That Which Is Cesear’s (a chapter)
The Touboku Assisted Living Facility was breathtaking. It’s classic Japanese architecture and natural lines of wood, stone, glass and water gave it the appearance of blooming organically out of the hillside. It was silently alive. The solitary gray stone path that led to the entrance focused your attention on the brilliant flowers that blanketed the front grounds in lieu of grass. Above the path hundreds of thin trees grew together and formed a hundred foot tall canopy whose sole purpose seemed to be humbling the path walkers. The ox blood wooden doors looked dense and heavy but opened with barely a touch. Nature continued her course inside. The lobby had a five-inch wide stream that snaked around the large boulders that bordered the gold stone tiled floor. The reception desk was the trunk of a very large fallen tree. Nina read on the website that the entire facility was built around this several thousand year old tree. Nina didn’t know anything about fung-shui but this place seemed at peace with itself and that feeling resonated. She found modern civilization behind the tree desk in the form of vast array of video monitors and an enormous stainless steel switchboard with hundreds of nondescript buttons. The young woman behind the desk was barely tall enough to see over it. From a distance it gave the appearance that she was just a floating head on a log. Her Cheshire cat grin spanned the length of the desk. Nina returned the body-less smile.
“Welcome to Touboku. How may I enhance your experience?” Her grin didn’t blink.
“Hi my name is Nina Simon. I called earlier about visiting one of your residents, Esther Shakarian.”
“Ah yes Ms. Simon. Ms. Shakarian is presently at Mill Run, our dog park. I’ll have one of our drivers escort you.”
A miniature Range Rover Sport pulled up to the front twenty seconds after the Cheshire head hit a button on the switchboard. It was the size of a golf cart but much faster. The driver was very polite but only spoke when Nina spoke first.
“I didn’t know Range Rover made miniatures.”
“They make them exclusively for our facility.”
“How far is the dog park?”
“We should arrive at Mill Run in approximately three minutes.”
“How big is this place?”
“Touboku consists of nine man made and eighteen natural structures that rest on over three hundred acres of earth and sky.”
He’s brochuring me every answer. The rest of the trip was silent. It took exactly two minutes and thirty six seconds . When the mini Rover stopped the driver explained to Nina how to get to the dog run which was apparently on the other side of the hill they now faced. He told her motorized vehicles were not allowed any further and offered to escort her on foot the rest of the way. She politely declined.
“I do have a question though. How will I recognize Ms. Shakarian?”
He smiled. “Everyone recognizes Ms. Shakarian.” He pulled off.
As Nina approached the top of the hill she thought about how poetically beautiful Touboku was. This had to be the most lavish “old folks home” in existence. It not only rivaled but trumped any vacation resort she had ever seen. She couldn’t begin to imagine how much it cost to live here or how an eighty one year old grandmother on a fixed income from a subsidized apartment in the Brooklyn projects could possibly afford it.
What they called a dog run was actually an acre of a perfectly manicured grass hybrid that was specifically formulated to promote healthy digestion in dogs. There were several Touboku attendants standing nearby with blue poop bags and distilled water (apparently distilled water was better for the dog’s fur than spring water). There were about ten residents with malteses, yorkies and other lap dogs running around.
Sitting alone under a young tree wearing black shorts, black open toe sandals with white ankle socks, a black t-shirt with the words Reasonable Doubt in white letters across the chest and a jet black motorcycle helmet with the dark tinted visor closed was the very recognizable Esther Shakarian.
As Nina approached, two extremely large Irish wolfhounds appeared out of nowhere and sat down flanking Ms. Shakarian. With all three of them seated, the dogs were significantly larger and taller than she was. Nina stopped about ten feet from them not sure how Ms. Shakarian’s bodyguards were going to react to her approach.
“It’s okay girl. Lincoln and Kennedy are very obedient.”Ms. Shakarian said surprisingly clear considering the black orb that surrounded her head. The dogs didn’t move as Nina resumed her approach but never took their hi eyes off her.
“It’s okay.” Ms. Shakarian reassured as Nina stood directly in front of the seated trio.
“I suppose they are harmless right?” Nina asked through an uncomfortable smile as she sat down.
“Nothing is harmless. That’s why I wear a helmet,” she replied tapping on the side of it.
