Wrap Party

“I’m scared. I’ve dreaded this day since I was a kid.” Robert’s voice was labored and hesitant. Millie dabbed his chin with a tissue, absorbing the saliva that he could no longer control. “Where am I going, Millie? What will happen to me?

She moved her attentions to his forehead and addressed the perspiration. “It’s a big universe, darling. I’m sure there’s a place for you.”

“Oh, God. I’m falling into something. I’m falling. I … I love you, Millie. I want to breathe. I can’t … Millie, please …” A huge gasp, the twitching of his limbs, then silence. Robert was gone from the life he had known. It was all over.

“Cut! That’s it, people. It’s a wrap.” Robert, in his spiraling maze of darkness, heard these words very clearly. He realized that he was still conscious and not quite separated from his former reality. He opened his eyes.

Millie was standing over his hospital bed along with Doctor Cho, but they were not alone. The room was filled with nurses, staff workers, relatives, former sweethearts, classmates, co-workers, and his mother and father; all of them smiling and applauding him with enthusiasm. Partitions and walls were pulled away and a bevy of busy beavers sporting walkie-talkies were engaged in breaking down the room, moving tables, chairs, and nightstands. As each partition fell away a battery of blinding lights appeared, but were being dimmed one by one as at least three bulky movie cameras were being waltzed about on dollies.

The ovation continued as a short, bearded man with his hair in a ponytail moved through the throng and offered his hand. “Good job. Congratulations.” Robert took a moment to find his voice.

“Are you God?”

The room exploded with laughter. The man smiled. “Close, but no cigar. My name is Goddard, same as Jean Luc, but a bit more assessable to the common sensibility. You can call me Jerry.”

“Jerry Goddard?” Robert reached out to take his hand. It was solid flesh. “I don’t understand. What’s going on? Am I dead?”

“In a sense,” Jerry Goddard explained. He was clearly amused. “Robert … the Robert you were … he’s dead for all intents and purposes. You are still here.”

“I don’t get it. I’m Robert.”

“Not any longer. Your wife is no longer your wife, your parents your parents, your children your children. You have no identity.”

Robert was totally bewildered. “What are you saying? Millie is right here. There are my parents.”

“Yes, your parents are here too. Unusual, isn’t it?”

Robert was just beginning to grasp the moment. “Wait … they died. Years ago. Where have they been?”

Jerry Goddard sat on the edge of the bed. “Central Casting. That’s where everyone goes now. You too.”

Robert gazed at the crowd around his deathbed Except for the crew running back and forth, every face was familiar. They had all touched his life in some way, and they were all sympathetic witnesses to Robert’s epiphany.

Robert’s focus now returned to Jerry Goddard. “Central Casting? Like what, this has been a movie or something?”

“Yeah, something like that? These good folks are all actors. They all played a part in what was your life. You were the star, though you weren’t aware of it. I’m the director. You don’t know me, but I’ve been with you every step of the way.”

Robert was laboring to connect the pieces of this complex puzzle. “But what about Millie? She’s my wife.”

Millie moved closer and put a hand on the director’s shoulder. “I’m an actress. I played the part of your wife. It was a lovely role.”

This admission affected Robert severely. His eyes fixed on his parents. “My mother? How was that a part?”

Mom fielded this query. “I played your mother in the story of your life. It was your life all along, honey. As it turned out your father, a very fine actor, was a wonderful colleague. I think we worked very well together.”

“That’s the truth. I think it was some of my finest work,” his father added. “You kept us on our toes, I can tell you that.”

Robert looked back at Jerry Goddard. “What happens to me now?”

“Ah, you’re beginning to adjust,” Jerry Goddard reassured. “Right now we are going to feast on some excellent chow provided by Craft Services. This is your wrap party. You can reminisce with these good folks. You might not see some of them much after today. Then you’ll go to Central Casting and wait for a part in someone else’s life.”

“Wait a minute.” Robert was beginning to figure it out. “My whole life was a fantasy? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes. And you were the star. Everyone gets a shot. Now you’ll be the support for another star.”

“But if everyone gets to do this once, that will take forever.”

Jerry Goddard smiled. “That’s what we have … forever. The rules of your former reality don’t apply in the reel world. You’ll find that much of what you, as Robert, held sacred in your life is just artifice and fancy. Don’t worry about it. You’ll adjust. So, my friend, it’s been a pleasure working with you. Now go and celebrate with your cast. This is your party.”

 “I’m still in a state of shock,” Robert imparted as he once again shook his director’s hand. “Though I suppose it’s preferable to being dead. And to think, I obsessed about it for much of my life.”

Robert stood up and followed Jerry Goddard to the buffet table. As the director departed to attend to some business with his crew, he patted the former Robert on the back “The concept of death makes a script so much more dramatic. It lends a sense of immediacy to the plot.”

The guest of honor, adapting to his new reality, began to mingle with his cast mates with remarkable ease. Everyone was hugging everyone else while negotiating drinks and platefuls of food. Millie admitted to relishing her role as his wife and answered, when he asked her real name, “None of us have names except when we take on a character.”

When he encountered Teresa, a former flame that he had seemingly taken ages to get over, he was momentarily inhibited. She broke the ice with a warm smile and a hug. “I’m sorry it ended as it did between us,” she revealed. “There was nothing I could do. It was in the script. Do you remember what I said when we broke up?”

This was not difficult for him. He recalled it clearly with a tinge of long-ago grief. “I remember you said that I was too self involved; that I thought it was all about me.”

She smiled and placed her hand softly on his cheek. “See, I was right after all.”

©2011 by John Cannatella

Short Sentences

Andy got caught. He was guilty. He wasn’t the only one. He wasn’t the most culpable. He was the most cooperative. He got six months. Four months with good behavior. It was a plea deal. He thought he got lucky. He was wrong.

Processed. Inside. Stares. Mistrust. Nick, a cellmate.

“What for?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t be dense. What you in for?”

“Oh. Malfeasance.”

“What’s that? You touchin’ kids?”

“No … no. I was an aide. Mayor’s office. I knew some stuff. I didn’t report it.”

“You rat?”

“Nah. They asked questions.”

“Bullshit. You ratted.”

“They already knew.”

“Get away from me.”

Nick was no friend. A couple of days passed. Now everyone inside knew. Andy the rat.

They were in the mess hall. Damon sat across from Andy.

“Who’d you rat on?”

“Some of the mayor’s staff.”

“What’d they do?”

“Stealing funds. Basically. It was pretty complex.”

“We don’t like rats in here. They get hurt a lot.”

Some of the inmates moved in. Damon smirked.

“You a short timer?”

Andy found his voice.

“Yeah. Maybe four months.”

“You keep your mouth shut. You do your time. Nobody’s gonna bother you.”

“Really?”

“Crooked politicians. Nobody cares. They’re taking from us anyway.”

“Yeah. That’s how I see it.”

“Don’t get cocky. You were one of them.”

“Not really. I was staff. Low man.”

“Don’t get cocky, low man.”

Andy survived. For a while. He was then transferred. Minimum security facility. Business guys. White-collar crime. Safer. Much.

He now roomed with Terry. Wall Street broker type.

“I was set up.”

“By whom?”

“My boss. He flaked out. Had my name on everything.”

“Did they indict him?”

“Nah. He fixed it nice. It all pointed to me.”

“How long?”

“Two fucking years. Sixteen months maybe.”

“It’ll pass.”

“Easy for you to say.”

They had a recreation room. And privileges. Not much bitterness. Jack was an exception.

“Hey, Andy. They put you in here?”

“Yeah. Got me too.”

“You didn’t do shit.”

“I knew. I didn’t say anything. It’s a crime.”

“You didn’t say anything?”

“I let it go on. I was culpable.”

“You certainly opened up on the stand.”

“I had to.”

“Yeah. That’s what my wife said. She left me. Took the kids.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? About my wife? Or that you’re in here?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Well, don’t cry about it. You’ll get your chance. To be sorry, I mean.”

“Is that a threat?”

“A promissory note. It sounds better.”

“I’ll report you.”

“I bet you will. So what? Nobody cares.”

Andy thought about it. Nick and Damon. Tough guys. They didn’t care. White-collar bullshit. He left them behind. For what? For the very sort he came from. The sort he had betrayed. Minimum security. Someone could get to him.

He kept his eyes open. He looked over his shoulder. He was vulnerable in the showers. He was cozy with the guards. That made it worse. He kept Jack in his sights. Whenever he could. Nothing.

Release! Back in the world. He had done time for keeping quiet. He was shunned for speaking out. He left the city he called home. He headed west. He would start anew.

He found a job. He took a wife. He surveyed the political scene. He dared not enter. He ran a convenience store. His customers liked him. He was settled.

His store was burglarized. They caught the culprits. Local boys. Tough bunch. He refused to testify.

The Wings

35, 36, and 37 … that was it. Not bad for a Thursday evening at a theatre that could host 49 patrons maximum. The Friday through Sunday block was already sold out, so tonight’s decent turnout was more like a bonus than a harbinger of box office fatigue. Counting the house before each curtain had become an important part of his pre-show preparation the last few years. Not that he avoided the elements of his preliminary technique, but he had ceased concerning himself with those requirements a while back. Motivation and condition were, by now, so ingrained that he could enact his character in his sleep, which often was the case these days.

For forty-six years, by his own calculation, Ambrose could not find regular work in the theater. Yes, he won parts both featured and supporting here and there, now and again, but he never had a steady gig to speak of until he struck gold with “Down From Olympus” six seasons ago. The play was well received initially, picked up a word-of-mouth reputation the second year, and attained a cult status thereafter that had yet to exhaust itself. Ambrose couldn’t help but believe that he had stepped in a pile of steaming good luck with a long running show and steady employment.

The role he enacted was a dream part. While not the lead, his was the plum component of the entire production. He would enter at the end of act one, occupy the stage for most of act two, then deliver the surprise ending in the last act. He was the key to the plot and the crucial element that carried the play to conclusion. His character possessed humor, mystery, and a vitality that kept audiences riveted whenever he took the stage, a coveted role by any standard. Ambrose had missed only one performance in all these years to attend a funeral, and though his replacement left much to be desired by fellow cast members, production staff, and audience reaction alike, he vowed never to loosen his hold on his prized trust again. He was the definitive Max Sergeant and no one else could, or should, ever occupy this fantasy flesh unless in tribute to Ambrose Tyler (stage name), and that only in the event of his conclusively departing his own mortal coil.

The first three years were a revelation as to his potential for invention and endurance, and though he had pretty much pushed the boundaries of discovery and development to their limit, he could always bask in the camaraderie of his fellow cast members who were more of a family than he had ever known. He cherished their kinship and respect, for he was the oldest member of the cast by far and conferred an aura of expertise for his experience and proficiency in stagecraft. He had found more than a prized role in a hit production, he had found unity and credibility in the bosom of his cherished profession … and he had found a family.

This family, however, was changing, primarily in the last two years. Most of his important scenes were played with a delightful and talented young lady, Mildred Parsons, who enacted the role of his daughter. She was his steady partner the first three years, then gradually began to utilize her understudy to attend to more rewarding roles in upscale productions. She had an attentive agent who sent her to interviews for major venues in commercial television, minor cameos in motion pictures, and principal stage work both in the city and abroad. Mildred was young, attractive, and had a potentially significant future in the business. Ambrose knew he was beyond the point of making an impact for starring vehicles, but he also considered himself fortunate for the niche he now occupied. He was an older actor and, while most in his age category were barely competent or had quit the business altogether, or had passed on to the great proscenium in the heavens, he was considered a gifted thespian in his age range and sought after by off-Broadway producers. Any actors eligible to play his roles were marginally talented at best and were hired merely for their mature appearance. He had, through his endurance as well as through his talent, become ‘a catch’.

