Chapter Two,

Second Glance

Back again, eh? I thought you’d might want to avoid that which will kill your mind, but if you’d like to reenter the madness, that’s fine with me. I rather enjoy the company.

From the pages of my Economics notebook:

INT

A Reception Area, noon

[A MAN, Nick, late twenties with short brown hair and a nice suit, sits beside a cream colored reception desk, occupied by another MAN, Pete, of the same age, lighter brown hair, with a clean white dress shirt on and dark slacks. He divides his time between a thick, old log book and a standard-issue computer. It is all clean lines and air-conditioned air in the room, not quite new but comfortable. The atmosphere is heavy, tired, as if two rival dogs have grown fond of each other and ceased their fighting. There is waiting. A door opposite the two, which has obviously not been opened in a long time, is almost a third person.]

Pete: [Nodding absently] How go’s it, Nick?

Nick: [Aggrievedly] Still can’t find a damn secretary. [He chuckles, low and dry]

Pete: You’ve had three applicants already, what are you waiting for?

Nick: Someone pretty.

[They share a laugh, familiar and not really liked, but worn into a loving rut]

Nick: How ‘bout you?

Pete: Just… ugh… just more suffering [spoken more exasperatedly than sadly. His eyes flick across the computer screen, his hand resting placidly on the book.]There’s always someone griping. Always something unfair.

Nick: Always someone to play the part as they say.

Pete: And still nature is dying.

Nick: And everyone celebrates.

Pete: They’re strange, aren’t they?

Nick: We’re ones to talk.

[Another laugh, thick with pause. Silence follows]

Nick: [getting up] I just don’t understand… sometimes…

Pete: [With interest] Understand what?

Nick: That’s just it! I don’t know! I can’t know the answers if I don’t know the question!

Pete: [leaning forward, elbows held comfortably on desk, perched more than anything] Why do you need a question?

Nick: Why not? [He stops. Then, he walks back to his seat, gazing at it before sitting. An air of something deeper than resignation clings to him; acceptance, perhaps. The taste of one beaten before they even begin. His suit flutters, and a flash of red lining is briefly glimpsed before settling back into place.] [A longer silence. Pete stares at his work, but doesn’t attempt to read any of it. After a beat, glances sidelong at Nick, curiously.]

Nick: [continued] Why? [very soft] Because questions tell us why. Because they tell us our purpose. And everyone wants to know their purpose. In life. There’s got to be something… why we wake up… why we breathe… There’s always why.

Pete: [studying, a hint of respect and amusement in his eyes and his words] So… why because… why?

Nick: [laughs, happier and less confused] That’s contradictory, right?

Pete: [smiling] Or complementary.

Nick: Isn’t that how it goes? That’s how it goes.

Pete: [nods] That’s usually the sum of it.

[A heavy, companionable silence descends. Regretful and nervous. Pete turns back to his desk, letting his eyes sink to the work, trained and accustomed to the feel of things. There is always work to be done. His attention is divided evenly between the two materials on his desk. He first scans the book, then flicks back to the computer, fast but not hurriedly. Nick is sitting back in his chair, facing forward, looking shaken, as if each second passing is both ripping his nerves apart and sedating him. He does not speak. Pete forces the conversation.]

Pete: [at the book] Another train crash, you know. [Eyes back on the computer.] Planes are running fine, though.

Nick: [nods in acknowledgement] [Silence follows]

Pete: Always thought those trains would be safe, you know? This one jumped the damn rail, flying. You know?

Nick: [nods again, interested] That’s the way things are going.

Pete: Yeah, see it every day.

[The same silence again, but much more on the side of resigned than apprehensive. Nick looks noticeably older.]

Nick: [nods to the door directly ahead of him] He in?

Pete: [offhandedly, without looking up] Always is.

Nick: [nods. His face is pensive.] Is he- uh… [He starts as if to ask another question but checks himself. He is almost hovering on the chair, a lead balloon. After a few moments, he stands, and nods to Pete. He exits, not going near the aforementioned door].

Pete: [more to himself, as Nick has already left] See ya tomorrow.

