The Falling Man

A blind man visits a shrink and tells a tale of 9/11.

“I would probably label my sense of humor as deadly.”

“Deadly? As in you could kill people with it?”

“Well, I guess in a metaphorical sense, yes, but I was referring more to the fact that I find the glamorization of suicide pretty hilarious.”

“Hmm, I see. And you say that 9/11 had absolutely no effect on you whatsoever?”

“Yes, of course. If anything, I would probably mark it as one of the happiest days of my life.”

“Really? How so?”

“Well, considering everyone was too busy making such a broad tragedy about themselves, I was finally able to spend some quality time by myself, without any bothersome supervision.”

“So, would you say your attitude towards the tragedy would be apathetic?”

“No, not necessarily. I understand how terrible it must have been for those who were personally affected by what went down on that day, but considering I was not able to physically see those planes crash into those buildings, I can't say that I really understand what all the fuss was about.”

“I see.”

The inquisitive psychologist Dr. Holstad found himself intrigued by the thought process of his current patient, the twenty-two year old blind Lennon Rokuro. In all his years of listening to the same, and by now, cliché problems of the upper class elite of downtown Los Angeles, he was ecstatic to come across such a unique and negatively eccentric character. According to Mr. Rokuro, it was on the start of the new millennium, in front of his grandmother's two story home, situated in the suburbia of Santa Ana, that he lost his eyesight. The ten year old Rokuro and his cousins were playing with illegally acquired fireworks at the time of the “ten-nine-eight” countdown towards the new year, when a sudden flash of light created by one of the tinier pyrotechnic combustibles blinded him for what is seemingly the rest of his life. He explained that his last visual memory was of his largely built cousin Robert pushing him to the ground after Rokuro criticized his recent weight gain by stating “You'll never get any girlfriends by eating all those marshmallows, fatty.” He always suspected Robert of igniting the fire that scarred him for life, but confessed to not caring anymore, as he found dwelling on things to be pointless and energy wasting.

“Well, I guess it would be safe to say that your viewpoint on life is very dark?” questioned Holstad.

Rokuro smirked. “No pun intended right?”

“Oh yes, of course. I did not mean it as a shot at you or anything....”

Rokuro began shrieking with laughter. Although he could not see it, he could feel the nervousness ooze out of Dr. Holstad's body as if it were a syrupy substance unable to decide whether or not it wanted to come out of it's tree in order to become a topping for a stack of pancakes worthy of a hearty lumberjack's breakfast.

“Calm down there Holstad, you should know by now that I don't take stuff like that seriously or personally. To answer your figurative question, yes, my viewpoint on life is very dark. It's rather realistic if you ask me. It saves me the time of having to wade through most of the bullshit other people have to go through.”

“Can you name some of this supposed bullshit?”

“Gladly. For one thing, the previously mentioned 9/11 would be a good one to point out as complete bullshittery.”

“How so?”

Rokuro lifted his legs off of the ground and placed them on top of the violet, c-shaped couch he had been sitting on for about thirty minutes now. He seemed to be thinking long and hard about how to respond. Normally, Holstad would tell his patient to just say what immediately came to mind, but his blatant uneasiness disallowed him from doing so, as he felt that if he were interrupt Mr. Rokuro during his solo cognitive journey, that something very very terrible would befall him.

Rokuro's once playful countenance was gone and all that was left was a face similar to an unsatisfied serial killer. Finally, he lifted his head and blurted out “Accidental terror tactics.”

“What do you mean?” responded a very surprised Holstad.

“Well, assuming those conspiracy nuts are wrong and 9/11 was indeed an attack on our nation from an outside force, our mainstream media, at least from what I was told, did a hell of a job making everyone afraid out of their minds a couple years after that incident.”

“Of course everyone was afraid. We had just suffered the worst attack on American soil since Pearl Harbor.”

