Escape the Beast (DRAFT)

2008-01-12T10:17:00.001-08:00

"Any life, no matter how long or complex it may be, is made up essentially of a single moment--the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is."
--Jorge Luis Borges

1 - Devoured
2 - Welcome Aboard
3 - The Herd
4 - Date Night
5 - Render unto the Beast
6 - Lies
7 - Escape
8 - The House of Crazies
9 - Welcome Home
10 - Nature Calls
11 - Chaos
12 - Normalcy
13 - Waiting

1

2007-02-11T20:09:00.000-08:00

1

Devoured

I should’ve jumped.

But someone could’ve warned me. Someone must’ve known about it. Someone. Something so monstrous couldn’t go unnoticed.

I remember the night it happened vividly. I was so naive. I had just graduated college and looked onto the future with eyes aglow. Four years of drunken bliss had cured me of my intellectual curiosity, my radical individualism, and my acute cynicism of all things material. I had become the worm at the bottom of the Mezcal bottle -- soused, ignorant, and innately happy.

And I was indeed happy. I truly was. Oh, those days and nights filled with gleeful debauchery and dissipation. And this, this was to be just the beginning. It was only going to get better. This is what they made me believe.

But they lied.

They cheated me. I really believe that. I was drugged. I was raised like cattle, for this purpose alone. Perfidy. It was all perfidy.

Yes, I’m bitter. And mad. My whole life was wasted -- a life that had such great promise. I had no choice, no control. I was driven against my will. I was a puppet -- a plaything.

I sit here now, my rheumatic legs wading in the murky swamp, waiting for a quick end in this miserable dank place. You can call it suicide if you’d like. But I don’t. I died long ago.

I can’t even see my footprints.

O that miserable night! And such a beautiful night it was -- a perfect June evening, just on the edge of the solstice. Only hours earlier my cap had flown capriciously into the bluishness of the sky. My friends and I stayed up into the early morning awash in liquor and hope. We were certain to make our fortunes, and the revelry would continue far into the twilight.

As last call rang out through the bar, our bar, we sang our fraternal ditties one final time, our arms intertwined. Tommy the bartender lined up a row of sambuca shots on the house, in thanks for the many thousands of dollars we had invested over the years. We stepped outside and each of us took a deep breath.

The air seemed to smell different.

After much procrastination, I finally took leave of my comrades; but it was not so much of an "adieu" as an "à bientôt"; for, of course, we’d be friends until the end of days.

The sun was only a short distance away when I took my first long steps back home; that is, to my parents’ house. The dew was sweet, the birds were awakening to their songs; and I was high, not so much chemically as emotionally.

And then it happened.

It started off as nothing, something barely worth my attention: a branch snapped.

Of course, nothing to get excited about. Anything could’ve caused it. But then came the footsteps. Louder and deeper they sounded with each stride. I stopped and turned around -- a bit uneasily. But there was nothing. It was just an hallucination, I thought -- a remnant of the evening past. I chuckled at my stupidity and continued on.

But the footsteps continued with me. When I stopped, they stopped. When I started again, they started. And with them, I now could distinctively hear a low growl of some sort. It wasn’t a sound I could easily place -- it was neither animal nor entirely human. I was now officially scared. I needed to get home fast. For there would certainly be sanctuary. I instinctively took the shortcut through the woods and started running.

But it followed, running after me. I quickened the pace, but it not only met it, but exceeded it. Soon I could feel its hot breath on my neck. I was frantic with fear. I started screaming for help. But it overwhelmed my cries with an ethereal howl, one that made my entire body bristle.

Then, I felt one of its claws pawing at my shirt. I quickly shot out of its reach, but soon it was again right behind me, clawing at me. It was almost toying with me, the way a cat does with its ill-fated prey. It could’ve had me at any moment.

I looked ahead and saw a giant poplar lying across the path, only a few steps ahead. Though never much of an athlete, I somehow jumped clear of it.

Immediately I heard a loud crack, presumably the knees of whatever was following me. This was followed by a bitter and painful whine. I almost felt sorry for it. But I didn’t turn back. I kept running hard and fast until I was out of the woods.

At the edge of the forest, I doubled over, out of breath. I was wheezing and my lungs burned. But before I could fully recover I heard the howl once more. Again, I sprinted -- this time through the suburban streets of my hometown. I screamed and yelled for help, but the homes remained quiet. My dear neighbors either didn’t hear me over their television sets or didn’t care. Perhaps they were just as afraid of it as I was; or perhaps they were secretly happy that it was after me and not them.

Again, I could feel this unknown monstrosity closing in, reaching for me. Its hot tongue touched my neck, tasting me. I started to lose speed, and hope.

And then a car approached in the distance. I ran into the road to stop it, but it kept its speed. Perhaps the driver didn’t see me. Finally, it slammed on the brakes, but its momentum carried it into me.

I spun onto the hood, and unto the windshield. Screaming in agony, I looked inside, but could only see darkness. I quickly climbed over the top of the car and jumped onto the pavement. But I landed awkwardly and twisted my ankle. My fear, though, was far stronger than the pain. I ran off, barely limping.

And then I noticed it.

Nothing.

Nothing was following, nothing was howling. Did I imagine everything? Did Tommy drop something into my sambucca as a playful graduation joke? I chuckled slightly, but didn’t slow my pace. I wanted home.

I finally reached the threshold of my beloved paternal house, its tall facade towering over me. But it was locked. And I didn’t have a key. I must’ve lost it in the fray. I rang the doorbell and banged the door, but no one answered. Why? Why? I started shouting to the beat of my pounding fists. Someone must be home! Someone!

Then I heard rustling in the bushes. I quickly turned around and saw the silhouette of a man approaching.

"Who’s there?" I asked.

He didn’t answer, but resolutely continued toward me.

A loud howl echoed through the street. I again threw myself onto the front door, but still there was no answer. The man was now only a few paces away. I picked up an old lawn chair and threw it through a window. Jumping inside the house, I cut myself badly on the fragments of glass.

I turned on the lights and haphazardly removed the glass from my arms. The howls got stronger. My eyes darted across the room and caught sight of the family bookcase. Fortunately, there weren’t too many books in it so I was able to easily move it in front of the window.

The howls were now coming from immediately outside.

I burst toward the front door and made certain it was secure. The thing, whatever it was, started pounding on it, shaking its hinges. I threw an end table and some chairs against it, but I knew it was quixotic.

I ran for the staircase; but before I had reached the first landing, the front door flew open onto the floor, followed anon by the bookcase.

On the second floor, I ran toward the attic entrance. I pulled the ceiling door open, grabbed the ladder, and started pulling. As usual, it was stuck. I pulled and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. Then I heard the slow, heavy footsteps on the staircase. I ripped the ladder down.

I flew up the steps. At the top, I immediately turned around and started pulling the ladder up. But the monster held it tightly in its grip. I couldn’t see it, but when I heard its first footstep, I ran deep inside the attic.

I came to the small window in the back and tried to open it, but it was sealed shut from years of disuse. I quickly scanned the darkened room and saw a stack of my father’s old business ledgers. I picked one up. It was brittle to my touch, but heavy, and I threw it through the window.

I scampered outside onto the roof -- again cutting myself on shard glass.

Brushing the glass off my bleeding arms, I jolted toward the edge of the roof. But now what? It was a steep drop down, with nothing to grab onto. I heard the thing burst into the attic. I shivered in fear -- there was no more escape.

"Jacob, listen to me," the mysterious man shouted from below, with a thick German accent. No longer in silhouette, he was wearing an old-fashioned suit and had a thick mustache that seem to cover most of his chin. His face reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t place it in the shrill of the moment.

"Who are you?" I shouted back. "And how do you know my name?"

"It does not matter. You are in terrible danger."

"Really? You think?"

"Really," he matter-of-factly replied, ignoring my sarcasm. "If you do not do exactly what I say, you will be devoured."

"By what?"

"By the Beast."

The Beast, as he called it, was now pounding at the attic wall, unable to get its mass through the window.

"What is it?" I screamed.

"A vassal of Apollo."

"Who?"

"Apollo. You must understand, Jacob -- Dionysus is your only hope."

"What are you talking about?"

"Did you not study philosophy?"

"For a semester."

"Indeed. Well, then you will have to trust me. Right now you are on the precipice. You can choose either freedom or slavery. Perhaps you do not see it, but between you and me there is a Brücke, a bridge -- take it, and you will join me on the side of Dionysus. He is your only salvation."

"Bridge? There’s no bridge!"

"There is! It is right before you. Look!"

I looked down and saw that my front lawn had disappeared -- replaced by a black emptiness.

"There’s nothing!"

"It is there. All you have to do is jump."

"Jump? Are you crazy -- I’ll die!"

"You will not. You will live forever!"

Just then the wall exploded. Pieces of wood flew at me, almost knocking me over the side.

"You have not much time," he continued. "Jump!"

I didn’t know what to do. I lowered my knees in preparation for a leap, but I couldn’t move farther. I started shaking.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked exasperatedly.

"I’m afraid!"

"Supermen do not fear -- they are feared!"

The Beast slowly came toward me. I turned my head toward it.

"Do not look at it!" the man screamed at me from below. "Look at it and you will be lost."

But as with Lot’s wife, the temptation was too great. I looked directly at it; but I couldn’t really see anything until I let my eyes lose focus. And then I wondered why I had been so afraid. It wasn’t ugly, but instead glittered like gold, and had the sweetest aroma.

"Jump!" the man kept screaming. "Jump!"

But I just smiled.

And then it happened.

I was devoured.

2006-09-30T13:15:00.000-07:00

"Any life, no matter how long or complex it may be, is made up essentially of a single moment -- the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is."
-- Jorge Luis Borges

13

2006-09-30T13:13:00.000-07:00

13

Waiting

I don’t know how long I lay in the wet grass; but, when I finally tired of self-pity, I raised my head, and saw a figure standing over me. The midday Florida sun was so bright that he was almost in silhouette. I had to shade my eyes with my hand, and even then it took me some time to make out who it was.

"Nietzsche?" I asked.

He didn’t reply. I eased my aching bones off the ground and carefully looked at him.

"You haven’t aged," I continued.

"Only mortals age."

"You’ve come to help me."

"No."

"Then, why are you here?"

"I wanted to take one final look at you: my biggest mistake."

"You’ve got to help me!"

"I do not."

"Please. It’s not to late."

"It is."

"I can still take the bridge!"

"You cannot. You are old. Weak. Useless."

"No!"

"I offered you everything and you chose this."

He turned to leave. I quickly grabbed his shoulders, but he effortlessly tossed me onto the ground, before kicking me hard in the stomach. I gasped for breath.

"Do not touch me, slave!" he screamed.

"Help me."

"I tried to help you. And what did you do? You spit in my face!"

He turned again to leave. I quickly got off the ground and chased him. Just before I could grab him again, he whipped back toward me, his eyes fiery red. I stopped dead, and then took a step or two back.

"Do not follow me," he said. "You are unable to."

"But . . . but what will become of me?"

"You will rot here waiting for death. And when that moment comes -- and it will come painfully slow -- it will be as if you never lived. You will be a name on a tombstone that no one visits, that no one remembers. Goodbye, Jake."

"You have to help me!"

"Why?"

"You . . . you are the one that fed me the apple. You are responsible for me."

"No."

"Yes! You must lead me -- you must."

"No."

I fell to his feet, pleading. He laughed.

"A fitting posture for you," he chuckled.

"Help me. Please."

"What help do you want?"

"Lead me. Tell me where to go?"

He lifted me to my feet.

"I will help you," he said contemptuously. "This one last time. You see that tall vegetation over there. Beyond that -- beyond that is the place for you."

I rushed toward the destination, hearing his laugh ring inside my head the entire way. When I got there, I hacked my way through the vines with my hands. It was difficult, but I finally broke free.

In the clearing, I gasped for breath -- blinded by the sweat copiously pouring down my face. When I could finally open my eyes, I saw a huge set of jaws coming right at me. I screamed, but couldn’t move. Just as the massive teeth were closing in on me, two muscular arms grabbed me and pulled me out.

I must’ve lost consciousness. When I came to, two young men in white were staring down at me.

"What happened?" I asked.

"You were almost lunch," one of them replied, smiling.

"What?"

"Didn’t you see the sign?" the other asked.

"What sign?"

He pointed to a large marking post that read: "CAUTION: BEWARE OF ALLIGATORS! STAY OUT!"

"It wasn’t there before. I swear."

The two men started laughing.

"You must be more careful, Mr. Stein," one of them said.

"How do you know my name?"

"We were expecting you. Only not this soon. We’re sorry we weren’t here to greet you."

"Where am I?"

"The Sunshine Rest Home -- where you’re gonna spend the best years of your life."

Another man in white came with a wheelchair.

"Just take a seat, sir, and we’ll get you there in a jiffy. I think you’ll make it for dessert. They’re serving prunes . . . yum-yum."

"I can walk."

"Sorry, sir -- SOP."

"SOP?"

"Standard operating procedure."

"I’m not getting in any wheelchair."

But before I could finish my sentence, two of them lifted me into the air and then onto the seat.

"All comfy, sir?"

"Shut up."

"That’s the attitude."

They wheeled me into a nearby white van and drove me to the home a few minutes away. It was a big, ugly white building smack in the midst of a dank swamp. The moment we entered, my senses were overwhelmed by the stench of urine. I gasped for air, before covering my nose and mouth.

"You’ll get used to it," one of the men said, smiling. "You may even come to like it -- especially when it’s yours."

"I would never --"

"That’s what they all say. At first."

He turned to the other men, and they started giggling.

After they finished their laugh, he led me to the door of an office marked "Thelma Rand, Resident Director," and knocked.

"Come on in," a Southern-tinged female voice hollered.

They wheeled me inside, where a short, middle-aged woman with a beehive hairdo was waiting. She excused the men and gave me a hearty handshake.

"How was your trip?" she asked.

"Horrible."

"Oh, I’m so sorry," she said, as if she were talking to a five year old.

"Could you please speak to me like an adult."

"Somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed."

"Can I get out of this chair now?"

"If you wish."

"I wish."

"Don’t you find it comfy?"

"No."

I quickly stood up and tossed the chair against the door.

"We don’t appreciate violence here, Mr. Stein," she warned, waving her index finger at me.

"I’ll keep a note of that."

"Please do."

She picked up my file off her desk and looked through it.

"Oh, boy!" she cried, clapping her hands, "Aren’t you lucky. You’re getting a room facing the water. Isn’t that terrific?"

"I’m overjoyed."

"I can see."

She returned to my file for a few moments, before clapping once more.

"My, what a small world," she continued.

"What?"

"It appears we have an old friend of yours staying with us."

"Who?"

"You wouldn’t want me to spoil the surprise, would you?"

"You just did."

"Oh, what a fine sense of humor you have, Mr. Stein. You’ll fit in here well. In fact, we have quite a few people of your faith here. You Jews are always so funny."

"The friend?"

"I’ll give you his address, and you can visit him as soon as you’re settled. . . . Now, before I let you go, I’ll briefly discuss our rules. They’re short and sweet, and easy to follow. No drinking, no smoking. No salty foods. And no sexual activity."

"Why?"

"For your own good."

"And if I violate these rules?"

"Why would you want to violate the rules after you followed them so well during your time with the Beast?"

She rang a buzzer and the men in white returned. They put me back in the wheelchair and rolled me toward the door, with the little lady close behind.

"Now, if you need anything," she said, "come and see me. My door is always open."

We left and headed toward the elevator, while Ms. Rand returned to her office and promptly closed her door.

We entered the tiny elevator and went up to the third floor. My room was just around the corner. It was a small room. A very small room -- perhaps no larger than my old cubicle, with four plain whitewashed walls, a lumpy single bed, a night-table with a Gideon Bible sitting on top, and a view of the dark, murky water beneath. Clearly, the Beast had gone all out in providing for my final years.

I sat on the creaky bed for a few minutes to let the wave of angst pass, before leaving to see my "friend."

His room was just down the hallway from me. I knocked; and after a few moments of silence, an old cracking voice hesitantly summoned me inside. I open the door and cautiously entered the pitch-black room.

"Turn on the lights," he said.

I did, and saw a emaciated and decrepit old man lying on a bed wearing a nightcap. I couldn’t recognize him, nor could he recognize me, until his eyes got adjusted to the light, at which time he smiled brightly at me.

"Jake," he said.

I felt uncomfortable, as I still didn’t know him.

"Don’t you recognize me?"

I didn’t reply.

"Don’t you recognize your old friend Knickerbocker?"

"Reverend?"

He chortled a bit, which quickly turned into a cough.

"No one calls me that anymore."

I rushed to his side.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. And you?"

I shrugged.

"When did you get here?" he continued.

"Just now."

"I’ve been here for many, many years."

"Yes."

"Isn’t this just heaven?"

"Heaven?"

"Didn’t I tell you the Beast would provide for you. Look at the magnificent place He’s chosen for us to spend our golden years."

"You really like it?" I asked incredulously.

"What’s not to like? They feed us. They give us fresh air, sunshine. They take care of our every need."

He pointed to his night-table, where a tray full of little plastic cups lay, each containing an array of multicolored pills.

"What’s that?" I asked.

"My medication. It keeps me alive. I don’t even know what half of them do. Isn’t it just glorious?"

"No."

"Just wait. You’ll get a set just like it. And with any luck, you’ll live as long as me, enjoying every moment."

"No."

"Did I mention the large-screen TV in the foyer? Nothing like the ones at the sports bar, I’m afraid. But there’s always plenty of golf on. And they’re always organizing little trips for us -- like, to the local strip mall. Nothing too strenuous, of course. At our age, we have to avoid excitement. Oh, it’s going to be so wonderful having you here with me. We can have our little conversations once again. How I've missed them so. And we can have tea together."

"No."

"Why do you keep saying no? You’re too old to be rebellious."

"No."

"Don’t you worry. You’ll get used to it. Just like you got used to the Beast."

"No."

"It’s wonderful here. Life is wonderful here!"

I violently knocked his night-table over, spilling his pills over the floor. He fearfully put his hands over his eyes.

"This is death!" I screamed. "This place is worse than death! I won’t take it. I won’t sit here and wait to die, treated like a child -- having my ass wiped and my chin cleaned. I won’t live on these filthy chemicals. I won’t. I won’t!"

Two men in white rushed inside with a wheel chair and promptly lifted me into it, before rushing me out.

"I’ll come visit you tomorrow," Knickerbocker cried out. "I’m sure you’ll be in a better mood then."

They wheeled me back into my room.

"We don’t appreciate violence here, Mr. Stein," one of the men said, threateningly.

"So I’ve heard. What are you gonna do -- put me in a rubber room?"

"No, no need for that. Not at your age."

"I’m not old!"

"Sure thing, Mr. Stein. We’re just gonna keep you locked in your room until you’re ready to behave properly. Things will go much better for you once you accept your fate."

"Never!"

"Oh, boy," he said to the other man with a smile. "Seems like we’ve got ourselves a real Che Guevara here."

"Shut up!" I screamed.

"Whatever you say, Mr. Stein. Would you like us to bring you some prunes from downstairs?"

"No!"

"There really ripe."

"Go away!"

I went to my window and sat down beside it on an old, rickety wooden chair. I sat down and waited, staring endlessly at the decaying vista. The days merged into weeks and the weeks into months -- to the point I didn’t even know how long I had spent there. Nor cared.

They eventually unlocked my door, but it didn’t matter -- I never ventured outside my room -- not even to eat. A nurse’s aid, a woman perhaps as old as me, brought me my meal and my pills.

"You must take your medication, Mr. Stein," she cautioned one morning, as she had done the day before, and the day before that.

"Why?"

"So you’ll be healthy."

"I don’t wanna be healthy."

"Somebody’s grumpy this morning."

"I’m grumpy every morning."

"Because you don’t take your meds."

"Dope up someone else, sister."

"It’s not dope. It’s medicine. There’s pills to regulate your heart rate, to regulate your blood. There’s pills for your digestion, for your bladder, for your liver --"

"Keep it all!"

"Don’t you want to live to a ripe old age?"

"No -- I wanna die. I want to die now!"

"That’s not a very healthy attitude."

I went back to my window and my all-important staring, and I actually saw something startling. The men in white were wheeling an elderly woman into the facility. But it was no ordinary woman; for, despite the drastic change in her appearance, I recognized all too well the woman I had married.

Partly in curiosity, partly in disbelief, I left my tiny room for the first time. I didn’t recognize the hallway or even remember where the elevator bank was. I asked an old man slowly strolling past me on a walker.

"Last time I checked, it was around the corner on the right."

I got in the elevator and tried to decide if I were nervous about seeing her. By the time I got to the bottom, I still hadn’t decided.

I stepped out and saw Sarah patiently waiting by Ms. Rand’s door. I walked up to her; and without saying a word, carefully began staring at her. After a few moments, she must’ve sensed my presence -- she looked up at me. Almost immediately, she turned her head in embarrassment.

"Is that you, Jake?" she asked timidly.

"It is."

"I was hoping I could prepare myself a little better before I saw you."

"You knew I was here?"

"Yes. I asked for this place specifically."

"Why?"

"I needed a friend."

"Where’s Timmy? I mean, Timothy."

"Don’t mention that name to me."

"Why?"

"He left me. He left me for some young harpy -- a little, good-for-nothing beancounter. It wasn’t my fault I got sick."

"Sick?"

"I caught pneumonia. I don’t even know how. It’s scary how disease can age you so quickly. I wish . . . I wish I had time to prepare myself before seeing you."

She waited for me to say something, something sympathetic, something to give her hope. But I could offer her nothing. Part of me even wanted to laugh, at least internally. But I couldn’t even muster that.

"You wouldn’t have treated me like that," she finally continued. "No, sir. You always loved me, Jake. I’m so sorry. So sorry."

I turned and headed for the front door.

"Where you going?" she asked quietly.

"I have to feed my pets."

"Will you see me later? Or perhaps I could stop by."

I didn’t answer, but instead quickened my pace. By the time I left the building, I was in a slow jog. Being that I was way overweight and hadn’t exercised in years, this didn’t last too long. Maybe a few steps. If that. Soon, I was doubled over, gasping for breath. But I didn’t stop. I didn’t stop until I reached the sign. I pulled it out of the soft ground and tossed it onto the vegetation, before making my way to the water’s edge.

I took off my shoes and sat down, wadding my feet in the warm brown water. And I waited. I waited my final wait.

I won’t try to illicit sympathy in these last paragraphs when I feel none for myself. Anna Karenina I'm most certainly not. My act of sacrifice took no courage whatsoever. It was cowardly and selfish, just like my entire existence.

