Equilibrium

            Sitting assuredly with his hands regally resting upon the arms of the couches, as if to declare unchallenged sovereignty upon the seat, the room, the building and indeed life itself, he crossed his legs, drilled his stare into Parker Wolden’s, lacerated Parker’s carefully layered walls of protection, and stripped him bare and raw for all the world to see.

            At times like these, Parker hated Alex Stroheim. Technically, Alexander von Stroheim. Alex’s full name was almost never used in public, and indeed he referred to himself with the abbreviation, yet it was there, it was always there. For Alex was not merely Alex�"  he was Alexander, charismatic leader and brilliant strategist, wielder of a formidable mind, but also the swordsman of confidence, champion gladiator of panache. When Alex�" no, when Alexander von Stroheim spoke�" he spoke with his ornamental “-ander,” communicated with his gleaming “von,”  and conversed with the deep “a” of his name (pronounced Alex-ohn-der), consciously embellishing his speech with the family jewels of faux enthusiasm and formal diction. But by far, the worst was the silence, the unbearable and insufferable silence. For even in silence, Alexander took his name, present in all its suffocating, tyrannical glory, ready to crush Parker at the slightest hint of questioning das Baron von Stroheim�"  Alexander took his name as a truly worthy king would detach the precarious Sword of Damocles, and, with a flourish, brandish it to invoke the utmost fear in his timorous subjects.

Yes, Parker concluded, even in this silence, his full name was always there.

 

            Alexander could not bear this insufferable silence. This silence, like all silences, taunted him, goaded him with the attraction of a blank tablet, its smooth surface ripe for the sharp etchings of a chisel that would spell out the wondrous achievements of a fearless leader. Strength, as with all demonstrations of excellence, dictated proof of existence, and what is better as proof but the memories of others? But this silence, this mercurial, fickle silence�" it laughed at him, in all its defiant glory. Yes, looking at Parker, squirming uncomfortably in the silence, Alexander was quite aware that, even in silence, he commanded all those around him. But it was not enough. No, Alexander desired more than just submission, deference; he desired complete annihilation, complete destruction, complete and utter superiority. For when did bards sing songs of merely powerful leaders? Their lyres hummed only to the triumphs of the truly legendary. Here he was again, he thought, bombarded by this eternal silence, this silence that laid merciless siege on him, and, Alexander, for all his vain attempts, could not break this silence.

             But Parker, Alexander mused, distracting himself, had no strength at all. Staring into Parker’s eyes, he attempted to imagine Parker as strong, almost like himself perhaps, in both body and spirit, and almost burst into a chortling chuckle. Alexander imagined, in times of trial, crucibles when strength and confidence no longer existed as choices, but rather asserted themselves as imperatives, Parker would submit, like a pathetic fisherman to an impending storm, to the will of the other; in the face of a quite (in Alexander’s opinion) conquerable storm, Parker would back down, pack his bags, and return home starved and hungry. No, Alexander concluded, Parker was not strong. Before he could break this intolerable silence, Parker spoke first.

            “Why did you leave early after classes yesterday?” Parker asked.

            Alexander smirked, confidence in one hand, contempt in the other, ready to once again decimate and conquer. Unconsciously, he had already opened his mouth, assembled his legions of phalanxes, sharpened his spears �"for war, to Alexander, with his calculating intellect, ruthless demeanor, and utter lack of a formidable adversary, was, by all means, a laughing matter�" and could already taste the sweet, viscous ambrosia of victory, poured lovingly into his open mouth by the seraphic goddess Nike.

            But Alexander stopped himself. Why did he leave early from school? He searched his memory, intent on finding this elusive reason. Sifting among his wells of endless, golden memories, he dug, with his characteristic determination, deeper among these jewels, until he found it�" that ugly, crumbling piece of coal. Yesterday, he recalled with a grimace, was not his favorite day. For the last few days, Alexander had been losing his luster: he stumbled awkwardly in endeavors he previously decimated (embarrassed himself in a discussion), speaking less confidently, and had begun to lose some quality about him (he lost the race for Student Council President). Yesterday had marked the beginning of his greatest fear; above all else, he feared decline; descent from his white marble pedestal; to be cast away, forgotten; to die at the moment of death.

            “I had…,” he began, “I had…”

            These words were spoken with a certain ounce of nervous trepidation, a subtle quavering of the voice that weighed down his usual air of arrogant confidence. For the first time in his life, Alexander felt his suit of gleaming, glorious steel crack and shudder from the unbearably heavy ballast of shame; so that he felt a cutting, drilling ocean wind penetrate the crack, the salty spray exacerbating his wound. He was shaking. ‘And from what?’ Alexander thought, doing his best to keep his back straight, his chest forward, ‘From a simple question?’

 

            But Parker knew. He knew the way Alexander usually looked upon him, that strange mixture of parental, fatherly superiority Alexander would often pierce him with. And now, Parker knew, Alexander was struggling. 

            “Me too,” Parker said.

            Parker lied; his day was fine. Even the thought of what just took place, seemed, at the moment, distasteful and alien. He was no liar, but he just lied. Why, then, why did he do so? He looked at Alexander, and was galvanized by the sight; Alexander’s war-worn gaze had softened to that of an almost child-like look of pleading, grateful acknowledgement.

In  that moment, as the effect of the his words solidified and precipitated, the couches and wallpaper and table, and indeed, all else surrounding the two, coagulated to an amorphous mass defined only by its separation from himself and Alexander, a delicate separation that faced the almost certain possibility of engulfment and destruction. But no, this seemingly weak, seemingly ethereal border weathered, suffered, and survived.

           

            There was silence. Something had transpired.

            In the deafening silence, Parker saw Alex, and Alex saw Parker. In this silence, this vast silence that filled the room as the sea filled the world, Parker Wolden became Parker, and Alexander von Stroheim became Alex- but no, there was something more. In this tiny sliver of time, marked tangentially by only two living memories of the world’s seven billion, in this small room, occupying only a few square feet of several quadrillion, Parker Wolden and Alexander von Stroheim both dissolved and dissociated in this churning, whirling, rocking silence, bonded only by a mutual understanding, an understanding so powerful it transcended the plane of the apparent reality and bestowed apotheosis; in that moment, in that billionth of a millisecond, Alex felt�"no, he knew�" he and Parker had finally shed their respective distinctions, and in a process mirroring the legendary ascension of Gautama to Nirvana, they understood.

In this vespertine silence, when the ripples of the consuming waves were just barely visible, so that in a few hours, the sea would be transformed into a frightening expanse of deep indigo, when Alex (Or was it Alexander? Did it matter?) wasn’t quite sure how long the silence had lasted, but it did not matter anymore. Floating peacefully, swaying gently to and fro with the endless, enduring undercurrent of silence, Alexander become conscious of a certain equilibrium, a certain equalization; Alexander understood that he would fade, Parker would fade, and even the seemingly immortal von Stroheim lineage, would all fade into silence; even if he�"the shining bastion, the golden leader�" managed to engrave himself in the tablets of lore or endear himself to generations of bards, that too would, eventually, fade into the waves of silence. But it did not matter. For in the silence, Alex thought, they had each other, and that was enough.

 

Though neither physically vocalized anything, in the face of this vast silence, for the first time together, they spoke.