“But did it really affect us that much? Think about it. The only reason anyone, this includes society and the world, falls into depression is because the subject allows the bad event that triggers it to bother them, right? Everyone was bombarded with the images of these planes crashing into these buildings over and over again for a couple months. No s**t everyone was afraid it would happen again, because they were shown that image over and over again with no remorse. That is the bullshit I speak of. The lack of sight saved me from having to see, not only the terrible atrocity committed on American soil, but also the train wreck of a society that took form after the atrocity.”

-----

Dr. Holstad lifted his brown clipboard and read one of the notes he had written down during this particular session. “Ask him to describe a traumatic event in his life.” Despite being obviously intimidated by the ominous figure, Holstad decided that it was his duty to really dig into this young man's neural roots.

“How about you describe a traumatic experience to me from your youth?

“Traumatic? What do you mean by traumatic?”

“Well, uhh, as in an event that you felt was a deciding factor in who you are today.”

Rokuro once again smirked followed by an almost inaudible burst of chuckles. Intrigued by the response, Holstad skeptically asked him “What is so funny?”

“Well, I am trying to decide which of the two events that come to mind were more impactful on me.”

“What are the two that came to mind?”

“I am trying to decide whether the day of 9/11 was more traumatic or if the day I first masturbated was more character-shaping.”

Holstad broke character and busted out laughing for a couple of seconds. Taking into account how sickly he was feeling prior to this response, he felt that it was okay for him to let his immature side shine a bit, as it seemed that Rokuro was not taking this as seriously as he originally thought he was.

“It wouldn't hurt to hear both stories!” exclaimed Holstad.

“You sure? I feel like 9/11 has been talked to death by now.” sarcastically replied Rokuro.

“For sure, for sure. You still have plenty of time left though, so go ahead.”

“I guess I'll start with the less graphic one, you know, save the best for last right?”

“Of course!”

Rokuro reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny coin-like piece. It was too large to be any sort of usable American currency and had a brownish tint to it. He held it up to his glossy light blue eyes and rubbed it in between his right hand's thumb and index finger.

“Well, lets see. The date was September 11^th, 2001. I was awakened by my alarm clock that was set to go off at seven in the morning, so I assume that the time was indeed seven in the morning. I smacked the top of my alarm clock and laid in my bed for what seemed a couple minutes because my mother usually came stomping into my bedroom and forcefully readied me for the following day at school. When this didn't happen, I immediately knew something was wrong.

“After a couple more minutes of laying there seemingly helpless, I decided to hell with it, I'm not helpless, so I got up, and stood on my scruffy bedroom carpet floor, barefoot, all on my own. I admit, I was somewhat afraid at the time, as I had not done this before, but with my past knowledge of where everything was and my masterful use of my two hands, I was able to navigate through my room, take out the proper clothing, based on the feel of the material, out of my drawer and closet, and dress myself ready for class. I then walked over to my bedroom door, turned the knob to the left, and walked out onto the hallway. I distinctly remember the hallway's carpet feeling nicer due to the fact that our family recently had it replaced and that my room's carpet was supposedly the next one on the list.

“I traversed through the what seemed an endless hallway and eventually arrived at the stairs that led to the first floor of my home. This is where I really felt fearful as hell, because I had never gone up or down the stairs without someone holding my hand before. I almost decided to stay up there and wait for someone to come get me, but I thought screw it. Worst case scenario, I fall down and break a leg or something. At least all the help would be even more justified then, so I took my first step. It felt like walking off a cliff at first, because the next step seemed like it wasn't there. The steepness scared the hell out of me, but I was relieved when the bottom of my foot finally hit the second step. I sat down at the top of the stares, and decided to make my way down using a technique I refer to as the 'bump a*s' technique, because the way it would work would be that I would place my feet two steps ahead of where my butt was currently placed, and then I would move the rest of my body onto the next step, which would then place my feet on the step in front of me. I kept doing this over and over until I reached the first floor of the house.

