmented her newsworthiness; negative news gets far better ratings than positive.
The Pie Foundation grew to such an extent that my mother’s income could no longer sustain it. She committed herself to fundraising, and through philanthropy, the Pie Foundation thrived a bit longer. But when she abruptly and without explanation abandoned it all to go live in Africa among tribal people, all those who once loved her turned their backs on her simultaneously. The journalist who nicknamed her Mother Theresa now labeled her Miss Hughes, after the late Howard Hughes—a nickname thought by most to be witty and befitting. This particular journalist, when she was popular, never wrote of her conversations with her dead husband, but as soon as her popularity waned, he wrote of little else in regards to her.
Within two years of her departure, the last surviving Pie Foundation had to shut down; there were just too many needy people, not enough money, and too many willing to scam the system.
She made her home in Africa the year I got my first job out of school. I was happy she left. I felt I could finally start a life that was my own, apart from her. Her fame began to wane, and I sensed freedom was just around the corner.
But, within a year of her settling into her new home, I received a handwritten letter from her. It was warm and genuine. It took me two months to write her back, and when I did, my response was emotionally detached and short. I didn’t expect her to write back soon, but she did.
I continued to write short, delayed letters, as she wrote long, full ones that were consistently affectionate and open. It was strange. In time, it didn’t feel like I was corresponding with my mother, but an old friend with whom a falling out had occurred and it was time to reunite. I began to look forward to her next letter.
She would tell me stories about her new family and the progress of her assimilation. It was a tough life, mostly centered on basic survival, she said, but learning the language turned out to be the most difficult task. She told me about how she bought a helicopter and learned to fly it herself, which allowed her to travel to the nearest town for supplies. It was this that earned her the new name, Wu Sibi: The Woman Who Flies, a name she wore proudly.
I told her many things, as well. My most memorable letters, in fact, were the ones written about my boyfriend at the time, whom had just proposed to me. I turned him down at first, but would later say yes. We wrote abundantly about this.
I planned to visit her in Africa, even worked out some of the logistics. But this plan, unfortunately, never found fruition. For this, I remain wounded to this day, a wound that goes even deeper than the one incurred by her death.
I was packing a bag to go to my ten-year college reunion when I heard the news report that my mother’s body was found in the desert. It was malaria. Dropping everything, my fiancé and I flew to Africa, revealing to myself how easy it was to do. The entire flight I beat myself up for not making the trip earlier.
We hired a tour guide to take us about, someone who knew the language of my mother’s tribe. I saw where she slept, walked her favorite trails, sat with my fiancé in front of her beloved water spot, admired her numerous paintings of African landscape and wildlife, and sat in her helicopter. Taped within the dilapidated aircraft was a lone picture of me as a child. I stared at it and shook my head, trying not to cry. My fiancé placed his hand on my shoulder.
“Wu Sibi,” I said, as a couple tears glided down my cheeks, “The Woman Who Flies.”
We spoke to those who knew her best. They told us that she refused to get treated for malaria and purposely wandered into the desert to die because that was what the elders of the tribe did.
It seemed that she was happy during her last days. The village was good for her. She was among a people that didn’t think she was crazy, didn’t act awkwardly when she spoke to her dead husband, never took advantage of her kindness, and always appreciated her.
When her body was found, it is said that she looked peaceful, that she was on her back, arms outspread, and her head tilted over resting on her left shoulder.
Right before she died she wrote something in the sand next to her. A tribesman, who saw the writing prior to being blurred by wind, memorized the symbols and carved them into wood, never to be lost. As she lied there awaiting death, she wrote: “I’m coming, my love, I’m coming home.”
After her passing, her new family conducted an all-night ceremony of song and dance. During our stay, they honored me with a smaller version of that ceremony, playing a song they had written for her. Our guide translated the lyrics as they were sung. They named it after her, though it wasn’t titled Wu Sibi, as they had given her a new name.
The song spoke to me in such a way that, as I write this, my hand trembles trying to render its personal meaning. Deep within the erratic, African beats that somehow coalesced into a harmony, I felt the passionate woman into which my mother had transformed so many years ago; but in the caressing melodies of the accompanying female voices, I was overwhelmed with the soft essence of the woman I remember who nurtured and loved me as a young child. Their song captured her in a way nothing else could.
In her letters to me, between the words portraying Wu Sibi’s foreign ways, lay a spirit infallibly familiar to me, as familiar as family. And yet, I doubted—a necessary doubt covering a shadowy wound. But that song erased the doubt and released something in me that I didn’t know was there. As the voices soared, twirling and dancing with the sparks from the fire before disappearing into the night, a dark pain lifted.
I thank God daily for that song. A song that celebrated a life well lived. A song that brought my mother back to me. Or, maybe I should say, a song that lifted me up to her. A song titled Wu Sibi Ulabi: The Woman Who Flew Home.#45,040,681textWoman Who Flew Home
By Jeremiah Hawkins
I‘ve decided to write of my mother, something I swore I would never do. Let her rest in peace, I would always tell myself, don’t excavate those events, don’t resurrect that story from the comfortable shadows that have blanketed it over the years. Hasn’t enough been written about her already?
Although, when I reread her letters one rainy Saturday morning, letters always signed “Love, your mother, Wu Sibi,” I felt compelled to dig up the past and let my memories of her be documented. And do so for my own purposes rather than setting any records straight.
Wu Sibi was the name given to her by her acquired family in Africa, loosely translated: The Woman Who Flies. …But, Africa is where this story ends, not begins.
My mother, Anne Eldridge, was a woman of old money, wealthy beyond most normal people’s comprehension, and so was never without the protection that money provides. Though, of course, we must all agree there are tragedies from which no amount of money can shield.
My mother lost both her parents at a young age. Her mother suffered from some sort of undiagnosed mental illness, while at the same time her father suffered from a mental illness that was far more easily diagnosed: infidelity. The two were a recipe for tragedy, to say the least.
While my grandmother remained home pinned to inner darkness by depression, her husband shopped around for a brighter future—new wife, new kids, new everything. A torrential cycle inevitably ensued: the more he stayed away, the worse she got; the worse she got, the more he stayed away. And so on. Though, it wasn’t until the actual abandonment that my grandmother swallowed three full bottles of aspirin and assured the success of suicide.
My mother was twelve.
She never spoke of this. In fact, she rarely ever spoke of her parents at all. Well, except for the pies. From what I’ve heard, my grandmother made great pies.
Fortunately, my mother had loving grandparents who took good care of her during her adolescence, cheering her on as she maintained a GPA that kept her in the top five percent of her class, as well as openly appreciating her passion for painting, never discouraging her from pursuing art as a career. I always assumed their unyielding support of my mother was derived from their pity for her, along with their own grief over the death of their daughter.
She got into Yale and it was here that she met my father, Steve Millard, who came from even wealthier origins. Like her, he was a dreamer—his eyes and thoughts so often wooed by the clouds, and as a child he dreamt of soaring in and around and through them. Flying was an undying passion to my father that never faded and never grew too familiar to be exhilarating. My mother loved his emotional stability, and he adored her quirks and shiftiness.
And so, regardless of wealth or rank and all the resulting superficiality that saturates all that is social, they fell madly in love and remained so the rest of their lives. They were wed a month after graduating college.
Following my father’s short commission in the Air Force, they started a small airline with two private jets donated to them by my father’s uncle. They named it Northway Airlines. With as many connections as they had between them, along with their financial backing and youthful personalities, the airline grew rapidly, profiting millions of dollars within the first ten years.
The logo, I think, also helped.
My mother painted many things, but nothing did she enjoy painting more than pies, various kinds with various backgrounds, but always pies. My father chose his favorite and had it painted onto the tail of the first two jets, as well as every plane they bought thereafter. “Pie in the Sky” was the official logo.
About the time the airline soared from private industry to commercial, they had me, Kay, the only child they would have. We were a happy family. I retain vivid memories of playing board games and laughing, exploring the downtown area near our penthouse atop my father’s shoulders and stopping at any theater or museum that might look appealing. I remember vacations to exotic locations like beaches, mountains, and historic places where my father would tell me the story behind a particular monument or landmark in just the right way to keep a child’s attention.
My early childhood was more than anyone could ask. Things were good, at least, that is, until the day my father’s plane went down. I was eleven. I remember it well. It changed everything. That day split my history as the life of Jesus split Western history, branding an A.D. forever into my memory. We were at my mother’s country club.
“You flirt,” my mother said as she, Ashley, and I sat down at a table, me with my strawberry-banana smoothie, and them with their thick green mess they called a smoothie. They attended yoga class twice a week at the country club. Since there was plenty of activities a kid my age would enjoy, when I wasn’t in school, I tagged along. Plus, back then, I adored my mother and followed her around whenever possible.
“Who me?” Ashley said with a sly smirk. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on. What were you and Guru Gary discussing for so long after class?” Guru Gary was the yoga instructor—a tall, muscular man with a nice smile. I’m not sure if he called himself that or if the ladies gave him that nickname.
“That was nothing. Totally innocent,” said Ashley with a wave of her hand.
“Spit it out, Ashley,” my mother said.
“All right, all right, he invited me to some get together. That’s all. Totally innocent, like I said.” Ashley reverted her eyes and sipped her swampy smoothie.
“A party?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“Are you going to go?”
Ashley laughed. “Yeah, I think I will. And—you know what?—I’m not going to tell Blake.”
“You’re so bad,” my mother said and laughed. But then, after spotting something unexpected in Ashley’s expression, her smile slipped off her face. “You’re serious.”
“Well, maybe.”
“You can’t do that,” my mother said matter-of-factly.
Ashley paused, and then said, “Oh come on, Anne, not everyone has what you have with Steve. Blake is never home. And even when he is… Look, a girl has to take care of herself.”
“He’s busy, as you always say. He’s got a lot on his mind. It won’t always be like that.”
“Anne, dear, I can’t live in the future. Just as Gary always says, we have to live in the here-and-now.”
“I don’t know. I—”
“Hey, I have an idea,” Ashley said, bringing back her smile. “You should come. You can chaperone and keep me in line. It’ll be fun.”
“When is—”
“Anne!” a voice sounded from the bar area of the lounge. “Come look at this!”
My mother and Ashley rose and made their way to the bar where the bartender was turning up the volume on the television. I wasn’t far behind. On the television was a live feed of a plane crash in northern Iowa. The reporter, as well as the words running across the bottom of the screen, made it evident that the plane was one of ours. As the television reported this tragedy—a death count in the hundreds—club members crowded around to give support to my mother, saying such things as: “It’ll be fine. No one watches the news anymore, anyways” and “Every airline goes through this at some point” and “The airline will bounce back, they always do.” My mother merely nodded in silence.
She then suddenly jerked her head to her right and said, “What? Who said that?”
“Who said what?” asked Ashley.
“Someone said something.”
“Mom, almost everyone said something,” I said.
“No, some other voice.” She shook her head as if to shake a disturbing thought out of her mind. “My left shoulder feels funny.”
“Are you okay?” Ashley asked.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”
It was about this time that the news arrived. The reporter, his right hand pressed against his earpiece, told me that my father was on that plane, that my father was dead.
We were informed that he had personally offered to take some big-money investor on a random commercial flight, a spontaneous decision to demonstrate to the investor how confident he was in the quality of his airline. Some even say that he allowed the investor to draw a flight number out of a hat to insure randomness.
Following the news, the crowd of club members slyly dispersed, saying nothing, leaving my mother and me peering up at the television. Alone.
I grabbed her hand, and a couple seconds later, in the corner of my eye, I saw her head twitch twice. Then, she fainted.
The months following my father’s death, I only remember my mother. I forgot myself. I forgot my life. I know I went to school, but I don’t remember it. I remember my mother. My pain was my mother’s pain, and I don’t know if I bore my own grief independent of hers. As I said, I was eleven.
My mother locked herself in a dark place. However, it wasn’t the depression, but her disorder that made life hell for me. In the middle of the night she often woke up screaming such things as, “Leave me alone! Shut up! Why? Why?” and I would jerk myself out of bed and run to her room to console her back to sleep.
Sleep was difficult for me, as well. I think it was during this period of time that I formed the habit of embracing a plush pillow to get to sleep, a habit that remained with me into adulthood. Nights were rough on both of us, and so we often looked forward to the sunrise. But with the rise of the sun, all anxieties were not always dissolved.
Maybe to cope, or maybe to pass the time—who knows why?—but my mother began talking to herself. At first she merely rambled on while performing daily tasks, but as the days passed these self-talks became heated conversations. Some were so fiery and intense that she’d lose her train-of-thought, and in so doing would say something to herself and then look about the room in a daze, and respond, “Huh?”
Within a few months, her self-talk gradually became focused, in that, she began conversing with a consistent imaginary friend—a friend she never called by name. She was fond of this friend, a friend who, in difficult times, would place his/her hand on her left shoulder, a feeling she described as warm and tingly. I thought it merely nerves. During her sobbing fits, she would usually sit or lie down with her right hand resting on her left shoulder, apparently holding on to her friend’s hand.
The summer before I began High School, I discovered the identity of this friend. But, that night isn’t locked in my memory because of the discovery alone. I remember it well because it was the night my mother left… in more ways than one.
It was a stormy night as she fought with her friend, a bitter argument about the state of her life, one of which was like, to me, listening to someone fight over the phone. The degree of her anger frightened me.
“What are you talking about! Everything is fine! No, no, I have plenty of friends. It was just yesterday that Sharon and I had lunch. It was very nice. What? What are you talking about? Are you crazy?” She stood up and began marching about the room. “Why do you say that? You don’t know how I feel! You’re always telling me how I feel! It’s infuriating!” She grabbed a lamp and threw it down on the floor, shattering it. “I am calm! Oh how? How can you do that? Well, so what? Aren’t I entitled to it? You just died! You were everything to me! Dammit! How is that to help me?” She sat back down. “I know you do. I never doubted your love. But what you’re saying is crazy.” She listened for a couple minutes and then cried. “Why are you doing this to me? Haven’t you put me through enough? I don’t care about me! Can’t you see? I don’t care! I don’t care! I will never be happy again. It would have been better if I were on that plane with you. I know. Yeah. I understand.”
She quieted for at least fifteen minutes. I would have gone back to my room, but I knew by the occasional nodding of her head and other minor indicators, that the discussion was still underway. My eyes were getting heavy, as it was nearing midnight. Then, some sort of epiphany spilled across my mother’s face. She rose to her feet and paced about again, but this time with an air of determination.
“Yes, I see that. That makes sense. Honey, that sounds good, I can do that. Yeah, you’re right. And, it...” Her eyes shot up to the ceiling, wide open and glistening with tears. She took in a deep breath, covering her open mouth with both hands. “I will make sure of it, my love, my beloved!” With immense resolve and energy, she threw on her shoes, grabbed something out of her purse, and flew out the door in utter disregard to the rain.
I quickly found my shoes and umbrella and followed. My intention wasn’t to bring her back home. To be honest, I don’t know why I chased after her that night. I suppose I felt I had no choice; sleep wasn’t an option knowing she was running around at night in the rain, and waiting up for her return would have been a torturous worry fest.
I followed her to an all night grocery store where she proceeded straight to an ATM and pulled out a large stack of money, probably the maximum withdrawal amount. Her pace was speedy, forcing me—a short girl—to jog in order to keep her in sight.
Not far from our penthouse was an alley where homeless people congregated and slept. She stormed right into the middle of this alley and began causing a raucous, throwing off cardboard shelters and exposing the residents to the weather. I was frightened of the alley, so I remained on the major street. She woke everyone, flung herself on them, embraced them in the rain, and forced money into their hands. As she disturbed each homeless person, I saw by his or her expressions that I wasn’t the only person frightened by her that night. She flew about like a mad woman. As soon as the money ran out, she power walked home, grabbed clothes, food and whatever else she could carry and returned to the alley. She continued going back and forth all night. After the third trip, I ceased following her, went to my room and locked the door. I don’t remember if I slept, but I do remember crying.
That night, that conversation with my dead father, that insane revelation was what changed her forever. That was the point of demarcation: she had transformed from my mother into Wu Sibi.
Around the next year or so, she made the media for the first time. It was a touching story about a wealthy woman giving to the poor where the journalist likened her to Mother Theresa.
She kept busy and I never heard her scream at night anymore—that is, when she slept at home—and so, I tried to live my own life, separated from the chaos that had possessed my mother. This turned out to be near impossible.
There was a time during my junior year of High School that she didn’t come home for five consecutive nights. I worried, of course, but in a forced attempt to maintain my freedom, I made myself shrug it off. If something’s happened to her, I would tell myself, it’s her own damn fault. She fortunately returned unharmed, but smelling and looking awful. She told me she’d been staying with a girl named Jennifer who ran away from home.
“A girl named Jennifer?” I asked. “What, on the streets?”
“Yes, she was living on the streets,” said my mother.
“You’ve been living on the streets.”
“Yes, dear, I’ve been living on the streets.”
“That’s just great, mom. Just fantastic!” I said, my voice increasing in volume with every word.
“Are you all right, Kay?”
“Yep, just dandy. Actually no, mom, I’m not all right.”
“We can talk about it, if you like,” she said.
“I have nothing to say. I mean, where do I begin, right? You have no idea who I am or what is going on with your own daughter. You’re off—you know—doing whatever you do, giving all our stuff away and I’m living my life alone. You don’t care what is going on with me. All you care about is yourself and your… your dirty, homeless people. Look at you. Just look at you!” I felt like I was riding a river of emotion where the current sped up floating me right into the rapids, out of control. I could foresee a waterfall up ahead and yet there was no avoiding it. “You’re a mess, mother. You look like a bum and you smell like garbage, garbage that, that’s been in the sun all day! You’re a stupid woman, do you know that? A stupid, selfish woman! I bet you didn’t even know that I’m making A’s in all my classes, while on student council, while on the softball team. Did you know that? Don’t nod your head! Don’t act like you know anything about me!” As much as I fought it, tears began to stream down my cheeks. “You’re selfish, you’re so selfish! You don’t give a shit about anyone else except yourself! You don’t give a shit! You just don’t care.”
My anger running its course, I stood there before my mother, sobbing, waiting for her to respond, fearing her response. During the brief silent interlude a lone tear traced down my mother’s cheek.
“I—can’t…” She paused and her body seemed to shiver. She then closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I love you, Kay. I really do.”
Then, my mother turned and walked up the stairs. Midway up she placed her right hand on her left shoulder. I understood then—maybe by the way she shivered or maybe the way she looked at me when she told me she loved me—that her choice to become who or what she had become was no choice at all. She could not tolerate this life being anything else.
I learned about her five-day tour of the streets from the newspapers. Apparently, Jennifer was a sixteen year old daughter of a rich family, almost as rich as our own. She ran away from home a year prior and got into drugs. She was heavily addicted to heroine when my mother stumbled upon her. Jennifer told the reporter that my mother did nothing more than stay with her, feed her, hold her, and at night, sing to her. My mother never told her what to do, not even when Jennifer went to prostitute herself out. The reporter quoted Jennifer saying, “I forgot what it was like to be loved, and when I got a taste of it again from Anne, I decided to return home. I needed to return home.”
When I went off to college, my mother sold the house and moved into a small one-bedroom apartment. I had to read of it in the papers. I didn’t know what she was doing with her money, and I didn’t care as long as tuition got paid and I received my allowance. The media was still calling her Mother Theresa as they spoke of her extreme generosity, as well as her financial intelligence, which came as a surprise to me. She wasn’t merely throwing money about haphazardly, but dealing it out strategically, “maximizing her money’s effort,” wrote the reporter.
During my second year of college, I got a call from Charles, my father’s close friend and business partner. He said my mother agreed to meet with him and he thought I should be present, as well. After inquiring into my mother’s current state of mind, Charles thought it wise for the meeting to be as informal as possible, just the three of us.
It was held on a cloudy Wednesday morning. We met in the Northway Airlines conference room. It had been awhile since I’d been there and my mother’s painting of a pie adorning the walls, as well as the smell, brought back memories of my father.
“Anne, it’s so nice to see you,” Charles said, addressing a woman that looked nothing like the woman he remembered. She was dressed in the plainest of clothes, a gray short-sleeve shirt atop a brown skirt that stretched down to her ankles. Her hair had hardened and decayed from blonde silk to beige straw. No makeup.
“It is nice to see you, too, Charles. It’s been a long time.”
“You don’t mind that I asked Kay to be here, do you?” he asked.
“Oh no, not at all. I haven’t seen my daughter in weeks.”
“Months, mom. It’s been months,” I mumbled under my breath. She hugged me and we all sat down.
“Well Anne,” Charles began with a very business-like clap of his hands, “I know you’re a busy lady now-a-days, so I won’t beat around the bush. I asked you here today to talk about the company. Now, ever since Steve’s passing, I’ve devoted my life to Northway Airlines. And, to be honest, I think the company has done pretty well. I’m sure by the size of the checks you’ve been receiving, you are aware of how well we’ve been doing. But, we want to do better. We always want to do better. The thing is we are considering a merger, one that will be in our best interests as to who we are now and where we want to go in the future.”
“All right,” She said. “What are the significant terms of this merger?”
Charles chuckled, leaned forward in his chair, and said, “Well, here it is: if we merge, we will become an international airline, which would take us to a whole new level. Just a few minor changes will incur as a result. The only one that concerns you is the logo and the name, Northway Airlines. They will have to go. Our prospective partners think a change is necessary. You know, freshen things up a bit.”
“No, no,” said my mother, shaking her head, “we can’t get rid of the logo or the name. They will have to agree to new terms.”
“Well, um,” Charles coughed into his hand, “The board has already voted unanimously to the current terms, and contracts are already being drawn up.”
“What? But that would be like erasing our names from the company we built from scratch, Charles.” My mother’s face tensed and I grew uncomfortable.
“No, not really. You will still control a good deal of stock, and the dividends will be through the roof. Trust me. If you sign off on this, you won’t believe the growth we will experience.”
“Stock? Dividends? No, absolutely not. I will not agree to that. Steve will have a fit.”
“Oh, come on, Anne, don’t be dramatic. I don’t believe Steve would have had a problem with it.” He sighed. “Please don’t take offense to this. You see, you knew him far better than anyone else in most ways, but I knew him better as to his business side. I think he would be on the front lines of this merger. Anne, I know he would.”
My mother quickly turned to her left and said to the air: “Hush, my love, I can handle this,” and then tapped her left shoulder. “No absolutely not. This will not happen.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Anne, come now, you aren’t making a sound judgment. It’s just a logo. You’re not being wise, and you’re letting your emotions get the best of you.”
“Wise?” My mother leaned forward in her chair. “Charles, let me tell you something. Wisdom is one’s breadth of awareness, and mine is plenty broad right now. Let me ask you something. What is more important: money or a logo? Or, what is more significant: your name or the cash in your wallet? Your name remains, cash comes and goes. What good is the acquisition of the whole world at the expense of your name and your identity? I tell you, if you were wise, you would keep the name.”
“Anne, you’re not being reasonable,” said Charles, his body squirming in its chair. “Okay, hold on. It’s just a logo, think about it. What is a logo, really? It’s just advertising, it’s petty. Anne, be reasonable. Think of your husband’s legacy.”
She looked to her left again and paused, as if listening.
“What are you doing?” he asked. He leaned forward and gripped her shoulders. My mother stared down at his right hand on her left shoulder. Then he said, “Please, you have to let go of the past. You have to stop living for him. He’s gone. You need to come back down to Earth. You can’t base your decisions on some event that happened years ago. You have to snap out of it. All we have is here and now. Do you understand?”
“Yes Charles, I understand, trust me. But, I’m still not going to let you get rid of the logo. Do you understand?”
Charles let go of her shoulders and leaned back in his chair, defeated. Then he said, “Kay, do you have anything to say?”
I told him I didn’t. He understood that my mother was a bit loony, but what he didn’t understand was that she was no longer my mother. She was something else. Therefore, thinking I would have any leverage for persuasion was a misjudgment on his part.
“Anne, just think of your daughter,” said Charles as a last resort, “this merger will set her up far beyond anything you can dream of, not to mention her children and her children’s children.”
“Is that why she’s here, Charles?”
“Well… no, she—”
“Charles, just forget it,” she said, and then stood up to leave. “It was nice seeing you, but we’re done here.”
The merger never took place, and so the planes continued to fly under the title of Northway Airlines with the logo: Pie in the Sky.
About the time I was entering graduate school, as well as therapy for not being able to maintain a romantic relationship for any significant amount of time, my mother founded the Pie Foundation. It began humbly, with one office in one city and one underpaid, charitable employee. Its purpose was to creatively search the city for odd jobs and tasks that have often fallen victim to neglect, and pay homeless people to do them. Some of these odd jobs were what most deemed “community service,” while others fell into a different category, like helping the elderly and handicap, working at an orphanage, visiting those in prison, etc. Any task would be considered. The money to pay the employees and homeless people came solely out of my mother’s pocket, and so the work was free to those who benefited.