When speaking with audience members after a performance, Ambrose would note how they were surprised that he wasn’t better known in the big budget realms of Broadway and motion pictures. When induced to give a rundown of his previous credits he ran a list of plays no one had heard of. When asked what representation he had, he would casually admit that he did not have an agent at this time. The truth is that he had never had an agent in all his years in the business. He worked mostly by reputation and rarely auditioned any longer. For someone with the gift of endurance and a comprehensive view of where he belonged in the world, Ambrose Tyler was not proficient in the art of self-promotion, or the ambition to appear successful in his field. He wasn’t in it for glory or riches; he just knew his destiny. He never wrestled with the choice of career like most of his boyhood friends and he never doubted where he belonged. In his youth, when taking a rest from playing with his pals on any given Saturday afternoon, he would take advantage of the post lunch lull and enact scenes from whatever movie or TV show he had seen that week to delightful reaction. Performing was in his blood and he remained faithful to that revelation to this day.

“I love doing this show, but the repetition is getting to me. I feel like I’m just treading water now.” Mildred had joined Ambrose in the wings one night during the fourth year of the run. “My agent thinks I should be moving on to other things. I have a callback for a role in an indi movie and I might have to miss a few performances.”

“That’s great,” Ambrose assured her. “I’ll miss you. I can’t imagine playing our scenes with anyone else.” Mildred blushed and gave him a spontaneous kiss on the cheek. They had become close in the time they had worked together. Her father had left the family bosom when she was still quite young and, although Mildred had a supportive extended family, Ambrose had become for her a trusted paternal figure. They had engaged in many conversations, reminiscences, and philosophies while waiting for their cues to enter, thus they were more than confidants who shared a mutual fondness; they were partners.

“My agent thinks I should take a trip to the West Coast,” she informed him one evening while he was counting the house. “She has some interviews lined up for me.”

Ambrose stopped his tally in midstream. “Are you going to do it?”

“I don’t know. I’m thinking about it.”

“If you do, don’t look back. You are talented and have a future. I’ll be rooting for you, of course.”

A month later Mildred was on the West Coast and Ambrose had a new partner. Lily Montero was somewhat different in her approach than Mildred had been, but she brought her own cunning and faculty to the role and melded in seamlessly. Again many secrets, hopes, and ambitions were exchanged in the wings and they became close. Ambrose was delighted that his new partner worked so well with him and he once again looked forward to each performance. They soon discovered that they had a similar sense of humor and each kept the other entertained when not on stage.

Lily had ambitions beyond her acting abilities and proposed a partnership with Ambrose in forming an independent theatre company that they would co-produce together. Both Lily and Ambrose spent much of their free time writing scripts and they often shared them via e-mail. Lily wanted to move beyond the written page and stage their work in a venue to be determined. They settled on the one-act plays they would present and scouted available theatre space. Lily was particularly fond of a piece that Ambrose had written that would accentuate her proficiencies, but since he had fashioned it for an older couple, he spent many hours adapting it for her age range. This meant that he would not be able to take a part in enacting the fabrication. She assured him that a friend of hers, also a playwright, would do nicely in the part. She also wanted this friend to contribute a couple of one-acts. This would leave Ambrose with minimal input in the proposal and he courteously backed out of the agreement. Lily went ahead with this friend and had a staging of their work at a small theatre. This did not affect their relationship to any significant degree, but for Ambrose it did serve as evidence of her keen ambition regardless of past alliances. It was only a matter of time before Lily moved on to greener pastures and Ambrose was once again breaking in a new scene partner.

Her name was Caroline and they got on well enough, but there were a few things that bothered Ambrose; not to distraction, but nonetheless it violated his timeworn comfort zone. For one, Caroline was not exactly a studied actress. Her experience had been in improvised comedy and Ambrose felt that she lacked the necessary stagecraft to carry out a completely satisfying performance. She would space out on certain vital cues that compromised the plot and also had a propensity for cutting off another’s lines. When in the third act she delivered the setup for the surprise ending, she would be facing away from the audience, thus watering down the desired effect. Her lack of classical training was evident and Ambrose chose a moment when they occupied the wings together to mention it to her.

This, however, proved somewhat difficult since Caroline barely acknowledged him while awaiting their entrance. She was mostly involved with her ipod, with her head down and her distraction quite apparent. It was usually left to Ambrose to nudge her when their cue to enter was delivered onstage. When he did manage to bring it up, she regarded him skeptically, as if to say, “Who are you to instruct me?” He mentioned this to the stage manager, his only recourse, and henceforth Caroline performed the required adjustments satisfactorily. Her regard toward him was aloof and cool after this, but since she never exhibited any warmth or desire to engage him before, Ambrose felt not the loss.

There was a time when the part was played adequately by a round robin of young actresses, most of whom were pleasant enough to work with and Ambrose was secure in his role of guide and adviser, both spiritual and theatrical. He relished being the old pro who could be turned to in times of confusion and self-doubt, and this gave him the sense of achievement lacking in his casual approach to international renown. He had found his niche and intended to venture forth only when mounting his own material. He was, of course, just as lackadaisical in this endeavor as in his nonchalant quest for fame. If the illusive mistress found him he was more than willing, but to organize and conduct the search himself was too daunting a task for someone so easily pleased with his circumstances. Yes, he knew he was a good actor, even great at times, but his effort to shine in a larger and more celebrated venue was without the required drive and persistence. When he was younger this bothered him to some degree, but he had since relaxed into himself due to a combination of age and a more secure knowledge of his wants and needs. Big fish, little pond, why not?

His personal life was just as secure and satisfying as his professional one. He felt privileged that as a widower with two grown children he had found a second love of his life and they had been together for some years now. He had loved two women profoundly and had managed a cherished life with both of them. Was this not a success greater than any other?

Ambrose liked women, not just as one attracted to the fair sex, but as companions and associates. This aspect surprised him to some extent since his relationship with his own mother was rather contentious. Although meaning well, he was sure, she had a rather distorted approach toward motivating him toward excellence. Her arsenal consisted of ridicule and shame and she seldom resorted to praise. He knew this was all beyond her rather limited grasp of inspiring confidence in her young; she was broken and she passed on the shards of her shattered worth as best she could. Something in his make-up had alerted him to this while still very young and he was able to dismiss the criticism and deflect her slights summarily. How he was capable of discerning this liability in her at so tender an age was a mystery to him, but he was somehow able to disbelieve the propaganda and form his own sense of self which, though subject to exaggerated highs and lows through his formative years, proved to be a steady barometer in his adulthood. And he had maintained an abiding love and respect for all women throughout his life. How he had overcome such perverse odds was a source of perplexity and of pride for him and he was grateful, no matter how baffling the process, that he had preserved his own sense of certainty about his connection with the world. He was, indeed, himself, and he blessed the road he had traveled no matter how arduous or enigmatic it appeared to be at times. It was his path and he owned it.

While his compass was steadfast and his demeanor amenable, the circumstances surrounding his craft were in a constant state of flux during these last two years and it seemed as though the role of his daughter was played by a different actress every week. Mavis was serviceable in the role and liked to expound on her somewhat complex relationships with men while Mindy applied a judicious approach to her character and to politics, which she favored as a topic of discussion. Liz needed constant affirmation from him regarding her performance, which Ambrose considered frivolous since she was more than serviceable in her part. Their conversations inevitably ended with Ambrose delivering a pep talk. All this occurring in the wings prior to his entrance in the play.

One day, in the seventh year of the run, Ambrose was informed by the stage manager that his daughter would be played by yet another actress. Ambrose detected a subtle smile forming at the corners of his mouth and wondered if he was being set up for some bit of mischief. He was correct in this assessment because the actress turned out to be none other than Mildred Parsons, his first and favorite partner. She had returned from Hollywood and was slotted into her former role. They hugged upon discovery and danced around like little children. It wasn’t long before they found themselves in their familiar spot in the wings

“How did it go out there?”

“I was getting work right away,” Mildred informed him. “I did some background work and had a few lines on a couple of soaps. I thought I had made a mark and was on my way. Then it all stopped just as suddenly as it began.”

“Those credits didn’t get you more work? I don’t get it.”

“Neither did I. My agent explained that any new actor gets some screen time, especially if they’re from New York. They are usually cast for background, so it’s a low risk move. They’re not particularly interested in unproven talent for featured roles.”

This was a part of the business that Ambrose wasn’t familiar with. He wanted to know more. “So what do you have to do to get noticed out there?”

“It’s really tough. There’s not much for you to do. If you don’t hear from your agent, you have to fill your time finding a way to make a living.” She checked the small offstage prop table to ensure that all was prepared before entrance. “After a while I didn’t hear from my agent at all. Oh, where’s my writing tablet?”

“That’s been changed to a laptop and you don’t carry it on until the second act now.” Ambrose advised.

Mildred considered this information carefully. “So … we’ve gone high tech while I’ve been away. Any other changes I should know about?”

“All the rest is pretty much the same. How are you on the lines and cues?”

“I won’t have a problem. Still, I would have liked to have worked with the laptop a bit before now. I used to jot down notes as my character. Now I’ll have to fiddle with the computer. I could have used some rehearsal time.”

“I can cover for you if the business gets clumsy,” Ambrose offered. “I can ad lib the pauses until you get used to handling that thing.”

“How did the others handle it?”

“They didn’t. They didn’t see the character as taking notes. They just carried it on and ignored it for the most part.”

Mildred thought this through for a moment. “It’s so much a part of my character interpretation to take notes. I’ll just have to deal with it.” She paused and cocked her ear toward the stage. “Did they change the dialogue? I don’t remember those lines.”

“The lines are the same,” Ambrose assured her. “That’s Marty. He’s been doing the show for a couple of weeks now.” Ambrose listened to another few words from the stage. “He’s floundering.” Another second or two and Ambrose was convinced. “Yeah, he’s up on his lines. We’d better enter now.”

Ambrose and Mildred then made their first act entrance and the expression of relief on Marty’s face was palpable. The scene continued to its conclusion without a hitch.

“I don’t know, I just spaced out. Thanks for picking up on it,” Marty gushed after Ambrose introduced him to Mildred between acts. “I expected Ambrose to realize it, but you handled it like a trooper. You seemed so relaxed and confident, especially for your first time.”

Ambrose enlightened him. “Mildred originated the role for the first three years or so. She knows the play inside and out.”

“Ah,” Marty expelled in a moment of elucidation. “I should have known. Ambrose has spoken of you often. Am I lucky or what? I mean, I was really lost out there, and in front of a full house. How scary is that?”

“Not quite a full house,” Ambrose corrected. “46 seats filled. A nice turnout, but not capacity.”

Marty and Mildred exchanged glances and both simultaneously broke into laughter. Ambrose was notorious for his predilection for head counts and was often the subject of a good-natured jest.