“I was then relieved because I knew this part of the house very well, since I spent most of my time down here during the day. Once I made it to the bumpy wall next to the front door, I knew that I need no longer worry. From this point on, I knew this house like the back of my hand, or at least my hand from when I was ten years old. Anyway, I comfortably strolled into the living room where I heard a television set on. It wasn't the noise of the television itself, but the little high pitched noise you can hear when a television set is on. I assumed the television was either muted or on really low volume, but other than that it did not grab my attention too much. The thing that did grab my attention was what I found on the couch when I walked over to it. Normally it would be dry as a granola bar, but not today. There was this moist towel-like thing draped over one of the cushions. It wasn't incredibly damp or anything, but you could tell that some watery substance had been drizzled over it just a couple of minutes beforehand. I lifted it towards my nose and smelled it. It smelled rather salty. Not like Frito Lay Chips salty, but sweat salty. But I could tell it wasn't sweat. Nope, it was definitely tears.

“I dropped the cloth and made my way towards the kitchen. As I grew closer, I could hear the sound of sobbing, but I couldn't make out whose it was. It sounded like a scratched CD, because the same quick and staccato sucking in noises kept repeating over and over again. When I finally made it to the kitchen, I made my way towards the source which seemed to be in the direction of the kitchen table, and grabbed on to the first thing there. It was a person. A person I knew very well. It was my mother. She was sobbing uncontrollably and I had no idea why. I reached over to her shoulder and pulled it into my downward position and then asked her 'What's wrong?'. She bursted into and even louder uncontrollable sob and I suddenly felt rather bad. I wasn't sure whether or not my question worsened her condition or not.

“After what seemed hours of listening to my mother incoherently cry, I finally decided to ask her once again 'What's wrong?'. I was surprised to find that she didn't start huffing and puffing even louder like before this time. She actually quieted down and wrapped her arms around me. She neared her mouth to my left ear and said to me 'Everything is going to be alright, okay son?'. Still utterly unknown as to what she was talking about, I once again asked her 'What's wrong?'. She didn't say anything at first, but then responded with 'Some very bad people have attacked the United States.' I immediately asked her how, and she went on to explain everything that had gone down within the past hour on the East Coast. She explained that two planes had just crashed into the north and south towers of the World Trade Center and another had crashed into the Pentagon. Equating them to the only other thing that I had seen before my eyesight loss that seemed similar, a car crash, I responded with a “Doesn't that happen all the time though?'. She immediately tossed me aside and began discordantly blabbing. I couldn't tell what she was saying at all so I just let her rant run it's course. When she stopped, I decided to take a seat on the table chair farthest from her, in order to be able to stay in the room but also keep a distance from the seemingly delirious mother across the room.

“After a couple more minutes of silence, I suddenly remembered that the new Slayer album was out today and it should of came in the mail. I motioned to my mother by wagging my hands back and forth and she responded with a 'What?'. I asked her if anything came in the mail for me today, for which she quickly responded 'No'. I asked her if she was sure and she angrily shrieked 'No! Nothing important came for you today.' I once again asked her if she was sure, in which she once again shrieked 'No! The only thing that came was trash, which I placed where it belongs.' I felt somewhat disappointed at first, but out of sheer curiosity, decided to check the trash can. My mother was on the phone at this point, so I was able to search it without any sort of trouble.

“I could only feel banana peels and the lot at first, you know, the usual crap in a trash can, but eventually came across a glossy feeling square plate. I felt it up some more and found a small gap between a slim part of the plate and a wider part. It was my Slayer CD. Just as I reached in and grabbed it, I felt a hand pull my shoulder from behind and I made a complete 180, which ended in what seemed a woman's hand slapping me across the face. I fell to the ground, a*s-first, in complete shock. I scrambled all over the floor and when I was able to acquire my CD once again, I got up and ran in whatever direction I was going at the time. Luckily, the direction was towards the living room, which I then ran towards the front door, up the stairs, across the hallway, and into my bedroom. I wasn't sure how the hell I was able to make it there in such a timely fashion, I blame adrenaline now, but it didn't matter at the time so much. I was in my bedroom safe and sound, with my newly purchased Slayer CD. I made my way towards my bed and plopped myself on top of it. I assumed I wasn't going to school today, so I opened my CD and inserted it into the Walkman by my bed, and placed a pair of black headphones around my head. I pressed play on the Walkman and laid on my bed listening to the CD for the rest of the day. I didn't pay much attention to what was being said in the songs at first, as I really liked Slayer's heavy riffing the most, so I didn't realize until my third listen of the second track on the album why my mother had slapped me for taking the CD out of the trash. The chorus of the song that I later learned was titled “Disciple” was the vocalist Tom Araya shouting out “GOD HATES US ALL!” two times. It then hit me. The title of the CD is God Hates Us All. That's why she was angry. That's why she hit me. What a coincidence...”