I could’ve had greatness; or, I could’ve at least attempted greatness. Instead, I chose mediocrity. I can’t even blame the Beast. Not really. For, I was only swallowed by Him because I let Him swallow me. I could’ve resisted, I could’ve escaped -- but I held onto Him. I held onto Him and became parasitic.

I can see my little friends have awoken from their slumber, and are greedily approaching. I’m smiling, truly smiling for the first time in many years because I see that my life will finally have purpose. Perhaps millions of organisms will benefit from my entrails. A new generation will spawn.

They’re now so near I can feel their hot breath, I can see their cold eyes. Their jaws are opening wide.

I should’ve jumped.

finis

12

2006-09-23T09:40:00.000-07:00

12

Normalcy

After a brief stay in the house of crazies, I was set free for good; and Sarah and I officially started our new life together. All was well. All was normal. Nietzsche and the bridge soon faded from my memory, replaced by a second child, and soon after, a third.

Our two-bedroom condo was suddenly too small, and had to be replaced with a townhouse in a new suburb. And what a suburb it was -- every house was exactly alike -- the same size, the same color paint, the same artificial turf in front. Everyone even owned the same make of barbecue. The only difference was the angle of the house to the ground. The larger the angle, the more prestigious. Ours was on a middle angle -- a little more than forty-five degrees -- but we hoped soon to trade it in on a larger angle. It was one of the many high hopes we had in those early days.

Life was good. We were both making excellent money -- exceeded only by our ever-expanding debt. We had a growing family -- we had a dog -- we had friends and coworkers -- we had the sports bar. We had the Beast.

I had grown from fearing and even hating Him to not only loving Him, but depending on Him. He was my brain, my heart -- my blood. I gave tribute to Him at every opportunity, and He was never far from my or Sarah’s thoughts.

Sarah grew, and not only in ways that could be measured along her waistline. She was a good mother, doting on her children -- encouraging their every whim and fancy. But she didn’t let them interfere with her career. She continued to move her way up the Beastly ladder. So, it was no surprise when, soon after our forth and final child, she became a buttonpusher.

Sarah and I now had adjoining cubicles -- both of us reporting to Timmy, who became the boss after Tweed became a manager of managers. The three of us were the best of friends. We even went on vacations together with his lovely family.

The years went by. Blearily. Every weekday was spent sitting in front of the computer pushing buttons, eating starchy lunches in the cafeteria, and every endless evening was spent in the sports bar. I got fat; or at least, quite heavy set. I got bald; or at least, quite thin on top. I got middle-aged; or at least, quite mature.

I played golf every Saturday and Sunday, and sometimes even after work. And at all other times, I thought about golf -- I thought about hitting the little white ball into the hole, over and over again. I thought about it during work and during lunch -- I thought about it while watching it at the sports bar, I thought about it while playing with my kids -- I thought about it while making love to Sarah. I thought about it in my sleep.

But strangely enough, despite all this playing and thinking about playing, I only progressed to a point and no further. I was middling, just like all my friends. I couldn’t even shave a shot off my score, regardless of how many books or magazines I read, or how many instructional videos I watched. But it didn’t matter how bad I was. I was obsessed.

Perhaps I was even a bit too obsessed, if such a thing could be considered possible. Sarah started calling me things like "aloof," and "distant" -- she complained that we didn’t communicate -- that I didn’t appreciate her. And everything she said was right. But I was too comfortable to change.

Then I started to notice little things. Or at least, barely notice. She lost weight. She started dressing attractively again. She had a burst of new-found energy. I thought this was an attempt to rekindle the romance that had flatted out almost immediately after our last child, but she was no warmer toward me. She was, in fact, cooler. And during long stretches of the evening, she would disappear from sight at the sports bar. Not that I cared much -- there was always something fascinating to watch -- there was always plenty of beer to numb whatever senses were still alive.

But then came the conversation -- the conversation I should’ve expected, but didn’t -- the conversation that would send me slowly down my final spiral.

"We need to talk," she said to me one evening returning from our bar. She was oddly drenched in sweat and appeared a little shaky.

"Can’t it wait, honey," I pleaded. "I’m beat. And I’ve got an 8 AM tee time with Timmy tomorrow morning."

"No, you don’t. That’s what we need to talk about."

"Our date’s canceled?" I asked frantically. "What happened? Is there a problem at the course?"

"No, no -- there’s no problem at the course."

"Whew."

"There’s a problem here."

"What problem? Is it the kids?"

"No, it’s us."

"Us?"

"I’m leaving you."

"You’re . . . you’re what?"

"I’m leaving you. I want a divorce."

I couldn’t speak. My mouth was open wide, almost as wide as my eyes, but nothing would come out.

"You . . . you can’t," I finally uttered.

"I can."

"But . . . but I gave up everything for you."

"I’m sorry."

"Don’t apologize."

"Then, I won’t. The truth is we’ve been growing apart for some time. We’re going in different directions."

"Different directions? What the hell does that mean?"

"You don’t have enough ambition."

"Ambition for what?"

"To get ahead."

"Where ahead? We’re buttonpushers!"

"You’re not on a management arc. Not like . . ."

"Not like who?"

"It doesn’t matter."

"There’s someone else, isn’t there?"

"It doesn’t matter."

"It does. . . . And why did you say I wouldn’t be playing golf tomorrow with Timmy?"

"Timothy."

"Excuse me?"

"His name is Timothy. Timmy is a boy's name -- and he’s a man -- a man with great potential."

"You’re having an affair with Timmy?"

"Timothy!"

I grabbed and shook her.

"You’re sleeping with him!"

"You can’t prove anything."

I smelled the nape of her neck.

"I can smell him. You f----- him tonight -- didn’t you?"

She pushed me away.

"Don’t get vulgar, Jake. What we have is way beyond physical. We’re gonna be partners -- a team. We’re simpatico."

"Where did you learn that word?"

"I’m not dumb. You’ve always thought I was dumb. . . . Timothy doesn’t think I’m dumb."

"Timothy's dumb."

"Whatever."

"What about his wife -- his family?"

"He’s getting a divorce, too. He’s telling her right now."

"I can’t believe this. Any of it."

"Don’t worry -- everything’ll work out. I’m sure you’ll find someone else -- someone more your speed."

"Shut up."

"And I’m gonna be fair about this. All I want is custody of the kids, and the house."

"That’s all?" I asked sarcastically.

"We can split the rest."

"The rest? The rest is debt. Lots of debt."

"Then we’ll split that. And you won’t have to pay any alimony or child support."

"Thanks a lot."

"Timothy's a good provider."

"I gave up everything for you."

"What did you give up?"

"The bridge. I could’ve left here. I could’ve been free. . . . I could’ve been someone great."

"It’s not too late. Take the bridge -- with my blessing."

"It is too late -- and you know it. I’m over-the-hill, fat -- tired. It’s too late!"

"I’m sorry."

"Stop saying that."

"We have to move on."

"Are there any more clichés you’d like to recite?"

"I can see you’re a little bitter at the moment. Perhaps you should go to a hotel. Tonight. I’ll pack your bags."

Five minutes later, I was standing outside my own house, homeless. I didn’t know where to go. I threw my suitcases in my car and took off.

"Where do you want to go?" the GPS asked.

"Nowhere."

"I have no coordinates for such a place."

"Just drive."

"I need a destination."

"Just go!"

"Where?"

"Anywhere!"

"I have no coordinates for such a place."

"Church! Take me to Church!"

I don’t know why that came out -- it just did. I hadn’t been to church in years. As golf took more and more precedence, something had to be phased out. But now I needed it -- even if I didn’t know why.

The car parked in front of the church, and I jumped out and rushed inside. It was empty.

"Reverend!" I hollered. "Reverend -- are you there?"

"Just a moment," a voice roared from behind the wall.

The rectory door opened, and a young smiling minister walked inside the cathedral.

"Yes," he said. "Can I help you?"

"I’m sorry. I was looking for Reverend Knickerbocker."

"Oh. I’m afraid he’s gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes. About six months ago or so."

"Where did he go?"

"The Beast retired him. He was getting on, you know."

"He wasn’t that much older than me."

"Yes. Perhaps."

"I can’t see him? I really need to talk to him."

"I’m afraid not. Perhaps I can help you."

"I . . . I don’t think so."

I started walking backward.

"If you need help," he continued, "I . . ."

"No, no -- I’m fine."

"Are you sure?"

I turned and ran. I left the building and jumped back into the car.

"Where do you want to go?" asked the GPS.

"The bridge. I want to go to the bridge."

"I have no coordinates for such a place."

I lowered my head on the wheel and cried.

Sarah was right. Everything did work out. After the initial shock, I came to accept my fate. I became settled within my own mediocrity. I got a small apartment in the same building in which I lived after I was swallowed. And I quickly established a routine; and with it, a foolish consistency that was equal to my little mind. I even got to see my kids once a month, as well as on minor holidays.

At first, it was, understandably, a difficult situation at work. I wanted to hit Timmy every time I saw him, which is ordinarily not a good thing to do to your boss. But eventually it passed. And the three of us continued working together for many years, pushing button after button. Timmy eventually became a manager of managers, and Sarah took his job.

You might think reporting to your ex-wife would be difficult. But to her credit, she understood the situation, and never tried to boss me around. She just left me to my small cubicle and my buttons -- never even calling my name during the endless meetings we shared.

"Do you hate me?" her voice whispered from behind me, during one of my many coffee breaks.

I turned around and looked at her. She had aged, but aged well. She looked great.

"You’re the mother of my children," I answered stoically.

"That’s not what I asked."

"No, it isn’t."

"They miss you."

"Do they? Really?"

"Yeah. A little. I think. I know the dog misses you. . . . Are you okay?"

"Sure."

"You haven’t met your button quota in months."

"No?"

"No. Say, I’ve got this friend -- a widow -- perhaps you’d like her."

"Ah, I don’t think so."

Immediately after the divorce, I tried dating again. But -- with the judicious aid of a mirror -- I saw that whatever cutefullness I once had had disappeared with my youth. I was falling apart physically. And even being a buttonpusher was failing to impress -- a middle-aged buttonpusher still sitting in a cube, without any management potential, was far from sexy. All I could find was bitter, unattractive divorcees and widows reaching out for something to grab. Anything. That is, all I could find was women just like me. And who'd want that?

So, instead, I spent all my time in the sports bar with my good friend -- my only friend -- Potocki -- getting sickly drunk every night, playing game after game of pool, watching endless sports on TV, and wallowing in each other’s tepid companionship. I even stopped playing golf. I no longer had the energy or the desire. The best I could do was watch it and scream at the players.

Then, one morning, I saw that all my hair -- what was left of it -- had turned gray. The transformation wasn’t even subtle. One day it was brown and the next gray. I could swear to it.

I was old. There was no way of getting around it. It wasn’t a curable disease. It was terminal -- and was only to get worse. There was no way out. And what’s more, there was nothing even to look back on. I had nothing, I had achieved nothing, I had been nothing.

That same morning, when I got to my cubicle, I saw a couple of men packing my things in boxes.

"What are you doing?" I asked bewilderedly.

"Haven’t you heard?" one of them replied.

"Heard what?"

"You’ve been retired," Sarah said, approaching alongside Timmy.

"Retired? But I’m not sixty-five yet."

"The Beast no longer retires people at sixty-five," Timmy said, smiling briefly at his wife. "That would be ageism. And the Beast is now against all isms. Instead, He retires people when their capability to serve has been diminished."

"But I can still serve!"

"No, you can’t."

"Don’t worry," Sarah added. "The Beast isn’t going to throw you on the street. Not after all the years you’ve put in. No, He’s sending you to Florida -- to a very nice place, where you can play golf and watch TV all day long. You can even sleep the entire day away if you’d like."

"I don’t want to go!"

"You don’t have a choice," Timmy said firmly. "None of us do. You have to go with the flow, Jake. You go when the Beast says you go. . . . We’ll be following you in short time, no doubt. Although, Sarah here is certainly keeping me young."

Sarah blushed, and giggled involuntarily.

"And, of course," Sarah said, "we’re gonna give you a real nice retirement party. In Conference Room A. The cake and the punch are waiting."

"Don’t forget the gold watch," Timmy added.

"Yes," Sarah affirmed. "It’s solid gold."

"Keep it," I cried. "Keep it and your lousy party. I won’t go. I won’t!"

But gone I went. I was led out of the building with my boxes and into a lopsided white van, filled with men in white. It drove me to my apartment. Accompanied by two of the men, I was led inside, where another group of men in white were busy packing my belongings.

"If there’s anything you don’t want," one of them said, "let us know. Otherwise, we’ll send everything."

"Nothing. I don’t want anything."

"You’ll need clothes."

"Why? It’s Florida -- I’ll go naked."

"Very funny, sir. But --"

"I don’t want anything!"

"Not even keepsakes?"

"Nothing!"

They put me back into the van and took me to the edge of the city, into the whiteness. Unlike my previous journey there, though, the trip was short. Very short. Within minutes, we were in the Everglades.

"We’re here," one of the men said, smiling.

"I’m not going," I said, crossing my arms.

"What do you mean -- you’re retired."

"I’m not going. I’m not ready."

"You are."

Two of the men gently grabbed and lifted me off my seat, while another opened the van door. I struggled as hard as I could, but they effortlessly tossed me outside onto the grass.

"Enjoy the rest of your life," one of them said. "They say these are your best years."

"They lie!" I screamed.

The van doors closed and the engine started. I quickly got up; and as it left, I ran after it. For so long I tried to escape the Beast, but now, as an old man, I couldn’t bear to be without Him. I desperately and quixotically chased the van a few steps, before falling onto the wet, soft ground.

"Don’t go!" I yelled. "What will become of me?"

But they couldn’t hear me, even if they had wanted to hear me -- they were gone. Gone forever.

11

2006-09-16T14:19:00.000-07:00

11

Chaos

Nietzsche and I rushed back up the stairs and into the lobby, which was covered in smoke and chaos. Alarms were ringing and people were haphazardly strewing from the building. We left unnoticed, in the midst of the surging herd.

"Now where?" I asked.

"To your car, of course. I fixed it again."

"Cool."

We got inside, Nietzsche in the driver’s seat. I immediately noticed we had company in the back seat.

"L.?" I said, in utter astonishment.

"Lou," she replied, smiling.

"Lou? Lou Salomé?"

"The one and only," interrupted Nietzsche, as he quickly pulled the car out.

"But . . ." I said, turning to Nietzsche in embarrassment, "we . . . we . . . I didn’t know."

"Yes . . . yes, I know. Lou is a free woman. Just ask my good friend, Paul Rée."

"Please," Lou said, obviously annoyed, "none of your Teutonic jealousy. It’s tiring."

"Forgive me. We are not as modern as you Slavs."

"Don’t ask my forgiveness."

"I shall not."

"Good."

"Good!"

"Oh, boy," I said. "If I had known."

"It was necessary that you did not," spoke Nietzsche.

"What did you do to me? Did you hypnotize me?"

"‘Mesmerize’ is a better term for it."

"Why?"

"Otherwise you would have never left that place."

"Perhaps that would’ve been for the best."

"Don’t talk like that," Lou cooed, grabbing my shoulders from behind and rubbing them. I could see Nietzsche turning red in the corner of my eye. "You’re going to be a superman."

"I don’t think so. I don’t think I’ll ever be anything but superordinary."

"Do not talk like that!" hollered Nietzsche. "I did not put in all this effort for a loser, a slave. You will be a superman. You are better than these fools."

"Where are we going?"

"To the bridge."

"For real?"

"For real."

He stepped on the gas and we started speeding in and out of the intense traffic that was only getting thicker. Sirens rang out in all directions.

"There was no explosion," I said.

"There was," he insisted.

"There wasn’t."

"So?"

"So, we didn’t destroy it."

"We damaged it."

"How do you know."

Suddenly, the lights went out.

"That’s how I know."

Even though I couldn’t see Nietzsche, I could sense his smile. He turned on his headlights, but they didn’t help -- it was still pitch black.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Everything about the Beast is artificial. Including the light emanating from within it. We have damaged its vital functions."

Almost immediately, we could hear cars violently crashing. I became scared.

"We’re gonna die!" I screamed.

"We are not going to die!" he confidently affirmed. "I told you, supermen do not die!"

"But you can’t drive!"

"I can!"

"In the dark?"

"I don’t need light to see!"

We immediately crashed into something big, causing us to spin in circles before Nietzsche finally got control of the car back.

"You don’t need light, huh?" I asked.

"Well, maybe a little."

He took out his penlight, turned it on, and placed it on the dashboard.

"This should do."

It didn’t.

I reached for the radio.

"Leave it off!" he screamed.

But I turned it on anyway.

"The police have announced an all-point bulletin for the renegade, Jake Stein. He is considered neither armed nor dangerous -- just confused."

"I guess I should feel insulted by that," I said to Lou, who smiled back at me.

My picture flashed on the GPS screen.

"If you see him, please contact the authorities so we can give him the help he so richly needs. . . . Just moments ago, we spoke to Jake’s fiancee, Sarah Goldman. Here’s what she said:

‘Jake, if you’re listening, please turn yourself in. This is just a momentary relapse. We’re getting married tomorrow, in front of Reverend Knickerbocker, all our friends, and the Beast. Turn yourself in. You’ll be forgiven. We just want what’s best for you --’"

"Lies!" Nietzsche screamed, turning the radio off. "They do not care about you -- they care only for themselves and their precious Beast!"

"Where are we going?" I asked confusedly.

"To the bridge! I told you -- to the bridge! Is that not where you want to go? Or perhaps you would rather I drive you back to the house of crazies. These are your two alternatives."

"Stop berating him!" Lou interjected. "He wants to go to the bridge. He wants to become a superman."

"Stop nurturing him! He does not need a mother. He needs to become a man, a real man."

"Stop!" I screamed. "Both of you. I know what I want."

"Well," Nietzsche said, quite exasperatedly, "I am waiting!"

I looked forward. He smiled, and stepped hard on the gas.

The lights in the sky flashed on, followed almost immediately by the sound of more sirens.

"You did nothing to the Beast," I said. "It’s at full strength."

"It does not matter -- they cannot catch us."

Within seconds, we were surrounded by police cars. Nietzsche tried to plow his way through them, but they stood firm.

"Can’t catch us, eh?"

"Surrender," a voice blared through a foghorn. "Surrender yourself to the Beast, and all will be well. Surrender. Surrender now."

The police cars slowed to a halt, and us with them.

"Now what?" I asked, fatalistically.

"Such little faith," Nietzsche replied, "such little faith."

During the twenty minutes we waited by the side of the road, dozens of police cars came to the scene. Finally, an unmarked car arrived, from which the short, skinny detective and his tall, fat cohort stepped out and approached our car. Nietzsche calmly opened the window. The two officers seemed stunned to see him.

"Herr Nietzsche . . . guten Tag," the tall one said. "Wie geht es Ihnen?"

"Very good," Nietzsche replied, smiling. "Very good indeed. And you gentlemen?"

"Wunderbar!" they replied, in unison, obviously impressed to be in Nietzsche’s company.

"Excellent. Excellent. What can I do for you?"

"The fugitive," they replied, again in unison.

"You mean Mr. Stein?"

They nodded their heads.

"I picked him up, just before your fine comrades came to my aid."

"Excellent!" they answered back.

"Excellent, indeed. I was just about to return him to the institute for further treatment. It seems he had a minor relapse."

"Excellent! Excellent! We’ll let you on your way then."

"Please do."

"There’s just one thing," the fat one said.

"What?"

"It’s really nothing."

"Please -- do not be coy -- tell me."

"It’s just that the receptionist in the lobby swears that Jake had an accomplice this afternoon. One that meets your description."

Nietzsche started laughing. The officers nervously mimicked it.

"If you would like -- after I drop off the patient -- I will visit this receptionist of yours. I will convince him that he did not see me, that Jake here acted entirely on his own."

"That won’t be necessary," the short detective replied.

"Not necessary at all," added the fat one.

"As you wish. Can we now proceed? I already contacted Dr. Howard. He is expecting us."

"As you wish," they replied.

They both frantically waved their arms; and within a minute, we were the only ones on the road.

"What just happened?" I asked, quite shocked.

"They worship me," Nietzsche said, not hiding his contempt, "the slaves of the Beast. They consider me a hero. They can recite words and phrases I wrote, while not understanding their full meaning. Like with Christ, they take what they like and leave what makes them uncomfortable."

Lou started giggling.

"What is so funny?" Nietzsche asked.

"You have such an ego, Freddy."

"My name is Friedrich!" he hollered. "Friedrich Wilhelm. Please address me as such."

She only giggled louder.

"My," she said, "Freud would have such fun with you."

"Freud, Freud, Freud -- I am sick of hearing about your Freud. That man is completely indebted to me. And he knows it!"

"Whatever you say."

"I say. I say. Jacob, everyone steals from me. Her Freud, the Nazi filth -- the slaves of the Beast. They all steal from me. But they don’t steal properly. My words cannot be taken from their context and applied randomly."

"You poor boy," she said condescendingly. "You have it so bad. At least, they remember you. Who remembers me?"

"That is your own fault. I offered you immortality, and you chose the bed of my best friend."

"Screw you!"

"You never did!"

It got uncomfortably quiet, and stayed that way for nearly a minute.

"Perhaps we should be going," I finally said. "They’re gonna find out soon enough that we’re not going to the asylum."

Nietzsche didn’t move. I looked at him and smiled.

"Freddy?"

He growled at me, but soon a smile couldn’t help but emerge.

"Et tu?" he asked.

"Et ego."

"Very good, my young man. Very good. There is still hope."

"Not if we don’t leave."

He pulled away and shortly we were on the edge of the city, beyond which there was nothing. Really nothing. It was pure white. No land, no sky -- no horizon. Just white.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"The void. The netherworld. The abyss between realities. Are you scared?"

"No."

"Yes, you are. You see nothing, so you believe nothing. You long to return to firm ground."

"No."

"I am right -- you are a coward!"

"No!"

"Stop badgering him!" Lou screamed. "Jake, come back here with me."

I looked at Nietzsche. After a brief hesitation, he nodded his approval.

I got up and awkwardly tried to make my way back, but got stuck between the seats. Nietzsche grabbed my shirt from behind and violently flung me into Lou’s arms.

"Don’t mind him," Lou softly whispered into my ear. "He’s just a little crazy."

"A little?"

"It’s nothing more than sexual frustration."

"He loves you."

"And I love him. In my own way."

"Not his way."

"No. And that is what makes him mad. Everything must be his way. . . . You are scared, aren’t you?"

"A little."

"It’s okay. The leap you are about to make is frightening. You should be scared. But once you make it, you’ll have everything."