“Oh well, I guess I overreacted then,” Marty wryly confessed. “I should save my panic for the real thing.” As a result of this genial repartee the three of them decided to have a bite together after the show. Ambrose watched as the two younger thespians joked and laughed together, noting that Marty appeared to have agleam in his eye for the vivacious Mildred. Being aware of Mildred’s long time engagement to a young stockbroker, he was concerned that Marty not misinterpret her affable manner for anything other than a general cordiality. Ambrose knew of the susceptibility of a young man to the charms of a poised young woman only too well and was concerned about what course Marty’s expectations might take. Should he have a word with him? Was it any of his business?

Mildred relieved him of this quandary by mentioning her guy in a natural fashion, weaving him into the conversation seamlessly and thus nipping potential ardor in the bud. She must have picked up on the signs, Ambrose supposed. She’s got it all; assurance, brains, talent, and tact. He became aware that the pride he was feeling was not at all different than that of a father for his daughter; life imitating art as it were.

Whatever the circumstances of each performance, or the cast intrigues that inevitably popped up from time to time, Ambrose was rewarded at the end of the day by returning home to the woman he loved. He was grateful for the peace and security that only age and wisdom can provide. He cared not for the boisterous celebration that the younger set found necessary to pursue. He had left the manic indulgence in drink and hoopla behind him in some distant, somewhat blurry past, wondering what satisfaction these activities may ever have provided at the time. Before a show he would read in his dressing room and upon returning home he would enjoy a late meal with his beloved, discuss the days activities, possibly play a game of scrabble, and delight in the company of the one he most cherished. ‘Much ado’ had been dispensed with in favor of a life of assurance, affection, and contemplation.

Then came a time when all that would shatter his coveted complacency occurred in a blizzard of alternatives. He had entered one of his plays in a prestigious contest, at a high profile venue, that could only enhance his reputation as a playwright. That one of the leads was tailored for his participation was a beguiling enticement. It would mean, of course, that he would have to leave “Down From Olympus”, at least for a time, but he would only have to consider that prospect if his play was accepted. The supposition became reality when he received a letter of acceptance and congratulations from the producers. Now he had to choose.

His reluctance to abandon his current employment lay not only in his success as a performer in the show, but he would also be forsaking the theatrical family he had acquired through the years. He was loath to relinquish his role to another, of course, and he was somewhat resistant to traversing new ground without the guaranteed acclaim that had become his customary due. Ambrose was uncomfortable with his immediate future in flux and devoted most of his free time sorting out his options. He utilized a mental debit and credit list to achieve a balanced decision, going back and forth until none of it made much sense. He would then approach the problem with a fresh perspective and ultimately end up with the same unresolved dilemma. On the one hand he had certain success and steady employment in his current milieu; on the other was an opportunity to broaden his options and realize his potential, promising a lifelong dream come true. Of course his play could tank and he would be left disenchanted and looking for work again. He would need energy reserves he hadn’t tapped into for a long time to bring about a quality production under his direction, including casting, set, and prop considerations. Did he need the headache?

He considered his position in the “Down From Olympus” family of actors, stage managers, and assistants. How many assistants had left the show for greener pastures during the run? This was the seventh year with a fifth stage manager in charge. Most of the original cast had left, and although he enjoyed a comfortable relationship with all the dramatis personae, he had belonged to other theatrical families in the past and knew how short was the grieving period after their dissolution.

An unexpected event proved to be the deciding factor in the decision-making process. Mildred Parsons announced her plans to wed her betrothed in a few short weeks and, after hugs and congratulations, she assured Ambrose that they would never lose touch. They parted amid tears and promises after a cast party in her honor. Ambrose was considering asking Mildred to appear in his play if he were to decide on making the leap toward foreign waters, but in lieu of her upcoming nuptials he figured he might as well frame his proposal in an e-mail. He waited until the last minute to accept the invitation to stage his play, still running back and forth in his mind the benefits and downsides of the venture. When a couple of his female cast members were overheard discussing their invitations to Mildred’s wedding, Ambrose was at a loss. He checked his mailbox daily, but no request for his attendance at the festivities arrived. Each evening he would overhear the young women discussing what they would wear to the affair. He thought back to all the alliances he had enjoyed throughout his career and could only recall a handful of names; people he lived with on tour, amorous involvements, sworn comrades-in-arms in the battlefield of dramatization; all of them vague memories now.

Ambrose was in his dressing room after the show, musing on his past associations, when Marty came in and asked him if he would hear a monologue from ‘Hamlet’ that he was preparing for an audition.

“It’s an amateur theatre group, but they have a good reputation and I always wanted to play Hamlet,” he explained. “If you could give me some feedback I would appreciate it.”

Ambrose regarded him closely. “Wait … you want to give up a paid gig to join an amateur group?”

Marty’s eyes lit up and his enthusiasm was unmistakable. “Sure. This is Hamlet!”

“Sure, I’ll listen. Shoot.”

Marty cleared his throat, took a moment for reflection, than began. “To be or not to be. That is the question.”

Ambrose, suddenly energized, listened patiently, gave him mostly positive feedback, and left his dressing room as if he were on a mission, shouting back, “To be or not to be, that is the question … and the answer.”

He tendered a leave-of-absence for “Up From Olympus” and immediately informed the new producers that he was onboard with a full production of his play. He then returned home and embraced his beloved, knowing that whatever the future might hold, he would always return to her at the end of the day. Life was still good.

Unseen

No one could see him. He sustained a vague presence for all his days and for most of them he was grateful, but there were times when this feature put him at a distinct disadvantage.

“Who are you? We’ve been a couple for three years and I still don’t know.” These were her last words to him. He missed the coupling, but his breathing became easier when the questions stopped.

“I’m sorry, we must have overlooked your application,” was another quote that reverberated in his mind from time to time, not for its exclusivity, but more the customary observance of its pattern.

“I am invisible”, he was shouting when they took him into custody, naked, ecstatic, and hysterically liberated.

“If you were, they wouldn’t be haulin’ your ass”, was a comment from one of the roguish bystanders and was greeted with appreciative laughter from his fellow witnesses.

“You cannot begin to imagine,” he shot back, to no one in particular. “ I am on fire and you can’t see it. I am burning a hole in your earth and you haven’t a clue.”

“How about the hole in your head,” was a less successful rejoinder from a fringe voice in the crowd?

In a moment he was gone and would remain invisible in their collective memories after they had related the incident with relish but a handful of times.

Bellevue Psychiatric was packed that fateful night and, true to his word, Monte Bingo was able to slip away unnoticed. “I am invisible. This is when the damn thing comes in handy,” he giggled internally as he made a casual beeline for the corner and turned it. He was wearing the shirt and pants retrieved by the officers when he was taken into custody and so could almost pass for visible. He didn’t need to be in a crowd, he knew, to go unspotted.

When the hospital staff was questioned after his absence was detected they were hard put to offer one distinguishing characteristic regarding his description. After much hemming and hawing, “average” was the most typical trait proffered.

It was true. There was not one distinctive quality anyone could link to Monte Bingo. He was the third child in a family of four, maintained a C+ average in elementary and high school environs, was merely a bench player on his Little League team, and never had a date until he met Roberta. Even that occurrence happened to him, not because of him. He was chosen by process of elimination. Roberta was designing in her choices. Anyone who stood out was relegated to the side for the unforgivable sin of possessing too much charm, too many smarts, and any variety of noteworthy talent. Roberta Tobin was not about to endure anyone with comparable aptitude in such intimate proximity. Singular personalities were to be engaged in battle, a test of will and perseverance, where and when she would decide in her own time and in her own way. She called the shots even when her adversary was equal to the task. What she needed in a partner, she decided, was a malleable mate who would offer encouragement, devotion, solace when requested, and never stray off point. Monte was uniquely qualified and considered a gem of a find for her purposes. Since he had never been singled out before, especially by someone from the opposite sex, he felt that at last he had found a purpose. He was now identifiable; a boyfriend, a helpmate, a lover. What he didn’t know about the art of pleasing a woman would not be a problem. Roberta was never shy about how to go about things. She would become his spiritual and sexual guide.

How their relationship had lasted so long was a mystery to Monte, as was the reason for its termination. He never had a grasp of his status in the alliance, just a vague impression that Roberta knew better and that his course laid mainly between loyalty and obeisance. Where, then, was he culpable in the demolition of their union? He decided to dismiss this particular conundrum with the old maxim, “Ours is not to reason why …” This he did and thus he died.

This was the defining moment when Monte Bingo resolved to embrace his anonymity with a fierce dedication bordering on obsession. He could accomplish more with his absence than with his presence and the logic of this assessment was too fetching to ignore. He was determined to set his ego aside and get out of his own way in the attainment of his goals. He was no longer about receiving credit, but remained focused on results. After all, the ‘little man behind the curtain’ persona wielded profound influence and offered up only a vague target for the trigger-happy sharpshooters of opposition. Thus Monte Bingo

* * * * *

In the seven years since his escape from the clutches of Bellevue detention, no one was ever granted the license to call him Monte. He was highly productive and able to launch a modest empire in website design and implementation, but he was always referred to as Mr. Bingo by subordinates and clientele alike, members of both camps never able to claim a personal introduction to the man in charge. He was able, through staff memos and judicious delegation, to create a pyramid of power and dwell in the upper reaches of his empire with clandestine asylum from the scourges of acclamation; no press, no personal requests or petitions to consider, no accountability to endure in the hiring and firing of employees. Even the IRS hadn’t fixed him on their radar yet.

One thing was certain, however. Monte Bingo was a titan of industry in his field and exerted far-reaching influence over the fortunes of the internet elite. Everyone claimed to abide by his considered philosophies, but no one could prove a more intimate association and all boasts to this point fell hollow. The man in charge was indeed a man of mystery to those in his sphere and to the world beyond; that is until an audacious newspaper headline one day threatened to lure him from his cherished sanctuary.

“Mystery Woman Claims Bingo Baby” bellowed forth from a popular daily and was swiftly plagiarized in varied expressions of scandalous duplication in the general press. The Bingo Baby Bandwagon had begun to roll and predictably all media outlets alerted the public that it was essential for them to once and for all learn the identity of this admired icon and deadbeat dad. Blogs and webcasts followed suit before the week was out and precious anonymity became an endangered asset for Monte, menaced by mendacious opportunists and rag journalism. He had surfaced, through no action of his own, onto the public stage and had become what he most dreaded; a celebrity, a target, and a mythical stud muffin. The media hype would not end there, however, as the claimant was revealed in the following week’s exclusives.

One Roberta Tobin exposed her identity to the world at large and her controversial baby turned out to be a seven-year-old child named Robin. This was an old indictment; a crime of neglect rather than of a newly minted indiscretion, and all those who once claimed exclusive intimacy with him soon denounced Monte Bingo as a callous bastard. The recluse turned titan had once again shed his skin and was now portrayed as a social pariah. He might conceivably embrace his anonymity anew, an action that would of necessity be shrouded in disgrace. Monte was not prepared to concede the circle closed as yet. He would risk exposure and face this crisis head-on, whatever the consequences. He decided to go public, in a roundabout way, and submitted to a blood test that he permitted to be publicized in the press. Let Roberta do the grunt work on this one and present proof of her allegations. He would sit tight and allow the truth and the tide of public opinion to determine his prospects.

