None The Wiser: Introduction
The building was quiet; the noise of the lunch rush just quieting down.
David Craig sat in his third floor office, looking out the window. It had been a rather quiet day on the first floor of the bank. The usual crowd coming through sporadically, cashing checks and making withdrawals. First National Bank and Trust was a popular bank among those with money. Owned by Luciano Tellez and run by Thomas Craine, First National was dubbed the Bank of the South in Time Magazine and David Craig oversaw most of the day to day operations.
Atlanta was a busy city by day and an even busier city by night. Downtown Atlanta transformed into another world once the sun went down and those who were privy, those who were older stayed home behind the safety and comfort of locked doors. The younger crowed roamed the streets, bars open, restaurants with open mic nights came to life, but during the day it was a different world. The businessmen and businesswomen in their creased suits and skirts ran along the sidewalks, briefcases in one hand and coffee in the other. Some would refer to it as a Mini New York during the day and a Mini Atlantic City at night.
The phone on his work desk chimed. “Mr. Craig, Tom has informed me that there’s a somewhat distraught customer on the first floor claiming they’ve been a customer here for over ten years and they don’t understand why we can’t grant them a hundred thousand dollar loan.”
“Okay. And what does Tom have to say about this?”
“Tom is in a meeting with Luc, he can’t handle it at the moment. You’re the next in line, Sir.”
“Say no more. I’ll be down in a moment.”
He hung up the phone and made his way out to the elevators. It was very rare for FNBT to have any kind of altercations with clients. Most of them were of wealth and had no problems getting what they wanted, but on the off chance they did, it was usually Tom’s job to handle them. David shook his head as he exited the elevator on the first floor and made his way over to Lucy.
“Afternoon, Lucy,” he greeted. “Is there a problem here?”
“This man, Claude Daly, claims that he’s been a client with us for ten years, but I cannot find him in the systems and he’s threatening me.”
“Sir,” David looked up. “You say you’ve been a customer with us for ten years?”
“I have. I have my account number and everything. This lady seems to not know how to do her job and she can’t find me in your system.”
“Okay, Sir, I’m going to ask that you please refrain from insulting my employee. I’m sure there’s a reason for this and if you’d give me a moment, I’ll look you up and I’m sure we can solve this problem as soon as possible.” David excused Lucy and took her seat. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he searched for the man, his account number and name not showing up. David’s eyes cut to the man and he noticed the way his brown eyes constantly shot from place to place around the bank; the constant movement of his hands and the constant bouncing of his knee. Training had taught him that nervousness meant danger and the red flag was waving so rapidly above his head. “If you’ll please excuse me, Claude, I’m going to walk over to one of my tellers and have them call up to my boss. For some reason, your account number and name isn’t showing up, but it doesn’t mean that you’re not in there. Mistakes happen with technology all the time,” he smiled as genuinely as he could while grabbing the paper. “One moment.”
As he made his way over to Kimberly, he spoke loudly to create the idea that he was actually talking about this man’s false account. In all honesty, he was asking her to press the red button and call for Tom as quick as possible.
“Kimberly, would you please send Jackson over to that man,” he pointed in Claude’s direction, “and have him relay the message that I have to run up to Tom and I’ll be back in a moment?”
“Of course, Mr. Craig.” He watched as she did as he asked of her before making his way to the elevator. His eyes never left the so-called client’s until he had to enter the elevator and even then, he watched him until the door’s closed.
Between the first and second floor, he heard the alarm ring clearly throughout the building and he let out a string of expletives that his wife and kids would not be proud of.
“Come on. Come on. Come on!” he exclaimed. When the car chimed on the second floor, he exited to a flurry of chaos; employees running this way and that. He tried to stop someone, ask what was going on, but all the woman could do was mumble something about a family and a bomb. “Shit.” He retrieved his cell and dialed Tom’s number. Before he could hang up, a hand landed on his shoulder and Tom stood before him.
“Come on, we need to get you to the bottom floor.”
“What? There’s a bomb threat, Tom. We should be heading towards level ground!”
“Trust me, will you? I know what I’m doing. Yes, he threatened to blow the place up, but he’s no stranger to this bank. We know him. His threats are empty and we’ve already called the cops. Follow me.” There was no more requesting in the end of his statement so David followed his boss to a floor he’d never seen before and prayed that, once again, this man’s threat was an empty one.
“Tom,” David asked, his hands sweaty as he placed them on the man’s shoulder in front of him. “Why are we here?”
“Because Luc asked me to bring you here,” Tom clarified. David watched as he opened a door he’d never noticed before and walked in after him. “Listen, I’m going back up there. I need you to stay in here until I come back to get you, okay?”
“I don’t want to just stay here. There has to be something I can do. If this man is threatening to blow up the fucking building, Tom, I can’t just sit here and do nothing!”
“Look, I get it, okay? But Luc knows this guy and so do I. So let me handle him and I’ll come back to get you when I’m done. This room is fully secured. You have nothing to worry about.” The tall, brown haired man turned to leave the room. “Don’t do anything stupid, Craig. I’m warning you.”
“Damnit!” he yelled, hands slamming against the oblong wooden table. He took a moment to look around the room. It didn’t look too different from his own office; the floor, concrete and the walls dark. The oblong, cherrywood table sat in the middle of the room with ten chairs, a laptop, four bottles of water and a fresh basket of muffins. The room had obviously been used. Metal file cabinets lined one wall from back wall to door. They stood six drawers high. He was in a meeting room. Just great. He could hear commotion above him and, for a moment, wanted to go check it out. How was he supposed to sit here, patiently, while chaos was happening somewhere in the building? How could anyone stay calm in this situation? Calm. It was funny how that word was usually the first to come to mind when everything was anything but calm.
“This is so fucked,” he muttered to himself as he paced back and forth.
A loud rumble was heard and as the the ground beneath him shook, David reached to grab onto whatever he could. His legs, wobbly, gave out beneath him and he hit the ground. A pain shot through his shoulder, eyes blurred and head dizzy. Pushing up with his good arm, he launched the table off of him and staggered to his feet just as the elevator doors opened.
“Shit, David, are you okay?” Tom ran over, eyes wide. “Wait, hold on. Don’t move, okay? I’m gonna assess your injury.”
“I’m fine, Tom," David groaned, leaning against a metal cabinet. “What the fuck happened? One minute, I’m looking around and the next I’m under a fucking table and my arm is broken.”