Nina tried not to laugh. She was paying so much attention to Lincoln and Kennedy that she’d forgotten about the black motorcycle helmet that came down to Ms. Shakarian’s bony shoulders. She couldn’t have been ninety pounds. The parts of her dark olive skin that were showing were wrinkled, but not old woman wrinkles; they were more like newborn baby wrinkles.
“Ms. Shakarian, my name is Nina Simon and I’d like to talk to you about your grandson Grayson .”
She flipped up the helmet’s dark visor and stared at Nina with a momma grizzly look in her eyes.
“I’m one of his, or rather; I was one of his teachers.” Nina smiled trying to assure her that she meant no harm to her cub.
Ms. Shakarian retracted her claws but said nothing.
“He has missed the last three months of school and we have a new principal who has expelled him but because of his straight A average has agreed to meet with him to discuss a possible reinstatement. I just haven’t been able to find him.”
Silence.
“I called all the numbers we had on file but they were all disconnected. His school records list you as his guardian since kindergarten, so I went to the address they had on file for you but your neighbor, Mrs. Wilson, said you'd moved out here a year ago. I had to order forty two dollars worth of her granddaughter's fundraiser candy to get her to talk”, Nina said still a little pissed about it.
Ms. Shakarian took her helmet off letting her cotton thick, bright white hair fall down to the middle of her back. A regal gypsy queen . She looked like a glowing hieroglyph. Nina remembered something her father once said about beauty. “Pretty is associated with age, beauty is timeless.” He was right and Esther Shakarian was beautiful. Esther quickly stood up before Nina could offer her assistance. She smiled at Nina and said, “Let's take a walk.”
After a silent and rather brisk paced two minutes in which Nina assumed Ms. Shakarian was trying to decide how much she was going to say.
“I’ve decided I like you.”
“Thank you Ms. Sha…
“Grayson almost never slept as a baby, didn’t cry either, even when he was hungry, which wasn’t often. He just used to lay there and stare,into space. I took him to three different pediatricians. They said he was fine and I was lucky.” She seemed to be spewing out facts as she remembered them. “He refused to eat meat of any kind, not even baby food. He hated diapers and started walking at eight months and was using the potty at 9 months. He started reading the newspaper when he was two years old. Started writing poetry at three, always had a thing for numbers though. Very particular about his appearance. Loves books. Used to spend days at a time in the library. Literally. Mrs. Sherman, the librarian, practically adopted him. He didn’t say his first words until he was eight.”
“Wait, Nina interrupted. He was reading at two, writing poetry at three, but couldn’t talk until he was eight?”
“I didn’t say he couldn’t talk, I said he didn’t.”
“Well how did you two communicate?”
“We had an understanding.”
“An understanding?”
“I don’t know how to explain it Ms. Simon it just worked. It still works. He doesn’t have to say nothing for me to understand exactly what he’s thinking.” She paused like she was sending him a telepathic greeting.
“So what were his first words?” Nina asked turning around and looking at Lincoln and Kennedy following close behind.
Ms. Shakarian stopped walking and looked past Nina’s eyes. “My son was a junkie. He begged, borrowed and stole to support his habit. In that order. Three days after Grayson’s eight birthday my son George came to my apartment beggin for thirty dollars for his “stuff”. He was goin on and on about how he was sick and needed the money to get “right” so he could work some construction job in Hoboken. I told him I didn’t have any money. Which I didn’t. It was the middle of the month and all I had was sixty three dollars left on my social security check card and that was the only way Grayson and I could eat the rest of the month. So George starts saying how he’s my son, not Grayson. How I’ve always loved Grayson more than him and how this was the last time he would ever ask me for any money. Beggin and beggin. I told him I was sorry but I don’t have it. So he starts going crazy and tearin through the house lookin for my card, which I had in my bra. He was screamin if I didn’t give it to him he’d find something to sell. He was goin through all the drawers, cabinets, the frigerator, everything, looking for something he could sell. George has always had a mean streak. He got that same look in his eyes that my father use to get after he came home from the bar.” She paused like she just made the connection.“Anyway, the whole time Grayson was doing what he normally did when he wasn’t reading. Staring out the window lost in his own world. Well, after George realized that I didn’t have anything worth selling he walked over to me and grabbed me by the shoulders telling me to give him the card. I started crying, not because he was hurting me but because I was just very sad. I guess he felt bad or thought I was hurt because he fell to his knees and grabbed me by my waist beggin and pleadin. I was just about to take the card out my bra and hand it to him when I saw Grayson walking over to us holding my mother’s cast iron skillet. George turned around to see what I was starin at. Grayson looked him in his eyes and said “You have to accept there are some things you won’t understand at first”. Then he whacked him in the head with the pan and George fell over unconscious. I was more shocked that Grayson had spoke than George laying there knocked out.” She paused at that thought. “I looked at Grayson and practically yelled “You can talk.”He said, “Of course Gram.”(that’s what he ended up calling me).