In the ensuing days the possibility of his having sired an heir began to pique his curiosity. What if the accusations of this vile, manipulating woman yielded an inconceivable truth, if not the jubilance of blissful discovery? What if his flesh and blood was indeed afoot on planet Earth and ignorant of his patriarchic pedigree? Monte decided he would see for himself and assuage his vexing doubts. After all, the world at large remained unfamiliar with his appearance thus far and it would not prove difficult to for him to walk the streets undetected. The one qualm in this regard would be Roberta Tobin herself and a prop mustache and sunglasses would probably satisfy that concern. Seven years and an unexpected encounter, mostly from a distance, would certainly suffice to neutralize discovery. And so, in covert Sherlock Holmes fashion, Monte Bingo ventured forth onto the streets of an anonymous Manhattan to track down and ascertain the legitimacy of his bloodline.

Roberta Tobin and son lived in Greenwich Village, a historic bastion of the arts and home to the creators of the provocative paintings, sculptures, prose, poetry, dance, music, and theatricality of the day. Since Roberta had never been particularly taken with a fondness for creative endeavors, Monte wondered what could have drawn her to this well of ingenuity. The rents had long since been considered affordable and the ambiance was decidedly genial, which she was not the least bit suited for. Unless she had had a spectacular reversal of perspective in the almost eight years since he had last seen her, (could the advent of motherhood have played a role) this choice of locale was a puzzlement.

Monte purchased a coffee from a delicatessen in Abingdon Square and sat on a bench in the park directly opposite the published address of his former domestic partner. Again he wondered how Roberta could possibly afford such pricey digs in such a fashionable quarter of the city, but soon his mind began to drift back to his days of servitude under the yoke of this conniving egocentric. Was he really that eager to concede his power so readily for the sake of intimate acquaintance? Was he ever that young and naïve? Being withdrawn is one thing, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that a concession of the will must be a consequence.

Monte was content that his days of adherence to the wishes of another were irrevocably behind him. He was now fully in control of his own life and, as much as one can be considering the variables of fate, his destiny. He had steered his own course in building a thriving empire while maintaining an anonymous presence in the public eye, no easy task, and was entirely successful in providing himself with a lifestyle that was suitable to his needs. He didn’t need much other than to be left to his own devices. His pleasures were simple and most natural; he never attended parties or craved the ambience and conviviality of trendy taverns. The company of others proved to be an obstruction of the thought process that fueled his curiosity. And yet …

This particular strain of thought was interrupted by the appearance of a woman and a boy visiting the park. This was unremarkable in itself but for the train of media trailing behind them, asking questions and pretty much disrupting the customary rite of playtime. The woman, not the awaited Roberta, appeared harried and bewildered at the unruly and invasive events befalling her and her young charge. The boy was about seven or eight years of age and seemed not at all perturbed by the incursion. He was, by any standard of deportment, quite disinterested in the chaos surrounding him while involved in scanning the confines of the park for whatever content that might suit him. When his eyes fell on Monte Bingo they remained fixed for what seemed, to Monte, an eternity. At one point a reporter, frustrated with the vapid responses of his apparent governess, stuck a microphone to his chin and asked him if he was at all anxious to see his wayward father. The boy answered, calmly and purposely, that he had already seen him that very day and would see him soon again. This created quite a stir with the frenzied agents of the media, all falling over one another to induce the next sound bite for the evenings’ lead. The boy, however, was content to keep them yearning for more. He clammed up thereafter and indicated to his relieved governess that he was weary of playtime and prepared to return home, thus leaving the free press hanging impatiently on the precipice of a scoop.

Clever boy, thought Monte. He knows how to handle the jackals and chart his own course. He also has a keen sense of the significance of random encounters and the impact they may have on his being. The boy didn’t just glance in his direction; he stared intently and then tossed off a tidbit provocative in its content both to the media horde and to Monte himself. How could the boy have known? Was his intuition telepathic or was he being prudently alert to the presence of a stranger in his urban back yard? But then the father reference. It had to be more than the boys’ vigilance regarding the possible menace of trespassers. The look itself had an undercurrent void of trepidation and was filled with meaningful recognition. Monte suppressed an impulsive, “That’s my boy!”

The boy and the governess disappeared into a building fronting Hudson Street just opposite the park. The reporters lingered for a while, then dissolved one by one until the band was reduced to a trio, then a duo, and finally to a sole sentry posted probably for the duration. Monte himself abandoned his watch and began to exit the park when he shot a farewell glance at the building in question and noticed a figure in the window staring down at him. It was the boy in question and oh what a multifarious answer was needed to resolve this quandary. Thus intrigued, Monte headed home with renewed intent to devise a strategy based on copious research and scrupulous evaluation toward an end to which he had no clue as to conjecture an estimation of consequence. He was driven by instinct, uncharted waters for his particular sensibility, and he would have to provide himself with innovative options and a practical means of advancement.

He retreated to his lair on East 29th Street, armed with purpose and a strategy to utilize the resources of the internet in his search for answers. Google, Facebook, My Space and a dozen other sites were instrumental in gathering data that proved enlightening, if not conclusive. Roberta Tobin had planned to marry Chester Stone, a multimillionaire who made his fortune in Real Estate, on December 16th of this year. She and her son had been sharing quarters with him at his townhouse on Hudson Street the past year. He died suddenly about two months ago from a major heart attack without, it seems, providing a clear-cut proposal for Roberta and Robin in his will. The townhouse was bequeath to his adult children, who were living in California and were in the process of traveling East in the coming weeks to claim their prize and were graciously allowing Roberta and company to occupy the residence until such time. ‘Such time’ was running close to conclusion and, Monte surmised, Roberta was growing anxious about her future living arrangements. Cue Monte Bingos’ entrance into the scenario with a fresh infusion of cash.

All this research did not explain the familial origins of the boy, however, and this remained the sticking point in Montes’ consideration in the matter. Without direct contact or even irrefutable proof, there had been a fleeting, but instinctual, connection between them that beguiled the usually reticent entrepreneur and had awakened a compelling urge to involve himself despite the prospect of once again engaging the devious Roberta. He was an alert and intuitive boy, no doubt, and his mothers’ influence could only bode ill for his prospects. Monte was now on a mission, it seemed, and he was, much to his consternation and in violation of his very nature, unable to halt the progress of the intrigue. He was obliged to see this out to the end.

Subsequent ventures to observe the boy in his matriarchal environment were both unrevealing and hypnotic. The boy seemed always aware of his presence, even at a respectful distance. When he was with his mother he was mostly ignored; Roberta always embroiled in her papers, which she seemed to carry everywhere, to notice his actions or the camouflaged audience of her discarded ex. But the boy knew. He would sometimes wink and smile, as though he and Monte shared a secret that he was content to keep from his distracted mother. The bond grew stronger with each clandestine visitation regardless of the constraints of space and access. Where was this going? Would a satisfactory resolution emerge from all this confusion? Monte Bingo was determined to find out.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Robin Tobin was among his classmates during a school trip to the Museum of Natural History. Uniquely aware of his surroundings at all times he noted the displays of assembled dinosaur bones, pterosaur models, caveman representations, and the furtive form of a bearded, bespectacled man calmly regarding the exhibits with less than enthusiastic interest. The man appeared more aware of the congregation of children surveying the displays than he did in the displays themselves. The boy orchestrated a casual wave toward his devotee that was apparent to no one other than the intended. He quickly returned his attention to the class activities of the moment. Monte appreciated the recognition as well as the subtlety of the act and the respectful distance that was sustained. This mode of communication was all he was prepared to indulge in at the moment. He was satisfied. He had been seen.

As the class spilled out into the street at the prescribed time of departure, Monte noticed a man standing on the sidewalk holding a blond ball of fur in his arms. The man appeared to be homeless and the furry ball was that of a rather rambunctious young dog. He was offering the pup to any passerby with the means to purchase it on the spot. Robin immediately approached the man and began to pet the dog.

“Give me twenty bucks and he’s yours”, the man offered without ceremony.

“I have maybe five or six dollars”, the boy countered. “I could give you the rest later.”

As the man considered this proposal, an agitated male teacher called out, “Robin, get away from that man. Don’t go wandering off.”

The man was quick to respond. “Here, take him. Give me the money.”

The teacher was on his game and interrupted the proceedings.

“I said back in line. What would your mother say if you brought that beast home?”

He whisked Robin away and back with the others as they marched toward their designated bus stop, all the while the boy turning his head to catch a final glimpse of his almost bosom companion. Monte lost no time.

“Here’s sixty bucks. I’ll take the dog.”

The man looked as if he had just struck the mother load.

“Where did you get him?”

The man took a moment to decide what story he should tell. Monte was prepared.

“Look, you have the money. It’s yours. Just tell me the truth. It won’t change anything.”

The terms were acceptable and the man responded.

“Somebody tied him to a fence. Left him there the whole nightlong. I don’t know who and I don’t know why. I figure he’s mine now. Well, he’s yours since you paid for him.”

Monte managed a “Fair enough” as he took the dog and headed for the Central Park entrance.

“I’m thowin’ in the leash for free”, the man called after him as Monte and pup crossed Central Park West and disappeared into the greenery of the environs.

It was a beautiful autumn afternoon that sanctified Monte Bingo and furry friend in Central Park that day. The bonding was immediate; no hidden agenda, no complexities that drive human interaction and foster illusory expectations. Just a man, a dog, and a clean slate. In an instinctual moment of inspiration, Monte, after checking to confirm the absence of any defender of the law, unleashed the pup and began walking away. After a second of canine perplexity the dog bounded after him and kept faith and pace with every change of direction. This moment would stand in relief against a backdrop of failed attempts at creature acquaintance for Monte, who could never rely on the fidelity of any living being before. He felt as though he had been ushered into a Mark Twain story, concerned, as he now was, with the fortunes of a boy and a dog. He had, contrary to his own design, been plugged into the world he so feared and mistrusted. Even with the outcome in doubt, he felt as though he were finally alive and involved in something larger than his solitary achievements. Monte Bingo had entered the world.

That new world was about to collapse about him as the results of the paternity test came back negative. Monte was not a blood relation to the boy; yet there was undeniably a connection between them. The dilemma that had threatened his world such a short time ago was resolved in his favor, or so one would suppose. Why, then, this sense of deflation that now engulfed his expectations? He felt as if he had entered another dimension that, despite some negative aspects (the presence of the calculating Roberta, most notably), held out a glimmer of anticipation for his potential role in the cosmos. This was not to be, he now understood, and he was once again consigned to be the recluse with solitary control of his destiny; no conflict, no surprises.

The Monte of old, an identity he had clung to for so long with such fierce determination, was now a flat, formless persona with limited and predictable prospects. He recognized this in a moment of epiphany and was now certain that there was no going back. But where to? He gazed down at his feet in deep contemplation and regarded the now familiar blond furry ball lying there. The ball looked up at him with expectant eyes and devoted bearing. He would have wagged his tail if he had one, but this was not the case. The dog had been born without one, or it had been snipped, a determination that would remain a mystery along with his breeding. Monte had done some research on the web and decided that his newfound friend was probably an Australian Shepard mix of some sort. His coloring was unique and didn’t fit a definite breed. If he wasn’t full bred then why would someone bother to dock his tail? Everything about this dog engendered uncertainty, but what was certain was his infectious personality. He appeared to be playful and loving, with no discernable shortcomings or behavior problems. Why anyone would discard such an affable creature was beyond conjecture?