"When will we get there?"

"Where?"

"The bridge."

"I’m afraid it will take a long time."

She was right -- we spent days in the car driving through the whiteness. It’s impossible to tell how many -- the sky never changed color. Nietzsche neither slept nor seemed tired. He just kept driving.

I eventually got car sick. I wanted out.

"How much farther?" I implored.

"You are like a little child!" Nietzsche hollered back. "Always asking the same question. We will get there when we get there."

"Is there really a bridge?"

"You doubt me?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to go back? I can turn around and take you back to the nut house. Is that what you want?"

I would’ve accepted his offer if I only knew the return trip would’ve been shorter than continuing forward.

It probably would’ve been. We kept driving endlessly. I lost all sense of time and perception. If only the outside would’ve turned a shade different. But it wouldn’t. It refused. It insisted in its purity.

Finally, I was on the brink of insanity. I started screaming incoherently. Lou wrapped her arms around me and tried to console me, but it was useless. I howled and writhed, desperate for an exit, any kind of exit.

And then it happened. One moment it was solid white, and the next we were in front of the most familiar place I knew: my parent’s home. Nietzsche parked in the driveway, and turned back to me, smiling.

"We are here," he said.

"Here? My house? Why here? This is where it started."

"Exactly. Here is the bridge, the one you refused to take. It is here and only here that you can take it."

We stepped out of the car and walked toward the front of the house. Amazingly, everything looked almost exactly how I left it: the broken down door, the smashed windows -- only the lawn had been restored.

"Now what?" I asked.

"You must retrace your steps and take the bridge," Nietzsche answered.

I stepped inside. They didn’t follow.

"You’re not coming?"

"I can only lead you to the water. You must drink it yourself."

I turned and continued inside.

"Jake," he said.

I stopped, stunned. It was the first time he called me that. I turned back to him.

"You will likely hear and see things up there," he said. "The devil will tempt you. You must resist."

"Be brave," Lou added. "You’ve nothing true to fear."

Without replying, I turned back once more and headed for the staircase. I noticed the bookcase on the floor -- its few books lying peacefully next to it.

I walked up the stairs to the second floor, and from there, up into the attic. Careful not to let any of the shared pieces of glass cut me, I stepped onto the roof. I walked to the edge, where I saw Nietzsche and Lou standing by the lawn, which soon opened into an enormous black hole.

"Jump," Nietzsche said. "All you have to do is jump."

"It’s so black," I said, trembling.

"It is not. Open your eyes and look. It is not black at all."

I looked again, but still all I saw was black.

"Concentrate," he said. "Let your subconscious mind take over. See what is really there."

I tried and tried, but still could see nothing.

"It’s hopeless!" I screamed. "I’m hopeless!"

"It’s not!" Lou screamed back. "You must believe in the unbelievable -- the impossible. You can do it."

I felt weak. My knees started wobbling. I was about to leave and resign myself to failure when I finally saw it. Shapes. They were loosely defined at first, but when I let my eyes defocus, they became clearer. They were the shapes of men. Soon, I could see their faces. I saw Zoroaster, Christ -- Mohammed. I saw Augustine, Eckhart, and Luther. I saw Shakespeare, Dante, and Pushkin. I saw Da Vinci, Vermeer, and Picasso. I saw Descartes and Spinoza. I saw Kant.

"You see it now, do you not?" Nietzsche asked.

"Yes!"

"These are the great men -- the supermen -- the men who can never die. By jumping, you are not guaranteed to join them -- you still must achieve greatness -- but if you do not jump, you will never have that chance. What are you waiting for? Do you want immortality or not?"

"Yes -- I want it!"

"Then, jump!"

I crouched low in preparation for my final leap. But then I heard it, the sound that would change my life -- the sound of a baby crying.

"Do not listen to it, Jake!" Nietzsche screamed. "It is the devil. Do not look back. Jump! Jump now!"

But I did look back. I looked back and saw Sarah, a baby in her arms.

"Sarah, what are you doing here?"

"I’ve come for you. We’ve come for you."

"It’s too late -- I’m jumping."

"You can’t."

"I can. I will!"

"It’s no longer just about you. Or about me. It’s about her."

"Her?"

"Your daughter," she smiled, showing me the face of the child. "She looks just like you."

"But . . . but we were not even . . ."

"Married," she said, showing off her wedding ring.

I looked at my hand, and saw a wedding band.

"Lies!" Nietzsche screamed. "Do not believe it! Jump -- jump before it is too late!"

"Don’t you want to hold her?" Sarah asked.

I didn’t, but, inexplicably, I was drawn toward them. I had no control of my legs. She handed me the child and my whole body became warm. Warm and soft.

"What . . . what’s her name?" I asked.

"Deborah, silly. Don’t you remember -- you named her. After your great aunt."

"My great aunt was named Deborah."

"Duh."

I looked at Deborah, and she smiled back at me.

"I want a whole slew just like her," Sarah continued.

"Yes," was all I could say.

"Let’s go home."

"Yes."

"You slave!" Nietzsche cried out. "You stinking slave! You will be a slave forever!"

But I didn’t listen. I took my wife and daughter downstairs and out of the house. Outside, there was no Nietzsche, no Lou. And after a few steps, my parents house also disappeared for good, replaced by my new shinny condominium.

Sarah and I held hands, and walked toward our new life.

10

2006-09-09T12:41:00.000-07:00

10

Nature Calls

Our engagement party was a blast. All our friends and coworkers paid tribute to us, complimenting us on how delightful a couple we made. Sarah loved the adoration, and was absolutely giddy showing off the designs of her wedding dress, while I smoked Cuban cigars with the men and bonded. By the end of the night, my shoulder stung from all the good-natured punches it received.

"Your such a lucky dog!" was a common refrain, repeated oh so many times. "You certainly out-punted your coverage," was another -- a bit more apropos for a sports bar. "Do you realize how f------ hot she is?" was also spoken quite frequently, but only after many beers.

And I quietly took it all in, never once letting my smile fade.

Even Knickerbocker came by to toast our future.

"May God and the Beast bless this union for ever after," he said solemnly. "I’ve never known two people more suited for each other; and it will be my great honor to perform this most holy of ceremonies. To you both: a long life and great service to us all."

"Amen!" was shouted throughout the crowd.

Knickerbocker then took me aside to offer some personal words of advise.

"You have no idea how wonderful the state of matrimony you are about to enter."

"Are you married?" I asked.

He seemed a bit surprised by the question.

"Well, yes. Yes and no."

"Yes and no?"

"Officially, yes. But unfortunately, my dear wife is no longer with me."

"Oh, I’m sorry. Did she pass away? If you don’t mind me asking."

"No, she’s not dead. But she’s been incapacitated with illness for years."

"Where is she?"

"She’s in a home. On the outside."

"The outside?"

"Outside the Beast. It’s quite unfortunate. You see, the Beast -- by His very nature -- is very compassionate. This is no Erewhon -- sickness isn’t a crime. But once a person is physically unable to perform his or her duties . . ."

"But what about those people in the asylum?"

"Their problems are only mental. They are still capable of serving the Beast. He won’t dispose of them until . . ."

"Until what?"

"Until they reach retirement age."

"I just realized -- there’s no old people here."

"No. Once you reach a certain age -- or a certain diminishment in your capacity to serve the Beast -- you will be retired."

"Retired? Retired to where?"

"To some place nice and comfortable. Some go to Florida, others to Arizona. You needn’t worry. The Beast will never abandon you. He is unceasingly loyal to those who have faithfully served Him. He will care for you till your last breath."

It was early morning by the time Sarah and I got home to our new condo; but as it was a Saturday -- and we didn’t need to be at church until noon the following day -- I was frisky. But Sarah would have none of it.

"I’m tired," she pleaded.

She sensed my disappointment.

"You can’t expect to have sex every night once we’re married," she continued.

"We’re not married yet."

"Don’t talk like that."

"I’m sorry."

"You’re forgiven."

"Can we at least snuggle?"

"I’m hot, Jake."

"So am I."

"Not that kind of hot."

"We can turn up the air conditioner."

"You know I don’t like it when it’s up high. It gives me a cold."

"I know. I’m sorry."

"You’re forgiven. Good night."

"Good night."

Not even this, though, could wipe the smile from my face. For she was indeed hot. Too hot.

The days leading toward our wedding were frenzied. Lots of stores to visit, things to buy, dinners to attend. Every free second away from my cubicle was scheduled to the nearest second -- even lunches, where Sarah and I would hover over catalogs, and menus, and lists of every kind. And where she would ask my opinion about everything, even though she confidently knew that I would acquiesce to her every wish.

Finally, it was the day before our wedding. We went to work absolutely giddy.

"I’ll never be able to keep my mind on my abacus," she confided.

"Why don’t you just take the day off."

"And lose another vacation day? After our honeymoon, we’ll only have a handful left. And we have to say that for the holidays. Everyone goes away for the holidays."

We said our goodbyes at the building entrance, and I walked to my cube, whistling "Get Me to the Church on Time." And when I was safely inside its four corrugated walls, I couldn’t help but break into song:

For I’m getting married in the morning.
Ding dong, the bells are gonna chime.
Feather and tar me, call out the army,
But get me to the church, get me to the church,
Be sure and get me to the church on time.

"Someone’s a happy camper," Timmy said softly, standing right behind me.

I turned to him and smiled without the slightest embarrassment.

"Someone is. How can you tell?"

"Show tunes. You only sing show tunes when you’re happy. I’ve been known to break into a few choruses from South Pacific myself."

"Nothing wrong with that."

"Nothing at all. You all set for the big meeting this afternoon?"

"You betcha," I said, firing my imaginary gun.

"I’ve been hearing rumors."

"About what?"

"I . . . I probably shouldn’t say."

"Come on, you dog -- let it out!"

"Someone I know -- a good friend of mine -- is about to be named ‘Employee of the Month.’"

"And who would that good friend be?"

"I don’t know. Perhaps someone who’s been pushing buttons like a madman this month."

"Did I hear someone mention the ‘Employee of the Month’?" interjected Tweed, who came seemingly out of nowhere.

"Mum’s the word," Timmy said, placing his index finger to his mouth.

"Mum’s the word, indeed," Tweed replied, unable to hide his glee. "But whoever this hero buttonpusher is, I can assure you that the honor is well-deserved."

"I think you guys are just teasing me," I said jokingly.

"Never!" they replied in perfect unison.

"Are you all set for your big day tomorrow?" Tweed asked me.

"I’m all set, Boss."

"Can I give you an important piece of advice?"

"Sure thing."

"Whatever you do . . . get to the church on time."

On cue, Timmy and I joined shoulders and sang:

But get me to the church, get me to the church,
Be sure and get me to the church on time.

The big departmental came and I was indeed named "Employee of the Month;" and with it, I received a big blue cloth ribbon, just like a prize bull.

"His story is a truly inspirational one," Tweed began, after pinning the medal on me. "Only a short time ago, he was given up for lost. But he found himself and turned himself around, and has become a model for all of us. And with this honor, the Beast bestows His great pleasure on the wonderful service Jake’s performed."

There were cheers, and then shouts of "Speech! Speech! Speech!"

"Guys, you’re embarrassing me!"

But the cries continued until I finally relented.

"What a terrific bunch of fellows you are. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what’s better -- getting married tomorrow, or getting such accolades from my peers."

"The ribbon!" everyone screamed.

"Okay. Okay -- the ribbon’s better."

After the guffaws died down, I took my seat near the head of the table -- in honor of my achievement -- and we began to discuss the more serious issues of the day; that is, buttonpushing.

"Scagg," Tweed politely hollered, "give me the stats."

"Buttons down three point two-five percent."

"Down?"

"Down. It was a bad month. Even with Jake’s dramatic return."

"We have to do better. The Beast will be very upset. And when He’s upset, I’m upset."

"I’m working on a document -- a proposal, if you will," Timmy spoke out, "detailing how we can improve pushing efficiency. I’m confident we can make up the difference, and then some."

"I’d be very interested in seeing this document."

"It’s only a draft. But I could e-mail you what I’ve got so far."

"Please do."

"I’d like to see a copy as well," added Scaggs.

"Why don’t you e-mail everyone here," said Tweed. "Then we could give you appropriate feedback."

"Will do."

"Monroe," Tweed continued, "give us a statistical breakdown of all buttons pushed."

Subconsciously, my eyes wandered to the one crooked window, from which I could see the front gate. A familiar-looking man walked up to the entrance and stopped. He looked up and our eyes met. Uncontrollably, I slowly rose and headed to the door.

"Where are you going?" Tweed asked. "The meeting has barely started."

"Sorry, Boss -- nature calls."

"Can’t it wait?"

"I’m afraid not."

"But you’ll miss important details."

"It can’t be helped."

"Shall we e-mail you the minutes you'll miss?"

"Please do."

I walked out of the conference room and knew I had to leave the building. But instead of taking the normal circuitous route downstairs, for some reason that I couldn’t quite fathom, I went to Tweed’s office, opened his door, and walked up to his large window and tried to open it.

"What are you doing?" the receptionist, who happened to walk by, asked.

"I’m leaving."

"That’s not an exit."

"I know."

"Okay."

She rushed away just as I was able to open the window. I leaned outside and saw an escape ladder, one that I had never noticed before. I climbed onto it and down the side of the building. In minutes, I was at the bottom, facing the familiar gentleman.

"A much more direct route," Nietzsche said.

"Much."

"Jacob, do you know what you are about to do?"

"Yes. I am going to contact the authorities and have you arrested."

"Wrong. Try again."

"I . . . I am going to destroy the Beast."

"Better. Much better. Is it coming back to you?"

"No."

"Even better. Let us go."

At the front door, he stopped, reached into his jacket pocket, and took out two pairs of sunglasses. He put one on and handed me the other.

"What’s this for?" I asked.

"So that we are incognito. . . . and that we look cool."

"Cool."

I put on the glasses and we entered. The lobby receptionist eyed us suspiciously as we proceeded to a door in the far right-hand corner. Nietzsche tried the door, but it was locked.

"Sir," the receptionist hollered, "You can’t go in there!"

Nietzsche politely waved, before reaching into his jacket pocket for a small hand drill.

"You’ve got everything in that jacket," I quipped.

"A scout must be prepared."

He started drilling.

"Stop!" the receptionist screamed, rushing toward us. "That’s . . . that’s vandalism! . . . You’ll have to pay a fine!"

Nietzsche opened the door and we stepped inside the darkened stairway.

"You can’t go in there," the receptionist threatened at the threshold.

"Have a good time," Nietzsche said, smiling, waving at the gentleman before closing the door on him.

Nietzsche turned on a penlight, which barely illuminated the staircase.

"Come," he said, "we have not much time."

We rushed down the twisted spiral stairs, eventually coming to an intricate and massive set of gears and cogs that were moving, but only barely.

"What’s this?" I asked.

"The guts of the Beast."

"So it’s mechanical?"

"No, it’s organic. But it survives by the aid of mechanics."

"How can we destroy it?"

"You are familiar with the word ‘sabotage’?"

"Of course."

"Do you know its etymology?"

"Something . . . something to do with shoes?"

"Exactly," he said, taking off his pair of antique wing-tips. "The French cobblers supposedly threw their wooden shoes into the machinery -- the machinery that would usurp their lives. Sometimes, sometimes the old ways are still the best."

He placed each shoe into the gears at seemingly random spots. Moments later, the gears ground to a stop, emitting sparks and smoke.

"What’s gonna happen?" I asked.

"Something bad."

"Bad?"

"Yes," he calmly replied, "I am afraid it may explode at any moment. As you Americans are wont to say, . . . let’s get the f--- out of here."

9

2006-09-02T09:45:00.000-07:00

9

Welcome Home

"So, tell me, Jake," a smiling Dr. Howard said to me one beautiful morning, "what’s your definition of ‘team’?"

"‘Team’ is when a group of individuals sacrifice their individuality for a higher good -- for the betterment of each of them."

"Excellent. Excellent. And what’s never part of a good team?"

"‘I.’ There’s no ‘I’ in team. Never. You must never think of yourself, but only of the whole. ‘I’ is nothing but a cog, an important cog -- but still a cog."

"So, are you nervous about leaving here?"

"I am confident. Confident of my place, confident of my purpose."

"And your not sullen about being nothing more than a buttonpusher?"

"Sullen? I’m at the top of the ladder. The best of the best. I’ve been chosen for the premiere job in all Beastdom. I’m excited to return to work, and to make up for all my past ills."

"And Sarah?"

"We had a really great time yesterday. Thanks a bunch for the extended visiting time. We played golf all afternoon."

"What’d you shoot?"

"Twenty."

"Over nine?"

"Eighteen."

"Eighteen? What progress!"

"I know. I know. I’m getting better every day. My short game, though, worries me a bit."

"It takes time, my son. It takes time. But you were telling me about Sarah."

"Yeah, we had a great time yesterday. She’s forgiven everything."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

"Even the beer?"

"Oh, I’m so embarrassed about that. Thankfully, she doesn’t bring it up. . . . She’s such a sweet girl."

"So, you’ll be getting married?"

"In a few months. Our engagement party’s next week. I hope you can come."

"I wouldn’t miss it. Where’s it at . . . the sport’s bar?"

"Where else?"

"If I recall, you had some very negative feelings toward that place -- destructive feelings, I would say."

"Crazy, wasn’t it? The best bar in the whole world, and I hated it. I still don’t understand. I mean, man -- it has a thousand TVs."

"So, your animosity toward TV is also gone?"

"Gone. How can you not like TV?"

"‘Like’?"

"Love."

"What are your plans concerning debt?"

"Sarah’s taken care of that. . . . What a sweet girl. Between the wedding, honeymoon, and our new condo, I’m absolutely swimming in debt."

"Excellent."

"You said it. I have absolutely no chance of ever paying it back."

"Great, great, great. You’re well on your way to stability and well being."

He stood up and walked toward the door. As he opened it, he turned back to me.

"I’ll take care of your paperwork right now."

"No rush, Doc."

"You’ll be able to go right after lunch."

"Great. Then, I’ll be able to say goodbye to all my friends."

"You’re a great example for them."

"I sure hope so. I hope to see all of them on the outside -- in the light."

He left, and I turned on the TV.

"Today, Jake," my instructor said, "we’re gonna work on your short game."

"You read my mind, man."

"Don’t I know it. I heard about the twenty. Way cool, dude. And once we get your short game in order, you’ll be doing way better. Way better. You might soon be instructing me."

"What a kidder."

The screen went crazy for a moment; and when it returned to normal, the face of Nietzsche was staring at me. I smiled.

"I see you are now a full-fledged slave," he said.

"Thanks to you. And I can’t tell you how happy I am."

"I had such hopes for you."

"You had hopes for yourself. You never cared about me."

"Not true."

"True. But I’ve beaten you, Herr Mephistopheles -- I’ve found the true truth."

"In the Beast?"

"In the Beast. And I’m so happy."

"Like a sheep."

"Yes, like a sheep. I have everything: a good job, a good woman -- a bright future."

"You have nothing."

"But that’s still more than you."

I turned off the television and left my cell. They didn’t even bother to lock it anymore.

I entered the cafeteria with a big smile and warmly greeted my soon-to-be-former inmates. They ignored me, but they couldn’t ruin my new and improved attitude. I got my tray of food and sat down between the young rebel and L..

"So today’s the day," he said.

"Today’s the day."

"We’ll miss you."

"No you won’t."

"No, we won’t."

"You’re a bright dude. If you ever get better, look me up -- perhaps I can even hook you up as buttonpusher."

He started chuckling.

"That’s funny. I was a buttonpusher."

"Really?"

"I was the best buttonpusher there ever was, the best there ever will be."

"Sad."

"Happy. I’m happier than you could ever pretend to be."

"Pretend?"

"I must say -- until recently, I thought this whole recovery of yours was an act."

"You did?"

"Yes. You wouldn’t be the first. I even tried it once. But it never works. The Beast can see all."

"So, then why’d you say I’m pretending?"

"You are. You are pretending, just like everyone else. Every sane one, that is."

I turned to L. to say goodbye. She wouldn’t look at me.

"You never even told me your real name," I said.

She didn’t reply. I turned back to the rebel.

"I don’t know any of your names."

"We have no names," he said. "Names are given to property. We belong to no one."

"I pity you."

"Save it. You’ll need it for yourself soon enough."

They gave me back the clothes I came in -- all cleaned and pressed -- and I checked out at the front desk.

"Anyone coming to pick you up?" the nurse asked.

"My fiancee wanted to. But I insisted she didn’t. She’s got lots of important calculations to do today. The Beast must come first. Besides, I’ll see her soon enough."

I exited the front door, and saw Knickerbocker approaching. I warmly grabbed hold of him and gave him a big hug. He seemed a bit taken back.

"Reverend -- it’s so good to see you."

"It is?"

"Of course."

I pulled back and looked deeply into his eyes.

"I can’t thank you enough for all your help," I continued.

"You can’t?"

"No. Your spirituality has been an inspiration to me."

"I’m so surprised to hear this."

"Don’t be. I’m all better now."

"I can see."

"And I’m set to make amends -- to become a productive member of society."

"That’s terrific."

"And a dedicated member of your church. I see now that peace comes only through Christ. And the Beast, of course."

"Of course."

"I’m so looking forward to services on Sunday."

"I’m looking forward to having you. Can I give you a lift home?"

"No need. My car’s waiting. But I’m not going home."

"You’re not?"

"I’m going straight to work. I’ve missed too much time already. I must have mountains of buttons to push."

"I’m sure they picked up the slack while you were gone."

"I’m sure too. . . . What a terrific bunch of guys. And I’m gonna make it up to them. Everyone of them."

I walked up to the curb, where an attendant was waiting with my car.

"We put a new automatic transmission in," he said.

"Excellent."

"And a new GPS, too. The total cost was eleven hundred credits."

"Just add it on," I said, giving him my hand with a smile.

He rang up the charge on his scanner.

"I don’t care if it takes ten years to pay it off," I continued. "It’s well worth it."

I drove to work -- or, I should say, my car drove me to work -- and my smile never once left my face.

"Good afternoon," I said to the receptionist.

"Good afternoon, Jake," she replied, a bit stoically. "You’re just in time for the interdepartmental meeting."

"What luck," I happily said.

"Conference room A."

"Well, then, I’d better hurry."

"You had better."

I rushed into the room, but, strangely, it was dark. Then, the lights were thrown on.

"Surprise!" a group of a few dozen people screamed. They were all wearing party hats and blowing streamers. On the wall, a giant sign read: "Welcome Home, Jake." And a big cake sat on the conference table, right next to a large bowl of punch.

