In Search of Himself

In Search of Himself

A novel by:  J. Russell Rose

 

 

 

 

 

He awoke that Monday morning – a lifetime ago now, it seemed; in another man’s world; in another man’s house; wearing another man’s beige silk pajamas.   He tried sitting, only to be greeted by a sudden sickening pain in the back of his head, which caused him to question the wisdom of any movement.

After several minutes, he opened his eyes again; very slowly this time, and only when the pain had subsided sufficiently to make the effort possible.  He surveyed the darkened room – a living room.  He was lying on the sofa, in what seemed to be the approximate center of the room, facing a dark cold fireplace.  Hints of the bright sunlit day outside slipped in around the edges of the heavy draperies on the windows.  No other light was visible.

With sudden ear-splitting shrillness, a phone came to life in the darkness, causing him to clasp one hand over each ear pressing in hard, praying that the pressure and the noise baffle would prevent his head from exploding with each ring.  He sighed in relief when an answering device stopped the sound.

“Hi.   This is Laura.  Phil and I are not here at the moment.  Please leave a message…”

“Phil.  Are you there?  It’s me.  I’m sorry for leaving without talking to you.  It just didn’t seem there was anything further to say.  I thought I could catch you before you left this morning, but, I guess not…” 

Silence returned as the voice of the caller trailed off. 

“…I’ll talk to you later.”

Confused and disoriented, he tried rising again, this time with a little more success and a little less pain, bringing his body to a seated position.  He didn’t recognize the voice on the phone and he didn’t know anyone named Phil.

Whatever was going on and how he got here were a total mystery.  He sensed there was probably no one else  in the house – though he couldn’t be certain.  And, he felt no particular threat or danger - after all he was wearing silk pajamas.  Whose they were, though, and how he got into them were questions yet to be answered.

He gently placed one foot on the floor; then the other.  Just as he felt sufficient bravery to stand, once more the phone came to life, sickening resounding shock waves raced through his throbbing head.  He gasped as he grabbed his ears again.

The same message as earlier was followed this time by, “Phil, it’s Barry.  Goddamn it Phil, where are you?  You were supposed to be here already.  Call me.”

Overcome with a flood of nausea, he forced himself to stand.  He knew he was going to be sick.  Hoping he could navigate the spinning room and find the bathroom before it happened, he groped his way toward the darkened interior of the house.

His reward for the arduous quest, the cold tiled floor, soothed his burning feet as he stepped from the thick carpet of the hallway into the large bathroom.  The unknown troubling contents of his stomach having left his body, he turned on the shower and stepped into the icy cold spray, first giving his body another momentary shock, then followed by soothing relief from the nausea.   He stayed in the shower for what seemed a very long time, alternating the cold water with very hot, letting the steam open his head and body pores at the end.

Shaky, but feeling less pain, he stepped from the shower and wrapped the large towel around his waist after rubbing his head and body hoping to stimulate enough blood flow to his brain so as to figure out a few dozen things – not the least of which were: who he was; where he was; and how he had gotten here?

TWO

 

 

The United Airlines jet left the runway and taxied toward the terminal as the announcement came.   “Ladies and Gentlemen, on behalf of United and your flight crew, I would like to welcome you to Chicago’s O’Hare airport.  We hope you have a pleasant stay in the “Windy City.”  The current local time is eleven-thirty seven.  We do ask that you remain seated with your seat belts fastened until the aircraft has come to a complete stop at the terminal.  Again, thank your for choosing United.  Have a pleasant day.”

She wondered how these people could repeat the same messages, flight after flight, day after day, without   relaying their inevitable boredom.  She smiled to herself, glad that something had finally broken the thoughts, if only briefly, which had dominated her mind for the past three hours since she left Richmond International Airport, a place which would always be to one area native – Byrd Field, on her flight to Chicago, with a brief stop, since when was an hour and a half a brief stop, she truly wanted someone to tell her, at Dulles Airport in northern Virginia.

She could hardly believe she had left in such a manner.  Turning her back on her home on the James River; the house she and her husband had planned, room by room, and seen built together;  choosing every item from siding, widows and doors, to carpets and wallpaper.  Tiptoeing out and closing the door quietly behind her, she took one last look out over the wide lazy river, breathing in the humid morning air.  This really  was not her style, she told herself.  Everything she had ever done in her entire life was done with flair.

Now she was ending her twenty-five year marriage by sneaking out of the house and leaving her husband sleeping on the sofa.

It had to be that way, she reasoned.  Otherwise, she wouldn’t go.  She had actually thought, even hoped, he was not in the house when she got up.  But then she saw him when she went into the kitchen.  She walked over and instinctively covered him with the afghan from the back of the sofa, wondering why he hadn’t gone in the guest room as usual.  She wasn’t surprised at how soundly he slept considering the amount of alcohol he had apparently consumed, both, before she came home and probably after she went to bed.  Strange though, she thought, she didn’t remember his having on pajamas when she went to bed.