“Let’s just say the man on the first floor wasn’t bluffing,” Tom spouted off, looking over the man to check for injuries. He lay a hand on David’s shoulder, causing the taller of the two men to shrug him off harshly. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to hurt you, but we should really get that looked at.”
“Fuck my shoulder, Tom, what the hell is going on!”
Tom sighed, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “Well, if you’re not going to get that looked at then I guess there’s no need to stall any longer.” He walked over to the phone that sat in the middle of the table. It was a old thing; brown and yellow coloring to show its age. He picked up the receiver, pressed a few numbers and after a moment, he placed the device on speaker phone. “He’s here.”
“Good,” the voice on the other line answered. Deep, stoic and completely lacking emotion. “David?”
The man in question looked to Tom who nodded once and stepped back from the table. “Yes? I’m here.”
“I don’t have much time to explain the situation, but what I can tell you is that First National Bank and Trust of Atlanta, as of this moment, is no longer in existence. The building you stand in is nothing more than a pile of rubble and soon, it will be taken down completely. I have a proposition for you.”
“And?”
“Well, it’s more like an ultimatum. I own this bank and it, as well as you, are worth more gone than you are, well, here. So, here’s the deal: You can take the money I give you and disappear or,”
David immediately turned beet red. “Wait, you’re telling me that you want me to leave?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“But what about my family!” David exclaimed. He slammed his hands down on the oval table. “My family and my friends are here. My life is here. I’m not just going to up and leave because you have some stupid idea,”
“David!” the man yelled over him, effectively cutting him off. “You don’t have a choice. I’m trying to be nice here. I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, but you’re trying my patience and I am not a patient man, Mr. Craig.” Silence followed his words and David looked to Tom with wide eyes, silently pleading for help. “Now, as I was saying, I’ve set up an account for you, under a different name. You will take this money, you will disappear and you will not ask questions, is that clear?”
“No, no that’s not fucking clear. With all due respect, Mr., I won’t just leave my family.”
“They will be taken care of,” the cold voice answered. “And you will leave because you don’t have a choice. You’re worth more dead than you are alive. So, if you take the money and run, you live. If you stay, you die. Either way, you’ll no longer be in existence.”
Tom moved around the room until he stood in front of a cabinet. He pulled a drawer open and extracted a folder. Throwing it on the table, he nodded towards it before walking towards the door.
“It’s your choice, Mr. Craig. Choose wisely.” The phone disconnected and David immediately filled with panic. His eyes watered of their own accord and he let out a shaky breath.
“Tom?” His voice came out hoarse and high-pitched. “Damnit, say something!”
“I-I don’t know what you want me to say, Mr. Craig. Once Luc makes up his mind there is no going back. You’ve been given your choice.” Tom bowed his head and walked out of the room, leaving David alone with the bright manilla folder and his own rampant thoughts.
“This isn’t happening,” he muttered to no one. His eyes searched the concrete walls, looking for a way out that didn’t exist. He reached a shaky hand out until his fingertips touch a cool manilla folder and slid it toward himself. The contrast of cool against his hot fingers made him shiver slightly. Flipping the folder open, his eyes roamed over a brand new passport, a business-like proposal, a new bank card. He sighed. The passport read Connor O’Daniels. He had to laugh. The entire situation seemed ridiculous to him. He scanned the information, taking in everything that meant anything. There was an itinerary. Step by step of what to do until he reached the airport and then, the rest was up to him. Well, at least he got to make one decision.
He sat down, plagued with thoughts of his wife, his family. His two children. They were too young to understand that daddy was leaving and his wife, she would be devastated, he knew. His eyes watered, thick and hot tears fell down his face and he hastily wiped them away. No matter what he wanted to do, he knew that the moment he’d walked up to that man, his future had been chosen for him. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the folder, stuck the passport and bank card in his back pocket and made his way out of that cold and dead room.
He weaved his way through the people, making sure to hold his arm close to his person. Every EMT he passed, he waved off. If he stopped now, he knew he wouldn’t be able to leave. He wiped away the tears that blurred his vision and made his way toward the back exit. Taking one last look at what remained of First National, he shuffled toward the all black car that sat a few yards away. Without hesitation, he threw the back door open, climbed in and made sure to slam it behind him. He may not have been able to verbally voice his opinion, but he’d be damned if he was going to respect the car or the people in it. He caught the eyes of the driver in the rearview before the sedan moved onto the road and further away from everything he’d ever known.
A blank slate
The thick silk dress found its way over my body and draped itself effortlessly down towards the floor. The colors imitating late spring: a cream, square top, fitting dress with apricot flowers and green leaves patterning the material. Three lines of ruffles decorated the top and the edge of the sleeves. Simple but elegant. Diana's signature style. Diana always comes up with the most beautiful dresses I've ever seen. Always perfect, right down to the hem. Her mother used to sew clothes for her when she was a little girl, and her father was a very talented artist. She doesn't talk of them much. She says they're in the past and it won't hurt for them to stay there. I think they died in a building fire when she was eight but I haven't asked Diana about her parents in years. I made the mistake of prying once, and for her sake, I won't make the same mistake again. But my guess is that's where she got her talent for turning me into some kind of goddess whenever I have to somewhere to go. Creating beautiful things is in her blood.
"What shall we do with your hair today, Miss Bay?" Diana asks. Pulling a few of my auburn strands back, as if showing me rough drafts of the million and one things she could do with my pathetic excuse for hair. "You're the expert, not me," I say, giving her a familiar smirk. She gives me a teasing glare. "Very well," she grinned back ruthlessly. As if she knew something I didn't. Suddenly a blur of her two hands are teasing my hair and turning it into what would appear to anyone else as a bird's nest. A scream of laughter escapes my mouth as I try to swat her hands away. "What?" She questions innocently. "You said I was the expert and I say this is perfect." I laugh at her as I stare at my reflection in the vanity mirror. Brown heaps of hair are scattered all across my head, giving me the look of just getting up out of bed. "This is the style these days, you know?" she jokes. "Exactly what Do- uh, Detective Alexander is expecting." I feel a wave of nausea that i thought had passed wash over me, despite her joking tone and the very light atmosphere. My green eyes gaze back at me and I watch as the happiness that was there just a moment ago dissolve into anxiousness and anxiety. Diana must pick up on this- as she usually does- because she begins to stroke my hair thoughtfully.
