My brain is all wired wrong, but that's how it's been all along

Somewhere behind me, someone is talking about Suzanne Straumburg, and voices all around me drone on in buzzing white noise. I close my eyes and allow the darkness to swallow me. When my lids lift again I am alone in my vintage high-back chair. The wretched voices have faded away, resurfacing only intermittently like the signal from a radio tower just out of range. I wouldn’t mind it so much if they would just talk hard, but they never do.

I sigh, heavy and in fatalistic exasperation. I’ve come to accept the din, though it may be like admitting defeat, but I find I grow choosier about my battles with each passing year. Rationalizations aside, a mounting frustration at my own impotence manifests itself in a furrowed brow and pursed lips, my wrist circling round and round to swirl the crimson spirits within the glass. This is bullshit, and I know it.

My vision begins to lose focus, so I blink to clear my sight. There isn’t much to see here. A dark room lit solely by fire, a window blackened by smoke and moonless midnight, and a wall animated by shadows that undulate with lazy irregularity… an appropriate setting. Dismal, maybe a bit, but suitable nonetheless. I could catch a glimmer of peace if not for those invasive voices.

Like an itch, a whine teases my ear, “grant me faith, grant me fortitude,” and like a dog, acting on an irritable instinct, I scratch at it and shake my head. Beggars with hands out congest the earth, filling the air with a chorus of “gimme, gimme, gimme!” as they stare upwards with abject eyes. I picture the messiah as he walked over palm fronds in feet strapped with thongs.

“Did you start all this?” I accuse him, expecting him to throw up his arms in defense. But he just keeps walking onward, reaching out to the masses as he passes, fingertips brushing theirs as they lean in to try and grasp more. Now Jesus is Carrie Underwood, or Marilyn Manson; the people with their dirtied faces are fans. They still sob, and they still scream, and they are still pitiful.

“No,” I say out loud, sinking back into the chair and taking a thoughtful sip from the glass. “It’s too easy to blame religion. Too unfashionable.”

I sneer at myself. Unfashionable indeed. As if I knew the first thing about being in vogue. But questions of genesis notwithstanding, it’s difficult to stomach the pleading multitudes. Always wanting more, always giving less, always after something for nothing. “There’s no such thing as a free lunch,” another voice declares through a goofy grin. Somewhere, nestled among all those other attitudes, is a barely perceptible nook where I hang my hat.

Determining this train of thought to be a runaway, I leap off. My contemplations turn to matters of the heart, and that inevitable sad smile makes its appearance before fleeing in the wake of a formidable frown. “You were right,” I say, head falling back in admission. “All the great men are disappearing.”

From the shadows she speaks - tone haughty, diction crisp. “Of course I was right. But now look who’s complaining, thou who hast called the kettle black.”

“Hey, I didn’t say I wanted to be given great men… just that I wish they wouldn’t be taken away, lulled into lives of convention.”

Her sharp laugh splits the air. “And you’re so appropriate a judge with the Lacoste polo shirts hanging in your closet, the four different pairs of exercise sneakers, and the organic groceries spilling out of your pantry. Yes, your sailing club paleo fitness-freak life is so edgy.”

“Please,” I say with a wave of my hand, “I’m a chameleon. It’s a passing color.”

Her silence speaks her skepticism. Eventually she communicates aloud, saying, “Light another one,” so I do.

I breathe deeply in, treasuring the ashy assault on my lungs and attempting not to think of how I’ll be cursing this choice on my 5k in the morning. It feels good now. No, it feels phenomenal. I’m not any different from the rest. I prioritize gratification of the instant variety, and forgo pursuing potential offered by the deferred.

“And what is so lofty about your harlequin way of life?” she asks. “Does it not rather illustrate an inability to commit?”

“Commitment shouldn’t be so glorified in the first place. It’s called settling down because it’s settling. The once babbling brook sighing its way into a pond where it sits and stagnates in silence. Decaying is worse than death. That’s not me. I keep flowing. Never stop moving.”

“Babe, oh babe. You stopped moving way back there.”