"A party -- for me?"

"Of course, for you!" Tweed hollered, padding me on the back. "You’re a young man of great expectations."

"I certainly wasn’t living up to them, sir."

"It was the disease. It was the disease. I can see you’re all better now. Why, you don’t even have a suit on."

"No more suits for me, sir. . . . Except on dress-up days, of course."

He smiled proudly, like a parent welcoming home his prodigal child. Timmy came up to me an offered his hand. I took it gratefully.

"Welcome home, Jake," he said, a bit timidly, and perhaps warily.

"Thank you, Timmy. I can’t . . . I can’t apologize enough for the way I treated you."

"Forget it. You were sick."

"I was sick. But that’s no excuse. There will be no more excuses from me. From now on, I’m gonna be the best buttonpusher I can be."

"That’s the attitude. With an outlook like that, you can’t possibly fail."

"I can’t wait to start. I must have a ton of buttons to push."

"We had your back while you were gone," Timmy said. "Your queue is practically empty."

"Not for long," Tweed interjected.

All three of us chuckled.

"I’d certainly hope not," I added.

"But for the moment," Tweed went on, "enjoy the party. Carpe diem! -- that’s what I always say."

"Jake!" a familiar female voice screeched from behind.

I turned around and saw Sarah. She jumped into my arms and gave me a big kiss.

"Welcome home," she continued, adding a long, tight hug.

"What are you doing here?" I asked gleefully.

"I heard you were back, and I couldn’t resist."

"But don’t you have lots of important calculations to make?"

"Sshhh. Don’t tell anyone."

"Not a word," I said, putting my finger to my mouth.

Sarah turned to the crowd that had encircled us.

"I hope you all can come to our engagement party next Saturday. At the sports bar. You’re all invited."

Everyone applauded.

"Three cheers for Jake!" the tall dude with curly brown hair shouted. "Hip hip . . ."

"Hooray!"

Sarah returned to her abacus and I to my old cubicle, where a list of buttons was patiently waiting. I sat right down and I pushed, pushed, pushed -- just like old times, but now with a broad smile.

"Knock, knock, knock," a voice called out from behind.

I turned around and saw Tweed.

"How’s it going?" he asked.

"Fine, sir. Like I never left."

"Great, great, great."

There was a dramatic pause.

"Is . . . is there something I can do for you?" I asked.

"Me? No. I just wanted to see how you were doing. You are all better, right?"

"Absolutely."

"I believe you. I really do. It’s my bosses -- those managers of managers -- who are skeptical."

"Skeptical, sir?"

"They wanted to knock you down to a paperpusher, you know."

"Paperpusher?" I repeated, my hands involuntarily shaking.

"Don’t worry -- I talked them out of it. I stood up for you."

"Thank you, sir."

"Don’t mention it. Don’t mention it at all. The thing is, however, your position here is quite conditional."

"Conditional?"

"I’m afraid that until you can prove your worth . . ."

"I can! I can!"

"I don’t doubt it. I don’t doubt it at all. But until then, you should consider yourself on probation."

"Probation?"

"You needn’t repeat everything I say."

"Sorry, sir."

"And stop calling me ‘sir.’ You know we’re not formal here."

"Sorry, sir -- I mean, Boss."

"That’s better. As I was saying, you’re on probation here. So, if I were you, I’d do the best d--- job possible."

"I will. I certainly will."

"I’m counting on that. No, I’m relying on it."

Flushed with new incentive, I attacked the buttons with unprecedented zeal. I worked so hard that often the queue was empty, which utterly impressed Timmy when he came by.

"Wow," he said, "a wait state. That’s something that usually occurs only to hardened veterans. And even then it’s rare."

"I hope to make it the rule, not the exception."

"Well, that’s a pretty impressive attitude, Jake."

"Thank you."

"But . . . but just keep in mind that we don’t want you to work too hard."

"Excuse me?"

"You don’t want to show up anyone, do you?"

"No. I suppose not."

"No need for showoffs here. Just keep the same steady pace of everyone else. Go with the flow. You’re a member of a team, right?"

"Right!"

"There you go. Are you going to the sports bar later?"

"Wouldn’t miss it."

"Your fiancee’s awfully nice."

"Yes, she is."

"I didn’t even know you were engaged, you dog."

"It just happened recently. Very recently."

"Well done. Very well done."

That night -- as soon as the clock struck five -- I and my fellow workers streamed out of that big building with the big "B" on top, and headed to the sports bar.

When I got there, Sarah was waiting, having reserved a small room for my second "welcome home" party of the day. We and our small group of friends -- buttonpushers and a few select, upperly-mobile beacounters -- spent the entire evening -- well into the morning -- getting soused, thoroughly enjoying each other’s well-heeled company. And after a half-dozen beers, I even forgot the anxiety I had felt since Tweed’s talk. I forgot everything.

"See, isn’t this place great?" Sarah slurred to me at the end of the night, clumsily hugging me.

"It is."

"I’m so glad you’re well."

"Me too."

"We’re gonna have a wonderful life together."

"We will."

"Just you, me, and a slew of kids."

"Don’t forget the Beast."

"Never."

We kissed. Suddenly, she broke our embrace and led me out of the room.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked.

"For your welcome-home present."

She dragged me right into the ladies room.

"Where are we going?" I questioned, half-seriously. "I can’t go in here."

"Sure you can."

Sure enough, I was hardly the only man inside. Men and women were openly copulating, not even bothering to use the stalls. Sarah, fortunately, was a bit more restrained -- she led me into the first one and closed the door, sitting herself down on the seat.

"Welcome home, honey," she said, reaching for my belt.

Welcome home, indeed.

8

2006-08-26T12:49:00.000-07:00

8

The House of Crazies

White.

When I awoke, everything was white. The misshapen rubber walls and the floor, my straight jacket, my gown, my slippers -- even the large-screen televisions plastered on each wall were white.

I screamed. I don’t know why -- I just did. And as if it were some kind of signal, the TV in front of me turned on, depicting an approaching golfer carrying a club.

"Hello, Jake," he said with a smile. "I’m Dick -- your golf instructor. For the next days and weeks, I’m going to teach you the beauty of golf."

"No," I said.

"Yes."

Accompanied by Muzak, a large title flushed over the screen: "The Art of Golf"

"No!" I screamed.

But he didn’t listen. Instead, he began teaching me the rudiments of golf in excruciating detail. Then, the televisions on each side of me came on. Both showing auto racing. NASCAR on one side, Indy on the other. And above me, the forth television turned on; and with it, some kind of daytime soap opera.

I screamed loudly. Over and over, until I gratefully fell unconscious.

When I awoke again, the televisions were off. And the face of a smiling middle-aged man in white hovered over me.

"Good morning, Jake," he whispered. "Have a nice sleep?"

"No. Who are you?"

"Dr. Howard."

"Where am I?"

"In a hospital."

"Hospital?"

"Yes. We’re going to make you all better."

"There’s nothing wrong with me."

"I’m afraid there is. The first step toward getting well is recognizing you have a problem."

"I don’t have any problems."

"You do. You’re quite . . . quite dysfunctional."

"Is that a nice word for ‘insane’?"

"If you prefer."

"I’d prefer to leave."

"Sorry. Not until you’re all better."

"And when will that be?"

"When . . . when you’re happy."

He started toward the door.

"We’ll begin our sessions tomorrow," he continued. "Until then, I’ll leave you with your friends."

The televisions came back on.

"No!" I howled. "Turn them off. I hate them!"

"That’s the wrong attitude, Jake. Televisions are your friends. They give you comfort, companionship -- they have wonderful sedative powers. You must come to enjoy them. To love them."

"Calling Dr. Howard," a voice roared through a speaker. "Dr. Fine, Dr. Howard."

"Oh, dear," the good doctor said, "I must be going."

"Don’t leave me here!"

But he did leave. And the volume got louder and louder. And I couldn’t close my ears to it. I rolled on the floor and began writhing and screaming like a madman, becoming exactly what they thought I was.

Later in the day, the door creaked open. And through it came a smiling, familiar figure: Reverend Knickerbocker.

"How are we doing?" he asked.

"Go away."

He seemed surprised by my reaction.

"Go away!" I repeated.

"What’s the matter?"

"You! You helped put me here."

"I did nothing of the sort. What’s said between a parishioner and his pastor is sacred."

"You’re not my pastor!"

"I’m only trying to help you."

"Then, leave."

He sat down on the floor next to me.

"I know you’re upset, angry," he said. "I know. I spent some time here myself. But it really is for the best. They’ll make you well, make you whole -- make you content."

"I don’t want any of those things."

"And what do you want?"

"I want to be free!"

"Here we go again. This is why it’s so good that you’re here. They’ll nip this whole freedom nonsense right away before it could cause you real damage."

"Go away!" I screamed. "Get out!"

When he didn’t, I started screaming wildly, until an orderly finally came and escorted the good Reverend away.

The days went by. And during each one, Dr. Howard spent an hour with me, analyzing every detail of my life.

"Let’s talk about debt," he said one morning.

"Debt?"

"You have a problem with debt."

"What do you mean -- I hardly have any debt."

"That’s your problem. You cannot be a fully functional member of our society without lots of debt."

"I don’t get you."

"Debt is glorious. It’s what gets you up in the morning and off to work. It inspires responsibility. It gives you a goal. Something to fight, something to worry about. It makes life interesting. You must have debt. Tons of it. We all do."

"I have a car."

"That’s not enough. And that leads us to another issue: where did you get that manual transmission? It’s so wrong."

"I don’t want debt. I don’t want responsibility. I want to be free."

"There is no freedom. It's nothing but a myth. One we must rid you of. But that’s enough for today. I’ve got some good news for you. Because you’ve been reasonably good as of late, we’re going to take you on a special trip this afternoon. How does that sound?"

I shrugged.

"We’re going to take you to the local strip mall. So you can buy things."

"I don’t want anything."

"That doesn’t matter. You must buy. Spend. Indulge."

"No."

"Don’t you want to get healthy?"

"No."

"Very well then. We’ll have to put that off until you’ve progressed a little further. Instead, we’ll start your golf lessons."

"I don’t want golf lessons."

"Haven’t you been watching the instructional videos?"

"No."

"Perhaps we need to turn the volume up."

"No!"

He took a remote from his jacket pocket and turned on the television in front of me.

"Today, Jake," the instructor happily said, "you’re gonna learn the art of putting. How does that sound?"

Dr. Howard turned the volume up and up.

"Turn it off!" I screamed. "Turn it off!"

"I can’t here you!"

"Turn it down!"

"Do you promise to watch it?"

"No!"

He turned it up full. My eardrums pounded with the sounds of puts. Over and over, and I couldn’t block it.

"Do you promise?" he loudly repeated.

"I promise! I promise! Just turn it down!"

He turned it down low.

"Much better," he said happily. "See, we’re making progress. Great progress. Once you allow golf into your life, everything will improve. It will relax you. It’ll give you a proper outlet for your aggression and anger. If you only let it, it’ll consume your life -- your every free thought. You won’t have time to think about anything else. And what’s more, it’s lots of fun. Lots of fun."

For the first time since I got there, I was let out of my cell. Two large orderlies in white effortlessly lifted me up onto my feet and led me into a small, twisted cafeteria, where a handful of patients were eating. They stopped when they saw me and began to stare, with a look of amazement.

"A new inmate!" an older man finally screamed.

"He’s not new," a woman interjected, with a slightly Russian accent. She was in her thirties or so, with dark brown hair and even darker eyes. Smiling warmly at me, she announced, "He’s been here over a week."

"Welcome to the house of crazies," a young man said, raising himself up before bowing in front of me.

"Sit here," one of the orderlies said to me, pointing to a free chair next to the woman, "and we’ll get your lunch."

I sat down and everyone resumed eating.

"What you in for?" the older man asked, joyfully displaying for me the contents of his meal.

"I don’t know."

"Yeah," the woman quipped. "I guess you’re the only sane person here."

Everyone laughed.

"I am sane," I insisted.

"Me," the older man said, "I won’t work. I hate it!"

"He doesn’t like golf," the orderly said, placing a tray of food in front of me.

Everyone froze.

"Not like golf?" the older man exploded. "Not like golf? What do you mean, you don’t like golf? Why, you must be crazier than me! How can you not like golf?" He jumped onto the table on all fours and leaped toward me, grabbing my gown and forcing my face right up to his. "How can you not like golf? How can you not like watching them hit the little white ball into the hole over and over and over again? You crazy motherf------!"

The two orderlies jumped on the man. But although each one was twice his size, it was a considerable struggle to drag him away.

"Golf is beautiful!" he screamed at the threshold. "Golf is . . . golf is life!"

"I don’t like golf, either," the woman softly spoke.

I turned to her.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

She paused.

"I’m here for you," she whispered, reaching her finger under my chin and pulling me close to her. She kissed me softly, so softly that I hardly felt it. "N. sent me."

"N.?"

"Sshhh."

"Don’t believe her," the young man said. "She says that to everyone. She’s here because she refuses formally sanctioned relationships. She lives too freely, without necessary constraints. She’s . . ."

"Human," the woman interrupted.

"Yes," the young man said, smiling. "The Beast will have none of that."

"And you?" I asked. "What are you here for?"

"I refuse to accept the authority of the Beast. I refuse everything. I have all the combined diseases of everyone here plus one more: subversiveness. I want everyone to share my disease.

"My case, my case is a very bad one, I’m told. Perhaps terminal. My doctors, though, hold out hope that I can be cured. . . . I hope they’re wrong."

One of the orderlies came back in.

"You have a visitor, Jake. Five minutes. You get five minutes and then it’s time for golf."

I was led into a tiny, oblong room -- not much larger than a closet, nor better lit -- where Sarah was waiting for me. She leaped toward me and hugged me tightly. Her affection was not reciprocated.

"How are you, honey?" she cooed.

"What are you doing here?" I asked coldly.

She pulled back.

"Is that any way to greet you fiancee?"

"You’re not my fiancee!"

"Not if you continue like that. It seems that you’re not even a little bit better."

"Go away!"

"Why are you so angry at me?"

"Why? You betrayed me!"

"It wasn’t me. It was Nietzsche."

"Get out of here!"

"Why would I have called you that night, after you threw a beer in my face? I was p-----. Nietzsche called me -- he pleaded with me to set you up. He said it was for your own good -- that you were sick and needed help. And he was right."

"Lies!"

"Ask him yourself!"

"Like Potocki?"

"Potocki, Potocki, Potocki. You've got Potocki on the brain. Has Potocki come to visit you? . . . I thought not. Some friend he is. I’m your friend, Jake."

"You’re not my friend."

She sighed.

"The doctor warned me you might behave like this. Still I . . ."

The door swung open.

"Tee time, Jake," the orderly bellowed with a smile.

"Oh, isn’t that fun," Sarah said condescendingly. "My little boy’s finally gonna learn golf. Well, I gotta run -- there’s an abacus waiting for me. Lots of calculations to do. Just think, Jake -- I took time away from my own lunch just to visit you."

She paused, expecting a reply from me, one that was not forthcoming.

"Oh, well," she continued. "Hopefully, you’ll get better shortly. You know, we’ve got to pick out our china and silver patterns real soon. Of course, I could do it myself, but it’s really something a couple should do together, don’t you think? Oh, and I just saw this great two-bedroom condo. Wait till you see it, Jake -- it’s gorgeous. And the best part -- the best part is that the monthly payments will only be seventy-five percent of our combined disposable incomes. Isn’t that great? And the second bedroom, the second bedroom will be perfect for . . . you-know-what."

"Your corpse?"

"Aren’t you a kidder."

She grabbed a hold of me again and gave me a big wet kiss on my forehead.

The orderlies took me out back to a lush golf course that actually looked like a golf course. There was no distortion, no false perspective, and no crazy angles. There were rolling hills, covered with freshly-cut grass, beautiful ponds, and tall, majestic trees.

"The weather," I said, as we approached the first hole.

"What?" one of the orderlies asked.

"The weather. I just realized the weather’s always the same."

"That’s right. We’ve got climate control. The Beast keeps the temperature at a constant seventy-two Fahrenheit, twenty-two Celsius. And it's always bright and sunny, each and every day. Isn’t that great?"

Before I could answer, the golf instructor arrived. He was the same man from the instructional videos.

"Hello there, Jake," he sang, offering me his hand.

I didn’t take it.

"Are you ready to learn the sport of kings?"

I didn’t reply.

"We’re gonna start with your long game, doing some driving. We’ll whack that little ball mighty hard today."

He handed me a club.

I didn’t take it.

"Take the club, Jake," one of the orderlies ordered.

"No. You can’t make me."

He loudly snapped his fingers. And seemingly from nowhere, dozens of men in white approached, wheeling a dozen large-screen televisions toward us. They encircled me and turned on the screens. Each was playing the instructional video, but at about a second apart from one another. The volume got louder and louder.

"Turn it off!" I screamed, covering my ears.

One of the orderlies grabbed my arms and pulled them behind my back.

"Pick up the club," the other orderly calmly spoke. "Pick up the club and we’ll turn it off."

"How can I pick up anything?"

The orderly nodded to his colleague, and I was released. I picked up the club and swung it wildly across the orderly’s chest -- I don’t even know which orderly I hit. Within moments, I was thrown to the ground.

"You’re gonna pay a big fine for that," someone whispered in my ear.

"Jake, wake up!" a soft, female voice insisted in my sleep.

I woke up, and saw I was back in my padded cell and straight jacket. It was dark.

"Who . . . who are you?"

"L."

"L.?"

She kissed me softly. And I remembered.

"Oh, that L."

"N. sent me."

"Who’s N.?"

"Nietzsche."

I pushed her away with my shoulders.

"Nietzsche’s no friend of mine."

"He’s your only friend."

"He betrayed me."

"Of course."

"So Sarah was right -- he did betray me."

"Yes. To help you. The only way to make you a real man is to completely destroy the old one."

"You can both screw yourselves."

"You’ll only get out of here with his help."

"I don’t want it."

"Then, you’ll rot here."

"So be it."

I lay down and turned away from her voice. She put her hand on my shoulder and gently caressed it.

"You’re better than that."

"I’m not."

"N. thinks you can become a superman -- something only a few can achieve. You can do it."

"I can’t."

"You can."

She leapt over me and embraced me, untying my jacket, before lifting it over my head.

We lay motionless and speechless for a brief moment. I grabbed her and passionately kissed her, tears streaming down my face.

"You want it?" she asked forcibly. "Do you want it?"

"Yes!"

7

2006-08-19T12:05:00.000-07:00

7

Escape

I burst through the front door of my apartment with true purpose. It was the first such feeling I had since being swallowed. I slammed the door and skipped into the living room, where I found Nietzsche sitting on the floor surrounded by mechanical devices, one of which he was fiddling with.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Fixing your car," he replied nonchalantly.

"It’s broken?"

"It is now."

"Thank you."

"You are welcome. What a funny expression you have: ‘you are welcome.’ It makes no sense."

"And I guess you’re always logical."

"Why are you smiling?"

"I’m going."

"Going where?"

"To the bridge."

"But you do not know where it is."

"I don’t care. I’ll find it."

"Now, I can help you. Let us go."

"Let me pack a few things."

"Where you are going, you need nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. Let us go now."

The phone rang.

"Do not answer it," he insisted.

I hesitated. And he repeated his command.

"I’m no slave," I replied confidently, walking toward the phone.

He sighed loudly and emphatically.

"Why are you choosing this moment to be a man?" he asked.

I smiled and picked up the receiver.

"Jake," Sarah cried out, "we need to talk. Why’d you throw that beer at me?"

"We’re through, Sarah."

"What do you mean?"

"You lied to me."

"What are you talking about?"

"You never apologized to Potocki."

"Who?"

"The paperpusher."

"You’re breaking up with me because of a paperpusher?"

"I’m breaking up with you because I’m leaving."

"Where?"

"You wouldn’t understand."

"Die Brücke."

"How do you know about it?" I asked, utterly dumbfounded.

"You think I’m stupid?"

"No."

"Everyone knows about the bridge."

"Everyone?"

"Sure."

"Well, that’s where I going."

"You’re crazy. You’ll be killed -- or starved."

"That’s better than waiting to die in this prison."

"Jake . . . take me with you!"

"What are you talking about?"

"I love you. You said that you loved me. Was that a lie?"

"No."

"Then take me with you!"

"You just said it was too dangerous."

"I don’t care -- I wanna be with you!"

"No!"

"So it was a lie -- you don’t love me."

"I do love you."

"Then take me with you! If you really loved me, you couldn’t live without me. I can’t live without you!"

"Okay. Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Okay, you can come."

From the corner of my eye, I could see Nietzsche giving me a dirty look -- shaking his head authoritatively.

"Thank you, Jake!" she screamed.

"I’ll be at your place in fifteen minutes. If you’re not ready, I’m going without you."

"I’ll be ready. What should I pack?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

I hung up and prepared myself for a hefty argument.

"She cannot come," Nietzsche strongly affirmed.

"Why not?"

"She is a slave."

"You don’t even know her."

"I know her type."

"I think you’re still bitter about your old girlfriend. Sarah’s nothing like . . . what’s her name . . . Lou . . . Lou Salomé."

"Do not mention that woman’s name!" he screamed, his nostrils flaming red. "She was not my girlfriend!"

"That’s not what the history books say. They say you proposed to her."

"Lies -- all lies. Everything written in these books about me is lies. I keep telling you this. . . . Salomé is the devil!"

"Funny. Reverend Knickerbocker seems to think you’re the devil."

"Knickerbocker? He is nothing but a sheepherder!"

"It seems you two were quite close once."

"I offered him freedom. I offered him the world. He chose his flock. Is that what you want, Jacob -- to be herded by him?"

"I want freedom!"

"Then, let us go!"

"Fine!"

"Where’s your car?" I asked as we exited my building.

"We will take yours."

"I thought you said it was broken."

"Exactly."

I stepped into the passenger’s side of my car and discovered that I now had a manual transmission. Also, there was a huge hole where the GPS once was.

"How did you manage that?" I asked, pointing to the gearbox.

"German engineering."

He quickly backed out -- screeching the tires -- and sped off onto the road.

"Now, you have a real car!" he roared. "No more sissy automatic transmission or computers. You drive it -- you are in command of it."

"It’s an improvement. I wonder what they’ll say when I trade it in."

"But you will not be trading it in. You are taking the bridge. Right?"

"Right," I answered, perhaps a little too unsuredly.

With his crazy driving, we were in front of Sarah’s building in minutes, if that long. He turned off the ignition and turned to me solemnly.

"You are indeed strange, Jacob."

"Why?"

