Nonentity (12 page)

I awoke in a cage, alone on a cold concrete floor. The place stunk of urine. Shirtless and shoeless, I wore tattered pants. Steel bars gleamed in front of me.

A tall man entered the area just beyond my cell. I shuddered. The gray beard, bloodcurdling blue eyes, and “PR” cap confirmed the man’s identity: R. Smith Manchester.

He came to the bars of my chamber and glared at me. “Stand up.”

I did as told. A fiendish grin formed on his face. I turned away.

“Look at me, Mr. Flemming,” said R. Smith. “Nabbing your father was a personal highlight. Unfortunately, I never had the chance to pursue your equally treasonous brother. Now there’s you, the aptly named Sebastian R. Flemming the Third, a warped individual who has learned nothing from the past. Did you honestly believe you could repeat the crimes of your other family members and escape the same result? Who the fuck are you?”

He exited the room. The terror of the atmosphere swelled. Minutes later R. Smith returned, pulling a small cauldron of fire with one hand, holding a long poker stick in the other. He dipped the stick into the burning pot.

He scowled at me. “Come directly before me and place each hand on a bar of this cell.”

He handcuffed me to the two bars. He took the poker stick from the flames and pointed it at me. A smoldering “PR” emblazoned the end of the stick. I winced as he stuck the poker against my bare chest for fifteen seconds of hell. He removed the stick.

“This is merely the beginning, Mr. Flemming. Many hours of torment are ..”

A glowing bubble containing Lorna materialized behind R. Smith. With a voice that shook the walls, Lorna said, “This is a poor reality to choose for yourself. Be gone!”

She raised her arms to the sky. R. Smith Manchester zapped out of existence. Lorna pressed her hands against the bubble, creating a hole. She exited through the hole and the bubble disappeared. She came to my cell, reaching through the bars and placing a finger on the “PR” insignia etched into my chest. My pain melted away.

“This evil symbol you now don,” she said, “is a reminder of your father’s brave sacrifices. He is always with you.”

I said, “What about you? Are you always with me?”

“Sebastian, I never left you.”

“During my most recent session with the parallel universalist, he asked me to point to where you were in the room. I couldn’t do it. Were you there?”

“You should have pointed at yourself; I am within you. The separateness of our realities is an illusion. Visit Lukas Lambert again so that those realities can further merge.”

Lorna vanished. A green light flooded my cell, absorbing my sight. Lorna’s father, author Randolph Doppelganger, addressed me: “Embrace the scrambled mind. Lukas claimed that he and I are adversaries. That was strategic distraction. He employs justifiable deception to bring you into my domain. Lukas is a gatekeeper.”

I lost consciousness.

I awoke shirtless in my living room. I dashed to the closest mirror. The “PR” insignia remained on my chest. Delight washed over me.

A knock came to my door. As I figured, it was the driver of the unregistered cab in which I had thrice travelled. Exchanging few words, we headed toward Lukas Lambert’s.

My third trip there outdid the first two. A brand-new roof adorned the barn. The structure had been repainted and contained none of its former cracks. The front yard was perfectly trimmed and free of garbage. The stone walkway leading to the door was repaved. The door still lacked a knob, a blemish that now seemed nostalgic.

There was no response when I knocked on the door. I knocked again.

“Hello,” I called out. “It’s Lorna’s friend, Sebastian. I’m here for another session.”

Lukas emerged from a corner of the barn. He wore a collared blue shirt and finely ironed white pants. His brown hair was combed handsomely. Gone were his bent glasses, replaced by sunglasses. He flashed a smile of refurbished teeth.

“What do you think?” said Lukas.

I shook my head. “Who are you? Have we met?”

He laughed. “You told me, ‘The clothes do not make the man.’ That’s a pleasant thought, but this world of superficialities disagrees. I’ve adjusted accordingly.”

“You certainly have. You look great. This place looks incredible too.”

“Thank you. I take it you had another vision.”

“Yes. This latest one had to be real. Look.” I lifted up my shirt and showed him the “PR” on my chest.

“Damn. That’s repulsive. How did you get that?”

“It happened in my vision. I was in jail. A police officer branded me with these letters. Then Lorna arrived and made the officer disappear. She took all my pain away.”

Lukas was quiet for several seconds. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing. Lorna left and the vision ended.”

“Something else happened.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It wasn’t important.”

“Wasn’t Lorna’s father there as well?”

“How do you know?”

“Because I was there. I keep track of that reptile.”