-----

There was about five minutes of silence after the end of Rokuro's story. Dr. Holstad had no idea how to analyze or respond to Rokuro's story, as he was too immersed in what was going to happen to really write notes that he could of used to deconstruct the story's trauma to it's psychological source. He instead opted to cut the thick tension with an attempt at comedic relief.

“So...how about that masturbation story?”

Rokuro no sold his joke by keeping a stern face after it's delivery. This made Holstad even more uncomfortable then before, which lead to his forehead's perspiration to trickle down and contaminate his left eye with the acidic liquid known as his sweat. He attempted to wipe it out as he glanced at the clock with his right eye. Two minutes left. I'm almost home free he thought to himself. He decided to keep quiet until the time ran out, which would lead him to dismissing Lennon Rokuro, and subsequently writing him off as an irregular client, as he was far too intense for Dr. Holstad. His plan failed, as the silence was broken by Rokuro's sudden and loud cacophonous cackles. Rokuro then ceased his laughter and turned in the direction of Dr. Holstad.

“How often do you masturbate, Dr. Holstad?”

“What?”

“How often do you jerk yourself off?”

“Umm...why do yo..you..?”

“Come on! You're among friend here, how often?”

In a hesitant tone, Holstad reponded with “About five times a week.”

Looking amused, Rokuro lifted himself onto the floor and stood up. “Why do you think you masturbate so often, Dr. Holstad?”

Confused, Holstad could not bring himself to answer Rokuro's question, but after taking a look at his menacingly smirkish countenance, decided to blurt out whatever first came to mind. “My wife only has sex with me on Saturday's. Any other day I'm on my own.”

Rokuro bellowed with laughter. Holstad felt the most embarrassed he had ever felt in his entire life, as he had just confessed to, who pretty much was a complete stranger, one of his most personal problems.

“Stop laughing at me, it's not like you don't do it! Everyone does it!”

“That's where you're wrong pal. I don't. See, that's the difference between me and everyone else.”

“You're lying.”

“I'm most certainly not. Tell me, why can't you just wait until Saturday? Sex on Saturday would surely be much better if you waited to unload until then.”
Holstad immediately grew infuriated and lashed out at Rokuro. “Because I can't wait, alright? It's only human!”

Rokuro gave out a voluminous grunt. One for the ages. “That's the problem. The fact that impatience has become a quality of being human is the problem. I swear, if people stopped f*****g masturbating all the time, this world would be so much better.”

Picking up his traveler's bag, Rokuro stormed towards the door, walked out, and slammed it behind him. Dr. Holstad was in a complete state of chaotic confusion. He did not understand Lennon Rokuro at all. He did not understand his character, his ideologies, or his purpose. Holstad walked over to his desk and picked up list of clients. He grabbed the nearest pen and crossed off the name Lennon Rokuro from the list and chucked it back onto his desk. Holstad was exhausted and only had about thirty minutes until his next client. “Hey, they might be all the same, but at least they're easier to handle” he thought to himself. He walked over to his office microwave, opened it, and shoved in a TV dinner he brought from home.

“God I hate these things, but what can you do?” Holstad said aloud.

He walked over to his office window and gazed upon downtown Los Angeles. The thousands of cars stuck in traffic. The grimy streets filled with a mixture of kind and mischievous people. The piles of smoke flying towards the heavens. Holstad was weirded out by the abnormal emotion he was feeling. He felt melancholy.

Author's Note

This was something I just blurted out within a five hour time period. I feel like I can take the Rokuro character to another level of entertaining, but I just don't know how.