I can almost picture my AP Literature teacher holding a slim play in her hands, cover a dark blue, or esoteric Burgundy (though how Burgundy can be esoteric is anyone’s guess), gesturing at the covering, gushing over how wonderful this author was when she attended that very class, how she can see the little footprints of previous group discussions all over the place- the red lining, the quality of absurdity, the play on names. Her tone is half bragging, half simple love at a good read. She is simple in her joy, and has reached such a plane of happiness that the complicated burdens of humanity glance off of her wizened skin. She brims with wonder, and that selfsame wonder spills forth, both irritating and rejuvenating the students before her.

I can see the freshmen, or the seniors, I’m not picky, discerning the little symbolic references I snuck in there. They already picked up on the whole “Devil in God’s waiting room” aspect, naturally. The teacher would have let it slip that one nickname attributed to good old Satan is Nick. And Pete is just a painful, lack-of-creative-trying giveaway. Like a freebie a DJ tosses out to the crowd.

They’ll move on to the significance of having Satan and Peter converse rather than Satan and the Good Lord himself. They’ll search for speech patterns that give away the meaning of life, whereas the smirking author will sit back, knowing that it was just the plot bunny of the moment. Nothing too great about it, but interesting nonetheless. They’ll judge the waiting room, and the atmosphere. Maybe they’ll question the relationship among Nick, Pete, and whoever is behind that other door (and you know what? I don’t even know who’s there. Maybe it’s God’s brother-in-law Melvin. Or Mark). However, by this point, they’ve skipped over the time of day, noon. The halfway point between the proverbial night and day. Balance, peace and equality. A calming point in every twenty-four hour cycle, yet always on the brink of something else. I like that part a lot.

The teacher will then gush over the throwback to the mighty J.B. (thank you, A. Mcleish). Then the search for life and purpose. All the religious wonders and secular wonders. And, god forbid we forget it, that element of absurdity at just the right parts.

It’s fun to wonder what they’ll make of the book and the computer. That had a purpose. Pete demanded it from me, actually. He was tired of poring over the book at the pearly gates, and said he didn’t care how sucky Vista was, I’d better buy him a PC and fast. I retorted, why not a Mac? Surely that would go better with the décor?

I feel like Pete a lot. Looking at the old, the book, and trying to assimilate it with the new. Trying to fit my life around expectations that are always wrong. I always think the trains are going to make, and the planes will be doomed to a mysterious disappearance. They always prove me wrong. Maybe not trains in general (subways are actually a pretty decent means of travel), but it’s a metaphor, man. Just go with it.

As much as I despise Anna Karenina, I can see why she hated that progression that tore her country apart. Or, Tolstoy’s hatred at any rate.

Maybe sadness is a better word.

Nostalgia… it just comes up and stabs you when you least expect it. Riding in the car with the window down, you can smell the air, and instantly you see through the eyes of your seven year old self, understanding autumn for the first time. Ten years span your face without you realizing, and so much emotion hits that you have no where to put it.

The part they’ll think is the greatest triumph is that ending. The ending that finishes with the whimper as opposed to a bang. An ending encompassing religion and atheism and love and patience. It makes you feel safe. It made me feel safe writing it, of course, but I’m the author.

Your nerves, your pounding heart, your hesitation… it’s all okay. It’s not just allowed, it’s expected. Loved, embraced. With no ill will you can sit and face that door and know that, even you can’t go through, it’ll be waiting for you tomorrow. You’re going to come back, and face that door again.

That gives me hope. That the effort, the fact that you try, and you sit, and you wish that you could… that’s enough. You don’t have to win. You don’t have to open the door. You can sit by Pete and talk to him, and talk down your own personal demons, and leave better and stronger for it.

That’s me. An underdog, who just can’t win for trying. That’s fine. I carry it with pride, because at least I try. At least I face it. No matter how lazy or timid I may be, I can still get up.

Maybe stories will always mean more to the author. A reader may pick up things that the author didn’t intend to place there, but that isn’t real meaning. It you find some metaphor that the author didn’t even realize haunted their works, then it doesn’t really now does it? If you find some anti-war message in that little snippet, I don’t care. That wasn’t my point. Hooray for you, super sleuth.

Maybe through the words and the pages and weeks I’ll find me. You know? It can’t be too hard. Just lay out the little bubbles of me onto paper and see what map forms afterward. It feels like a worthy enough pursuit. One that I’m more than ready to undergo.

When all the days add up, who will I be?

Chapter Two, just for you 3 NaNo still goin' strong, so here's my unedited, 1700 + word installment for day two