She shook her head forcing her mind to concentrate on the present; trying to focus on the task of weaving her way through the throng of travelers and finding the signs for the airport exit and the waiting queue of taxis.  Her sister had offered to pick her up, but she really didn’t want to see anyone yet.

“Thanks,” had been her response.  “But I can get a cab.  I’ll call you later from the hotel.”

“But, I thought you were going to stay with us.  Jay and the girls are really looking forward to seeing you.”

“This is just for a couple of days.  Till I get situated at work.  Then I’ll come out and we’ll see.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.  I’ll call you later.”

“Well.  OK.”

The bright sunlight of that April morning streaming in through the glass of the airport lobby was quite deceptive she realized as she left the terminal building, only to be greeted by a blast of Lake Michigan wind that confirmed she wasn’t in the sunny south anymore.  She questioned anew her decision to take the job she was offered here rather than the one in Dallas.  She hated the cold, in general – she always had, and she never really liked Chicago.  But, like it or not, here she was.

The yellow cab pulled away from the curb quickly and headed for downtown and the destination she had given the driver.

She replaced the hotel phone in its cradle, having left her brief – if unfinished message on the machine, walked to the window and looked out at the skyline and the choppy gray waters of Lake Michigan in the distance.

Laura Martin was about to begin her new life; a new job in a new city.  She missed Richmond already;  the azaleas were nearly in full bloom and the iris gardens were adorned with every color of the rainbow.  However, she had left all that and more behind.  Unfortunately, all of a sudden, she wasn’t sure she was up to the challenge of a new life.

She recalled when she first met Phil Martin.  He was brash, arrogant, self-sure, cocky and at the same time, somehow quite boyishly charming.  She had never been able to reconcile these different parts of his personality, but they were all there.

She was sitting in the student union building drinking coffee, cramming for some exam – she couldn’t remember which, when a trio of noisy students, whom she had noticed and avoided previously, came into the lounge.

The scene was always the same:  the one in the middle – the curly headed guy was always holding court in whichever corner of the room they commandeered.  His adoring fan club, usually two or three, never more than five, seemed to hang on his every word, laughing appropriately at each witty remark and put down.

Well today should prove interesting, she thought, all the corners were taken.  Now what will they do, ‘poor things’ she thought to herself, with a slight twinge of evil glee.  Why this guy, whom she had never met, should bother her, she could not understand.  There was just something about his manner, she thought returning to her study.

“Excuse me,” someone said in her direction breaking into her thoughts.

“Yes?”  She responded looking up from her book.

“Are these seats taken?” 

She had to stare for what seemed an unusually long time trying to process the question.  “I’m sorry?”  She shook her head trying to focus.

“I said , are these seats taken?  Do you mind if my friends and I sit here?”

“No.”  She responded, regaining her composure, gesturing and moving a book from the side.

“It isn’t usually this crowded here.  My name’s Phil, by the way.  I don’t think I’ve met you before.”

“I’m Laura.”

“Well, hello Laura.  This is Rich and this is Teddy.”

Both smiled as if on cue.  She smiled briefly before returning to her book.  They sat down, bumping the table several times and spilling her coffee in the process.  Without apology or even apparently noticing, they resumed the previous conversation as if it had never been broken.

Snatches of what was actually a monologue from the one named Phil, the others only laughing and commenting at the appropriate times, kept interfering with her reading.  “…’Professor’, he says, ‘What kind of berries are these canter berries?’  Well, the class roared, then the bell rang as Professor Miles just stood there with his mouth hanging open.  Finally, he regained his composure enough to respond, ‘…Well, class at our next meeting, we will continue our discussion of Chaucer’s treatise on non-edible subjects…’”

More laughter followed his final comments, but he hardly missed a beat and was on to his next subject – his modern fiction class. 

“… so, I asked him, after class, why Ayn Rand was not included on the list.  His response was that he didn’t think her works were appropriate for the study he had outlined.  ‘Not appropriate?’  I asked.  ‘How could she be not appropriate?’  Then he turns and looks at me, almost like he’s noticing me for the first time.  Peering over his glasses, he asks me, ‘What is your name?’  ‘Martin, sir.’ I responded.  ‘Well, Mr. Martin, perhaps you would like to give me an argumentative essay on why you feel so strongly that Ms. Rand should be included; since you apparently do feel very strongly about the subject and since you apparently feel enlightened enough to challenge what should or should not be included in my course syllabus.  I shall expect your essay by next class meeting.’  And with that, he left the room in a huff.”

“Wow!”  Rich had responded.  “You sure know how to stand up to people.”

At that point, Laura could not stifle her urge to chuckle, which brought silent stares from the trio across the table. 

