“Beep ba beep beep.” The sound he
knew so well cut through his introspection. It was the sound that
always caused a smile to spread across his face; he could be in the
depths of any illness or misery and the smile would be drawn out of
him by the sound as he muttered, “what is it now, dearest?” It
was the sound assigned to texts from her.
She was the initial cause for this awareness consuming reflection, as
she so often was. He turned to look for his phone but the world
started to spin. He told himself to remain calm, spinning out was no
surprise in this weather. With both hands calmly on the steering
wheel, he managed to stop the spin. He let out his breath with
relief, nothing should have shaken him after that close call with the
semi only minutes before, but only heavy narcotics can keep a man in
a spinning car from slight panic. He squinted through the windshield,
nothing but darkness and blowing snow. It looked exactly like those
early screen-savers, with the stars coming at you; the vision which
had sent many a child into a deep hypnotic state in grade school. It
was having a similar effect on him now, he tried turning on the
brights but they merely reflected whiteness in front of him. He
turned off the brights and considered trying for the phone again,
even the most mundane text from her could improve any situation. No,
it wasn't worth the risk, he had reasons to live; more so now than in
the past year or so.
Fergus, his best
friend, waited at home for him. There had never been a time where he
had opened his door without Fergus situated directly in the doorway,
face radiating relief and happiness, and tail wagging. He somehow
knew that when he was still a mile away, Fergus was already waiting
for him, having recognized the sound of his engine. He worried about
Fergus, the self destructive course which he had been on lately was
not just effecting him, it was effecting the poor little pup. He
could not count how many times Fergus had stood by as he stumbled
around, drunk and miserable. No matter how bad he got, Fergus was the
one being who would always stand by his side, no judgment, only
unconditional love. But there was no one else for Fergus to depend
on, his ex-wife was back in Iowa; she had loved Fergus but not enough
to go out of her way for him. With the hour long commutes through the worst that the
winter had to offer, the heavy drinking, and his recent fighting
spell, his biggest fear was not coming home to Fergus. He had, one
drunken night, entrusted his keycode to a girl at the bar, making her
promise to take care of Fergus if anything should happen to him. He
didn't know if it was her integrity, her admiration for Fergus, or
his analysis of her psyche which made him sure that she would never
take advantage of her ability to enter his condo. It was probably the
latter, he trusted his grasp on basic human psychology more than all
but a very select few individuals.
And
there was, of course, her.
Not even his ex-wife had inspired him to such love of his own
vitality. To be deprived of his daily correspondence with her would
be a torment worse than Dante could have imagined. She was the most
intriguing person he had ever known, and he made a habit of
encountering interesting people. He also had his quest to complete,
to leave a quest of such import unfinished was not an option; he had
complete confidence that if the grim reaper were to come for him, a
brief summation of his quest would be sufficient to stay the blade of
the scythe.
When had he first
noticed her? He knew when he had decided to marry her, but when had
she first properly crossed his radar? He had no idea, there was no
one event to stick in his overactive memory. She had simply been
there. His brother had started dating her sister so many years ago.
He had no idea when he had first met her, or when he had realized
that her beauty was unsurpassable. There was a time when he had a
vague concept that his brother's new girlfriend had a sister and then
there was the time when he had known the standard to measure the
attractiveness of all other women. There was no connection between
the two of them other than the fact that their siblings were dating.
He knew her mother better than he knew her. On a school trip, their
overlap in friends had brought them together to eat lunch at the same
table in Stratford. Obviously, he was aware of who she was. They had
exchanged a few words, he only remembered because he could still feel
his heart beating in near panic as he did his best to remain calm
whilst speaking to his idea of physical perfection.
He had it mapped
out in his head, their next meeting. He had been doing his best to
save up for a trip to Boston. He hadn't yet decided if he would tell
her beforehand or not. Somehow he would find her—specific details
are left to actual planning, not fantasies—he would walk up to her
and say, “Hey Slug.” She would flash that irresistible smile,
with that look in her eyes which he had failed so many times to
describe, and say, “Hey Frisco.” And that was it, he had no
perverse fantasies about what they would do behind closed doors, he
had no plans for slowly turning a slight attraction into a
relationship; it was merely, “Hey Slug”, “Hey Frisco”, and
the rest of their lives.