“Well what the hell took you so long?”
“I was thinking.”
“Thinking? Thinking about what?”
“Everything.”
After that he talked like a regular kid. Well, not like a regular kid but he talked regularly.”
“What happened to your son?” Nina asked before she realized she probably shouldn’t have.
“I was scared to touch him. I just talked to Grayson. He said that George would get up in a few hours. And sure enough, after about two hours George got up and walked out the door without saying a word. I never saw him again. He overdosed a week later.”
An old sadness woke up in the back of Ms. Shakarian’s eyes. Nina didn’t know what to say or if she should say anything. Ms. Shakarian put the sadness and the awkward silence to bed. “Ms. Simon, I’m not telling you these things because I’m a lonely old broad that enjoys goin on about her special grandson or the bones in her closet. Although I am and I do. I want you to understand that Grayson has always done things in his own way in his own time. High school is no different. I never know what he’s doing but I know whatever it is, it’s intentional and I trust his intentions.”
“But aren’t you worried that…
“You know the funny thing about worrying Ms. Simon. It accomplishes nothing.”
“But…
“Look Nina, I understand the effect my grandson has on people, especially women, and I appreciate your concern but Grayson is more than capable of taking care of himself.”
She put her helmet back on. It was clear that Ms. Shakarian had said her peace. Nina realized she had unknowingly been escorted back to the front entrance of Touboku. She decided that pushing Ms. Shakarian would not only be a mistake but it wouldn’t work and she wanted to leave on good terms.
“Thank you for your time Ms. Shakarian. I really do appreciate it. If it’s okay I’ll leave my cell phone number with you in case Grayson decides he wants to contact me.”
Nina’s politeness couldn’t mask her disappoint at her being sent packing.
Ms. Shakarian took the card with Nina’s phone number on it and put it in the front pocket of her shorts and then started walking around the side of the main building followed closely by Lincoln and Kennedy. When she was just about out of sight she stopped, turned and faced Nina then flipped open her visor.
“There are two things you should know about life Ms. Simon. Number two is Mrs. Wilson doesn’t have grandkids.” Then she disappeared behind the building.
“What’s number one?” Nina yelled but Ms. Shakarian was gone. Why would she only tell the second one? And that damn Mrs. Wilson and her bullshit story about her nonexistent grandkids got me for my last forty bucks. Nina’s frustration quickly turned to laughter as she could hear Esther Shakarian’s earlier statement echoing in her head. Nothing is harmless. Rule number one.
Family First
How many heroes you see rise and change the world?
I don’t mean the motherfuckers that save baby deers stuck in fences in Instagram videos.
I don’t even mean the motherfucker that cured polio. I mean where is the person that united the tribes?
Showed us and made us accept the only thing we all know for certain.
That we all are one. Where is this herald of utopia? Huh? Where? I’ll tell you what we all conveniently forget.
We kill saviors here. We murder angels. We shoot the messenger. Here. In this place.
You base all your spiritual bullshit on the premise that what we collectively are, is good.
What evidence do you have of this? The deer rescuer? Look around. Look at the violent nature of the universe.
The cold decisions it makes. Look at what we’ve done. At what we’ve created.
Fuck the technology we’ve made that serves our amusement more than our evolution.
Our level of personal self destruction is so high that millions of motherfuckers believe that the only logical explanation is extraterrestrials.
Motherfuckers from other planets had to evolve to the point that they could design technology beyond our current understanding of science,
to fly light years through time and space to our planet just to carry out an elaborate plan of colonization.
That’s how we have made sense of the things we do to ourselves. If there are aliens.
They lock their doors when they fly by.
