The Underground Man

True Dostoyevskian social incompetence and teeth grinding. A music theorist deals with his inability to deal with social norms and women, trying to find a medium that will allow for his aquisition of the 'Balancing Archetype'.

Well, for one thing I am Fyodor Dostoyevsky, it�s just that I�m happening a century and a half after myself as a genius Russian author. I wrote Notes from Underground, and for eighteen years I�ve been quoting it the same way Billy Graham tosses around Bible verses (actually I�m twenty one years old, allow for three years of not talking). Yes, I am indeed a very spiteful man.
Playing six month old guitar strings and making psychedelic free-jazz is probably the greatest thing for a genius author to do. I obviously already have conquered the literary world so now I�m destined to make John Coltrane a second rate jazz musician. I�ve made it a point to be honest about the fact too, and if you thought John Coltrane�s Interstellar Space was as unfriendly as possible to the casual listener we need to sit and listen to my twelve CD boxed set over a pumpkin spice latte. I have a strange obsession with pizza and broccoli too, so perhaps that will be our main course as we indulge ourselves in my psychedelic free-jazz. You�ll hate it, but I�m the gatekeeper so I can do whatever I want and be amazing.
Being a genius, I am the most awkward person you will ever find at a frap party. I hate alcohol (it�s the worst thing to ever happen to the white man other than myself) and I am unable to attend a party without making everyone feel genuinely awful. I purposely spill beer on the drunkards and laugh at them for being idiots, and then I proceed to tell each individual present in depth, one at a time mind you, that there are twenty-thousand alcohol related deaths excluding accidents and homicides every year. That gets followed up by following my victim for seven or so minutes delivering every fact and statistic I can think of to appeal to their immediate reform. I wreck parties, and despite never receiving invitations I know where they are and I purposely go to ruin them.
Despite the pleasure I take in being phenomenal and arrogant (simultaneously to their fullest potential), I hate my disease of being socially incompetent. Once I tried to play music in a coffee shop and I was told never to come back. My strings were newer then, and that is when guitar strings sound their best. For the ninety-eight percent of mankind that I don�t care about that is perfectly fine that I am unapproachable, but there are some people I want to be able to reach out to.
This leads me to what is now my current dilemma.

As strange as I may be, I still have hormones. That isn�t a bad thing either, I deserve to have lots of sex for being a genius and the gatekeeper, but not in the male chauvinistic way that males have sex. There is this one person that must balance me out perfectly and I need her very much for my thought process to be complete, and we must have lots of sex. It�s essential.
Intuitively I know everything about the perfect ball of energy (also called PBOE, my name for this girl who is the balance of myself). This girl has to avidly listen to Phish, play the violin, have earthy brown hair, acknowledge my being the pinnacle of human consciousness as the gatekeeper, and be somewhat outgoing as to initiate conversation. I also know what her voice must sound like, how she carries herself, and what sort of name she has. Contrary to the way I am portraying myself I�m not the least bit mad, in fact I am the closest thing to sanity since Timothy Leary. That man was dope.
I have met several people that match the profile of the PBOE, but most of them I have been too scared of to approach. There hasn�t been any progress with the ones I have been able to approach because by the time I�m standing in front of them and have their attention, I am blushing profusely and cannot so much as utter a squeal for the mouse I am. After humiliating myself I go home, crawl in my mouse hole, and grit my teeth. It is an insult that I, the gatekeeper and pinnacle of human consciousness, can play within the esteemed Coltrane Matrix and I can�t so much as pick up a girl. I am a sick man.
Every Monday Boaz and myself go to a local coffee shop where there is a girl who matches the complex of the PBOE to a tee. She is gorgeous, and Boaz talked to her the last occasion we went to this particular coffee shop at my request. I want very much so to make love to this individual.
Boaz smiles every time we reflect on these instances.
�She listens to Phish, Jachin.�
Intently I standup and shout for joy with all of the energy of my consciousness. She listens to Phish, has natural brown earthy hair, and she laughed when I made an obnoxious joke about being the gatekeeper of the universe (despite the fact that I was not joking, I am the gatekeeper, I was simply being obnoxious at that point in time). If she does not play the violin I am as cursed as I am a sick and diseased man.

