Nonentity (4 page)

“I mean when I get older. Do you think I could get a job making movies?”

“Certainly. If you’re committed enough, you can do anything. You’ll have to give it everything you’ve got. Are you willing to put forth the effort?”

I pondered that. “It’s the only job I can imagine wanting. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Then you shall surely rise to prominence as an auteur.”

“What’s an ‘auteur’?”

“It’s a fancy word for filmmaker. Throw that one around and nobody’ll have a clue what you’re talking about. But you’ll sound smart – which is more than half the battle.”

His confidence in me relieved all doubts. I set my aspirations on the movie business.

My high school years were a breeze. I was a good student, not great. Thanks to my brother’s expulsions from multiple schools, I faced no pressure academically. I sailed under the radar until graduation.

By the time I left home for film school, Hagen’s recklessness was peaking. He was already dabbling in alcohol and harder drugs; I didn’t notice. Never close to him, I did not care what he did. Nor did my relationship with my mother concern me much. She was too preoccupied with fixing Hagen. I valued the bond with my father, however. He was the only one I would miss after I moved out.

During my second semester at film school, Hagen left my parents’ house one day and did not return. He was fourteen. My parents spent a year unsuccessfully attempting to track him down. They surrendered all hope of finding him. His disappearance plunged my mother into a depression from which she arguably never recovered.

My brother had likely gotten himself killed, I figured. That possibility cost me no sleep. Yet Hagen was not dead. He would resurface at a pivotal juncture – barely recognizable.

****

On the second anniversary of Lorna’s evaporation, I received a phone call from a friend named Cranston Gage. I had first met Cranston through Lorna. He was a schoolteacher and fellow underground radical.

“I’ll make this short and sweet. I don’t need to explain why,” he said, hinting at the government’s monitoring of electronic communications. “This day is very sorrowful to everyone who knew her. I wish she was still around. My condolences to you.”

“Thanks. That means a lot.”

“Hang in there. She was – well, it’s best not to state too much. The world is worse off without her.” He deliberately avoided uttering Lorna’s name.

“True. But wouldn’t she want us to stay positive in her absence?”

“No doubt. I’ll have to remember that. Thanks.”

Just as that call with Cranston ended, a mix of Gregorian chant and psychedelia erupted in my ears. The volume reached a mind-numbing crescendo. I recalled my session with Lukas Lambert, the parallel universalist, over two and a half years earlier. That memory briefly cast me into a blue blur that nullified my perceptions. Ordinary consciousness returned:

Where was I? When was I? Looking around I realized that I was in a ramshackle tavern that complied with exactly none of the statutes regulating such establishments. The walls were black, the floors were white, and the waitresses wore outfits that suggested unwholesome extracurriculars. A honky-tonk tune played low on a jukebox in the back. Most of the small tables in the room were unoccupied. About fifteen patrons clustered around the main bar where I was seated. Loud and repugnant in their drunkenness, they were almost falling off their stools. I decided to keep to myself.

“I knew your brother way back when, man,” said a slurred voice to my left.

I turned. Sitting beside me was the slightly familiar Lawrence Alister. His hair was long, black, and greasy. There were red splotches on his face. Smelling like a brewery, he was in the right venue.

I said to Lawrence, “What was that?”

“Your brother. I knew him.”

“I can’t comment on that. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

“You and me both, man,” said Lawrence. “The last ten places have all been mysteries.”

I ignored him.

He said, “Your brother was one of us – until they got him. Just like they got your father. Just like they’ll get you. Just like they’ll get me. Just like they’ll get every damn one of us.”

“I’m sorry, but can you please just act like I’m not sitting next to you? I’m quite confused right now and you’re not improving the matter.”

“What’s the deal? Don’t care to think about ol’ Hagen Flemming?”

“No,” I said. “I haven’t seen Hagen since our mother died. He’s not someone I wish to think or talk about.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t want to. Hagen was never a big part of my life.”

“Sounds like a guilt complex if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you,” I said.

“Fair enough, man. I’m sure you harbor a lot of pain from your childhood that you haven’t resolved. Your brother is probably a major part of that.”

“And what the hell are you, some kind of amateur psychologist?”

Lawrence did not react to my question. He banged his fist on the bar in front of him. “Bartender! Where’s that goddamn beer you were supposed to bring me? How’s a lush like me supposed to stay good and properly pissed with such lackluster service?”

I glanced away, displeased. Lawrence Alister only added to the uncertainty of the scenario. Even most of his friends in the underground did not trust him. And I was no friend. I had read a handful of the unfocused screeds that he passed off as serious commentaries. His writings dripped with unintelligible zealotry. His underground code name was Drunken Furor – ill-advised, due to its accuracy.

The bartender was a muscle-bound bald man. A sleeveless t-shirt exposed tattoos covering his arms. Leathery face seething, the bartender came over to Lawrence.

“Hey asshole,” said Lawrence with a cocky smile, “ever stop to consider how much better your tips might be if you actually gave a shit?”

The bartender said, “Ever stop to consider how much shorter your existence might be if you keep fucking with people twice your size?”

“Never crosses my mind.”

“Very little crosses your mind. I don’t care that you’re sauced out of your head. That’s your problem. But I demand respect. When I don’t get it, bad shit happens.”

“Stop pontificating and get me a beer. Think you can do that, you oafish boar?”

The bartender grabbed Lawrence by the collar. “I’ve had just about enough of your horseshit. One more wisecrack and I’ll knock you into next week.”

I arose from my stool. “Gentlemen. Please! Violence won’t get you anywhere. Why not settle this with good faith and civility?”

“Good faith and civility?” the bartender said, pointing a thumb at me. “Who the hell is this clown?”