“That’s cute, coming from the devil’s advocate parroting pop culture. I know you find the notion of settling just as unsettling as I do. You, who preaches the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life, with productive achievement as his noblest activity, and reason as his only absolute.”

“Yes, but with productivity being a main component. Without it, you’ve achieved nothing but hedonistic apathy.”

“Maybe your view of production is through too narrow a scope.”

“Maybe your own view is too narow, to immediately dismiss the possibility that monogamous man could be prolific.”

“It is possible that he could be prolific. But prosaic all the same. What makes achievements meaningful? Demonstration of quantifiable progression. Assuming any growth occurs that then results in some manner of creation, there will be in it no deviation or depth of development. It is our interactions with others than bring about diversification.”

“Is it only sexual interactions with others that offer that benefit? Couldn’t you reap the rewards of intermingling with others without violating the sanctity of a marriage?”

“Leave it to someone born in the first decade of the 1900’s to view this in black and white. No, of course sex isn’t mandatory. But the amount of another’s influence that is necessary to induce growth entails certain levels of intimacy and coalescence that can’t be attained while in good conscience claiming fidelity. The two can’t coexist. The parameters of the traditional relationship are too rigid and limiting.”

“So your claim is that personal growth, once resigned to permanent monogamy, is stunted at best, and eliminated on average.”

“Simply put.”

“An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way.”

“Polly want a cracker?”

I expect her to roll her eyes, but her face remains that maddening shade of stoic. I should have known it would be a fool’s errand to bait her with juvenile taunts. To console myself, I lift my cigarette for another hit, only to find with dismay that it has gone out. Proof positive that I’ve been talking too much.

“Jeer all you like,” she shrugs. “Rain derision on those you declare to be disappointments. You keep going, keep outlasting, continue on, conquer all, and bask in the glory of your Pyrrhic victory.”

Knowing full well that I’ll rue it, swallowing her bait as surely as she dismissed mine, I brace myself and ask, “Pyrrhic how, exactly?”

“How confident are you that you truly believe what you say? What are the odds that these assertions are simply a materialization of your regret and envy? When you are lying alone on your death bed, do you suppose you will still laud your choices, or do you think the veneer of superiority will have faded by then?”

I want her to shut the fuck up, but instinct tells me that by saying so I’ll be tipping my hand, revealing some chink in my armor. Let her know she’s touched a nerve and she’ll probe each lobe until the whole brain liquefies. I click my tongue as I examine the burned-out cigarette and roll it between my thumb and forefinger. Emotional reactions never fail to interfere with decent discourse.

“Nothing is out of the realm of possibility,” I finally respond, wincing at the inadvertent evasion within the concession. I all of a sudden feel cheap and painted.

“It seems ridiculous to reward confidence with anger.”

Now I really want to let fly the obscenities of spoken skirmish, but instead I flick the cigarette stub into the fireplace and smirk as the paper flares, mimicking my temperament.

“If you’re going to quote me, you could at least use something I’ve written well.”

A slip of a smile plays across her lips as she says, “I’d have to find something that fits that description first.”

Genuine laughter ripples through me and I nearly spill my wine before I collect myself again.

“Oh, A.R. Who knew such a solemn political theorist could be such a comedian?”

Not so much as a ghost of her erstwhile smile lingers on her lips now, and she is as silent as the grave. That one was a direct hit, though it was aimed at low-hanging fruit. Nicknames just rub her all wrong. There’s something about dead people and being stalwartly respected. Don’t like being spoken ill of, either, but I could never see why I shouldn’t call a spade a spade just because it was feeding the worms.

She’s fading now, and I can still make out her scowl until the very last speck vanishes.

“Good riddance,” I say, but I don’t mean it. After all these years, she’s the closest thing to you that I have. A challenging contender is a rare thing to say the least.

I wonder if maybe she isn’t playing aloof, ready to snap back into the room with a witty rejoinder. I clutch the chair’s arm with tensed fingers. I chew my lip. I listen with ears straining, breath held.

Not a word is spoken.