Forget the Name of the One You Love
A novella by Scott Volentine
Copyright© 2011 Scott Volentine
Smashwords Edition
All characters and events in this novella are entirely fictional. Any similarities to actual people or events are entirely coincidental.
License Notes:
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The following transcript was composed through the ink of my pen over the course of a month. What emerged grew into its own form; it gained a life of its own. As the pages stretched out I felt a piece of my soul crystallize before my eyes. I saw the parts of my heart that cower in the light of the sun; I saw the grand dilemma. What I hope is that the dilemma that became exposed through my art also will lead to an answer. It’s easy to put the question into words, but the skin will be torn from your fingers before the right words come for the answer. All we can do is try our best; and, trust me, I have tried my best. So, for your reading pleasure:
What you should be feeling is the moment and as you watch you will see it fracture all around you, you will see the truth gleaming out of the rip with all seeing eyes just for a second before it hides away again, but as you turn to respond to the one sitting beside you, tightly ensconced in your arms, an expectant grin on her face, still the knowledge remains of the monster lurking within you, the passion surging up to consume you, but don’t fight the flow because once it has opened up it will continue until you drown or learn to swim. The tributaries you travel will not be from a map and the current is always changing, so don’t expect an Indian guide to appear and blaze a trail for you through the hill side. The two of you walking arm in arm will remain two lost souls flailing through the darkness but as long as you remain together, you will never be lost.
#
“Speak up,” she says, my golden one, arms clasped beneath her breasts as she stares through the underbrush at me. I’m hacking away at the vegetation with a machete while she just stands there watching me. This has been going on for at least an hour; I am soaked to the bone with sweat. My arms feel like rubber and my breath keeps catching in the stifling sweet air of the jungle.
Between gasps I manage to choke out, “Whadoyou wamme tosay?” I mean, I couldn’t think of anything to say and hell if I knew why she thought it so important.
She glares at me and snaps, “You know!”
Not this again, I think, no more mind games. But the trap has been set, so, with a sigh, I let the machete fall from my hand.
This is the life. Any semblance of order is merely accidental, so, man, you just have to groove with it. Grab that saxophone you’ve got hidden away in your closet from back when you had dreams and blow your heart away. It’s okay if you’re rusty. We all are. Just groove with what you’ve got and let it grow and let it consume you. Let the music flow through you and release your spirit to the vapors.
This is all you can do, and it’s all I can do, so I grin as she, my jungle girl, stalks through the underbrush towards me, pushing a fern from her face, a glint of fire in her eyes, cosmic energy flowing to me from under her hooded lids.
All I can do is laugh. “Hey there beautiful.”
Silent as a leopard she darts toward me, flinging herself into my arms, collapsing both in fits of giggles into the soft foam of the earth. With a grin in her eyes, she pecks me on the lips and, laughing, she says, “Please, can we rest for a bit?”
All I can do is laugh and kiss her back—this one longer, our bodies sighing, lying back into the cradle of the earth.
#
Grab a seat up at hawk’s eye view for a second. Soar up through the canopy and let the ether take you away. From this perspective all earthly matters seem trivial. The last remnants of worry drift away. Alone, your spirit is free, but the calls of flesh summon you back. Dive through blue infinity and retrace your steps through the jungle. Spider monkeys duel in the treetops, screaming hollow threats at your silent passing. In the darkness, only their eyeballs shine with light. The rotten leaves on the ground muffle your steps. A silent specter, the travel lasts but an instant but all life reveals itself in this moment, slumbering where it belongs.
In this caress of sleep the light draws you onward in anticipation of the coming dawn, the beam of clarity bursting through the dreamscapes. In absence of the press of day all that exists are dreams. Let yourself float through all your detached visions of a better tomorrow, for when dawn parts your eyes, in the jungle you still lie, enmeshed within a bed built of foliage, your true lover equally lost as you.
#
Look inside each other but dare not speak, the fire needs making and all the tasks have been assigned. She will gather firewood while you play up the embers. Start with sticks and twigs to catch that spark, that flame of life sparkling within the coals. Let it grow and spread to produce the heat needed to cook breakfast. Throw bigger sticks on. Toss in some logs for effect. The power is growing and soon it will mature: in infancy cared by me, now big enough to support itself. The fire crackles as I turn my attention to the provisions we have stored within my sack: a pile of cans. I grab one labeled baked beans and pry off the lid.
“Hey, Amy!”
From across the clearing she pauses, stooped to the ground. Grinning, she laughs, golden curls flashing signals in the sun, tumbling down her shoulders into the space between her breasts, slightly exposed by her blouse, the top button hanging loose in the folds of green fabric. Standing up, she brushes dirt from her jeans. She looks over at me and asks, “Yes?”
“Could you bring that pan over here?”
Deftly, she grabs the pan from beside her and waltzes back across the campsite in tune with her own beat, banging on the pan with her knuckles, stepping around the fire pit. As if she were holding a Christian relic, she proffers the pan to me, watching to see if I will accept it.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the pan from her hand. I begin to ladle the beans in there. Once the can is empty, I toss it away and stick the pan over the fire.
Sitting back, I wipe my hands on my jeans and look into the eyes of my partner. She looks into me, and like a bomb I explode as her voice flows from her mouth.
“Now that that’s done, what else is there to do?”
“Well, we have lots of things to do. Water, for one. While the beans cook, let’s go search for a stream.”
“Will we be able to find our way back here?”