At best we’re a dumb, fuckin evil baby genius. You think we’re children of a God? We’re fuckin Stewie Griffin.
the Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth
Consciously control every aspect of your existence. Every single, individual aspect. Trillions and trillions of cells and there functions. Every breath. The direction of your blood flow. Every blink and every other unnoticeable, unconscious, mundane activity that sustains you. Think about all these things suddenly under your direct conscious guidance. All at once. Then add your thoughts. Every single one. All the things you think about are now decisions. Every single one. You have to decide if you should think it before you think it and then deal with the thought afterwards and every one that follows. All the time at the same time. No subconscious thoughts, no reacting off of instinct, memory, trauma or experience. Relentless pure thought. Then add your emotions. Complete control and awareness of every feeling and the source reason behind it. Constant and conscious decision making about if and what you feel and all the compelling electrical impulses and biochemical events that accompanies them. Finally, add your spirit, or whatever you feel animates you. Think about the thinker of the thoughts. The feeler of the emotions. You are in complete control of that too. In addition to that , it deals with the causality of every other aspect of yourself. Now, do that for every one of the billions of humans on this earth. At once. Then the living earth itself. Think about every diatom. Every breeze. Every butterfly flutter. Every animal and all their instincts and their underlying causes. Think about every drop of water. The movement of the tectonic plates. The flow of all the lava. The rotation of its spin through the cosmos. You control it all. Then add the sun, immerse yourself in its raw, non discriminatory power and every other star and every other planet. Think about every moon. Every comet, every meteor and every other celestial body. Dark energy and dark matter. Antimatter. Electrons, neutrinos, quarks. All the ethereal energy known and unknown in the entire vastness of an endless universe. Exercise complete and total control of an infinite everything. Always and all ways. Then...get back to me.
The Fault Is Not
He thinks he's seducing me. I'm holding my breath as he speaks so when I respond it will seem labored and he'll think I'm flustered by his charms. I'll say something clever but not smart. Have to stimulate his mind without bruising his ego. My responses will have the mildest of sexual innuendo; just to add the "slut for the right man" potential. My eyes are on him and our surroundings almost equally. My body language saying I'm interested, but holding my attention is a moment by moment chore. Reality facilitation is what I like to call it. All women do it. They just usually do it subconsciously or at a very pedestrian level, only mildly aware of the edges of its power. Flowers getting life from the outskirts of the sun's rays but never understanding the oppressive, violent nature of the source. The raw purity of its intent. I am not content to just blossom. To just accept beauty’s residual rewards. I claim my portion of this cosmic force and I wield it with prejudice. I once read that humans are the remnants of dead stars. I like that. So while he's spews his cold language and dark intentions across the space between us, I don't resist but I don't fall either. There is no gravity here. I use his black canvas as a backdrop to the world I'm creating. Then, when the time is right, I let there be light.
He's still talking about his car. How it took thirteen months to be made to his specifications. I ask why he didn't just buy one off the lot. He "educates" me about how the lights on the ceiling inside of the Rolls Royce Wraith are arranged in the star pattern of his choosing. That takes time. I act like I didn't know that. I act like I care.
I act like I'm not rearranging his stars at this very moment.
It’s simple.
Men only want one thing. I’m a woman. I want everything.
It's complicated.
Excerpt from T.W.I.C (Chapter 7, first draft)
The teacher’s lounge at the Brooklyn High School reeked of nuked lean cuisines, Jamaican beef patties and stale coffee. Ms. Simon rarely ate lunch and when she did, she ate with the students. She told her colleagues that it added a dimension to her relationship with them but the truth was the thought of this smell and the “TV static like” white noise of the tenured teachers decaying hope made her dizzy. Most of them had given up a long time ago and promised her she would too. The weight of the metal detectors, the blatant disrespect, archaic books, senseless violence, the administration’s ridiculous policies and the overall lack of effort by the children and parents made the cross of the systemically flawed educational system impossible to bear. Mrs. Ingram, the 11th grade English teacher told her on her first day; “Today you feel like you’re walking on water, tomorrow you’ll feel like you’re drowning on solid ground.” That was almost six months ago and although every once in a while Ms. Simon had to take a really deep breath, she was tougher than her petite frame and sensible T.J Maxx clothes let on and being born and raised in Bedstuy made her a really good ground swimmer.