“My name is Sebastian R. Flemming the Third.”

“Yeah right. And I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

Lawrence said, “Show Mr. Flemming some of that same respect you demand for yourself. He won’t stand for your dimwitted ridicule.”

The bartender released his grip on Lawrence and shot me an icy glare. “Is that so? Care to back up what your pal just said?”

“He’s not my pal. Look, I don’t want any trouble. Let’s just …”

“Ah, don’t go wishy-washy on me, Sebastian,” said Lawrence. “This mindless behemoth made a joke at your expense. Don’t allow …” He burst into inexplicable laughter.

The bartender laughed as well. “Damn it, Lawrence. We really had this guy going for a minute there. He looked like he might piss his pants.”

“Sebastian,” Lawrence said, “meet Bruce Klein. He’s a jolly old bastard, uglier than mortal sin. But at least he tries.”

I hesitated before shaking Bruce’s hand. His grip was unsurprisingly strong.

Bruce grabbed a mug and filled it with ale. “One beer for you, Lawrence. How ‘bout you, Sebastian? Can I get you anything?”

“A glass of water will be fine. Thank you.”

Lawrence drained his beer in a single gulp. He reached inside his lime green overcoat and pulled out some ruffled papers.

Pushing the sheets in front of me, he said, “Think you could read this piece I wrote?”

I looked at him with scorn. “Find someone else.”

“Who? Most of the booze heads I hang out with can barely read. You’re a writer, Sebastian. Your underground material is killer stuff. I’d like your opinion on this.”

“My opinion won’t do you much good.”

He said, “But you work for the Ministry of Miscommunication and Misdirection. They’ve assigned you to the upcoming election campaigns. This piece is perfect for you. Its title is ‘What Happened to Gabriel Manchester?’. Don’t you want that question answered?”

“What are you talking about? Nothing happened to Manchester. He’s still running for Grand Premier, as far as I know.”

“The key words are ‘as far as I know.’ This article of mine covers what you don’t know. Manchester’s going to disappear and there won’t be any explanation why. It’ll be like he never existed. So you really should read this article.”

I was quiet for several seconds. Was my tavern companion an aspiring soothsayer? Manchester appeared in much of the campaign footage I reviewed. He remained a celebrated figure of the Regime. That he might suddenly vanish was farfetched.

I shook my head at Lawrence. “You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Give your article to someone else, someone more apt to place stock in your hearsay.”

“Ouch! That hurts. Did I get off on the wrong foot by mentioning your brother?”

“It didn’t help.”

“In that case, I’ll tell you about your brother anyway. He was one of us, man. He was part of the radical underground. I bet you didn’t know that.”

Lawrence paused for me to respond; I said nothing.

He continued, “Hagen got into the movement because he was suspicious about what happened to your father. Weren’t you suspicious about that yourself?”

Against my reluctance, I felt compelled to answer. “Of course. Do you know something about it that I don’t?”

“If only that were so. Hagen must have found something out, because I never met anyone who despised the Regime as much as he did. He made me look like a lilylivered moderate. He told me he would make the bastards pay for what they had done to your family, but they iced him before he got a chance to do any damage. That was a big loss. Extremists like him are rare.”

“Hold on a minute. Are you telling me that Hagen is dead?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you hear me when I said that earlier? They evaporated him. Speaking of people who got evaporated, that girl you were friends with – what was her name? Lorna, right? Yeah. Lorna. Your brother knew her too.”

That piqued my curiosity. “Are you serious? Were the two of them friends?”

“Well, I don’t know if they were friends, but they certainly bumped into each other a few times. She told Hagen that she knew you.”

“Really? That’s incredible. Why didn’t she tell me that she knew him?”

“Hell if I know. He probably told her not to say anything to you about it. He was convinced that you didn’t want anything to do with him. He thought that you hated him, you know, because of things that happened when you two were growing up.”

“I didn’t hate him,” I said.

A long pause allowed Lawrence to order another beer. He downed it in one swift motion.

It bothered me that my own brother had assumed my hatred for him. My indifference must have given him the wrong impression. Another source of guilt had sprung up.

Trying to put Hagen out of my mind, I glimpsed Victoria Mason entering the tavern’s front door. She was alone. I discreetly tracked her as she walked to an empty table in the middle of the room, about fifteen feet away from me, and sat down. Her gold dress featured a tantalizing slit up to her waist. Damn – those legs! They bedazzled me all over again. Would it be that awful if I slept with her one more time? The temptation alarmed me.

Invading my worry, Lawrence said, “What the hell were we talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Let’s leave.”

“Leave? Why?”

“I’m not comfortable here.”

“Come on, man. You were fine a minute ago.”

“Well, something changed. Somebody …” I stopped short.

“Somebody what? What changed?”

“Nothing.”

“Sebastian, what kind of shit are you trying to pull? You said that something changed. What was it?”

“You must have misinterpreted me. Nothing happened. Aren’t you tired of this dump? We should get out of here.”

“Not until you tell me why you’re flaking on me, man?”

I caved. “Somebody came into the bar. Somebody I want to avoid.”

“Oh really?” Lawrence darted his head around, searching for my “somebody.”

“Don’t look around like that. She might see you.”

“A woman, huh? Let me guess: I bet it’s that blond chick with the sweet titties sitting all by herself. I’m trying to remember her name. Oh yeah. Victoria, right?”

I nodded. “How did you know?”

“You’re not the only guy trying to avoid her. Seems like half the cats I know in the underground have banged that broad. She scares them all shitless. She’s one of the hottest pieces of ass around. Why are all these dudes ducking her? They ought to stick close to her.”