Nonentity (3 page)

Lukas spoke through what sounded like a megaphone: “Do you remember this very moment, the one in which I am addressing you, right here and right now? Have you heard these words before? Is this but a flashback?”

My response seemed to come from elsewhere: “I have heard these words before.”

“Good. You and I are strangers in a social sense. Are we strangers in time?”

“No. We are not strangers in time,” I said reflexively, as if programmed. I would have no power over my speech throughout the session.

Lukas’s voice came much closer: “Why are we not strangers in time?”

“We have travelled together. In the future, in the past, here and now, nevermore.”

“Intriguing. Your awareness is superb. Perhaps you can use it to do something for me. Are you up for that, Sebastian?”

“We’ll see.”

“I want you to concentrate really hard. Try to locate Lorna in this room. Point her out with your finger. Can you do that?”

“I am blind, you fool,” I said.

“Your eyes are blind. Your soul sees all. Search with your soul.”

“What soul? I can’t see a goddamn thing.”

Disappointment marked his tone. “Then I’m afraid we’re through.”

The room’s normal lighting returned. I spent a minute shaking the blueness out of my head. Sight restored, I found Lukas and Lorna standing beside me.

I had control over my speech: “That was it?”

Lukas smiled, exhibiting teeth damn near rotting out of his head. “I should think so. We’ve been at it for more than an hour and a half, my friend.”

I looked at my watch and was shocked. It seemed the session had lasted fifteen minutes.

“Sorry to be an ungracious host,” said Lukas, “but you two need to get the hell out of here this instant.”

I was stunned. “You’re kidding. You’re not going to explain what happened during my session? There was some weird shit going on there.”

“Any explanation would strike you as unintelligible. You’d just end up more confused.”

“What? This is unbelievable.”

Gently pushing Lorna and me toward the door, Lukas said, “And I can no more make the unbelievable believable than a fish can learn how to juggle. You’ll have to come back to further explore these matters.”

Lorna and I were soon in our cab, heading away from Lukas Lambert’s unsightly barn.

As we bumped and banged our way out of the woods, I said to her, “That was some kind of charade. How did you find that loon?”

“He is not a loon,” she said, arms folded.

“No. You’re right. He’s worse. He’s a bunko artist completely enthralled with his own pseudo-science. I suppose I was his guinea pig.”

“You’re too closed off to appreciate what Lukas did.”

“Oh yeah? Please enlighten me.”

She gazed out the window. “Never mind. It was foolish to bring you here.”

“Well that’s the smartest comment I’ve heard all day. Look, I try to be open to new things. But that nut – that parallel universalist, or whatever cockamamie thing he calls himself – he performed some kind of weirdo voodoo trickery on me. I was baffled.”

“Maybe you’re supposed to be baffled. Answers are not always immediate.”

“Clearly,” I said. “Hey, what was with that stuff about he and I not being strangers in time? That made no sense. Not that any of it made sense.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, he asked me something about he and I being strangers in time. I somehow told him that we were not strangers in time. Of course I had no idea what the hell I was saying. What was all that jazz about?”

“Strangers in time? I never heard that.”

“You were in the room, right? You had to have heard it. I told him that he and I had travelled together. Surely you remember that.”

“Sebastian, I don’t think you understand,” said Lorna. “I was there the entire session. Neither one of you uttered a word.”

Victoria Mason was not a morning person. She wasn’t much of an afternoon or evening person either. Why did I associate with her? Her body scintillated. She boasted the sleek legs of an airbrushed model. Her blond hair draped irresistibly over her breasts. And she was lewd in bed – her lone redeeming personality trait. It was enough.

“You stupid, clumsy asshole,” Victoria yelled at me one day, holding up her sequined dress from the night before. “See this fucking thing? It’s one of my favorite outfits, and you ripped a hole in the back of it. Such a klutz.”

I rolled over in bed, expelled a lengthy yawn, and glanced at the clock on the nightstand beside me: 8:12 a.m. I closed my eyes.

Victoria persisted. “Don’t you dare go back to sleep on me. You can’t get off the hook that easily.”

I said, “Too early for petty bickering.”

“Spoken like a man trying to weasel out of something. I paid a ton for this dress. I demand compensation.”

“My compensation is that I’m not going to kick your ass out of here.”

“How can you talk to me like that?”

“That’s a hoot,” I said. “You should hear yourself talk. The way you treated that waitress last night was shameful. I was embarrassed to be with such an inconsiderate bitch.”

“Bitch?”

“Yeah. I wish I had a stronger word.”

“Is that so? Here’s a word for you: cocksucker. What do you think of that?”

“I’ve been called worse.”

She went through an open door into my living room. Even with her elsewhere, my bedroom was too cold. The musty odor went well with fading wallpaper and a shag carpet of stains. The noir setting begged for escape.