"It'll be alright, dear." She says with an amount of sincerity that's always surprised me. She begins working on my hair, talking while brushing out the tangles she caused earlier and pulling various pieces back to braid them. Forming something like a crown from my temples to the back of my head. "I'm sure Sir William hasn't gotten far," she continues cautiously. "He's always been one to run off from time to time, you know that. Don't worry too much about it." All the laughter from minutes ago has been stripped and her voice is wearing nothing but worry.
Diana finishes fastening the braids and curls the ends of my hair slightly. She places small flowers in my hair that looks like a pastel fire burning against my burnt wood colored hair. She makes me face away from the mirror so she can paint my face with natural earthy tones: browns and greens are spread and blended across my eyelids, making me feel like one of the nymphs in the picture books my brother, William, used to read to me when we were kids. Diana dabs some pale pink gloss across my lips. She gives a comforting smile and tells me I can look now. I turn around to see a stranger in the mirror. Diana has been dressing me and making me look at my best for as long as I can remember. I used to go to my father's parties and balls, and Diana was always there saying and doing the things a mother would usually do. Diana's always been there for me, even when I couldn't be there for myself.
"You're beautiful." she whispers.
"No, this dress is beautiful." I say breathlessly. "My hair and makeup and flowers...all of this is what you've done. "I am simply the canvas, Diana. A canvas is not beautiful, the art placed on it by the hands of an artist such as yourself is what makes it beautiful." I tilt my head around to see her face directly. There's such wisdom and time in her eyes that you could say anything and she might make you change your mind. Even if you pointed out the sky is blue she could look at you and you'd feel as if you've just said the stupidest thing ever said throughout mankind. She takes her hand and rubs the back of her knuckles against my cheek. They're soft and frail and smell of the garden. She makes a slight tsk-ing sound and kisses my forehead. "Nonsense. You know better than to say such foolish things." She says that as if she was having a conversation with a bird in the trees and it just sang a response that she disagreed with, though to anyone else she would seem like a mad woman. "But I am nothing but a foolish girl," I tease. "Surely that's a fitting title." I stare into Diana's hazelnut eyes and she removes her hand from my cheek and pats my hands, as they've been sitting in my lap, fiddling with one of the extra flowers that she placed in my hair with expert's hands. Her hair is graying faster than I remembered it had been, but she has aged gracefully and is the most beautiful person I know.
She gives a tight smile and says, "'You are only foolish if you choose to believe it.' That's what my father used to say." Her smile fades, then grabs my hands and helps me into a standing position. "Come now," Diana says. "You don't want to keep Detective Alexander waiting."
I step outside the carriage and into the crisp April air and immediately the wind is cool and refreshing against my face. The wind doesn't cut through my clothes like late January's did. Instead it fills my lungs and seems to be the only thing keeping me from fainting. I take shallow, shaky breaths as I walk up the the old, little building's doors and give it a firm knock. When I pull my gloved hand away I see a light layer of dust littered across my knuckles and attempt to dust it off, but my attempts are cut short when a tall, slender man in a pair of tailored pants and a white, open collared shirt answers the door. His thin glasses rest just on the bridge of his nose. His dark hair is disheveled and seems to glow from the fire slowly burning out in the living room.
"Yes, what can I do for you today?"
"I'm Veronica Bay. I'm here to see you about the disappearance of my brother, William Bay."
He looks dazed and distant. As if he's spent the evening out of his body and in another demintion. Just as I'm about to ask him if he's alright, something has snapped him back into reality and I'm face to face with a young, grey eyed detective that will hopefully bring me closer to finding my brother.
"Oh yes, of course! Please, come in."
I enter the cramped space and the smell of weathered pages and brown sugar assault my senses and cause my head to spin. But it's relaxing in a way. Almost familiar. Seeming to calm my hiked nerves. "So what exactly can I do for you, Miss Bay?" He says as he clears off a stack of geography books from a large, maroon apollstered chair, with gold buttons with intricate designs, tattered down the sides. His voice is low but full of youth. He couldn't be much older than William, I conclude.
"Well, actually I was hoping you could tell me." I say hopefully. Taking my seat in the apollstered chair. He makes his way over to a small, heavy wooden desk. It's covered in various papers and what appears to be a logging book. There's a small plaque that has Alexander's name on it. There's something else written across it but he turns it on its face before I can finish reading it. He looks up at me with thoughtful, yet concerned eyes as he pulls up an worn, wooden barstool next to the chair he placed me in. "You see, my brother has made a habbit of running off whenever he feels like it so it makes for a very hard time to get someone to care that he hasn't retutned. And I was hoping you might assist me in trying to discover the whereabouts of him." I try to keep the aching feeling of dread out of my tone and I'm fighting to keep my voice even, but I'm afraid my efforts only caused me to sound more frail. "And what evidence do you have that your brother, Mr. William, is not just out roaming the streets of Manhattan? That perhaps it had just slipped his mind to make someone aware of his whereabouts?" There was no judgemental questioning in his voice, just simple curiosity and knowledge needed for the proper procedures to be carried out.
"My brother and I are very close. He always let's me know where he's going and when. This is not like him. He wouldn't just leave," my voice sounds hesitant and shaky in my own ears. But Detective Alexander hasn't taken his eyes off me. He's paying close attention and keeping on my every word, but, "I see," is all he says.
The sun has begun to drift off into a hazy sunset of violets and golds, the rest of the sky is a dulling gray that seems to hang in the air like factory smoke. The light of day is fading and this is one more day of no answers.
After Diana helps me out of my dress I run a bath and silently slip into the warm, inviting water. The soaps smell of dogwood and orange blossoms, both bubbling up and popping against my skin. But even with smells of home taking hostage of my body something still smells faintly of old books and brown sugar. An odd combination that seems to linger far into the night.
I dream of oceans dropping off into nowhere and my brother's voice calling to me from somewhere I can't see. I can hear William's distant words echoeing across the water but they don't quite reach me. His words fall into the depths of the sea. I try swimming after them, pumping my arms and legs, willing myself to catch the words he said and bring them to shore, but I can't go anywhere. I'm stuck underwater with no way out. I try turning around but something grabs at my legs and pulls me further down into the abis. I see William floating towards the bottom of the sea, his blonde hair around him like a halo. I try to call to him but my voice has gone mute. I try to scream, but my efforts are in vain. The world is blackening around me.