As anyone would guess, the Pie Foundation spread rapidly from city to city, and then from state to state. My mother conducted all interviews and did all the hiring. The job description was to connect suitable homeless people with a suitable task, and pay them proportionately while remaining within a budget. Finding good people to perform this job was easy because the pay was terrible. It’s ironic that in the business of charity, as opposed to almost all other forms of business, those who will work for less are the good ones.
My knowledge of her activities was still governed by the media, for we rarely spoke. All heralded her, and I even heard talk of a Nobel Peace Prize. The only negative reports at the time were the complaints regarding her refusal to be interviewed, and even then, for every person that complained there was a person who celebrated her for this. She was famous worldwide, a hot topic. All I wanted to do was forget about her, and yet I couldn’t avoid hearing about her, couldn’t go more than a few days without someone inquiring about her. And, during my weekly therapy sessions I was forced to talk about almost nothing else.
In time, her fame shifted in polarity, from positive to negative, which augmented her newsworthiness; negative news gets far better ratings than positive.
The Pie Foundation grew to such an extent that my mother’s income could no longer sustain it. She committed herself to fundraising, and through philanthropy, the Pie Foundation thrived a bit longer. But when she abruptly and without explanation abandoned it all to go live in Africa among tribal people, all those who once loved her turned their backs on her simultaneously. The journalist who nicknamed her Mother Theresa now labeled her Miss Hughes, after the late Howard Hughes—a nickname thought by most to be witty and befitting. This particular journalist, when she was popular, never wrote of her conversations with her dead husband, but as soon as her popularity waned, he wrote of little else in regards to her.
Within two years of her departure, the last surviving Pie Foundation had to shut down; there were just too many needy people, not enough money, and too many willing to scam the system.
She made her home in Africa the year I got my first job out of school. I was happy she left. I felt I could finally start a life that was my own, apart from her. Her fame began to wane, and I sensed freedom was just around the corner.
But, within a year of her settling into her new home, I received a handwritten letter from her. It was warm and genuine. It took me two months to write her back, and when I did, my response was emotionally detached and short. I didn’t expect her to write back soon, but she did.
I continued to write short, delayed letters, as she wrote long, full ones that were consistently affectionate and open. It was strange. In time, it didn’t feel like I was corresponding with my mother, but an old friend with whom a falling out had occurred and it was time to reunite. I began to look forward to her next letter.
She would tell me stories about her new family and the progress of her assimilation. It was a tough life, mostly centered on basic survival, she said, but learning the language turned out to be the most difficult task. She told me about how she bought a helicopter and learned to fly it herself, which allowed her to travel to the nearest town for supplies. It was this that earned her the new name, Wu Sibi: The Woman Who Flies, a name she wore proudly.
I told her many things, as well. My most memorable letters, in fact, were the ones written about my boyfriend at the time, whom had just proposed to me. I turned him down at first, but would later say yes. We wrote abundantly about this.
I planned to visit her in Africa, even worked out some of the logistics. But this plan, unfortunately, never found fruition. For this, I remain wounded to this day, a wound that goes even deeper than the one incurred by her death.
I was packing a bag to go to my ten-year college reunion when I heard the news report that my mother’s body was found in the desert. It was malaria. Dropping everything, my fiancé and I flew to Africa, revealing to myself how easy it was to do. The entire flight I beat myself up for not making the trip earlier.
We hired a tour guide to take us about, someone who knew the language of my mother’s tribe. I saw where she slept, walked her favorite trails, sat with my fiancé in front of her beloved water spot, admired her numerous paintings of African landscape and wildlife, and sat in her helicopter. Taped within the dilapidated aircraft was a lone picture of me as a child. I stared at it and shook my head, trying not to cry. My fiancé placed his hand on my shoulder.
“Wu Sibi,” I said, as a couple tears glided down my cheeks, “The Woman Who Flies.”
We spoke to those who knew her best. They told us that she refused to get treated for malaria and purposely wandered into the desert to die because that was what the elders of the tribe did.
It seemed that she was happy during her last days. The village was good for her. She was among a people that didn’t think she was crazy, didn’t act awkwardly when she spoke to her dead husband, never took advantage of her kindness, and always appreciated her.
When her body was found, it is said that she looked peaceful, that she was on her back, arms outspread, and her head tilted over resting on her left shoulder.
Right before she died she wrote something in the sand next to her. A tribesman, who saw the writing prior to being blurred by wind, memorized the symbols and carved them into wood, never to be lost. As she lied there awaiting death, she wrote: “I’m coming, my love, I’m coming home.”
After her passing, her new family conducted an all-night ceremony of song and dance. During our stay, they honored me with a smaller version of that ceremony, playing a song they had written for her. Our guide translated the lyrics as they were sung. They named it after her, though it wasn’t titled Wu Sibi, as they had given her a new name.
The song spoke to me in such a way that, as I write this, my hand trembles trying to render its personal meaning. Deep within the erratic, African beats that somehow coalesced into a harmony, I felt the passionate woman into which my mother had transformed so many years ago; but in the caressing melodies of the accompanying female voices, I was overwhelmed with the soft essence of the woman I remember who nurtured and loved me as a young child. Their song captured her in a way nothing else could.
In her letters to me, between the words portraying Wu Sibi’s foreign ways, lay a spirit infallibly familiar to me, as familiar as family. And yet, I doubted—a necessary doubt covering a shadowy wound. But that song erased the doubt and released something in me that I didn’t know was there. As the voices soared, twirling and dancing with the sparks from the fire before disappearing into the night, a dark pain lifted.
I thank God daily for that song. A song that celebrated a life well lived. A song that brought my mother back to me. Or, maybe I should say, a song that lifted me up to her. A song titled Wu Sibi Ulabi: The Woman Who Flew Home.#42,274,542text[From an unfinished novel by Jeremiah Hawkins, written in 2003]
Chapter 4
Ricky’s street was lined with cars on the right and the left extending almost halfway down the block. I had to park about fifty yards away. The “thump” coming from his house could be heard all the way at the end of the block. I wondered how many people had complained.
The party was well underway, a fact made evident by a guy vomiting on the front lawn.
“Let it all out!” advised Dave. “You’ll feel better in the morning.” I kept walking with a chuckle while shaking my head.
I opened the door, and before we made it inside Ricky saw us and belted out: “Yeah!! The playa’s are here!”
It was rather loud in the house, but the music was good – “house” music, I think it’s called, or maybe techno, or electronica. Who can keep up? I think of it as disco for this generation. It’s centered on dance, and that dance is accented by clubs, drugs, fashion, and sex. That was what disco was. I enjoyed it though - whatever someone wanted to call it. Music that is instrumental, such as house music, ambient, and even classical appeals to me. When you dance to it, whether it be physically or mentally, it is you who are doing it. It is not the singer or rapper. If music speaks of violence and self-praise, then people will inevitably walk around with a chip on their shoulder with an “I’m a badass” mentality, trying to become the person behind the microphone.
“Hey, how’s it going!” I yelled to Ricky over the music as Dave split off from us, walking towards a group that screamed his name.
“You are way behind! Follow me,” exclaimed Ricky as he turned waving me along.
We passed people dancing; people leaning against the wall drinking and observing; people in enthusiastic conversation, which probably just appeared enthusiastic considering they had to yell to hear each other.
It was your typical party, but one of the better typical parties: The girls flittered about and danced to entertain and arouse while the guys trotted about trying to project a powerful and confident persona, the goal being to get as much energy from each other as possible to fuel some inner need to be admired and loved. I felt the need to play along, as well. I always did. So, I walked tall with a confident grin, purposely not shying away from any eye contact; in fact I had my sex eyes going at this point. This just meant that I was checking out every girl there with the thought “I could have you” ringing through my head, though it rarely reaped any rewards. For all I know, my sex eyes probably made me look like I had Downs Syndrome, or something.
We made it to the kitchen and it was already trashed. There were bottles of liquor scattered along the countertops with semi-empty and fully emptied beer bottles hiding in between, like some thick bottle forest. Three kegs sat against the wall.
Ricky led me straight to a counter and turned around. Leaning his elbow on it, he said, “Pick your poison, my friend, because you have some major catching up to do.” He opened his hand revealing a double shot glass.
“Where did you get that? Now, I know you didn’t just pick it up. Don’t tell me that you’ve been carrying it around with you!” I exclaimed as he nodded and smiled. “You really have been waiting for me!”
“Yep. Now what will it be?”
I pointed to the gin, though it probably wasn’t such a good choice considering it was one of the most potent there.
Ricky and I got along best when drunk. Some of his superficialities and some of my uptightness were drowned beneath the sea of alcohol we would do backstrokes in from time to time. On the way to the pools of alcohol, though, we could get along just out of anticipation for the upcoming bond we were going to share once we arrived. We partied well together, and just then I remembered once again the true reason I hung around Ricky. But, I would forget that point the next time we would converse while sober. I always did.
He handed me my third consecutive double and I swallowed it down and slammed the shot glass down on the counter. He cheered me on by giving me a high five. The song that began to play was a really good one and I began to dance a little while standing there. I wasn’t a bad dancer, but I wasn’t really good, either. The thing was I didn’t like dancing unless I was fully letting go. Though, the day after, I didn’t like it much when I had let go. I mean, shame and embarrassment is an excruciating ally of a hangover. He gave me one more double and I told him it was enough for now.
“Ok,” he said, “I think you are almost caught up, and that’s good enough for me.” He put his arm around me and led me out of the kitchen. I was already feeling the first shot I had taken. I was ready, and Ricky, the pro-partier he was, knew this.
“Hey, dance with this fool!” he said to a girl that was walking by. She looked at me and smiled, a smile resulting, I think, more from being chosen by Ricky than having to dance with me.
“Alright. Come on!” she said as she grabbed my hand.
We began to dance, and I couldn’t help but notice that this girl was very sexy. As more and more alcohol began to mix in with my blood the more I wanted to dance as erotic with this girl as possible. I was not, however, going to take the initiative, and I didn’t have to. She didn’t hold anything back when dancing. To this girl, it appeared, dancing was a rehearsal for sex, or maybe a substitute. I was into it, regardless. I wanted whatever this girl was going to give me. I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me, but that held no bearing on the situation at hand. I could care less about her dreams, her needs, her past, her tastes, and she could care less about mine. This communion we were having was about mystery and the thrill that mystery entails: the wonder at what is on the other side of the door; the expectation of what something appearing succulent will taste like; the anticipation a surprise gift builds. It is a wonderful feeling that only a follow through could ruin.
Deep down we both knew that we couldn’t satisfy each other’s yearnings. How could we? We knew nothing of each other, but we weren’t concerned about that. We simply wanted to own each other, and at that moment, and just for that moment, we did. What I wanted her to do she did and what she wanted me to do I did. Sex drove us on a road of music into a unity of an imaginary fulfillment. We let our imaginations fill the voids that ran deep to such an extent that if it were not for our current fantasy all that would be left was her and I looking at each other wondering what the hell we were doing with this person, and sounding remarkably close to what is thought the next morning. …The song was over.
“I’m going to get something to drink,” I said and she nodded, smiled, gave me a hug, and walked out of my life. Ricky walked by at that moment with another double shot and gave it to me without slowing his stride. I drank it and as I turned around I caught a glimpse of who I thought was Katherine. It was her. Coming from this last relationship with Miss Whoknows?, I felt something warm inside me as I looked at Katherine being flashed like a strobe light by the crowd of dancers in between us. I began to walk toward her. I had a nice buzz by now, for the dancing had sped up my digestion of the shots. Before I got halfway there she walked away. I jumped to see over the people and get a glimpse of where she was going. But, I lost her.
I started back to the kitchen to fix a mixed drink. I think I had had enough of those shots. A Gin and tonic sounded good, but at parties I usually had to settle for gin and some kind of clear soda. After making my drink, sitting down to rest was next on the agenda.
Finding an empty space on a couch in the living room, I sat down. My eyes perused the scene and landed on a beautiful girl leaning against a wall and talking to some guy. Her back was to me but she would turn and look around from time-to-time, probably to see who all was spellbound, stuck staring at her in admiration. She was a beauty, wearing a shirt that came within a couple inches from her waste line, a small tattoo on her lower back. It was a design of some sort similar to a sun, oval and colorful. Not an uncommon tattoo, but a fad similar to the tribal band around a guy’s bicep. What was so alluring about that tattoo in that spot? What about the old fashion statement that had guys pulling up one of their pant legs? I never understood that stuff.
A girl was sitting a couple feet from me on the same couch, and so I decided to ask her.
“Excuse me,” I began with all the courage that the cup in my hand could muster. She looked at me and I said, “Do you see that tattoo on that girl over there?’
“Uh huh,” she replied with a smile.
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah, it’s alright, I guess. I have one like it, but mine is probably like… like an inch lower than hers and, like, not as colorful. But it is like a little more… like.. more stuff in it.”
“Why did you get it?”
“I dunno. I like it, I guess.”
“Why?” I asked as I saw her smile begin to fade.
“I dunno. It’s cool. You don’t like tattoos?”
“Oh, sure! I was just curious,” I said as her smile returned.
I turned my attention back to the party. What to say next to her was a question I was posing to myself. Just then a guy gently sat down between us.
“Man, I’ve been looking for a place to sit for over fifteen minutes,” he said to me as if in passing.
I wasn’t happy to see him coming in between the best action I’d had in a couple of months.
“That girl is pretty, isn’t she?” he asked me while looking at the girl leaning against the wall that I had just been talking about.
“Yes, very,” I replied.
“Here look at this,” he said as he pulled out his wallet and showed me a picture of a woman that appeared to have been taken in the 70’s. “What do you think?”
“She’s good looking.”
“It’s my mom.”
“Oh, uh..”
“She was in her twenties. Have you ever looked at old yearbooks from the seventies?” He asked putting the picture away.
“Yeah, I used to get a kick out of looking through them in the library when I was in High School.”
“What did you think of the girls?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, when I was younger I thought the girls in the past were nowhere near as pretty as they are in the present. I didn’t know why, but I thought women were… evolving or something. You know what I mean?”
After a pause I said, “Yeah. I think it was their hair and make up, or something.”
“Really?” He pulled back out the picture of his mother. He gave it to me and then pointed at the girl leaning against the wall. To my astonishment their hair was done in the same way with a part in the middle and the rest stringing nicely down the side of their faces.
“That’s interesting. The style came back just like bail-bottoms,” I replied in amusement.
“Do you see?” he asked. I looked at him and he was glaring at me with wide eyes.
“Yeah.”
“Do you see?”
“Do I see what?”
“You don’t see?” He was still bearing down on me with a wide-eyed stare. “They are ghosts. All of them, just ghosts. Look at them. They know they’re… nothing. Who are they? They think they know, but they don’t. And deep down, somewhere in the subconscious they know they are nobody. They are everybody else, ergo they are nothing. At night it speaks to them, you know.”
“Honestly, man, I don’t think I could tell you who I am,” I said in perfect truth.
“Yes!” he exclaimed while slapping my back. “You can’t. But the difference is that you know that! You knowing it means you know that much. You know who you are more than any of those other jokers.., those ghosts.”
I laughed. “You sound like a drunk Socrates.”
“I see things.”
“You see things, huh.”
“Yeah. Are you spiritual?”
“Spiritual?”
“Yeah.”
“No, not really. Why?” I asked.
“Let me see your hands.”
“What?”
“Come on, hold out your hands,” he demanded and I acquiesced.
Staring at my palms, his eyes squinting, he said, “You’re going to die, soon.”
“What! I’m going to die, soon!” I laughed.
“Maybe.., I don’t know, the lines aren’t clear. Some great tragedy is to befall you very soon, though. I don’t know,” he repeated, letting go of my hands, “it looks like death to me. Man, I’m still just a wooley-wokker.”
I laughed. “A what?”
“I’m still at the early stages. I should be advancing soon, though…”
“Eli, what are you doing?” Ricky interrupted.
“I’m talking,” I replied as I wanted to continue to talk to the entertaining guy next to me.
“Come on, man. I want to show you something.”
He took my arm and pulled me up. I followed him back to the kitchen. Sitting down and being still is a sure-fire way to remain oblivious to increasing intoxication, for as I walked I had to blink rapidly a few times to get my bearings after an onslaught of dizziness and disorientation.
“You can thank me later,” Ricky said as we walked into the kitchen.
“Thank you for what?”
“Saving you from that freak!”
“Why would I thank you for that?”
“That guy is whacked.”
“You invited him!”
“Well, dude, he has the good stuff and gives a fair price. Everything’s a trade off.”
“Ah, I see.”
“He says weird shit, though.”
I giggled. “What kind of stuff has he said to you?”
“Dude, shit about how smoking cigarettes increases other desires.., or some shit like that. He said that when he smoked he would get stomach churnings for masturbation, and so he would smoke a cigarette and then run to his room to jerk it. The guy is out there. Trust me! He quit smoking because of that.”
“Did it stop the churnings?”
“Dude! Does it matter? You going crazy, too? Yeah, he said it did. But, come on! Cigarettes and masturbation?”
“Yeah.” We both laughed.
“Get you a fresh drink, man. I’m going to get back to this chick. She has my name written all over her ass.”
“Go get her,” I responded.
After fixing my drink, I left the kitchen and found myself heading past the living room and towards a staircase. I decided to go upstairs. I was approaching drunken bliss, the point where other people became insignificant enough to allow me to be free.
Walking down a hallway lined with people on both sides, the music still going strong, my thoughts steered into a state where I wasn’t a person anymore, but an invisible entity moving forward observing what was around me. If people looked at me, I didn’t think they were actually seeing me, but looking at some inanimate, though floating, object. I felt alone, but good. Free.
The longer I was alone the more I felt I was projecting a sense of invisibility and the further I sank into the depths of my own mind. I looked down at my glass and it was already empty.
Stumbling upon an upstairs balcony, I went outside to be alone with the stars, the music, and my thoughts. The song that was playing had a gentle harmony and I began to dance. Aware of people walking by to see what was going on, I closed my eyes. I could see myself out on the balcony through their eyes, and I knew that I was strange to them, but I clung to this and danced harder.
The music sped up and with it my movements. I could feel people approaching me, walk around observing me, and then dancing next to me. More people came out. There were enough people now to give any one person only a circle with a four foot radius in which to dance.
I felt them. We moved together in our dance. As the beat changed, sped up, or splashed our bodies kept up as if we weren’t in control anymore, but the music and the unseen, unknown connection was playing us like we were puppets. We liked it. We didn’t feel alone anymore. That loneliness that still lingers in the midst of a crowd was gone, because the arms of our souls were tied together. I began to dance more towards the wall on the right, and noticed that I didn’t run into anyone. We were in a dense sea and the movement of one would be felt by another and we would give in to the currents we all created.
We danced not only to the music but to each other. The music sped up. We all danced harder. It sped up some more seeming to make its way to a climax. We were dancing so hard that we were leaving the ground. I began to smile as my head was violently being swayed back and forth, up and down, massaged by the notes of this increasingly stormy song. “Do it,” I said out loud with a smile as I opened myself up to whatever lied ahead in the spellbinding melody. We danced faster and faster. The beat was pounding faster and harder, faster and harder. There were high-pitched sounds flaring all around our heads ricocheting off everything and stabbing our ears taking a direct path to that place inside us that, when touched, enslaves us.
As the climax approached, I began to make my way towards the railing of the balcony. I grabbed hold of it for support as the waves of the music finally crashed onto the shore. And then the rhythmic water caressed backwards, smoothing out the sands of our once raging souls.
The song had ended, and I opened my eyes. I looked at the stars, and it seemed like it had been a while since I had my eyes open. I was drunk and all the dancing had made me even more disoriented. I turned to make my way through the crowd and get back inside, but there was no crowd. I was alone.
There never was anyone dancing with me. It was all my imagination. Did anyone see me out here dancing by myself? I thought. This was quite shocking and exhilarating.
Now that the party inside my head was over, I was ready to rejoin the real party. Finding my way to the stairs, I stumbled back down.
Things were different coming down the stairs than going up. Now I felt as if everyone else was an inanimate object and I was the real person.
Ricky came up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder, saying, “Hey man, what do you think of the party?”
“I’m having a pretty good time. I just came from your balcony.”
“What were you doing up there? You didn’t bring homegirl, did ya?” he asked smiling.
“No. I danced with the stars.”
He laughed. “Yeah, you’re cut off, dude!” he exclaimed.
“Where’s Katherine?” I asked.
“Ah, man! She left a little while ago. Don’t worry, though. There will be other parties where she’ll be a little tipsy.” He laughed and jabbed me with his elbow. I laughed.
“It isn’t about that. I just wanted to dance with her, or talk to her, or something,” I said not being able to think of any better reason for wanting to see her.
“Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Dave is a little too drunk. Maybe we should find someone to take him home, or try to get him to pass out somewhere here.”
“I’m taking him home. Where is he?” I asked.
“You’re taking him?” Ricky laughed. “I last saw him in the kitchen trying to get some beer out of an empty keg. The poor bastard was just pumping away nonstop. He’s trashed, man!”
“Alright, I’ll go see what I can do.”
Ricky gave me a pat on the back as I walked off.
I made my way back to the kitchen and saw Dave just how Ricky had described him. I had to laugh. The poor guy was about to have it out with an empty keg even as people were coming up next to him drawing beer with ease from the keg next door.
“Why don’t you leave that poor keg alone?” I chuckled. “I sure would hate to see you around some dry cows!”
“Man, I.. just want one mer dring,” Dave slurred. “Just one single dring. Why is that soooo hard?”
“Come on, Dave. Let’s go home.” I was trying to pick him up off the ground.
“Ho-ome? Maa, I can’t drive.”
“You don’t have to drive. I’ll take you. Now, come on. Get up.”
“Eli …. You’re ….. my fre.”
“Yes, I’m your friend,” I reassured him as I began to get him on his feet. He put his arm around me as we waddled out of the kitchen.
“Bye-bye, ladies,” he said to all that was around. Then, he got a glimpse of the one that was leaning against the wall with the tattoo. “Oh, now you’re hhh-ot! I-I-I mean bootiful. Yes! What’s a guy suppose ta do, huh?”
“What do you mean, Dave?”
“What’s a guy ta do when everwhere he looks …. I mean everwhere!” He said throwing his hand up and almost falling to the ground before I caught him. “ Everwhere he looks, …. there a bootiful.., oh, I mean, bee-ew-oo-tiful girl?” he asked as we walked out through the front door and out onto the lawn.
“Do you feel you need to throw up?” I asked.
“Na, I thhhhink I’m goo….. ooo, wait, I think I got a little summin’. Hold on,” he said and then proceeded to vomit.
“Wait here while I go get the car. Ok?”
He shook his head and then continued to vomit. I went for the car, and was a little worried about driving. I made it to my car, got in, and went to get Dave. Pulling up, I found him lying on the lawn next to his vomit.
“Come on, man! Let’s go!” I yelled to him from the street.
He heard me and got up. He made his way to the car and got in.
“Did you decide to take a nap?” I asked.
“Man, you… urp… took forever,” he said. “Let me know when we get thur,” he said as he laid his head on the window and shut his eyes.
I was worried about driving in my condition, so I was thankful he went to sleep.
I successfully made it to Dave’s street, where cars also lined the street. This wasn’t surprising considering it was Friday night in Austin.
Up ahead were two full-size trucks parallel to each other, leaving a narrow passage. I always try to look straight ahead when going through tight fits like this. If I was to look to the right or the left, I would usually end up getting too close to the car on the other side. Keeping my obstacles in my peripheral vision while maintaining a dead stare on the path ahead, I would fly through pinches. Knowing my level of intoxication, I decided to take this one slow, though.
I made it to Dave’s, and I shook him.
“Home?” he asked looking around.
“Yes, sir. This is home,” I responded. He began to get out of the car.
“What do ya think Samantha’s doing?” he asked while leaning on the opened door.
“Probably sleeping.”
“Sleeping,” he whispered with his eyes closed. “Yeah, probably sleeping.”
“Hey, Dave.” He looked at me. “Drink a lot of water before you go bed, alright?”
“Alright. See you tomorrow.” He held out his fist, and I gave him the clinched fist five.
I watched him get in the door, and then I pulled off. I made it home in just a couple of minutes. I pulled into the driveway, and got out of the car, shutting the car door as quietly as I could so I wouldn’t wake up my landlord and his family.