"One moment you are breaking off with this woman. And the next, you are running off with her."

"Yeah, well, that’s how it goes. Life isn’t logical. I know . . . I know she’s wrong for me -- but she’s like a magnet -- it’s hard to pull away."

"I guess I can understand that."

He turned away, obviously deep in thought.

"You’re thinking of Salomé, aren’t you?" I asked.

He reluctantly nodded.

"Everything that’s been written about you two is true, isn’t it?"

He again nodded, even more reluctantly.

"Mostly," he affirmed.

"There’s no shame in being human."

"A superman cannot have weaknesses."

"Not even kryptonite?"

He smiled.

"What do you think about Superman?" I asked. "I once read that it may have been inspired by you -- at least the title."

"They should have called him ‘Slaveman.’ That is what the ‘S’ represents. He is not super at all. He has muscles, but no brains. His philanthropy disgusts me. He serves blindly; and because of it, he is taken advantage by his masters -- the herd. He is nothing but a prop -- to indoctrinate the young into servility. Other than that . . . other than that he is pretty cool."

I smiled and reached for the door. He grabbed my arm.

"I am giving you five minutes, Jacob. Five minutes. And then I am gone. For good."

"But . . . but it’s my car."

I flew into Sarah’s building. The tiny, oblong elevator was waiting, closing as soon as I jumped inside. On her floor, I got out and saw her door slightly ajar. I entered and saw the living room covered in luggage. She was on the floor trying to close a suitcase.

"What are you doing?" I asked frantically.

"Packing."

"But I told you to bring nothing."

"Jake, this is nothing."

I ran up to her, grabbed her hand, and pulled her up.

"Come on -- we’ve got to go. Nietzsche’s waiting."

"Nietzsche?"

"I’ll explain later. But if we’re not down in a few minutes, he’ll leave without us."

"But we’ll never get all my luggage down that fast."

"Exactly."

I pulled her out of the apartment. But we hadn’t taken more than a few steps when I saw the two cops -- short and skinny, and tall and fat -- squeeze out of the elevator.

"The Man!" I whispered loudly. "Is there a staircase?"

Sarah fortuitously nodded; and even more fortuitously, motioned in the opposite direction of the elevator.

"Come on -- let’s run!"

"In high heels?"

"Take them off!"

"And be barefoot in this new reality? I don’t even know what the weather will be like."

There was no time for further argument, so I ran toward the staircase, dragging her behind me.

"Stop!" one of the policemen screamed from behind. "In the name of the Beast, I command you!"

But I kept running. Then, just before reaching the exit, Sarah unfortuitously tripped and fell. She howled, clutching her ankle.

"I think I broke it."

I looked back and saw the two policeman -- both gasping for breath -- getting closer.

"I’ve got to go, Sarah."

"What do you mean? You’re not gonna leave me here?"

"I’m sorry."

"First you throw beer on me -- and now you’re gonna leave me here in pain?"

"I’m sorry."

"You’re gonna have a lot of apologizing to do."

I turned and rushed into the staircase.

"Jake -- come back!" she screamed. "I need you!"

The staircase was spiral. As I ran down it, it got wider and wider -- to the extent I soon sensed that I was running around the entire circumference of the building. It also got less and less steep -- to the point where I didn’t seem to be moving downward at all. I may have even been moving upward a bit. But I kept running. There was no stopping, no going back. When I finally hit the bottom, I could hear many sirens outside. Undeterred, I burst through the emergency exit, setting off a loud alarm.

After getting my bearings, I rushed toward my car. But it was gone. And Nietzsche with it. I cursed loudly. He couldn’t even wait a minute for me! Either that, or he was scared off by the police. That was the only possibilities I could imagine -- and neither was flattering.

"Jake Stein," a voice beamed through a foghorn, "give yourself up. There is no escape."

"There is!" I screamed back.

I ran toward the highway. But as soon as I reached the road, a police car pulled up in front of me and stopped. The doors swung open. I jumped on top of the hood and over it, crossing the road.

"Come back, Jake!" a policewoman cried. "We’re trying to help you!"

"No!" I howled back, running wildly.

"All we want is for you to become a useful, productive member of society!"

"No!"

"It’s for your own good!"

"No!"

I ran blindly, not caring where, as long as it was away from the sirens. I was desperately tired, but I didn’t stop -- and soon the sirens started fading. I kept running hard. But minutes later, the sirens started getting louder. And the faster I ran, the louder they got.

And then I saw it. Sarah’s building was only a short distance from me. But how? I was running away from it -- how could I be approaching it?

I stopped, quickly turned ninety degrees, and ran. As before, the sirens began to fade, only to return soon after. And again, I saw that I was approaching her building. All roads, it seemed, led directly to her.

Undeterred, I turned yet once more and ran. I ran harder than before. I didn’t even look in front of me, hoping it had only been an illusion, a mirage. But the sirens just got louder and louder.

And then they abruptly stopped. I stopped. I looked up and saw I was right in front of her building. A crowd of people, mostly cops, were patiently waiting, surrounded by police cars.

The tall fat cop smilingly approached me, as an ambulance sped into the parking lot.

"Have a nice run?" he quipped, placing a pair of handcuffs around my wrists.

"How?" I asked, falling to my knees.

"You had no choice but to come back."

Sarah pushed through the crowd and rushed toward me.

"This is so cool!" she shouted.

"I see your broken ankle’s better," I said sarcastically.

"This is just like my favorite movie -- A Beautiful Mind -- when they capture that nutjob and make him see that he’s crazy."

"But I’m not crazy!"

"Sshhh. Sure you are. Don’t ruin my fun. You’re forever trying to ruin my fun."

"What if he weren’t crazy?"

"Who?"

"The nutjob. What if he were the only sane one -- and they made him crazy?"

"That’s crazy."

"Don’t worry, Jake," the policeman said, leading the first aid workers and their stretcher toward me. "We’re going to make you all better. Soon, you’ll be just like us."

"Never!"

"That’s just your disease talking. We’ll heal you. So that you’ll belong. So that you’ll enjoy pushing all those buttons. So that you’ll revel in the monotony of your own existence. . . . Once we’re finished, you’ll even like golf."

"He doesn’t like golf?" a man in white at the head of the stretcher asked, in utter astonishment. "Is . . . is he dangerous?"

I jumped up and tried to run, but dozens of arms quickly grabbed me. I started kicking and screaming, wildly swinging my cuffed wrists.

"I wanna be free!" I screamed, over and over.

Someone covered my mouth with a handkerchief. And seconds later, the world started spinning.

6

2006-08-12T12:34:00.000-07:00

6

Lies

The minutes slowly merged into hours, the hours into days, the days into weeks, and finally the weeks into months. Or was it years? It was all such a blur, impossible to differentiate one moment from another. It was always the same -- mindlessly pushing buttons, attending meaningless meetings, eating heavy, artificial foods, and wasting night after night in the sports bar.

Even sleeping with Sarah was becoming tedious.

It was clear by our forth or fifth date that we had little in common. I was attracted to her physically, but little more. And she was attracted to me only by what I represented -- or at least, what she thought I represented -- success, a good home, and a future family.

We hadn’t much to talk about. But this wasn’t much of a problem, as talking wasn’t something she liked doing -- especially at the sports bar. She would zone out for hour after hour, consumed by the action on the screens -- vocalizing only to encourage or lambaste her favorite team or player.

In college, I loved sports bars. My friends and I would spent whole Saturday afternoons in the fall watching football. It was fun -- a break from routine. But now it was routine. I despised it. And I kept inventing reasons not to go. But there was nowhere else except home, where there was nothing more to do than watch the same screens in the discomfort of my own home.

One evening, though, I ran out of excuses. Sarah was annoyed at having to go to the bar by herself so often. People were talking, thinking that we were having problems.

"We have appearances to think about," she berated me.

She made it clear that if I didn’t accompany her, I would be sharing a very cold bed. Perhaps for a very long time.

I couldn’t bear to be without this last glimmer of joy, regardless of how fleeting it had become.

"What’s wrong with you?" she asked, as she parked near the bar.

"Nothing."

"Is it me?"

"No."

"Don’t you like me anymore?"

"I love you."

"You don’t show it."

"It’s not you."

"Then what?"

"I’m bored."

"With what?"

"Everything. Work. This bar. . . ."

"Me?"

"No."

"You are," she said, turning away from me sniveling.

"I’m not," I answered, gently caressing her arm.

"What’s to be bored about? We have everything: good jobs, money, clothes, cars -- great food, fun every evening -- endless sex. What else do you want?"

"More."

"What more?"

"More life. This is all vapid."

"I’m vapid?"

"Why do you insist on turning everything around toward you? You’re not everything."

"I’m not?" she cried, tears in her eyes. "You’re everything to me."

"I’m not. You’ve got your job, your vaunted career path. You’ve got your friends, and you’ve got your drugs. And you’ve got this lousy sports bar."

"I hate you!"

She jumped out of the car and slammed the door. I knew I’d have to do some serious apologizing later, but for that moment, all I wanted to do was to lower my head and feel sorry for myself.

A few minutes of this, like usual, was sufficient. I walked into the crowded bar and saw Sarah sitting mesmerized in the front, a large gin in her paw -- a look of utter contentment on her face. And I knew that everything would be all right -- I knew that all would be forgotten.

I then did what I recently had been doing whenever I was forced into this wasteland -- I went into the back room and played pool, accompanied only by a dozen or so televisions.

I had just racked up the balls when a familiar face peeked into the room.

"Oh, excuse me," Potocki said, a bit embarrassed, before stepping backward.

"Hey," I cried, desperate for company, anyone’s company, "how’s it going?"

Potocki looked behind himself.

"You!" I asserted.

"Me?" he asked, impishly.

"You."

"I’m fine. A bit drunk."

"You wanna play some pool?"

He smiled. After hesitating for a moment, he walked in, picked up a cue, and ferociously broke.

"Are you sure you want to be seen with me?" he asked, in between methodically sinking ball after ball.

"What do you mean?"

"I’m just a paperpusher."

"So."

"So, I haven’t seen you on the bus."

"I bought a car."

"Oh. What about your girlfriend? She doesn’t particularly like me."

"What do you mean -- she apologized."

"Apologized?"

"For being rude."

"What are you talking about?"

He sunk the eight ball. I looked at him with astonishment.

"Another game?" he asked.

"She didn’t apologize?"

"Why should she apologize? She’s a beancounter. And I’m nothing but a paperpusher."

"But she . . . she lied."

"Everyone lies here, Jake. Everyone. We lie to our bosses, we lie to our coworkers -- we lie to our friends and spouses. We lie to ourselves. We especially lie to ourselves. ‘I’m going to loss weight,’ I tell myself. ‘I’m going to drink less, spend more time with my family -- buy a car.’ ‘I’m going to be a buttonpusher.’ Lies. All lies."

"I don’t lie."

"Learn. For your own survival."

After three games in which I barely took a turn, I said my goodbyes to Potocki -- after promising to meet him for pool again soon -- and went back to Sarah, whose eyes surprisingly weren’t focused on one of the screens but on a big dude with curly brown hair, a guy who worked a few cubes down from me.

"Are you here with anyone?" he asked, smiling cheekily.

"No one in particular," she said, clearly noticing me in the corner of her eye.

"Are you ready?" I asked her.

She ignored me, so I repeated the question.

"Is this little man bothering you?" he asked.

"I’m not bothering her," I asserted coldly.

"Well, to be honest," she whispered, blushing profusely at the man.

I took a half-empty beer from the bar and threw it in her face.

"Now I’m bothering her!"

She started laughing. And then he joined in as well.

"What’s so funny?" I asked belligerently.

"You’re gonna pay a fine for that, little man."

A waiter grabbed my hand and stuck it into a portable scanner.

"That’s a one-hundred credit fine -- for antisocial behavior," he said, a bit effeminately. "And you’ll have to leave."

"Leave?" I asked. "Is that punishment or a reward?"

He led me to the front doors. I turned back at the exit and saw Sarah smiling at me. She waved, so I waved back.

"Come back tomorrow," the waiter said, holding the door for me. "But with a nicer, more positive attitude toward your peers."

I hadn’t taken more than a few steps outside when the red Porsche confidently strode up to me. It stopped and I reached for the door, but it pulled just ahead of me.

"Playing games tonight?" I asked, after catching up with it.

The car window rolled down.

"I thought you liked playing games," Nietzsche said.

I walked up to the car and put my hand on the door.

"I don’t," I said emphatically. I pulled the handle, but it was locked.

"I do not ride with slaves," he said.

"I’m no slave!"

"I am beginning to think that you are a lost cause. Perhaps I am wasting my time."

"Take me to that bridge, and I’ll show you. I’ll show you right now!"

"I cannot take you anywhere. You must take yourself."

The window rolled back up and he sped off, with me hopelessly chasing after it.

"Come back, Nietzsche! Come back!"

When I got to the street corner someone jumped in front of me from the opposite direction. It was Knickerbocker.

He grabbed me to lessen our impact. I looked up at him and was surprised by his countenance -- it was ferocious.

"Reverend," I said, a bit startled. "What are you doing here?"

"Who was that you were calling after?" he asked angrily.

"Calling after? . . . no one."

I instinctively stepped backward, as he crept toward me.

"You were. You were calling after someone. Don’t lie to me, Jake. Lie to everyone else, but not to your pastor."

"You’re not my pastor. I’m a freethinker!"

"Who was it? Who?"

"You’re crazy!"

I turned around and started walking away.

"It was Nietzsche!" he screamed.

I stopped cold.

"What are you talking about?" I asked nervously, turning back to him. "Nietzsche is dead."

"He isn’t dead -- and you know it!"

"I’m outta here!"

I again turned to leave, but he effortlessly collared me and turned me around.

"He is a dangerous man, Jake. He’s the devil!"

"Let go of me!"

I pulled his arm off me and started running.

"I’m speaking from experience," he said softly.

I stopped.

"You think you’re the first person he’s approached?" Knickerbocker continued. "He befriended me many years ago, when I was freshly swallowed, like you. When I shared your idealism. He took advantage of this. He pretended to offer me salvation. But it was only nihilism. Nihilism and damnation."

He came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder, this time gently. I didn’t resist.

Knickerbocker drove me home in his old stationwagon. He didn’t say a word until we stopped in front of my building.

"I was angry," he said emphatically.

"What?"

"I was angrier than you when I was swallowed."

"Really?"

"Really. I was young like you, too. Young and full of freshness. I grew up in the sixties and lived everything our generation believed -- especially the optimism -- the belief that all could be changed, and for the better.

"Almost as soon as the decade ended, it began. Until then me and my friends were somehow immune from the Beast. Then, one after one He came for us. And finally, He came for me.

"I didn’t want to accept this . . . this incarceration. I couldn’t accept it. And then he appeared."

"Nietzsche?"

Knickerbocker nodded.

"He counseled me and offered a way out. Die Brücke -- the bridge. And I almost took it."

"So there really is a bridge?"

"There is. It leads from Apollo to Dionysus."

"I’ve never been clear about that."

"You don’t know who Apollo and Dionysus are?"

"I know they’re Greek gods."

"They’re a dichotomy. Apollo represents sight, reason, and form. The Beast serves Him, and we in turn serve the Beast."

"And Dionysus?"

"He represents force, art -- chaos."

"I want Dionysus."

"You don’t know what you are saying. His path leads only to destruction. I know -- I almost took it."

"Why didn’t you?"

"When the Dark One came to me, I was lonely and desperate. Like you are right now. He pretended that he liked me -- the same way he likely pretends that he likes you. He said he was trying to save me. He took me to the bridge and tempted me. But my reason won out. I saw from the top of the abyss that it was a long drop with no end."

"You were scared."

"Yes. And rightfully so. The path led to nothingness."

"So you chose this prison instead."

"I chose security. I chose reality. . . . I chose life."

"But you really don’t know what’s on the other side."

"You can’t until you jump. That’s what’s so frightening. To not know for sure."

"This bridge -- is it real? Does it physically exist?"

"Yes."

"Where is it?"

"I won’t tell you. I shan’t be party to your fall."

I grabbed him by the collar.

"Tell me!"

"No!"

"Then I’ll find it myself!"

I let go of him and rushed out of the car. He ran out after me and grabbed me.

"No, Jake -- I can’t let you!"

"You can’t stop me -- I have free will!"

"You’ll be ruined -- destitute, morally and physically."

"I don’t care. I want to be free."

"What is freedom? The freedom to do whatever you want? Or is it the freedom of knowing what tomorrow brings, the freedom of peace and security -- the freedom from want?"

"I don’t know!" I cried.

He wrapped his long arms around me.

"You must shun Nietzsche." He said bitterly.

"But I like him."

He pulled back abruptly.

"He is Mephistopheles! Only instead of a Gretchen, he offers only your own destruction."

"I don’t know."

"Shun him! Only through the Beast can you find peace. Only through Him. You must promise me, Jake -- you must promise -- that you’ll shun him."

I hesitated.

"I promise."

It was my first lie.

5

2006-08-05T15:19:00.000-07:00

5

Render unto the Beast

I was bored.

It was a Sunday morning and there was nothing to do. Nothing. Even the idiot screens were blank, in an attempt to encourage people to attend religious services. And even though I had never attended one voluntarily, I was tempted to go -- just to go somewhere.

I found Knickerbocker’s card and jumped into my new car, the car I would be paying for the rest of my natural life. I started it and verbally gave the address to the car’s GPS. It was all automatic -- it knew where to go and when to stop, and even kept an uniform flow of fuel. I don’t know why I even bothered holding onto the wheel, apart from habit.

I drove into the crowded parking lot, and the car automatically found me one of the few remaining spots. I got out and looked at the church. It was a fairly ordinary-looking church, perhaps one of the few buildings I had seen that wasn’t convoluted somehow -- if not the only one.

I entered and could hear the unmistakable melody of "Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring" playing on the organ. I walked into the cathedral and saw Knickerbocker standing at the altar. When he saw me, a bright smile came across his face.

"My children," he said solemnly, "Matthew 22:17. The Pharisees came upon our Lord and said, ‘Tell us therefore, What thinkest thou? Is it lawful to give tribute unto Caesar, or not?

‘But Jesus perceived their wickedness, and said, Why tempt me, ye hypocrites?

‘Shew me the tribute money. And they brought unto Him a penny.

‘And He saith unto them, Whose is the image and the superscription?

‘They say unto Him, Caesar’s. Then saith He unto them, Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s; and unto God the thing’s which are God’s.’

"What does this passage mean for you, you may ask -- how does it relate to your life? It’s very simple. Jesus wants you to render your entire corporeal being unto the Beast. Your soul is His, but everything else belongs to the Beast. You must submit to the Beast. It’s your duty as a Christian. Obey. Serve. Abandon all will. It is the only path to salvation."

I sat down in the last pew, and cringed when I saw -- a few rows ahead -- Sarah. Moments later, she turned to me and blushed. Which caused me to do the same. Thankfully, she quickly turned back to the minister.

After the service, Knickerbocker stood at the threshold of the church and said his goodbyes to the parishioners, as they exited onto the front lawn, where cakes and drinks were waiting. I was last in line.

"I was so happy to see you," he said to me. He smiled, warmly shaking my hand. "Does this mean you’ve decided to join our flock?"

"I wouldn’t say that."

"Why don’t you come into my rectory for a little chat."

We walked back through the cathedral to a small door that led to his small home. He sat me down in an easy chair in the living room and went to prepare some tea in the kitchen.

"What did you think of my sermon?" he asked, returning to the living room.

"It was interesting."

"Interesting?"

"Interesting. It was an interesting interpretation. I’m no expert on the Gospels, but I kinda doubt that’s what Christ meant."

"Who’s to say what Christ meant?"

"His words seem quite clear to me."

"Do they? I’m afraid you have a lot to learn. The truly spectacular thing about Christ is that His words can mean all things to all people. Everything’s open to interpretation."

"Really?"

"Take Saint Francis, for example. To Francis, Christ was a lamb, who came to change the world through the power of love. To Saint Dominic, though -- his very contemporary, and no less saintly -- Christ was an avenging crusader ready to consign all sinners to the flames. Who’s to say who was right?"

"I’d say Francis."

"But others would say Dominic. And I hazard to say you’d be outnumbered. Yes, we are free to interpret Christ as we wish. And we are also free to take from Him only what we wish to take. Don’t like the part about wealth being a mortal sin? Ignore it. Don’t want to turn the other cheek? Just skip it. Christ brings comfort to our lives, and He is whatever we believe He is."

"You really believe He would approve of the Beast?"

"It’s not important what I believe -- it’s important what they believe. I can’t be selfish -- I must think of them, my sheep. I feel responsibility not only for their souls, but for their flesh as well. Submission to the Beast is their only hope."

After tea, he led me back through the church to the front yard, where the gathering was winding down.

"I do hope you’ll consider joining us," he said to me, warmly taking my arm. "Even if you remain a freethinker at heart, you have much to gain in the company of our community. And I do so enjoy our talks. We can have one every Sunday after service if you’d like. What do you say?"

"I’ll think about it."

"Please do. After all, what else is there to do on Sundays?"

Strangely, he led me right in front of Sarah, who was talking quietly with a few women, and stopped.

"I must speak with some others now," he said, offering me his hand. "Hopefully, I’ll see you next Sunday. Perhaps even at the beginning of services this time."

He left me and I stood in front of Sarah with a stupid expression on my face.

"I’m seeing Teddy now," one of Sarah’s friends, an attractive brunette with hazel eyes, said. "You know him -- the big dude with the curly brown hair."

"Is he a buttonpusher?" another of Sarah’s friends asked.

The first woman seemed piqued.

"Have you ever seen me date someone who wasn’t a buttonpusher?"

"There was Ron."

"That was so a mistake. And it was only for a few days."

I started to leave, but Sarah stopped me.

"Don’t go," she said, gently grabbing my arm. "Do you have a few minutes?"

"I guess."

She led me a few paces away and stopped.

"I just wanted to apologize for the other night," she sincerely said.

"I’m sorry, too."

"You have nothing to be sorry about. Sometimes that place gets me a little crazy. It’s all the adrenaline from those sports. I apologized to him as well."

"Him?"

"Potocki. I found out where he works and apologized. In person."

"You did?"

"You can ask him."

"I believe you."

"But do you forgive me?"

"I do."

She hugged me, and I quickly melted. She could’ve had me do anything for her at that moment.

"Are you going to the yacht party?" she asked.

"Yacht party?"

"It’ll be a blast."

"They’ve got water here?"

"Of course, silly. Where else would they put the yacht?"

"Sounds cool."

"Then you’ll go?"

"Sure."

"Great! Hey guys, Jake’s coming!"