What speculation there was kept Monte focused for a time. He surmised that since the dog exhibited no signs of being mistreated he must have belonged to a family of well meaning, but incapable, caretakers. They probably had children and thought this cute and unique looking pup might be an ideal companion for them. With no experience with pets and no single authority figure, the animal was probably confused and disoriented most of the time. He certainly wasn’t housebroken. When Monte took him to the vet for his shots he was told that the dog was probably six or seven months old and enjoyed a healthy constitution. Even without the experience of pet ownership to guide him, Monte was able to housetrain the dog in little over a week. Their subsequent walks took Monte out of the realm of his self-exile and connected him more and more to the outside world. He was amazed that strangers, who previously passed by without a trace of ceremony, would stop and engage him with an instantaneous familiarity. Monte would field questions such as, “How old?”, “What breed?”, and “What’s his name?” with increasing readiness once his initial responses became customary with usage. He decided that he would refer to the dog as Shaman since his presence had opened a portal in Monte’s existence and changed the course of his destiny. Of course, Shaman was subject to change. Monte had purchased the pup for Robin and the boy would have the final say.

Now that his paternal responsibilities, or lack thereof, had been resolved beyond doubt, Monte felt an obligation to keep faith with the boy. He took up his post one afternoon in Abingdon Square Park and awaited Robin’s return from school accompanied by his governess. He waited in vain. Neither showed or passed by to cross the threshold of the Hudson Street townhouse. There were no reporters to be seen. The hot story of his inferred parentage had lost its legs with the revelation of the blood test results and after a day or two of outraged reaction to the duplicity of Roberta Tobin, the storm had ebbed and hobbled to a monotonous drizzle. Roberta and son had left the bosom of their Greenwich Village address to the custody of the bereaved Stone family and lit out for parts undisclosed. Monte Bingo was free once again to remain unseen. He walked slowly back to his sanctuary, the leash hanging limply from his left hand. Shaman kept step with his master despite the lack of tension in his tether. He wasn’t going anywhere Monte wasn’t.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Ten years passed and Monte Bingo was more than a titan of industry. He was the industry. His company held more patents, copyrights, and created more franchise businesses than anyone could respectfully hope to imagine. He remained on the cutting edge of innovation in his field and became renowned for his generosity in funding humanitarian concerns. It was more impossible to attain an audience with him than ever. That is until a young man fresh from his university environs applied for a job and insisted on meeting the big man. This request was denied by the human resources people until a memo from the top alerted them that the meeting was permissible.

Robin Tobin had his conference with the boss and was thereafter allowed access to him at any time. Not only did he become a trusted employee and reliable confidant, he was even known to be seen walking the furry, blond apple of Monte’s eye from time to time. Whenever a business or political figure of some importance wanted a direct line to the mysterious Monte Bingo, they were referred to Robin Tobin. The interview would usually go something like this:

“How do I get in touch with Mr. Bingo?”

“You tell me. I’ll relay your message faithfully.”

When pushed to reveal who might be privileged enough to enjoy a personal exchange with the elusive entrepreneur, the answer was a genial, but resolute, “I’m the only one who sees him.”


© 2010 by John Cannatella

Who Will Find Me When I’m Dead?

Friday, January 2

I only wish my life would flash before my eyes. All I can see is the end of it. Not the actual, absolute end, but a variety of options that audition for my attention the moment my head hits the pillow. Of course I have my preferences, but realize I have little or no say in the matter. I am, after all, a realist.

I just can’t get to sleep lately. I struggle to dumb-down, as I lie there, wide-eyed, entertaining countless scenarios of themes involving my eventual demise, my body too exhausted to move, my mind too active to embrace the inertia. If only I could focus on something else.

The only diversion at this point is the sound of the TV in the living room and I can well enough imagine that customary tableau; Uncle Gus sprawled across his easy chair, head back, mouth open, eyes back in his head, sometimes shut, oft times fluttering in a passionate REM inspired boogie. Gus is a great guy, generous, non-judgmental, witty. He took me in when I was ten and devastated, and never for a moment allowed me to believe I was in the way. Yeah, Uncle Gus is a prince of a man, just not one who would be mistaken for a seeker of wisdom or a soldier of fortune. The only adventure he knows is planted in his mind's eye by cop shows, reality TV, and inane situation comedies. I am sorely afraid that one morning I will find him propped up in front of the droning box, sprawled across his easy chair, head back, mouth open, eyes back in his head, and dead.

Saturday, January 3

Once the thought crept into my head I have been consumed by it. So I lie here another night, unable to find peace in the arms of Morpheus, imagining my very feasible discovery of Gus’s body. Someone has to find it at some point and the logical candidate is me. When you stop to think about it, which I am prone to do, everyone is found by someone. We are all discovered, mourned, and disposed of. Gus is just the morbid tip of the casualty iceberg. How many bodies will I discover before my number is up? It hasn’t happened so far. I did not find my parents. I was informed. How much tougher would it have been if I’d been with them? Probably not tough at all since I wouldn’t have survived the crash either. I should have been there though. I might have made a difference.

Wednesday, January 7

The landscape has changed drastically. Uncle Gus, that lovable slug who abhors all senseless activity that can’t be confined in his imagination, has found himself a woman. She is coming over tonight for a preliminary introduction and will probably stay for the customary seduction. There will be shaving and showering and dressing in ironed apparel this evening, a tradition long honored in the breach around here, if I may paraphrase the Bard. Instead of ignoring the muffled drone of ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’ tonight, I will be compelled to inure my ears to ‘Somebody Loves Gus’. I need to arrange for a sleepover, an action that would be much appreciated, I am sure, by the born-again swain Gus and company.

Sunday, January 12

Winnie is a peach. Her given name is Edwina; she is a feminist and an agnostic. She seems to fully appreciate Gus and she is casually inclusive regarding me. No pressure, no histrionics, no big show. Just a, “Hey, glad you’re around,” attitude. We both lucked out, Gus and I. I feel relieved that I am now not the only candidate on deathwatch.

Saturday, January 18

Now that the refreshing Winnie is sharing the burden of cadaver detection on the home front, I am no longer consumed by the prospect of finding Gus and his inert carcass. The focus has now turned on me and my own potential discoverer. It is amazing how that aspect never occurred to me before. I will be found by someone, unless I am lost and expire in the wilderness or buried under an avalanche of debris. So now I lie awake and conjecture on who will be handed the daunting task of detecting the dearth of vitality in my stiffening musculature. Who will stand before my corpse and declare to the world, “Here lies a Caesar, when comes there such another?”

Will it be someone I am now acquainted with, and if so the chances of an early demise are almost guaranteed, or some person I am not yet aware exists, in which case I have some miles to go before I sleep? Another possibility vying for consideration is the total stranger who comes across me and doesn’t have a clue who I am and has never heard the sound of my voice, except maybe for the last screams that might define my life if I have the ill fortune to end it in pain.

I am beginning to lose sleep again. After Winnie’s arrival on the scene, I began to fall out rather easily. Instead of keeping me up with distasteful images of their lovemaking, I felt rather comforted by her presence in the house and the noiseless way they went about everything they did. Instead of tossing to the sounds of Letterman and Leno, I was lulled off by the strains of Mozart and Beethoven. I was cradled snugly in a treetop and I was unafraid. Now I am back to square one and seem manically determined to discover the identity of my usher into the obituaries.

Sunday, January 20

I am not having children. My official reason for all who inquire about my motives is that the earth is overpopulated as it is. My personal take is fairly evident to all who are reading this; I will not saddle my potential offspring with the legacy of finding their father bereft of life. As far as their mother is concerned, the solution is simple and adds another facet to this decision. She does not exist.

Friday, February 20

I have been sleeping a lot better these days, not because I am any less obsessed. The solution is more due to exhaustion than anything substantive. I have been working the night shift at the toy fair on 23rd Street and 5th Avenue and have not had a day off in a month. Add to this ingenious tactic a willingness to absorb all the overtime required of me each and every night, and you have a man less manic in his sleeping habits, more robust in his outlook, and not at all likely to be entertaining any meditation beyond what the menu has in store.

Tuesday, March 2

“You think too much.” That was all he said. Someone found him, his wife I believe, this morning, stiff, cold, and purple on the toilet. It sends shivers up and down my spine. He was my foreman at the toy fair and he caught me taking one too many cigarette breaks just yesterday. He made his comment simply, without sarcasm or anger, and I responded dutifully. He then walked me back to the storage room, an arm draped paternally around my shoulder. Carl was not a petty man. He had a fairly stern work ethic, but an understanding nature. His attitude toward me seemed to be, “I know you’re young yet and you are working hard to earn as much as you can while the job lasts, but you knew what you were taking on and, after all, work is work, and you can’t take breaks whenever the spirit moves you.” Carl was from the old country, somewhere in Bavaria I think. He didn’t want to be a prick, but he had to be the foreman.

The job ends tomorrow. I can’t wait to get some time for myself, although this episode with Carl has me worried that my peaceful slumbers are a treasure once again lost in the turbulent tides of an uneasy awareness. What if he had suffered his stroke while in the line of duty, shoulder to shoulder with yours truly? I can imagine the devastation to my fragile psyche. On the other hand, I might have been able to deal with the prospect head on, once and for all, and cleared my fretful slate of mind. And how much will the anticipation of a setback affect the creation of the problem? Carl was right. I think too much.

Thursday, March 4

Today is the first day of my unemployed life. I woke up refreshed and ready. The refreshed part is appreciated. The ready portion is confusing. I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t have a resume. I have worked at odd jobs here and there, mostly in a maintenance capacity, and that is not a future I care to pursue. I have no prospects, no clear direction. I am in Limbo, but I feel rested. I need a mission, a project to complete. I don’t have the patience for long, lingering prose at this point. I need a good, clean, clear-cut path to follow, quick, staccato actions to apply myself to, and terse, sharp results to clarify in sober, uncompromising terms. I need to become less of an adjective and more of a verb.

Saturday, March 6

I dreamt of Carl last night, or was it this morning? I slept so fitfully, it is hard to tell. In my dream I am in the stairwell at the Toy Center, smoking, and Carl opens the hallway door. I begin to snuff the butt, but Carl stops me with, “Don’t bother. It’s okay. I just came to say goodbye. Tell my wife where the treasure is.” I bolt the stairwell and run after him down a long, winding corridor that is not the Toy Center. “Where?” I shout after him. “I don’t know where the treasure is.” I hear him laugh. “Of course you do!” is all he adds, but he does not turn around. I push open a double set of doors and find myself outside, in a cemetery, an endless display of gravestones surrounding me as far as I can see. The sun is shining brightly and despite the disquieting setting, I feel a strange exhilaration. I have a purpose, a mission. I know I have to check under every headstone to find the treasure and, as daunting a prospect as that is, it doesn’t dissuade me. I am on the very brink of discovery and I yearn to go forward and complete the task. I just don’t know where to begin.

I woke up feeling alive and oddly composed. I could feel the vitality of anticipation pumping through my veins. I felt alert and motivated, that maybe great things were ahead of me today. I showered and dressed, choosing carefully what I would wear for the occasion. I was going to Carl’s funeral.