Entering my apartment, I took off my clothes in a hurry. I was about to plop down on my bed when I saw the cup and the loaf of bread I had left on the pillow. This was a quirk of mine. I would put a large cup with a bottle of Advil inside it and a loaf of bread on my pillow to remind me to take an Advil, drink loads of water, and eat before I went to bed. These were my hangover precautions. If I did this, I would not wake up with a headache or nausea. I would still have a hangover, but it would only take the form of a loss of energy and coordination, and usually slight depression.
While eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I thought about dancing on the balcony, and knew I was going to be ashamed about it the next day. After these thoughts, Katherine invaded my mind. I remembered that we had a brunch scheduled for the following day. I finished eating and drinking and finally plopped down on my bed.
One good thing about going to bed drunk is that I knew I wasn’t going to have another one of those dreams.#42,097,208textOnly in Fiction
by Jeremiah Hawkins
My body betrays me. My heart defies my every command for calmness. It’s happening again. Fucking anxiety attack—in Walmart of all places.
Anxiety—the severing of mind and body—pinned against each other in battle. The body’s fight-or-flight mechanism running amok—hypersensitive to fear—like peanuts to an allergy. Okay, just be calm. I know what’s happening. I can get through this.
Fuck.
Why did I have to come inside this Walmart? A chaos of feet, phosphorescence, and grocery carts rampaging atop the slippery tile. Or so it seems. Everything’s a blur. Bright chatty people swarm around me. I try not to look at them. My heartbeat is speeding up.
Breathe, just breathe.
It’s all because of Jenny. Not really. It’s not her fault. Maybe she—dammit, my heart’s beating fast. It’s broken but galloping uncontrolled within my chest. I realize this and this scares me. I’m scared. Adrenalized fuel into the fire of fight-or-flight. My heart beats faster. I become more frightened. Adrenaline. My heart beats even faster.
A cascade. A relentless feedback loop.
A random girl—a shopper—holding a pair of jeans sees me. She stares at me. No, not just staring, but studying. Not just studying, but undressing. Not my clothes, but my skin. I look away, staring at nothing, maybe the ground. Concentrating, calming, breathing. People everywhere. I’m blowing up. She’s still staring. She’s small but has big eyes and big feet with big flip-flops. She looks like a fucking hobbit. She knows. She sees through my façade of normalcy. She sees the panic. Men aren’t supposed to be weak and afraid. Aren’t supposed to panic.
The shame.
I walk fast away in the wrong direction. I don’t realize this at first. The door to fresh air and wide openness is the other way. The other way! I can’t turn around—must look normal—like I know what I’m doing. My movements are probably twitchy and uncertain. I’m lost amongst a blur of people, amongst all the colors of clothing blending together. I stop walking. Desperate. I concentrate on something outside of myself. I reach out to make connection with something tangible, something to tether me, to anchor me.
Save me, I request of it, save me.
She comes to me—the short shopper—she grabs my arm. She grabs my arm, the one that’s grabbing the strap of a red bra hanging near the aisle. I realize I’m freakishly focused on a bra in Walmart.
Fuck!
I can’t do this. I’m exposed and going to explode.
“This way,” she says. Her voice is soothing and her mere there-ness draws out my first strained whimper of pain. I don’t argue. I let her lead me through the crowd of consumers—out of the Walmart.
The big sliding doors open unto the dark, muggy Waco night.
I look up at the moon. Humiliated. An ember of anger heats my gut. I’m angry with the Walmart, the people, the moon, this awful city I traveled into for escape, for unfamiliarity, for a clear mind. The city failed me.
Of course.
I stare at the back of her head as she pulls me and I speak to her within my mind before I speak to her with my mouth—
I’m also angry with you, strange lady, because you looked upon my weakness with the most discernment. “Where are we going?” I say aloud. My voice sounds strange to me.
Without turning to face me she says, “Does it matter?”
No, it really doesn’t. All that matters is that you’re saving me. “No,” I say.
The moon is full and bright, hanging inches above the horizon, about four finger widths. I like staring at it as she pulls me along. Her grip is the lifeline saving me. She speaks but I’m not listening. I don’t feel like I’m really here. I don’t feel like I exist here in this parking lot in front of this Walmart in this city. I’m a ghost. I’m a puppet and she, my rescuer, holds the strings. I hope she doesn’t let go.
The moon is bright and I focus on its many blurry replicates dimly reflecting off hoods and trunks and the tops of cars and trucks. I stare at the source—the leader of a lunar army marching past me. Wait. They don’t march. I march. But I have forgotten my legs and my direction. I’m floating. Passive. The hobbit has control.
I hear grocery carts and footsteps, and I feel my body calming, my heart slowing. I try to stop thinking about how I’m getting better already—how the fight-or-flight mechanism is tiring of its crazed spray of adrenaline. I fear rousing the dozing beast. I must remain in this passivity—unthinking and calm. I must be led and I must fix my eyes on the moon four fingers above the horizon. My heart now beats fast not because I’m frightened, but because the strange lady walks fast.
Now that the panic behind my eyes relents, I focus on her, on her speedy heels and calves. And then the rest of her. She wears khaki shorts and a green t-shirt. Very plain. Her right lower leg bears a large bruise that curls around from the front. In the hand that doesn’t carry me, she holds a medium sized purple notebook with a colorful pen slid into the spiral. Her hair is dark brown and shoulder length. Her figure is also very plain. A bit round. Nothing to draw the eye.
You don’t have to pull me anymore—I forget to say this aloud—I try again. “You can let go now.”
She looks back at me and lets go. But, it doesn’t feel like she let go. She holds me in another way. Her hand no longer grips my wrist, but I still feel like she’s carrying me.
She moves the hand—the hand that carried me—to her waist. Her eyes look left—then right—then up, maybe looking for something to say. “When did you eat last?” she asks.
Eat? Not sure. “This morning,” I say.
Her eyes squint and focus in on me with analytic precision. “What have you been drinking?”
“A couple cans of Satan Spit,” I say.
“Huh?”
“The energy drink.”
“Ah, caffeine and tons of sugar?”
“Yes.”
She stops at the rear of a parked car in what appears to be the most distant parking spot. She nods her head in understanding and then says, “You’re dehydrated.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“And over energized.”
“Probably.”
She shrugs. “Yep, that’ll do it. Those energy drinks can take you way beyond the jitters. I bet you felt like you were going to have a heart attack. I could see it in your face.”
I don’t respond. I’d rather her think it was all caused by the drink. Less complicated that way.
She turns and walks to the driver side door and I stand there watching. I don’t want her to leave me.
“You getting in?”
“Yes,” I say as relief cools my body. I walk to the passenger side as various thoughts race through my mind. This is strange. What girl does this? Is she not concerned I might be crazy? If she’s not, does that mean she’s crazy? Maybe I should be worried.
I’m thinking too much.
I climb in and shut the door. She doesn’t start the car right away but sits there staring at the steering wheel. She places her hands in her lap—then on the steering wheel—then in her lap again—then grabs her notebook and repositions it pointlessly.
“Okay, listen.” She looks over at me, looks me up and down. “You look like a nice guy—a nice guy who’s having a bad night. And I’m just a girl looking for something interesting. I, I’m sort of a writer. Hence, the notebook.” She holds up her notebook. Her head shadows a distant Walmart parking lot light shining bright atop its pole. Shading my eyes, the light deflects in angelic rays around her head. She pauses, uncertain what to say, and then continues awkwardly. But I don’t mind. “Look, you needed help. And—I need something to write about. I’m not from here, you know. I drove here from Dallas trying to break myself out of this—I don’t know—this aridity, or funk I seem to be stuck in. Honestly, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. But, um—So, are you from around here?”
She looks cute right now, nervous and frazzled. “No. Austin.”
“Wow, okay” she said, nodding her head and looking forward through the windshield into the night, “so two strangers meet fortuitously, maybe serendipitously, in a faraway city. Interesting.” She looks back at me and reaches out her hand. “My name’s Jersey.”
She has two fairly fresh cuts on her arm. I say, “My name’s Kayden.” My hand’s shaking as I clasp hers. She notices. Of course.
“You need food. How about Chinese?”
“Um—”
“Yeah, Chinese and some good conversation. It’ll be good for you, sort of let it all out in front of a stranger you’ll never see again.”
“Let it out?”
“Yeah, you know, kind of therapeutic. Oh, but don’t worry,” she says, waving her hand through the air in a nervous, exaggerated fashion, “if I write about anything tonight, I’ll cloak it. You’ll be short instead of tall, brown hair instead of red hair. Stuff like that. What do you say? Food, some good conversation? It’ll be good for you.”
Oh, you have no idea. Anything to get Jenny off my mind. Plus, I don’t think I could leave you even if I wanted—you hold the strings. “Yeah, I think that sounds good to me. I like Chinese food.”
“Good,” she says and turns the key. “Yes, it’s a good beginning, I think. I’m feeling good about this.”
Me too—my heartbeat is normal—the adrenaline is going away. “You’ll bring me back to my car?”
“I’ll walk you back to your car. Look, the Delta Motel is right there. Fifty yards, maybe. We’ll head there first to drop my car off. And you see the red sign over there? Wong’s Wok? That’s where we’re eating. Walking distance. You don’t mind walking, do you? I just thought it’d be good for you, work through that caffeine and all.”
I nod and she starts the car. Within a couple minutes we pull into a crater-filled parking lot in front of the Delta Motel. We bounce and jerk within the car.
“Okay, home sweet home,” she says, as we come to a stop. She turns the car off and pulls the key out of the ignition.
It’s silent and she stares through the windshield at the motel. She says, “It’s not the nicest place. But, hey, I’m a writer, not an engineer. Maybe someday I’ll be able to afford more luxuries… Though, I’m not sure I’d ever want to. I mean, good art often grows organically out of pain and conflict. Afford yourself too much comfort and you may suck all the inspiration out of your life, your creative powers buried in humdrum. I pray it never happens to me. You know, you might think I’m stupid, but it’s kind of one of my greatest fears.”
Try almost exploding in a Walmart sometime. “You fear it that much?”
“Oh yeah,” she says and turns and looks at me for the first time since we parked. “Let me tell you. I’m twenty-eight years old, and in all my days I’ve learned one true thing about myself.” She pauses, maybe for effect or maybe waiting for me to say something, but I don’t. Then she says, “My life becomes fucking chaotic when I’m not writing—excuse the language. I can become pretty depressed. When my mind doesn’t have a story to slip into…it’s not good. But, anyways—”
She opens her door and gets out. I do likewise and we walk away from the motel and toward Wong’s Wok. I keep my gaze low, as does she—the ground being too jagged and the night too dark to do more than take a quick glance at anything else.
“So, are you prone to anxiety attacks or is there a story there?”
“Both.”
“Watch your step,” she says. She jumps over a pothole and onto stable ground, and then turns to watch me. To help me, maybe. Once I’m also on stable ground, she says, “What do you mean by both?”
With it no longer necessary to stare down, I lift my gaze to see the moon directly in front of us. It’s large and bears an orange glow. I stare at it and it seems to relax me and stimulate me at the same time.
“I can sometimes get a bit edgy when I’m in crowded places,” I say. “But if I’m stressed about something beforehand, it’s more likely I’ll get pushed over the edge. Plus, I feel weird being here in Waco.”
“And don’t forget about all that sugar and caffeine. It’s not healthy. Turn here,” she says, placing her hand on my shoulder as we come to a street corner. “So, what are you stressed about?”
“Just some drama with my girlfriend. I mean ex-girlfriend. Maybe.”
“Go on,” she says.
Shit, I really don’t want to talk about this. My heartbeat quickens and I try to say it in the fastest way possible. “She got pissed at me because I’m not sharing enough, or open enough, or emotional enough, or something. I get upset because she’s upset. Blah, blah, blah—such a fucking cliché.”
“So, what happened?”
What do you think happened? “We broke up,” I say.
“Who broke up with whom?”
“Not sure. We fought and then I walked out and I haven’t called her since. But, she hasn’t called me either. So, who knows.”
“Okay, so why go into a crowded Walmart knowing you’re in this state?”
I don’t fucking know, probably because I was in this state. But I say, “I wasn’t thinking. Or I was thinking, but just about her. She’s all I—” I shake my head. “Look, it’s stupid. ”
My heart is beating fast right now. We arrive at Wong’s Wok and I’m grateful.
“No, wait,” she says. “Stay out here with me for a sec.” she pulls my hand from the door. We lean against the front window of the restaurant and she takes longer than expected to let go of my hand. “You know, might sound crazy but I think our paths converged tonight for a purpose. We both drove here from distant cities. I came from the north, you from the south. I came to find something and you came to escape something. I think our situations complement each other. You know? You might not believe me, but I also just got out of a relationship.”
“What happened?”
She looks away. In a quieter, lower voice she says, “He left me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“But hey,” she slaps my shoulder, “only in fiction, my friend. You and I. It’s meant to be, huh?”
“I guess.”
“No really. That should give you hope,” she says, positioning herself in front of me and looking directly into my eyes. “There are forces involved. Good forces. What are the odds our paths would converge? And the timing! That should give you hope.”
“Maybe.” I run my hand through my hair. “Look, all I know is that I feel this constant churning in my stomach. I think about Jenny all the time. I travel a hundred miles and I still can’t stop thinking about her. I hate this shit. I really do.”
“I know the feeling. You want to know how I deal with that?” She reaches into her left pocket. “Here, hold out your hand.”
“My hand?”
“Yeah, just trust me. What I’m about to do may seem crazy, but it’ll help.”
I hold out my hand, palm up. She turns it over with one hand and lights a lighter with the other. She carefully places it under my hand and slowly raises the flame close to the stretched skin of my palm. We stare into each other’s eyes. I don’t move—I can’t—she’s my anchor.
The flame touches me and the pain increases rapidly.
“Ouch! Shit!” I pull away. “What was that all about?”
She looks at me with wide, excited eyes. “Do you feel that?”
“Yeah, it burnt.” I shake my hand. “Damn.”
“No, not that. What do you feel now?”
“My hand still burns.”
“No, your heart. And your head.”
I don’t answer.
“It’s better, isn’t it?” she says. “You forgot about her. Surface pain always overpowers inner pain.”
We stand there looking at each for a few seconds. She looks like she is going to say something, or do something.
She then extends her right arm with calmness and control. She still stares into my eyes. The flame flickers to life beneath the palm of her right hand. She then closes her eyes, and burns herself. A couple seconds pass. She’s still burning herself. I’m uncomfortable. I grab her hand and remove it from the swaying flame. Like waking from a dream, her eyelids slide open and a small smile forms beneath reddened eyes. She looks at me as my hand holds hers. A few awkward seconds pass, but I can’t let go.
She gently pulls her hand from mine and her expression lightens as quickly as the flame from the spark of the flint. “I’m hungry. Come on, let’s get some food. You like spicy?”
I walk in behind her and my hand still stings. I think about the sting more than I think about Jenny.
Once inside I look around. I begin to wonder why all small strip mall Chinese restaurants look the same, the same block menu pictures posted above the same counter with the same archaic cash register. I then wonder if I’m being racist.
Damn, my hand stings.
“Can I help you?” a gray haired, short Chinese man says with a kind looking grin.
“You sure can,” Jersey says and then orders Kung Pao Chicken.
Following the normal sequence of questions—For here or to go? Drink? Egg roll?—he rings us up. He glances from the register to Jersey, as well as to something above and behind me, but never directly at me. I turn around to see the moon glowing through the tall front window. He says, “It’s not good for a pretty lady to be out late alone.”
Jersey turns around and looks at me and then back at him. She shrugs and says, “You watch too much news, Mister.”
He smiles and I wonder why he said that and why he never once looked at me.
We walk over to a table near the tall windows and sit on hard wooden chairs and wait for our food. We’re alone in the restaurant. It’s quiet. The round moon hangs over Jersey’s left shoulder with its tilted, sad expression. Jersey runs her fingers along her two cuts on her right arm while clenching and unclenching her right hand.
“So, you have a picture of this Jenny?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Well, may I see it?”
I pull out my wallet. I look inside and see the burnt picture, and then say, “No. I thought I had one, but I don’t.”
“Oh come on,” she says, “I’m quite observant. I’m a writer, remember? Hey, I don’t care if it’s not the best picture of her. Or you.”
“It’s not that.”
“Come on—who cares?—you’ll never see me again. Tonight’s the night you can let loose. Let it all out. Only in fiction do people get opportunities like this.”
I reluctantly pull out the picture and hand it to her. It’s of Jenny at a lake. She’s alone in the picture smiling, surrounded by thick forest.
“Did you do this?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. A crescent shaped burn traces the missing top right corner, and black burn lining covers a portion of her forehead. “It’s the only one that survived the fire.”
“The fire?”
“Yeah, the fire I set in the fireplace specifically to burn her out of my life.”
She places the picture on the table and says, “How did this one survive?”
“I reached in and snatched it, and then patted out the flame. I don’t know why.”
The Chinese man approaches. He places a plate in front of Jersey and says, “Kung Pao Chicken. Enjoy.” Jersey thanks him and he walks away.
“You know,” she says to me, filling her mouth with rice and Kung Pao, “you ought to write your feelings down. It’s actually very therapeutic.”
“I draw and paint,” I say. “I’m not much for writing. Never have been.”
“My ex-boyfriend paints. What do you paint? Landscapes? Abstract?”
I shift in my chair, and then say, “Sure, all the above. But my best work is of sleeping women. I don’t know why. Something beautiful about it.”
“Sleeping women, huh? Shit, I haven’t slept more than a few lousy hours in three days. But, you know,” she says and pauses to swallow, “I have a thing, too. In every one of my stories, the male character at some point says, her eyes are spellbinding. I work it in somehow. It’s sort of my staple.”
I peer into her dark brown, unremarkable eyes. “That’s interesting,” I say.
“No, actually it’s funny. You paint women with their eyes closed and I write about men who are spellbound by eyes.”
“That’s interesting,” I say again, staring down, thinking about her eyes. At first they seemed so full of life. But now, without my panic or her enthusiasm, I see they’re not. Reddened by their restlessness, they blink often to moisten the sting of aridity. They’re desperate and tired.
Talking with a near-full mouth and looking down at her food, mixing the rice and sauce with her plastic fork, she says, “You want to know the best thing to do when you’re at your lowest point?” She looks up at me and then says, “Work. Engulf yourself in your work. Not to take your mind off things, which is why most people do it, but instead to marinate in the pain and create something out of that rich soil. You know, for artist types like us, our best stuff grows from shit. The more pungent, the better.”
“I can see that,” I say.
“You may have already noticed,” she says, looking back down at her food, “but I’m in one of those states now. That’s why I’m here staying at the motel. I really need to find a story.”
“You’ll find it.”
She stops fiddling with her food and says, “Kayden, you know? Shit, I don’t know. It’s just—”
She pauses and I say, “Go on.”
“Maybe some pain is just too damn consuming. We all have our limits, right? I don’t know about you, but for me, there’s no pain worse than heartbreak. Maybe it’s just the girl in me. It deflates everything—make things seem so hopeless, like the world just stopped spinning and life will never be the same. It’s irrational, I know. It flattens my spirit and makes me feel so damn worthless. Unlovable, even. It’s the worst.”
“When did you guys break up?”
“Three days ago.”
“Me too.”
“Really,” she says, staring back at me with those sad, tired eyes. She slightly smiles and I smile back. Her posture relaxes, and she says, “Only in fiction, huh?”
We both look down at the same time. Then, I raise my gaze, and say, “What a duo we are.” She meets my gaze, and at that moment, reminds me strongly of Jenny.
We leave the restaurant and return to the moon-filled night. Clouds now streak across the blackness and surround the moon in their edgy way, a jagged fluffiness illuminated by gray light. Jersey and I walk and speak about many things. We walk without caring where. She tells me about her stories and what writing means to her. I describe some of my paintings. I tell her that when I see a sleeping woman, I’m compelled to sketch her. There is something oddly intimate about it, as if I can understand her in a deep way as I sketch. She tells me she once wanted to be a dancer. And then she dances to nothing beneath the moonlight. Her body lacks graceful curves and so do her dance moves, but I delight in her steps and spins. I ask her if she wants me to run into a store and buy her something to help her sleep. She says only a new story can help her.
A pleasant breeze bustles our hair, as well as the leaves of the trees lining the shops and streets. We listen to them along with the air gently swirling around and within our ears. We walk and I still feel like I’m floating—like I’m not really here—a nightmare turned dream. She still holds the strings and I’m glad she does.
We approach the Delta Motel and she says, “Hey, check this out.” She runs to the base of the stairwell that leads to the second floor. She looks back at me. “Come on.”
I walk faster and she begins to ascend the stairwell. I follow. Reaching the top I find her leaning against the railing, peering out at the Waco horizon. I join her.
“Look,” she says.
“Look at what?”
“Just look.” She begins speaking slowly and rhythmically. “Don’t try to look at just one thing, but try to see it all. Try to see as far as you can—where the night meets the Earth in a dark fusion. Now look up at the sky. The moon—just sitting up there watching it all. All the wars, death, and heartbreaks—it just sits up there calmly floating, observing the Earth like a reader holding a book. All the shit we do down here might as well be fiction. I envy it—so safe above it all.”
I nod and stare at the night. We remain silent for a minute or so.
Then she says, “It’s funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“This huge world—all these people—so much life. I don’t know, Kayden… It’s just…” She pauses and drops her gaze and looks at the railing upon which our hands rest. “How can one person have that much power over me? I don’t understand. How can he make me feel this horrible? Just one person in this huge world filled with billions of people. …He left me. He just left. It was that easy to do. It seemed so easy for him. We weren’t together long, but still…Seemed so easy—”
“Jersey, he’s not worth it.”
“Yeah. But, it still hurts. You know?”
“I do.”
I look over at her. She now stares straight out onto the horizon—a dead stare—the kind where one sees nothing except the scenes within one’s own head. Her eyes begin to water and her lip quivers.
Then, with disturbing speed, she raises her right hand and—with knuckles facing down—hammers it against the rail. I hear the bones of her knuckles contact the metal with a ringing thud. I feel the vibration in the rail. I flinch and slightly gasp.
“Whoa, hey,” I say, halfway reaching out my hand to her.
She raises her hurt hand in front of her face, cradling it, and breathes smoothly with her eyes closed.
I watch her for a couple seconds, and then say, “Why did you do that?”
“Huh?”
“Why did you slam your hand down like that?”
As she turns and walks away, her back to me, one hand holding the other, she whispers, “This pain is better.”
She descends the stairwell and I follow.
We approach the door to her motel room and she pulls out a card and unlocks it.
The motel room smells of mildew and contains one large bed with a couple nightstands. She pulls a chair out from a small, circular table next to the wall A.C. unit and sits. She still holds her reddened hand. I sit facing her on the corner of the bed.
“Please don’t hurt yourself again,” I say.
After a short pause—a pause split in half by a painful sounding sigh and a slight shake of her head—she says, “I’m tired, Kayden.”
“I should leave and let you sleep.”
“I won’t be able to sleep. If I could, you wouldn’t be here right now.” Her gaze is still lowered, as if deeply defeated.
I feel her pain and I don’t like it. “Look,” I say and rise to my feet. I reach over to the nightstand where I see her purple notebook. I grab it, pull the pen from the spiral, and slap the pen and paper down on the table in front of her. “Write.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Sure it is. Just write.”
“I can’t. I have nothing to write about. I need a story.”
“Tonight you don’t. Tonight you just begin, and the story will come as you write. Jersey, this is ridiculous. If all you need is a story, then just write one. And, if it sucks—fuck it—write another. You have all this emotion boiling up inside you and tearing you apart. Just let it out.” I pause waiting for her to look up at me, but she doesn’t. “Hey, look at me.” She then looks up at me with those sad, tired eyes, and I softly, slowly say again, “Let—it—out.”
After a moment of frozen eye contact, she shrugs and then lethargically stands up. “Alright. Fine. I’ll tell you what.” She walks over to her bag next to the T.V. on the dresser and pulls out another notebook and a pencil. “You draw and I’ll write. Deal?”
“Sure. What should I draw?”
“Draw your pain.”
“Okay.”
“Here, sit here,” she says and gives me her chair with the table as she sits on the bed, her back to the headboard.
With the notebook on her legs, and with the surprising nonchalance of a child with a crayon, she begins writing. Just writing, as if she knew what she wanted to say all along. Her frenzied pen glides with girly loops across the page. She writes with her left hand while her right hand rests limply on the bed beside her. After a minute or so, she looks up at me. With raised eyebrows, she says, “Well?”
“What. I’m thinking.”
“Come on, hypocrite, let it out,” she says, and winks.
I smile and look down at the blank paper. I squint my eyes at the blankness.
I need to draw—she’s writing—she’s waiting for me to draw.
