Modern
Reality
Sometimes the most
important part of living is in the wanting.
Sometimes the most
coveted part of knowing is in not knowing.
He pushed his way out of the subway station, feet hitting the pavement in hard strides. His shoes scuffed the pavement, toes worn so thin that he could feel the cold cement seeping through. People pushed past him, and he pushed back, shoved, punched, doing whatever it took to stay one head above the crowd. They breezed past the curb, swiping dollar-twenty-five copies of the morning ‘Times’ for the looks and spitting towards the bums hidden under the piles of their discarded newspapers. Their eyes avoided everyone else’s, but caught every change in the stock and news tickers on the sides of the great, growing, glass monoliths. He stood still and yelled, his voice shattering more than their ears. “Open your eyes!” he cried, tears of anger streaming down his hot cheeks. After throwing off his suit coat, unbuttoning the cuffs, he let his loose sleeves slip down to his elbows as he made desperate grabs at suits, briefcases, ties. “There’s so much more out there. Can’t you see it?” He looked about desperately, but no one was there to notice him…
The subway pulled to a screeching halt as the wheels in Art’s mind derailed. With a sigh, he stood and followed the flow out of the silver demon, up the arrowed stairways, and out to the surface streets. The officers of Carter, Neelson and Tate lived and breathed on floors 4 and 5 of building 1265A in the center of 18th Street between Prince Avenue and North H. A prime location to be sure- location, location, location! It was also just three buildings away from the downtown subway stop, too far away in his opinion, as he hurried past the soulless mass. It was old habit to close his eyes while passing through the revolving doors, but a newer habit to keep his eyes down while passing across the grand office building lobby toward the elevators so as not to converse with what others called ‘lobby bums’ but were really just wall-to-wall failing stockbrokers in search of tips. He had a short trip up to the fourth floor, emerging from the steel room of stale muzak, overpowering cologne, and fluorescent lighting. Art had an office on one wall. It was hardly a corner office, but it had a door which was certainly a step up in the ladder from cubicle life. As soon as the doors parted, he took off for his office with a steady, routine stride.
Carol, the secretary, hardly looked up as he passed, identifying him not by his appearance or footsteps but by the punctuality with which he arrived- it was 7:28am on the dot. “Good morning Dr. Denver, would you like—“
One hand straightened his tie while the other swooped down to catch the extended mug of coffee from the secretary’s hand. They had each other down to the heartbeat, every rhythm mapped out like some sick corporate dance neither of them could remember learning. Without breaking stride as he plowed forth to his office, he took a sip and offered her a nod. Two creams and eight sugars, just the way he liked it.
She continued mindlessly, “—some coffee? The latest proposal is on your desk with the mail. The Peterman contract has been—“
Art shut the door behind him, aware that she was still talking. He took a seat in his dead cow-hide chair and rolled it up to the desk.
The nameplate at the corner of his desk read “Dr. J. Arthur Denver” but everyone called him Art. The J stood for John, but he wasn’t about to go by John Denver for the obvious reason that there was already a John Denver in this world and one much more noted than he. He’d always wondered why parents so deliberately did this sort of thing to their children, cursing them into abbreviations, middle names, or false identities.
His computer dinged with a sickeningly perky new e-mail announcement. After a moment of contemplation, he taught it a lesson by kicking the power strip beneath his desk, setting the wires free. The monitor zipped off in reaction, depriving the room of its gentle hum. Art kicked his chair out from under himself as he stood, fingers nimble in their task of rolling his cuffs up to his elbows. Almost lunging into it, the monitor settled securely in his arms. The seventeen-inch beat was an unsteady load and one he soon realized he should have waited until after he’d had a chance to open the window; the waddle over gave him a few minutes to figure it out. As if trying out for the circus, he attempted the great balancing act of the monitor on the sliver of plastic corporate windowsill as he attempted to slide the window open just enough.
Unfortunately, he realized after a fair bit of tugging in vain, these windows were the wrong sort and not at all intended in the least to open. Their sole purpose was to provide a hint of pleasurable reality or make him feel partially important. He kicked the tail of wires with his black patent-leather shoes in frustration then resolved to make it the sort of window that opened. It was surprisingly easier than it had before seemed, not simply smashing it into multiple pieces, but taking the entire piece of glass with it on a technological belly flop to the cold cement waters below…
“Did my e-mail come through?” came a voice, and its head followed by its body slid into the office unannounced. “I hit that little letter with wings button but wasn’t sure how the attachments worked.” Nervously, he flipped the pop-top of his soda can back and forth slowly, counting the moves until the little piece of metal broke off in his hand.