Why
did he feel the need to fill his life with such a barrage of
quotations and allusions? There was rarely a situation where he could
not think of an appropriate literary reference. Was it his
overindulgent love of literature and stories? Was he unable to
function beyond the pages of books held so reverentially in his mind?
No, this was not it, he was capable; original witticism flowed freely
from him alongside obscure quotations. Was it some form of
inferiority complex? Did he need to prove his intellect, to display
how well read he was, to confound the less intellectual with his
encyclopedic knowledge of quotations? No, he did have a love of putting people in their place, but only if they truly deserved it.
And besides, he used more quotations and allusions with her
than with anyone else and she was possibly the most intelligent
person he knew. He would often joke that he was paid all day to think
of ideas so he could plagiarize in his free time. Perhaps it was due
to his love for the creation of ideas, his love of stories and
storytellers, a sort of professional respect. It was possibly his nod
to the great thinkers and writers who had come before him. He had
always felt that hiding behind and leaning on the past was asinine,
but to ignore tradition was worse than asinine, it was criminal.
After eating lunch
with her the one time, he had hardly any interactions with her. He
considered her sister to be the sister he never had, but she was
still a distant figure, one to be admired and feared. The rare
occurrences when they were brought together by their siblings held
only awkward moments. He could have imagined it, but their
interactions seemed to resemble the fumbling speech of two teenagers
besmitten with each other in a group of people. He chuckled to
himself once again, where the hell did he come up with his similes?
And where did besmitten come from? Was it some colloquialism he
picked up or did he Shakespeare it? But the analogy made sense to
him, they were palpably aware of each other's presence yet they never
properly acknowledged it; when speaking, every word was carefully
tailored for the other but never addressed to them directly. He shook
his head, this was obviously his over analytic mind projecting his
strange thought process onto her.
Where
was the music? All he could hear was the wind howling and that siren
wailing off in the distance. God it was cold. He remembered, he had
been listening to an audio book and had turned it off to allow his
mind to wander. Where was he? He had passed through Benzonia so he
must be in that barren wasteland on the way to Bear Lake. He really
couldn't see a thing, he knew there was a curvy section to the road
coming up. Should he pull over? No, the snow wasn't going to stop
anytime soon, Fergus was waiting for him and he was anxious to
respond to the text that she
had sent.
The
rest of their lives. That's how he thought of it. Of course he found
her physically attractive, she had been his ideal for beauty for over
five years. Whether he was fully aware of it or not, every girl had
been judged by how close to her
she was. But it was more than that, he had never encountered a mind
like hers. Her mental beauty was equal to her physical perfection. He
thought back, there was no self deception in introspection, was he
projecting his current feelings into the past? Examine your premises
lad, he told himself. No, he had always viewed her as the aesthetic
ideal, one does not have to have feelings towards an object of
beauty. Yes, that was what she was before their conversations had
begun. It was an incredibly hard truth to admit to himself, his
current feelings for her were outraged by this demeaning revelation
but it was true. In fact, for many years, he had harbored the
illusion that he disliked her.
Where did this
idea come from? It was based on nothing but hearsay, no action or
word from her had ever stricken him as dislikable. Who had placed
this idea into his head? It wasn't her sister and it wasn't his
brother. Perhaps it was a collection of stories and snippets;
democracy at work. In retrospect, it was easy to see why she could
gain anti-fans. She has the audacity to be more intelligent and
beautiful than the entirety of the population; one of those gifts is
enough to draw hatred from lesser beings, but both at once?
Inconceivable. And the idea that she is cold-hearted, that was a
popular bit of gossip. She has the rare gift of being able to place
reason and logic above knee-jerk, emotional reactions. He could not
ask for a more attractive trait in another human being, but at that
time, all he thought he knew was that she was mean and cold-hearted.