* * *

Her name is Magda. She led the procession with a poise and dignity that is usually reserved for movie stars in red carpet mode. She seemed aware of, and attentive to, everyone attending the services and burial. She knew who I was and greeted me warmly, although we had never met. It seems Carl was a real talker once he got home and his daily accounts were deliberately related to her in detail. I was a particular favorite, it turns out, and she approached me as the others were leaving and asked me if I had a cigarette. We stood there, side by side, watching the procession diminish appreciably as car after car pulled away into the waning afternoon, a motorcade of mourners pensively returning to their individual breathing lives. She asked me to accompany her home and I obliged. We sat in her car enfolded by a curiously comfortable silence, and remained that way long after we had arrived at her house. She suddenly turned toward me, smiled, and, familiarly patting my hand, said “Come, I’ll make coffee”. Later, over coffee and too many cigarettes, she asked me to spend the night.

Monday, March 8

I woke up Sunday morning embraced by soft, yellow sunlight and the sounds and smells of coffee brewing and bacon sizzling. It took me a bit to figure out where I was. I had spent the night sleeping soundly in Carl and Magda’s spare room, a small but cheerful little den with cream colored drapes that insured a sense of privacy during the dark hours, then emitted all the buoyant gaiety of the sun in daylight without the harsh intensity of direct exposure. I felt as if I were floating on a sea of cotton, so light were my spirits and tranquil the setting. It bode an ideal and uncomplicated existence feasible in real terms and, accompanied by the lively sounds of preparation, the indication of a good breakfast to boot.

Magda had needed amenable camaraderie the previous night and I was delighted to comply. We talked like two old friends into the finality of night, then set our expectations to the birth of a new day around three AM. She appeared exhausted, but released of the burden of indulging her widowhood. My company had served her well. The morning would bring the first day of the rest of her life.

It was a first day for me too. I was greeted warmly as I approached the kitchen table and the genial promise it held for my eager appetite. We gleefully stuffed our bellies with Grade AAA eggs, our bladders with morning coffee, our arteries with bacon fat, and our lungs with cigarette smoke. We laughed at the little discrepancies in life that is our common legacy in a kind of gallows humor banquet and contented ourselves with an afternoon of doing absolutely nothing. I felt strangely at ease for the first time in weeks. It seemed as though I belonged here, in this place, at this time, with this alliance. Also I was fascinated with the fact that Magda had experienced something that had held only dread for me, the discovery of a lifeless carcass and the loss of a partner. I had been exposed to the loss of my parents early on, but that was more like yanking the nipple from a cub, the dependency all one-sided. I had yet to be denied the companionship of a true confidant and the prospect terrified me.

Monday, November 1

I’ve had a pretty eventful spring, summer, and fall, with no time for my journal or the self-examination that accompanies each entry. I have been engaged in activity again for the most part, completing a challenging stint as a counselor at a summer camp for the developmentally disabled in upstate Hunter, New York. It didn’t pay much, but it was a job; one that impacted directly on the well being of others in an exhausting and challenging arena. It didn’t leave me much time to muse, mope, or fantasize irrationally. This in itself was a blessing. I was occupied with the outflow of mental decision-making and the exertion of physical energy, while my incoming channel, which accommodates my propensity to ponder, was absorbed in the writings of Wolfe, Camus, and Garcia Marquez. I even perused the bible for inconsistencies.

I had decided to apply to the camp after my falling out with Magda. It was a difficult decision, but I knew I had to get away. I didn’t write to her or even inform her of my choice to devote my summer to a cause other than the wooing of her maternal sensuality. She was in denial, I could see that and even understand it. What caused my ardor to sour was her suggestion that I would make an ideal companion for her daughter when she arrived from Europe. She didn’t even have the courage to pursue me first hand. Until that moment I had been a weekend guest for two months running and could feel the bond between us increasing with each encounter. I was certain she would be responsive. I was patient because of the age difference, but I thought she possessed the courage to overcome it. Instead, she slid out a side door. So I made arrangements, left for camp, and never looked back.

Tuesday, November 3

Today I find myself looking back. I miss her … Magda. I adored her maturity, something that had eluded me with girls my own age. Her sense of humor was shrewd and apt, not frivolous like younger girls. Her sexuality was ripe and yielding and all I wanted was to immerse myself in her eternal assurance of being. I wanted to breathe in her, feel alive in her, and learn how to please her. Instead I was offered a surrogate in absentia, a reserve player that pronounced my proficiency as not in her league. I complied with her suggestion. I said, “Sure, I would like to meet her”, but I was despondent for days afterward.

Magda had even showed me a photograph. The girl was pretty, sure enough, but she looked like an incomplete version of her mother and the prospect held little appeal for me. Her name is Revina and she was born before Magda met Carl. She was away in school in London and would have been available this past summer while I was caring for those less fortunate than myself. I prided myself on my altruism, but I was mostly running away from the sting of a rejection that was forthcoming had I expressed my feelings for Magda.

Sunday, November 14

A new low. This morning, or afternoon possibly, I woke up naked on Tara Foley’s bathroom floor. Tara found me and was aghast, not at the prospect of discovering me there, but of finding me sprawled on the tile a second time. She had already walked me to the living room couch sometime after her other guests had left and gently deposited me there for, what she thought would be, the remainder of the early morning, respectfully cleaning the remains of stale vomit from my face and neck and stripping me of my soiled clothing. She had brought me a pillow and some blankets and had gone to bed herself. I must have felt the need to spew more bile sometime afterwards. I don’t remember getting up again. I do recall snatches of her tending to me earlier though, as my head was spinning away from my body in a marijuana and vodka induced state of torturous euphoria. Bad combination, pot and booze. I am touched by the concern and loyalty exhibited by my good friend Tara.

Wednesday, November 17

I have been searching the web for employment without much luck. I’m up most of the night doing this so the phone can be free for callbacks during business hours. I have become a vampire, all because I can’t afford anything more than dial-up. I haven’t heard from Tara, although I called her Monday to apologize and thank her for her thoughtfulness. I am becoming increasingly depressed. I don’t look forward to the weekends like when I was spending them with Magda. In fact they draw no further significance from any other point of the week. Without a structure my sense of time has lost all relevance.

Thursday, November 18

I rode the subway into the bowels of Brooklyn today to interview for a job as a hotel desk clerk, which doesn’t make sense because the hotel is located on the upper west side of Manhattan. I didn’t want to go at all, but feel as though I need to take a more pro-active approach in securing a position. Uncle Gus has noticed me moping around and sleeping until noon and Winnie has asked me if there is anything I want to talk about. I feel like I’m in the way here and that I need to give them more space. They include me in all their plans and I am grateful for their allegiance, but it is time for me to break from the womb and establish my own cadence, such as it is. A job is a good place to start.

On the train I had a vision. Magda is in her garden tending to some newly planted seeds. She finds a shoe beneath a row of hedges separating her perfectly manicured plot from the woods behind it. She looks beyond the hedges and spies the other shoe. After disappearing into the house she emerges again looking completely different. Whereas before she had on an old flannel shirt, probably one of Carl’s’, a pair of baggy shorts and flip-flops, she is now wearing a low-cut peasant blouse, tight jeans, and high heels. Her golden brown hair is swept up, her mouth is bright with red lipstick, and her earrings hang in large, gaudy hoops. I believe she is chewing gum. She pushes through a sparse section of the hedge and approaches the second shoe. She picks it up and holds it in her hand as she scans the woods for further clues.

I jumped up at Avenue X and just made it through the doors before they closed. I realized that I had fallen into a dream state and had almost missed my stop. I walked around the neighborhood a bit asking directions and finally found the address I was looking for. The man who interviewed me was somewhere in his sixties and seemed singularly unimpressed with me. He looked me up and down, checked out my resume, looked at me again, then asked, “So, what do you want with us?”

I knew that I would not be hired. I have always been a bit of an oddball among my peers. While they were reading Playboy, I was reading Dickens. When they went to see Vin Diesel or Eminem, I rented Fellini, Kurosawa, and Welles. Being verbally prolific was considered nerdy and unmanly, and I liked to be indisputably understood with a barrage of descriptive and precise discourse. My interviewer probably gleaned as much during our conversation, but I don’t think that was the killer. He kept glancing at my resume. I was overqualified and would leave in short order is what his expression said. “We’ll get in touch,” is what his mouth finally offered.

The F train back to Manhattan offered me a choice of seating and the opportunity to continue my semiconscious reverie. This time the scenario has me sitting behind a large desk in a modest hotel lobby. It is night, the lobby is empty, and I am writing something down in my journal. I look up as the outside door opens and in walks Magda, dressed exactly as she had been earlier, hoops, lipstick, blouse, jeans, and heels, only now a pair of sunglasses serves as an added accoutrement. She carries no luggage.

“Would you like a room?” I ask her as if she were a stranger to me. “I have a very comfortable accommodation with all due amenities provided.”

“And just who will do the providing?” she asks in a dismissive manner, never addressing me directly.

“My services will be available,” I answer evenly. I don’t seem to catch her contempt as the deskman.

“I won’t be needing them. I’m not staying.” She lowers her sunglasses a bit and turns my journal around so she can read it. “The Story of My Life” she howls in delight. “How very charming. I notice that the rest of the page is blank.”
“I am just beginning it,” I inform her.

“Not with me you’re not. No, I won’t require your services tonight, but I will let you in on a little secret. I’m here to hunt for the buried treasure. This is the Hotel Carl, is it not?”

I honestly do not know what to answer. I leap over the front desk and run through the front door to check the marquee. When I return Madame Magda has vanished from the lobby. I notice the cleaning lady, an old hag with a broom and an apron, crossing the floor.

“Where did she go?” I ask her. She looks at me as one would regard an innocent.

“In the garden, of course.” She shoots me a sly little wink. “She beat you to it, didn’t she?”

I run through the lobby to a side door and barge through it as though possessed by an energy that is beyond my comprehension. The deskman has lost his detachment and has fused with the observer and we are in a desperate mission to … I don’t know. I was in the dark when I quit the well-lit lobby and I am surrounded by dark in the garden where I had envisioned Magda earlier. I run directly to the spot in the hedge that Magda had crossed then. I make my way into the woods and frantically look for any sign of movement.

Now I hear her sobbing. I follow the sound of her grief until I can make out her silhouette in the night madness of fluttering branches and sinister clouds. She is on her knees and weaving to and fro in inconsolable grief. I hear the crackle of something beneath my foot and I know that it is her glasses. As I draw nearer to her I am seized with a terrifying dread and I begin to turn away, but she senses my presence and holds out her hand.

“No, you must see this. I can’t bear this alone. Not again”

She takes my hand and gently draws me to her. I can now see the form of a man lying prone on the ground before her and I begin to step back again. Her grip on my hand tightens.

“Now I can love you the way you want me to,” she weeps solemnly. “Do you understand? Only now.”

I am overcome with shame. How could I have been so self-absorbed and insensitive?

“ I do understand. I will keep his memory with you.”

I approach the body and turn it over, prepared to make my reparations and embrace a larger truth with all my powers of perception. The face of the dead man is not who I expect to see.

“Only now,” she adds in dirge-like manner. Magda had found my body.

I woke up on West 4th Street and had to double back to get home.

Friday, November 19

My dreams are becoming more vivid. Yesterday I had an encounter with Hank. I was returning home from the subway station on Houston Street when he emerged from a doorway on 2nd Avenue and asked me for money. Hank has been a neighborhood staple for some years, a homeless man surviving on the Bowery asking for nickels and dimes and whatnot for his daily sustenance. He always ignored me when I was a kid, but lately has become somewhat aggressive. He asked me for a dollar. When I told him I was broke, he called me a cheap little snot. I laughed it off and kept walking.