“I don’t understand your hostility for the man. I think he just wants to help.”

“Wrong,” said Lukas. “He told you my antipathy for him was ‘strategic distraction.’ Yet, he is the master of strategic distraction. He’ll drive a wedge between you and Lorna.”

“Why?”

“It’s part of his game. He called me a ‘gatekeeper.’ I am not a gatekeeper; I am the gate. Randolph Doppelganger wishes to block that gate. He aims to divert you into a realm of fabrication, one that he creates and controls.”

“I’m aghast. I don’t know whom to trust.”

“Come to my office and let me earn your trust.”

I tentatively sided with the parallel universalist.

The door of Lukas’s office no longer featured the shiny nameplate. The hourglass with the blue circle on its lower half remained, tipped over and leaking sand.

He swung the door wide. The office was more cluttered and disgusting than my first visit. The disheveled papers, clothing, and half-eaten plates of food were scattered throughout. Ants and roaches crawled through the mess. The dead-animal odor possessed renewed strength.

“What the hell happened?” I said. “All the shit you got rid of is back.”

“This junk never actually went away. Last time you were here, I employed an optical illusion to make you think the room had changed. Today I shifted that illusion to the outer appearance of this place. Remarkable, huh?”

“Not quite. A minute ago I wasn’t sure whether to trust you or Lorna’s father. Now I’m more unsure. How can you accuse Doppelganger of deceiving me when you do so yourself?”

Lukas said, “Cut me some slack, man. It’s a harmless prank.”

“Maybe so, but it only gives me reason to doubt you. I don’t like getting fooled.”

Ignoring my displeasure, he sauntered into the room, kicking away trash to clear a path to his desk. He created an open space in front of the desk where he rolled two chairs.

He pointed at one of the chairs. “Have a seat please.”

I sat down where he indicated. He went to the file cabinet behind the desk, pulled out his SRF-3, and seated himself in the chair across from me. He dimmed the lights with a remote control. Sliding the SRF-3 over his head, he turned toward me. His red lenses rotated.

“No music?” I said.

“Shh. Don’t interrupt this process.”

The lenses emitted tiny blue laser beams that disabled my vision. The blue faded and I found myself lying on my side in a motionless elevator.

Lukas’s voice carried from afar: “Tell me, Sebastian: Do you remember this very moment, the one in which I am addressing you, right here and right now? Have you heard these words before? Is this but a flashback?”

As usual, I spoke without control of my words: “Everything is flashback. Everything is now. Everything is flashforward. As is written on the paper and read by the reader, this moment has already occurred. It is a flashback within a flashforward.”

“You mention something ‘written on the paper.’ Expand upon that.”

“This exchange shall appear in literary form,” I said. “I will not write it here. I will do so in a place that doesn’t appear on any map, beyond the cycles of time. This is my story.”

“Is your story nonlinear?”

“Outside the cycles of time, events occur in a single moment. I have access to every episode of my life. I can reshuffle sequences and present them as flashback or flashforward. However, I will not write the second book.”

Lukas said, “Second book? I don’t comprehend. Which book will you write?”

“I write the first; he writes the second.”

“He? Who writes the second book?”

“He who exercises creative autonomy over the fiction we consider reality.”

“Do you know anything else about the other book?”

I said, “The second book covers things unforeseen at this point. Its events occur beyond the cycles of time. Or so I presume.”

“Are you beyond the cycles of time as we speak?” he asked.

“I, uh, believe so. Not sure.”

“Let us take a temporary detour. Shut your mind off and …”

An alarm bell drowned out his voice. The blue blotch overtook my sight. Upon the alarm’s final ring, I was whisked away to an endless field of green that morphed into Lorna’s eyes. I travelled at warp speed through every second I had shared with her. It was disorienting. Before recovering, I landed at one end of a long hall soaked in green lighting. A door at the opposite end continuously opened and closed to reveal Lorna’s father.

“The man behind the door is not who it should be,” said Lukas. “He is an intruder. Pay him no mind. The father you genuinely seek is your own.”

“My father? Is he here?”

“As Lorna informed you, your father is always with you. He watches over you and prefers that you leave the past in the past. He wants you to focus on the flashforward, not the flashback.”

“He is a flashback,” I said, strangely short of breath.

“He is flashback. He is now. He is flashforward. It’s a matter of where and when you choose to look. Can you point to where your father is in this room?”