I sat up in bed. Victoria ventured in and out of the bedroom, collecting various belongings. She spoke aloud to herself, her habit when irate (meaning she did it a lot): “Geez, Victoria. Why do you put up with this? You deserve better.”

“Wrong,” I said. “You deserve worse. I’ve seen some of the other men you’ve been with. They stick it out with you for a while, get a few cheap thrills, and take far more lumps than is reasonable. Eventually they drop you like a sack of rat turds. I ought to learn what those fellows could tell me: that you’re nothing but a vile little tart, not an ounce of decency to spare.”

Victoria short-circuited. She picked up several objects – book, tennis shoe, laundry hamper, etc. – tossing them at me one by one. Her arm was weak and her aim, dreadful. I stood from my bed, batting away each projectile. I cackled at her ineptitude.

She said, “I guess we can’t all be like that dead friend of yours – Lorna.”

My laughter became a frown.

“Well look at that,” she said with a sinister smile. “I’ve struck a nerve. You know why that woman hung out with you? Pity. Lorna was too nice to tell you to get lost.”

“Don’t test me, Victoria.”

“Am I pissing you off? That’s because you never got to fuck her. She had too much taste to fall for that bullshit sweet talk you throw around. Now she’s dead, which saves her from having to put up with you.”

I shoved Victoria to the floor. I immediately regretted that, not for its effect on her, but for what it revealed about me. I had struck a female on one previous occasion. That prior outburst flashed before me after my violent moment with Victoria. I turned away in shame.

Victoria resumed gathering her things. Arms full, she approached me. I pictured her dropping everything to issue me a mighty slap. Instead she planted a wet kiss on my left ear.

She said, “Let’s get together again next week sometime.”

I gawked at her.

“What’s the matter?” she said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“A ghost would be easier to explain.”

“Whatever. I got to go. Give me a call and we’ll go out.”

“Maybe that isn’t such a swell idea.”

She scowled.

I said, “Is this arrangement still workable? Maybe we should call it quits.”

“What?”

“Can’t you see how dysfunctional we are? This relationship, if we can classify it as such, is a monstrosity. Wouldn’t we be better off parting ways, no hard feelings?”

She stuck a finger in my bare chest. “Oh, that is so typical of you it makes me want to scream! You’re using this silly spat we had today as an excuse to ditch me.”

“‘Spat’ doesn’t really capture it. Listen, I don’t want to hurt you or anything. I just …”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You can’t hurt me. Nor can you get rid of me so easily.”

She walked to my apartment door. “You have not seen the last of me, Sebastian R. Flemming the Third.” She added an exclamation point by slamming the door as she departed.

I stumbled backward, crashing on my bed with a soft thud. To clear my head, I fetched a half-smoked joint from a drawer in my nightstand next to the bed. Marijuana was on the Official List of Malevolent Substances. Possession of the drug could land one a ten-year stint in the penitentiary, or even evaporation. The risk enhanced the pot. I lit up.

My mind drifted…. I was no stranger to unstable women. My own mother had been terribly unstable. I wished in vain to forget about my family history.

****

When I was eighteen, so many moons earlier, my father wrote me a letter as I prepared to move out of my parents’ home to attend film school:

Dear Sebastian:

Your life as a man is beginning. I fear I have fallen short as a parent. I have been too busy with my career. Your mother and I always wanted what was best for you. Good intentions are a pittance in a world of actions and results.

That world can get thorny at times. I have seen much dysfunction in my work. I tried to shield your mother, your brother, and you from the uglier aspects of our society. But that ugliness will become evident to you soon enough.

You may come to an eventual crossroads where you have to choose between light hardships and a principled path that demands conflict with forces more powerful than you. Do what you believe is right for you and those around you. No matter what happens, you will always have the support of your family.

Continually replenish your youthful spirit. Pursue your dreams to their uppermost heights. I look forward to watching you progress.

Love,

Dad

That letter was how my father told me to choose my own reality. He uncannily anticipated obstacles I would face down the road. Yet, in my adolescence, I was too thick-headed to appreciate his message.

Sebastian R. Flemming the Second negotiated many of his own “crossroads.” His work as a criminal defense attorney consumed most of his time and energy. Consequently, I did not get to know him as well as he and I preferred. Because he left his troubles at the office, I was unaware of his profession’s increasing difficulties. The Permanent Regime dismantled the rights of defendants throughout his career. Traditional safeguards – habeas corpus, prohibition of double jeopardy, the right against self-incrimination, etc. – died slow but certain deaths. My father struggled to adequately represent his clients. The government ultimately abolished private criminal defense, forcing lawyers in that field to retire or secure positions with the State. My father chose the latter and managed as best he could. “My duty,” I once overheard him tell my mother, while I was supposed to be out of earshot, “is to my clients, regardless of who pays my salary.” His integrity attracted enemies. He took risks that he concealed from his family.