“Yeah, yeah. It shouldn’t be too much trouble. Here, I’ll mark some trees to leave a trail.”
“Okay. I’ll follow you.”
“I know. Well, no sense deliberating any more. Which way do you want to go?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you decide?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, babe.”
“Hm… well,” Like a ballerina she spins on her heel, surveying the surrounding woods for any clue to the direction. Dumbfounded, she sighs, placing her hands on her hips. “Well, how about that way?” She points directly before her.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
Grabbing her hand, I dash forward to where she pointed, pausing, laughing, at a giant oak within sight of the crackling fire, etching an X with the sharpened blade of my machete. As we march forward I make sure to mark a tree every ten yards or so. And we search for water.
#
“I love you,” I whisper, though I know the thick branches muffle my voice. “Without you here I don’t know what I’d do. I remember the first time we met. Do you remember how we began talking as if we were just picking up a conversation from a couple minutes before? If I have to be lost in the jungle, I’m glad it’s with you.”
Too mushy, you think? Well, that may be so, but things like this do often happen to drift across your mind every once and a while just when you least expect it, when the gentle murmur of a jungle stream pauses you in your tracks and you take a deep breath to ease your lungs and happen to look to your right and see your object of affection standing beside you heaving for breath as well.
Letting this moment drift away, I pull the machete from its sheath and carve a quick X on the closest tree. Motioning to Amy, I say, “I can hear a stream pretty close. Follow me.”
Nodding in understanding, Amy walks up to my side and grasps my hand as we cut our way through the trees towards the flowing stream. Sidling around a mahogany, I spy the glint of sunlight playing off the foaming water swirling by in a shallow ravine.
Amy laughs and runs towards the stream, ecstatic that our search has finally ended. She pauses by the water’s edge, standing with hands on her hip, considering what to do now that the water is in front of her. She turns to look at me, like a puppy that has found a bone it cannot even fit in its mouth, but then she grins broadly, a sparkle in her eyes as she begins to unbutton her blouse, the folds falling away to reveal her sports bra, the curves of her stomach.
“You better watch out for all the gnats and mosquitoes,” I say, walking up to her side, hugging her to me, kissing her forehead.
Looking up into my face, brushing her face into my beard, Amy laughs. “But, Jack, I want to swim in the stream!”
“Let me check it out first. Hand me the canteens and I’ll fill them up.”
I sling the bag off from my back onto the ground and Amy stoops down to rifle through it to find the canteens. Meanwhile, I walk over to the edge of the stream to examine it. Leaves float by sucked away downstream in a strong current. The stream is no more than ten feet across and I could easily see pebbles lying at the bottom, maybe three feet deep in the middle.
Just as I sit down on a mound of dirt to untie my shoes, Amy walks up to my side and plops herself down on the ground, her breasts jiggling slightly with the motion. I look over at her and see she is holding only one canteen.
“Where’s the second one?”
“I don’t know. Not in the bag.”
But these things happen. It’s no big deal. The other canteen is probably back at the camp. I hug her to me, her breasts imprinted on my chest, and, grinning, I say, “You did the best you could.”
She laughs and kisses me. I kiss her. She looks up into my eyes through her blonde veil. I reach up my hand and brush the hair from her eyes.
“This is perfect,” Amy whispers. “I wish we could stay here forever.”
“It’s all in the mind. If we want to stay here forever all we have to do is dream it.” A willing victim to my passion, I surrender my body to Eros. The curve of her lips, the smell of her body, the salt of her skin. A potion of madness to the one lucky enough to find it. The wind’s caress on bare skin, the heightened sensation of flesh, the blood pumping through my veins, the pureness of existence in our solace. The shudders of her bliss, the awareness of her power, her independence. Our shared moment, can half an hour be eternity?
The open air envelopes me in its limitless tranquility, the comfort of all creation closing in upon my singularity, the intertwining threads of knowledge hanging listless in the air to course through me in all its ferocious beauty, freeing my mind from its prison behind closed eyelids, the darkness tinted red like blood soaking in cloth. The stream’s murmur, the leaves’ rustling, the soft intake of breath, the rise and fall of my chest, the caress of grass upon my neck, the hair falling back from my forehead.
Both of us sunk in the fervor of bliss, the strength to do nothing. All that has ever mattered is this moment, this feeling. How could I banish this peace? Amy certainly seemed content to lie in my arms. Losing myself in the spots where our skin brushed each other’s, I did not notice Amy fall asleep as I felt myself begin to drift away.
#
And then everything shattered. A long hike cut short while my defenses were lowered. Some kidnapper, some rapist, some murderer had lurked up into the clearing in which we lay and stole my dearest Amy from under my nose. I don’t know what to think. All I know is the blind terror surging up from my stomach.
“Amy! Amy!” I shout, but it sounds like the jungle absorbs any sound that leaves my mouth, like a star has collapsed within my soul and all the air has vanished. Only a matter of time before I implode under pressure.
“Amy! Amy!” What should grace me with its presence but a green macaw, flapping up to a perch on a branch beyond my reach. The bird squawks at me in its avian dialect, reprimanding me for yelling. Well, perfect time for a shouting match.
“Fuck you, too!”
The macaw ruffles its feathers, acting all high and mighty up there. Grinning wickedly, I bend down and rummage across the ground for a rock. Clenching one in my fist, I rise back to my feet and take aim at the stationary bird. Directing all my energy to my arm, I wind up and let loose. A look of chagrin appears in the bird’s eyes for just a second before it disappears into the jungle in a cascade of feathers.
