Descent

He stretched out his hand and wiped away the condensation that had formed on the mirror. With one hand he pulled at the skin that hung on his neck and with the other he dragged the razor across his cheek, cutting away the ugly, exposing the desirable.
When he had washed away the remnants of his natural self, he applied the after-shave that the girl at the drug store had recommended. He didn't care for the scent but felt that it was necessary to arrive slightly before he arrived. Someone once told him that women have a more acute sense of smell than men and that memories can be manipulated into fond remembrances with the proper attention to detail. He might have made up that last part.
He dressed slowly, checking and re-checking his reflection in the mirror and when the shirt he was wearing refused to hang squarely off his shoulders he took it off and it fell to the back-up to perform. His socks, examined under the cruel light of fluorescence, appeared faded but the only other choice was a pair, so thread-worn that he was afraid that one, or the other, might unravel at the wrong moment. He whispered a silent prayer that she would be too occupied to notice.
A final inspection proved that he looked as good as he was ever likely to. He wondered what it would be like to see perfection staring back at him but he quickly smiled away the criticism. Self-doubt kills the soul.

He waited at her door for more than ten minutes, at first thinking she might be in the shower and did not hear the bell. His arm began to ache. He awkwardly balanced the flowers he had purchased that morning as he switched hands, almost dropping the bottle of wine. He remembered that her favourite wine was a Beaujolais, that she liked to drink it cold and that more than one glass went straight to her head. She had turned away from him at that point and he lost the thread of the conversation. He moved closer to the group of girls she was with, but was nudged aside when two men slipped between them, to sit at the bar. He wondered if she might have annexed her comments and added the stipulation that she preferred the wines produced in the Burgundy region rather than the Rhone. It was of no consequence, really, as the bottle he held gave no indication of the region in which it was harvested.

"Nelson?"
He was startled out of his reverie by her voice, coming from behind him. He turned, with a smile, and saw that she was coming up the stairs that led to the apartment next to the one in front of which he was standing. He quickly checked the number on the door and realised that he must have read the address wrong. Granted, he'd only had a instant to glean the information from her driver's licence when she presented it to him, more than a week ago, at the super market. A driver's licence was required when paying by check. He cursed his poor memory, making a mental note to be more attentive in the future.

He felt foolish, standing so close to her, separated only by the railing, and couldn't think of anything to say.
"Do you know Peter?" she asked as her door swung open.
"Peter?"
"That's cool," she said, "He's a really nice guy. Have a good night," and she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

Nelson stood for a moment, considering his options. He'd already made a potentially devastating mistake and their date hadn't even started yet. Then he made up his mind, walked down Peter's stairs and up hers, to her door. He rapped sharply, stepped back and cleared his throat. He went over, in his mind, the introduction he had prepared, dropping the "My name is Nelson" part, as it appeared that she had remembered his name. He found that very encouraging.

A Punch in the Nose

As facile as it sounds, when the television reporter wrapped up his commentary with, "It seems you can never really know anyone," I was struck by the bare truth of it. I thought about it for a moment. I didn't like the idea that the bonds I've made and the friendships cast from experiences and trials over time might be something I had imagined. I struggled to defend my perceptions. I had an existential moment, you might say. It happens.

I heard the t.v. go off and then there was a knock at my door.
"What time is it?"
I shrugged off my malaise and looked at the clock. "It's two."
"Really?" he said.
"What? Yeah, really. Look for yourself. The clocks right there."
"I guess it could be two o'clock."
"It's two o'clock."

The expression on his face made me wary. He was fucking around with me but I wasn't sure what the joke was. I hate that. He's smarter than I am and he knows it. He has a gentle way of chiding my sometimes torpid thought processes, of nudging me awake, of clearing away the nonsense I get caught up in.
I shrugged off the feeling of suspicion and returned to the problem at hand.

If I could hear the thoughts of every person I passed, I could measure it against their facial expressions and begin to read the truth in the lift of an eyebrow or the curl of a smile. I could be ready for the hurried change in moods and detect the lies before they take shape and are spun into an excuse. I could save time by sussing out root of the problem and separating the layers of rationalizations from the kernel of truth. I would never need to pause, rewind and remember what happened two weeks ago. I would know with absolute certainty what people mean when they say, "Oh, that's nice."

"Nice weather," he said.
"It's supposed to rain," I answered mechanically. I watch the weather channel more than any other. Rain, this afternoon.
"Looks good, now." he persisted.
"Well, it's going to rain," I said.
"I don't think so," he said.
I looked at him, and noticed that his eyes seemed brighter and that the edge of his mouth was quivering, almost sliding up into a smile and I realized that he was pushing me into a corner. I mentally checked for clues in the seemingly benign remarks he had made about the weather and didn't see a connection. I hate feeling stupid.

I was repulsed when I read Sartre for the first time. Freedom is a sad idea in a world that has no use for you. I was supposed to think he was the 'answer' so I muddled through the rest of it. I finally put it down and resigned myself to Jung. There are too many mysteries and I really don't have anything else to do, do I?

I looked up and realized that he was standing over me and I heard him smirk when he read the last line. The one about too many mysteries. I reviewed it myself, trying to find the humour in it.

"You contradict yourself," he said.
"I suppose I do," I answered.
"That's good. Contradiction is very healthy. It stimulates reason and nullifies certainty. I hate certainty."
"I'm glad to hear it," I said.

Certainty is something I gave up on, out of pure frustration, and I have to admit that I don't miss it one bit. Once you accept that nothing is certain, disappointment turns into wonder and doubt turns into anticipation, hope seems real and dreams take on a seismic attitude, channeling suspicion and churning out the sort of giddy glee that makes people want to punch you in the nose. Luckily, I can always see it coming.