And so, just for her, I decide to pull out the burnt picture of Jenny and use it to bait my pain. Just for Jersey. Because she’s writing—because she winked—I will let it out.
I stare at the burnt photo. I stare into the eyes in the picture. I reminisce in vivid feeling and detail staring into those eyes before and after kissing those lips. I remember those lips stretching into a loving smile set to soothe me. Feelings within me arise—
How could I leave her? Why did I? Was it really that bad? Could I not talk about my day more? Could I not share more? Could I not let it out more? I can’t believe I burnt the picture. I can’t believe I wanted to burn her out of my life.
With my fingernail, I scrape the crescent-shaped black burn lining.
And then, I begin to draw. I forget about Jersey and just draw. I let it out. I’m lost in it. My pencil scurries across the page and time scampers past until I finish. Felt like minutes—but knowing the speed of my pencil and having been in this state before—it must have been close to an hour.
I set the notebook on the table. I stretch my fingers and shake my cramping hand. I look up. Jersey is asleep. She’s asleep. I get up and walk over to her. She’s on her side cradling her notebook, but I dislodge it.
I read—
Write Write Write Write Write Write Write Write Write Write Write What’s he doing I wonder what he’s thinking right now does he miss me why did I drive to Waco I fucking hate Waco I should have driven to his apartment I’m so alone here shit my hand hurts both sides still hurt pain I’m not writing I’m spelling I can’t write because I’m too broken I’m too fragmented I’m too overwhelmed I had an anxiety attack in a fucking Walmart tonight he left me what we had was good the fight was just a hiccup just a hiccup maybe he’s one of those guys who don’t like to be tied down maybe he wanted less strings attached he didn’t seem like one of those did I do something wrong I don’t understand I really don’t get it this motel room fucking stinks what if he was here in Waco in this room right now he would have rescued me from the Walmart what if he was what if
That’s it! I will write of him. No! Yes! I will write of him suffering like me. Over me. He’ll have the attack in the Walmart—not me. He’ll travel here to escape his pain from being without me. Like me! He will meet me, but not know it’s me. Instead of tall and skinny, I’ll be short and round. Hobbit-like. Instead of Austin, I’ll be from Dallas. My name is not Jenny, but Jersey. His will be Kayden. It’s a good name. Jersey hurts, too—she hurts, too—my hurt will be in the story. I have to let it out. Just let it out. She rescues him in the Walmart. He finds security in her. In the strings! In the strings attached! Like lifelines anchoring him. He needs her. She’s looking for a story. She can’t sleep. I wish I could sleep. I wish I could write. Please write this story. Just write. Write Write Write Write Write
Fuck!
My body betrays me. My heart defies my every command for calmness. It’s happening again. Fucking anxiety attack—in a…
I hear a snort come from Jersey. I’m confused for a second.
I look down at her. Her closed eyes and slow breathing captivate me. She shifts her body, bringing her face into full view, but remains asleep. She looks so peaceful. She makes me forget all that I just read. I’m no longer interested in it.
I must sketch her.
I place her notebook on the nightstand and walk over and grab the chair with one hand, and my notepad and pencil in the other. I place the chair close to the bed and sit. I look down at the notepad to flip the page.
But before I do—my sketch—I’m struck by it. Stunned. It’s a sketch of the burnt picture, but restored, repaired, made complete again. The right portion of her forehead that was burnt away is restored.
But the eyes.
The eyes are what stun me. It’s not her, but Jersey. I drew Jersey, and her eyes are open, staring at me, not sad, not tired. I remain still and stare. Stare into Jersey’s eyes.
Her eyes are spellbinding.
I set my notepad on top of hers on the nightstand. I feel strange. I feel light. I feel like taking a walk. A small stroll.
I stand up, go to the door, and quietly open it. I slip out.
The moon is now high up in the night sky. The clouds have dispersed and the stars shine and don’t seem as ordinary as they normally do. Something’s different. They’re colorful, like Christmas lights.
I walk around the Delta Motel. I’m floating four finger widths above the rocky parking lot. My body is relaxed, calm, floating. I happen to see a shooting star, then another, and then another. I don’t feel like I’m here right now. The wind hums a melody and the trees sway to the rhythm. I smile. The stars begin to dance around the moon like thousands of colorful fireflies streaking a dark canvas.
And then I hear Jersey’s voice. But I can’t make it out. I look all around and see no one.
Then, I look up at the moon, and at that moment, I hear the words clearly—
“Only in fiction, Kayden. Only in fiction.”#154,302textFrom the Shadows
by Jeremiah Hawkins
I.
Lambach, Austria 1898
A young boy sits reading in a monastery garden beneath a mid-April sun. He clumsily hums the notes he sees strung across the pages. He delights in the fresh smell of the many colored flowers and the ambience of distant birds. He likes it here. It’s so much nicer than Fischlham.
“Good morning, my dear Adolf,” a soft female voice sounds from behind the boy.
He turns and looks up. The sun blinds him, compelling him to raise his hand to block the rays. Seeing only the shadowed silhouette of a nun, he says, “Good morning, Sister.” He turns back to his book. He doesn’t know which Sister this is, and doesn’t care. He must learn the assigned hymn for Sister Claire before this afternoon’s choir practice.
“I hear your birthday is in a few days,” she says, kneeling beside him.
“Yes.” He looks at her again and sees her face. He doesn’t recognize her. He would have remembered the deep-seated blue eyes, the thick jaw line, the aged appearance unusually absent of wrinkles. Unlike the other Sisters, her robe bears the crest that adorns so many walls of the monastery, the crest with that strange cross in the middle. The swastika, he thinks it’s called. She must be a high-ranking nun to be wearing such a distinguished robe.
“How old will you be?” the nun asks.
“Nine.”
“Well, that’s something,” she says and then runs her hand through the boy’s hair. “Nine is a very special number.”
The boy’s focused gaze relaxes, as do his fingers. He wonders what sort of nun this is who wears such a robe and touches him as if she’s his mother. He’s been at Lambach Abbey for a few months and all the nuns were quite nice, but they never touched him like this.
“Who are you?” the boy asks.
“I’m your friend.”
“I’ve never seen you before.”
“That doesn’t mean I haven’t seen you. I’m always watching you.”
“You are?” the boy asks, staring forward with lazy eyes at the array of flowers as the nun continues to caress his hair.
“Oh, of course. You’re a very special boy.”
“Me?”
“Oh yes. May I show you something?”
The boy nods.
She reaches into her robe and pulls out a candle. She moves it slowly in front of the boy’s face. “You are this flame,” she says.
“What flame?”
“This one.” She blows on the wick and a high flame quickly flashes to life.
The boy flinches. “How did you do that?”
“Try to blow it out.”
The nun holds the candle close to the boy’s face. He blows on it, but it remains. He tries again and fails again. The flame is unaffected, not even pushed by the blow. He blows as hard as he can. Nothing. The nun chuckles. The boy’s face goes red and he spits on the flame. A hissing sound emanates as the saliva is burnt off.
The boy’s shoulders drop. “I… I can’t.”
“Here, you hold it. Now, blow.”
With the candle in the boy’s hand, he blows and the flame is extinguished easily.
“Now give it back to me.”
The boy hands the candle to the nun and the flame immediately returns.
“How do you do that?” he asks.
“My dear Adolph, listen to me. Just as this candle is like no other, you are like no other. You are different, my boy, you’re special. You know this to be true, don’t you?”
The boy nods his head, his eyes wide.
“The way you lead the other boys, the way you use your imagination and intelligence in your little war games, the way you stand out. You are to be a great man someday. I can see it. Do you know what I mean when I say that?”
The boy shakes his head.
“I have the gift of prophecy, my dear Adolph. I can see what you are to become. And I shall help you. I will visit you from time to time. Even when your family moves to Leonding, which will be very soon, I will be close by. Do you believe me?”
The boy nods.
“Good. Now, get back to your hymn. Sister Claire will be very disappointed if you don’t know it. You do, after all, have such a fine voice. A fine voice, indeed.”
II.
Leonding, Austria 1900
Within a modest home, sitting in brown armchairs placed close together in front of a wood-burning stove, a mother and father mourn their loss. In one arm the woman cradles her four-year old daughter, and with the other reaches out to the adjacent chair and clinches her husband’s hand.
“My poor Edmund,” she continually says between the constant wetting of her daughter’s forehead with kisses. She turns to her left to see her eleven-year boy sitting on the floor in a corner next to a thick wooden table, his knees pulled in. He’s rocking and staring at nothing, and too far away from the heat of the stove. “Come here, Adolf. Oh please, come here. You’ll catch fever. Do you hear me?” She turns to her husband. “Alios, tell the boy to come warm himself. He’ll catch fever and …he could… Oh please, Alios, tell him to come closer.”
Her husband doesn’t respond, but remains gazing out of a window by the front door. “The snow’s coming down too hard,” he says. “The priest won’t come.”
“Edmund’s dead, my love. What can a priest do now? Oh Alios, tell the boy to come.”
She kisses her daughter’s forehead once again and rises with the girl still in her arms. With strong arms and back, she gently lowers the girl to the chair. She walks over to her only surviving son, leans low and begins kissing him. “Come, my son. Come get warm.”
He appears not to hear her, but responds to her gentle tug on his arm. He stands without losing his lost stare. They walk over to the chair and the woman takes both children in her arms and pulls them onto her lap as she sits. She resumes her routine of kisses on her two children.
A forceful knock on the door is heard. “The priest. It must be the priest,” the man says as he leaps up and strides to the door.
Stomping his feet at the threshold to the house, a priest enters. The boy looks over. A nun with a large crest on her chest follows the priest in. The boy—not having seen her since that magical meeting two years prior in Lambach—recognizes her. As she walks in she stares into the boy’s eyes and he stares back. The priest introduces the nun to the boy’s mother and father. To the boy, everything in the house begins to fade into a shadowy background behind the nun’s presence. He no longer hears the exchange between the priest and his parents.
The man and woman lead the priest to Edmund’s room. The mother tightly carries her long-legged four-year old daughter, leaving the boy behind sitting in her chair. The nun takes two logs from a pile against a wall and throws them into the stove. Then, she sits next to the boy where his father sat.
“Hello, my dear Adolph,” the nun says.
“Hello, Sister.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
The boy looks down. “It was the measles.”
“Yes, the measles,” she says. “The result of impure blood.”
“Impure—”
“You like to draw, I hear.”
“How did you hear that? I haven’t seen you in such a long time.”
“That’s because I had some business to tend to. I travel.”
“Where did you go?”
“To the Soviet Union, and then America. You know America, don’t you?”
“Yes. Have you ever been to Germany?”
“Of course.”
They pause but never lose eye contact.
The nun then says, “You remember what I said to you in Lambach?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still believe it?”
“Yes. …Well, sometimes.”
The nun leans closer to the boy. “You must never forget. You remember the candle?”
“Yes. I never forgot that.”
“You are that candle. You are special. Your brother, whom you loved, died today, but you mustn’t allow that to hinder your passions. If you like to draw, if you want to be an artist, don’t let anyone advise you otherwise.”
“My father doesn’t like it,” the boy says.
“Your father will be dead in three years. What then? Listen to me. Your life is your life. Don’t allow anyone to extinguish the flame. Your passion shall make you great.”
The boy shivers and pulls his knees to his chest.
“You’re cold,” says the nun.
“Yes.”
She then raises her hand to the stove, and within a second, the fire begins to rage. The boy is almost instantly warmed. He looks at her and lowers his legs.
“Is it true?” he says.
“That your father will die in three years?”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid so. Blood is impure, my dear Adolph. Races have mixed causing defects and disease.”
“Edmund died because his blood’s impure?”
“Yes.”
The boy looks away from the nun and stares into the fire. They remain silent, listening to the crackling within the stove.
She then says, “I must leave again. They will be done with your brother in less than a minute.”
“Where will you go?”
“To Vienna. Tomorrow. It’s a nice city, full of artists and beautiful scenery, but I won’t stay long. I must return to America and remain there until a great panic overtakes the economy.”
“When are—”
Just then the boy’s parents and the priest return. The nun slowly waves at the fire and it calms to its prior state. The boy’s mother approaches his chair and lowers his sister, seating her next to him. She kisses the boy on the forehead and caresses his head.
The boy’s eyes remain locked on the nun. He barely hears anything else, just muffled mutterings of his parents and the priest. Before he knows it, his father stands with the door open allowing cold air and snow flurries to rush in. As the nun and priest put on their coats, the nun pierces through the muffled background noise.
Still looking at the boy, she says, “I will see you again, my dear Adolph.”
III.
Vienna, Austria 1907
The sky is overcast with lumpy grayness. The ground, covered with dirty heavily trodden snow, mirrors the sky. It’s morning and the streets are quiet. A slight breeze ruffles the hair of a solitary figure shivering on a street bench facing a popular opera house. He holds up his painting, piercing every detail with focused eyes. He compares it to the structure before him. Did he perfect it? Is there any flaw to be found?
He looks up. He’s still very much alone. He stares down at the hardened footprints in the snow. He sighs and watches his gray breath dissipate into the wintry day. He shakes his head violently and glares back at the painting.
“Merry Christmas, my dear Adolph,” a female voice says from behind the bench.
The young man turns around. Upon seeing the nun with the crest, he feels a flash of redemptive exuberance. But, it doesn’t last.
“It’s you,” he says in a near whisper and places the painting on the ground, leaning it against the side of the bench.
She sits, joining him in his quiet stare at the opera house.
“It’s been a long time,” he says.
“Yes. How have you been?”
“I was rejected by the Academy of Fine Arts,” he says without hesitation.
“I know.”
“My mother died earlier this week.”
“I know.”
He turns to the nun, looks her over and says, “You look the same. Glad to see the years have treated you well.”
“They always do.”
“Have you been traveling?”
“Yes.”
“America?”
“Yes, America. You have a good memory.”
“How can I forget? Your words and your magic tricks are… Did your great panic take place?”
“Yes, this very year,” she says and looks over at him with a smile.
“Have you come to tell me I’m special or great or…” The young man winces from the cold, as well as his burgeoning emotion. He folds his arms tightly in front of his chest and hunches over slightly. The nun notices and places her hand on his shoulder. Within seconds the young man sits straight again and his arms relax. He no longer shivers. He looks over at her with the same boyish bright eyes of their last two meetings.
“You could have prevented her death, couldn’t you?” he asks.
The nun doesn’t answer.
“You could have helped me get into the Academy, couldn’t you?”
The nun doesn’t answer.
“Well?” the young man says.
The nun merely looks over at him, connecting her blue eyes with his.
“Why won’t you speak?” the young man says. “You came to me twice in two different cities, you put strange ideas in my head, you wow me with magic. Speak. Tell me what you’ll have me do now? I’m listening.”
“Be patient and continue the pursuit of your passions,” she calmly says. “I see you’ve been educating yourself in history and politics.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Have you read the works of the German philosopher, Nietzsche?”
“No!” The young man quickly stands. “What does it matter? What does any of that matter? Why do you remain so elusive? I don’t need chitchat right now! I can’t stomach it!”
“You speak to a nun this way?”
“I speak to anyone in any fashion I wish!”
“Very good.” She nods and smirks. “Now sit and let me speak to you of things to come.”
The young man glares at her. He looks away and then sits with enough force to shake the bench. He now looks at the nun with red eyes, undisturbed by the subtle sound of his painting falling flat on the rough, dirty snow.
The nun turns her body toward him and says, “You must be patient. I’m certain you are to be a great man, but you must wait for it. You must build and prepare yourself. …You have a mind for architecture, don’t you? Well, good foundations must be set if the structure is to last, my dear Adolph. Do you understand?”
“Yes. But, is that all? You’ve said all that before.”
The nun looks back to the opera house and doesn’t respond quickly.
“There will be a great war and you will fight,” she says. “You will be injured, but you will not die. I will make sure of that.”
“When?”
“It is years away still.”
“Years? What about tomorrow and the next day?”
“Be patient. You mustn’t let the death of your mother or the rejections you’ve received deflate your passion. Do you remember what I said about your brother’s death?”
The young man looks down at his knees. “Yes. Impure blood.”
“Yes,” she says. “Your mother as well.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It shall pass to you to fix this someday.”
“What, the purity of blood?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“By listening to me.”
“I am listening, but you say nothing.”
She sweeps the young man’s shoulder with her hand as if to rid it of dust. Suddenly, his entire body contracts and his face contorts. He shivers.
“Be patient and trust me.”
The young man lowers his head, and nods. He takes a deep breath.
The nun rises.
“Merry Christmas,” she says, and then begins walking away.
“Merry Christmas to you, Sister. I’m sure I will see you again. Someday.”
IV.
Vienna, Austria 1913
Pedestrians frolic through Schiller Square of the Ringstraße, bathing in the warmth and beauty of the spring day. A rough looking man in his mid-twenties dressed in rags leans his paintings against the base of Schiller Memorial outside the Academy of Fine Arts. He casts low-browed glances at the frothy populace.
These people, he says to himself, they know nothing of the beautiful and sublime. They merely bounce about oblivious to anything of real consequence. He looks up at the statues of Schiller and Goethe and wishes he were alive in their time. He would have some respect then. People wouldn’t have merely walked past him ignoring his art. There was more purity back then. Now people are a dirty cluster of culture and blood.
The man leans against the base next to his paintings and watches the people. He watches families with children discussing what fun activity they’ll do next, young romantic couples lost in their revealing conversations, solitary ones marching with strong resolve.
Then, the man spots a group of odd-looking characters, the ones with those odd ways and religion. He stares at their dark side-locks curling down past their ears to their jaw lines, their lengthy caftans, and their large noses. They’re so different. Their features are unsmooth, bulging and blotchy. This must be the appearance of impurity. He thinks about how they very well could be as evil as the Viennese papers portray them to be.
The man then sees five wealthy men in serious discourse with a nun. The nun is speaking and the men are hanging on every word. They’re walking toward him. It’s been six years, and the poor painter probably would not have recognized her if it hadn’t been for the crest. He hopes she sees him.
The nun stops near him. She tells the wealthy men to go on without her, that she will meet them later in the afternoon. They nod and stroll on.
She looks at the painter in front of the statue and walks toward him. “Happy Birthday,” she says.
“It’s not for a couple days.”
“I know,” she says, looking down at his paintings. “They’re good. Not anything remarkable, but good.”
“I copied them from postcards.”
“Of course you did.” She looks up at the Academy of Fine Arts and says, “You got rejected again, didn’t you.”
“Yes.”
“You’re homeless, living in shelters. And you smell.”
“Yes.”
She nods in what appears to be approval. “Well, I don’t have much time today.”
“As usual,” he says. “Who were those men?”
“Some European and American bankers.”
“What did they want with you?”
“What did I want with them, you mean.”
“Very well.”
“Big plans, my dear Adolf, big plans.”
“For what?”
“For the world. And for you! This is a year to remember. It is the year of the creation of the Federal Reserve in America, a central banking system. A great milestone.”
“What does a bank in America have to do with me?”
“You see those statues?”
The man nods without looking up at Schiller and Goethe.
“Do you see the size of the pedestal on which they stand, the very pedestal on which you and your paintings lean?”
“I know, I know,” he says. “Foundation.”
“Yes. It’s being built. Free trade and foreign markets have been strewn across the world. The stock exchanges are in place. The New York Stock Exchange, in particular, has grown to an unprecedented degree. And now, our long envisioned Great Bank is being put in place to govern it all from the shadows. Do you see the magnitude, yet?” The nun glides in close to the man and says, “I’m setting it all up for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
“Blood is impure. Don’t you see? The world is corrupt. Christianity is tainted. Even from the first Christians—those dirty disciples—they had it all wrong. They lived in their communes and shared everything. They remained weak and powerless. Constantine, now there was a real Christian. I liked him very much. But you shall be greater.”
“I don’t—”
“Go to Germany, my dear Adolph, to Munich. It’s time. The Great War I spoke of will begin next year—the tensions on the webbing of Imperial endeavors and the stock exchanges will pull the nations violently into each other. Now, you must wait for Germany to declare war. And then enlist.”
“But you’re—”
“You will soon receive the remainder of your father’s estate. That will get you going. Listen to me. It’s begun. It’s time to move.”
The nun then waves her hand behind a passing elderly couple. Before the poor painter can collect himself and speak, the elderly couple stops and begins ranting their admiration of his art. They’re frantic, fiery even, striding up to the poor painter and questioning him about the plain paintings copied from postcards. How long did they take to complete? How much do they cost? Is there a name for the style? The painter looks at the elderly man and spouts out a price. When he turns back, the nun is gone.
V.
Pasewalk, Germany
November 11, 1918
“Hey,” a one-legged soldier says, “I overheard the doc tell the nurse that it wasn’t the gas but something in your head that has caused your blindness.” He reaches over to the adjacent cot and waves his hand in front of his comrade’s face. No response. “He said he’s confident your sight will return soon. Also, I heard people saying the war will be over any day now. Do you hear me?”
The blind soldier remains silent, staring into the darkness within his mind. He pushes from his consciousness the incessant blubbering and moans of his many wounded comrades on all sides as visions begin filtering through the blackness.
He was a good soldier, a dispatch runner, responsible for delivering messages to and from the front. It was a dangerous job, and he liked that. He accepted his commands and performed his duties hungrily, earning a name for himself.
The visions become more vivid and his emotions rise. He’s near Belgium running to the front. He knows the message is important, he knew it when he heard the call—“Lance Corporeal!”—yelled with such fervor. “Go! Do not delay!” The message was jammed into his hand.
Yes, it was an important message, but he shouldn’t have lived to deliver it. The shell landed right in his midst, killing everyone in close proximity, everyone except him. He was merely knocked down, miraculously unscathed. The only effect on him was a ringing in his ear, a ringing that birthed within him a feeling of detachment, a sensation that he wasn’t running but gliding, that he was a phantom floating amongst the eruptive chaos. The deafening thunder of war that could so easily cripple one’s manhood was buried within an impermeable ringing. He wasn’t disorientated in the least. He felt no pain. The shell did nothing but strengthen him.
And this was not the first time. The blind soldier remembers other similar occurrences of cheating death. He won medals and earned great respect for his valor—respected to such an extent that his superiors tolerated his often sloppy appearance. He was a soldier who grew to love death’s edge. He was a real soldier, not a fraud in a well-ironed uniform.
But there were questions that often plagued his mind. The nun he hadn’t seen since before the war—that mystical woman—was she looking after him? Was the lowly dispatch runner truly invincible, protected by Providence?
A voice calls from the other end of the hospital, “The war, it’s over! Over!” The sound of much squirming and shifting can be heard, but no one says anything—no cheers, no hint of hooray.
Germany has lost and no one is surprised.
The blind soldier rolls over on his side and sighs. His medals mean nothing now. All his great deeds will sink into an abyss of collective cowardice, surrender and failure. Four treacherously long years of warfare and death for nothing. The soldier feels closer to death now than ever before.
At this precise moment, a familiar voice paralyzes him with slithering whispers:
“It’s time, my dear Adolph. No, don’t try to turn over. You’re not able, and you won’t be able to see me anyways. Just remain still and silent, and take leave of the moans of pain and broken spirits that surround you.
“You’ve seen much, haven’t you? Look at you, blind and hopeless. You’ve seen your dear brother die, then your mother. In the last four years you’ve seen comrade after comrade—close friends—fall in battle.
“It’s time, my dear Adolph. It’s time to stop using only your eyes. It’s time to cease observing and begin acting. It’s time to cease recreating onto canvas the realities of your eyes, and begin creating in actuality the visions of your hopes and dreams. It’s time to speak. You’ve seen and learned enough. You’ve seen beauty and destruction, pain and elation. You’ve seen the scowl of death all your life. It’s no longer time to input, but output. Speak, my dear Adolph. Speak. Grow your following. The time is ripe.
“This war was my doing. The fall of Germany was mine. Why did I do this? For the emergence of the great leader that will propel the world into the next chapter of humanity, a chapter of great men—super men—not like those first disciples, those communists, those weak men who lived powerless and poor existences. No! Great men, great creators, that’s the next stage of evolution, great men of masonry to build a tower to the heavens. That’s the destiny of Man, my dear Adolph. But the race must be purified and strengthened. Every man must be of one blood, one language, one global purpose. This is why Germany had to fall: too much impurity and corruption, so much that the only solution was to tear it down and rebuild.
“It’s time. The German people are disgraced. Right now—as I speak!—a treaty is being written in Versailles that will enslave Germany. The shame will be great. It shall tear their spirit anew every time the piercing remembrance re-emerges. So, you know what I want you to do? Make it re-emerge. Remind them of this dishonor with great force of words. Tear their spirits until they follow you, until they want blood.