Mindless aggression. Taking the macaw out does not make me feel any better. As my mind tries to wrap itself around the fact that Amy has straight disappeared into the middle of the jungle, I stare blankly through the trees.
Vacuum seal my head inside a plastic bag. Make sure to cut a hole so I can breathe, but don’t make it too big. Don’t make this easy on me. Because it ain’t easy. That’s basically how I felt as realization surmounted my peak capacity for shock. As the pressure grew, throbbing on my temple, it felt like my mind was wiped clean of thought.
Sleepwalking on a high wire act, the trapeze artist flies by, brushing my hair with his foot. One inch lower my head would have been knocked off. So close. I yell my head off to let some steam out. Camouflaged birds explode from tree limbs scattered within ear shot, squawking in fear. The sounds of nature have turned against me, growing in a static pitch, vibrating against the back of my eyeballs. I fall down to my knees, cradle my head in my arms and try to think.
What I need is someone to talk to; to tell me what to do. There is nothing around to even hear me, except that sloth hanging up in that tree. Nasty animal. If it only moved, fungus would not grow on its fur. Stupid animal. Then maybe it could find love, maybe then someone would pay attention to it. But no. It is diseased, like all of existence. It will continue hanging there until the apocalypse melts the eyes from its skull, but even then it would not move. It can see the agitation boiling in my stomach but still it ignores me. It can hear me shouting for Amy but it plays dumb. Out of senseless anger I kick the tree to jar it from its contention, and I break my toe.
“Shit! Shit, shit. Shit!”
I am no longer coherent, but the pain of my crooked toe banishes some of the fog from my brain. Sinking to the ground, I rest my head between my bent knees, relishing in the pain as a distraction from reality. I let knowledge of my toe wash over my consciousness. I won’t be able to hobble out of the jungle in this condition, much too long of a hike. Good. That will give Amy time to return from where ever she went.
And then my mind hits a wall. Where could Amy have gone? Why did she leave me all alone? Every time I ask these questions the fog grows stronger. The imponderable truth of things has never been an easy concept for me to understand. All I know is that I am alone in the jungle, and my toe is broken.
“Shit!”
I want to yell until my lungs are ripped apart within my chest, until my throat bleeds and I choke on my own blood. I want to run through the trees until the sun explodes and its radiation consumes the earth. I want to cry. I do cry.
Looking up through my tears at the tree above me, I notice an X slashed into the bark, cut by my own hand.
Of course! Amy must have been hungry and went back to the camp! It’s all clear now. I knew she would never abandon me. Hopefully when I get back she’ll have dinner ready and then we can laugh about how freaked out I was.
Carefully pushing myself to my feet, tenderly putting my weight on my right foot, the nerves throb dully up from the broken toe, but it’s not a debilitating pain. I hobble over to the heap of clothing and sort out my shirt and jeans, pulling them on with haste, already covered with insect bites. Amy’s clothing remains heaped on the ground. Forlornly, not knowing what else to do, I cram the shirt and jeans into my bag. With a sigh, I turn and hobble back into the jungle.
#
Someone poured acid all over my foot, I think. How else could it hurt this bad? I’m scared to take off my shoe. I bet the toe’s only hanging on by a thread. But I’ve been showered with stoicism all my life. I can suck it up. I’m sure I’m almost at the camp.
The sticky air, burning in the shade, makes things worse. I douse my head with water from the canteen to wash away the sweat encroaching on my eyes. My footsteps muffled by layers of decaying leaves. I shimmy my way around an ancient tree, the trunk wider than an SUV is wide, brushing a fern away from my face. A sliver of smoke rises from the bed of coals in the center of the clearing. There is a shapeless mass of charred beans within the pan. Amy’s pack lies to the side. And that’s all there is. I don’t know what I was expecting. I was just hoping. Now I’m empty.
My bag slides from my grip. I don’t even have the energy to curse. I’ve been drained. That’s all there is to it. There’s nothing left for me to do. I won’t be able to find anyone for days in this condition.
Head hung low, I begin rummaging through my pack. I just can’t let this day get any worse. Luckily, I have just the thing, stored away for a day like this. If only I could find it. There is way too much useless junk in this pack.
Upending it, all my supplies tumble out, cans of beans, bug spray, extra clothes, a headlamp, a radio, some twigs, a box of matches, a toiletry kit. So many things I’d never need but not the one thing I do. Glancing back inside the empty pack I notice a hidden zipper, stitched near the bottom. Bingo.
I unzip the pouch and am relieved to have found my relief. A shoddy corn cob pipe—good enough for this purpose. Because what arrests my attention is in a plastic bag. The good herb, like the doctor prescribed for pain. I think I fit the diagnosis.
I toke just a little bit—with herb this good a couple hits will do. Out of habit I try to hold the smoke in as long as I can. My lungs burn, screaming for oxygen—what pussies. I thought they’d be used to the program by now—guess I haven’t smoked in a while—never had to when Amy was around—I know I just use the chemical to fill the void when she’s not around—so it goes. Well, the break’s over.
I feel a rising sound surge up from my toes, numbing the crooked one, dulling the throb. My feet, they are dead weight—dead weight just like, well, a corpse for one. Am I a corpse? Did I just fool myself that I was alive this whole time? What if I’m actually dead and this whole thing is just a dream? I heard when you die your brain releases DMT—and that’s one hell of a trip. Not that I know what it’s like, but I have read about it—thirty minutes of complete release. I don’t know if I could handle it. What—what if life was nothing but an extended trip on DMT—what if we were really just floating around in a void?