"Oh, you're a peach, lad, a real peach," he said, laughing out loud, and I heard the door shut and the television go on, again.

The First Meeting

The Lotus Eaters shook me awake to a full house. Patience and Faith, bless their frosty hearts, searched through the pile of clothes on the floor and found me something to wear while Ikkyu struggled with the coffee maker.
"Three scoops," I yelled as the girls manhandled me into a t-shirt.
"Jesus, what a madhouse."
The Great God Pan hustled in and with a pinch to any bottom unwise enough to present to him, he let the dog out, narrowly missing the huge jaws of one of the heads as they passed by, knocking over the plaster Buddha on the table near the door.
I heard a hiss from the closet and wisely detached myself from the Lotus Eaters and went to the kitchen. I found C.G. cracking eggs into a bowl, more shell than I care for, and took away the knife he was wielding over an innocent pound of bacon.
"What the hell are all of you doing here?" I yelled, but no one payed any attention to me. Even as my temper flared, I could hear the killer in the closet respond in kind and he neatly kicked the door off the hinges. With a chorus of screams the girls fled and C.G. made a dash to the bedroom, only to emerge a moment later with my hulking doppelganger, subdued, for now, and breathing heavily, his hands in Jung's.
"Michael, you must control your rage. Him, I can control. You? Not so easy."
"Sorry, C.G. What's going on? Why are you here? And why did you bring Ikkyu? You know he's not good with electronics."
"Me? I brought no one. You brought us. Tell me, my friend, what is the fuss?"
I looked at him for a moment and it dawned on me that I had called this impromptu meeting. I had caused the 'fuss'.
Pan loped down the stairs, each hand holding a bone, to which were attached the frenzied and frothing heads of Cerberus, who wanted to play.
The room quieted as they gathered around and I felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny. The coffee pot grumbled it's last and I automatically reached for a mug.
"All right. First, I drink a cup of coffee, and then we go find some place a little more spacious. I have a bit of a mystery on my hands and I need everyone of you to help me solve it.
The room erupted in chatter as the girls squealed their approval, C.G. whispered something into the killer's ear and Ikkyu searched his memory for something profound to say about the nature of the unknown. Cerberus alternately barked and gnawed on his bones and Pan loudly farted his approval. The room broke up into fits of howling laughter until the obnoxious fumes made them gag and I silently pictured a place in my mind. Seconds later we all stood in the middle of a clearing, a hundred yards wide, full of spring flowers and a dusting of morning fog.
The freshness of the breeze was a relief from the close confines of my apartment and everyone fanned out in a wide circle, fading slightly as my attention turned to Pan, who stood, hooves wide apart in a stance that spoke of stern disapproval, and I looked away, up at the sky. He was silent for a moment and then said, "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"
"Yeah," I said, hesitantly. "I will. I just need a few minutes to think."
"Well, don't take all day," and he sauntered over to where Patience and Faith were kneeling over the Daises that sprouted from my imagination. He patted Faith on her full rump and as she reached out to slap his bearded face he ducked, with a laugh, and reached out to her sister. Patience smiled at him, but prudently backed away.
I stood, feeling the grass beneath my feet and closed my eyes and smelled the sweetness of the foliage on the wind and I wondered if this could work. They were rarely together, the disparate elements of my personality, and they didn't always mesh comfortably. I had no choice, though. I needed every one's help with this one.

I did need their help, every one of them, including the sullen giant, my raging alter-ego, whose sole purpose was to destroy me. He worried me the most. I looked around the clearing and found him, brooding under the eaves of an enormous Weeping Willow. He was staring at me in the way that Cerberus stares at the dead; with hateful desire and hurtful longing. I looked away.
This was going to take courage, and that's something I can't always count on.

It's So Good to See You

A simple case of mistaken identity. I made it worse by playing along. I guess I just wanted to be that person; the one who could make his face light up like that. He was so animated, concerned and trusting that I wondered who she was, the woman he thought I was. When I finally had to admit to him that I wasn't her, the confusion, and then anger, that I saw in his eyes made me want to take it back. I am her, I wanted to say, but it was too late for that.
I remember thinking, I could be her, I could be that for you, but even as that thought was born, I realized how crazy it sounded. Maybe, I am crazy. Who would do such a thing? Who could pretend to be someone else just to experience a moment of togetherness with another human being?
The problem is, is that I don't know who I am. I thought I could get a glimpse into the life of someone who was cared for and worried about, instead of being me. I wondered, for a second, if I could simply assume that identity and hope that it would catch and hold, like the wick of a candle, and feel the illumination he reserved for someone else. I'm going to be remembered, now, as that crazy bitch who tried to be someone she wasn't. I can already hear him telling his friends about it.

"She pretended to be somebody else. What the fuck is wrong with people?"

I know what's wrong with me. I try too hard. I tried to give him what he wanted, even if it was just for a moment or two. I tried to care, even if it was wrong, and I tried to make him feel like it was okay that we hadn't talked in years, which is probably more than he would have heard if he'd met the real thing. I made it easy for him to get away with not keeping in touch. I told him that it was okay that he hadn't been around. I let him off the hook, which is more than he deserved. He couldn't see that, though. All he could see was the deception. If he'd looked harder he would have seen that I'm not a bad person. He was so focused on the lie that he couldn't see the truth behind it. And now? He'll never know. He walked away like I had ceased to exist. I'm nothing to him.

All the way home, I kept thinking about it. I daydreamed about the day that I see him again. I dreamed that we would meet and he would smile, in recognition, and pull me to the side of the stream and say, "You're the girl I met here, last year, aren't you? How have you been?" and I could say, "Yeah. I've been good. How about you? It's so good to see you."