I wake up to Diana shaking my shoulder and and placing a wet cloth against my forehead and collarbone. My throat is hoarse and dry, I can feel a layer of sweat covering my body. The room is still dark. If it wasn't for the lamp Diana turned on I wouldn't be able to make out the outline of her features.
"Are you alright, Veronica? You were having quite a fit in your dreams tonight. I could hear you all the way down the hall." She places her hand on my forehead on down through my hair. "I'm sorry, it was just a dream. I hadn't meant to wake you." She seems saddened. Almost absent, but I can't tell its intentions through the night. "Diana, what's wrong?" She looks at me with glassy eyes but turns away from my face. "Its nothing, dear. It just seems I can in never sleep these days." She gives a sad smile and makes a motion to say more but seems to decide against it. "Can I get you anything?" Is all she says. "No, no. I'm quite alright," I manage to say. "I'll be heading back to bed now." "Very well, Miss Bay. Goodnight." I give her a slight nod and she turns off the bedside lamp. As soon as Diana exits the room I let out a shaky sigh that I hadn't realized I was holding in. I glance around my room and then close my eyes. An image of William's dead body comes to mind and it makes me shake. Why had a dreamt him dead? My brother's not dead. He's... Wait, where is my brother? Confusion fills my mind and I can't focus on anything. I hear Diana's voice in my mind. "William's dead. I'm so sorry."
Working Title
Traffic on the Hutchinson River Parkway was thick, making Meredith the last one to arrive at the range. All-Star Archery was off a main road, nestled among warehouses and auto body shops. The guys’ pick-up trucks and SUVs lined the street out front, so Meredith had to park on the sidewalk, which was the common practice for latecomers.
Sal, and his wife Marsha, the owners of the range, greeted her when she walked in. They sat behind the counter, which doubled as a display case. Sal sold things that mostly applied to hunters: camouflage quivers, deer and fox urine to mask human scent, and razor-sharp broadheads used for hunting.
On the walls, and from the high rafters, hung a hodgepodge of advertisements and banners for bow manufacturers, hunting apparel, arrow companies, and one gratuitous girlie poster. It showed a curvaceous blond from behind. Decked out in shiny high heels and an orange thong bodysuit, she stood poised to shoot an arrow. Meredith dubbed the model “Tatiana” and commented that her hips were over-rotated and her stance was all wrong. Her stance, the guys joked, was not what they were looking at. Meredith never complained about the pin-up. After all, she was one of the few women who shot at the range, so she accepted it as “man” space.
Some of the guys were already practicing. Others had set their bows on the racks, and chose to shoot the breeze instead. Dominic Goldfarb and Gianni Valenti were trying to shoot out the center of a playing card taped to the target wall. Dominic was always challenging Gianni with friendly side bets. The card was the king of hearts and, whomever hit it closest to the center, won. Dominic shot first and caught the king’s left shoulder. Gianni straddled the shooting line and turned his head toward the target. He raised his bow and slowly drew its string across his broad chest, anchoring it down the center of his nose. Standing this way, so strong and balanced, with his distinctly Roman profile, Gianni looked like an elegant statue. The glossy black waves of his hair were in sharp contrast to his light gray eyes. Although handsome and funny, it was Gianni’s eyes that made women weak in the knees. Those soulful eyes, rimmed with thick black lashes, first caught Meredith’s attention so long ago. And it was the uncontrollable roving of those eyes that destroyed every relationship Gianni ever had, including the one with her. Now, they were fixed intently on the card taped to the wall. With the most imperceptible movement of his hand, Gianni released the string. From eighteen meters away, he cleanly landed an arrow right through the king’s heart.
“Oy, Jesus!” shouted Dominic. His father was Jewish, his mother Catholic and his expletives were a combo platter of both.
Gianni whooped, “Oh, baby! Would ya look at that! Pay up, slingshot.” He turned around to find Meredith standing there and his smile broadened. “Lookie what I did, Mer!”
***
It was the beginning of her sophomore year at Queens Community College and Meredith needed a phys-ed credit. Not being much of an athlete, she narrowed her choices down to bowling or archery. Both were conducted indoors and neither involved running, jumping or sweating. Archery won out because Meredith hated the thought of wearing anybody else’s cruddy used shoes.
She showed up in the gym for her first archery class to find one person sitting in a corner, reading a magazine. The other students were standing around talking. Only one person seemed the least bit interested in the sport. It was Gianni. He stood straddling a line painted on the floor and aimed his bow at a large target bale at the far end of the gym. He’d shoot three arrows, retrieve them, return to the line, shoot them again and so on. It was as if he were alone in the gym until he caught sight of Meredith.
Putting his bow down, he strode up to her. Meredith noticed his eyes right away. They were intense but gentle. Why did men always get the best eyelashes? She wondered. Everything about him looked Italian, the Roman nose, the strong jaw and cheekbones, everything but his eyes. They were a powdery gray rather than the deep brown of the Italians she went to grade school with in Astoria. He was just about six feet tall and his build was broad and muscular. He wore a pair of loose faded jeans and a green t-shirt that hugged his chest and shoulders.
“Are you here for the archery class?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m Meredith. Are you the teacher?” He was surprisingly young to be teaching a class.Gianni laughed.
“The teacher is that guy over there reading the magazine. I’m Gianni. I’m a student. In fact, if you look around, I seem to be the only student. Everybody takes this course for an easy B and nobody really shoots.”
“Doesn’t he require everybody to participate?” Meredith asked, motioning to the instructor who had nodded off, the magazine dangling from his lap.
“No. All you really need to do is sign the attendance sheet. The rest of the time, you can hang out or do homework, whatever you want. So, Meredith,” he cooed, his generous mouth curling into a grin, “what’s your pleasure? If you want to shoot, I’d be happy to work with you.”
“Are you qualified?” Meredith cooed back.“Am I qualified?”
Gianni started to laugh. “Darling, I have the best form in the room. Well, I did…until you walked in.”
She was blushing and laughing at the same time. Gianni was the best looking guy she’d met since she started college. Good looking and funny. A two-fer! She’d been so busy with classes and her after-school job, there had been no time for dating and she missed it. It excited her that Gianni was flirting and she was more than willing to give it right back. “Gosh, I’ve never done anything like this before.” She was looking up at him, her head tilted to one side. She whispered coyly, “I’d love to see what you can teach me.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” They were both blushing now.
