Gregorian

Gregorian Let’s get the time straight. We’re now directly after my confrontation with Faust, where she accused me of f*****g, and I discovered her betrayal. All of that happened after the night with Kate, when we didn’t f**k, and she told me all about St. Hill. Do you like how I weaved those things together? I don’t care. That’s where we pick up. Me caring less and less about strict business or guidelines that must be followed. Faust just dropped me off, again, in the Lark and Him neighborhood. Who knows where she’s been going while we separate? After the accusations, the lies, and our silently hostile ride, I am plenty satisfied to not know. I walk for the third time as if approaching the Lark door, then turn on the sidewalk. I pass the Him house, which appears all bolstered down and quiet. I stop at the third house in line, to the right of the Him’s. The mailbox says GREGORIAN. The Gregorian house looks best kept of all. The grass clean shaven, siding and porch well painted, swept, and straightened like braced teeth. The windows are clean, the doorknob shiny. Not a leaf litters the area. Perfect containment. I step up to the door, and give a solid knock. I wait only a second before hearing scuffling inside. Someone hurries to answer the door. A man. “Hello,” I say. “You may call me Zeal. I am here . . .” I am not interrupted. Rather, I trail off, hoping the man to say something, anything. He does speak, although clearly flustered. Nervous, I’d say. He says, “You can call me . . . I guess, ‘Mr. Gregorian.’ May I let you inside?” I nod. “Yes, sir.” And walk in. Inside, the house is as neat as I would expect, following the observations outside. Mr. Gregorian, still nervously, leads me into a sitting room. The chairs are all soft and appear brand new, as though never used. I compose myself, while we each take a seat across from one another. I wonder: how will I begin my speech today? What point shall I plant first? I’ve noticed plenty of details about Mr. Gregorian. How to put them to use? I find I’m not as quick on my feet as usual. I stare blankly just to the side of Gregorian’s head, towards a wall, and let out a low “hum” noise as I imagine talking. All in all, I just feel the urge to sigh a lot. Just then, Mr. Gregorian perks up. I would say, drawing from my experience in dealing with people, he is acting. He didn’t really “just recall” whatever will soon follow. He says, “You know, there’s something I’d like to show you. Please excuse me.” And he leaves the room, walking quickly. He returns with a couple of crumpled pieces of paper. Pencil drawings. Decent ones. He flattens one piece, and holds it out in front of him, so I can see. This is what I see. A small scale painting near the top right, heavily detailed, of a stone decorated wall. Little pieces of flat stone, slid near each other like a puzzle. A little ways next to that little painting, I see a finely detailed, circular clock. Below the little painting and the round clock, I see a tall rectangle. Inside the rectangle, I see a tree, and a distant house. It’s a window. I look up from the drawing, and see that the entire thing is a replica of Mr. Gregorian’s wall. “Very nice,” I say, as sincerely as possible. He says, “Here’s another, it kind of goes with the first.” He holds the second crumpled paper before me, and I see an enlarged version of the small window. He says, “It’s from the perspective of standing at the window, there.” He beckons towards a window just behind my right shoulder. “Yet again, Mr. Gregorian, very nice indeed.” Gregorian smiles eagerly. “I have something else,” he says, and swiftly leaves again. This time, he reenters the room with a tiny radio-looking device. A music player. “I’d like you to hear some of my favorites--songs, I mean . . . you know.” “Absolutely,” I say, still sitting quite relaxed. He presses a button or two, and a quiet tune fills the room. I say, “Very attractive music.” He nods. I’ve made a decision. I say, “So, Mr. Gregorian, have you lived here very long?” “Since birth. Forever.” “You have a beautiful home. Eternity has served you well.” He nods. The music plays. I say, “I visited with your neighbors, the Hims, for breakfast yesterday. They’re pretty nice people. We talked a lot about their children. Do you have any?” “No,” he says. Mr. Gregorian, I ought to point out, is quite older than myself. Not as old as Meric, but close. I carefully say, “Did . . . Did something happen? To your . . . To a family?” “Nothing happened,” he says. “I’ve never started one. There isn’t a family here.” I nod slowly. The music stops. Mr. Gregorian bursts out with, “S**t! Oh!” And runs from the room. He returns a few minutes later with a tray of two glasses, a pitcher of something to drink, and some kind of pastry looking food. “Please,” he says forlornly. “Please, please forgive my language, and my tardiness. I completely lost track of what I should’ve done for a guest. And please again forgive my language. Things hit me so hard, sometimes.” I say, “It happens. Thank you for the refreshments.” So I refresh myself, while Gregorian restarts the little music player, and a second tune kicks in. I say, “Did you choose not to start a family?” “I might have,” he says, “but I really don’t know. I’ve always been very afraid to not live up to somebody’s standard. It’s such a huge choice for the other person, to say they choose you to be their most important person. I’ve never been able to live up to that. Maybe I’ve never tried properly.” Sipping my drink, I say, “Well. I am glad you are comfortable enough to say such personal things.” But, let’s be honest, this guy looks far from comfortable. He does, however, still look nervously happy. If I drew from my people-experience, I would say Gregorian rarely has a visitor. And of course, this isn’t a rare type of person. You’re likely not surprised, and you may be feeling somewhat sad for the man. Let’s continue . . . “It’s too late now, anyway. Plus, I have plenty of things to occupy my mind.” “Like music,” I say. “And drawings.” “Of the wall.” The sound clicks off. He asks me, “Is the drink OK? Everything?” “Yes, very much so.” I say, “So . . . You might or might not have made a decision to not begin a family. You’re living--I think we can make that claim--and you sure seem to be cozy--” I include that, and I notice he reacts positively at the word; however there isn’t really a cozy element going on here. I am allowing him to think so. “--And I applaud you for all of it.” I say, “I, also, have never started a family. Time is slipping away for me, like it did for you. But I feel the decision has been made, something you perhaps identify with also. “I’ve got things to occupy my mind, too. One really big thing. And really big things tend to get in the way of choices.” That really big thing, which I won’t define for him, I will for you. It is the Good fight. Maric, Faust, all of that. Gregorian says, “I’ve never felt the ability to be a participant. I don’t do as well as I’d like on my own.” I understand. When you have something, someone, standing over you, you have a connection. You have that. That’s it. That’s the connection. So there. Once it’s you and you’re it, you don’t feel like you can feel anything at all, when you picture it disappearing. Without the Good fight, I would be nothing. But the fight disappears more by the minute, and I am becoming more. I am making decisions. No hurt comes as a result. And for the first time . . . ever, I am looking forward to something. I am looking forward to the evening, when Kate takes me to a beautiful place. Everyone should take someone to such a place, and be satisfied. Calm. Breathe easy. In due time, Gregorian asks me, “Anyway, did you have some kind of objective in visiting me?” And I say, as per my decision earlier: “Just to become your friend.”