"Cool," her friends said in unison.

We walked off together toward the parking lot, where we saw Knickerbocker talking with a middle-aged couple.

"Hey, Reverend," Sarah chimed, "coming to the yacht party?"

"I think not," he replied, smiling profusely.

"There’ll be lots of debauchery," one of Sarah’s friends added, seemingly as an enticement.

"I’m sure it’ll be a veritable orgy," Knickerbocker said, smiling even more broadly. "In fact, I’m counting on it. I’m also counting on all of you knowing the value of contrition."

"We do," a few replied together.

"Then I’ll expect to see all of you next Sunday. Enjoy yourselves!"

I got into my convertible and followed them. We drove for more than an hour, until we reached a marina of sorts. There was only one ship docked there, a large craft named "The Beast’s Burden." It had such crazy angles and shapes I wondered how it kept afloat.

Sarah took my hand and we and her friends walked together up the plank.

"Where were you guys?" a young man asked from the deck. "We were gonna leave without you."

"I bet, Billy," one of Sarah’s friends said, removing her church dress, and revealing the scantiest of bikinis, to a chorus of whistles.

Sarah did the same and I almost stopped breathing.

"I guess you didn’t bring a swimsuit?" she asked.

"You guess right." I enunciated, but only barely.

"Then I guess you’ll have to go au natural."

"You guess wrong."

She smiled back, knowingly.

On deck, there were about thirty or forty people plus a small crew. Everyone was beautiful. And happy. The latest dance music was blaring, music videos were playing on the large-screen televisions that circled the ship, and the throng was singing and dancing, playfully flirting and touching each other: girls with boys, girls with girls, and even boys with boys.

Sarah and I went to the bar to order drinks.

"Most of the guys here are buttonpushers," she said while we waited.

"I recognize some of them."

She reached for a large champagne glass full of pills, and took a couple before handing the glass to me.

"Here."

"What is it?"

"X-X-ecstasy."

"No thanks."

"Come on -- a few Es will do you good -- loosen you up. You need it."

Against my better judgment, I took one.

"Only one?"

I gave her a wry look in reply. The look quickly changed, though, into one of surprise when I saw Tommy, my college bartender, approach from behind the bar.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I got swallowed."

"When?"

"Just the other day."

"He swallows bartenders?"

"He swallows everyone now. It’s called diversification. What can I get you?"

"Scotch."

"You never much drank the heavy stuff before."

"I was never here before."

"Macallan?"

"Fine."

"And for the young lady?"

"Give me a martini. Without the vermouth."

After a few Macallans, I did in fact loosen up. Sarah and I danced into the evening, until sweat was pouring into our eyes.

"Time for a swim!" she shouted over the music.

"Sorry, no suit."

"You’ve got the best suit of all."

"Sorry, I’m not that drunk."

"Then drink some more!"

Someone must’ve overheard us. Because moments later, a crew member handed me a pair of trunks -- exactly my size. I quickly changed and joined Sarah, who was waiting for me on the diving board.

She put her hands behind her and undid her top, while I stared goggle-eyed.

"Live now," she said, before tossing her top into the sea, "for tomorrow we’re old!"

She did a back flip into the water. I cautiously followed her, in far less dramatic fashion.

In the water, I looked around. There were no fish, no coral -- no sign of any life. My eyes stung a bit from the unmistakable sense of chlorine. I swam to the bottom and saw that it was made of concrete.

Fake. The sea was fake just like everything else. Nothing but a large swimming pool. I rested on the bottom, hesitant to return to the surface -- even though I was desperate for air. Just stay here, something told me. Stay here and it will all end shortly. The alcohol and drugs started wearing heavily on me. I relaxed, waiting for the inevitable.

I was only pulled out of this delightful reverie when my swimsuit was pulled off. I raced toward Sarah as she made her way upward. On the surface, struggling for air, I caught her and pulled her toward me. She wrapped her arms and legs around me and gave me such a kiss that I soon was unable to breathe again.

Then, abruptly, she pulled away from me and swam toward the boat. I caught her again against the ship. She raised her arms and grabbed the rope that held anchor. I slid over her, grabbing the same rope, which within minutes, was burning both our hands as they intertwined. But it was nothing compared to the inferno that burned everything else.

When we finally made our way back onboard, I was more than a little embarrassed at my nakedness. But no one noticed. They had broken off into twos, threes, and even at least one four, and were enjoying each other quite openly and shamelessly, in almost perfect tune to the pornographic video that was now playing simultaneously on all the TV screens.

Tommy winked at me, a lovely lady draped over him.

"The Beast works in wonderful ways," he said.

"He sure does," I added, a little surprised by my words.

Sarah and I found a lounge chair and lay down together, warmly holding each other as we watched the square and reddened sun set in the distance.

"So," I said, "are you contrite?"

She raised her head off my chest and smiled.

"Very."

4

2006-08-05T14:03:00.000-07:00

4

Date Night

I stood in front of my large closet of clothes trying to decide what to wear. Business casual. Business casual, my brain said. But for some reason, my arm reached for another pinstriped suit.

On the bus, Potocki was holding a seat for me. Again. I knew I needed to get a car, and get one fast.

"What’s with the suit?" he asked.

"I was told that there was no rule against wearing one."

"Sure. But why would you? Why would you want to set yourself apart from the rest of us. Why . . ."

"Why wouldn’t I want to be part of the herd?"

"Yes."

"Because."

"That’s no answer."

"Sure it is. It’s just not the answer you want."

"Don’t you see that everyone is staring at you?"

I looked around, and he was indeed right.

"I don’t care," I said, smiling.

"I bet Ms. Goldman is behind all this craziness," he said, shaking his head.

"Excuse me?"

"I saw you yesterday in the cafeteria. I was about to join you when I saw that you had another lunch companion."

"She’s pretty nice."

"She sure is. Everyone loves her. Or is in love with her. She’s a beancounter, you know."

"I know."

"The Beast isn’t too keen on office romance, but as long as it’s interdepartmental, . . ."

"So, it’s cool with Him?"

"Very cool. When’s your first date?"

"How do you know I asked her out?"

"I know. I know. So, when?"

"Tonight."

"Great. There’s another race at the sports bar tonight. Stock cars, this time. You know, we missed you last night. Where were you?"

"I got detoured."

"You missed a great match. All night long they hit these balls into holes --"

"Over and over again."

"Yes. Exactly. Of course, as exciting as it was, it was nothing compared to the incident."

"Incident?"

"Haven’t you heard? It’s on all the TV channels."

"Heard what?"

"It appears we have a brigand on our hands."

"You don’t say."

"I say. He or she damaged over a dozen police cars."

"Really?"

"Really. They were just checking why the culprit wasn’t watching golf, when he or she went nuts. They’ll get ’em, though. And when they do . . ."

"What?"

"It won’t be pretty, Jake. It won’t be pretty."

I got to work and followed the torturous route to my cubicle, this time without problems. It had taken me only a day to become accustomed, to become systematized. I sat down and immediately looked at the button queue. There were almost the exact number of buttons to push as the previous day. It was as if an entire day was for nothing.

I had only started pushing when Timmy came by.

"What’s with the suit, Jake?"

"No ‘hello’ -- no ‘good morning’?"

"You know very well today is no dress-up day. You have no excuse."

"Tweed said it wasn’t a rule. Only a custom."

"A custom you’re breaking. Don’t you want to be part of the herd?"

"‘Don’t you want to be part of the herd?’" I derisively repeated. "‘Go with the flow.’ ‘The Beast works in wonderful ways.’ Can’t you people utter something other than these mindless clichés?"

"This won’t due, Jake. This won’t due."

A minute later, Tweed was at my cubicle, shaking his head and tsking.

"This is such a disappointment, Jake. Such a disappointment. And here you were a man of such great expectations. I have every mind to send you home to change."

"But you said it wasn’t a rule."

"Very well. Have it your way. But it’ll go on your written record. . . . Such a disappointment."

He started to leave, but quickly turned back.

"You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this brigand on the loose?"

"Why would I?"

"Well, you were conspicuously absent from the sports bar last night. Why weren’t you there?"

"I don’t like golf."

"Who doesn’t like golf?"

"Me."

He started shaking his head and tsking again.

"But that doesn’t mean I’m the brigand," I insisted. "I don’t even have a car."

"True. But expect an interview from the police. And if I were you, I’d start showing up at the sports bar. And I’d start liking golf. . . . And I’d start dressing business casual."

The moment he left I dialed Sarah to finalize plans for the evening.

"I can’t talk right now," she said, "I’m in the middle of an important calculation."

"Call me back when you’re done."

Five minutes later, she did.

"I can’t talk right now," I said, with a big smile, "I’m in the middle of pushing some important buttons."

This continued back and forth until lunch, where we met at the same table as the day before.

"I don’t get you," she said, as she sat down, "what’s with the suits?"

"I don’t know."

"You think . . . you think you’re better than us?"

"No. Just different."

"Why would you want to be different?"

"I don’t know."

"Well, I don’t know if I want to go out with you."

"You know."

"I do?"

I nodded in reply, with a knowing smile.

"Pick me up at six," she said, after a brief pause.

"Pick you up with what?"

"You don’t have a car? A buttonpusher without a car?"

"I just got here."

"We’ll have to rectify that. I’ll pick you up at six."

When I got back to my desk, two strange-looking men wearing black turtleneck sweaters and sunglasses were waiting for me. One was tall and fat, the other short and skinny.

"Is it bright in here?" I asked flippantly.

"Jake Stein?" the fat one asked.

"That’s me."

"Come with us."

They led me to a small room in the far right corner of the building labeled "Interrogation Room." The room was wide at its opening but extremely narrow at its end. And the end was set below at a forty-five degree angle. One of them gently pushed me, and I slid a few meters to the bottom, where a small metal chair was waiting. I sat down and looked up.

"Where were you last night?" the short one asked.

"Home."

"Between here and home what did you do?"

"Nothing."

"Why weren’t you at the sports bar?"

"I don’t like golf."

The two looked at each other in utter bewilderment.

"Who doesn’t like golf?" they asked in unison.

"Me."

They turned back to me.

"Can anyone corroborate your whereabouts last night?" The fat one asked.

"No."

"You’re our prime suspect, Jake," the short one said. "You’re our only suspect. Everyone else was at the sports bar."

"What about the police? Maybe one of them is your brigand."

"You’re a funny man. The Beast doesn’t like humor. And He doesn’t like brigands. Keep that in mind next time."

"And get rid of that suit," the fat one added, before the two of them walked out.

"Hey!" I screamed, "how about helping me out of here?"

But they ignored me and it took me almost a half hour to climb out of the room. And my brand new suit, compliments of the Beast, was filthy.

"Meeting," Timmy matter-of-factly said to me as I dusted myself off.

"Excuse me?"

"Departmental meeting. Conference room A. Five minutes. Bring a pad and pen."

"What for?"

"To take notes, of course!"

After a number of wrong turns, I finally found my way to the conference room, which was something of a sepulcher -- dark, dank, and foreboding -- its circular walls adding to its tomb-like atmosphere. I took a seat in the very back corner; and because of the distance and the angle of the floor, I couldn’t even see some of the people in front.

There were about twenty or so buttonpushers present. Each had a pad and pen, an off-white porcelain coffee mug imprinted with the Beast’s logo, and the most serious of countenances.

Tweed came in last; and after a few perfunctory comments, the meeting commenced.

And what an important meeting it was. They discussed statuses -- who pushed what buttons and when. They discussed future plans of actions -- how many buttons could be expected to be pushed, and how could this pushing be optimized, improved, and made more efficient. And they discussed problems -- and how these problems could be overcome for the betterment of buttonpushing. With these discussions came diagrams, charts -- handouts. Lots of handouts.

And all I could do was stare out of the one tiny window in the room and pray that I could soon get back to the excitement waiting in my cube.

Sarah showed up at my building in a sports car that, despite its hard angles, had a certain style to it. I jumped in and immediately noticed that my seat was considerably lower than hers. When she turned to smile at me, I looked up at her as if she were my parent.

"So, shall we go to the sports bar?" she asked.

"The sports bar? How about something . . . something more romantic?"

"There’s nothing more romantic than the sports bar."

"Is that so?"

"Especially when there’s a stock car race on."

"Yeah, who needs poetry when you can just watch some jalopies crash?"

"You are strange, Jake Stein. Very strange."

As we were driving along the crooked road, I caught sight of something unexpected: a public library."

"A library?" I exuberantly exclaimed. "You’ve got libraries?"

"What do you think we are: a pack of Philistines? Would you like to see it?"

She parked in front of the building, which looked something like a pyramid, only upside down, with its tip inside the ground. I burst through the front door with childlike enthusiasm, with Sarah many paces behind me. My excitement, though, vanished quickly when I saw aisle after aisle of DVDs.

"Where are the books?" I asked her, as soon as she entered.

"Books?"

"You know, books: stacks of paper bound together."

"Oh, books. Why would you want a book? That’s so old school, Jake. Everything you could possibly want is on DVD. I mean, why would you want to go through all the trouble of reading when you can have the same information flow effortlessly into your head?"

"I want."

"Very well. I think they have some books on the top floor."

We took the glass-enclosed elevator up, passing floor after floor of DVDs, laserdiscs, and VHS tapes.

"This isn’t a library," I said, "it’s a video store."

"What’s the difference?"

The elevator stopped and we got off.

"I believe they’re way in the back," she said. "We’ll have to take the conveyor belt."

"Why?"

"Why? It’d be a long walk, that’s why. Maybe even five minutes."

"That long?" I said, perhaps a bit too irreverently.

"You know, your sarcasm is a little grating," she said as we stepped onto the belt. "How about trying a little less of it?"

"I’ll try."

"Good. Because you’re much cuter without it."

At the back, we finally found some books, if you could call them that. What they were were a few aisles containing the works of Rowling, Clancy, Collins, and their ilk.

"Where’s the real books?" I asked, scanning the spines.

"What do you mean? All these books have been turned into hit movies. They’re the best of the best."

I grabbed a book at random and angrily thrust it toward her.

"This isn’t a book -- it’s television on paper!"

"Why are you getting mad at me?"

"I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at this whole d--- nightmare!"

I threw the book down and knocked the entire bookcase onto floor. She stared at me motionless.

"Jake," she finally said, "I think you’re gonna have to pay a fine for that."

I paid the fine, and we left.

We didn’t speak to each other for minutes, as she drove toward the center of the city. My head was lowered in disappointment that I couldn’t hide.

"I don’t know why you’re so down about this place," she finally said. "It’s not like it’s some kind of dystopia."

"Do you know what it means when everyone has to assert that someplace isn’t a dystopia?"

"What?"

"That it’s a dystopia."

"You just need a picker-upper. And I know just the thing."

She pulled into a car dealership and stopped.

"Why are we stopping here?" I asked.

"To get you a car."

"Now?"

"Now."

"On our date?"

"It’ll be fun. A lot funner than you destroying the library."

We walked inside the cylindrical building that looked like an upright coin, and were greeted by two tall twins in gray suits. Apparently car dealers were allowed to wear them.

"What a handsome couple," one blared, smiling.

"What you need is a stationwagon," the other said, mimicking the facial pose of his brother. "For your family."

"We don’t have a family."

"But you will. You will. And then you’ll need a stationwagon."

"Just a regular car. That’s all I need."

They showed us around the showroom in something akin to a Ferris wheel; and when we returned to ground level, I selected one.

"You can’t pick that one," Sarah said, a bit peeved.

"Why not?"

"It’s the cheapest."

"So?"

"So? You’re a buttonpusher."

"A buttonpusher?" the twins asked in unison. "Why didn’t you tell us?"

They each took one of my elbows and led me back into the Ferris wheel with Sarah, and showed us a little black convertible.

"This is a car for a buttonpusher," one of them stated, waving his finger.

"Yes, indeed," the other added. "A status symbol. A symbol of success. It says you’ve made it. That you’re someone special."

"You must get this car, Jake," Sarah exclaimed. "You must."

"But . . . but it’s so expensive."

"The Beast will give you credit," the twins cried, again in unison.

We went down to work out the details in their office.

"What accessories do you want?" one of them asked.

"All I want is a stick shift."

"Sorry, no can do," the other replied, shaking his head. The first one, noticing this, started shaking his head too.

"Why not?" I asked.

"No stick shifts in Beastdom."

"Why not?"

"Why would you want to drive a stick shift?" Sarah asked. "It’s so difficult. And it’s almost impossible to shift and talk on the phone at the same time."

"An automatic is much better," one of the twins added. "It almost drives itself."

"I don’t want it to drive itself. I want to drive it."

"But everyone here drives an automatic."

"But I’m not everyone. And it’s not true. I know someone here who drives a stick."

"Who?" the two asked in unison, looking at each other.

"We know every single dealer," one of them stated succinctly. "There are no stick shifts. The Beast hates them. He feels they breed individuality."

"Where did you see a stick shift?" Sarah asked.

"Yeah," the twins added.

"Perhaps," I answered unsuredly, "perhaps I’m mistaken. Perhaps it was on the outside."

"That must be it," Sarah said. She smiled, gently placing her hand on mine, which made me feel much better.

The twins wrote out the paperwork and gave it to me to sign. The print was so small that I had to hold it up to my eyes.

"You don’t need to read it," one of the twins said.

"No one reads it," the other added.

"I'm reading it," I asserted.

It was all legalese. "The party of the first part agrees to be irreparably bound to the party of the second part, forthwith, hereafter and henceforth, ad infinitum, in perpetuity for the duration of this contractual obligation, which has no terminability nor tenor . . . "

"What exactly does this mean?" I asked.

"It’s all very simple," one of them replied. "You simply pay us five hundred credits per month."

"For how long?"

"What do you mean?"

"For how long do I have to pay you?"

The two looked at each bewilderedly, before turning back to me.

"Forever, of course," they said in unison.

"Forever? But the car won’t last forever."

"At that time you trade it in for a new one. But you must always pay us five hundred credits a month."

"Or more," the other added.

"Or more," the first one affirmed.

"I’m not signing this," I said.

"What do you mean?" they cried.

"Yes, Jake," Sarah implored, "what do you mean?"

"I’m not gonna lock myself into these jokers for life."

"Why not? We all do."

"Not me."

Sarah stood up; and without saying a word, turned and walked resolutely toward the door. I grabbed her just before she left the building.

"Where are you going?" I asked frantically.

"I’m not going out with some crazed Che Guevara."

"Che Guevara? Because I won’t get a car loan?"

"We’re all servants of the Beast, Jake. Whether we all like it or not, we have to make the best of it. We have to live. You can’t fight it, Jake. Just accept it. You’ll like it if you just try. Just try. For me."

On the drive downtown, she turned to me and smiled.

"What?" I asked.

"I hope you don’t give me this much trouble when we buy our first home."

"We’re getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?"

She smiled again, knowingly.

Looking ahead, I could now see the city up close for the first time.

"Wow," I said.

"Pretty impressive, eh?"

"Pretty ugly."

"Jake -- you promised!"

But it was ugly. Buildings jutting out in no particular direction, for no particular reason. Concrete, glass, and steel thrown into a blender that must’ve exploded from the pressure. Like elsewhere, there was no horizon -- I couldn’t tell where the ground ended and where the buildings started. Areas rose and fell without meaning. It was as if the laws of physics, gravity, and perspective didn’t apply. My head started spinning.

"We all have the same reaction the first time," she said, noticing me painfully lowering my head into my hands. "You’ll get used to it. Just like you’ll get used to everything else."

I closed my eyes and nodded, to avoid any further argument; and minutes later, we stopped.

"You can open your eyes now," she said.

I did and saw we were in front of an immense two-story structure that was even wider than my office building. One corner of the roof was raised far higher than the other three, giving it a look that is hard to describe, because it made no sense. On top, a large neon sign declared: "Sports Bar."

We entered and I soon realized that Potocki hadn’t exaggerated at all. There must’ve been thousands of large-screen televisions, to accommodate just as many people. They were all laughing and screaming, swilling their oversized drinks -- their eyes never venturing from the screens, where every possible sport was shown. There were team sports -- football, baseball, basketball, hockey, soccer, rugby, cricket, even curling -- at every possible level, professional and amateur. There were individual sports -- tennis, racing of all forms; and of course, golf. And around the walls of the building was an immense TV that was showing the stock car race. It was as if we were in the center of the track.

"You’ve got to admit this place is amazing," she said.

"Yeah. I do."

We ordered drinks, which was difficult, as the waitstaff was as focused on the televisions as the patrons. Perhaps that was why the drinks were so large, so we wouldn’t have to order as much.

While we waited, I tried to talk to Sarah. But it was difficult with her attention on the screens.

"Can’t you look at me?" I asked.

"How can I look at you and the TVs at the same time?"

"You can’t."

"That’s what I just told you."

"Why can’t you look at me instead of the TVs?"

"Jake, we’re at the sports bar. I can look at you later."

Finally, our drinks came. I was shocked at the size of the beers -- they were as long as my arms.

"How are you gonna drive after drinking this?" I asked.

"It’s an automatic, remember?"

The next hours were spent there watching sport after sport endlessly. I was bored after twenty minutes, but Sarah couldn’t get enough of it -- she was almost in a trance, with all the rest. Only I didn’t seem get it.

I went to the bathroom, not because I needed to -- I didn’t drink as I couldn’t stand the taste of the flat, watered-down beer -- but because I needed to get away. I put my head in the tiny sink and let the cold water flow over it.

"Who is the number?" a voice directly behind me spoke.

I turned and saw Nietzsche standing at a urinal.

"Number?"

"The fraulein."

"A friend."

"A friend? She is very pretty for a friend."

"They come in all shapes and sizes."

"Hmm. It seems that you are enjoying yourself, Jacob."

"I’m not. And stop calling me Jacob."

"Yes, I think you are enjoying it. I think you will be staying here forever, watching the idiot screens every night, drinking the bad beer -- getting fat and old. And stupid."

"Shut up!"

"You are one of them -- a slave."

"I’m not, I tell you -- I’m not!"

He walked toward the door and left. I followed him, but when I exited the washroom, he was gone. And Potocki was there.

"Jake, my buddy!" he screamed, putting his arm around me. His entire body reeked of alcohol. "You finally made it. You finally made it. Is this not Nirvana?"

"Something like that."

"Man, I’ve been here since five. I’ve had seventeen beers. But who’s counting? He-he-he. . . . Basketball."

"What?"

"Basketball. I challenged myself today to only watch basketball. To see what I’m made of. And by golly, I’ve only watched basketball. Men’s basketball, women’s basketball -- college, high school -- international. I’ve even seen midgets playing basketball."

"Wonderful. But I really got to be getting back to my date."