Damn, I just tripped myself out. Wait—what’s that noise?
A small shuffling sound floats through the air, like two sheets of sand paper being rubbed against each other. My nerves light on fire—the fight or flight instinct—ready for some giant man eating beast to pop up out of thin air—to catch me completely off guard—the pipe still dangling thoughtlessly in my hand.
Shit! Can’t let anyone find out I’m breakin’ the law, man. That would not be cool.
Maniacally, I jump to my feet and run over to my empty pack. Only then do I remember I left the bud laying out in broad daylight. Can’t forget that. I walk back to where the bud is spilling out onto the leaves.
Hey, I still have plenty left. Why not smoke another bowl? So I do.
The next couple days are a haze, until I run out of marijuana. I can’t bring myself to leave the camp on the off chance that Amy finds her way back, but I am paralyzed by indecision. I don’t have any clue about what to do. No one has ever told me how to handle losing your lover in the middle of the jungle. Being completely beyond my comfort zone, I resort to my traditional philosophy—I go with the flow.
#
Alphabetically organized in rows inside the cabinet within the living room lying midway between the dining room and kitchen on the first floor of a suburban house built between two other identical houses along a street with children riding on bikes and couples strolling hand in hand with dogs on leashes dragging their owners past on a breakneck race for the prize. If only they knew the prize lay within their homes, within the photo albums chronicling the life and times of every person to ever live. But as memory stops reproducing itself these albums decay, brushed into the corners of consciousness to cloak the pain in darkness. As time sweeps forward with bubbling froth, raging with the knowledge of every bump along the way and what is lost remains so, as the trick of nothing happening continues tricking the viewer into obedience, as the hope of change elopes with the pessimism of awareness and the shine of the sun dulls and the leaves flitter down through the air, as gravity pulls you down by the roots of your hair, as moss grows on a stone rolling through the pastures of the coming dawn, you have to eventually let go. In this life you can never give up, but you should be wary of holding on.
Throw more logs on the fire, build the flame until the heat licks your skin, sit cross legged at the point midway between the past and the future, wait for the moment not to come, eat all your food then start to starve as you wait some more, paralyzed by indecision until the weight, or emptiness, pressing on your stomach, gnawing at your intestines, drives you back to motion. Selflessness leads to self destruction so paint your face green and stalk hidden through the jungle back towards where you left your life, your light pack a constant reminder that you lost more than you can even guess. The high is long gone, so get in the car and drive. The only noble function left in this world—to escape from the realities of one place, to lose yourself into the oblivious unrealities of an entirely different locale. Nothing is left to remind you of her, swallowed by the fog. The park rangers searched for her, and they send their condolences. Build up a new life in a foreign town—ride a bike through the park or watch the children playing on the see saw. Let their innocence wash over you—not as a reminder of your corrupt spirit but as a gift of ignorance, of the ideals long stolen from you. Walk down the streets with head hung low but don’t think once that anyone is going to ask you what is on your mind. This is yours alone. How will you deal with it?
#
The plot has crashed in a ditch, the oil pan has busted and the leak has caught a spark and up in flames this story will go unless someone arrives just in time to stomp out the creeping spark and push the car back on track with some force unknown to man, some force greater than man altogether, yet who could say what guise this apparition will come in or how long it will take for her to arrive? Fate travels on an entirely different path than any tread by humanity; its whimsy guides the crossing of different paths. Chance is the law concerning how we meet. Most of all, nothing much ever really happens, but fortify your reserves of patience and with luck you will pull through. Until that day, just bear with me. It might get a little ugly.
#
The smoke drifts up to the rafters in mockery of corporeal existence—the bodiless, shifting shapes undulate up through the air, blown by the drunken tongues all sitting in a row. My own hand is too weak to lift the cup sitting before me. My shirt is already stained with stale sweat and hard liquor—my mind is tumbling over itself as I contemplate how many drinks I’ve already had.
“Hey hey hey! Barman or lady! Come ‘ere! I need more beer!”
One of the bartenders, a plump woman in her mid-twenties, as brunette as they come, pauses in mid-conversation with one of the other patrons and casts a measuring look at me.
Motioning towards the cup in front of me, she says, “You still haven’t finished that one.”
“Shit! This one? I can’t finish this one! I need more beer. I’m drunk.”
As I wipe a gob of saliva from my arm, the bartender walks over to me, a look of pity in her eyes. I’m sure she’s seen other people like me, but hell if she thinks she has any idea about what I’m going through.
“Don’t—don’t you pity me—hic—um—beer! Just leave me be.”
She stares straight into my eyes, undressing my soul with her gaze. I fidget under the scrutiny.
“No, I think you’ve had enough.”
“Bullshit! I’m still conscious! Who are you to say I’ve had enough!”
“Did you come here with anyone?”
“Who do you think you are? Who are you to question me? You! You’re just another bartender! Me? I had it all—then I lost it. Shit!”
She continues to stare into my soul, but I’ve retreated back into the comfort of self pity, where no one can reach me. Nowadays, this is the only place I feel safe. I can’t stand to look at other people any more—my constantly averted gaze guarantees no one will disturb my depression. So it goes—the self-fulfilling cycle. The same thing happens every night. There’s no telling where I’ll wake up.