The only teacher that seemed to notice her unusual presence was the physics teacher Mr. Petrick.
“Greetings Nina, what brings you to this scurvy galley?” He was trying to wipe off the remnants of a beef patty from his infamous lab coat which hung down to the floor and concealed his feet. No one had ever seen Mr. Petrick without his lab coat. Ms. Hennent said she’d even seen him wearing it on a Saturday at a mall in New Jersey eating at Chipotle. Some of the teachers swore he was naked under it. Naked or not, Nina had liked him right away. He had a lanky Krameresque frame with a curly Arnold Horshack afro, translucent green eyes and the remnants of a cockney accent that he embellished. He seemed to be the only teacher with any significant number of years that still had that impish gleam in the back of his eyes that showed he loved to teach and inspire even when no one was taught or inspired.
“I came looking for you Jonathan.”
Nina was the only teacher that called him Jonathan. The others called him Johnny, John or even JP. He not so secretly loathed any abbreviation of his name and appreciated Nina for noticing.
“Then consider me flattered and at your service,” he gallantly replied half bowing.
“I want to talk to you about one of our mutual students, Grayson.”
“Ahh yes Mr. Benjamin, quite a remarkable young man. A classic example of one of Herr Einstein’ theories.”
“What do you mean Jonathan?”
“Why Ms. Simon surely you’re familiar with the young patent clerk’s famous theories? Mr. Benjamin is the personification of energy not being created or destroyed only changing forms. He, for lack of a better term, has been here before.”
“And by here you mean?”
“Why the three-dimensional expanse in which all material things exist of course. We are focused points of conscious energy weighted with a physical structure, you see Ms. Simon our atoms entrapment in our DNA is a transient biochemical event just as in an astrophysical sense our entrapment in the solar system is a transient phase and if one could somehow use a sort of sub-atomic muscle memory to” ... the look on her face stopped him short.
“Your furrowed brow tells me I’m not making much sense.”
“I’m sorry Jonathan, I understand your point and in a more pedestrian sense I agree with you. He is well beyond his years and seems to absorb information effortlessly. Almost unbelievably so.”
“Surely you don’t suspect some sort of rouse?”
“I honestly don’t know what or if I suspect. Maybe he’s an autistic savant. I don’t know. If he were thirty he would be one of the most brilliant, creative, insightful, beguiling people I’ve ever met or heard of for that matter but at seventeen he is”...
“A case study”, he said finishing her thought.
“Exactly”, she agreed.
“How’s he doing in your class?” She knew what Jonathan was going to say.
“He’s finished.”
She didn’t know he was going to say that. “What do you mean finished?”
“He has turned in all my assignments and completed his midterm and final exams.”
“But it’s only November.”
“It would seem that time is also relative Ms. Simon.” Petrick smirked. “I can’t in good conscious confine him to my class when I cannot offer him anything he doesn’t already have. And if I’m being completely honest he made the tests up for me. How’s he doing in your class?”
“Well he’s certainly not finished, she said ribbing him.
“Only because it’s your first year and he’s not familiar with your syllabus or lesson plans. He only shows up for your class.”
“The other teachers don’t have a problem with this Jonathan?”
“With what? A student who completes all his assignments gets straight A’s, helps to raise the standardized testing scores and has the courtesy not to show up and further disrupt and already overcrowded classroom. Look around you Ms. Simon the only thing these, for lack of a better word, educators, have a problem with is that more of their students, or sons or husbands for that matter, aren’t like him. He gave Mr. Gereon a stock tip last year that made him a small fortune and Mrs. Williams swears he saved her marriage and cured her of her fear of heights.”
Nina laughed.
“It’s quite true.” He joined her laugh.
“Have you ever met his parents?” Her laughter subsiding.
Almost on queue Grayson nonchalantly walked into the teacher’s lounge and directly to the brown stained coffee pot. He poured some of the three day old thick mud into a styrofoam cup and turned right around and starting walking toward the door. Some of the teachers nodded his way and Nina swore that Mrs. Jackson, the guidance counselor, bit her bottom lip and winked at him.
“Jonathan, Nina,” he said casually acknowledging their presence as he walked past the two of them and out the door into the hallway.
Nina looked at Jonathan her face a ball of confusion.
“Puzzles me as well, he said in response to her look, I don’t know how he drinks that abysmal concoction either.”