"Date? The Goldman chick, eh? Good choice, bringing her here -- there’s not a classier place for a date than here."

I politely smiled and tried to get away from him, but he stuck to me all the way back to Sarah.

"Sarah," I reluctantly said, "this is --"

"Potocki’s the name," he interrupted, offering her his hand.

"Nice to meet you," she replied half-heartily, ignoring his hand.

Pretending not to notice the slight, Potocki looked around awkwardly.

"Well," he finally said, "I’d better let you love birds alone. See you on the bus tomorrow, Jake?"

"Sure thing," I answered, patting him gently on the back.

"That was pretty rude," I said to Sarah, once he was gone.

"What?" she replied, honestly unaware of what I meant -- still refusing to move her eyes away from the televisions.

"Not shaking his hand. I mean, he’s kind of a schmuck, but . . ."

"He’s a paperpusher."

"So?"

"So you shouldn’t be hanging out with him."

"I’m not hanging out with him. But why shouldn’t I?"

"You’re a buttonpusher. And he’s nothing."

"He’s a human being."

"Here we go again with the Che Guevara. Get with it, Jake."

"Get with what?"

"The program. You’re at the top of the caste -- a Brahmin. And he’s an Untouchable."

"That’s sickening. You’re sickening. This whole place is sickening."

It was now my turn to walk out. But this time, no one was following. I burst through the front doors and sucked in the tepid air. But it wasn’t fulfilling. I needed more oxygen, lots more. I started gasping; and only calmed down when the familiar red Porsche pulled up in front of me.

3

2006-07-29T14:08:00.000-07:00

3

The Herd

I was woken early next morning by an alarm. I haphazardly looked around for something to hit -- and to hit hard -- but there was no alarm clock; and the ringing just got louder and louder.

I jumped out of bed, and the ringing stopped. But when I sat back down on the bed, it started ringing again.

So, I wearily made my way into the bathroom, where at once the television automatically turned on, displaying scantily-clad men and women doing aerobics. I picked up the remote and tried to turn it off, but it stayed on.

"Come on, Jake -- it’s fun," the male instructor yelped, with a deeply effeminate voice. "Hop to it, soldier!"

"You hop for me," I replied.

In front of the closet, I paused, trying to decide what to wear. Decisions, decisions. I finally chose a pinstriped suit -- a symbol of my imprisonment.

I walked into the kitchen, where a cup of hot coffee was waiting, along with an assortment of muffins. Where they came from, I had no idea; but they were most welcome, and tasty.

Outside, I walked to the bus stop. The bus came almost immediately. To my chagrin, though, Potocki was sitting in the front row, seemingly holding a seat for me.

"Good morning, buddy," he beamed.

"Morning," I answered, attempting a smile.

"Did you sleep well?"

"I guess."

He suddenly grabbed me affectionately.

"Are we all excited for our first day?"

"I guess."

"But why are you wearing a suit?"

I looked around and saw that everyone was dressed business casual.

"Didn’t anyone tell you the Beast lets us dress down?" he continued.

"No."

"Isn’t that great? Isn’t that nice of Him?"

"Then, why were there suits in my closet?"

"Every now and then there’s a dress-up day."

"Why?"

"I don’t know. No one does. But on those days, we must dress up. But they’re very infrequent."

I slouched irreverently.

"Man," he went on, "you missed a great race last night. They kept going in circles . . ."

"Over and over again."

"Did you see it?"

"A little."

"Did you see the crash?"

"I must’ve missed it."

"Wow! What fun!"

At Building D, we both got off together. It was a huge gothic structure, more than a hundred stories high and at least a city-block wide, with a huge "B" on top. It leaned forward to such an extent that it seemed it could crush us at any moment.

"You don’t happen to know where I should go?" I questioned Potocki.

"Just ask the receptionist in lobby."

We said our goodbyes, but only after I promised to meet him for lunch. I then walked up to the receptionist and asked for directions.

"Your hand?"

"Excuse me?"

He gently took my hand and placed it in a scanner.

"A buttonpusher," he said, obviously quite impressed. "Your supervisor is Tweed, on sixty-seventh."

A piece of paper printed out next to him, and he handed it to me. It was directions to Tweed’s office, and consisted of nearly a dozen steps.

"If you get lost," he said, "just buzz down. That’s what we’re here for. You’ll find phones on every corner."

I started walking toward the elevators, as per the instructions.

"Oh, and sir . . ." he added.

"Yes?"

"Welcome aboard."

At the elevator bank, I was confronted by dozens of elevators. My instructions called for me to take the thirteenth from the left, and only the thirteenth from the left. I took it to the forty-second floor, exited, made a few prescribed turns, opened a door leading into a darkened hallway, and took an escalator down a flight of stairs. At the end of the escalator, I walked through a set of doors to another elevator bank. The third elevator from the left took me to the fifty-second floor, where I had to walk seemingly halfway around the building, precisely following a number of bewildering turns. This took me to yet another elevator bank, where I was finally able to reach my destination. And to think, I only had to call downstairs twice.

The receptionist on the floor, after scanning my hand, gave me a card with directions to Tweed. It directed me through a maze of cubicles, hundreds at least, to a corner office. I knocked on his door and he promptly called for me to enter.

Tweed was an aging man -- short and stocky -- with eyes sunk deep within his head, sitting in an expensive leather chair, his legs comfortably on his desk. One end of the room was so short that even he would have to crouch in it, while the other -- where his desk was located -- was so tall, it could’ve fitted two normal-sized offices. Behind him was a window, from which there was an impressive view of the entire corrupted city. And on all four walls large banners read: "THERE’S NO ‘I’ IN ‘TEAM.’"

"Yes?" he asked, turning down the volume of the large-screen TV he was watching.

"I was told to see you. I’m Jake Stein."

He stood up and warmly approached me with a smile.

"Give me your hand, my boy -- give me your hand."

I thought he wanted to shake it, but instead he put it in a scanner. He smiled further when he saw my name pop up on the screen.

"I’ve been expecting you. Welcome aboard. Please, have a seat. . . . Did you have any trouble finding my office?"

"Well . . ."

"Don’t worry -- soon you’ll find your way like a pro."

"I can see the bus stop from the window. Why is the path to here so convoluted?"

"The Beast works in wonderful ways. Never question them. We are simply not brilliant enough to understand them."

We both sat down and he offered me a drink, which I politely declined.

"Yes," he continued, "I’ve been expecting you. It’s not often that someone comes right in as a buttonpusher. It’s not your typical entry-level position. Me, I had to claw my way to the top. You know, I started out as one of those lowly monkeys in the lobby, and look at me now -- I manage a whole gaggle of buttonpushers. By the way, my name’s Tweed. But everyone just calls me Boss Tweed. Get it?"

"Got it."

"But why, why are you wearing a suit? Is today a dress-up day? I didn’t receive any memos about a dress-up day."

He started anxiously shuffling through a set of paper of his desk.

"I didn’t know the rule."

"Rule? No, it’s not a rule. It’s more of a custom. And it’s for your own comfort. Please, dress down tomorrow. You wouldn’t want to stand out from the herd."

"I guess not."

"You must be so excited to start working."

"What will I be doing?"

"Why, you’ll push buttons, of course."

"I mean, what exactly?"

"You’ll have to ask Timmy. I don’t get involved in operational detail -- I’m a manager."

"But you said you were once a buttonpusher."

"A long time ago. But I’m a manager now. I’d better call in Timmy."

He pushed a few buttons on his phone, and a deep voice answered on the intercom.

"Timmy, my boy, the newbie’s here. Why don’t you come to my office."

"In a few minutes, sir. I have some buttons to push."

Tweed politely hung up and smiled at me.

"I guess your wondering about your salary."

"Well, not really."

"That’s good. That’s real good. More concerned about the work, eh? You’ll have a bright future here. Perhaps, perhaps one day you’ll even be sitting in my seat."

"And where will you be?"

"Managing the managers, of course. You can go real far here, just as long you remember one thing: go --"

"With the flow."

"Well, my -- I can see now why they made you a buttonpusher right off. What a head you’ve got. Now, back to your salary -- it’s twenty-five hundred credits a month."

"Is that good?"

"I should say so, especially for a newbie. You’ll be able to afford a nice apartment . . . they’ve already set you up with one, I presume."

"Yes."

"Nice?"

"Not bad."

"Cool. And you’ll be able to afford a car, and a lot of other nice things. Also, with an income like that, you can get loans so you can buy even more things. The Beast offers very advantageous interest rates. And He doesn’t mind at all if you go into debt."

"How nice of Him."

"It certainly is."

A young black man of medium height, perhaps a few years older than me, knocked at the open door.

"Come in, Timmy," Tweed bellowed, "come and meet the new buttonpusher, Jake."

We shook hands stoically, Timmy eyeing me a bit wearily.

"Welcome aboard," he said.

"Thank you."

"Why are you wearing a suit? Today’s not a dress-up day."

"He was unaware of the rule," Tweed interjected. "Did I say rule? I mean, he was unaware of the custom. Why don’t you show Jake to his new office and get him started pushing on those buttons."

Tweed led the two of us out of his office, his hands warmly placed on our backs.

"If you need anything, Jake, come see me -- my door is always open."

Timmy and I stepped into the hallway, while Tweed promptly closed the door behind us. Timmy led me through a maze of cubicles of varying size until we came to what must’ve been the smallest one. It had just enough room to fit both of us. Barely. We squeezed inside, where a computer monitor sat on a plain laminated table alongside a huge keyboard of some sort, which had hundreds of buttons painted with various symbols.

"Here’s your office."

"Office?"

"It’s a bit small."

"A bit?"

"Nobody starts on top of the mountain. You have to work your way up. And as you rise, your office will get bigger. And if you rise high enough, you may even get an actual office."

"I have to work in this . . . this closet?"

"I’m not sure I like your attitude, Jake. I started in this very same office."

"It’s not an office."

"It is if you believe it is."

"And what am I to do here?"

"On the monitor, you’ll see a list of buttons. You find the buttons on the keyboard and push them."

"That’s it?"

"Every Friday you must fill out a progress report for Tweed, detailing the buttons you’ve pushed, and the buttons you have yet to push."

"That’s it?"

"That’s not enough for you?"

"Well, no. I have a degree in Business Administration from a top university -- this is nothing but busy work."

"Well, I have an MBA from Harvard. And this is plenty challenging for me."

"You’ve gotta be kidding. Mindlessly pushing buttons for a living -- this is challenging?"

"Perhaps it’s not a thrill-a-minute. But there’s plenty of meetings to break the monotony."

"Meetings? What kind of meetings?"

"We have a meeting almost every day, sometimes more than one. Departmental meetings, interdepartmental meetings, subdepartmental meetings, . . ."

"Meetings about what?"

"Pushing buttons, of course!"

"Sounds like great fun."

"Now I definitely don’t like your attitude. There are many people who’d love to be a buttonpusher -- people who struggle daily just for the opportunity you’ve got. You don’t know how lucky you are. How’d you like to be a beancounter, or even a paperpusher?"

"I wouldn’t."

"Then shape up, soldier. Join the team. Belong."

"Fine. When do I start?"

"Now. On that screen you’ll find a queue of buttons that need pushing."

"Can I ask you one question?"

"What?"

"Why are we pushing buttons?"

"The Beast works in wonderful ways. We are too small and insignificant to understand His needs. We do whatever He commands us. It’s sufficient that He knows why. Any more questions? I’ve got lots of buttons to push."

"Yeah. You honestly enjoy this work?"

"I do. This is the most honored profession in all Beastdom. And I’m proud to be a part of it. Do you know, only a few years ago the Beast didn’t even swallow black people. And now look -- I’m a buttonpusher, on a management path. You better believe I enjoy it."

I sat down and tried to make myself comfortable. Looking at the top of the button queue, I scanned the keyboard for the equivalent key; but it wasn’t easy, as the floor beneath me was so tilted I had to adjust my eyes, which made me a bit dizzy. After a few minutes, though, I was pushing buttons like a true professional.

It was like a bad TV game show, trying to match the image on the screen with the corresponding button on the keyboard. With hundreds of buttons to choose from, this took some time. But I was getting better, and had made great headway by the time Timmy came again.

"Lunch time," he said.

"Already?"

"Time flies . . ."

"When you’re having fun."

"Exactly."

He led me downstairs through the labyrinth of corridors, elevator banks, and escalators to an immense cafeteria the size of a small town. There were large-screen TVs plastered on the walls, broadcasting an array of sports, music videos, and daytime soaps. The place was arranged something like a food court in a shopping mall.

"Choose whatever you like," Timmy said, extending his arm with a broad smile. "Tex-Mex, Italian, Chinese, Thai, vegetarian, burgers, ribs -- you name it. All compliments of the Beast. Personally, I’m in mood for some fajitas. Care to join me?"

"Let me think it over for a few minutes."

"Suit yourself."

He left, joining a few people he seemed to know well, and I went in the opposite direction. I eventually hit a 50s-themed spot and ordered a cheeseburger and a chocolate malt, and quietly took them to the nearest empty table. As I took a bite, I could see Potocki entering the cafeteria. It seemed as if he were searching for something, so I immediately pretended to tie my shoes, even though they were loafers. I waited almost a minute before carefully raising my head to check if he were still in sight. My eyes instead found a much prettier vision. Standing in front of me was a short blonde-haired woman with the eyes of the deepest blue I had ever seen. She smiled cautiously.

"Is this seat taken?" she timidly asked.

"No. Please."

She sat down, and started sipping her soda as she looked me over.

"You’re a newbie, right?"

"Jake," I replied with a smile, offering her my hand.

She daintily offered hers in return, almost as if she expected me to kiss it. I shook it warmly.

"Sarah. Sarah Goldman. This your first day?"

"How can you tell?"

"The suit. . . . What have they got you doing?"

"I’m a buttonpusher."

"Get out of here!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening. "You’re joking, right?"

"No, I’m not joking."

"I’ve been trying so hard to become a buttonpusher."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a Beancounter."

"What does a beancounter do?"

"We each have this kind of huge abacus. We make calculations."

"What kind of calculations?"

"The Beast tells us to calculate some numbers and we do."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"For what purpose are the calculations?"

"The Beast works in wonderful ways."

"So I’ve heard. But, but why are you using abacuses? There’s computers everywhere."

"The computers can’t calculate numbers."

"But in essence that’s all computers do -- calculate numbers."

"Not here they don’t. . . . How in the world did you get to be a buttonpusher right off?"

"Just luck, I guess."

"You’re being modest. The Beast would never make you a buttonpusher if you didn’t have great talent."

"If you say so."

"I would do anything to become a buttonpusher. Anything."

"Then I’m sure you’ll become one one day."

"Don’t patronize me."

"I wasn’t."

"You were. You were patronizing me because you’re a buttonpusher and I’m not."

"I didn’t mean to."

"Then don’t."

"I won’t."

"You’re cute."

"So are you."

"So?"

"So?"

"So, aren’t you gonna ask me out?"

"Why don’t you ask me out?"

"If you were a gentleman, you’d ask me out."

"Will you go out with me tonight?"

"No."

"Excuse me?" I asked, bewilderedly.

"Tonight’s the big golf match. Aren’t you going to the sports bar to watch it?"

"Ah, no."

"Why not? Don’t you wanna see them hit those little white balls into the holes, over and over again, all night long?"

"That would be . . . no."

"Don’t you wanna be part of the herd?"

"No yet again."

"You’re strange, Jake. Strange, but cute."

I returned to my desk to find a long list of buttons to push, a list even longer than the one I had in the morning. I sat down and got to work; and by a little after five, I had the list whittled down to a few.

"It’s seventeen hundred," Timmy said, peeking inside my cubicle.

"Yes, it is," I replied, perhaps a bit too flippantly.

"That means it’s time to go."

"I still have some buttons to press."

"Push. We push buttons, not press them. And they can wait."

"If it’s all the same, . . ."

"It’s not. This isn’t a sweatshop. The Beast doesn’t care for overtime -- he wants you fresh in the morning. Besides, the golf match is starting soon."

"So I’ve heard."

"Well, you don’t want to miss it, do you?"

"I do."

"You don’t like golf?"

"I don’t."

"That isn’t a very herd-like mentality."

"It isn’t."

"Regardless, I want you out of here in five minutes. Or I’ll file a report."

"Aye, aye, sir," I said, saluting.

He thought about saying something, but instead walked away in a huff.

I finished "pushing" my buttons and began the long trek out of the building. Strangely enough, I had a harder time exiting than entering. I had to call downstairs three times, which greatly displeased the receptionist in the lobby, as he was eager to watch the golf match. When I finally made it downstairs, he was standing by the front door, holding it open for me.

"Come on," he said exasperatedly, "It’s tee time."

I took my time, which made him even more anxious.

We left together and he locked the door. Without saying goodbye, I headed toward the bus stop.

"You want a lift to the sports bar?" he asked.

"No thank you," I replied without turning around.

"But the bus isn’t running."

"What?" I said, turning toward him.

"The big golf match is on!"

"Fine -- I’ll walk."

"But you’ll miss the first round!"

I raised my hand in acknowledgment and continued on. Minutes later, a car slowly came up alongside me. I thought it was the receptionist; and I was about to give him a New York greeting when I saw that it was a red Porsche, or something resembling a red Porsche -- a car certainly far too rich for a receptionist. The car stopped, and I along with it. The passenger door opened and I saw a familiar face.

"Get inside," the antique German man thus spoke.

I looked in both directions uneasily.

"Get inside now," he affirmed.

I didn’t see how it could hurt, so I obliged and entered. The moment I closed the door, it sped off on what passed as a highway.

I looked at the man carefully before it finally struck me who he was.

"Nietzsche?" I asked.

He smiled slightly before turning toward me.

"Friedrich Wilhelm, at your service," he said, briefly lifting his hand off the gearbox and offering it to me.

"But you’re dead -- for more than a hundred years."

"Says who?"

"The history books."

"The history books lie. Supermen never die."

He quickly downshifted to gain speed, in order to jump a steep, twisted hill. He smiled just like a little boy.

"Are you crazy?" I asked, a bit shaken.

"Why did you not jump, Jacob?"

"The name’s Jake."

"Diminutives are for dogs. ‘Come here, Jake.’ ‘Fetch the bone, Jake.’ ‘Good boy, Jake.’ It is time to become a man, Jacob."

"I couldn’t jump."

"Why? What were you scared of?"

"Hurt. Of being hurt."

"So, is it better to be a slave of this, this thing?"

"No."

"Are you ready to jump now?"

"Yeah."

"I do not believe you. I think you like it here."

"I don’t."

"It is comfortable. You are taken care of. Food, shelter -- your future is secure."

"I wanna jump. I want out."

"When you really believe that, I will help you."

He put a CD into the player, as he steadily increased the speed of the car. Grieg’s "Piano Concerto in A Minor" blared from the speakers.

"No Wagner?" I shouted, with a playful smile.

He angrily lowered the volume.

"As you know quite well, Wagner and I had what you Americans call a ‘falling out.’ I still do not speak to him."

"He’s alive too?"

"You know who he is, do you not?"

"Yeah."

"Then, of course he lives!"

Two sirens rang out. I turned around and saw a pair of police cars approaching.

"The Man?" Nietzsche asked.

"Yup. You’re driving too fast."

"No. It is because we are not watching the golf."

He downshifted again and we sped up drastically.

"I love this machine!" he screamed.

"What are you doing? Pull over!"

"‘Pull over,’ ‘Behave,’ ‘Do as you are told.’ This is slavespeak, Jacob."

"Jake! Call me a dog -- but don’t call me by that stupid name!"

He laughed in reply. The two police cars gained ground, and were now right behind us. It seemed Nietzsche had eased up the speed on purpose. The two pulled up alongside us and started jamming us.

"You’re playing with them," I said.

"You think?" he replied, imitating my sarcasm at our first meeting.

The two cars pulled ahead and then came in tight to cut us off, but Nietzsche stopped cold, spun a hundred-and-eighty degrees, and sped off in the other direction while the two police cars crashed into each other.

Moments later, we heard dozens of sirens coming from all directions.

"Now what, Herr Schumacher?" I asked.

"You must believe in the impossible."

We were soon almost smothered by police cars, but Nietzsche drove around, by, and through them as if he were playing a video game. One by one, he picked them off. Some spun off the road, others crashed into each other, and still others simply gave up. Seconds later, we were in front of my apartment.

He stopped sharply and the passenger door automatically swung open.

"Home, sweet home," he whispered, a broad smile plastered on his face.

Without reply I stepped out and grabbed the door.

"When you are ready," he said, feigning a Schwarzenegger accent, "I’ll be back."

"I’m ready now."

The door closed automatically and he sped off. I turned in the direction of my building. All the lights were off.

I was alone.

2

2006-07-15T12:49:00.000-07:00

2

Welcome Aboard

When I awoke, I thought I was in a dream. Or more properly, in a nightmare. I sensed that I was in some kind of hospital room, my arms covered in bandages. But it was no ordinary hospital room.

The entire room seemed to be on a slope. And the walls, the walls were set at acute angles from each other. Even the door was distorted -- its frame was above the floor and not level.

I was drowsy, so I just closed my eyes and hoped it would all go away.

When I awoke again, it was still the same -- except that there was a large, slender minister sitting beside me. He was in his mid-fifties, with light, thinning hair; and he was grinning at me.

"Good morning, Jacob," he said. "Welcome aboard."

"Jake."

"Excuse me?"

"I prefer Jake."

"Jake. Lovely name. How are we feeling, Jake?"

"Terrible. Where am I?"

"Inside the Beast."

"The Beast?"

"Dreadful name, I know. But you see, He’s never given us a proper name. Human nature as it is, we decided to give him one. At first, as you may presume, the name was a bit derisive. But it’s steadily become a term of affection. Yes, we’ve come to love Him. Much the same way hostage victims come have fondness of their captors."

"But what is it?"

"I don’t know. None of us do. All we know is that it exists -- that we are here to serve it -- that it clothes us, feeds us, and protects us."

"It doesn’t make sense."

"Why?"

"I’ve never heard of such a place!"

"And that means it doesn’t exist?"

"How do I get out?"

"You can’t."

"There must be a way."

"There isn’t. Don’t worry, many newbies feel just like you at first. Most grow to at least tolerate it, if not like it. If you make the effort -- if you go with the flow -- you will like it here."

"I won’t."

"That’s a very poor attitude to take on your first day. But perhaps you’re tired. Maybe I should come back a little later."

"No, don’t go. Who . . . who are you?"

"Oh, how rude of me not to introduce myself. My name is Reverend Knickerbocker. Reverend Abraham Knickerbocker."