#
The smoldering sheets shock me back to awareness, the mixture of body fluids soaked in the fabric creates a distinct odor, suffocating even as I gasp for breath, completely disoriented. I sit up and throw the sheet off me, exposing my naked body and the naked body of a woman I don’t even remember meeting. She isn’t the ugliest girl I’ve slept with, but she does have a very distinct heroin look. Shit, hope she didn’t give me any. I really don’t want anything to do with that. I don’t need all the trouble that brings. I do have enough of my own.
What time is it? 8:00! Damn, I gotta get out of here before she wakes up.
What day is it? Um… I hope it’s Saturday so I don’t have to go to work.
I swing my legs out over the side of the bed and push myself to my feet. I sway a little as I stand, but I close my eyes and regain balance. This is one bad hang over. Feels like a cow was sitting on my head while I slept. I need to get a shower to sober up a little.
I see the bedroom door is hanging open so I walk out it into this dingy hall, about ten feet long, the paint peeling from the walls, no pictures to speak of, two closed doors at one end and an open door leading into the bathroom immediately to my left. I stumble into the bathroom to see the toilet still brimming with dried vomit. I suck it up and piss into the bowl then flush the whole concoction.
As I watch the diseased stew swirling down the drain a feeling rises in my stomach. I double over and start heaving. Vomit explodes from my mouth like a laser beam, splattering all over the toilet and into the bath tub.
“Shit!”
I consider ditching the place right then and leaving the girl the job of cleaning up my vomit, but that’s really not in my nature. I know that the behavior I am displaying seems rather immoral but you must understand that my behavior is largely influenced by my situation and not my temperament. It is not within me to vomit and not clean it up. That’s just who I am.
Despite my throbbing temples, I walk back down the hall and check within both closed doors. One leads into an empty bedroom, but the other opens up into an equally dingy sitting room, and through the sitting room is the kitchen. I walk into the kitchen, briefly taking in its condition—stacks of dishes in the sink growing mold, a broken refrigerator gurgling in the corner, trash scattered across the counters—as I look for a roll of paper towels.
No surprise, there are no paper towels, but after rummaging through the drawers I find some rags. Grabbing a handful I walk back to the bathroom and scrub the bathtub and toilet clean and flush it once again—it’s as clean as it can get. Then I draw out the shower curtain and turn the water on. I take the rags back to the kitchen, pondering what to do with them, deciding to toss them in the trash can. No big loss there.
As I walk back in the bathroom, the steam rising up through the curtain draws entrails in my vision, obscuring the fact I am in a run down apartment. Shutting the door behind me I transport to a sauna, hopping into the shower, letting the water wash all the disease from my mind. The steam flows through my body, the molecules pulling apart from each other. In this cloud I am transparent. All my sins rise to the surface and the façade of goodwill I preach washes down the drain. I scrub dried semen from my leg with a bar of soap, small splotches of mold spreading across its surface. I try to imagine how the curtain became stained as it had, but the images called forth make my stomach churn. I turn off the water and step out onto a soaked towel spread across the tile floor. I take a towel hanging on a rack and use it to dry off my body, and then I wrap it around waist for feigned propriety so I can retrieve my clothes.
When I enter the bedroom again I notice the woman has awoken, though she hasn’t moved from the bed, sitting there naked, legs sprawled before her. An awkward moment later I introduce myself: “Good morning. My name’s Jack if you don’t remember.”
“Oh…. Jack. Why are you still here?”
“Well, I had to take a shower. Is that wrong?”
“No, no. Not that at all. I was just surprised is all. Usually no one ever stays until morning.”
How the hell could I respond to that? And she wonders why no one ever stays? Learn how to hold a conversation. I wish I could say that to her, but no reason to involve myself in her life if she so desperately wants to drive every man away.
I consider asking her if she has any food for breakfast, but before I can, she bends over the side of the bed and rummages under it for something. She sits back up, balancing a tray in her hand, blanketed with a white powder—cocaine. As she begins cutting it up with her driver’s license I decide it’s about time I left. Stupid bitch doesn’t have enough money to paint her apartment, how the hell can she even afford that shit? Nevermind, I don’t want to know.
Letting the nameless woman be, I walk around the side of the bed and spot my clothes crumpled in a heap on the floor. Quickly, I put all my clothes back on, and turn back to say goodbye, just in time to see her snort two lines in rapid succession, sniffling and sighing after.
Not wasting a moment, I say, “Okay, well, I have to get to work. I’m sure it was a good night. Take care.” I try to dash over to the door, but the commanding tone in her voice compels me to stop.
“Wait! Don’t you want to stay for breakfast? I can make some of the best eggs you’ll ever eat! Here, let me get dressed real quick then I’ll go put them on the stove.”
“I would really love to try your eggs, but I am afraid I really need to go. My shift is going to start in ten minutes.”
She is running around the room, gathering clothes from random drawers, covering her naked and bruised body. Pausing at a dresser, she turns and pouts at me, “Well, I guess you have to do what you have to do. Will I see you again?”
“There’s a good chance. Sorry if this sounds rude, but what’s your name?”
“Oh, my name’s Amy.”
Pause. Did she really just say that? Are my ears playing tricks on me? That single word seemed to crack over my head like an egg and the possibility of return flowed down my skin with a warming sensation. Has my Amy really returned to me in this absurd disguise?
Amy watches me with slight confusion at the abrupt silence. Remembering that I am supposed to say something, I ask, “Wait. Did you say your name is Amy?”
“Yeah. Why? Is there something wrong with that?”
“No, no, no. That’s perfect. Have you ever been lost in the jungle?”
“What the fuck?”
“Have you ever been lost in the jungle?”