Gianni walked Meredith over to a supply closet. A tangled pile of bows was dumped in a corner. He looked her up and down (more than was probably necessary, Meredith thought) and then rummaged through the pile before selecting one. As he bent over, Meredith checked out his muscular backside. He turned around and caught her.
“Excuse me, Miss. Are you here to learn or are you here to ogle the merchandise?”
“You’ll forgive me for saying so, but you don’t see one like that everyday.” She winked at him. This was fun!
“I’m Italian,” he deadpanned. “We’ve got curves.”
They were both smiling from ear to ear. “Now, if you’re done objectifying me, can we please get started?” He handed her a bow.
“Here,” he said. “This one’s the right size for you.” He then proceeded to look through an equally disorganized box of arrows. Deciding on three, he put them in a quiver that hung on a canvas belt.
“Put your arms out, please?” he asked.
Meredith did as he requested. Gianni reached behind her, wrapping the belt around her waist. He was close enough that his nose ever-so-gently grazed her cheek. Meredith’s breath caught in her throat for a second. If he noticed, he didn’t let on. As a final touch, he produced an oblong leather contraption and slid it up Meredith’s slender forearm. “An armguard,” he told her.
After Gianni explained all the parts of the bow, he brought Meredith up to the shooting line.
“The object of archery,” he said, “is very simple: hit the bull’s eye. But the technique is what’s so hard to master. We’ll work on your draw for a few weeks before I put a clicker on your bow.”
Meredith had no idea what he was talking about but noticed his tone had become very business-like. Then he said, “I’d give you a kisser, but I don’t want you developing any bad habits.”
She tuned in when he said “kisser” and quipped, “Your kisser strikes me as a potentially bad habit.”
He gave nothing more encouraging than a little chuckle. Instructing Meredith to turn her body away from him so her left hip was perpendicular to the target on the opposite side of the gym, he put his hands on her waist and told her to lift her bow. As she did, he moved in closer and he put his left hand over hers.
“Now,” he said softly, “wrap these three fingers around the string.”
When she did, he corrected her, “Like this, Meredith,” and reached around her, curling his fingers over hers with his right hand.
Meredith could feel the heat from his body as his chest pressed against her back. Despite her best efforts, all she could think about was going back into the closet with Gianni to check out the rest of his equipment. But he was being so serious, it seemed the flirting part of their encounter was already over.
“Each shot,” he whispered, “can be like the perfect orgasm.”
The flirting was definitely not over.
He continued, “Never rush it. Take your time. Let it build. Don’t let go until it feels perfectly right.”
Meredith could feel the blood rising to her face again. There was no mistaking his desire. She could feel it as he held her closer. They were both oblivious to the other people in the gym, none of whom were paying any attention to them anyway.
“Now, draw back on the string. Feel the tension building?”
She certainly could.
“Pull back more. More. Do you feel it?”
His breath was warm against her ear and she could feel herself getting moist between her legs.
“Yes,” she whispered.
She was trembling inside and was sure she’d probably shoot out a window if he weren’t helping her hold the bow. The farther back she pulled the string, the more difficult it was to hold.
“It’s getting harder, isn’t it?”
Oh, it’s getting harder alright! she thought. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold it.”
“Not yet, Meredith.” His voice was barely above a murmur, but his meaning was loud and clear. His lips were touching her ear. “You don’t let go until I tell you to.”
She wanted to collapse in his arms right then and there. He prolonged the tension for a beat or two more and then finally whispered, “Now.”
As Meredith released the string, a small gasp escaped from her lips. The arrow leapt from the bow and skittered across the gymnasium floor.Gianni turned her toward him, his face so close that she thought he might finally kiss her.
Instead, he said, “We’re gonna have to do a lot of work on your release.”
And so they did. All the rest of that afternoon and late into the evening, Gianni worked on Meredith’s release, behind the closed bedroom door of his apartment.
As with most unions based on lust, their romance flamed out in about a year. Meredith quickly grew tired of Gianni’s short attention span for fidelity. It reached critical mass at a party at his apartment. While mingling from across the living room, Meredith noticed him in deep conversation with a girl she’d never seen before. It looked a little too deep for Meredith’s comfort.
She asked her friends, “Who’s that girl Gianni’s talking to?” It came out that she tagged along with an invited guest. Nobody knew anything about her except that she’d arrived from Poland about five months earlier. Meredith watched as Gianni leaned in close enough for the interloper to whisper in his ear. He quickly headed to his bedroom but returned within seconds. Suspicious, Meredith excused herself from her friends and slipped, unobserved, into Gianni’s room. She glanced around, not exactly certain what she was looking for. Then it caught her eye. On the desk sat a notepad, turned upside-down, with a pencil next to it. She turned it over to find “Janna 212-555-7623.”
It was bad enough that Gianni seemed perpetually on the prowl, but to do it right under her nose and in front of their friends…
Among a host of other fine qualities, Meredith was always conscious of other people’s feelings and took great care to spare them whenever possible. So when someone was unkind to her for no apparent reason, it awakened something inside that few knew about – the beast. The beast’s purpose was to make right the wrongs done to Meredith. The beast was her champion of righteousness. The beast was all about getting even.
When Meredith saw that phone number, it nudged the sleeping beast into a groggy, semi-conscious state. It picked up the pencil and gave Janna’s phone number a quick makeover, changing the 3 to an 8. Then it put the pad and pencil back in their original positions and went back to sleep, for the moment. There was only one trait the beast and Meredith shared. Patience.
Meredith spent the rest of the night more pleased with herself than angry at Gianni. When the party was over, their “party” was over, too. She never let on what she knew, or what she had done. Instead she explained that they were too alike to be a couple and lied that she had been cheating on him as much as he had cheated on her. But unlike him, she said, she was smart enough not to get caught. Making him feel less the ladies’ man and more the buffoon was her game, and she played it to perfection.
For six months, they had no communication. Meredith was still pissed about his antics during that party. She decided it was time to serve up her ice-cold dish of revenge. So she called him around his birthday.
“Hey, it’s me. I thought we could bury the hatchet and wondered if you might be up for a drink to celebrate your birthday?” she asked.