“Never doubt, and fear nothing. I will watch over you as I have your entire life. And I will continue to do my work elsewhere. …Oh, my dear Adolph, my webbed temple is growing in power. My Great Bank I spoke of during our last meeting is rooted in place. When the time is right, I will not just simply start a panic, but I shall crash the whole thing with a slight toggle of a simple switch and thrust the world into a tailspin. When that happens you will be but a few years from the throne of Germany. It will happen. Do not fear. Never doubt. When your present darkness fades, unleash your voice like fire from the deep loins of a dragon.
“Listen. Listen to those moans. The whole nation moans like that, they moan for the reparation of not only their cities, but their very spirits. Their moans plead for relief, to be saved from inner ruin, from hopelessness, from darkness. Listen to them, my son, and receive your purpose.
“Save Germany.”
VI.
Uffing, Germany 1923
In a second-story den, furnished and decorated with an eye for respectability, a married couple sits on a blue sofa next to an unlit fireplace opposite their demoralized political leader. The politician buries his face in his hands, a posture they’ve never seen from him. The woman stands and goes to the window to draw the thick curtains shut, preventing the curious eyes of the night from peeking in.
The politician rants, and then mumbles, and then rants again, his emotions riding the peaks and troughs of heartbreak.
Providence! Certainty! Failure!
During his rants, he repeats particular words often, sounding much like he did during his rallies that so captivated people. But then, as his voice loses volume and intensity, he sinks into self-pity and doubt, his sentences often beginning with, “If only…” and “But she said…”
The husband sits patiently concerned, looking upon his leader, despite it all, with respect and support. His wife, however, seems to fear for her leader with fidgets and shifts and rapid rising and sinking of the lungs within her chest. His words appear to cut into her.
Then, for no evident reason and before the couple have a chance to say anything, the leader demands immediate solitude. The man rises without hesitation, but the wife remains. Her leader looks at her, softens his eyes and requests politely to be left alone. And so they depart, closing the door behind them. As they walk away, the politician can hear the wife begin tugging on her husband’s ear, telling him that she fears their leader shall hurt himself, says she can sense these things. He should not be left alone.
The leader stands and begins to pace, his hands held tightly behind his back. How could this have happened? Was he crazy? Did the nun not say that she would watch over him and that he’d save Germany?
He kicks the bottom of a dark green upholstered chair. How humiliating! All that work, all those speeches, all for naught. He was successful. He raised a small army of passionate followers. He recruited leaders of all kinds, distinguished men of every sort, even policemen. He thought he could do as Mussolini had done: march in and assume power by force. Mussolini led his army straight into Rome and took it over. Italy is now his. He’s their sole leader. Absolute power! How did he succeed so easily?
He continues to pace, his arms flailing about, gesturing alongside his thoughts.
And now they’re after him while he hides in this den with the curtains drawn. He’ll be arrested, sentenced to prison. High treason shall be the charge. There’s nothing to be done. It’s over. To run would be cowardice. To fight would be a shameful shedding of German blood, the very blood he was trying to save, purify and protect. No, he shall end this the only honorable way he can.
He sits, and sinks into his chair. He stares into the dark, empty fireplace. He begins feeling strangely drowsy. His breathing slows and body goes limp. Then, a slow wavy flame begins to rise from nothing. It undulates like a serpent enchanted by a simple tune. The politician hypnotically stares. He knows this flame; he knows its source.
She’s here.
He waits for her to speak, but she does not. Instead she shows him things in the flame, scenes of future happenings. He first sees a courtroom with many people. Powerful people. He sees himself speaking in his own defense. He can’t hear what he says, but he sees the faces of the listeners and knows he plays them the tune they’ve yearned to hear for so long.
The flame flickers and he sees a jail cell. He sees himself sitting. He’s writing. He writes many pages, telling the story of his struggle, of Germany’s struggle.
The flame jerks again and he sees himself leaving prison. He sits upon a beast of burden as the German people kneel down, forming two rows on either side of him, throwing petals to the ground for his beast to walk upon. He sees himself, his own face. He’s confident and strong. He looks straight ahead. He looks to the place he plans to lead Germany. He then looks at himself, the one sitting in the den contemplating suicide. He smirks. The politician in the den shudders at the uncanny eye contact.
The flame broadens as another vision comes. He sees two separate crowds standing in a circular cluster around their particular leader in a large field surrounded by forest. It is raining and thundering, but a massive canopy hovers above sheltering those in the field. The canopy is not bare, but is adorned with numerous crests of many sizes randomly placed. It is the crest of the nun. Also, printed repeatedly along the entire perimeter of the grand canopy are the letters NYSE. The politician’s eyes widen as he remembers the nun’s mention of the New York Stock Exchange. Her words now echo in his mind: “crash the temple with the slight toggle of a simple switch… slight toggle… simple switch… crash.”
In the center of one of the crowds, the politician sees himself. His is the smaller of the two, but grows. People walk out from the forest and join his group. But his is still smaller.
Then the politician sees a great earthquake. The canopy begins to rock. The people brace themselves against each other. A corner of the canopy breaks loose from the ground and begins flapping violently in the storm. The people scream. A great gust of wind comes and sweeps the canopy away. The heavy tarp whips and slaps as it flies, creating its own thundering cries. The rain falls heavy upon the people as they begin to shiver and cough and sneeze.
The people, shriveled within their drenched clothes, look to their respective leaders. The current leader of Germany is dumbfounded and says nothing. The other leader, however, begins to speak, and does so with great passion and volume. He thunders back at the sky. And, it is quieted. He rouses the dormant strength of his people, who now stand straight and strong. Those of the other crowd straggle over, and continue to do so until the people are united around one leader. Him.
And with that, the vision leaves. The flame dies out slowly as cold darkness returns to the fireplace.
The once suicidal politician lifts his gaze to the ceiling as the smallest hint of a smile lightens his face.
VII.
Berlin, Germany
January 30, 1933
The crowd looks upon their new leader with hopeful eyes. He looks back with a subtle, but ambitious grin. He stands in a second-storey window with spotlights aimed at him.
He’s the new Chancellor of Germany. Finally.
He waves and presents his mighty salute. He is happy and ready. He basks in the moment, but also can’t wait until the crowd disperses. He knows she will come tonight. He had one of his men set up a back room for a late night encounter. Candles throughout, the smell of incense, a small fire, the best tea.
Ten long years she’s been absent while he lived out the visions he saw in the flame. Fifteen years since he last heard her voice, twenty since he last saw her. She will come to me tonight, the Chancellor says to himself as he looks down on his people. His Germany.
Finally, the parades slow and the people disperse. The spotlights are shut off. He has a final cup of tea with his men, and then retires to his candlelit room.
An hour passes and he yawns. He sits in a padded armchair reading the book he wrote about himself while in prison. He lifts his cup from a small table and sips his tea. He looks over at the vacant chair on the other side of the small table and sighs.
Then, out from a shadowy corner near his bed, she appears.
“Well done, my dear Adolph.”
She walks forward as the dim firelight illuminates her face. The Chancellor is stunned by her youthful appearance. Is it possible she’s gotten younger? No, it must be the time elapse.
“I knew you’d come, and I’m very glad you did.”
“I know,” she says and sits in the chair intended for her.
“Would you like some tea?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He stands and goes over to a counter.
“We’ve come a long way, haven’t we,” she says as he pours the tea.
“I’d say.” He brings a cup back to her and sits.
“But this is just the beginning. You realize that don’t you?”
“Yes.”
She sips her tea. “Everything up until now has been foreplay, the setting of the stage. The foundation has been laid, and now it’s time to build the structure.”
He smiles and she looks him over.
“You’re definitely ready,” she says. “You’ve been groomed to such a degree that you can do the rest on your own. But I do have one thing to say. Your impatience shall serve you now. Seize absolute power quickly, my dear Adolph. Burn down all opposition. You mustn’t have any competition, or separation of powers.”
“No,” he says, “that form of government is weak and inefficient.”
“Exactly. You once marched on Berlin, but the timing was bad. Now the timing is right. March. Tear down the walls that restrain you. However, do nothing that can risk losing the love of your people. Be smart. Gain absolute power now, but once you get it, work strategically. You must then build another foundation. We both know the end we seek. But to get there successfully will require stealth. Line everything up before you strike. During rearmament, let your propaganda be of peace and prosperity. Don’t give anything away. Be smart.”
“I’ve come a long way, Sister,” the Chancellor says. “I know exactly what needs to be done.”
“Of course, you do. I’m very proud of you. I want you to know that.” She takes another sip of tea and smiles. “How about we speak of simpler things. We’ve never done that. Would you like that?”
“Yes, I would.”
They both then relax their postures and begin speaking as comrades. Friends even. She asks him if he still paints. He tells her that he doesn’t have time anymore, but still enjoys the arts. He asks her what inspired her to become a nun and she says it all had to do with the book of Acts. She asks him about the blonde woman he’s in love with, and he spends much time describing her.
They continue to speak of simple things throughout the night until the Chancellor can no longer keep his eyes open. Before the dawn, he climbs into bed. She tucks him in and then disappears into the corner from which she appeared.
VIII.
Berlin, Germany 1937
“The pain is bad tonight,” says the Führer. “I’m glad you’re here. Say something. Please.”
“Your blood is impure. Like your parents before you, you will die early.”
The Führer reels in his reclined chair, covered by a thick wool blanket. Beads of sweat stand firm on his forehead and upper lip. He grabs his stomach and grimaces. “Then, this must begin soon. How long do I have?”
“Years still, but no more than ten.”
“I’m told we’re not fully prepared for war. Rearmament is incomplete. The economy suffers. And, Britain… she’s not what I had hoped. She will fight against me.”
“She will. But Italy will come to your side, as will Japan. And the Americans and Russians will stay out of it for a time.”
The Führer closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He reaches for a glass of water and a pill on the table next to him. Holding the glass in one hand and the pill in the other, he says, “Will we win?”
“If I have anything to do with it, yes. I shall be hard at work, never doubt that. Though you will not see me again until the end, I will be near. Fear nothing.” She walks to him, leans down and wipes the sweat from his face. “You’ve been patient long enough.”
He clasps her hand and looks up at her. Through clinched teeth, he says, “It’s time, isn’t it.”
“Yes, my dear Adolph. Do it. Unleash the machine.”
IX.
Führerbunker
Berlin, Germany
April 30, 1945
An explosion quakes the building. Dust falls from the ceiling of the bunker onto the heads of Adolph Hitler and his wife, Eva. Eva cries and he holds her. He tries to protect her, but knows there is no use. He’d done well over the years to shield her from the mass destruction and death he poured upon Europe. But now that his war machine has wilted to rubble and the bloodshed has reached Berlin, he knows there is no way to protect Eva’s innocent eyes from the explosive storm that is upon them.
Another bomb lands nearby, piercing their ears and shaking the ground, knocking over a couple of candles they lit when the electricity went out. Eva convulses sharply and buries her head in her husband’s chest. Her entire body vibrates from fear and she kneads his coat with desperate, tense fingers. He tries to calm her, but he can’t. He rocks. He rubs her hair. But her fear grows.
Another bomb cracks the ceiling, sending a thick blanket of dust floating down. The bass booming sound causes her to convulse again. She can’t handle anymore. She lifts her head and begins screaming uncontrollably. She pulls away as her husband attempts to maintain the embrace. He tries to tell her to calm herself, but she’s screaming incessantly. He yells his commands. Another bomb hits. They’re both screaming now. The bunker shimmies and rocks. Hitler reaches into his pockets for the two capsules he had been saving.
Then, in an instant, everything stops. The bombs stop. The ground stills. The dust dissipates. Eva’s wild movements and cries cease. Dizzied by the abrupt silence and stillness, Hitler looks down at his wife. She’s unconscious, breathing peacefully, her head resting on his chest.
“Hello, my dear Adolph,” a woman says from a distant, dark stairwell.
Hitler doesn’t respond. He merely stares into the shadow from which the sound came, unsure if the far away voice was real.
Then, she appears.
He stares at her, blinking and squinting his eyes to clear away the daze. The nun says nothing more, but simply strides slowly toward him in her heavy, black robe. As he begins regaining his presence of mind, his emotions begin to awaken. The anger of betrayal begins to burn within him. He slides out from underneath Eva and guides her head to the floor.
He looks up at the nun and violently stands. He speaks. His volume increases rapidly until he’s yelling. He verbally thrashes her for her betrayal, for her weakness, for her incompetence, for her stupidity. He stomps toward her, his fists clinched tightly. When he closes in within five feet, he raises his right hand to strike.
Suddenly, the nun thrashes the empty space between them. Without being touched, Hitler is hurled backward. His head snaps back at impact, thumping hard against the floor. He rolls onto his side in pain.
He opens his eyes to see the bottom of her robe within inches of his face. He looks up and sees her peering down at him with large, incendiary eyes.
“I’m here to save you and this is how you treat me,” she says.
Hitler rolls onto his back and the nun sits down on the floor beside him. She places her hand on his shoulder as a numbing sensation courses through his body that paralyzes his arms and legs. She commands him to sit up. Seemingly independent of his volition, Hitler’s body obeys.
“It had to come to this, my son,” she says.
She flicks something luminous—a flimsy flame, a paper-like incandescence that lands in front of them on the floor. He stares into it.
Within the flame he sees a bald eagle gripping thirteen arrows and an olive branch. It flies above pockmarked Germany heading west. It flies over Britain, and then over the Atlantic Ocean before reaching land where it approaches a towering pyramid reaching to the heavens. Engraved upon the base stones are the words: The Federal Reserve. The eagle ascends to the top of the pyramid where a colossal capstone floats—a capstone with an eye. The stone hovers and turns and gently rises and falls, as if floating on the sea. It blinks and then looks at the small, barely visible eagle.
“What is it?” he asks.
“It is the Kingdom,” the nun says. “It’s not yet complete, but, thanks to you, we’re entering the final stage of creation. Your war machine has plowed the way, setting much of the world ablaze, and thus providing the proper soil for what is to come. The rise of the two feuding superpowers—the Communists and Capitalists—that’s the next phase. Oh, but I have much yet to do. So much to do.”
The nun leans back against the wall while Hitler remains upright. She crosses her arms and continues speaking.
“You see, a century ago I fused Communism with Atheism with a simple Manifesto, a set of ideas that has spawned today’s Soviet Union. That was quite easy, to be honest. What I’ve done here with you, however, was much harder. But well worth it, let me tell you. Soon, I shall begin whispering the name Hitler into the ears of both the Capitalists and Soviets, causing anxiety to build. They shall fear each other because of their opposing ideologies and the remembrance of your dark deeds. A scramble for allies and markets and the spread of their ideals will consume them like hot embers in their guts. They shall battle each other in a new form of war. In but ten years, the atheism of the Communists will compel the Capitalists to disregard their separation of church and state and declare their belief in the true God. And thus, the fusion of Capitalism with Christianity.”
The nun begins running her fingers through Hitler’s hair.
“That’s what all this was for, my dear Adolph. To rid my Christian people of the beliefs of those first disciples and deliver them to the true God so they can finally reach their potential and rule this world. You see, all durable empires must have a single God, whether it’s a man, a statue, or an idea. It unifies their belief system and focuses their power, leading to purity.”
The nun waves her hand over the flame and Hitler looks down at it.
The vision is still of the pyramid and the eagle flying freely in front of it. Then, from the eye of the capstone, Hitler sees visible vibrations radiating out like waves of air and sound. The vibrations soon coalesce into massive discernible shapes. Words.
Hitler reads: In God We Trust.
“I don’t understand,” he says.
“Money, my dear boy. Money is power, and power shall be their God. Their purity. It is the way, the truth, and the life. It has always been. And in 1955, my Great Church—the Federal Reserve—will establish this creed by printing those very words on every coin and bill. Don’t you see? I’m not interested in the purity of a fluid that runs through their veins. No, I want to purify their souls; I want to purify the deepest levels of who they are, those levels that only ideas can touch. Then, and only then, will my work be complete.”
The nun blows on the small fire, easily extinguishing it. She smoothes out the front of her robe and leans forward. She rubs her hands together and says, “We’ll have plenty of time to talk further. But, as for now, we must depart.”
She stands, turns to Hitler, and holds out her hand. Hitler feels his paralysis lift, but nevertheless remains still.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ve taken care of everything. History will read that you killed yourself and your body was cremated and tossed to the winds. You’re safe. Rise to your feet, my dear Adolph.”
He then places his hand in hers and looks up at her with wide eyes. “Who are you? Who are you really?”
The nun smiles and pulls him to his feet. “I’m the one who leads from the shadows. …And, I’m your friend. Now, come. The land of opportunity awaits.”#154,301textJeremiah Hawkins
Proportion in Philosophy
Part I: Thales to Plato
Ancient Philosophy
1.
The long, stuttering conversation of philosophy renders little hope to the starry-eyed student of its history, that student who wishes to excavate a thread of progress. Picking with the axe of a sweat-drenched mind, the student cracks and chips away in the near hopeless attempt of coming out the other side of a dense block of books having learned something of humanity’s blossoming, some burgeoning of philosophical truth passed down the generations. But this is not the story of philosophy. It is not the snowball-gathering of knowledge along a fated path. The story of philosophy is one of plurality, views clashing with damning refutations and incompatibilities, leaving one unable to say whether we have come a long way or have merely gone about for centuries chasing the wind. If an ember of lasting truth is found amid the tomes, it must be held lightly in hand in the constant realization that the pages of another will someday come along, and in a Heraclitean flash demonstrate that all things comes-to-be just to pass-away.
2.
The coming-to-be of the flux is the journey, the creative constant, the undulation of the breathing body. Alive, a beauty to invoke enchantment. So let my sympathetic pessimism end here. Let me step into this disjointed river of philosophic discussion and, in a sort of aphoristic dance, find a frayed thread, and with it held lightly in hand see if I can unravel something of interest. If I fail, I will take solace in my splash—in this fluff of words and plethora of analogies—and move on with a smile. But now let me be clear so as not to be misunderstood in my purpose. In the numbered spurts of this work, I will attempt to wade through and amongst a few main players in the history of philosophy with the hope of teasing out my thread. The players of Part I shall be of the ancient class: Thales, Pythagoras, Heraclitus, and Plato. (Aristotle will be mentioned in the concluding remarks, as he will lead us into Part II). In Part II, I shall move two thousand years into the future to Descartes, Hume, Kant, and Nietzsche. My purpose is to emphasize and explicate the great significance of proportion. This will be a history, but in my historicizing I am posing an argument, namely, that the emphasis of this soon to be demonstrated thread—proportion—is worthy of the pedestal upon which I raise it. In reading this history, it may be best to look upon the beginning through the lens of the end. This is to say, hindsight presents the clearest view, a panoramic that may (or may not) clarify particular ambiguities.
3.
The mysterious in-between is proportion. Proportion is a comparative relation of things, both sensible and ideational. In Greek it is analogia and from this we get our word analogy. Analogies reveal the in-between that can be taken from one pair and applied to another. A is to B, and this is-to is the same is-to between C and D. But modify one’s angle of seeing the concept of proportion and one can see that it also serves as that which allows generalization. All chairs share an in-between—a proportion—that allows one to recognize a particular chair that looks exactly like no other chair one has ever seen. From this proportionality comes, within the mind, a unity. As to the chair’s attributes it might be utterly original, but the unity encapsulated within the word affords the recognition. This proportioning out a unity is the reduction of the many into one. This reduction that generates generalizations of sensible objects is also the method utilized in the creation of abstract concepts. By an identical way of gathering particulars and plastering them onto the canvas of the imagination, proportion is teased out as the common thread that ties the plurality together. The abstract concept becomes a word, and that word serves as a symbol for the extracted proportion between the particulars. For example, experiences A, B, C, D (and so on) may be grouped by a commonality that one may call experiences of love, despair, or epiphany.
Through the following history, it is my hope that what has been said here becomes clear. And so, on to the first philosopher.
4.
“Greek philosophy seems to begin with an absurd notion, with the proposition that water is the primal origin and the womb of all things” (Nietzsche 2003, p. 38). With Thales we have the wellspring of “all things are one.” With what magical method did he arrive at such a magnificent proclamation? Gazing out upon clouds, mountains, oceans, and animals, where did such an idea arise? What alchemy was employed, what chisel utilized? Upon what lofty viewpoint did Thales stand to see all as one, a singly unity hidden within the many? “Creative premonition will show the place; imagination guesses from afar that here it will find demonstrable resting place. But the special strength of imagination is its lightning-quick seizure and illumination of analogies” (Nietzsche 2003, p. 40). As the seas under the ship, as the blood beneath the skin, moisture is seen as the ground below the ground. The instances where moisture is taken to dominate earth and air are instances expanded by analogy unto all there is. Thales perceived a certain common ground amongst particulars, a thread throughout. From this thread, he weaves a sheet to spread out and blanket the cosmos. From his observed relation of things to water, he takes this relation, this proportion, and makes it the in-between and the inside and the underneath of everything, a universal link and foundation. Here we find the use of qualitative proportion.
Qualitative proportion takes as its subject anything that is not a quantity. This is to say, it should be defined by juxtaposition to its opposite, namely, quantitative proportion. Quantitative proportion must be classed separately for no reason greater than its powerfully fixed precision.
5.
The fixed precision of quantitative proportion (in relation to the less rigid qualitative proportion) holds the key to understanding not only Plato’s adherence to proportionality, but also the great rise of science in the modern era. Therefore, let this willfully jutting-out aphorism be seen as significant, and let it be placed safely in one’s pocket for future recollection.
Quantitative proportion:
The quantitative comparison of two magnitudes constitutes a ratio (e.g., 1:2), while the proportion is the equality of ratios between two pairs of quantities (e.g., 1:2=2:4). There must be at least three magnitudes in a true proportion—two extremes and a middle term, usually called the ‘mean’ (Wittkower 1960, p. 199-200).
To lay hold of the difference in precision between qualitative and quantitative proportion, one merely needs to give the fourth term in these two analogies:
1) Tree is to Ground as Woman is to…
2) 2 is to 4 as 10 is to…
The missing analogue in the latter, at least upon first glance, is 20. The analogue in the former, however, is far less obvious, and more vulnerable to a plurality of fitting answers, and thus less precise.
The superimposition of the quantitative upon the qualitative will serve as a new chapter of humanity that will be like no other: the rise of modern science. But enough jutting-out. Let us not jump ahead in this history and forsake the sequence.
6.
If the Age of Enlightenment cast backward a foreshadow it would fall coolly on the shoulders of Pythagoras.
With Pythagoras and his school began the era of the mathematical approach to nature. Thus he opened the door to the specific Western view of the world. But such is the working of the human mind that, at the same time, two interpretive concepts of an entirely different character came into being, or rather acquired a new and long lease of life: number symbolism and number aesthetics. (Wittkower 1960, p. 200)
What Galileo did through will and force, Pythagoras did through a stroll and a passive listening. What the former did with manipulation and experiment, the latter did with a squinted-eyed glare. As if the Divine had spoken in musical melody, Pythagoras heard what many now call the universal language. Without twisting arms or the subtlest manipulation of its march, Nature was heard and a great movement was born. Truth, undeniable truth seemed to be presented in the structured scales of harmonic proportion. Numbers were things unseen and unchanging, able to be the foundation of a philosophy and a lifestyle. It is here that the Greek notion of the Beautiful found either its inception or its greatest defense. Between Thales’ qualitative many-to-one reduction and Pythagoras’ discovery of quantitative harmony, we might say we have all we need to move forward to, whom I would call, the Father of Proportion. But, we would be missing an important element in this history if we breezed past the problem of coming-to-be on our way to Plato. And so, let us now turn to Heraclitus.
7.
What if there is no such thing as definition? No boundaries to pinpoint, no borders to trace? What if reality rides like a river, and attempting to say “this is that” or “that is this” resembles pointing at a section of water within the body of a river and giving it a name just to watch it disappear before the enunciation can find an ear. Reality displays itself as a bumpy continuum from which reason pleases itself by turning bumps into borders, borders into definitions, definitions into words.
You use names for things as though they rigidly, persistently endured; yet even the stream into which you step a second time is not the one you stepped into before. (Nietzsche 1962, p. 52)
The flux is what Heraclitus saw. All comes-to-be and nothing is. If it is, it is as the now is, for all constantly shifts and flows. And who can capture the now before it passes into the past? It is—but as soon as you whisper it is—it is no more. Coming-to-be reveals itself as the paradoxical joining of being with not-being. If being and not-being interlock, then all that is is joined to its opposite in eternal embrace. Oppositions and enemies are inseparable, creating a raging fight through time. War reigns as the father of all coming-to-be with fire as its image. Within this burning battle there affords not a word to be said, but there exists a logos to be heard. Heraclitus did not presume to posit a chaos, unless one wishes, paradoxically, to call it an orderly chaos. Divine law guides the fiery flux of existence.