The blue blotch returned and soon yielded to a door hanging in the night sky. Flames hurtled through that door. The fire withered away. A towering figure, obscured by darkness, entered the doorway. A blue light sprayed across the doorway; the figure was not there. A majestic green ray shot up a series of steps leading to the door. My father stood there, as vivid as ever. I raised a twitching hand and pointed at him.

“Fuck!” Lukas said.

My normal vision returned. My head ached. I saw Lukas sitting in his nearby chair, meticulously inspecting the SRF-3 in his hands.

He said, “There may be a glitch in this damn thing. I apologize for the mechanical failure that occurred.”

“It’s over?” I said. “That was exhilarating. I saw my father!”

“You did.”

“You sound displeased. Isn’t this a major breakthrough? Shouldn’t we celebrate?”

“Well, that’s debatable.”

“How can you say that?” I said.

“Oh, don’t read too much into my reaction. It does not reflect upon you. Your progress is exemplary. It’s just that, well, the whole thing didn’t go the way it was supposed to. My fault. All it takes to massively distort things is a fleeting lapse. Sorry.”

“But that was our best session thus far. How …”

“Please refrain from trying to understand. It has been a pleasure accompanying you on these journeys. You must go immediately.”

I complied with his wish and left. It was a difficult ride back to my apartment. In rapid fashion I had moved from the elation of spotting my father to the bafflement of hearing Lukas undercut my achievement.

As the cab pulled up to my residence, the plain-faced driver looked back at me, handed me a card, and said, “For future reference.” I eyed the card. It read: MR. 321ZYX, Chauffeur to the Insatiably Curious. Beneath that information was a phone number. I slipped the card into my billfold and exited the vehicle.

Jubilation erupted the evening after my third foray into parallel universalism:

“With all precincts closed and reporting their ballots,” said a toothy male propaganda disseminator on screen, “we can now project a winner in the most important Grand Premier election of our lifetimes: Cynthiana Davinsky. We go to Davinsky headquarters where correspondent Madeleine Musgrave awaits a speech from the victorious candidate. Madeleine, what’s the latest on this historic development?”

The ravishing Madeleine Musgrave stood amid a packed house. Banners, balloons, and confetti filled the background. She maintained a vibrant grin while dodging debris.

She said, “Well, Phil, we expect Premier-elect Davinsky to arrive here shortly. It was a grueling campaign. Ms. Davinsky proved herself one of the grittiest office seekers in recent years.” Musgrave put a hand over one of her ears. “I’m getting word that Ms. Davinsky will be here very soon. This is a glorious occasion. It was a landslide …”

A deafening roar arose from the crowd. Davinsky strutted through the audience, deftly executing the role of chief diversion: shaking hands, kissing babies, pumping her fists. She took the stage and went to the microphone.

She said, “Ladies and gentlemen, devoted supporters, loyal citizens of the Permanent Regime – with all my heart, thank you! God bless the Regime!” The crowd repeated her phrase in thunderous unison, “God bless the Regime! God bless the Regime!” She waved her arms, urging the onlookers to raise their volume. They complied.

“Your love of country brings tears to my eyes,” Davinsky said, once the clamor had abated. “Long live the Regime!” The crowd chanted that phrase incessantly, “Long live the Regime!” I turned my television off.

Davinsky would assume the Premiership within a month. I would receive a huge bonus from Triple-M for working on the triumphant campaign. I decided to quit my job and subsist on the extra loot until I found better employment.

The mood regarding the election was not universally favorable. Allen Jonah said over the radio, “Don’t be fooled by mainstream media hoopla. Davinsky is another soulless empty vessel. The Regime will continue its disastrous empire throughout the world.

“There is a frightening prospect to keep in mind as Davinsky pretends to take the throne. Refer back to Manchester’s statements near the end of
A Man of the Regime
.”

I had read
A Man of the Regime
twice. I knew the passage Jonah was referencing:

The current situation for underground resistors is mild. The Regime has not initiated a severe crackdown in many years. Evaporations are frequent. Still, the tyranny is soft. Prepare to see that tyranny harden.

As a Regime operative, I have become privy to the machinations of the upper echelon. Even an insider can discover only so much. The trouble I envision is vague and unformed at present. It will unravel shortly after the election.

Opponents of the government are too complacent and nonchalant. They exercise conspicuous liberties, drawing needless attention. A day of reckoning nears. When the political campaigns end, the State will require a fresh distraction. A crisis event – an emergency! – will reawaken the people and fan the flames of hostility toward anyone who second-guesses the party line. The Regime will thereby intensify its police state and smash its enemies.