“What does that even mean?”
“Never mind, never mind. It doesn’t matter anyway.” I had felt the spark of hope for one moment, the first time in so many unremembered years, but as it flees even deeper into the recesses of my soul, I feel like I am even emptier.
I guess Amy could notice something had happened to me, asking, “Hey, is there something wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost?”
“No. Nothing wrong. You just have the same name of someone I used to know.”
Without waiting for a response I turn and sulk out into the hall. The abrupt change in my behavior must have caught Amy off guard so she just stands there, watching me walk out of her life. Will she ever see me again? Not if I can help it.
#
I know why they put everyone in cubicles. It is to deface the integrity of every single person who has to crouch within the cubicle’s confines, every soul drained of willpower. It is to ensure that everyone surrenders to the will of the omniscient corporate machine. Alone in a 5 by 5 box, no thoughts of mutiny will ever cross over into the surface, but if you put all of us together we could easily tear down the foundation one block at a time. This is what they did to slaves if my memory serves me.
That’s me, a slave to money. Every hour spent here shreds my soul to pieces—all for that paycheck. In America the only way to judge a man’s value is by how fat his wallet is, but what can you do? A fat wallet feels good in your pocket. Although my entire being revolts against this institution, I am stuck in a deadlock. I have to file a case report by 3:30.
The stapler cowers over in the corner of my desk, fearing the pound of my fist as I staple stacks of paper, filing them away or sending them out. I swivel my chair 36 degrees to face my face-melting monitor. Excel is open to an assortment of spreadsheets I have no clue about. What am I even supposed to do with these? Forward it to someone else. Eventually it will get to the right person. What now?
Solitaire. The waiting game. Walk over to the water cooler, chat with the few courageous souls. Wait for something to do, but look busy doing it. But don’t start spreading dissent. The management will hear about it and they’ll be up on your ass. Those stalking orc, breathing the holy corporate fire, pounding their clubs in their hand, waiting for an opening to attack. When one of them comes by take the cautious plan of action, scamper back to your cubicle and play possum. Sometimes they’ll still pop their heads in and role play boss for a couple minutes, but just keep your cool and you will survive.
Most of all work is about making it to 5 PM. As the second hand drags closer to this mark you will notice that time slows, you even breathe slower. The condensation on your cup slides down at a snails pace. But then, like a wave breaking over you, you are free. Step outside and you will instantly remember what it is like to have free will. But with free will, reality sets in.
You have a date, one of your coworkers, an attractive brunette you met by the water cooler. Gotta get ready for this, it’s all about the first impression. Gotta get in the zone.
#
The melodic clink of wine glasses, a welcome release from the drudgery of life. In this restaurant I can pretend to be a stranger, I can be anything I say. Who is there to tell me I’m lying? I just have to sit back and let the words flow. This is not the first time I’ve read this script.
Smiling and nodding up at our waitress—dressed in a real mockery of style, emphasizing the breasts to distract from the shabbiness—as she fills up our wine glasses from a bottle of White Zinfandel, I try to flatten some of the ruffles from my borrowed dinner jacket. My date, Isabel, has been casting glances at my chest since we first sat down; hopefully she likes what she sees. The waitress asks Isabel first for her order; she asks for some vegetarian bullshit salad, a real crowd pleaser around these parts apparently. We’re surrounded by a bunch of pencil pushing jackasses in suits and chicks souped up on Xanax and whatever painkillers they can find. A grand panorama of the different faces that money creates.
Don’t even ask me to look at your menu, I don’t want to look at this façade of culture. I’m too aware of the depression emanating from everyone around me. Just cook me up a big old cheeseburger and fries. American through and through, and proud of it.
The waitress disappears off into the steam of the kitchen and I take a sip of wine before looking Isabel in the eye. Then off to the races, playing along on that well rehearsed script. Where did I meet her? I really can’t remember. The specifics have begun running together; it feels like my body has reached its limits, like I have filled myself beyond capacity with life, with the raw essence that runs through everyone’s veins, camouflaged in the blood. That by tapping into other people’s souls I have been giving away a little of my own. Still, my soul beats in rhythm with my heart but only I can hear my soul. These women, so obsessed with their words, only listen to the words, not the actual words shining in my eyes, but the hollow ones dripping from my mouth. I’m on auto pilot and that’s what they want, but under this guise I can still judge those around me.
This waitress, for instance: I have been out of wine for five minutes. What could she be doing back in the kitchen?
The double doors to the kitchen explode open with the force of a hurricane and out of this abattoir crawls just the person I was thinking of, carrying a tray balanced precariously on her shoulder. She pulls up to where Isabel and I sit mindlessly flirting with each other. I immediately ask her to refill my wine.
The plates of food disperse across the table, offering a different option to fill the void. Instead of mindless chatter we stuff meat, bread and potatoes into our mouths for a couple minutes, wash it all down with more wine, then we resume the mindless chatter again. Oh yeah, isn’t this fun?
But you know that some times a little piece of the truth will slip out when you least expect it; alcohol is often the lubricant for truth. I guess it’s all about whether you can accept other people’s truths as your own, if you can shape ideas from clay about miracles experienced by different eyes. As it happened, I felt myself dragged along in the flow of conversation until the current started to push me under. Feelings rose to the surface I had long repressed. Words echoed their meaning out of my hollow lungs and the parody playing on Isabel’s lips tried to console me by showering on advice.
Don’t live in the past, she says. Learn to move on, learn to accept what you don’t have control over.