8.
From Thales came the qualitative proportion of “all is one”; from Pythagoras, the spiritual and aesthetic numerical proportionality in nature; and from Heraclitus, the divine, otherworldly logos guiding all change. From here it is not a stretch to foresee the one who will latch onto proportion and, with it, create a heavenly realm of unities (eidos) that do not change but underlie all that does.
9.
From the proposition that a circle has 360 degrees is derived the truths that each angle of a square is 90 degrees and those of a triangle must add up to 180 degrees. Are these Truths, or merely truths? Would I be sinking in falsity to say that the triangle has angles summing 600 degrees? I would say that there is no more falsity in my 600-degree triangle as there is in my theatre as opposed to your theater. The 180 arises half from the creative minds of humans and half from proportion. The 180 is derived from the 360 of the circle. But where is this 360 derived? It is assumed that this number comes from the amount of days from one summer or winter solstice to another, the estimated amount of days in a year. Thus, this number is just as arbitrary as going to the theater as opposed to the theatre—when in fact they are the same place. The number could have very well been 1,200. However, what is of interest is that no matter what that number is, the proportion between geometric shapes must hold true. If the circle is said to contain 1,200 degrees, then it is of necessity that the square has a set of angles each measuring 300 and the triangle’s angles must add up to 600. The in-between remains fixed, an unseen and unchanging proportion. It is an eye-popping sight that once the human mind creates symbols and pastes them smartly on objects, proportions once concealed reveal themselves. This, I believe is the spirit of Plato.
10.
Many an intellectual will freely explicate a complex discourse by chattering out chains of abstract concepts, losing their listeners who have become entangled in the airy sentences. “Give us an example!” one might exclaim with boiling-over frustration. “Do not tell us what justice is by presenting us with equally abstract synonyms, but give us examples of justice so that we may understand by virtue of the commonality between your usage and the image.” This is what Glaucon and Adeimantus demanded of Socrates in Plato’s famous Republic. They wanted a “showing,” a sturdy example, not merely a logical stringing-together of terms un-tethered to anything familiar. In response Plato said:
“The inquiry we’re setting ourselves to is no inconsiderable thing, but for someone sharp-sighted, as it appears to me. So since we aren’t clever…the sort of inquiry for us to make about it seems to be exactly like this: if someone had ordered people who were not very sharp-sighted to read small print from a distance, and then it occurred to someone that maybe the same letters are also somewhere else, both bigger and on something bigger, it would plainly be a godsend, I assume, to read those first and examine the smaller ones by that means, if they were exactly the same” (Plato 2007, p. 60/368d).
And thus we have the beginning of the Polis from which the dialogue gets its name. Justice—and a sense of the Good—sought for in the soul will now be sought for in the much larger analogue of the city. I believe it is Plato’s hope that the proportions will remain true as they do between geometric shapes.
11.
From here we may say that a city, such as Athens, goes by one name, and thus it is a unity not too unlike Thales’s water and Heraclitus’s fire. It is a many brought together into a unity. The diversity within Athens should work in a specific relational proportionality as to form and maintain the unity of “Athens.” —And this Plato calls justice.
And this was meant to make it clear about the rest of the citizens as well, that they need to bring each one to one job, the one for which he’s naturally suited, so that each of them, by pursuing the one thing that belongs to him, will become one and not many, and in that way the city as a whole will grown to be one and not many (Plato 2007, p. 116/423d).
And so goes the soul:
Now, anything good is beautiful, and nothing beautiful lacks proportion, so we are bound to expect a healthy creature to be a well-proportioned creature. But although we discern and think rationally about trivial cases of proportion, we’re incapable of reasoning when it comes to the most important and significant cases. For instance, the factor that has the most bearing on health and sickness, and on moral goodness and badness, is whether or not there’s proportion between soul and body, but we don’t consider these things at all. (Plato 2008, p. 92/87c-d)
Proportionality is the justice that binds together a city, maintains the balance, the harmony, the health, and of course its beauty. The soul must likewise achieve and maintain this proportionality. The charioteer of the Phaedrus must take tight the reins of the steeds—Spirit and Desire—to reach the heavenly realm of eidos. But what kind of charioteer can achieve this. A well-trained one, says Plato.
Also, if proper nurture is supported by education, a person will become perfectly whole and healthy, once he has recovered from this serious of illnesses; but if he cares nothing for education, he will limp his way through life and return to Hades unfulfilled and stupid. (Plato 2008, p. 34/44c).
12.
Education. Eidos, translated often as form, is the unity of a many, not the many, but a many. For instance, wolves have an eidos just as sheep do. Physical things are but shadows of the eidos, which is that which is most real, that which is unseen and unchanging underlying all that is experienced of the flux. Forms are the in-between, the is-to that links all shadows of wolves to the wolf in an analogous way the circle is-to the square is-to the triangle, a link that is unchanging regardless of what language is applied, what quantity given. The education of proportionality is what Plato seeks to inculcate. In Book III, Plato explains how those in his city should be initially educated. He begins with the proposition that the soul is imitative (Book III, 395d). Basically, as the cliché goes, we are what we eat. What the soul takes in, it becomes. As Nietzsche says: “If someone obstinately and for a long time wants to appear something it is in the end hard for him to be anything else” (Nietzsche 1996, p. 39/aphorism 51). Thus, one of the methods Plato wishes to employ is the education of Pythagoras—the proportionality of music—to instill a taste and an ear for proportion. Proportion, as the structure of the beautiful, will create between the students and proportion itself “a feeling of kinship” and attract and allure them for all their days (Plato 2007, p. 95/401d-402a). Thus, when the philosopher comes to them as they sit shackled in the dank cave, separated and alien to the Good warmth of the sun, the words of the philosopher will sound like familiar lullabies from childhood, a Pied Piper pleading to be followed.
13.
Plato overflows and drips proportion. Proportion is the method, the content, the motive. Analogia is the Beautiful of which all Good partakes and presents. It lights up eidos to be perceived by the willing mind, but also, I argue, is eidos. Proportion is what Plato wishes to teach, to reveal, but also it is by Proportion that Plato must teach proportion. Teach us why the philosopher is useful, Adeimantus once demanded, teach us by what qualification he must rule the polis. “You’re asking a question…that needs an answer given by way of an image… Just listen to the image, then, so you can see even better how tenaciously I make images” (Plato 2007, p. 184/487e-488a). Among the images Socrates will make are the great analogies of the divided line, the sun, and the cave. Through analogia Socrates will teach analogia, the Beautiful proportion of the Good. Look upon the sun and learn how to see it, is the teaching of Socrates. Look to learn to see. In looking you may not at first see, but continue to look, listen to the musical proportions and behold the bright sun until the ears pick-up, the eyes adjust, the palate develops. And the soul becomes.
14.
The how-to-look from Plato did not become an idle teaching but was snatched up and utilized quickly by a great follower of his. As music is-to the young guardians, Plato is-to Aristotle. Plato’s proportion set Aristotle on a path of seeing the world as few have before him. In Plato, there were still remnants of a divine realm, a place of eidos and spirits. As for Aristotle, however, he took Plato’s reified Forms and saw something a bit more local: generalizations based on what is common (or essential) to the labeled group. Even beyond the Forms (and that which illuminates the Forms) Aristotle questions Plato’s reification. “But then in what way is good meant? For these things certainly do not seem to have the same name by chance. But do they have the same name by being derived from one thing, or by all adding up together into one thing, or rather by analogy” (Aristotle 2002, p. 8/ 1096b-20)? Aristotle seemed to understand with greater clarity the freedom with which thinkers before him dealt with the plurality of existence. One may say that thinkers before Aristotle were artists in the modern sense, creating philosophies to a greater degree on the canvas of their imagination. Those before Plato looked upon the world and saw all as water, fire, air, birthed from war, products of love and strife, combinations of roots and elements, and so on. With Plato, we have a heavenly realm of eidos and a world of images unified and lighted by the Good. It is all quite artistic and aesthetically appealing. With Aristotle, however, we get categories and causes, a methodological approach that distinguishes and defines, a complex philosophy that lacks the dreamy broad strokes that often disregard consistency in detail, but creates a portrait that invites one to judge it as much for its beauty as for its truth. Aristotle painted no such portrait. He converted Plato’s paintbrushes into chisels, and with an increasingly refined use of proportion, Aristotle carved joints into Nature where none had been seen before. And it is here with Aristotle’s attempts to carve with precision the categories and causes of the plurality of experience that I wish to leap ahead into the modern age, an age where the categories and causes will find greater precision by being enwrapped in number; an age of the superimposition of qualitative and quantitative proportion, namely, the age of science.
Jeremiah Hawkins
Proportion in Philosophy
Part II: Descartes to Nietzsche
Modern Philosophy
15.
Who can overestimate the effect the rise of modern science has had on humanity and this planet? Only a chuckle can I give to the one who thinks one can. To recount the changes this world has undergone (for better or worse!) in a mere 400 years is staggering, like counting the stars in the sky. What is the particular power of science? Some may say it is the scientific method of hypothesis and experimentation. But could we not find examples in the ancient world where some hypothesized and experimented? Maybe this particular power finds its source in numerical measurement or prediction? But, how could such wonders as the Great Pyramid of Giza or Stonehenge be constructed without numerical measurement and the ability to predict the movement of the celestial bodies? It could be the discipline of strict observation and a pulling away from imaginative metaphysics. But this would only account for things that can be seen, whereas much of what science discovers cannot.
In this part, I intend to demonstrate that the combining (or superimposition) of qualitative and quantitative proportion forms the foundation of the Age of Enlightenment’s great scientific advance. As stated in Part I, I will achieve this by spotlighting proportion within the texts of a few of the main philosophers of the age: Descartes, Hume, Kant, and Nietzsche.
16.
It may be helpful now to return to Part I with a quick glance. With Thales and Heraclitus (and some other Pre-Socratics), the reduction of the many-to-one by analogy begins the story of western philosophy. It was a poetic flourishing where all of reality was encapsulated in metaphors, such as “all is water.” With Pythagoras, a sort of numerical spacing evidenced itself to undergird the great art form of music. This discovery of the embrace between order and beauty sufficed to inspire a religious movement, as well as much of the philosophy of Plato. Plato intuitively perceived the great breadth of the concept of proportion and constructed an entire philosophy around it. But all of these discoveries and uses of proportion have one thing in common: they mostly deal solely with naming. They attempt to define and distinguish. Very few of them invite temporal elements such as motion, change, and coming-to-be. More often, however, they attempt to filter out temporality as a pesky impurity. Like a stubborn splinter, the concept of time pestered the ancient world. The wide-spread application of proportion to temporal considerations would have to wait for the modern age and its superimposition. And so, now on to Descartes and modernity.
17.
More so than Descartes’ cogito or his radical doubt, his adherence and development of method ought to be recollected. A contemporary of Gallileo, who was one of the first to dress up the processes of nature in the garb of mathematical formulae, Descartes recognized, as well as Plato, the power of number and the significance of proportion. He exhibits this in his early work, Rules for the Direction of the Mind.
There will be three steps to my explication of Descartes. The first will be his method of achieving precise knowledge worthy of science, called enumeration. Second will be the claim that when all blurry notions are stripped away from a subject, what remains is magnitude. And the third is that the certainty in enumeration consists of reducing proportions to equalities. These three comprise the superimposition, and thus need to be remembered through the rest of this history.
18.
Enumeration. Let us begin with displaying just how important this method of enumeration is: “We say here, further, that enumeration is required for the complete attainment of scientific knowledge” (Descartes 2000, p. 15/388). Enumeration, to Descartes, basically means a chain of inference that is continuous and lacks holes or gaps. This method may find use in both a definition of a thing, as well as giving a causal account of a thing. As his guide and analogue, Descartes considers a chain of numbers in a scale of proportion, such as the observation that “the numbers 3, 6, 12, 24, etc. form a continuous proportion” (Descartes 2000, p. 13/385). Another way of presenting this proportion is 3 is-to 6 as 6 is-to 12, and so on. But why would such an illustrious mathematical thinker tinker with such basic ideas?
Although all these things are so clear as to appear almost childish, I understand, on attentive reflection, in what way all questions are involved which can be posed about proportions or the relations of things, and in what order they should be investigated: and this alone embraces the whole of the science of pure mathematics. (Descartes 2000, p. 13/385)
Following the above statement, Descartes continues with his child play for roughly the length of a page, and does so for the sole purpose of inculcating this process of numerical proportion. He spends this amount of time in child play in order to burrow and engrave this process inside the reader for the purpose of breeding discernment of the deeper truth of proportion. Here it may be helpful to recall Plato’s wish to educate by means of music.
Descartes recognizes the in-between, the is-to proportionality, and claims that “in all ratiocination it is only comparison that we know the truth with precision” (Descartes 2000, p. 26/439). Comparison seeks the relations—the in-between—of multiple subjects. However, knowledge is thwarted when comparisons are not clear and distinct, but blurred by interpretive ambiguity. To arrive at the greatest clarity, it might be best to stick with magnitudes, as their precision is of the highest degree.
19.
Magnitude. When gazing upon a red silk curtain, what can we say we know of the curtain? What is red? What is silk? We have names for such things, which act as placeholders for distinctions the mind has made. It is “red” and “silk.” But, if all we have is the word based on experience, the clarity is at best blurred.
For although one thing can be called more or less white than another, or again one sound more or less acute, and so of other things, still we cannot define exactly whether this more or less is in double or triple proportion, except by a certain analogy with the extension of a figured body. (Descartes 2000, p. 27/441)
Descartes desires a more precise proportion, and analogy signifies an unclear proportion, a mere feeling or sentiment of the in-between, not something useful, and definitely not scientific. All fuzzy attributes of a subject must be brushed away in a rigorous attempt to excavate the absolute structure, to bring us to a view of a thing that affords certainty.
Thus when the terms of the difficulty have been abstracted from every subject, according to the preceding rule, we understand that we have nothing further to occupy us except magnitudes in general. (Descartes, p. 26/440)
Thus, colors must be transformed into frequencies and materials reduced to compositions that can be expressed in percentages, even as precise as percentages of atomic numbers. This is what satisfies Descartes’ appetite for clarity, for it can raise our proportions to a state of perfection: equality.
20.
Reducing Proportions to Equalities. The perfect analogy, the proper proportion consists in an equality between subjects, an equality that can never be affirmed when speaking of qualities. Like beauty, qualities differ ever so slightly depending on the eye that casts its judging glance. But as for quantity, the eye has no power of persuasion.
…and that the principle part of human contriving consists only in reducing these proportions in such a way as to see clearly an equality between what is sought and something known.
It must be noted, further, that nothing can be reduced to this equality except what admits of more and less, and that all this is comprised under the name magnitude. (Descartes 2000, p. 26/440)
And thus, the beginning of the superimposition: the act of covering over qualitative proportions—such as unities ranging from “chair” to “electricity”—by quantitative proportions in order to achieve a high degree of precision. Thus, we have entered the modern age of science.
Now, let us spend time reflecting on these three steps as a whole.
21.
What this superimposition brought about was the reduction of qualities to magnitudes, which allowed a further reduction of proportions to equalities. This superimposition produced the unique power to describe temporal happenings in tight little equalities, called formulae (or equations). Descartes’ enumeration (chain of inferences) fleshes out to encompass such enumerations as inferring causal chains of events. Inferences regarding cause and effect stand as the beginning of the wide-spread application of proportion to temporal considerations. Descartes’ method of reducing proportions to equalities, which can only be achieved through magnitudes, sets the stage for such symbols of proportion as E=MC2. This is to say that the proportion between mass and energy—the conversion ratio—is the square of the speed of light. It is an analogy that is an equality. Now, the measurement of speed applied within the formula adds a temporal element (speed is distance over time, such as miles per hour), and provides a way to describe causal relations in mathematical terms. Other formulae, such as Newton’s F=MA (force equals mass times acceleration), also do this. Formulae are Descartes’ perfect proportions; quantities superimposed onto qualities and the proportions reduced to equations. An inherent gift of the equation is the invocation of the Law of Identity. Where we can utilize a=a as a criterion of truth, we appear to be no longer riding the river of flux, but standing firm upon stable ground. Again, the “equals” sign is vital. We are no longer talking of ‘this is-to this as that is-to that,’ but instead we say ‘this equals that.’ Contradiction sits as the presiding judge of all propositions. But that is not all. This judge can also legislate. Laws of Nature form from cracks of its gavel, laws that sentence causal relations of the future to act as they did in the past.
However, when equalities cannot be achieved, Descartes recognizes that proportion is prevented from being lifted to the status of formulae, but must remain a lowly analogy, and open to interpretation.
The language of science may at times conceal the truth that all laws of nature are a species of analogy. How easy it is to forget that all formulae are perfect proportions, and all proportions are analogy. It will take David Hume to remind us of this.
22.
Modesty and humility so often grants a sense of beauty. Our world, our universe invokes awe and deep feelings of the sublime within the mind of the one willing to become lost in its vast abyss of mysteries. Having these mysteries explained away as machinery often strips the paint from the canvas, blurs the poetry off the page, and darkens the sensitive soul. I believe there are some in the history of philosophy who stood up to defend the aesthetic sentiment. Maybe I am wrong about Hume, but I wish to see him as a guardian of the mysterious unknown. His skepticism urges us not to fool ourselves into thinking we know, but just to revel in the knowledge that we feel. Keep open the curtains to the artistry of nature, base all our convictions on sentiment and brush-stroked impressions, and, of course, always remember that “[a]ll our reasoning’s concerning matter of fact are founded on a species of ANALOGY, which leads us to expect from any cause the same events, which we have observed to result from similar causes” (Hume 1993, p. 69). For Hume, all that we can say of nature consists in matters of fact, and all matters of fact remain under the heading of causality, and all causality is a certain constant conjunction, which is produced by customary experience. When he calls causality a species of analogy, he refers to the reduction of the many-to-one in causal relations similar to the reduction of the relations between chairs. For example, cause1 is-to effect1 AS cause2 is-to effect2 AS cause3 is-to effect3, and so on, even into the future. The predictive power of science is nothing more than a very sophisticated and precise power of analogy—an is-to and as—the very same power that Thales used in order to say “all is water.” Laws of nature are proportions, which we call formulae, derived from constant conjunctions of experience. “Thus, it is a law of motion, discovered by experience, that the moment or force of any body in motion is in the compound ratio or proportion of its solid contents and it velocity” (Hume 1993, p. 20.). Hume does seem to attribute a degree of authority to natural laws, but he makes it clear that these so-called truths heralded by many rationalist philosophers of his day are merely probabilistic.
In those probabilities of chance and causes above-explain’d, ‘tis the constancy of the union, which is diminish’d; and in the probability deriv’d from analogy, ‘tis the resemblance only, which is affected. Without some degree of resemblance, as well as union, ‘tis impossible there can be any reasoning’s: but as this resemblance admits of many different degrees, the reasoning becomes proportionably more or less firm and certain. An experiment loses of its force, when transferr’d to instances, which are not exactly resembling; tho’ ‘tis evident it may still retain as much as may be the foundation of probability, as long as there is any resemblance remaining. (Hume 1992, p. 142)
Here we can discern Descartes’ reduction of proportions to equalities. Hume sets up a gradient where certainty is the goal if the resemblance is identical. Reducing resemblances to identicals is the same as the reduction of proportions to equalities. A proportion is an analogy, which deals with resemblance. Also, those things and events that are identical convey a sense of equality.
But there is nothing in a number of instances, different from every single instance, which is supposed to be exactly similar; except only, that after repetition of similar instances, the mind is carried by habit, upon the appearance of one event, to expect its usual attendant, and to believe, that it will exist. This connexion, therefore, which we feel in the mind, this customary transition of the imagination from one object to its usual attendant, is the sentiment or impression, from which we form the idea of power or necessary connexion. (Hume 1993, p. 50)
Hume saying that there is no instance exactly similar to any other is saying that we cannot reduce our proportions to equalities, that there will always be some degree of difference between analogues. The precision between everyday analogy and scientific formulae is a distinction not of kind, but of mere degree. In science, the resemblances are more precise, and the probability approaches closer to certainty, though never quite achieving it. Descartes would have us believe that the as can become an equals, and therefore we can call it a law and send it into the future. The equals sets up a possibility for contradiction and binds the relations, supposed to be identical, under the Law of Identity. The as does no such thing. Hume wishes to restore modesty, humility and mystery by reminding us that the equals is actually nothing more than an as, that there is no contradiction if future causal relations do not equal those of the past. Truth is like Zeno’s Tortoise. We can continually draw closer to it, but we can never catch it.
23.
And so the pendulum swings once again, the revolving door of history continues its revolutions. But unlike Sisyphus’ monotonous back-and-forth, this revolution will change philosophy forever. First, Hume’s challenge:
When it is asked, What is the nature of all our reasonings concerning matter of fact? the proper answer seems to be, that they are founded on the relation of cause and effect. When again it is asked, What is the foundation of all our reasonings and conclusions concerning that relation? it may be replied in one word, EXPERIENCE. But if we still carry on our sifting humour, and ask, What is the foundation of all conclusions from experience? this implies a new question, which may be of more difficult solution and explication. Philosophers, that give themselves airs of superior wisdom and sufficiency, have a hard task, when they encounter persons of inquisitive dispositions, who push them from every corner, to which they retreat, and who are sure at last to bring them to some dangerous dilemma. (Hume 1993, p. 20).
And so, the Kantian revolution:
Experience has therefore a foundation, a priori principles of its form, that is to say, general rules of unity in the synthesis of phenomena, the objective reality of which rules, as necessary conditions—even of the possibility of experience—can always be shown in experience. (Kant 2003, p. 111)
Kant comes onto the scene desiring to explain the derivation of Hume’s many sentiments and feelings. Like a physician telling her patient that kidney stones are what he feels, Kant, the metaphysician, tells Hume that it is a general rule in his pure understanding that he feels when he predicts that a stone will fall when dropped. What Hume deems a conjunction derived from repetitious experience, Kant calls a synthesis derived from the innermost workings of the human mind, a synthesis that precedes experience and organizes it so that it can even be called experience.
Now experience depends on the synthetic unity of phenomena, that is, upon a synthesis according to conceptions of the object of phenomena in general, without which experience could never become knowledge, but would merely be a rhapsody of perceptions, never fitting together into any connected text… (Kant 2003, p. 111)
This synthesis stands as the gem of Kant’s tome. The possibility of synthetic a priori judgments sits as the cornerstone of a critique that could be said to be one of the most important works in western philosophy. To get at this gem and excavate the superimposition, I will begin with billiard balls and a piece simple arithmetic.
24.
Hume argues that the connection of cause and effect derives from experience. Kant wishes to refute this, saying that even though knowledge of this connection begins with the experience, this knowledge comes from the mind. Before Kant gets to the question of how this is possible, he demonstrates that it is. He does so by showing that the very same synthesis that subsumes causation is the one that also subsumes arithmetic. Hume, in his famous billiard balls example, says:
The mind can never possibly find the effect in the supposed cause, by the most accurate scrutiny and examination. For the effect is totally different from the cause, and consequently can never be discovered in it. Motion in the second Billiard-ball is a quite distinct event from motion in the first… (Hume 1993, p. 18)
And now compare this with Kant’s statements concerning 5 + 7 = 12:
The conception of twelve is by no means obtained by merely cogitating the union of seven and five; and we may analyze our conception of such a possible sum as long as we will, still we shall never discover in it the notion of twelve… Arithmetical propositions are therefore always synthetical, of which we may become more clearly convinced by trying large numbers. (Kant 2003, p. 10)
Just as Kant suggested that we might be convinced by trying large numbers—which would subject us to a mathematical problem that we must take time to calculate rather then knowing by rote—Hume asks us to consider causal relations that “we remember to have once been altogether unknown to us” (Hume 1993, p. 17). Thus, Kant uses Hume’s reasoning with arithmetic in order to demonstrate the similarity between billiard balls and 5 + 7 = 12. Categorizing causality and arithmetic under one heading—a priori synthetic judgment—is Kant’s first step in his defense of the superimposition of modern science.
25.
Kant’s next move consists in positing his two pure intuitions: space and time. These two intuitions act as the stage upon which the rhapsody of perceptions are organized. These intuitions are inflicted upon the rhapsody by the mind, or one may say that the intuitions are superimposed onto the manifold, the flux, the plurality of existence. The intuitions of space and time cannot themselves be experienced, for they are analogous to light: though not able to be seen itself, allows objects to be seen. But what can be said at all in regards to space and time? What can we say about that which allows all things to be experienced? Quantity, only quantity. Nothing qualitative can be said. Time has duration, space has distance, all are magnitudes. Thus, the light that affords vision does so quantitatively.