Art’s foot paused over the surge protector, then relaxed back under the cherry desk. His eyes turned to the glowing monitor with a deep sigh of frustration. “Yeah, it’s all here.” A few routine keystrokes later, the afternoon meeting agenda popped up onto the screen. “Thanks, boss.”
The man beamed at the accomplishment. “See you later, Art.” The man took a final swig from the soda can and tossed it into the trashcan on the way out.
Art fought to restrain himself as he nodded the man out. Then he jumped up, snatching the can out of the trash and stuffing it into the rubber bin so clearly marked ‘RECYCLE’. With a grumble he sat back down and slumped in his desk, dedicating the rest of the morning to staring at the business news ticker on his desktop and filing papers that took mere hours to prepare and an week to dance around. When it was time for lunch, he met a group of coworkers in the lobby, and they walked down a block to the nearest fancy restaurant. The place was packed, as always, the smell of expensive cigarettes or distinguished cigars filled the air above the stale hint of cologne and alcohol. They were led to their table, and they took their usual seats around it as if they were a line of ducklings following their mother to food. It was not so much a social gathering or a customary intake of food, but another chance to network. Pagers, cell phones, and palm pilots created the illusion of freedom, but bound them so securely that any conversation beyond that of the business or the weather would certainly stop what was left of their hearts.
Art handed his menu back to the waiter, ordering his usual. “A chicken salad and a refresh on this gin on the rocks, please.” The waiter nodded, moving on to Art’s cohort who ordered while on the phone without skipping a beat.
“—twenty and ten, that’s right, be sure to buy—steak rare, mashed potatoes with gravy only, peas on the side, and seltzer water—we’ll sell them at if they dip beneath eighty-nine points at closing tonight. Be sure to prep the accountant for the Peterman contract about it—“
Art sighed, settling back, the straight, wooden chair digging into his back. He gripped the arms tightly, hoping that the closer he drew them in, the more he’d be protected from his surroundings. To his left, the man was still on his cell phone, straightening the wrinkles in his napkin absentmindedly with manicured fingers. The man on his left was certainly no better, sitting with a laptop balancing on one leg and a stock ticker on his other thigh. His eyes zipped back and forth between the two mediums, one hand on the microscopic mouse on the laptop and the other wrapped around the glass of rum which balanced just on the edge of the table. Art wrapped his knuckles on the tabletop, watching the ripples of the vibrations spread on the surface. Just a few more taps and it would send the glass over. He paused in hesitation, the rhythms of technology and business flowing through his head. He could feel the waves rushing through him, stronger than the ocean tides, stronger than a soft fall wind. He could feel the numbers and facts fill him, he could feel the firm handshakes and formula résumés pull at him. He could feel the false words of advertising and politicians perch upon his tongue, just ready to spill out in the mighty corporation lingo that filled the restaurant. Art smiled as he pushed the cuff of one sleeve up to the crook of his elbow in preparation. Then, with one hand still gripping the arm of his chair, he knocked on the table. Dum, dum-da-dum, dum… the cup rocked back and forth, teetering just on the edge… dum dum. The cup made its jump of justice off the round table and onto the laptop and leg of his associate. Met with a spark and a scream, the man sprang to his feet, knocking against the table which consequentially tipped with a little bit of help from Art’s leg. There were cries and crashes as cords tangles and crowds formed. Art simple chuckled, taking in the dismay like the waters of a baptism…
“Your order, sir?”
Art looked up to see the salad and drink hovering just above the spot where his hand and current drink resided. He nodded and quickly moved out of the way so that his food could be placed. “Thank you,” he replied, but found the waiter had already turned to fetch the next covered dish for his companion. With a sigh, Art dug in, chewing the gentle meat and rich man’s lettuce thoroughly in thought. His world was not simply driving him crazy, he decided, stabbing a bright cherry tomato and bringing it to his mouth to explode in a mess of sweet juice and seeds. It was far beyond such a point. He’d jumped the hoops like a trained dolphin but with much less intelligence than the gentle, courageous animals possessed. Now was the time to escape, and make an example of himself. He would go, and find the freedom of peace, of reality. He would be able to think once more, without stinks of the subway or rings of e-mail announcements or stale business conversations. With fists clenched tightly, he stood, and marched himself straight to the doorway.