Oh, and we can't forget self-centered. He spat derisively out the
window; fuck that shit, anyone who isn't a communist scumbag is
self-centered, most cowards are just unable to face it.
Why was the window
open? It was cold as hell in the car. The dial on the heater was
turned up all the way and he was still freezing; not the normal cold
from being outside, but that cold deep in your bones that you only
feel in the depths of feverish chills. He hoped he wasn't getting
sick, this was one of the few weeks where he had to be into the
office almost every day. Oh well, he might as well light up a
cigarette before he rolled up the window. He carefully reached into
his breast pocket, his other hand gripped tightly on the steering
wheel and his eyes glued to the nothingness in front of him. He found
his lighter in the same pocket and lit up. There was a slight wobble
but several deep breaths and his other hand back to the wheel seemed
to fix the problem. How would deep breaths prevent a spin out? He
mentally shrugged and breathed in the smoke, thinking of how she had
smoked an entire cigarette in what seemed like less than a minute the
last time he had seen her.
He had been
slightly shocked when she asked him for the cigarette, he was
attempting to sneak out discreetly, guilty about his filthy habit.
God, that was a brilliant night. Him in his morning coat and her in
that black dress; they were archaic visions of regality, moving
through a dead society in a macabre waltz of what once was and what
could still be. His brandy old fashioned, which was usually the most
masculine cocktail in a bar, seemed overly effeminate when she ordered gin on the rocks and tossed it back with feminine
grace mixed with the swagger of a sailor. They had talked with the
ease found only in the closest companions. Together, they had come to
the conclusion that they were the same person represented in the two
sexes. He dove deeper into his mind, attempting to recapture that
night, that feeling. The way she had looked at him, maybe it was the
gin, maybe it was the atmosphere, but he would give anything to see
that indescribable sparkle in her eyes again.
She
was the most confusing and hard to read girl he had ever encountered.
He was used to reading people as an instinct. He could describe
someone's entire personality and psychology before he could even tell
you the color of their eyes. But she was different, he could read her
personality, she had demanded a reading in the very beginning of
their conversations; but her thoughts were hidden from him. The
lowest allusion he had ever made was equating this to an Edward-Bella
phenomenon. Her opinions on most issues were as clear to him as his
own—possibly because they were, more often than not, the same as
his—but ask him to discover what she's thinking and he is
completely lost. They always joke about getting married, about being
soul mates. He was never one to tell himself that a girl was too good
for him—he was usually the one telling her that she's not good
enough for him—but she is
different; everything he could possibly want in a woman and
surrounded by suitors. They were both heartbreakers with a trail of
destroyed would-be-lovers trailing behind them. Her sister worried
that he was going to be the next one in her wake but he was careful.
He made her aware of the fact that he was hers when and if she ever
wanted him but he did not push, the last thing he wanted was to lose
her friendship, it was truly a fuel which kept him going.
Had he fueled up
before leaving Traverse? Yes, he was fine for fuel. This was getting
ridiculous, how long had he been driving? An hour and a half and he
wasn't even to Bear Lake, this was less than an hour's drive in the
summer. He still couldn't see the signs for the upcoming curves. And
traffic was nonexistent, he could see lights off to his left so he
couldn't be too far from the town. It was foolish for him to go into
work that day, a winter weather warning in Northern Michigan was
equivalent to a city flattening blizzard in the rest of the country.
They were a tough lot up here, which is why the complete lack of
traffic was somewhat worrisome. He hadn't seen a single car on the
road since that semi had been in his lane, he shuddered at the
memory.
After living with
the false premise of distaste for years, he was less than excited
when his brother told him that she would be at the house when they
went to see his girlfriend. When they got to the horse stables, she
was there—looking incredibly attractive in her riding attire. But
this was strange, there was none of the previous avoidance; she
greeted both him and his brother in a very happy manner. With a bit
of confusion, he went to sit down and watch his brother's girlfriend
ride; his brother sat down with the two them on either side of him.