All phenomena contain, as regards their form, an intuition in space and time, which lies a priori at the foundation of all without exception. Phenomena, therefore, cannot be apprehended, that is, received into empirical consciousness otherwise than through the synthesis of a manifold, through which the representations of a determined space or time are generated; that is to say, through the composition of the homogeneous, and the consciousness of the synthetical unity of this manifold (homogeneous). Now the consciousness of a homogeneous manifold in intuition, in so far as thereby the representation of an object is rendered possible, is the conception of quantity (quanti). Consequently, even the perception of an object as phenomenon is possible only through the same synthetical unity of the manifold of the given sensuous intuition, through which the unity of the composition of the homogeneous manifold in the conception of a quantity is cogitated; that is to say, all phenomena are quantities, and extensive quantities, because as intuitions in space or time, they must be represented by means of the same synthesis, through which space and time are determined. (Kant 2003, p. 115)
To sum, all that can be said of space and time is quantity, therefore all that appears in space and time can be quantified. And thus, Kant has argued for the justification of Descartes’ pivotal step of turning all that is qualitative into quantities. As for his talk of the homogeneous manifold, the benefit of converting all qualities into quantities is the production of identical units (unities) of measure that can be used in formulae. Space and time are measured in distance and duration. Therefore, to translate, everything in space can be represented in meters, just as all time can be represented in seconds. And thus, Kant has also paved the way for the justification of the reduction of proportions to equalities (formulae).
26.
Now, as for the many-to-one reduction, we come to Kant’s Analogies of Experience. The analogies of experience are the synthesis of perceptions that amounts to experience itself. The analogies tame the rhapsody and dam the flowing flux into bordered unities. Kant provides three analogies: permanence, succession, and co-existence. (I will only deal with the first two here.)
The general principle of all three analogies rests on the necessary unity of apperception in relation to all possible empirical consciousness (perception) at every time, consequently, as this unity lies a priori at the foundation of all mental operations, the principle rests on the synthetical unity of all phenomena according to their relation in time. (Kant 2003, p. 122)
Before Kant delivers these fundamental analogies, he draws the important distinction between what I have simply termed qualitative and quantitative proportion. The former he will say is regulative, and the latter constitutive. My reading of the two interprets these terms in light of aphorism 5, where I attempt to distinguish the precision of quantitative proportion over qualitative. I give this example:
1) Tree is to Ground as Woman is to…
2) 2 is to 4 as 10 is to…
The first is an analogy where the fourth term can only be found with an appeal to experience, and thus, in my opinion (for I do not speak for Kant here), renders it interpretive. Kant will say that it is regulative because we have a rule to guide us as we make our appeal to experience. The fourth term of the latter analogy can be said to be constituted within the relation of the first and second terms.
Analogies in philosophy mean something very different from that which they represent in mathematics. In the latter they are formulae, which enounce the equality of two relations of quantity, and are always constitutive, so that if two terms of the proportion are given, the third is also given, that is, can be constructed by the aid of these formulae. But in philosophy, analogy is not the equality of two quantitative but of two qualitative relations. In this case, from three given terms, I can give a priori and cognize the relation to a fourth term, but not this fourth term itself, although I certainly possess a rule to guide me in the search for this fourth term in experience, and a mark to assist me in discovering it. (Kant 2003, p. 123).
Here we see the “all is water” of Thales, in which he connected the entire rhapsody of perceptions into a single unity. Could we say it was a misuse of the rule that Kant argues lies a priori within our understanding? That is up to the reader to decide.
27.
The first analogy is permanence and deals with coming-to-be and change. Kant draws from Aristotle here and posits the notion of substance, which is permanent. “Substances (in the world of phenomena) are the substratum of all determinations of time” (Kant 2003, p. 127). Without positing something permanent, such as substance, change is not possible. That is to say that only that which is can change, can become. If the thing that changes is not a unity of some sort, than what keeps us from seeing with every change an entirely new object? If it is true that every single cell of my body is replaced every seven years, then what makes me still me, and not something entirely new? Is the river that Heraclitus steps into a second time a different river? Something permanent must be there to underlie the change if we are to think of it as the same. As Kant says, “upon this notion of permanence rests the proper notion of the conception of change” (Kant 2003, p. 127). Thus, this analogy is the reduction of a plurality into a unity.
28.
The second analogy deals with the infamous character of causality. The connection of cause and effect links occurrences into events and lies at the foundation of experience itself. In opposition to Hume, Kant argues that causality does not arise from experience, but experience from causality. Hume was only able to analyze causation because his understanding already organized his perceptions in such a way. Also, we can only speak of space and time because we were born with an understanding that intuited space and time. In Kant’s words,
But the same is the case with this law [causality] as with other pure a priori representations (e.g. space and time), which we draw in perfect clearness and completeness from experience, only because we had already placed them therein, and by that means, and by that alone, had rendered experience possible. (Kant 2003, p. 131-2)
By this, we do not have a complete refutation of Hume’s attacks. The general notion of causality is a rule of the pure understanding that renders experience possible. But as for individual causal events, we do need experience and we do draw off the past. The superimposition, however, allows us to turn qualitative analogy (which is merely regulative, as the fourth term has to be sought in experience) into quantitative. Reducing the plurality of experience into unities that are quantified, such as reducing objects to a measurement of “mass,” creates the opportunity to draw up theories of mathematics—blueprints of the universe in numerical terms—and make astounding predictions, such as Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity that predicted that gravity curves space.
However, science has proven over the course of its brief history to be fallible. Its greatest defense appears to be technology, as the more abstract theories of science are overturned with every new generation. Thus, maybe as Hume tempered Descartes, it is time to bring one to the stage who can temper Kant.
29.
Like a flamethrower, Friedrich Nietzsche enters the world of philosophy. He comes armed with a keen eye for literature and history, and a frenzied pen for poetry. Wading into Nietzschean waters is wading into a raging flux. A fiery fan of Heraclitus, Nietzsche seemed to embody Heraclitean views, as Nietzsche’s works flow like a river that may not be the same upon a second dip. Though, those who have ridden the entire river seem able to reduce the plurality, by analogy between all the works, into a single feeling of what Nietzsche said on a whole. For example, is his “will to power” a claim that underlies all of existence, or merely a pragmatic claim applicable only to human beings? Is it a psychology or a metaphysics—an “all is water” reduction? What exactly did he mean when he said “God is dead?” Debates continue to flare concerning the intricacies.
With this said, I mean to speak of Nietzsche’s philosophy with humility, recognizing that I am a mere tadpole in the pool of many interpretations, and I wish simply to pull out statements that, I feel, have great bearing and truth in regards to this growing thread I am teasing out of the history of philosophy. So, without further adieu, the last philosopher…
30.
My thread has proven to be of a subject that is quite basic to human understanding, nature, and epistemology. It has wide implications for metaphysics and science. Thus, let me step into a single part of the Nietzschean river and wade lightly into his attack on metaphysics in the section titled, “Of First and Last Things,” in Human, All Too Human. And, therefore, with only my thread in mind to prevent from being overcome by the current, I will let Nietzsche speak for himself.
Logic too depends on presuppositions with which nothing in the real world corresponds, for example on the presupposition that there are identical things, that the same thing is identical at different points of time: but this science came through the opposite belief (that such conditions do obtain in the real world). (Nietzsche 1996, p. 16/aphorism 11).
Thus there comes to be constructed habitual rapid connections between feelings and thoughts which, if they succeed one another with lightning speed, are in the end no longer experienced as complexes but as unities. It is in this sense of the moral feelings, of the religious feelings, as though these were simple unities: in truth, however, they are rivers with a hundred tributaries and sources. Here too, as so often, the unity of the word is no guarantee of the unity of the thing. (Nietzsche 1996, p. 19/aphorism 14).
The invention of the laws of numbers was made on the basis of error, dominant even from the earliest times, that there are identical things (but in fact nothing is identical with anything else); at least that there are things (but there is no ‘thing’). The assumption of plurality always presupposes the existence of something that occurs more than once: but precisely here error already holds sway, here already we are fabricating beings, unities which do not exist. –Our sensations of space and time are false, for tested consistently they lead to logical contradictions. The establishment of conclusions in science always unavoidably involves us in calculating with certain false magnitudes: but because these magnitudes are at least constant, as for example are our sensations of time and space, the conclusions of science acquire a complete rigorousness and certainty in their coherence with one another; one can build on them—up to that final stage at which our erroneous basic assumptions, those constant errors, come to be incompatible with our conclusions, for example in the theory of atoms. (Nietzsche 1996, p. 22/aphorism 19)
Here we have the reason for the fallibility of science. Every generalization inevitably covers over details that will, in some future time, make themselves known. Like the intricacies of a woman’s body beneath her dress, generalizations conceal great secrets lying beneath, secrets of uniqueness. Reality can be forced into formulae only to a certain degree before the missed or discarded details rally up to be heard. Science does not deliver Truth. No, it delivers technology. Beyond this, science is merely philosophy, bearing many-to-one and proportion-to-equality reductions. All is not water, nor is it magnitude. All is analogy.
31.
And so I conclude this aphoristic gallop through history. It is my abundant hope that my thread has been received with squinting of eyes and tilting of heads, as maybe I am right in saying that this thread warrants the pedestal. But, of course, it seems that maybe I should conclude with more than just a reaffirmation of my thesis. Maybe I should give a moral to this story, try my hand at asserting something further, and say what may be extracted from this history, at least in my eyes. What have I learned?
Well, if I am to do this, let me do it with some bombast and flare, while at the same time give care to brevity, as this history has gone on long enough. And hopefully the history I have presented will be enough to back my claims and justify my brevity.
Epistemology, how we form knowledge, takes place through analogy. How we learn language itself takes place through analogy. Words are unities that represent a plurality. For us to make the associations between a grouping of things and to classify them under the category of a word is to make the comparisons and mentally sense the proportions. When we say we know something, there are analogies that underlie this claim that generally go beyond our consciousness.
However, Knowledge and Truth are teleological terms, a distant bull’s-eye to be forever aimed at, but never hit. Our analogies are more or less perfect, equalities never actually achieved, because all things are unique. We draw closer to Knowledge and Truth, but we can never reach it and we have no criterion to judge if we have. Mystery will forever be with humanity, and with it the beautiful, the sublime, the unknown, the scary, the surprising. The journey is infinite and, thus, must be enjoyed for its own sake. Every new generation may think they have come to something true about this existence, but at best they came to a more or less precise view. Epistemology consists in a precision of proportion. It is a degree of resemblance of analogues, a more or less, but void of a beginning or an end, void of the existence of the finish line, of the perfect resemblance, the equality. It is true that we must posit the possibility of Truth and Knowledge—the bulls-eye must be there for the teleology—but let our modesty assent to the necessary mirage gracing the horizon, the unattainable goal that nevertheless beckons us to come. We should not frown upon the mirage, but look back upon humanity’s journey toward sharpening the knife of knowledge, and feel a deep sense of nostalgia.
But now, in our present age, is it possible that the degree of precision reached is possibly too sharp for the clumsy hands of humanity? Many feel technology may have passed far beyond our understanding of its long-term implications…
This, however, takes us into the arena of ethics, possibly an ethics of proportion. And, that might be another paper for another time.
Works Cited
Aristotle. 2002. Nichomachean Ethics. Trans. Joe Sachs. Newburyport: Focus.
Descartes, René. 2000. Philosophical Essays and Correspondence. Ed. Roger Ariew.
Indianapolis: Hackett.
Hume, David. 1993. An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding. 2nd ed. Ed. Eric
Steinberg. Indianapolis: Hackett.
Hume, David. 1992. Treatise of Human Nature. Buffalo: Prometheus.
Kant, Immanuel. 2003. Critique of Pure Reason. Trans. J.M.D. Meiklejohn. Mineola:
Dover.
Nietzsche, Friedrich. 1996. Human, All Too Human. Trans. R.J. Hollingdale. New York:
Cambridge University Press.
Nietzsche, Friedrich. 1962. Philosophy in the Tragic Age of the Greeks. Trans.
Marianne Cowan. Washington D.C.: Regnery.
Plato. 2007. Republic. Trans. Joe Sachs. Newburyport: Focus.
Plato. 2008. Timaeus and Critias. Trans. Robin Waterfield. New York: Oxford
University Press.
Wittkower, Rudolf. 1960. “The Changing Concept of Proportion.” Daedalus Vol. 89,
No. 1: 199-215.#154,299textWresting with Gods
by Jeremiah Hawkins
I.
Within a wintry Michigan valley
I lie atop the earth, beneath the wind
The ground is cold, hard, brown and bumpy
the ground is rough and unforgiving
Transmission towers scattered throughout
ashen icy trophies
a thick stockade
basking in lunar bath
Across searing tower pinnacles
race power lines, lines of power
outward and inward
sideways and backward
weaving a web-like netting
separating
me from the heavens, the heavens from me
I meditate on
the moon beyond the metal
Am I but a stone in those heavens
coursing through ordained orbit?
Is my folly solely my wiring
like the netting above?
Are my ethics and defects simply
the laws of effects following cause?
I do not accept
yes
II.
You, Old Men, fathers of things held dear
cast aside for a time
your airy immortality
and sit before the vanity, for your
eternal makeup to flow down
Your blistering eye of discovery
falls gently upon proper things
but heavy upon me, heavy upon itself
heavy upon you
seeing not a soul
but a gene
not a free agent
a mere machine.
Know my path when my path knows me
and I know not
Predict me, oh fathers, and you
morph my freedom to myth
But beware I predict you your prediction of me
And whip you with your own tail.
Is my threat but a jest
sowing the scoff before the laugh?
Or do I posit argument
a paradox for your pondering?
Regardless your answer
I reject your paternal pandering
and will
nurture my nature against it, as my
youthful rebellion has fully
yet to begin
I shall reach out and rend the soft-scented sun
of tomorrow
beyond the reach of your prophecy
bottle its heavenly arms in my breast
near my core
and then
await the waking of the night
and upon twilit dreams
fade the causal throng
and heal the child’s sore.
III.
I sink into silence
Did my syllogism satisfy?
I ask myself
Unto whom must satisfaction fall?
The sun rising from beneath the horizon
whispers subtle reply
My face once constricted and contorted
warms and thaws,
brow unburdening the eye.
My hand seeks a stick to my left
My thumb secures itself along a knotted portion
I tap with a low-pitch ting
the pillar’d beam.
And thus my judgment
Rendered
I close my eyes to listen
to the pebble into the pond,
the epicenter with its ripples
smoothly expanding out.
I slowly sit up.
I breathe in the brisk morning air.
I feed on the edge of an echo.
The remainder of this day
I am sustained
Until tomorrow morning
I return.#154,292textJeremiah Hawkins
Laplace’s Angel
There is no place like Laplace, the safest place on Earth!
Come bask in the beauty of our rolling hills and sleek roads rollicking amidst marble and granite feats of architecture. Come find tranquility in the town like no other, a haven where you can take a serene sail along our restful river as it winds itself past our PGA envied golf course, our fifty-three Zen gardens, our Comeback Corner – an awe-inspiring, jaw dropping shopping district. And so much more!
But most of all, come experience the freeness of safety provided by Laplace’s Angel, the technological phenomenon developed by the latest and greatest in quantum physics. Laplace’s Angel utilizes micro radar, advanced MRI and X-ray (filtered for safe use), as well as atomic and molecular tracking to predict well ahead of time dangerous and terrorizing events in order to prevent them. With their large, round eyes – able to see into the darkest of places – our angelic satellites are shaped like owls and can be seen on every light pole and in every public establishment. The data they record is transmitted to the Mega Quantum Computer located…
Dave tossed the brochure back to Henry, sliding it along the smooth bar. It came to a stop against a rocks glass half filled with whiskey. Henry picked it up.
“Did you see how much it costs to move here now?” asked Henry.
“No, I didn’t make it that far,” Dave said, staring down at his cranberry juice, rotating the glass and wishing it were mixed with vodka.
“Ten point three million dollars, my friend. Wow. It was less than a million when I came.” Henry took a sip and crunched on a cube of ice. “Did you see your bio? It’s gotten shorter.”
“I didn’t see it,” said Dave with squinted eyes.
“It says you’ve been here a year.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, it says you’ll be here for eleven more.” Henry tossed the brochure back to Dave.
“What? Eleven?” Dave’s face contorted as he flipped to the bio section where one could be introduced to nine government officials and staff members via headshot and short blurb. Dave’s picture was last. “Gilbrithe thinks he’s already won the bet,” Dave said, shaking his head, referring to his shrewd boss who was overall in charge of the security of Laplace.
“He’s toying with you,” said Henry.
Dave didn’t respond but merely sat there with a focused, determined stare. Henry, a tall man of at least sixty years of age (and the most powerful man in the field of pharmaceuticals), peered at his drinking buddy’s disposition. “You want to try my newest? It’s probably my best yet. But it’s expensive and only available to Laplace citizens. I’ve got samples.”
“What, the Chuckler? No thanks.”
“Do you always have to nickname my pharmaceuticals?” Henry chuckled. “You’re a funny guy, Dave. Hey, you’re going to try again today, aren’t you?”
“Shhh!” Dave mouthed.
“It’s a rhetorical question,” Henry said. “The only days you don’t drink are days you try. Plus, you have that look, you know, the squinted eyes and absent mind.” Henry scratched his chin. “Yep, you’re going to try today. You’re on sixteen, right?”
“What?”
“You’ve been arrested sixteen times.”
“Nineteen,” Dave said, trying to send his mind somewhere else.
“Nineteen? Whoa. Only one more shot. One single, final attempt. Just one. Well, that explains the brochure. DERT is slipping away, my friend.”
“Dammit, Henry!” said Dave in a sudden, unexpected outburst. “You’re trying to ruin this for me, I know it. You’re an evil man. Talk about something else, will you?”
Dave looked up at the shiny, polished, stainless steel owl hanging from the ceiling in the corner beside a speaker, its large eyes covered in small LED lights of red, green and yellow. None of them blinked and Dave sighed in relief.
The bartender, a large man with a disproportionately high-pitched voice, heard Dave’s outburst and strutted over.
“Hey guys, whatcha…,” the bartender said before he stopped, his smile fading, staring at Dave who was staring at the owl. “Hey Dave, there’s nothing wrong with it, is there?
“It’s working fine, Rick,” Dave said.
“Whew, that’s good to hear,” Rick said, placing his chubby hand against the bar and leaning. “You wouldn’t believe how much money I lost the last time that thing went down. Now, don’t get me wrong”—Rick chuckled—“I’m really grateful you came and fixed it so quickly, but it took days before my customers returned. One lady told me she couldn’t feel safe. You wanna know why? Because she couldn’t be sure terrorists weren’t hiding in the stalls of the lady’s room!”
“Rick, don’t worry yourself,” Henry said. “You’ve read the brochure. We have the best quantum engineer money can buy right here. Quantaco Industries only takes the best.” He patted Dave on the back. “Nope, nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah, I saw that,” Rick said. “Hey Dave, your bio was shorter and different. I thought your contract was up in five years. Did you sign another one?”
“Absolutely not,” Dave said, low browed, emphasizing every syllable.
“I didn’t think so,” Rick said. “I mean, as much as you hate this place, I couldn’t imagine you signing on for more. Though, I have no idea why you hate it here. Everyone is so easy going and smiling all the time.” Rick smiled and then squealed, “It’s a happy place!”
Dave shifted on his bar stool, attempting to shake off the chronic agitation. He took a deep breath and looked up at the owl to assure the LED dotted eyes were still unlit.
“You want another cranberry juice, Dave?” Rick asked.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Okey-dokey,” said Rick with a high pitch chuckle. “Just yell if you need something.”
Henry sipped from his glass, and then said, “Hey, I forgot to ask, how’s meditation working out for you?”
“My ass hurts. I’ve meditated so much this past month, my ass is sore. Seriously.”
With a chuckle Henry said, “Why don’t you sit on your bed or couch?”
“The book said the floor, so I sit on the floor,” Dave said matter-of-factly, words creeping out in a concentrated monotone.
“Well, other than that, is it working? You able to control your emotions better?”
“Yeah, it’s working.”
Henry paused, staring at Dave with a sly smile. “It’s his birthday today, you know.”
“Whose?”
“Oh, don’t give me that. Gilbrithe’s, of course. Everybody knows, and everybody’s going to be there.”
“Oh yeah.” Dave squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating.
“I’m playing golf at three, so the party is being pushed back a couple hours.”
“Yeah, I heard. Huh, scheduling the party around your golf game.” Dave shook his head. “Why would they do that?”
“Didn’t I tell you? I’m very rich.”
“Walked right into that one,” Dave said. This was not the first time Henry had answered a question with, “Didn’t I tell you I’m rich?”
“So, you going to the party?”
Dave was about to answer when a single yellow LED on the left eye of the owl-shaped satellite blinked. Dave caught it in the corner of his eye. He stiffened.
Damn, he said to himself. No, no, no… Okay, breathe, clear your mind, relax.
Just then a table behind him suddenly roared into machine gun bursts of obnoxious chuckling. Electric shock raced through Dave and his eyes shot open. He squeezed his glass of cranberry juice and gritted his teeth. Two yellow LED’s on the owl blinked, one on each eye.
Dave stood up and said to Henry, “I gotta get out of here. Tell Rick I’ll get him tomorrow.”
-------------
After leaving the pub, Dave walked down the polished hardwood sidewalk tracing alongside marble and granite shops. He meditatively paced his breathing as he filtered through Laplace pedestrians—an extremely fashionable populace, to say the least. All were designed by designer labels, all trimmed to the newest fads (setting the newest fads!), all sculpted to plastic perfection by plastic surgery, botox’d so tightly they’ve lost circulation to their brains. All chuckling. And, of course, all terribly irritating to no fluff Dave.
In the pub, Henry had read Dave’s body language correctly; his final attempt to win the wager was in fact on the agenda, and Dave felt more pressure this time than all the times before. He had invested so much time, planning, work and meditation into this attempt. He constructed a primary plan, a contingency plan, and a contingency plan B. He couldn’t fail this time or he would be doomed to sign another contract for another six years (on top of his current six year contract) in the Quantaco Industries post of Laplace, the fakest place on Earth.
No, he absolutely could not fail. He had to win.
Winning earned him an immediate (immediate within reason, of course) transfer to Dixon Environmental Research Terminal—DERT for short—a Quantaco Industries post that proved terribly difficult for quantum engineers to get into. The few positions available were usually filled internally; meaning, an engineer transferred in from some other post.
And thus, the reason for Dave’s utterly miserable presence in Laplace.
------------
Marching across a small arching bridge, over the Restful River, Dave decided to stop at one of the fifty-three Zen gardens to meditate. This particular garden was squeezed between two shops, once probably a shop itself before the front walls were knocked out.
The walls were painted with a Garden of Eden theme; leaf covered Adam and Eve held hands on the back wall and a serpent, winding through overhead branches on the ceiling, smiled at the metallic owl in the corner. The ground was padded with velvety artificial turf—no chiggers or prickly stickers to cause discomfort.
Dave sat down to meditate beneath a Styrofoam tree.
Seated with his feet atop his knees, a painful position for him, his thoughts drifted to the ‘distraction’ that brought him to this garden beside this splinter-free tree. A single passionate distraction, one almost as effective as drinking, that enabled Dave to make it through his first year in plastic-laden Laplace.
Now, Dave believed from the beginning that the principle of Laplace’s Angel was flawed. And he yearned to prove it. This foundational principle, to put it technically, stated that an unbroken chain of events (past and present) determines the future, making it predictable. Thus, rendering free will an illusion.
And, as with so many other things in Dave’s no fluff mathematical existence, this claim irritated him to no end.
And so, like Newton locked away in his room utterly enchanted with exploring the universe, Dave distracted himself with philosophizing over Laplace’s Angel. However, he never dreamed it could possibly get him into DERT sooner.
One day while eating an apple beneath a thermoplastic tree near work, he discovered the heavily sought after fallacy. Excitement flared up within him. He told Henry first, who simply snickered at him. He told Rick next, but after a long expressive explication, Rick’s only response was, “Dave, my friend, you slurred twenty-seven times during all that. I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have to cut you off.”
Gilbrithe, his shrewd boss, was the only one who appeared interested. He actually listened and tried to understand Dave. However, he didn’t agree with him. And so a longstanding philosophical debate sprouted, a display of no fluff quintessential manly stubbornness and pride. Dave loved it.
“I tell you what,” Gilbrithe said, sitting in his office across from Dave, reddened by what could have been the twentieth casual round of debate spread out over a month’s time, “let’s end this, now. I want you to prove it.”
“I have!” Dave exclaimed.