* * *
Soft winds rattled the trees but did not seep through the thickness of the forest to the cabin. Birds chirped excitedly to each other and hopped from tree to tree via the safe route of the dirt floor. Thin beams of warm, fuzzy blue light streamed down, missing the fallen trees and moss-covered rocks. And in a dark corner of it all, stood Art’s new residence. It had taken less than a week to find a cabin, and less than a day to sell his apartment. It was next door to a bus stop and there seemed to be deep-seated truth in location, location, location! But this new place was just what he’d been looking for- quiet, secluded, and hidden back in the very middle of nowhere.
Every morning he took coffee when he woke, an expensive environmentally friendly brand that was only slightly below anything Starbucks had to offer. He walked the woods after lunch, collecting various beauties in the forms of smooth rocks and colorful leaves. In the evenings, he took dinner to the porch to catch up on reading the books he’d been given as presents or bought and not cracked open when they hit the best sellers list. Upon sliding into bed each night, he was filled with a sense of utter relaxation. He was without responsibility, without pressures, and best of all, without the sickening, mindless life of the corporate society which had birthed him.
Art had been there only long enough to settle in before he noticed a lack of plugs in the living room. Down on hands and knees, he searched for another outlet for there was simply no way such a main room could support no more than a lamp and a television. His romantic ideals had included a computer workstation faced east to hit the sunrise in the morning as he the sipped shade-grown coffee and began on his change-the-world novel. They included a treadmill on one far wall for staying fit now that his corporate gym membership was out of the question. And they included a full stereo system to belt out all the classics from Amadeus to Zeppelin for him to mold the rhythms of his life to. Soft fingers swept the dusty baseboards in what was rapidly becoming a desperate search. On the third round about, he came across a metal panel cover. His index finger traced a frame around it in realization that in his days there, he’d not come across a phone.
He fought to relax his racing heart, assuring himself that such a problem was easily fixable. In a matter of hours he could have a line reinstalled, and an account with one of the major internet service providers- AOL was everywhere. A satellite dish and a surge protector later, he’d be into it. The television would get several channels of CNN, worldwide weather, and the home shopping network. The computer would be back on the highway, the world at his fingertips once again. He could chat with a woman in Bolivia or see streaming stock quotes or watch live broadcasts of worldwide news reports. CD’s at a penny a piece for the price of membership would still roll in after being ripped out of the Sunday paper ad section, and he could still order movies on day pass to watch until tedium. The crystal clear voice of any telemarketer in the nation was just a cellular phone away. It was as easy as a few hours and a months’ salary. He would be back.
He sat back on the hardwood floor with a thump. As a wave of panic rushed through him, he flexed his hands out in desperation. Burning with chills, he shoved the sleeves of the beige sweater up to his elbows. Pleasure, then profession, then dependence. Complete and utter dependence. Art leaned forward, pulling at the metal cover, digging his fingers behind the gateway in attempts of prying it off. With one mighty yank, off came the cover, and out came the wires. After pulling some more, he followed one wire at the base of the wall, tearing a line in the plaster and wall paper as he followed its train around the cabin. The trail ended in the kitchen, where he stood in bare feet and cutoff jeans, eyes fixed upon the oak block of knives. One was in his hand before he knew it, and the shooting, stabbing shots of pain throughout his body made him fall to his technological reliance. He collapsed in a pool of his own blood, spreading over the spotless hardwood floor of the isolated cabin…
Art sat back on the hardwood floor with a thump. This was what he’d dreamed of… wasn’t it? Seclusion from what evils the modern society prized as their greatest contributions. But the problem seemed to lie in something deeper. Within the one force he knew he could never understand, let alone control. Crawling, he made his way to the patch of rug in the center of the room, lying before the television set. There was no reception, way out there, and this was not the sort of television to show static. Instead, the perfect blue screen glowed at him. Unmoving, unchanging. There was just the gentle hum of the on television set and the gentle light which seemed to touch him more securely than the fuzzy blue light of the sun streaming through the window. Art curled up, bringing his knees to his chest, with his arms wrapped around tightly. His eyes stayed on the screen, and though the grin on his face had before made way for a look of terror, both were gone now to let in the smile of relaxed satisfaction.