Her mother was darting in and out of the arena, making wonderful statements as usual—she had once accused him of courting her simply
to gain an amazing mother in law. His confusion was added to when she
addressed him directly, asking interesting questions; he loathes
small talk and was quite impressed that she was able to carry on a
fascinating conversation without once resorting to useless prattle.
Why was it that he disliked her? He mentally rebuked himself for
listening to the worthless opinions of the masses, she was as
mentally incredible as she was beautiful.
She moved out east
and he moved west, she rarely crossed his mind unless his brother
mentioned her. It wasn't until he moved back to Michigan—after his
wife left him—that she properly entered his life. He had moved up
north but was back for Thanksgiving. He was talking to his brother
and her sister, they were discussing how similar he was to her. He
was told that they were both arrogant, despised voting, didn't like
Lincoln, and so on. Later that night, his brother was discussing her
trouble with men, his brother had been trying to talk her into
leaving her drug addicted boyfriend. He piped up that she should come
to Thanksgiving dinner as his date. It was passed of as a joke but he
realized that he kind of wished that she would show up, his interest
was piqued. His brother and her sister always took care of him when
he was single, their traditional activity was to go to the cinema
together. There was a midnight showing of the final Twilight movie so
the decision was obvious. He and his brother went to her house a few
hours early to play board games. She looked incredible, she was even
more beautiful than he remembered. She won every game of bananagrams,
despite her sister's hope that he would beat her. What impressed him
was her explanation that this was why she didn't play games with
people, because they got upset when she always won. False modesty is
almost as reprehensible as undeserved arrogance to him, so her
unabashed proclamation of her superior intellect was one of the best
ways for her to capture his undivided attention...for the next
several months.
He
was starting to get nervous, had he taken a wrong turn somewhere? It
was impossible to tell, he couldn't even see the hood of his car. He
couldn't remember ever being this cold, and he had been a victim of
frostbite and hypothermia many times. Had he rolled up the window
yet? He must have finished his cigarette because he was no longer
holding it. He thought hard as to whether there was any part of his
normal route with such a long stretch with no curves and no
landmarks, he didn't think so. Shit, he was going to have to pull
over and figure out where he was in the next town he came to.
Hopefully he wasn't in the National Forest, one could drive for hours
without encountering civilization in that forest. He tried to see if
there were trees along the road but he could only see blowing snow.
Should he call Jamie and ask her to check on Fergus? No, she had her
own son to worry about, he wouldn't ask her to drive to Onekama in
this weather. Fergus would be all right, there was food and water
enough to last for at least another day. He had been driving so long
that his legs were completely numb, he really needed to stop for a
bit, but there was nowhere to safely pull over.
She was going to
be in Michigan this coming weekend, he wanted nothing more than to
have her come up and visit him. He was sorely tempted to take Friday
off and drive down to Okemos, it would be worth it for even a minute
in her presence. No, if she asks him, he would drive down in an
instant; if she wants to visit him, he would drive down to pick her
up and bring her back at the end of the weekend. But not until she
asks him. She knows that he is hers to do with what she may and he
must not press her. He laughed at himself, the great seducer has
become the slave to the even greater seductress. He was in control of
himself, though. He was aware of the distance between them, he knew
how many suitors she had to deal with on a daily basis. If he thought
for an instant that he had a shot, he would drop everything and move
to Boston but until he was sure, he would not allow himself to give
into this infatuation that threatened him day and night. How is it
that a girl who he has only twice spent any actual time with in
person, seems to know him better than almost anyone else in his life.
Stop it mate, you're mugging yourself, trust the fates.