Major upheavals often occur during periods of relative quiet. Few periods are quieter than the immediate aftermath of an election. Take heed.

Jonah spent much air time reinforcing Manchester’s warning. “He knew what was coming, folks. As Cynthiana Davinsky ascends to the top of the puppet food chain, people like us remain at the bottom. We’re sitting ducks for an establishment offensive. I predict another false flag maneuver.” I hesitated to take Jonah’s doomsdaying seriously.

Whatever my reservations about the paranoid radio host, I was afraid. Manchester was not a cockeyed conspiracy theorist. He had firsthand knowledge of the Regime. I braced myself for a rougher climate.

****

A week following the Premier election, I resigned from the Ministry of Miscommunication and Misdirection. Cranston Gage came to my place the day I quit.

Lighting a joint, Cranston said, “Those bastards at Triple-M must have been awfully sorry to see you split.”

“Not especially,” I said. “They won’t miss me. Then again, maybe they will. I mean, I was one of their better employees.”

“That’s not surprising. I work with a lot of stiffs myself. I don’t blame you for leaving. If my personal expenses were more manageable, I’d be tempted to quit teaching. Better savor your newfound freedom while you still can.” He passed me the joint.

“While I still can? I was hoping to milk my emancipation for a few months.”

“Sorry, Sebastian. The world is changing, for the worse. Something’s going to give. Even at work there’s an edgy tension that’s hard to pin down, yet impossible to overlook. Things are getting worrisome.”

“How so?”

He said, “It’s hard to describe. Just be alert. Keep a low profile. For all you know, quitting Triple-M might have been a suspicious move.”

“You’re raining on my parade here. Should I celebrate – or get scared?”

“Celebrate quietly. A little fear will do you some good.”

“Hey, I’ve got plenty already. I’ve read Manchester. Even before I read him, I was terrified out of my mind, practically crawling the walls half the time. I should probably stop fooling around with this shit.” I indicated the burning joint.

“Nah. Once the crisis that Manchester predicted occurs, you won’t need any malevolent substances to get yourself in serious heat. The psychopaths who run things are about to drop The Big Fuck You on anyone who has ever shown the slightest dissent.”

His exaggerated commentary launched me into stoned laughter. “The Big Fuck You” should have been the Permanent Regime’s motto.

Cranston said, “Chuckle and guffaw till you’re blue in the face, my friend. I wish I could be so flippant. We may not be laughing much longer.”

Later, as he headed for my door to leave, I asked him, “In the event of a government-manufactured catastrophe, what would you advise?”

“Get the hell out dodge. Don’t waste time. Find somewhere safe and discreet, with people you can trust. Stay there as long as necessary. Don’t try to locate anyone you’ve lost track of. Forget about everyone else. Forget about me. Fend for yourself.”

“Do I possess the wherewithal to survive? I might break under pressure, you know.”

“I have the same concern about myself. In dark days, peace of mind is indispensable. Loss of composure leads to loss of life. Trust yourself – that’s key. I wish you well.”

Cranston walked out my door, into the frigid night, leaving me in ponderous isolation. Wariness settled over my apartment. All was silent, except for the ominous ticks and tocks of a clock on one of my living room walls. Was time dwindling on my friend and me?

And what was it all for? Rev Coomer had succinctly stated the bitter truth: “You can’t beat the Regime.” Writing histrionic screeds against the establishment yielded nothing but danger. I had thereby laid the foundation of my destruction.

On a wall of my bedroom were two framed photographs – one of Lorna, the other of my father. Their faces seemed to pronounce judgment on me. The system had obliterated the two of them. Why should I be different? My thirst for revenge was self-defeating. So I removed their pictures from the wall.
They are dead
, I told myself. Nothing could reverse that.

I fell into an uneasy slumber. But the next morning brought renewed hope and energy. As I made coffee, I felt ecstatic to be alive. I had not lost yet. Lorna and my father had exemplified the asset I desired most: courage. I placed their photos back on my bedroom wall. They would always be with me.

****

An anchorwoman grimaced on my television, pretty brown eyes filled with panic. “This might be the Permanent Regime’s grimmest hour. An entire nation is reeling in shock. Earlier this morning, following a meeting with some advisors, Grand Premier-elect Cynthiana Davinsky was shot by an unidentified assassin. Ms. Davinsky is under hospital care; her condition is uncertain. Little is known about her assailant. Sources report a high likelihood that the perpetrator is involved in an underground terrorist network.