He took out a card from his jacket pocket and put it on the table next to me.

"I run a church not too far from here. And I’m one of the spiritual advisors."

"Spiritual advisors?"

"That’s right. Our job is to guide the religious life of the inhabitants. I was just reading your profile. From your last name, is it safe to assume that you are of the Jewish faith?"

"I guess you can say that."

"So, should I have the local Rabbi stop by? He could be your spiritual advisor, if you’d like."

"Well, to be honest, I’m what you would call a freethinker."

"Oh, I see. I’m afraid, though, that won’t do. The Beast doesn’t care much for atheists and I suppose He'd look upon freethinkers as much the same. You will have to choose a religion. But don’t worry, there’s nothing dystopian about the Beast -- He doesn’t read or control your thoughts. You’re free to think whatever you’d like. But for appearance sake, you must be a member of a religion, and regularly attend services."

"I don’t know."

"Well, if you haven’t set your mind on any particular religion, perhaps you would consider attending my church. I’d be honored. I assure you I run the most liberal establishment, and a most hip one, if I can say so myself. I’ve got lots of young people your age in my flock. I’d . . . I'd like to think it’s because of my moving sermons, but -- just between you and me -- I think it has more to do with the laxity I take with their -- how should I say this -- moral indiscretions. Yes, I like to see them having fun. And this gives them a good reason to come to church on Sunday -- to extirpate their sins. As Rasputin said, you can’t have redemption without sin."

"I don’t know."

"Well, think about it. The church’s address is on my card. Services don’t begin until noon, so you’d have plenty of time to recover from Saturday evening’s activities."

He slowly stood up, picking up a leather satchel that was lying on the floor next to him.

"I can see that you are tired, so I will let you get some rest. After all, tomorrow’s your first day of work."

"Work?"

"Yes, work. The Beast brought you here to work for Him. From each according to his abilities . . ."

"To each according to his needs."

"Ah, Marx. What a smart young boy you are. We are going to have a jolly time together, for sure. No, not ‘to each according to his needs.’ From each according to his abilities, to each of the Beast’s needs. No, the Beast is no communist. He, in fact, dislikes communism more than atheism."

"What kind of work?"

"Good heavens -- I haven’t told you yet?"

"You haven’t told me anything."

He sat back down and opened his bag.

"I have your file right here."

He took out a manila folder and scanned through some pages. Soon, a big smile came over his face.

"Oh, boy," he said, "aren’t you lucky."

"What?"

"I’m afraid there’s going to be a lot of jealous people around here."

"What?"

"It says here you’re going to be a buttonpusher."

"A buttonpusher?"

"Yes, a buttonpusher! Isn’t that wonderful? My understanding is that’s the best job to have. Some struggle years to become a buttonpusher."

"What does a buttonpusher do?"

"That I can’t tell you. My only concern is with spiritual matters. But I’m sure it’ll be explained to you tomorrow."

He stood up once more to leave.

"Any more questions before I leave you?"

"Well, yeah. The walls, the floor, . . ."

"Why are they so distorted?"

"Yeah."

"This is nothing. Wait till you get outside. Everything’s distorted, including perspective itself. You’ll have to completely rethink how you visualize your surroundings."

"But . . . but why?"

"No one’s quite sure. Most think the Beast was unable to replicate reality as we know it. Not me, though. Something so perfect as the Beast is not capable of such a flaw. No, I think He’s done it on purpose, so that we’ll always understand that we are living in His reality."

I drowsed off almost the moment he left. I don’t know how long I slept, but I slept until I was roused by a nurse.

"What?" I asked.

"You have to go home. Tomorrow you start work."

"Home? What home?"

She pointed to a piece of paper on the table next to me.

"There’s the address of your new apartment. The bus will drop you off right in front of the building. Just show him the paper when you get on. . . . Well, what are you waiting for?"

"Godot."

"You’ll certainly not find him here," she said, smiling, offering me her hand.

I gently grabbed it and she yanked me out of bed. Standing on the floor, I immediately started slipping due to its angle, and kept slipping until I hit the wall. She started giggling.

"You haven’t got your sea legs yet. Don’t worry -- they’ll come."

She took me by the hand and led me into the hallway. The walls were of different sizes and angles. While the right side stayed fairly constant, the left side got shorter and shorter, which drastically affected the lengths of the doors. As we walked, the two sides converged until they met at a single door at the end of the hallway.

"What a strange place," I said as she led me through the door.

"The Beast works in wonderful ways."

She led me outside the hospital. Reverend Knickerbocker was right -- it was even more bizarre outside. Not only were the streets and sidewalks laid like the rooms and hallways, with the same kind of steep acute angles -- converging and diverging without apparent reason -- but the buildings swayed and bent in all kinds of shapes. And I couldn’t even see a semblance of an horizon.

"I’ll never get used to this place," I said resolutely in front of the bus stop.

"Everyone says that. Even me. But you can get used to anything if you try. Just go with the flow. . . . Have you got the paper with your new address?"

I showed it to her.

"Good. The bus will be here shortly. Tomorrow morning at O seven hundred -- we use military time here -- the bus will again stop in front of your apartment. You are to take it to Building D. Have you got that, or would you like me to write it down?"

"I’ve got it."

"Good," she cooed, smiling. "I’ll be going then. Good luck, and welcome aboard."

As soon as she walked back inside, the bus came. It, like the automobiles, were fairly close in design to our own, but with the same sharp angles that were omnipresent. I stepped onboard and showed the driver the paper. He nodded and smiled, and I started walking inside. He grabbed me.

"What?" I asked.

"You must pay."

"Pay? How?"

He took my hand and swiped it across a scanner of some kind. He then motioned for me to continue. I took the first available seat, next to a bespectacled, heavy-set balding man in his mid-to-late thirties. He grinned at me, somewhat menacingly.

"Newbie, eh?"

I nodded and turned away. But almost immediately turned back to him.

"Could I ask you something?" I said.

"Sure thing."

"What just happened?"

"You mean with your hand?"

"Yeah."

"There’s no money here. Or credit cards. Or even IDs. It’s all contained on a microchip implanted in your hand when you got here."

I grabbed hold of my hand and saw a small mark in the center.

"Don’t worry," he continued, "it’s not dangerous. In fact, it’s much better -- no wallets to carry around, much less hassles."

"I don’t like it," I said, my eyes tightly focused on the mark. "How do I get rid of it?"

"You don’t. Why would you? You couldn’t pay for anything without it."

"Pay? Pay with what?"

"Credits. The Beast pays you credits, like a salary. Have they told you what you’ll be doing?"

"Buttonpusher."

"Buttonpusher?" he repeated, clearly startled. "Freshly swallowed, and you’re already a buttonpusher?"

"That’s what I was told."

"I’ve been trying to become a buttonpusher forever. Me -- Potocki’s my name, by the way -- I’m a paperpusher. It’s the worst. I barely clear fifteen-hundred credits a month. Which is nothing. Nothing. I’m swimming in debt; what with a wife and two kids."

"You’re allowed families here?"

"Of course. Having a family grounds you -- everyone knows that. The Beast encourages it."

"Good enough reason, then, not to have one."

"What are you talking about?"

"I want out."

"Out? Why?"

"Why? Why would I want to be a slave to this . . . this thing -- whatever it is?"

The man started shaking his head and I wondered if I had been prudent speaking so openly.

"You’re . . . you’re not gonna tell anyone what I just said, are you?" I asked.

"Tell? Tell who? . . . Oh, I see: you think this is some sort of dystopia, eh? That I’m gonna tell Big Brother on you, or something like that? Even if I wanted to tell someone -- say, to get your job -- there’d be no one to tell. You’ve got this place all wrong. Trust old Potocki -- in a month, you’ll be loving it here. All you gotta do is go with the flow. Go with the flow."

I felt that I should it leave at that. So, I just turned away.

"I didn’t catch your name," he continued, offering his hand.

"Jake," I replied, coolly shaking his.

"Jake? I had a good buddy on the outside named Jake. Man, he’d love it here. Jake, you like sports, eh?"

"Sure, I guess."

"Why don’t you join me for a beer tonight at the sports bar."

"Sports bar?"

"Yeah, there’s a huge sports bar in the center of town. Better than anything you’ve seen. Hundreds of TVs, with every sport imaginable."

"Hundreds? You’re exaggerating."

"Not at all. It may be close to a thousand by now. The Beast really knows how to keep His people entertained. Tonight there’s an auto race on. They just installed this huge circular TV that goes completely around the perimeter of the main room. You can watch the whole race at once!"

"You don’t say," I said, trying hard to drown my sarcasm.

"I say. I say. So, shall we see you there? You can come anytime you’d like -- it runs all night. Over and over again they go, in circles. Over and over. Just thrilling."

"I think . . . I think I’m tired. Perhaps some other time."

"Sure thing. Tomorrow night, there’s golf. All night I’ll be watching them hit the little white balls into holes, over and over again. Hundreds of holes they play. It doesn’t get any better than that."

As he did when describing the auto racing, his head made a wide circular motion whenever he said "over and over."

"Your stop, newb" the bus driver thankfully interrupted.

Without saying goodbye, I stood up and walked to the exit.

"So, shall we expect to see you tomorrow?" Potocki asked.

"Expect," I replied halfheartedly, without turning around.

"Excellent," he exclaimed. "Oh, and Jake . . ."

I stopped at the top of the stairs and reluctantly turned around.

"Welcome aboard," he beamed.

I exited to a maze of corrupted white architecture; a mass of prefabricated slabs of concrete, differentiated only by size and distortion. Some of the buildings bent, others drooped, and still others twisted. They contrasted greatly with the blood red sky, which seemed almost watercolored.

I looked for the address written on the card, but there were no street signs or house numbers. I asked a passerby and he pointed to the building directly in front of me.

As I got closer, I saw the figure of a middle-aged woman sweeping the terrace. I walked up to her and stopped. After a few moments of staring, she finally looked at me.

"What do you want?" she said, rather rudely.

"I . . ."

"What-do-you-want?" she howled.

"I think I live here. Here."

I handed her the paper and she ripped it out of my hands and into the garbage, before unlocking the front door.

"Come."

She led me into a small room on the ground floor, a room filled with electronic equipment.

"Your hand."

"Excuse me?"

She roughly grabbed my hand and forced it into a scanner. My name and vital statistics appeared on a screen.

"Okay," she relented. "You're cool."

"Thank you."

"This is your key," she said, pointing to my hand. "Just swipe it across the scanner by your door. I’m the innkeeper here. Any problems, you tell me. But I should warn you, I don’t like problems."

Mine host then quietly and quickly led me to an elevator bank.

"Sixteenth floor, second corridor on your left, number sixteen," she said, before abruptly leaving.

On my floor, there was a steep downward gradient; and, by the time I reached my apartment, I wondered how I hadn’t hit the floor beneath me. The floor itself was so uneven that I had to hold onto the railing to keep my balance.

My apartment was actually quite nice, in an artificial way -- apart from its distorted shape. Everything looked new and bright, and it was filled with all sorts of new appliances, many of which I couldn’t even guess their use. And every room had a large-screen television, including the bathroom.

I went into the kitchen and immediately opened what I suspected was the refrigerator. It was filled with frozen foods of all varieties -- pizzas, cheesesteaks, fried chicken -- and all sorts of appetizers and junk foods. And plenty of beer.

I next entered the bedroom. The closets were filled with nice clothes -- mostly business casual, but some suits as well. A note was attached on the closet door: "Compliments of the Beast."

"How thoughtful," I whispered, crumpling up the paper and tossing it in a corner.

I sat on the odd-shaped, but comfortable bed and turned on the TV with the remote. There must’ve been at least a thousand channels, all filled with sports, soap operas, and cheap sitcoms. I quickly turned it off and lay down, my head spinning.

What was I to do?

I didn’t have the answer, but I knew "going with the flow" wasn’t it.

1

2006-07-08T11:14:00.000-07:00

1

Devoured

I should’ve jumped.

But someone could’ve warned me. Someone surely knew about it. Someone. Something so monstrous couldn’t go unnoticed. Why didn’t they tell me? If I only I knew, I could’ve prepared myself -- I could’ve changed everything.

Yes, I know it sounds bitter to complain now, but I am bitter. And mad. My whole life was wasted -- a life that had such great promise.

I didn’t have a choice. I swear I didn’t! It drove me against my will; I was a puppet -- a toy.

So naive, I was. I had just graduated college and looked onto the future with eyes aglow. Four years of drunken bliss had cured me of my intellectual curiosity, my radical individualism, and my acute cynicism of all things material. I had become the worm at the bottom of the Mezcal bottle -- soused, ignorant, and innately happy.

And I was indeed happy. I truly was. Oh, those days and nights filled with gleeful debauchery and dissipation. And this, this was to be just the beginning. It was only going to get better. This is what they made me believe.

But they lied.

They cheated me. I really believe that. I was drugged. I was raised like cattle, for this purpose alone. Perfidy. It was all perfidy.

I sit here, years later, my rheumatic legs wading in the murky swamp, waiting for a quick end, and I can remember the night it happened vividly. Could it really have been that long ago? Alas, withered skin never lies.

To think I should end like this. In this miserable dank place. You can call it suicide if you’d like. But I don’t. I died long ago.

I can’t even see my footprints.

O that miserable night! And such a beautiful night it was -- a perfect June evening, just on the edge of the solstice. Only hours earlier my cap had flown capriciously into the bluishness of the sky. My friends and I stayed up into the early morning awash in liquor and hope. We were certain to make our fortunes, and the revelry would continue far into the twilight.

As last call rang out through the bar, our bar, we sang our fraternal ditties one final time, our arms intertwined. Tommy the bartender lined up a row of sambuca shots on the house, in thanks for the many thousands of dollars we had invested over the years. We stepped outside and each of us took a deep breath. The air seemed to smell different.

After much procrastination, I finally took leave of my comrades; but it was not so much of an "adieu" as an "à bientôt"; for, of course, we’d be friends until the end of days.

The sun was only a short distance away when I took my first long steps back home; that is, to my parents’ house. The dew was sweet, the birds were awakening to their songs; and I was high, not so much chemically as emotionally.

And then it happened.

It started off as nothing, something barely worth my attention: a branch snapped.

Of course, nothing to get excited about. Anything could’ve caused it. But then came the footsteps. Louder and deeper they sounded with each step. I stopped and turned around -- a bit uneasily. But there was nothing. It was just an hallucination, I thought -- a remnant of the evening past. I chuckled at my stupidity and continued on.

But the footsteps continued with me. When I stopped, they stopped. When I started again, they started. And with them, I now could distinctively hear a low growl of some sort. It wasn’t a sound I could easily place -- it was neither animal nor entirely human. I was now officially scared. I needed to get home fast. For there would certainly be sanctuary. I instinctively took the shortcut through the woods and started running.

But it followed, running after me. I quickened the pace, but it not only met it, but exceeded it. Soon I could feel its hot breath on my neck. I was frantic with fear. I started screaming for help. But it overwhelmed my cries with an ethereal howl, one that made my entire body bristle.

Then, I felt one of its claws pawing at my shirt. I quickly shot out of its reach, but soon it was again right behind me, clawing at me. It was almost playing with me, the way a cat does with its ill-fated prey. It could’ve had me at any moment.

I looked ahead and saw a giant poplar lying across the path, only a few steps ahead. Though never much of an athlete, I somehow jumped clear of it.

Immediately I heard a loud crack, presumably the knees of whatever was following me. This was followed by a bitter and painful whine. I almost felt sorry for it. But I didn’t turn back. I kept running hard and fast until I was out of the woods.

At the edge of the forest, I doubled over, out of breath. I was wheezing and my lungs burned. But before I could fully recover I heard the howl once more. Again, I sprinted -- this time through the suburban streets of my hometown. I screamed and yelled for help, but the homes remained quiet. My dear neighbors either didn’t hear me over their television sets or didn’t care. Perhaps they were just as afraid of it as I was; or perhaps they were secretly happy that it was after me and not them.

Again, I could feel this unknown monstrosity closing in, reaching for me. Its hot tongue touched my neck, tasting me. I started to lose speed, and hope. And then a car approached in the distance. I ran into the road to stop it, but it kept its speed. Perhaps the driver didn’t see me. Finally, the driver slammed on the brakes, but its momentum carried it into me.

I spun onto the hood, and unto the windshield. Screaming in agony, I looked inside, but could only see darkness. I quickly climbed over the top of the car and jumped onto the pavement. But I landed awkwardly and twisted my ankle. My fear, though, was far stronger than the pain. I ran off, barely limping.

And then I noticed it.

Nothing. Nothing was following, nothing was howling. Did I imagine everything? Did Tommy drop something into my sambucca as a playful graduation joke? I chuckled slightly, but didn’t slow my pace. I wanted home.

I finally reached the threshold of my beloved paternal house, its tall facade towering over me. But it was locked. And I didn’t have a key. I must’ve lost it in the fray. I rang the doorbell and banged the door, but no one answered. Why? Why? I started shouting to the beat of my pounding fists. Someone must be home! Someone!

Then I heard rustling in the bushes. I quickly turned around and saw the silhouette of a man approaching.

"Who’s there?" I asked.

He didn’t answer, but resolutely continued toward me.

A loud howl echoed through the street. I again threw myself onto the front door, but still there was no answer. The man was now only a few paces away. I picked up an old lawn chair and threw it through a window. Jumping inside the house, I cut myself badly on the fragments of glass.

I turned on the lights and haphazardly removed the glass from my arms. The howls got stronger. My eyes darted across the room and caught sight of the family bookcase. Fortunately, there weren’t too many books in it so I was able to easily move it in front of the window.

The howls were now coming from immediately outside.

I burst toward the front door and made certain it was secure. The thing, whatever it was, started pounding on it, shaking the hinges. I threw an end table and some chairs against it, but I knew it was quixotic. I ran for the staircase; but before I had reached the first landing, the front door flew open onto the floor, followed anon by the bookcase.

On the second floor, I ran toward the attic entrance. I pulled the ceiling door open, grabbed the ladder, and started pulling. As usual, it was stuck. I pulled and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. Then I heard the slow, heavy footsteps on the staircase. I ripped the ladder down.

I flew up the steps. At the top, I immediately turned around and started pulling the ladder up. But the monster held the ladder tightly in its grip. I couldn’t see it, but when I heard its first footstep, I ran deep inside the attic.

I came to the small window in the back and tried to open it, but it was sealed shut from years of disuse. I quickly scanned the darkened room and saw a stack of my father’s old business ledgers. I picked up one. It was brittle to my touch, but heavy, and I threw it through the window.

I scampered outside onto the roof -- again cutting myself on shard glass.

Brushing the glass off my bleeding arms, I jolted toward the edge of the roof. But now what? It was a steep drop down, with nothing to grab onto. I heard the thing burst into the attic. I shivered in fear -- there was no more escape.

"Jacob, listen to me," a man shouted from below, with a thick German accent. He was wearing an old-fashioned suit and had a thick mustache that seem to cover most of his chin. His face reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t place it in the shrill of the moment.

"Who are you?" I shouted back. "And how do you know my name?"

"It does not matter. You are in terrible danger."

"Really? You think?"

"Really," he matter-of-factly replied, ignoring my sarcasm. "If you do not do exactly what I say, you will be devoured."

"By what?"

"By the Beast."

The Beast, as he called it, was now pounding at the attic wall, unable to get its mass through the window.

"What is it?" I screamed.

"A vassal of Apollo."

"Who?"

"Apollo. You must understand, Jacob -- Dionysus is your only hope."

"What are you talking about?"

"Did you not study philosophy?"

"For a semester."

"Indeed. Well, then you will have to trust me. Right now you are on the precipice. You can choose either freedom or slavery. Perhaps you do not see it, but between you and me there is a Brücke, a bridge -- take it, and you will join me on the side of Dionysus. He is your only salvation."

"Bridge? There’s no bridge!"

"There is! It is right before you. Look!"

I looked down and saw that my front lawn had disappeared -- replaced by a black emptiness.

"There’s nothing!"

"It is there. All you have to do is jump."

"Jump? Are you crazy -- I’ll die!"

"You will not. You will live forever!"

Just then the wall exploded. Pieces of wood flew at me, almost knocking me over the side.

"You have not much time," he continued. "Jump!"

I didn’t know what to do. I lowered my knees in preparation for a leap, but I couldn’t move farther. I started shaking.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked exasperatedly.

"I’m afraid!"

"Supermen do not fear -- they are feared!"

The Beast slowly came toward me. I turned my head toward it.

"Do not look at it!" the man screamed at me from below. "Look at it and you will be lost."

But as with Lot’s wife, the temptation was too great. I looked directly at it; but I couldn’t really see anything until I let my eyes lose focus. And then I wondered why I had been so afraid. It wasn’t ugly, but instead glittered like gold, and had the sweetest aroma.

"Jump!" the man kept screaming. "Jump!"

But I just smiled.

And then it happened.

I was devoured.

Escape the Beast (DRAFT)

Table of Contents

"Any life, no matter how long or complex it may be, is made up essentially of a single moment--the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is."
--Jorge Luis Borges

1

1

Devoured

Table of Contents

"Any life, no matter how long or complex it may be, is made up essentially of a single moment -- the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is."
-- Jorge Luis Borges

13

13

Waiting

12

12

Normalcy

11

11

Chaos

10

10

Nature Calls

9

9

Welcome Home

8

8

The House of Crazies

7

7

Escape

6

6

Lies

5

5

Render unto the Beast

4

4

Date Night

3

3

The Herd

2

2

Welcome Aboard

1

1

Devoured

Escape the Beast (DRAFT)

Table of Contents

"Any life, no matter how long or complex it may be, is made up essentially of a single moment--the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is."--Jorge Luis Borges

1

1Devoured

Table of Contents

"Any life, no matter how long or complex it may be, is made up essentially of a single moment -- the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is."-- Jorge Luis Borges

13

13Waiting

12

12Normalcy

11

11Chaos

10

10Nature Calls

9

9Welcome Home

8

8The House of Crazies

7

7Escape

6

6Lies

5

5Render unto the Beast

4

4Date Night

3

3The Herd

2

2Welcome Aboard

1

1Devoured

"Any life, no matter how long or complex it may be, is made up essentially of a single moment--the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is."
--Jorge Luis Borges

1

Devoured

"Any life, no matter how long or complex it may be, is made up essentially of a single moment -- the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is."
-- Jorge Luis Borges

13

Waiting

12

Normalcy

11

Chaos

10

Nature Calls

9

Welcome Home

8

The House of Crazies

7

Escape

6

Lies

5

Render unto the Beast

4

Date Night

3

The Herd

2

Welcome Aboard

1

Devoured