“Well, this is a pleasant surprise!” She could actually hear the smile on Gianni’s face. She knew him all too well. Certainly he was thinking she couldn’t get over him, realized her mistake and wanted him back. Low hanging fruit, thought the beast. “A drink sounds good.” They made a date to meet later that night.
Over drinks they talked about this and that, until Meredith finally brought up Janna. “Remember that Polish girl at your party? The one who gave you her phone number?”
Gianni’s ears turned crimson. “How’d you know about that?”
She smiled, “You’re not as slick as you think, Slick.”
“Can you believe that bitch gave me a phony phone number?”
Ah, thought the beast, the moment I’ve been waiting for. “No, she didn’t. I found where you’d written it and changed one digit.” Meredith was smiling ear to ear, so pleased with herself.
Gianni’s eyes grew wide as he burst out laughing, “Oh my god! So you’re the bitch!”
“Yeah, well I did you a favor. She was looking for a green card and found some other sucker to marry her about five weeks later.”
Gianni’s appreciation of the joke made him as charming as always. It took all the air out of the beast’s desire to get even.
Raising his glass, Gianni toasted her, “To you, my little vixen and savior. I’ve actually missed your wicked sense of humor.”
They clinked glasses. He took a sip and set his glass on the bar, searching her eyes. Smiling, he finally asked, “Think there’s any hope for us?”
Meredith sighed, “Romantically? Not a chance, my sweet.”
Gianni nodded, “That’s pretty much what I figured. How about unromantically, if that’s even a word?”
“No,” she replied.
“No? Really?” he seemed surprised and disappointed.
“No,” continued Meredith, “Unromatically is not a word, but yes, I think it’s ok for us to hang out.”
Their friendly affection for each other endured and they remained unromantical ever since.
Professor X VS. James Randi
Dr. Charles Xavier decided it was an all-nighter sort of evening, most certainly, after he'd read several articles by a Mr. James Randi dismissing the supernatural, paranormal, or what Charles called “trans-mystical.” He proceeded to enter the library and, for the next 10 consecutive hours, exhaustively researched, reasoned, and wrote:
...James Randi is perhaps the quintessence of this opposing worldview. He first made an international name for himself as an escape artist and magician. Today, Randi devotes his time and effort to debunking trans-mystical claims with his James Randi Educational Foundation, which serves as “an educational resource on the paranormal, pseudoscientific, and the supernatural” – which, according to my definitions of trans-mysticality and epistemic normativity, and considering the track record of JREF,16 translates to “an educational resource devoted to disprove any epistemic normativity related to trans-mysticality.”
While the image of this organization appears to take a neutral, objective, unbiased, and open-minded stance in assessing the truth-value of trans-mystical claims, this does not seem to be true, for several reasons. The foundation’s most well-known offer, perhaps, is one million dollars for any individual who demonstrates to its team, in a systematically controlled scientific manner and setting, that his or her supposed trans-mystical ability is real. For the past fifteen years, hundreds of claimants have attempted to demonstrate their ability in accordance with such a structure – but no one has convinced Randi and his board of anything paranormal, pseudoscientific, and/or supernatural. This fact seems rather strange considering the amount of evidence suggestive of trans-mysticality’s epistemic normativity but, when considered more thoroughly, actually makes simple psychological sense.
Randi and his foundation are not and cannot be as truly neutral, objective, unbiased, and open-minded as it would like the public to believe. The reason why this statement holds true is even simpler: Randi, and the worldview that he represents, does not want to be proven wrong. Ironically, science, which in theory should be totally objective, is in many ways far more enslaved by its own ego than is the individual who claims egoic transcendence.
Psychoanalysis on the language of JREF’s articles webpage painfully indicates an immense amount of negative emotion, namely ridicule, projected in response to the claimants who have recently been “debunked,” as evidenced in the titles to these articles. “Journalist Promotes Nonsense,” “Down-Under Developments,” “Dump This Series,” “Apologies,” . . . “Dumb Is As Dumb Does,” “Geller Reviews,” “Australia Takes a Backward Step,” “Those Stupid Patches,” “Hot Item,” “How to Swindle the Suckers,” “Another Healer Blooms,” “Sentenced,” “That Bogus Patent,” . . . “Magic Rebuffed,” “The Bates Debate,” “Sylvia In the Suds,” “Buy Now,” “Enough Damn Lightbulbs,” “More Patent Office Nonsense,” ...
Science – true science – has no business messing with ego, emotion, and ridicule – or so it would seem relative to what science is in theory. Yet far too often, what may be true in theory does not translate as being true in practice. This unscientific contradictory language may in fact be most illustrated in Randy Moore’s article “Debunking the Paranormal: We Should Teach Critical Thinking as a Necessity for Living, Not Just As a Tool for Science.”
I believe that the language and logic underlying Moore’s work here is indeed quite reflective and accurate of the general viewpoint crusading against this possibility that not all trans-mystical experiences are crazy or stupid. The article begins by noting “our” gradual decline of scientific literacy throughout the decades. “Pseudoscience” has gained more and more prominence, brainwashing more and more people to be simply delusional. For instance, “The popularity of astrology and similar pseudoscientific shams attests to the unwillingness to think critically.” As Moore sees it, astrology is not real science because it has much more to do with the categories of business and fantasy than with those of truth and reality. Just look at all the pop astrologers who make their living by adding color and excitement to their customers’ lives. For Moore, the fact that something like astrology is so commercialized means that it has more to do with emotion than with reason. For Moore, such con-artistry leaves otherwise innocent agents of reason tragically vulnerable to being ripped off.
He continues by sarcastically explaining that if someone wants to know the sex of his or her unborn child, and if this person believes in trans-mysticality, then (s)he might as well ask a so-called fortune teller about it rather than have the doctor check its DNA structure – since, clearly, if trans-mysticality is at all real, then it should have the same practical utility as conventional science. This belief assumes that “science,” whatever that should mean, is not only the best means for acquiring knowledge and understanding, but is also the only means, really.