Last night I dreamt about him. He is staggering along an alleyway, looking for a place to flop for the night, when he trips over a leg extending from behind a garbage bin. He crawls behind the bin to discover a lifeless body wedged against a brick wall. He peers in at the face and utters, “Cheap little snot”. He then rifles through my pockets looking for a dollar.

Saturday, November 20

Another dream: I pass a schoolyard where children are playing soccer in their school uniforms. One of the boys chases the ball down a dark, basement stairwell. He lets out a horrific scream. Yep, it‘s me.

Friday, November 26

This has been an eventful week. Dream wise I have been found by Dom at the pizzeria (in the oven no less), by a group of strangers waiting for an elevator (the doors part and there I am), by the cleaning lady at the front desk of the Hotel Carl with my journal in hand (“The Story of My Death” in the heading).

Events fared better in the realm of reality. I found a job on Monday with a literary magazine (hello DSL), heard back from Tara, and received an invitation for Thanksgiving dinner from Magda. The invitation included Gus and Winnie and was accepted in the spirit of which it was offered, an effort at conciliation.

We were met at the train station by Revina, who was finished with school and back living with her mother. She proved to be extremely charming and poised and managed to put us completely at our ease. The same must be said for Magda, who embraced me unreservedly upon arrival. We all settled in for a carefree feast that began with a toast to the remembrance of Carl, turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, cider, wine, and good spirit. It was reassuring to be in the presence of such loving people.

Revina and I went on about our confusing attempts to find our place in the world and eased into a relaxed, mutual rapport. I felt as if I’d broken out of a discouraging rhythm and could at last breathe freely. We all parted well with Revina promising to visit us in the city. The train ride back was relaxing and blissful. I was actually touched that Gus and Winnie held hands all through the trip.

As I closed my eyes in the rail induced tempo of the ride, I could see my father and mother, holding hands, standing over my tranquil body. My father calls my name and my eyes open.

“I’m still here?” I ask in disbelief. They both smile.

“Did I find the treasure?” I ask again, and then answer my own question.

“I have found another day.”


© 2004 by John Cannatella

Evermore

Mac filled his lungs with the fresh, clean air of the countryside. He held his breath as he took in the panorama of snow-covered fields, trees, and hills before him and exhaled a steamy veneer of satisfaction at the wonder of it all. He inhaled deeply again and expelled the last of the city he had abandoned only this morning, now fervently hoping his would become an extended assignment here. Maybe he could talk his editor into a few extra days with the promise of a really lurid expose. Maybe this would be a legitimate story with all the stirring elements of a blockbuster. Maybe… maybe he would never have to return to the metropolis again.

The rustic, living portrait before him featured a winding footpath that emerged enticingly from the cover of a grove of trees and snaked across the landscape toward the young journalist, coming to a rest just before his feet. He took his cue and blissfully stepped into the scene, avidly anticipating the mysteries that lay beyond the bend in the path and the grove of trees that sheltered it. This was the delightful sense of adventure that only a city boy could experience when confronted with the bucolic splendor of the mother of us all, the earth, and all that it engenders. Mac wondered if one could ever become inured to the beauty, the exhilaration, the utter reverence that this spectacle inspired. He confidently strode to the grove and yielded himself completely to the marvels it promised to reveal.

Immortality. That was his theme. This was the setting. How perfectly it was all falling into place. He didn’t believe a bit of it, of course. No one was immortal. He was about to meet a man who claimed to be just that and his head was racing with angles and spins that would set this story apart and maybe raise it a level or two beyond the gaudy grasp of his editor’s imagination. Maybe. ‘The Scoop’ was not a tabloid that endured layered accounts of any substance. Make it loud, in bold print, and accompanied by photographs begging to be retouched with any number of aliens, two-headed babies and mini-clad seductresses. ‘The Scoop’ did not go in for hoary vistas.

Upon achieving the grove, the path continued through an arbor of trees with interweaving branches overhead that filtered the sunlight and reminded Mac of a warm, inviting tunnel; even though it was December and the snow flurries, gentle as they were, suggested otherwise. The Great Womb, thought Mac. It held all the elements of life and the cycle of birth and rebirth, with the promise of inevitability as its destination. I am walking into my destiny, reflected the insurgent author in rebellion of the hardcore journalist. I am going home.

The cottage appeared just after the first crook in the path, a sudden, delightful apparition that was at once startling and glazed with genial charm. In the doorway, standing casually erect and attired in a blue wool pullover was a tall, bearded man who looked to be in his early fifties. His posture, though informal, was not unconscious and his bearing was one of temperate authority. This must be Captain Porteous, thought Mac, the object of my visit and the subject of my commentary. His presence is undeniable; if I could just translate it to the written word and infect the readership with enough curiosity about his exploits and their incredible consequences upon our monotonous lives, I might just have the makings of a legend on my hands.

“Mr. Dewart, I presume,” he greeted gracefully as Mac maneuvered the gate open, shut it diligently, and approached the occupied portal of the cottage. “You’re just in time for a little supper.”

“Call me Mac and you’ve got a deal,” was all the scribe could come up with, but it seemed to please his host and Mac accepted a generous outstretched hand in welcome. “Sorry if I’m a bit late, but you’re pretty well out here and it took some time to find the place. Not that I’m complaining. This undertaking is a revelation for me. To see the country landscape in pictures is one thing, to feel it and breath it is quite another. Very stimulating. I’m assuming, of course, that you are Captain John Porteous and that you were expecting me.”

“I am indeed. And I am delighted that your excursion proved engaging. Come, I have a cozy fire going inside, just the thing to complete your first pastoral adventure.” The interior proved just as warm and inviting as the surrounding venue had promised and Mac was immediately met with the promised fire, a mug of hot coffee, and the aroma of the impending supper to anticipate. Idyllic.

Mac surveyed the simple, but essentially configured interior; a generous, functioning fireplace in the center, a mid-sized old sofa before it that beckoned enticingly, a small kitchenette where the captain was now occupied off to the right and separated from the living room proper by a wood block counter, and a large wooden door to the left that was probably a bedroom. The walls were rife with framed sketched and photographic portraits of assorted sizes and human images, all of adults and children dressed in a variety of costumes and period evocations. Mac dropped his shoulder bag and pouch, the former with a change of attire and some toiletries, the latter containing notebooks, pens, pencils, a dictionary, a thesaurus, and a laptop computer. He sank onto and into the couch with a curious familiarity, the better to view the vast collage before him with an element of comfort, and didn’t record another conscious thought until Porteous gently advised him that dinner was ready.

The room was much darker than before, with several small lamps now lit to highlight certain areas in a subdued manner. Before him lay two plates of sautéed salmon and russet potatoes, a sliced loaf of French bread, two wine glasses and a bottle of soave. These on a long, low table bracketed by two lighted tapers. Porteus placed himself on the couch to Macs left and preceded to pour a sample of the vintage grape into his wineglass.

“Is that all I get?” he winked. He sniffed. He sipped. He swallowed the remains. “I could make a habit of this. Sensational.”

“I’m pleased it’s to your liking.” Porteus decanted for both of them while Mac refocused on the bountiful wall before them.

“This is some photo gallery. Who are all these people?”

“That is my family” Porteus replied, a slight gesture of salute preceding his maiden encounter with the contents of his glass.

“All of them?” Mac was stunned, his glass frozen in mid arc to his lips.

“No ... there’s more, too numerous to display at one time. Actually there are quite a few I haven’t been able to keep track of.”

Mac completed his action, savoring the taste of his wine as his incredulity alit on less rarified ground. “That must be disconcerting.”

“To put it mildly,” responded Porteus, anticipating this retreat into conventional cynicism and surprisingly at ease with it.

“You mean you have cousins running around that you don’t know about?”

“I have grandchildren I don’t know about.”

Mac turned his attention to the salmon and potatoes as the conversation became more casual. This tale was getting taller by the question and he was back in his element.

“So ... how big is your family?”

“Let’s see ... I’ve walked this earth for more than 300 years. You tell me.”

“No disrespect, but you’ve been doing more than walking, my friend.”

“Touché, Mr. Dewart. I have loved many times in my life.”

“Lucky man.”

“That is a judgment that depends on your point of view. As many times as I have loved, I have lost that love. My life is one of loss, Mr. Dewart. I suppose you thought immortality a romantic prospect, a fulfillment of every man and woman’s dream. The
ultimate goal of all the sciences we can apply and manipulate. The Holy Grail of human endeavor.”

“It beats the alternative.”

“I’m afraid it becomes more sophisticated than that when actually involved in the prospect. You see, I am alone. The more people I embrace in each succeeding generation, the more aware I am of my aloneness. You may say that I have outlived my time, several times over, and I have borne witness to the results, not only of my actions, but also of the totality of my influence over that span. I have seen my issue carry my legacy, both agreeable and offensive, at turns inspiring and infecting, unconsciously to every area of existence that one can experience, and … it weighs on me, Mr. Dewart. It is a constant reminder of my infinitely frivolous choices and their eternal consequences. Over the generations I can trace their effects like a virus. This perspective becomes more scientific over the decades, and the predominant emotional impression is one of futility and defeat. I am discovering that in defeating death, you must first defeat life.” He took a long swallow that drained his glass. “My heart is worn out, Mr. Dewart, and it will not die. ”

Mac took his cue and reached for the wine bottle to replenish for both. “How, then, do you deal with it?”

“Day by day, as with any crisis,” he answered while accepting the refill. “I deal with it because I have no choice.”

“Well,” Mac began carefully, “without waxing dramatic, I can think of one.”

Porteous smiled as he raised his glass to his lips and just before connecting murmured, “A rather morbid thought on your first day in Eden, I should think.”

Mac returned the smile. “I’m not the one complaining. I’m sorry to put it so bluntly, but all I’ve heard so far is some vague disenchantment with your aging process. We haven’t established a cause or dates or corroboration as yet. Maybe we should start at the beginning.”

Porteous leaned back against the arm of the couch and seemed to unravel into a tranquil state of being. “Ah, yes, Mr. Dewart. You supply the framework and apply the editing; I have only to relate my tale with fact and detail to ensure your consideration."

“It helps,” Mac grinned. “If you can see your way to calling me Mac, that would also help. Believe me, you’ll think of worse names to address me by before we’re finished.”

The captain finished his wine, laid the glass on a sideboard at the rear of the couch, and clasped his hands behind his head in a manner altogether disarming. “Alright Mac, and what do you suppose I’ll be calling you after the article is published?”

Mac also discharged his wineglass to the sideboard and reached for his pen and notebook. “At that point I don’t expect you’ll be speaking to me at all. Ready?”

“I am in your hands. Do not endeavor to spare me, I will have none of it.”

“Good.” Mac was poised to faithfully record. “When and where were you born? You were born in the traditional sense, I’m assuming.”

“Your assumption is correct. I was delivered in every manner a normal bairn in the parish of Lamington in Lanarkshire, South Scotland, in 1696. I took the liberty of printing up a family history for you, so I wouldn’t worry about the spelling. The parish records can confirm this information.”

“I’ll be checking,” Mac drawled perfunctorily as he scribbled his outline on the notebook. “Now, your parents. They were … butchers, bakers, seamen … what?”

“They were farmers.”

“No royal blood in the line, then”

“Not a Thane in the lot, I’m afraid. Does this make your story somewhat less compelling?”

