Nonentity Page 3

  “A ghost would be easier to explain.”

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

  “Maybe that isn’t such a swell idea.”

  She scowled.

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

  “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ****

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

  Dear Sebastian:

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

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

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

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

  Love,

  Dad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Perfect,” I said.

  “What are you up to?”

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

  “How could it be bad?”

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

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

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

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

  “I’d like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What’s an ‘auteur’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ****

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

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

  “Thanks. That means a lot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I said to Lawrence, “What was that?”

  “Your brother. I knew him.”

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

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

  I ignored him.

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

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

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

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

  “Why not?”

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

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

  “I didn’t ask you,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Never crosses my mind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “My opinion won’t do you much good.”

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