Boaz is the other gatekeeper. No one believes in our gatekeeperness and being the pinnacle of human consciousness except for the PBOE, who already intuitively knows everything about me and understands her place in the universe as my balancing force. When I try to explain this to other people they always miss the most important aspect of the PBOE which I will call your attention to now, and it is that the woman, not the man, holds the power. I�m sure it seems strange that I, a male, would be the gatekeeper and I agree with you, but to properly understand the system of the gatekeeper it is also crucial to understand that I was supposed to be a female, as was Boaz, but there was some confusion when we reincarnated as humans.
        Regardless though, we must find our PBOEs and make love to them. This coffee shop is a wonderful place where I enjoy reading books over a latte when I am in the mood to withstand words. I don�t like words, and the reason I don�t like words is because I don�t like definitions. I hate defining things so some yuppie can think I meant one thing or another. I hate talking.
        This girl, the potential PBOE that works at this particular coffee shop, just started two weeks ago. I have never spoken a word to her because I am shy and spiteful, and every night after sitting for some hours in the coffee shop rationalizing to myself why it is I mustn�t talk to her I grit my teeth and think of why I am such an insect (though I could not even become an insect), and I acquire a such a toothache I yell and scream and keep everyone in my house up at all hours of the night because of my misery. And it isn�t that I don�t want to talk to this individual, it is that I am so awkward and scared I run away from every available opportunity to be with this individual to my mouse hole. I am a sick man.
        That is where Boaz and myself concocted the perfect scheme to entice me to speak to this individual while on a *mutual coalition of archetypes (*I despise the term date). The plan was two fold, and reflected my utmost genius. Boaz would invite this individual to attend a mutual coalition of archetypes with him, and instead of him showing up at the meeting place, I would. I also thought over my inability to speak, and I developed a system of note cards to communicate with this person. What would happen was I would go to the restaurant where she was to meet Boaz, and at her table lay down the first note card. The first note card reads: �I am dreadfully sorry, but you have been tricked. Please do not be angry (though you should have quite a reason to be), but this must take place for the balancing of the universe.� Then she would look at me either puzzled or mortified (probably both) and I would already be holding the next card.
        I then would flash through a series of cards one by one, and afterwards allow her to take the situation one way or another. Stay and initiate conversation or leave. The only thing that could possibly go wrong was the possibility that she might not want to go with him on a mutual coalition of archetypes.
        Thursday of that week, Boaz upheld his part of the plan. They chatted and he asked her to attend a mutual coalition of archetypes with him. There aren�t words to express the nervousness I had watching them.
        �Well?�
        Boaz grinned and sat down to his caramel mocha.
        �Went off without a hitch. The Tai restaurant by Borders on Thursday at seven.�
        �A toast?� I asked, holding my cup partway off the table.
        He held his coffee up high between the two of us and we spoke softly.
�To the gatekeepers,� we both proclaimed under our breaths, and our lids tapped each other as we each took a fierce gulp of our drinks (over which Boaz toasted his mouth). That night of course I laid in my bed and reviewed all of the situational problems I could encounter and grit my teeth over being merry in the coffee shop like a drunken familiar. Phase one had gone off though, as anticipated.
Thursday, I was sitting in my car at the Tai parking lot at six thirty, watching. She came fifteen minutes early, as I had anticipated (females seem to be so much more punctual than males), and went in directly. Immediately I had a headache.
At five after I managed to drag myself in, terrified, and quite red. I told the waitress at the door that someone was already here and waiting for me, and after briefly describing the girl the waitress pointed me back to a solitary corner on the other side of the restaurant.
It was quite warm in the restaurant, and perhaps if the temperature had been down another five degrees I would not have had the embarrassment of sweat dripping down my face. I also was having trouble walking strait and found myself bumping into chairs and tables. Several things fell over as I bumbled my way to the table and was terribly embarrassed each time she looked up at me from her table.