Why? Because “There are no sacred truths, no forbidden questions and no testable issues too sensitive to be questioned. Unlike religion and the paranormal, science values criticism and thrives on debate.” Indeed, “science” has absolutely no dogmas, no biases, no fallacies, no neuroses, and no psychoses of its own, no “forbidden question” that its adherents are too afraid to ask. Even though fear of ostracism is certainly at play (and currently winning the game), there is no “testable issue too sensitive to be questioned,” despite that “science” is worried frantically in the back of its collective mind that, in parallel, its most dominant worldview relative to more recently emergent ones is being outdated and replaced, just as the Church’s most dominant worldview succumbed to the Renaissance, Reformation, Scientific Revolution, Enlightenment, etc. Moore rhetorically asks, “What’s the evidence for talking with dead people or predicting the future? None, of course. Moreover, psychics and ESP violate the commonsense knowledge that all communication requires our normal sense.”
Yet alas, this statement is based upon two dogmas or assumptions: 1) that there in fact is no evidence for talking with dead people or predicting the future, and 2) that all communication really requires only our normal sense. Moore responds by proclaiming that, “If you’re going to accept spirits and ghosts as real, you might as well accept headlines such as ‘Elvis’s Ghost Is Caught in Mom’s Vacuum Cleaner.’” Yet alas, again, the statement makes a category judgment before that statement is even thought through or written. This category judgment, using my terms, is that trans-mysticality is fantasy and science is reality. Moving along, “Paranormal hokum is a multi-billion-dollar business [taking advantage of] people’s inability or refusal to think critically...Nevertheless, the paranormal will probably remain a big business because it provides a convenient blue sky and rainbow.”
The latter part of this claim further reinforces the aforementioned category judgment – that “a convenient blue sky and rainbow,” or whatever myth this phrase signifies, is not nor cannot be real in the same way that pure, infinite energy, infinite simplicity, transforming into differentiated, infinite phenomena, infinite complexity, can itself be “real.” But if the obedient scientist were to rethink his own deprived mythology such to reinterpret it as something as wondrous and fantastical as the myth/idol/joke that Moore means by “convenient blue sky and rainbow,” then perhaps he would come to realize that, from one perspective, even the big bang theory is proof of “magic” – proof that while science is supposed to map reality, reality is not necessarily “not-fantasy.” This category judgment is so simple – yet so subtle and determining, simultaneously. If fantasy can equal reality, then the psychological or emotional resistance against opening one’s mind to the first-, second-, and third-person evidence indicative of trans-mysticality’s epistemic normativity significantly lessens.
Moore adds “...we can’t force students to submit their beliefs to tests of scientific reasoning and logic. Many people’s beliefs are much stronger than their willingness to think, their desire to learn or their ability to reason.” Psychoanalytically, this statement could easily and (again) all too ironically apply to Moore himself and the worldview that his article so captures. His belief that trans-mysticality is fantasy and science is reality may indeed be much stronger than his “willingness to think,” his “desire to learn,” or his “ability to reason.” But there is hope for the crusade against trans-mysticality – for “...we can teach students the value of basing their decisions on logic and evidence rather than on blind faith, hocus-pocus, mythology, religious dogma and fantasy.” Again, as evidenced in this last remark by Moore, trans-mysticality is fantasy and science is reality and, even more psychologically entrenched, fantasy cannot be reality. Nietzschean pacification has indeed lulled the soul’s once ecstatic love affair with goodness, truth, and beauty.
While I could cite more examples of discourse that make a case against trans-mysticality, I do not think that this is needed. I have provided ample first-person, second-person, and third-person evidence pointing to the reality and value of trans-mystical experience - which is essential, in this case, because the stance that I have taken throughout this research faces the burden of proof far more (on the surface) than does its opposition. Still, to illustrate the logic and psychology of this latter stance, the fewer sources that I have incorporated nonetheless compensate for such quantitative deficiency, by their exemplifying this particular worldview, and from my in-depth conversation with and psychoanalysis of them. The remainder of this project shall engage in a dialogue between three most relevant worldviews in hope of assessing their respective “pros” and “cons” in relation to the subject of trans-mysticality, and then using this assessment as conclusive testament to the present essay. The reader now has a much more comprehensive outlook on the research topic as a whole. It is time to determine how this individual should interpret such a topic.
Contributions and Shortcomings of Three Main Perspectives on Trans-mysticality Francis Fukuyama implements a strategy in The End of History and the Last Man that I seek to utilize for this final section. He acknowledges three most relevant, or encompassing, ideologies that have been in conflict with one another especially throughout this past century. These ideologies are traditionalism, liberalism, and postmodernism. The method is particularly effective because it not only acknowledges the “biggest players in the game,” so to speak, but it also compares and contrasts them. I shall do likewise for the remainder of this paper. These three perspectives are to be called anti-trans-mysticality, neutral-trans-mysticality, and pro-trans-mysticality. Moore epitomizes the first view, for reasons already stated, while Wilber epitomizes the third view, for reasons already stated. For reasons now to be stated, Foucault epitomizes the second view.
The process/system-oriented holism in Foucault’s epistemic style moves him away from considering matters of positive goodness and truth. Foucault abstains from making any deliberate normative assertion both epistemically and ethically. Instead, he – and the perspective that he represents – chooses to analyze preexisting norms and their relationship with the historical structures and processes that led to their construction and perpetuation. Foucault’s ideology epitomizes the neutral-trans-mysticality view because it could care less about the epistemic/ethical normativity of trans-mystical experience; it cares only about analyzing and understanding how this subject has become so abnormal and taboo – for the most part. Someone like Foucault chooses to suspend judgment concerning what Moore and Wilber instead choose to judge. Moore prejudges that trans-mystical claimants are all full of shit, put crudely. Wilber judges that some trans-mystical claimants are actually full of truth. Foucault would judge that trans-mysticality is definitely far more abnormal and repressed than the gross majority of academia gives credit – but without the intellectual strength and courage that Wilber has. Please know that while I already see more comprehension and value in Wilber’s position, it would be improper and irresponsible of me to dismiss the other two ideologies just as immediately, without any regard for their respective contributions along with their respective shortcomings.
Starting with anti-trans-mysticality, it is plain to see that this viewpoint is valuable because of its skepticism and reliability. Skepticism, arguably, is equally as important for any intellectual dilemma as imagination or realism. Skepticism serves a natural/inherent and useful function – that is, skepticism in appropriate moderation. Anti-trans-mysticality’s skepticism makes its method most substantial and reliable, which reinforces public respect and trust for conventional science, and convention in general. However, the skeletons of this perspective’s pros have grown excessively in direct accord with its very flaws and contradictions. These shortcomings, put simply, are absolutism and extreme bias. I cannot help but think that many scientists and people in general who fit this ideological category share roughly the same mindset/worldview as an absolutistic, extremely biased priest alive during medieval times, except their religion or mythology has shifted from absolute overemphasis of the Above, of Platonic idealism, to absolute overemphasis of the Below, of Nietzschean materialism.