Yeah, well, they never taught me any of this in school. All they taught were theories. I never learned how to deal with this, but trust me; I’m trying. I’m trying so hard. God, believe me. It’s just hard.
One thing is for certain though, people like helping other people. If you don’t have anyone to turn to, Lord, I pity your everlasting soul. Find someone, or, do it like me and find as many people as you can. You can learn something new from everyone you meet, like the meaning of words: kindness, empathy, love. Like I said before, don’t ask me to tell you the specifics, but it was a good date. I woke up some time the next morning in her bed.
#
“Hey, man, puff puff pass.”
Nick, the weasel, the scavenger. If you ever run dry he’s got your back, just give him a call. Even if he’s in the middle of banging a chick he’ll have a half ounce of the best stuff you’ve ever smoked in your lap within the hour. He’ll even give you a discount but then you’re gonna be stuck with him for the rest of the day. So be prepared to listen. Hold on to your ears tight or they might get blown off.
“So the other day I was walkin’ down the street, y’know, just mindin’ my own business, when this fuckin’ pig comes creepin’ up on me all slow ‘n shit. He rolls his window down and sees the blunt hangin’ from my fingers and he’s all like ‘Sir, have you been smoking marijuana?’ and I’m like ‘Excuse me, officer? Hell no, I don’t touch dope.’ And that cop just rolls right along. They ain’t got shit on me, ya dig?”
“Yeah man, don’t let them tell you what to do.” That’s just one of my stock phrases to respond to all these identical stories I hear every day of the week—Christ, it seems like everyone in my life thinks this grand old Society thing has it out for them. I wish I could slap everyone who whines at me and shout, Buck up, son. This is life. But there is a veil preventing me from ever connecting to anyone. Every time words distill in my mind they only make it to my throat before vanishing into apathy. Never again will a true word cross my lips.
Nick leans back his head and blows smoke rings up through the motionless air of the living room. An antique television set cowers in the corner, crackling fuzz at us. The picture on the box is of some overproduced Sitcom family living life the way its lived on television. Not much there to hold my attention. What does arrest my attention are the patterns swirling in the smoke. A human nose rotates a perfect 360 degrees, elongating and folding in upon itself before I can make out both the eyes floating above it. The spectral face winks at me. I blink and the image vanishes. “Hey man this shit is so dank, what’s it called?”
“What you’re smoking right now is called Sour Diesel. Man, that’s the dopest dope I ever smoked. Eighty dolla for an eighth if you’re innarested.”
“Man, I think I’m gonna have to nab some of that from you, but not right now. Right now I feel like swimming.”
Nick passes the blunt back to me and I loosely balance it between my lips. Tilting my head back onto the cushion, I close my eyes and inhale. Stars explode and my head starts vibrating. Images flash on and off of the canvas of my lids, dim faces, remnants of lives scattered to the wind. Blonde curls. And a jungle.
#
“Shit, dude, you all right?”
What just happened? Arms and legs akimbo, my temples throbbing acidly, splayed across the floor next to the coffee table. How did I get in this position and why does it feel like I just missed a little bit of the action? And why does my head hurt so god damn bad? Will I be able to sit up?
As I move my arms to push myself into a sitting position, the rush of blood sends my head spinning Exorcist style. I rest my head on my knees and groan strings of gibberish, all the sense I can make of my rapidly evaporating world.
I feel a hand touch the skin on my shoulder blade, a comforting hand—an anchor to reality. “You all right, man? You scared this shit out of me right there.”
I weakly nod my head and tilt it to the side so I can see Nick. “Yeah…. I think so. What happened?”
“First, let’s get you onto the couch.”
Nick offers me his hand to pull myself up, but my vision has slowed down so I decide to stand up on my own, but as I stand my head starts reeling again. I aim my body for the couch and plummet onto the cushions, absorbing all the pain from my body. If I close my eyes I can pretend I’m in heaven.
Nick lingered over my comatose body, worrying about whether I’d have another seizure. I felt perfect, his encroaching presence only agitated me. “Hey, man, chill out. I’m fine now, just had a rush of blood to my head.”
“Man, you sure? You were having a fit down on the floor. I think you should go to the hospital to be safe.”
“Nah, man, really, I’m cool now. Just let me rest.”
“Alright man. Don’t lose it again.” Nick casts one last wary glance at me before retracing his steps back to his seat, turning his attention back to the television.
As I float in a pool of jell-o, feeling the quicksand pull on the center of my chest, a motionless freefall through the space of my mind, a vague thought rises over the horizon–a substanceless idea swirling in eddies across the expanses, coagulating at a point just to the left of the center of my field of vision. As I experience the transformation of thought into idea I feel as my mouth drops open, an iron stove pipe coughing up steam, and streams of speech flow through the murky air straight into Nick’s ear canals. Through some miracle of nature, maybe the only true gift of the gods, this arrangement of vocal sounds instigates a reaction in Nick, who stands up in response, walking towards the coffee table, standing over the spot I had fallen in. Nick’s tendons constrict as his limbs contort into awkward angles as he kneels down and drags the tips of his fingers through the shag carpet. A subtle movement of his face betrays the excitement of discovery, the smile, brightening his features, tells that he has found what he was searching for. He grips the newfound item between his forefinger and thumb and raises it to his mouth, sucking in a lungful of air and smoke.
Between coughs, Nick gasps, “I did not expect it to be lit. Shit, my lungs are burnin’ like a mofo.”