Sensing the quiet, she looked up with a look of mixed embarrassment and amusement, a look that Phil would remember for years to come.  “I’m terribly sorry,” she offered.  “How rude of me to interject my feelings into your private discussion.”

“That’s quite all right. Laura, was it?”  Though he knew perfectly well her name was Laura, having asked someone the first time he saw her, and having hoped for just such an occasion when there would be vacant seats only at her table.  He could not believe his good fortune that morning.  And now, she was chuckling, almost in derision it seemed, at his comments.

“Yes.  It’s Laura.”

“Well, Laura.  Perhaps you would care to elaborate on your feelings.  Are you amused at my situation; or is it something else?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, now truly embarrassed, dropping her head.

“No.  Really.  We would like to know.”

Now he was just being deliberately antagonistic, she could tell.  Not being one to back down or refuse a challenge, she closed her book carefully; looked squarely into his eyes, giving him her amused-looking slight smile; then began speaking slowly.  “First of all,” she said, then paused, as if to collect her thoughts.  “I agree with your professor, that it seems rather presumptuous to question what is or is not included in the course syllabus.  He is the author of the outline; the designer of the course structure.  You elected to attend that course – no one forced you.  You knew before hand, whom the instructor would be.  And, had you cared to bother, you could have acquired a course outline, as well.  With so much foreknowledge available, it seems a bit after the fact to question the content.  Secondly, I also agree with your professor that Ayn Rand is hardly appropriate for including in a study of modern fiction; a course in modern ideology of philosophy, or sociology, perhaps.  But modern fiction?  Come on!”

Phil Martin was actually speechless, and though he didn’t know it, or realize it anyway, hopelessly in love.  When he finally regained his composure enough to speak, after what seemed an eternity of discomfort, in which Rich and Teddy stared first at this outsider, then at their hero, urging him silently, ‘…come on, man.  You can’t let this chick best you.  Yeah, come on, man.  We’re counting on you,’  his response of, “Who are you?”  was not what they expected.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I said.  Who are you?  What’s your story?  Are you a faculty spy?  A graduate student?  Who are you?”

“I assure you, I am just a mere student, like yourself.; a marketing major, by the way; undergraduate, at that.”

“Well, Miss Marketing Major of 1969,” he began, having recovered his edge and causing his followers to smile again, thinking, ‘…yeah.  That’s our man.  You tell her.’  “Have you even read Atlas Shrugged?”  Phil knew he had made a mistake by asking this.  Of course she would have read Atlas; and probably the Fountainhead, as well.

“Yes.  As a matter of fact, I have.

Oh!  The smiles of Phil’s wingmen had faded.  Feeling further excluded, they both wondered if, this pretty young thing across the table could be the feared and dreaded end to their clique. 

“Did you get it?”

“Did I understand it?”

“Not just understand it.  There’s more to it.  You have to ‘get it’.  Did you?”

“Frankly, I didn’t find her writing all that deep and complicated.  She’s rather Darwinian in outlook.  You know, survival of the fittest?”

“Darwinian?” He paused searching for a proper response.  “ Darwinian?”  He repeated.  Coming up with nothing, he simply protested.  “She is not.  Not in the least.”  Phil was losing this debate, big time, and he knew it.  He had never even considered Rand’s ideas in this light.

“Look, Phil.”  Laura said in a demeaning tone that was not lost on the others, leaning across the table.  “Selfishness is not a virtue.  It is a flaw in logic and in personality.   Man is not an island.  Can’t be.  He’s not even self-sufficient, for god’s sake.  If you shoot all the horses, who’s going to pull the damn wagon.”

Now it was Phil’s turn to be confused.  “Excuse me?”

“No society works without the little people.”  She continued in a slow patient tone.  “The guys who do the little things are really the ones who make the whole thing work.  Look at any number of despotic attempts; the Czars for example – prime example, as a matter of fact.  You have to keep the people happy and satisfied, you have to meet their needs, otherwise you will have revolution.  You can't have a ruling or governing class unless you have another class to govern.  And unless the ruling class understands and values the contribution of those governed, they won’t be rulers for long.  Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a class.”

Phil sat there with his mouth open, wondering what had just happened.  Rich and Teddy were so uncomfortable they couldn’t even look at the body of their slain hero.  “Yeah.  We got a class, too.”  Rich said as they got up from the table and left.

And with that, she was gone.

He sat there for a very long time.  Replaying the words.  Finally, regaining his composure enough to speak, to no one he retorted, “She’s a communist.”

 

Reviews

[Melissa Morgan]

I am intrigued by the first chapter, and found the second amusing.Your use of imagery in the first chapter especially was elegant. I look forward to reading more.

[Lexy]

I thoroughly enjoyed the first 2 chapters of this novel. I don't have many suggestions... or any... on how to improve it.