“Its one approach,” Mac answered casually. “You know, the gloomy prince sort of aspect. Farmers aren’t usually the meat that romance feasts on … no offense. Hamlet wanders the castle corridors bemoaning his fate and somehow it’s sexy. Apply the same condition to a farm boy walking off the lower forty and he’s a drab dullard.”

“Ah,” Porteous affirmed, “we must give them a rousing yarn.”

“We will,” Mac winked. “Lets go in that direction. Where does the captain part come in?”

“I was, for a time,” the captain replied evenly, “the captain of a small, commercial sailing vessel. That was in … lets see …”

“We can hassle the details later,” Mac shot in. “During this time, did you encounter any pirates, undergo any mutinies … something in that area?”

“Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid,” Porteous mused flippantly. “We transported food products, mostly fruit. Our most formidable foe was spoilage. Not a sexy scenario, I’m afraid.”

Mac grunted agreement. “Any rotters in the family? You know, horse thieves, insurrectionists … anybody hanged?”

“We had a country parson involved in a land dispute once. His wife was rumored to have run away, even though he claimed she had died and maintained a plot for her in the cemetery. Since no one could recall her death, my cousin, a few friends and I went out to the graveyard one night and dug it up. We were sure the coffin was empty.”

“Was it?”

“No, she was there. I didn’t sleep for weeks afterwards.”

Mac looked up, then down again to his notebook. He frowned. “That might cut it if we were turning out Huckleberry Finn or something, but I’m afraid our readers need it to be more …I don’t know.”

“Sensational? Are you after a cheap thrill, Mac?”

Mac looked up again. The captain wasn’t kidding. “Listen Captain, I just know my audience. Its part of my business. Its their story.”

“No, Mr. Dewart. Its my story.”

“Yes it is, Sir. Exclusively.” Mac placed the notebook on his lap as he adjusted his posture to a more agreeable alignment. “And it will remain exclusively yours unless we can convince someone to publish it. To do that, we have to make concessions. I am sure you understand.”

“I understand that you are a journalist,” Porteous replied politely. “Tell me Mac, where do you draw the line regarding these concessions?”

Mac smiled genially. “You are not a naïve man, Captain Porteous. I was under the impression you knew the conditions from the outset. I am not a representative of the New York Times, after all.”

“Understood.” Porteous gently placed his hand on Mac’s arm. “I was mislead by your innate sense of integrity, I would imagine. I confess to being an innocent in that regard. You have your professional responsibilities of course.”

Mac became aware of a bizarre sensation in his own reaction to this manner of approach, more acutely in the physical encounter than in the wry deference tendered. When Porteous removed his hand, abrupt relief was followed by an ancient longing that negated the former caution and brought back to him a faint perception of timeless desertion. Where did it come from? It was new to him, but he felt as if he had always known it was there.

“You look somewhat disconcerted,” Porteous observed after an awkward pause. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah … no, I was just thinking,” Mac answered uneasily. “I was just wondering why I was put on this story. I had been working on something else and they just pulled me. Its not like I was the only one available.”

“I requested your assignment expressly,” the captain offered evenly. “Does that surprise you?”

Mac responded as if emerging from a dream state. “Why? What do you know about me?”

Porteous smiled. “More than you know about me, it would seem.”

“I’m beginning to realize that. What … a common ancestry? A reporter with Scottish blood would be more conducive to the formation of a grand Scottish myth? Is that the deal?”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“I know nothing about it. I have no connection over there. My name, my father’s blood, that’s all I have.”

Porteous touched his arm again. “Don’t discount the blood. Blood has a language all its own and defies conversion to our culture of academic rationale. It speaks in ancient tongues.”

Mac pulled his arm away impulsively. “Not to me it doesn’t. Why did you request me?” He immediately regretted the impulse.

“Quite frankly,” Porteous began in a sober tone, “because you are an exquisite writer when you are in your element.”

This caught Mac cold. “How …how do you know my work? Other than the magazine, I mean?”

“I came across a small book of poetry in which your work occupied several pages and was quite impressed. I must add, although the wordplay was astonishing in its own right, what touched me deepest was that other language you claim to know nothing about. You speak it eloquently, if not consciously.”

Mac felt more perturbed than flattered and didn’t know why. “That’s an obscure book. I don’t remember a second printing,” he offered cautiously. “Where did you come across it?”

“In the local public library, Mac,” Porteous returned plausibly.

Mac was to the point focused now and his instinct bade pursuit. “And on the basis of this book you chose to sell your story to The Scoop and requested my participation?”

“Precisely.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t buy it.” Mac felt another element at work now and firmly held the line. “We go no further until I know exactly why I’m here.”

“You are a kinsman and you are gifted. I considered if anyone in the realm of tabloid journalism could do me justice, it would be you.”

“Okay, justice … I see. And to do you justice, and maintain my integrity as a gifted writer, I must believe your story entirely, is that the deal?” Mac was becoming intractable and he didn’t know why. It was this gut feeling growing inside him that he was somehow being ambushed.

“Mac,” Porteous began, choosing his words carefully, “I pose no threat to you. I am prepared to answer any question you put to me forthrightly. I do not intend to deceive or ensnare you. I would just rather you not treat my story with the derision reserved for vampire fables.”

No offense, Captain,” Mac returned candidly, “but that was the direction we were heading in. I’ve got to tell you, I’m getting a funny feeling.”

“I understand. I’m afraid I can’t help you with that, but I can answer your questions if you care to continue. Or would you care to rest now and we can take this up in the morning?”

Mac thought a moment. “Okay, before anything else, let’s get this out of the way. This condition … the immortality you are experiencing, how did it come about?”

Captain Porteous allowed his head to fall back against a rear cushion and closed his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said simply. “I never aged past a certain point and I never expired. I just continued. People around me died, the world around me changed, and I continued. I have out-lived everyone that was ever dear to me.”

“Medical check-ups?

“Normal.”

“Illnesses?”

“Yes. Never anything life threatening. I seemed immune to diseases that killed my neighbors.”

Mac was picking up speed. “War. Did you ever fight a war?”

Porteous opened his eyes without moving his head. “Yes.”

“Ever wounded? Shot?”

His eyes now shifted to Mac’s steady gaze. “No. Never wounded, or shot. I fell out of a tree once when I was … well, I was young. My entire body hurt for two or three days. I never told anyone. I never suffered a consequence.”

“Okay,” supposed Mac, “lets try this. Do you think you are susceptible to life threatening injuries? Or have you just been lucky for three hundred years?”

“I can’t answer that.” Porteous sat up straight. “I’m sorry, Mac. This is a phenomenon that is happening to me. It doesn’t necessarily follow that I am an expert on the condition. I was fortunate enough to survive my youth, a not uncommon occurrence. My experience since has increased in wisdom to the degree where I can see misfortune coming and avoid the undue ramifications. As for disease, all I can tell you is I’ve never succumbed.”

“Okay!” Mac tossed his notebook on the sideboard. “The situation is this. You claim immortality. You have no proof to speak of. You’ve lived a fairly unexciting three hundred years. No battles. No scars. No miracle recoveries. No drama. What have you been doing for three centuries? Where are the significant contributions to society? What have I got to sell here, Captain?”

Porteous smiled. “You are right, of course. All I have is my story, a series of commonplace incidents over the course of several lifetimes, but really a quite ordinary assemblage of lives. The only remarkable thing about it is the length. I do not assert the ability to sell it. That is your department. I have had many occupations and am fairly accomplished in one or two of them, but I have never been an ad man. If there is drama in any of it, I have confidence in you to ferret it out. I can tell you of my families, my countries, my eras, my wives, my professions, but I am at a loss …”

Mac shot up. “Hold it, hold on … your wives. That’s it. Many loves, many lifetimes … the saga of an immortal Casanova. A kiss and tell through the centuries. Captain, it’s the only way to go.” He was revitalized.

“The memories are very dear to me. I will think it over, if you don’t mind.” The captain rose from the couch. “Make yourself completely at home, Mac. Through that door is a bedroom, all prepared for your stay.”

Mac was disturbed by this sudden turn. “We can work this out, make it tasteful. It’s an idea. Lets just play with it.”

“I will think about it. We can discuss it in the morning.”

Mac looked toward the bedroom door. “Where will you sleep tonight?”

Porteous displayed a patient smile. “I have a place to stay not far from here. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Mac.” They shook hands.

After Porteous had cleared the dinner plates and left, Mac had an opportunity to take in the events of the day and clear his mind somewhat. He sat for a long time digesting what had essentially taken place here, trying to assess what hard information he had actually acquired, and find a frame of reference for it all. He started from the beginning.

This morning he was a disenchanted poet who resented his job and his profession as a whole. He earned his money as a rag journalist set against the backdrop of a teeming city steeped in a coarse environment of noise and tough talk. He hurriedly boarded a train to Connecticut and discovered a world that spoke to his innermost voice and confirmed his passion for all things beautiful. And in this idyllic setting he heard, a few minutes ago, his own voice, his poets voice, advising deception and misrepresentation. He had become his enemy.

He was becoming restless. He had to move about and find something active to engage in. He wasn’t about to find an answer, to anything, foraging around for it in the elaborate straits of his mind. He looked about the room for inspiration. Maybe there was something here that would illuminate his search for meaning in this vacant enterprise, something that would explain why he was suddenly obsessed with significance, anything that might reveal the nature of this internal disquiet.

There it was, right in front of him. The wall. The gallery. The photographs. A visual alternative to his cerebral meanderings. He stood up from the coach, scanned the room for the overhead light switch, found it, flicked it and lit up the room. He moved closer to the wall and began taking in the lower photographs intently, one by one, along the length of it. They were family photos, all of them, some seeming to date back to the beginning of the century. They appeared to be real people, in different modes of dress per photograph, and different time periods represented. He began to pick out Porteous in several of them, fitting in seamlessly with his environment, his dress, and his assemblage. A colossal job of photo retouching, perfect in all aspects of dimension, alignment, and detail, would have been needed to reproduce these examples of familial imagery, far too ambitious for the meager fee offered by the magazine to justify its undertaking.

Unable to clearly distinguish the higher photographs, Mac began to search the room for a ladder, a stool; something he could stand on to take a closer look. Frustrated in this attempt, he remembered the bedroom; a closet with a stepladder would not be an unusual proposition. He walked to the door and opened into a cozy chamber lit by a kerosene lamp on the bed table. It was a rustic vision of a clean and pleasing character, if somewhat spare; table, lamp, quilt covered single bed, curtained window, chair, wood paneled walls. Across the room he spied the closet door. A search did not detect a ladder, stool, or adequate substitute. The plain wooden chair wasn’t high enough. His eyes were scanning the room once again when they noticed a framed picture on the night table, under the lamp. He stretched across the bed to inspect the contents of the gilt edged casing and discovered a simple photograph of the captain and another man who appeared to be holding an infant in his arms. The other man looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties and had the radiant grin of a proud father spread across his robust features. The mode of dress was fairly modern and the setting was suggestive of a backyard location. Porteous had his left arm draped familiarly around the younger mans’ shoulder. The photograph was similar to the others on the living room wall except in one respect; the proud father was recognizable to Mac. He had pictures of the man in his own collection, which he rarely looked at these days. He removed the photograph from its frame and turned it over. There was an inscription: ‘The future looks hopeful and I am encouraged – Me, Thomas, and wee Mac – May, 1976’.


Copyright 2002 by John Cannatella