The coherence of Nick’s words calms down my feverish brow, a reminder that logic still exists if not inside my mind. I burrow down under the cushions to find a more secure spot to hide from the oncoming terror. The demons are knocking at the door but my leg is still sticking out from under the cushion; they’re gonna spot me.
Without warning the air around my head explodes with surges of static energy. A lightning bolt cast by the hand of Zeus striking between my eyes, but I discover that if I close my eyes that the room stops spinning. Using this ability, I guard my mind against the attacks raining down through the air.
Another explosion, this one louder, startles me out of my nest I have constructed. I leap to my feet, sending the cushions cascading down around me, and stare straight into the shadowed corner where, on the screen, a bunch of actors are pretending to fight a war. Who would put that on right now, at this moment? It’s already a war zone in this room, why is Nick destroying the balance?
Overwhelmed by the negative energy, I ask Nick to change the channel. He claims it is his house and that he wants to watch this one. Feeling bold, I dart across the room to the television and flip the channel down, turning on CNN.
Nick groans at me, “Shit, man, not cool. I wouldn’t come into your house and change your channel.”
“I couldn’t take that one. I just want to chill out.”
“Hell yeah. Man, I got some awesome ass jams you need to check out. Do you know where my laptop is?”
“Nah. Shit, why would I know that?”
“I dunno.” Nick chuckles to himself, then turns his attention back to the television. I walk back to the couch and lie back in my cradle. Apparently there was a school shooting over in Texas the other day. Who would’ve guessed?
#
“Yes, come in.” I open the door a crack and peak in. Behind the door is a luxurious office, decked out with a fancy desk, a bookcase lining the wall and a green sofa against the back wall. “Oh yes, you must be Jack. I was expecting you. Well, have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”
A very pleasant looking woman sits behind the desk, dressed in business clothing. A placard on the oak surface reads Dr. Thatcher. I nod at her, cupping my hands together to camouflage their shaking, as I walk across the room and sit on the edge of the sofa, ready for all hell to break loose. “Well, Jack, it’s nice to meet you. I could hear the anxiety in your voice when we were talking on the phone. Do you want to tell me what’s on your mind?”
I have to lean forward even further to hear what she says. Her voice seems to drip from her mouth without any weight, floating up through the cool air of the office to disappear into the vent. “Well, I guess I can give it my best shot. Everything I say is strictly confidential, right?”
“Of course, Jack. Nothing you say will ever leave this room.”
“All right. I guess I came here because, well… I don’t know who I am any more. Do you know what I mean?”
“Oh, yes. You’d be surprised how many people struggle to discover their own identity. But before I go on I want you to recognize that I cannot cure your mind. I can only guide you to a better path, but if you are willing to put forth the effort, I’m sure we can help you get back on track.”
“Okay. Listen, I’m desperate for some help. I thought I had it figured out but lately I’ve been blacking out in random places and I can’t even hold a straight thought together. You tell me what to do and I’ll try my hardest.”
“That’s the spirit. But, I don’t want to give you any false hope. This is not going to be a miracle cure. It will take time and devotion, but don’t let your spirit flag and in a couple months we’ll have you put back together. Today I am just going to start with some basic questions so I can get to know you better.”
Much to my chagrin, the building tension breaks and washes back, leaving my soul exposed. I had prepared for an existential battle with the shrink but the state of calm uncertainty her words leave me in shake my control of the situation. I find myself left to the mercy of the questions rushing forward to meet me, no choice but to tell the truth. I owe myself that much. If I tell the truth once, Lord, let it be now.
Dr. Thatcher goes into her shrink mode: notebook spread on the desk, pencil in hand, a sparkle in her eyes. She asks me a question. I respond mechanically. She asks very specific questions so I find that it becomes harder and harder to paint the truth any different colors. If I take a step back and view the scene from my subconscious layer of defense I find it easier to let the words slip through my lips.
After thirty minutes of chipping away at the wall blocking me from the rest of humanity, Dr. Thatcher smiles and says “Well done, Jack. I think we have done enough for today. If you could make an appointment with the secretary for next week, that would be terrific. I’ll see you again then.”
The fog had been thickening with each question she asked, so the abrupt ending takes me by surprise. I feel content to lay there until my body starts to decay, but Dr. Thatcher’s kind gaze melts some of the ice enveloping my mind. Shaking my head to return to reality, I slowly push myself to my feet.
“Guess I’ll see you next week then, Dr. Thatcher.”
“Please, call me Molly.”
“Alright. Molly. Good bye.”
I swing the door shut after I exit the office, listen as my footsteps echo in the rafters stretching above me, gliding through the twisting corridors until an angel appears twisting in upon itself, typing at a computer screen behind a window with smudge marks racing across the glass. She looks at me but her thick mascara makes her eyes look like black holes. I cringe back as her lips crack open. “Yes?”
“Um… Dr. Thatcher asked me to make an appointment for next week.”
“Yes, yes. I see. And what’s your name?”
“Jack.”
“Last name?”
“Friedman.”
“Alright, Mr. Friedman. What day is best for you?”
“I think Wednesday would be the best.”
“Next Wednesday the only appointment time open is at three in the afternoon.”
“That’s fine.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll see you next week, Mr. Friedman. Have a good night.”
“You too.”
As I walk through the door out into the brisk, autumn night, I realize that the only person left I can talk to is back inside the building. The only thing left for me in this world is routine. It is the routine which holds me together despite everything tearing me apart. But I cannot have a conversation with routine. There is no reason to have one.
#
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