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