She hadn't wanted
to go back to Boston yet, she had decided to stay in Michigan for a
bit longer but her plane was leaving in the morning. He looked up the
number for the airline and let her use his phone, he needed to spend
more time getting to know this young lady. Alas, she was unable to
cancel so she went to pack and he left for the movie with his brother
and her sister. As they waited for the movie to begin, she was the
topic of conversation. Her sister told him that he should date her,
he was not terribly apposed to this idea. He asked her sister to give
him her number and joshingly entered it into his phone as
“girlfriend”. The next day, he did something out of the ordinary,
he texted her out of nowhere. He told her that Fergus and Murphy—his
brother's dog—missed Gator—her dog. From there, the conversations
continued...every day. She became his closest confidant and his
admiration for her grew with each text. When Christmas came around,
they planned their journeys home around each other. The “dates”
were just as natural as their texting conversations. He had slowly
grown bolder as the months progressed, confessing his unparalleled
admiration and affection for her. He had sent her flowers on
Valentines day, with a note alluding to Atlas Shrugged. He had
grinned for a day when she posted a picture of that note on Facebook,
a week when she sent him a picture of the note decorating the wall of
her office.
What were his
feelings for her? He had decided that one day he was going to marry
her but the big l word has been misused too many times for him to use
it. Infatuation would have been correct if he wasn't consciously
holding it off. It was the ultimate admiration of everything about
her, she claimed that he didn't really know her but he di—Jesus, is
that a person in the road?!?!? What the hell does he think he's
doing? Shit, there are several of them, with flashlights wading
through the snow. He tried to figure out what was nagging at him
about them. God he was cold. But they weren't zipping by, they were
slowly making there way towards him. And then it dawned on him.
“Oh no,” That
was all he said. He said it calmly and clearly. There were no claims
of how unfair this was, fairness was a useless concept in this
situation. He cursed no deity, he simply said, “Oh no.” He said
it a few more times as the men moved closer to his mangled car, he
was afraid to look down. He was fully aware of what was occurring,
but if he looked down, it would be unavoidable. He needed to keep a
clear head and the sight of whatever damage had been done would
muddle his thoughts. “Oh no.” He said it again, a futile
repetition that helped him stay away from panic. “Hang in there,
we'll get you out as soon as we can.” A man shouted to him, and
then to his companion, “There's no way we're getting him out
without taking that car apart.” He sometimes wished he wasn't so
observant. “Oh no.” The repetition no longer helped, “No,
Dagny, my dear Ms. Adler.”
Why
did he always insist on calling her by the names of literary
characters? She had pointed that out to him just yesterday. Part of
it was that he spent his life reading books and these women
represented the best that the sex had to offer, it was his ultimate
compliment to her. That wasn't the entirety of it, though. It wasn't
that she shared the same name as his ex-wife, that didn't give him
the least bit of pause, his ex had earned a name as well, Lillian
Rearden. He knew what it was, but why couldn't he even say it to
himself? He watched the EMTs assessing the wreck and his condition;
this was a prime example of when the ability to read people was more
of a curse than a gift, the looks said it all: “Poor bastard”
“This is useless” “All we can do is make him comfortable and
reassure him”. They looked at him, not as a man trapped in a
destroyed car, but as a ripening DOA. A finger to the throat while
looking at a watch would have been as reassuring as those looks.
He knew exactly
why he rarely, if ever, used her actual name. He wasn't ready to
admit to himself all of the feelings that he had for her. He knew
that if he called her by her name, it would be so much more than just
a title, that one word would carry with it his sleepless nights, his
distraught inner struggles, the drunken nights professing his
feelings to Fergus. “I'm not gone yet,” he grinned his roguish
grin, “wait for me, I'm coming for you, Lauren.”
As he was lifted
onto the stretcher, he looked back at his poor car, it was smashed to
bits, the semi must have hit him head on. He carefully analyzed his
situation, he was obviously in shock, he had been for what must have
been at least an hour between the crash and the arrival of the
ambulance. It was curious that his mind was still functioning so
cogently, as if on cue, he felt the world narrowing and pulling away.