“We take you live to Regime headquarters where Spokesperson Doyle Ravensteldt will provide an update on the Premier-elect.”

“Folks, if you will bear with me,” said Ravensteldt, engulfed in popping flashbulbs, “I am still struggling with what happened today, as is the whole country. Grand Premier-elect Davinsky is one of the most unique and beloved political figures we have seen. This is …” He stopped, took off his glasses, and rubbed his tearful eyes.

“Hopefully I can collect myself. The citizens of the Permanent Regime have boldly faced many daunting challenges in the past. Today we suddenly face a new one. The people of this great nation shall overcome adversity once more, their strength and dignity intact.” He took a dramatic pause. The man was a thespian.

“Ms. Davinsky is presently in critical shape. We cannot divulge more at this time. Ms. Davinsky’s staff requests the prayers of every person throughout the land. Your government needs you now more than ever. Please do all that you can for a swift recovery. Thank you.

“The identity of the perpetrator of this despicable act is unknown. However, our law enforcement is the most capable in the world. The case will not be unsolved for long.

“This is the greatest nation in history. Because of that, we have numerous enemies who hate us for our freedom. They will undertake the most heinous measures to disrupt our way of life. They underestimate our resolve. Ms. Davinsky’s attacker is likely associated with an extremist movement that targets the Regime. These people are terribly dangerous. They are not simply enemies of the Premier-elect; they are enemies of us all. Therefore, constant vigilance is everyone’s duty. Please be watchful and report anything suspicious. We …” I shut the television off.

I flipped on my radio and tuned it to Allen Jonah’s broadcast: “… only the latest justification for vastly expanding the police state. The Davinsky shooting could be a total fake. Then again, she’s easily replaceable. I don’t trust anything the government tells us….”

Nor did I. It was time to get moving. I threw a few belongings into a suitcase – only the bare necessities. I fled my apartment, not knowing if I would ever return.

Against his advice, I drove to Cranston Gage’s house. Two police cars were parked out front when I pulled up. Damn! The bastards have already nailed him, I thought. I veered away from the discouraging scene.

Aimless and alarmed, I sped around for hours, evaluating limited options.

****

Counter Placebo had a large tattoo of a burning “PR” across his back. Was that symbol entirely his own doing? Or had he acquired those famous letters in prison, adding the flames later? I was too timid to ask him.

Following the Davinsky shooting, I sought a secure hideout. That led to Counter Placebo. He had a reputation for toughness and an appearance to match. He was muscular, with a buzz cut and eyes that offered no sympathy. He rarely smiled.

His location was an abandoned warehouse in a town that didn’t register on the Regime’s radar. The place was not nice enough to qualify as a mere dump.

“Alright, Nonentity,” Counter Placebo said when I arrived. “There are some rules here that the four of us must follow.”

“Rules? I thought you fellows were anarchists.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re suicidal. As long as the Regime targets our kind, we have to stick to some guidelines. I hope that won’t be a problem for you.”

I shook my head “no.”

“Good. The first rule is that we refer to each other strictly by our underground code names. We try not to share a lot of personal information. Should one of us get nabbed, any info that guy has on the other three could be deadly.”

“A sound policy,” I said.

“Second rule: no one leaves here without my permission. I’m the only person who has contact with the outer world. Anything that comes from the outside goes through me alone. Violate this rule and you’re out.”

“No issue with that.”

“The final rule is don’t be an asshole.”

The other two residents were Freddie Fish Eyes and Defibrillator. Fish Eyes had a pencil-thin mustache and a jumpy disposition. He was skeptical of me from the start. Defibrillator seemed more indifferent and kept mostly to himself. Both men deferred to Counter Placebo without question.

Counter Placebo received occasional word – and items of sustenance – from a friend on the outside. He relayed pertinent details to us. Premier-elect Davinsky made a full recovery. The Regime postponed her ascension to office by three weeks. A predictable counterstrike was launched against “militants.” Sweeping regulations came into effect, police assumed greater powers, and anti-terrorism consumed the land. There were new slogans galore. “Everyone is a possible suspect.” “Allow no tremor to go unheard or unanswered.” “Report everything.” My roommates and I prepared for an indefinite period off the grid.

I hated our hideout. It was moldy and unsanitary. There were bugs and rats. A sewage-like odor pervaded the air. The four inhabitants barely spoke. There was no trust or camaraderie between us. I wanted out. But where else could I go? I felt stuck.