“No, not just in theory.” Gilbrithe leaned forward. “Beat the machine. And you know what? If you can do that, I’ll give you your transfer.”
Dave’s eyes widened. “What, you’ll, what? Yeah, sure, okay. Um—”
“But you can’t tamper with it. In fact, if there’s anything wrong with the machine—and I’ll have in-depth diagnostics performed on it—you lose. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll give you twenty attempts, each marked by an arrest. By the twentieth arrest, you lose. “
“What do I lose?”
Gilbrithe smiled. “You must stay here for another six years after your current contract is up.”
Dave paused.
“You’re on.”
---------
A dog yapped from the sidewalk as Dave sat peacefully beneath his tree in the Garden of Eden searching for a pinch of enlightenment.
Without opening his eyes he knew by the sound that it was one of those silly, shaved, stick figure, cotton shish-kabob poodles. They were everywhere in Laplace and Dave hated those things.
He slowly opened his eyes, peacefulness still intact despite the big poodle. He stood up and trekked out of the garden and onto the sidewalk.
It’s time, Dave thought.
He proceeded to follow the lady and her big poodle down the polished hardwood sidewalk. He focused intently on the animal. He forced himself to love the dog and yearn to pet it, for he needed the owl to pick up on his amiable intention and not his deeper, truer intention. If he could build the actual emotion of affection, he figured the owl would sense that and nothing else.
He imagined the big poodle saving a child from a burning building; he imagined it walking on its hind legs and doing flips; he imagined it retrieving a beer for its master.
He truly felt like petting it now.
Just then the nearest owl flashed a couple red LED’s.
“Damn,” he mumbled.
Dave suddenly glanced down and spotted a stone and proceeded to run at it, his eyes focused. Reaching the stone, he kicked it, causing it to scurry towards the dog. It struck the dog’s back right paw. A screeching sound emanated from the big poodle like a siren—“Arrr! Arrr!” —as it jumped into the air.
The gray-haired female owner, decked out in sparkly apparel, turned and yelled, “Oh dear me! Cynthia-sue, are you all right!” The woman looked up at Dave who said he was sorry and presented her with a slight bow. At first she scowled at Dave as if about to breathe fatal elitist fire on him. But then her face surprisingly relaxed, and a whimsical smile formed.
She chuckled and went on her way.
Then, in Dave’s peripheral vision, he noticed red rapidly flashing lights. It was a nearby owl with its own fiery scowl bearing down on Dave. But this scowl, he knew, would not fade into a chuckle. And so Dave merely folded his arms, leaned back against the marble building, and waited.
Within seconds a Safety Officer—a man in black shorts and a bright red short-sleeved, button-up shirt—raced out of a shop two doors down from where Dave leaned, studying a rectangular hand-held device called a mobile monitor. Dave knew this device was leading the Safety Officer to him.
Upon reaching Dave, the officer placed his hand on his shoulder and said, “All right, Dave, you know the drill. Let’s go.”
“Yes, I do,” Dave said and allowed himself to be escorted to jail for the twentieth time.
-----------
A guard guided Dave into a room with which he was all too familiar, a room with a sign above the entrance that read, “Tank for Minor Imminent Offenses.”
Once Dave was in the room, the door mechanically slid shut from both ends like a lightweight, speedier elevator door. He grabbed Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground from the bookcase, happy to see that his bookmark (a wrinkled, thinning piece of paper with his own no fluff poem titled Wrestling with Gods scrawled on it) remained in place. He then proceeded to his favorite reclining chair situated directly below a Kandinsky original. There were three other inmates in the tank with Dave, two adolescents and one older gentleman.
“How are ya?” the older gentlemen asked Dave.
“Good, actually,”
“I’m Charles. That’s Johnny over there, and the napping one over there on the sofa”—he chuckled—“is Chuck.”
“I’m Dave.”
“You know why you’re here?” asked Johnny, a boy of about eighteen with spiked hair wearing mascara and eyeliner.
Before Dave had a chance to answer, Charles said, “He hasn’t been to see the Clarifier, yet, Johnny.”
“I kicked a rock and hit a big poodle,” said Dave with mathematical precision.
“What, did the guard who arrested you tell you were going to do that?” Johnny asked. “You can’t trust those jackasses. They usually don’t know why they’re arresting someone, and even if they do, they won’t tell you. They’re just puppets to those stupid boxes in their hands.”
“No,” Dave shook his head, “I know for a fact that’s why I’m here.”
“So, you’re on the wrong block.” Charles leaned forward. “If you knew that’s what you were going to do, you should be in the Tank for Premeditated Offenses sitting on recycled chairs.”
“It was premeditated, yes, but you’re not listening to me. I said I kicked a rock and hit a big poodle. The suffix ‘ed’ denotes past tense. “ Dave took a deep breath.
“It was intentional?” Charles asked, a bit of a dazed look on his face.
“Yes, it was intentional.”
Charles paused. He then chuckled and said, “No, no, no, that’s impossible. They assured me that was impossible.”
Dave leaned forward and said, “Why are you here, Charles?”
“In about thirty minutes or so I was going to get into a tussle with a young lady and she slaps me at some point. Or, at least, that’s what they told me, in so many words. Also, since she has little ones, they arrested me, which I don’t mind. I would rather be here than getting slapped. You know?” He chuckled again.
“Do you truly believe all this would have transpired? I mean, really?” Dave asked, placing his book on the crystal side table.
“Well, of course,” Charles said. “Cause and effect, right? It makes sense. I did the research well before I forked out the money to come to this wonderful town. The future is dictated solely by the past and present. I mean, it’s the cornerstone of science, right?”
“Let me ask you this, Charles. Why couldn’t they just tell you the prediction instead of arresting you? Could you change the future outcome if you knew the prediction? Meaning, could you have avoided the argument with the lady, altogether?”
“Well, no. I don’t know, maybe. What are you trying to say?”
“Okay, think about this. Almost a year ago, I was working on a transmission error between a satellite owl and a mobile monitor. After repairing it, an experiment occurred to me. I programmed it to predict my future action at 3:30pm, which was five minutes away. It first said that I would pack up my tools. So, I started packing up my tools right then at 3:25. The monitor did a funny thing. It went white all over and then gave a new prediction, saying I would walk past Scintillating Sasha clothing store. Of course, I decided not to walk that direction. So, you know, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. The machine and I went back and forth like this until right up to 3:30 when the monitor flashed, ‘Error: Paradox of Idiopathic Origin.’” Dave paused for effect. “So, what do you make of that, Charles? Is this whole thing based on cause and effect like science? Or, is it knowledge? Does it not sound like a bit of a chess match where the one who predicts with the most precision wins?”
“I… I don’t know.” Charles said, no longer chuckling. “What are you trying to say exactly? I mean, I paid millions of dollars to be here, and now you, apparently an engineer, are telling me that Laplace’s Angel doesn’t—I don’t know—work like they said.”
Dave looked from Charles to Johnny, whose eyes were wide and lips stretched into a mischievous smirk. Chuck was even sitting up now.
And so no nonsense Dave did the math.
This could be bad, Dave thought. If Charles and/or this punk kid spread the news of this and cause numerous citizens to leave Laplace, Quantaco Industries might very well become upset with me. Even fire me! Henry and Rick are trustworthy, yes, but I don’t know these people. Though, what are the odds they will be able to recall the argument enough to persuade others? Damn, it doesn’t matter. Okay, take it back!
“Dave!” a guard yelled. “Let’s go. It’s time for Clarification.”
“Clarification? Hold on! Give me a second.”
Dave turned his attention back to the three inmates and, in rapid speech, began, “Look, that was a long time ago. It was all a matter of lambda waves and entropy, you see. Disorder entered the system momentarily, but it was just noise, easily fixed. Don’t you see? It’s all deterministic, just one big spring shooting outward since the Big Bang. We can’t do anything about it. We can’t change it. It’s causality! Space, time, motion, energy, mass, acceleration, momentum, velocity. There is a huge wall there that we can’t penetrate no matter how hard we beat our heads against it. Don’t you see? But! The machine that we invented and created can. Remember that! It was just a temporary glitch. The machine knows! It keeps us safe and secure. It makes us free, free from fear. Those owls up there, they’re never wrong. Trust me, it’s true. Trust me.”
Dave took a breath. Charles stared at him with a confounded expression. Johnny’s smirk fell flat.
Silence permeated the cell.
Then, Charles said with a newfound look of confidence, “Ah, I see. Okay. So, you’re certain about that?”
Without hesitation, Dave replied, “Charles, I’m as certain as twice two makes four.”
-------------
The Clarification room was a cozy little den. Flames flittered in a corner fireplace. Lit candles and flowers speckled the room in various vases and holders, and the smell was of strong, nose-stinging potpourri. A cherry wood dining room table sat in the middle with padded, silk upholstered chairs.
Dave, sitting across from a man and a woman, snacked on cookies and celery from a tray on the table.
“Today of all days, huh Dave?” Dave’s probation officer, Hillary, asked, a cone-shaped hat on her head that read, “Happy Birthday!”
“Nice hat,” Dave said, provoking Hillary to remove it.
“Dave, this is William. I know you’ve seen him around, but probably never been introduced. He’s Internal Affairs.”
William was a young looking man—tall and lanky, dark haired. The arms of his sweater were tied around his chest with the rest of it sloped across his back like a cape.
“Well, let’s see here,” William said, still wearing the birthday hat while studying Dave’s file. “You are charged with manifesting a premeditated event. Interesting. Okay, it says here this is your twentieth arrest.” He whistled his amazement and turned the page. “Um, hmmm, you spend most of your time either at the pub down the street, meditating on the floor with a sense of chronic buttocks pain, or throwing a ball against the outside of your loft in deep thought about many subjects. Whoa, wow! You’re able to hit the same spot every time.” He looked up with a chuckle. “I can’t hit the broad side of a building.” He looked back down at the file. “Very good, very good. Okay, yeah, um, here we go. As we all know, you’re the guru of Laplace’s Angel. So, I suppose the question we need to answer is pretty clear.” He looked up. “Did you tamper with it so that you could hurt that big poodle this afternoon?”
“No,” Dave said.
William glanced down at a mobile monitor. “It says you’re telling the truth; that you’ve been working on the fire alarm system this last month. Oh, and also the security alert system. Okay. I’m glad you’re being honest. That makes things so much easier.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” William said. “So, did you mean to hit the big poodle?”
“Yes, very much so.”
“Okay, I see. Then the charge is correct. That isn’t good. This is a first. Well, do you not like dogs?”
“I love dogs. I love animals in general.”
“So, why hurt Cynthia-sue?”
“Well, it mostly has to do with DERT. It’s a long story.”
“I see. I see. Okay.” He chuckled.
Hillary shifted in her chair and said, “So, what happened, Dave?”
“I need to speak to Gilbrithe,” Dave replied.
“No, that’s not possible,” William said. “It’s his birthday today, as I’m sure you well know. He’s on a tight schedule. Almost everyone is here already. It’s a big deal.”
“What I have to say is extremely important.”
“Dave, come on,” Hillary said, “you can see him tomorrow.”
“It’s very important. You don’t understand.”
“It can wait,” William said with a carefree wave of his hand.
“No!” Dave exclaimed with unexpected volume. “It can’t! Don’t you see? I manifested a premeditated event! I’ve proven the machine isn’t what we thought it was. Now, if you don’t let me see him, all hell could break loose!”
“What could happen?” Hillary asked.
“Look! I don’t know. Mrs. So-and-So could get angry with Mrs. Yo-Yo and kick her, or something. And you know how fast gossip spreads around here. If citizens doubt the machine, tons of money could be lost. I really need to talk to Gilbrithe!”
William and Hillary looked at each other and then William looked down at his watch.
“Well, I suppose it’s good to be on the safe side. I’m sure a small meeting with Mr. Gilbrithe won’t be such a big deal.”
“I agree,” Hillary said.
A few minutes after William and Hillary left the room, Joe, the Chief Safety Officer, entered—a stocky man with a square, chiseled face, a buzz cut, and wrinkles adorning his eyes like military achievement medals.
“Dave, Dave, Dave, you just can’t help yourself, can you? I woke up this morning—and you can ask my wife, if you don’t believe me—I told her that I bet Dave gives us trouble today.”
“Really,” Dave responded with a no nonsense nod.
“Yeah, and just to think, if I could predict it, why couldn’t the machine?”
“That’s a good point, Joe. You ought to ponder that some more when you get the time.”
“Ponder? I try to stay away from doing stuff like that. Pondering and policing don’t go well together. But, come on, let’s get you to Mr. Gilbrithe’s office. We both know how punctual he tries to be.”
“I know the way, Joe. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
“Yeah, I do, but this little contraption of yours is ordering me to escort you,” Joe said, looking down at his mobile monitor.
Dave peered up at the owl in the corner of the Clarification room and thought, What do you foresee? You know something. Very well, then. Let the chess game continue. I’m ready.
---------
Mr. Gilbrithe’s office was located on the thirty-first floor of the Central Federal Facility, many stories above the Engineering floor and Public Safety floor. Joe and Dave entered from the east door via a long, rectangular administrative office containing a series of three desks with three attractive female secretaries.
The office smelled like morning forest. All the furniture was constructed of mahogany, the chairs plush and leather. On a corner table, a humidifier motored. In the other three corners stood tall fichus trees, one of which extended up to the ceiling, slightly camouflaging the silver owl. A portrait portraying a tropical scene hung beside the west door, which led into a large conference room.
“Joe, did the mobile monitor tell you why you were supposed to escort me?” Dave slyly asked, breaking the silence.
“Nope,” Joe said, standing between the east door and a fire alarm button.
“I see.”
“Hey,” Joe said, “you coming down for cake after this?”
“No, I don’t foresee that.”
“I heard they’ll have chocol—”
Gilbrithe, a plump jolly looking man, entered the office from the east door carrying a file.
“Joe, how’s it goin’?” he said, slapping Joe on the shoulder.
“Good, sir.”
“All right,” he began with a sigh and a slide into his plush chair, reading the file in one hand and smoothing his gray hair with the other. “You did something a little different today, Dave. It says here that you ‘manifested a premeditated offense on a big poodle.’” Gilbrithe paused, maintaining a downward gaze.
“I beat it, Tom,” Dave said matter-of-factly.
“What? Is that why you so desperately wanted to see me?” Gilbrithe asked.
“Yes. I should have gotten arrested before I struck the big poodle. But I wasn’t, and I committed the act.”
Shaking his head, Gilbrithe said, “No. You kicked a dog, Dave.”
“No, I kicked a rock into a dog, Tom.”
“It was a dog.”
“So what?” Dave asked, his voice a bit raised.
“The machine doesn’t care about the animals. It wasn’t concerned.”
“Concerned? Are you serious? If it didn’t care, why did it have me arrested after the fact?”
Gilbrithe paused to ponder this question. “I don’t know. Maybe because of the distress you caused the owner.”
“Oh, come on, Tom! That’s ridiculous. I beat the machine and that’s that.”
“No, you didn’t. But, I’ll tell you what, I won’t count this arrest because it’s in the gray area. You’re still at nineteen. I think that’s a fair compromise.”
Dave glanced over at Joe and then up at the owl behind the fichus.
So, that’s why Joe’s here, Dave thought. You knew something more would happen. Very well then.
“Fine,” Dave said and then closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing.
“Good,” Gilbrithe said, shutting the file.
Okay, relax, free your mind, Dave thought. It’s time. Everything is set up. I can do this. Calm down.
Once he was clear-headed, he stood and turned to his left and focused on the fire alarm button encased in glass next to Joe. After he took one step, Joe’s mobile monitor beeped and Joe looked down.
“That’s strange,” Joe mumbled, and then slid one step to his left, placing himself between Dave and the fire alarm on the east wall.
Dave stopped.
Dammit! Nice move. Okay, Think!
“Joe, will you please move?” Dave asked.
Looking back down at his monitor, Joe said, “I can’t do that, Dave.”
“What are you doing?” asked Gilbrithe.
Dave looked at Gilbrithe and then spotted a heavy, dense, polished stone paperweight on the desk. His mathematical no fluff mind jostled through future scenarios, piecing together a puzzle of his own design. Then, like a slot machine hitting the jackpot, a future chain of events struck Dave’s consciousness, a series of deadly chess moves.
“It ends here, Tom,” Dave said.
“What ends here?”
Dave walked towards Gilbrithe and slowly and carefully picked up the stone, his mind half in his imaginary future and half in the present.
“What are you doing with that?” Gilbrithe asked.
Dave then turned towards Joe and allowed his anger to return from its repressive basement. He needed his anger to flare up and he needed the owl to see it.
He imagined Joe smashing the windows to his loft, sleeping with his High School girlfriend, kicking his grandmother. His anger grew. Then, he simply remembered the truth: Joe stood between Dave and DERT.
Dave’s right hand reared back, stone in tight, white-knuckled grip, his face red.
You better tell him to move, Dave thought. I’m truly angry and I’m going to throw it.
“Whoa, Dave what are you doing?” Joe asked, raising his hands to chest level.
“I need you to move, Joe. I really need you to move. You don’t know how much I need you to move. And this rock smashing your nose will do just that.”
“Dave, settle down,” Gilbrithe pleaded, his hand stretched out towards Dave. “We can work something out here.”
Joe looked down at his monitor, again.
Dave thought of all he hated about Laplace and loved about DERT. He raised his arm, his red eyes set on Joe.
There was a brief silence.
Then, just as Dave suddenly brought his arm rapidly forward to propel the rock, Joe’s mobile monitor beeped. Joe heard the beep and saw Dave’s release and then gracefully leapt out of the way. The stone, continuing its course, collided violently with the fire alarm button, emitting a loud crashing sound of shattered glass. An alarm sounded. The eyes of the owl in the corner blinked furiously amidst the fichus foliage.
“Check! Your move!” Dave said aloud to the owl as he dashed to the west door opposite Joe, who was still on the floor. The west door, due to the alarm system, was already closing when Dave sprinted through.
Dave listened with a feeling of grand achievement to his handiwork, an alarm consisting of a soothing female voice saying, “This is a security alert. There has been a breach. Please remain where you are,” and then a male voice, with a rough tone, exclaiming, “FIRE, FIRE, FIRE!” followed by four loud DONGS.
Dave, now within the conference room, hit a button on his watch to start a timer and pressed his ear to the door. He heard a few taps from the other side.
Then, Joe’s muffled voice said, “It won’t open, sir.”
“Go that way. All rooms lead to the main hallway. Find him.”
Just a few more seconds, Dave thought, staring down at his watch. Stay put, Tom, stay put.
The alarm continued, “…has been a breach. Please remain where you are. FIRE, FIRE FIRE! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! This is a security…”
Then, the west door slid open and Dave walked back into the office. He turned around to witness the west door slide shut behind him, then the east door in front of him. Dave and Gilbrithe were now encaged in the office alone.
“What the hell is going on, Dave?”
“I beat the machine,” Dave said calmly.
“How can you say that? It looks like you’re trapped. It won’t be long before you’re arrested. And, let me add, for the twentieth time. I’m not letting this one go!”
“Who do you think is controlling the doors right now, Tom?”
“The machine, of course.”
Dave looked at his watch and strolled confidently to the east door.
“I’m sorry to have done this on your birthday, but what other day would every Safety Officer in Laplace be in the building at the same time?”
“Exactly. You can’t get out of here without being arrested.”
“Tom, all the doors in the building are locked shut by the security system programmed to contain a criminal. Only certain doors at certain times will momentarily open, and none of them are near the auditorium where everyone is. Once one opens—and only one will do so at any given time—I will be there to walk through it. Then, the next one will open. Do you see? It’s like a serpentine domino effect that only I know. Well, I take that back, the machine will also know, but what can it do about it? No one can follow me and no one else will be able to leave the building. Don’t you see? I’ve tied the wrists of the machine. I can walk out and commit any crime I wish. No Safety Officer will be able to leave the party to arrest me. Tom, I can put the town in utter uproar. You understand?”
“You wouldn’t,” said Gilbrithe.
“Do I win the wager?”
Gilbrithe paused, glaring at Dave. Then his face calmed and a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He dropped his gaze on Dave and shook his head as one does when one gives up. The east door opened and Dave stepped through.
“Hey, how long are we trapped in here?” Tom asked.
“A couple hours.”
“A couple hours? Now, come on Dave, was that really necessary?”
With a no fluff chuckle and shrug, Dave said, “Probably not.” Then the door shut.
Dave turned and speedily walked past three gawking secretaries to his next assigned door. It opened right on time.
Traversing through each doorway, he either walked or ran depending upon the distance to the next, always thinking a few moves ahead. The machine couldn’t stop him.
The alarm was constant. “…FIRE, FIRE FIRE! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! This is a security…”
Exiting the stairwell into a tenth floor hallway, he encountered a young Safety Officer wearing a cone-shaped birthday hat and very much in a state of confusion. He stood still when the alarm told him to remain where he is, but then scrambled in frenzy to the closest door when the alarm yelled, “FIRE, FIRE, FIRE!” Then he stood still again when told to do so. And, all the while, he continued to glance down at his mobile monitor for instruction.
Dave came to a stop, his mouth agape.
What’s his name? he asked himself. Dammit! They all look the same! Nevermind. Just be calm.
“Dave, thank God! What’s going on?” the officer asked. “All the doors are locked and this thing is going crazy, blinking and beeping, telling me to arrest you when it should be telling me to find you so you can fix things, and those voices and noises are driving me crazy! The whole place has gone loony!”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dave said as he walked to his next door. “Stay here and I’ll clear things up. Just give me another hour and fifty-seven minutes.”
“An hour and what?” asked the officer as his mobile device beeped and blinked even
faster.
Dave’s next door opened and he passed through, leaving the obedient Safety
Officer behind.
As Dave neared the final door leading to the front of the building his thoughts were well ahead of his body, already tracing his steps to his favorite pub to sit on his favorite stool and have Rick pour his favorite no fluff gin and tonic.
However, when he opened that last door and walked out into a star-filled sky and stood face-to-face with the full moon, his mind returned to the now. He stood still. The air was calm and thick with the scent of a new season.
He turned around just as the door shut. His head tilted to the side.
Turning back around, he closed his eyes and imagined the drive to Dixon Environmental Research Terminal. A grin graced his face as he could almost smell the pine. He envisioned a grand mountain range, the bright moon hanging to the north sprinkling down its sheen and illuminating the numerous rippled peaks before bending to shadowy troughs, the night dimming the array of colors provided by day, a blanket of gray presenting an appearance of a sculpture, ancient and majestic.
Dave breathed in the moment and then peacefully looked up at a near-by machine. He whispered a single, victorious word: “Checkmate.”
“Well done, Dave,” a familiar voice called out from the shadows.
Dave looked in the direction of the sound and saw Henry sitting on a golden bench adjacent a Zen garden, a bag lying next to him.
“Henry, hey!” Dave exclaimed with electricity in his voice as he frolicked—in a bit of a fluffy manner—over to Henry’s bench. “I did it. I won. Finally!”
Henry stood up. “I’m excited for you. You’re on your way to DERT, huh?”
“Yeah, I am. Maybe not right away. I’m sure I’ll have to wait for my replacement and then I’ll have to train him. But, no bother! I’m a short timer, now!”
“Actually, you’re leaving in two days. Here’s your ticket.” Henry reached into his bag and produced a first class ticket to Colorado. Dave’s smile faded.
“What’s this?”
“You know what it is.”
“No, what’s going on? How did you—”
“Dave, my friend, it’s been fun drinking with you this past year and witnessing your little adventure. I think you’ve earned your transfer, at least, in my eyes.”
“Your eyes?”
“Yeah,” Henry said, reaching into his bag again and pulling out a mobile monitor, “my eyes.”
“What are you doing with that?”
“It said you’d be here right now. It said you would do everything you did tonight. By the way, the way you confused Charles, Johnny and Chuck in the holding tank was quite humorous. You were so disheveled. You’re a funny guy, Dave.”
“What? I don’t… but the other monitors, all the owls—“
“What about them? They played along, so to speak. I thought it was time for you to win your wager—it being your last attempt and all—so I helped out.”
“So, I didn’t really win?” Dave asked.
“Oh, let’s not get into semantics, eh?”
“How did you do this?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Henry asked with a sly smile. “I’m very, very rich.”
With wide eyes, Dave said, “Henry, you’re a demon, I swear it.”
“Come now, don’t be dramatic. You’d probably be stuck here for another eleven years if I hadn’t stepped in. I think it’s time to celebrate, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Dave said, his face in a dead stare at the ground.
As they commenced their trot away from the boxed up building to Rick’s pub, Henry said, “You better drink something a bit more potent than cranberry juice.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Dave said, “I’m going to get very, very drunk.”
Henry chuckled.#154,288text