The EMT had pulled his wallet out of his ruined overcoat—damnit,
that was his favorite coat, it was cashmere, his aunt had given it to
him for Christmas two years ago—that's it, hold on to the outrage,
keep the cogs turning in that overindulgent brain. He couldn't count
the times where he had battled his mind at night, attempting to turn
it off; now all he wanted was to keep it flowing in its usual nonstop
barrage. “Mr. Cochran, who is Lauren? Do you want us to contact
her?” He realized that after opening the dam, it wouldn't stop, he
had been muttering her name over and over again. Snap out of it,
giving in to the situation won't help a damn thing! He tried to sit
up, they held him down. He looked at the EMT, clarity returned. “Have
you found my phone?” He asked in a calm and even voice. This must
have surprised the paramedic but he quickly gave an affirmation. “I
need you to take it out,” the man complied, he gave him the
password to unlock it. “Please find Jamie in the contacts, if you
would be so kind as to call her and beg her to go to my condo and
take care of Fergus. She has information as to how to contact my
family, please remind her that there is ample compensation in cash
inside the note on my desk.” The man stepped away and made the
call, in a moment he returned. “She is pretty upset but she says
that of course she will take care of him.” He smiled, “Thank you.
By the way, you didn't tell her I was going to die, did you? She's an
emotional girl.” He laughed at the horror on the face of the EMT.
Before the man could respond, they lifted him into the back of the
ambulance. The helpful EMT crawled in behind him.
“Are
you riding back here with me?” He asked. The man nodded. “Good,
you seem like good company, I'm Hugh, by the way.” He reached out
his hand, the EMT took it and responded, “Nice to meet you, Hugh,
I'm John; now lie back, you need to rest.” John's face was a study
in pity and confusion as to how he was still conscious and
conversing. “John, before I recede and place my fate into the hands
of the divine, could I ask one more favor of you?” John nodded once
again. “If you would take out my phone once more, do you remember
the PIN? Good. If you could open up the text messages, thank the gods
you know how to use an iPhone. There should be a missed text from
Irene Adler, would you read it to me?” “It looks like some sort
of quote, do you want me to read the whole thing? Alright, 'a life is
a purposeful struggle, and your only choice is the choice in a goal.
Better, but irrelevant; but I don't want comfort. I want God. I want
poetry. I want real danger. I want freedom. I want goodness. I want
sin.' Then she asks where that's from and sends a tongue sticking out
face.” He laughed, “Well, John, if I'm to die tonight, that's a
great quote to go out with. No, it's alright, I'm not giving up but I
refuse to hide from evident facts. Could you text back, 'Who is John
Galt?'” John sent the text and looked down at him, “What was that
from?” He smiled, “That my friend, was John Galt's play on Henry
V's St. Crispin Day's Speech. It is in chapter seven of the third
part of Atlas Shrugged.” John gave him a strange look, he grinned
again, “Quotations are a particular interest of mine.” John
shifted a bit, “Who is Irene Adler?” His face broke for the first
time since he regained his composure. “The character of Irene Adler
is the only person who ever bested Sherlock Holmes. This particular
Irene Adler is the finest woman who has ever existed, she is the
woman who I am going to marry.” --Beep ba beep beep-- His smile
returned, as it always did with that sound, “That'll be her, I
imagine we have a bit of a drive ahead of us, mind reading this one
to me as well?” John unlocked the phone, “She sent a smiley
face.” John seemed disappointed by this, but he only smiled,
“Alright, buddy, one more response and I'm taking a nap until you
zap me with those paddles,” John looked extremely uncomfortable
with this sort of humor, “Please send, 'As you wish'” John's eyes
seemed to be filled with tears as he sent the message, he must have
been familiar with the Princess Bride. He thanked John, leaned back,
and closed his eyes.
The
sudden lack of movement woke him. He quickly realized that the
adrenaline from the crash had worn off, he was barely conscious. He
saw John as a fuzzy blur above him, two other fuzzy blurs came to
help John lower the stretcher out of the ambulance. One figure was
not blurry, the figure was standing on the pavement behind the men.
It was dressed all in black and was staring at him, no one else
seemed to notice the figure. He sifted through his muddled mind,
attempting to place this apparition. He would have laughed out loud
if he had the physical strength. Even his delirious hallucinations
were allusions, he was looking at his own grim reaper, the Dread
Pirate Roberts. He knew exactly what was expected of him. He looked
at Roberts and simply said, “Please.”
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