From what I saw growing up, he was just a big-hearted man, kind to everyone. I loved him despite our insufficient time together. I never doubted that he loved me.

We had a pearly white Victorian home in a small town suburb. The two-story house gleamed in the sun. A swing on the front porch provided laidback country flavor. The front and back yards were spacious, ideal for childhood amusements.

One of my oldest memories occurred at that house. I was maybe six. It was midafternoon in the dead of winter. Snow covered the ground with picturesque purity. I went outside to play on our backyard’s powdery surface. I wore earmuffs over a sock cap, a jacket two sizes too large, heavy mittens, two pairs of pants, and rubber boots.

I was constructing a lopsided snowman when Dad came into the yard (he must have left his office early that day). He seemed ten feet tall standing on the snow. His navy blue scarf flapped in the wind. His overcoat was long and gray.

He smiled. “A wonderful day, isn’t it, son?”

“Perfect,” I said.

“What are you up to?”

“I’m making a snowman. I hope it doesn’t turn out to be a bad snowman.”

“How could it be bad?”

“It might not be very nice,” I said. “Some snowmen are mean, you know.”

“Aren’t all snowmen nice? I’ve never come across a mean one.”

“Maybe you haven’t known enough of them, Dad.”

He laughed. “Well, I hadn’t considered that. Tell you what – just to make sure yours turns out okay, I’ll give you a hand with it. How does that sound?”

“I’d like that.”

We completed the snowman’s body and head in short time. We used two black stones for its eyes, a carrot for its nose, a handful of pebbles for its mouth, and a couple twigs for its arms. We stepped back to admire our creation.

“Look at that happy face,” said Dad. “He’s the nicest snowman I’ve ever seen.”

Why did that moment stand out for me many years later? Nothing noteworthy happened. Perhaps it was the gentle way my father transformed my anxiety about the snowman into something so positive. He had a talent for lifting one’s spirits. That must have benefited clients who were usually in dire circumstances. It benefited me as well.

My childhood was smooth and mostly pain-free. It was a tough period for my mother, though. About three years after my birth, she became pregnant with my brother Hagen. The nine months she carried him were a hell that nearly killed her. I recalled almost nothing about those days. My father’s composure guided us through the storm of that pregnancy. For a few years after Hagen’s birth, my mother suffered ailments that sometimes landed her in the hospital. She agreed with her doctors not to have any more children: “Two are as many as I can handle anyway.” Her health gradually improved and our family tried to return to normalcy.

But Hagen’s pregnancy was a harbinger. He proved even more of a hassle out of the womb. He cried constantly and endured infant insomnia. The doctors could not figure out what was wrong with him. At two he threw violent temper tantrums, often in stores and other public places. He relished the attention. The doctors still could not figure out the problem. By four Hagen was seeing child psychologists. They had no answers. My parents tried to put him in school when he was six. Within a week the people who ran the school ordered him back home indefinitely. They labeled him “unmanageable.” The label stuck.

I ignored my brother. I was in school myself and played sports year-round. Additionally, my parents – especially my father – strived to keep Hagen’s misbehavior from affecting me. I nevertheless glimpsed the toll he took on them.

In our house were stairs leading from the top floor, where the bedrooms were, into a lower-level kitchen. People on the bottom floor could not see a spy hiding at the top of those steps. That enabled me to hone a childhood vice: eavesdropping.

At about ten I secretly listened to my mother and father discussing my brother:

My mother said, “The child is a nightmare. I can’t deal with him any longer. Why is this happening to us?”

“Jillian, I don’t know,” my father said, uncharacteristically flustered. “There’s no reason, I guess. Some parents just end up with a troubled kid.”

“Well it’s no fair. We don’t deserve this.”

“Of course not. This isn’t about fairness. We have to learn how to cope.”

My mother choked back tears. “But I can’t cope, not with this. Maybe we should get him some medication.”

“You know I prefer not to do that. Maybe we can bring somebody in, like a manners coach or something. There must be someone who can help him. We’ll get through this. We just have to be patient. Look at the bright side. At least Sebastian is doing okay.”

“That only makes it more puzzling. How did we end up with one kid who’s fine and another who’s a train wreck?”

“I don’t know. Jillian, I don’t know.”

They were still talking about Hagen a half hour later. I shuffled off to bed. My father must have said “I don’t know” twenty times. I was just glad to be the good kid.

Another event further distanced me from my brother. My father bought me a video camera for my eleventh birthday, a gift that changed my life. I began filming everything, even taking my camera to school (igniting a mini-uproar wherein the principal prohibited the device from campus). My favorite subject to record was the animal kingdom.

My father purchased some film editing equipment along with a manual that detailed the basics of editing. He helped me complete a few of my projects.

As we reviewed one of my movies, I asked him, “Dad, do you think I could become a filmmaker when I grow up?”

“You’re already a filmmaker,” he said.