Neutral-trans-mysticality’s positive features, or contributions, include flexibility and concreteness. This perspective shares the same empiricist/overemphasis of the first perspective, but its holism (rather than reductionism) allows it to be significantly more fluent or flexible than anti-trans-mysticality because, understood plainly, systems/contexts – relative to this “human condition,” at least – are changing far more rapidly than are the universe’s more inherent tendencies. Foucault’s worldview demonstrates both such flexibility and concreteness. However, neutral-trans-mysticality commits the same absolutism as anti-trans-mysticality does, except not from regarding only the Below and not the Above, but from absolutely overemphasizing the Many over the One – intersubjectivity over both subjectivity and objectivity.
If intersubjectivity is all that matters, if there is only context and our being conditioned by it, and if there is no such thing as “truth” or “goodness” in some inherently normative sense, then trans-mysticality becomes meaningless despite all the evidence that implies its meaningfulness. However, if subjectivity, intersubjectivity, and objectivity (“I,” “We,” and “It(s)”) are valued just as much as intersubjectivity alone, then the postmodern ideology that Foucault represents, in alignment with this second possible way of interpreting trans-mysticality, ceases to be postmodern and, in light of this topic, it ceases to be neutral. So the second major shortcoming of neutral-trans-mysticality is not extreme bias (or anywhere near the same degree as with anti-trans-mysticality), but instead, for lack of a better word, apathy. Yet – the time in which we now live does not call for apathy – it calls for curiosity, spontaneity, courage, action, wholeness, wisdom, love.
Perhaps my understanding of psychology does not apply here, but I am convinced, based on first-person account, that simply realizing the greater possibility that trans-mysticality is real can transform that individual for the better, enhancing or incepting qualities such as spontaneity, courage, action, wholeness, wisdom, and love. I am also convinced, based on second-person evidence, that experiencing and living the reality of trans-mysticality oneself brings exponentially more goodness and truth than merely realizing its greater possibility. We live in a context that is dominated by anti-trans-mysticality and neutral-trans-mysticality. Either “fantasy” is unreal, or we can never know for ourselves and should not even bother trying. Yet, as pro-trans-mysticality, Wilber, a rapidly growing community of others, and myself agree, the previous statement/inference/belief should be, and is in fact, “either ‘fantasy’ is real, or we have nothing to lose and the opposite to gain from attempting to know ourselves.”
Granted, we must of course honor all unique contributions that the other two perspectives bring. There is value in a moderate degree of skepticism; there is value to concrete demonstration; there is value to scientific convention; and there is value to flexibility or fluency due to acknowledging the importance of systems, relationships, and collectivity in general. But there is also value to seeing the coherence and connection between two seemingly indifferent or contradictory worldviews (in addition to seeing the two in the first place), so as to synthesize one that both transcends and includes them in apposite moderation and optimal wholeness. Perhaps an entirely new worldview or evolution in collective consciousness is, and has been, emerging. Perhaps the emergence of this new, comprehensive, holistic, and integrative way of thinking and living shall positively transform today’s global society/culture exponentially more than the emergence of modernity/liberalism positively transformed the unhealthy, outdated, and/or exhausted society/culture of its time.
Make no mistake; my intention with this work, as a whole, is not to convince the reader that trans-mysticality definitely has epistemic normativity. Rather, it is to show the anti-trans-mysticalist and neutral-trans-mysticalist hold subtle flaws in their worldviews in relation to the greater completeness and unity of the pro-trans-mysticalist’s worldview, as epitomized by Wilber and defined by holisticity. My goal with this paper is to inspire its reader to see that 1) trans-mysticality’s taboo is excessive and for the most part unuttered (especially within the intellectual community), 2) there is a vast, integrative, and comprehensive amount of legitimate evidence that gives reason to see beyond this taboo, and 3) there is immense value to opening one’s mind more and expanding one’s conscientiousness toward the possibility that one’s (most influential) worldview is really inadequate to maximize this opportunity that we scholars, and agents of positive global change, have before us.
This opportunity as I see it is quite literally – and likely – a Second Renaissance, a Second Reformation, a Second Enlightenment, a Second American Revolution, a Second Industrial Revolution, etc., but relative to this pluralistic, global, exponential context that marks planet Earth at this time. This opportunity, these opportunities, are such that we individuals can co-create a world in which the human potential is maximized and all life on Earth is allowed to thrive and flourish in fantastical equilibrium and abundance. Perhaps now is finally the time when humankind can wake up from its cocoon and emerge soaring as a magnificent butterfly. In light of such speculations and such emotional and hyperbolic language, know with certainty that I myself hold with maximum conviction that addressing and fixing trans-mysticality’s taboo is ineffably worthwhile, especially for anyone intelligent and privileged enough to have just processed all of this information.
Feeling satisfied, the young scholar concluded his all-nighter by emailing the work to Mr. Randi - then passing out on his dorm bed.
Recover me
I can't see:
my eyes are
encrusted
with your
honeycomb lies
and no amount
of saltwater
can wash away
the words
you've said to me.
I can't smell:
pine forests
and the ocean air
fill my lungs
but no matter
how many times
I create a forest fire
or pollute the illusion
of a blue sky
I can't smoke out
the sickeningly sweet stench
of what we used to be.
I can't taste:
I've glided my tongue
over the curve of
my coffee mug
but no amount of
bitter heat
or sugar and cream
can reset the pop-rocks
going off
inside of me.
I can't feel:
I've pulled away
the layer of skin
you caressed
like an orange peel
but I made the mistake
of letting you touch
every inch of me
and now red wine
and strawberry vines
pour from me
and I've involuntarily
left a trail
so now you know
right where to find me.
I can't hear:
you whispered
of waking up
to Rome's sunlight
and sleeping under
Paris' speckled sky
but your empty
promises
are left among
the ruins under the sea
and no amount of
vanilla scented dreams
will cause me to
once again believe
you're anything more
than a snake in the
Garden of Eden.