I threw the note card on her table (and it landed on the chair on the opposite side of the table, so I had to pick it up and set it in front of her). She looked at me puzzled, without reading it, and I stood with my head down, staring at the note card, avoiding her gaze. My right arm�s shaking was only making me look more and more ridiculous.
That was when she did something completely unexpected and I had never been able to account for it. She completely disregarded the note card and started to talk.
�You�re Boaz�s friend, aren�t you?�
I immediately looked up, though not at her, and puzzled I stood and thought out what I should do. I was in complete terror, and improvising conversation was completely out of my league. There was only one thing to do. I pulled out my note cards, scribbled �Yes I am� on the back of one, and held it out just as I had planned for the others.
�Why are you writing things on note cards and showing them to me? Can�t you talk?�
Immediately I lit up, as much as I could light up situation providing, and saw the potential to pull the situation back into some order. I shook my head no and held out the third card from my sequence. It read: I am very nervous and probably blushing because I am so shy. I am too shy to be able to speak with you, but I must so I have written what I would like to say on these note cards.
�Why do you have to speak to me?�
I shuffled through my note cards and pulled out the second.
"I am searching for the individual that would balance me out. You match the balancing complex."
She smiled deeply and her facial expression changed to a more playful look.
�I do?�
I nodded my head to her yes.
�So, your friend set me up on a date with you?�
My hand gestured that she read the note card in front of her (the one I originally had set down) but she brushed it off the table.
�I want to hear from you,� she said.
�That is from me, I wrote it.�
�I can�t hear it from a note card, I have to hear it from you.�
Perfectly embarrassed, I sat down across from her. She was playing me like a rag doll.
�Alright, please don�t be angry; yes he did.�
�He did what?�
I choked. It was obvious that I was a puppet and I knew it, but I was too scared to leave.
�He knows you have the matching complex, I told him the first time I saw you. I created this giant scheme and he was the one to set up the mutual coalition of archetypes.�
She laughed.
�What is so humorous?�
She laughed harder, and I looked down, completely puzzled.
�You. You speak so properly and refuse to talk about anything common in a common way.�
She continued laughing.
�Do you find that to be humorous?�
�Yes, of course, it�s adorable. Don�t take offense, it�s impossible to not laugh, but it is simply so incredibly awkward. I listen to you and your friend every time you are in, and it�s so entertaining. Annual linear acknowledgement day, perfect ball of energy, and now mutual coalition of archetypes: that�s classic.�
�You know what they mean?�
�Yes, of course. I have my own names for those, like your perfect ball of energy is my complementary archetype. Annual linear acknowledgement day I know is birthday, and mutual coalition of archetypes is your pseudo-phrase for date.
�So you understand us?�
�Yes, any intelligent individual can figure out what those mean. Perfect ball of energy is the exception, but I�ve heard the both of you use it in context dozens of times so I figured it out. I also know you love Phish, play jazz, and think you are the incarnation of Fyodor Dostoyevsky.�
�I am the incarnation of Fyodor Dostoyevsky.�
She continued to howl in fits of laughter at the expense of reddening my countenance, and I sat back completely perplexed. Finally I interrupted her laughter.
�What is your name?� I asked.
She slowed down, holding her chest, and asked me to repeat her question.
�What is your name?�
�My designation,� she said, laughing again, �is Hannah.�
�Do you per chance play the violin?�
Hannah eased her chest and eventually managed to calm down enough to answer.
�No, I don�t like instruments.�

Author's Note

Sad thing--a true story. I know this freak.

Reviews

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This was pretty funny and I got a kick out of it. I did enjoy the Trane references, being a jazz head myself. Though it was quite appalling to me to have him called a "second rate jazz musician." This was a great character portrayal. He is thoroughly detailed and described in a fashion that is neurotic enough to be catchy. His obvious deficiencies contrast so well with his opinion of himself that it creates a wonderful dichotomy that shows his naivety. It's what makes him accessible as a character and not jut pure annoying. I really enjoyed reading this.