Glenn Charles

The Estranged

May I join you?
--Ah, I see you start away from me. My clothes are worn though clean, I move like hunter not prey -- I am well-spoken. A con man, then: but I am not, because I have no desire for your money (that feels, just now, so terribly vulnerable) or your life.

May I sit, then? Thank you. Though I am not all that old, my joints ache. Particularly when the weather is as now: cloudy, lowering, humid, the gathering thunderstrokes of Thor's hammer amply presaged... it is this sort of weather that leads to murder. Or madness, they say. I'd imagine you're some sort of management. A glint of humor. One of those unnamed members, then, perhaps, who are expediters. Not killers, of course (and, yes, I saw that little telltale flinching: but then, why wouldn't you? most do, at Death's dire invocation) -- though they might hire them. So then, you've revealed your true trade. Smooth hands but I think strong, and not just from rhythmic exercises in some gym. My apologies. I seem to have touched on a number of somehow-sore spots, without any intention. (And, I note under my breath, there is indeed a glint in your eye. One of my admirers, no doubt.) What? Oh, yes, a beer indeed. That would be good. It has been... a while. As I muse this (do I mutter? do I even speak?) a movement catches my eye, and I look up to find someone staring at me momentarily. It is when we mutually look away that I realize he is my reflection. A thin face, a hard one: grooves not wrinkles carved in it. The black hair is long and somewhat unkempt; the once-hazel eyes are green. Grooves at mouth-corners, probably from smiles, two vertical lines between the brows... and those furrows, as if from skin that once covered a bigger frame somehow. An unexpectedly fierce, even frightening face: too much intensity. The spirit like a whitehot glare just behind the eyes... both mine... and yours.

Calm, now. My hands are in sight: hands nearly as smooth as yours, and the added roughness likely as much from difference in age as that in occupations. Trades, if you will. At once the raison d'etre and the whipping-stone for the common man. It is as if one of the required proprieties were to hate one's work: the tasks, the place, the rules (all of which are aimed at ensuring -- nominal -- employee loyalty while firmly establishing the lack of same on the company's part. As if, perhaps, even a minor satisfaction, even a momentary easing of the state where homelessness is a paycheck away... might lead to questioning. And worse, if this is my country and I am free, then what are all these laws about things that hurt no one, or only the person himself?
--But I speak at too great length of petty things. And these two beers have gone to my head. Shall we meet again, perhaps? splendid! Yes, about this time next week sounds perfect.

ii

Ah, good to see you again, my friend. Yes, I've been here a while, relaxing and absorbing the atmosphere... and awaiting you, of course. I've taken the liberty of ordering some of the local wine for us both, though I precede your course by a glass. I think they call it "red"... in some language or other. "Rota" perhaps? No matter. It is both tart and sweet (with not too much of the latter) and little of the effect that acid wines can give one... though be sure to eat at least a little. That helps.

Yes. Yes, by all means: smoke as you wish. I was a smoker once... but that is another story. Or perhaps the continuation, or even toward the beginning of this.

What was I saying about government? I'm sorry, I really can't remember. Probably one of the great themes from my youth. I was a writer, once, you know. You didn't. Imagine a younger, fuller, unlined face, the hair better-kempt, eyebrows' continual attempt to become hairpieces of their own better thwarted... though the dress was similar to what I wear now, actually. But much more impeccable. Yes, I see you remember, at least dimly.

I was poet and author. I even acted a little. I gave that up, though, because I always felt awkward and inarticulate. This, though I recited the lines -- generally, at least -- with no stutters, and seemingly satisfied the various audience need for projective empathy. I was at my creative prime: I could hardly sleep because of the energy my various projects gave me. I had long been known as on the fringes of the creative. Much of my writing, regrettably, was solely for the purpose of making money. I wrote ads for car companies (and switching, as contractually allowed with certain time limits, to the best-paying company continually). ...You could say I prostituted my art. Perhaps, even, that is when I began the weakening.

--I should really order more wine. There: when the waiter comes, order whatever you like -- for both of us. Stage breaks of some sort are as necessary (and, not uncommonly, contrived) for the audience as the actor.

As I approach the table, relieved, I see a strange contemplative expression on your face -- strange because you're not used to reflection, in fact avoid it like the plague. (Your expression darkens as you see me. For you, like me, most of these surrounding people are no more than furniture, or at most trained robots (though immanent in flesh), incapable of anything but habits and their reflexes. The very fact you pretend to eschew thought indicates its presence.)

Whiskey. I'll add mine to my water, if you don't mind. You do -- or should -- but it's nice of you to allow it.

What I mean by "weakening" is at least in respects a subtle thing. It was a difference in decision, you see. I forgot somewhere that without connection to others I was nothing -- though there were always connections. It was just that they were empty. Needing no more money at all, they strove religiously after it nonetheless. Why, I couldn't understand. Recently, though, I've come to think it is their version of a creative impulse. Form and function, again: and do not forget there are many angles to that dichotomy, from verse to way of life. As I remained in their company, I became like them. I mean for the time I was with them. Groups do that to you, you know. Every word in each phrase contains judgements and values... we exist in a maze of meanings, with no map available -- because it would have to change with each entry into each group. But while I was with them I was just as empty and shallow, and as enamored of fortune as the meanest of them. When by myself -- away from the clutter and the chatter, the petty concerns of relative fortune and competition -- I could at least somewhat return to myself, or what I thought of as myself.

But the hour, again, grows late. My tongue is tired, my voice rusty. Again at eight? Delightful. I shall look forward to seeing you, my friend.

iii

I see you are surprised to see me sitting here in front, smoking and reading a book. Yes, I was awaiting you. I thought perhaps we might walk first, in the dingy passageways of late autumn, the strewn sodden leaves stripped by the wind (from the few trees that survive this hostile environment) and then tossed in haphazard piles (let loose unregarded, a dog at roistering play)... the lowering skies with rain's intimations: yes: let us walk, you and I, and admire blocked gutters and scattered garbage, broken windows patched with cardboard, and ancient wrecks parked forever, the denizens shifty, moving, presenting no stable target -- the gardens of concrete (or hidden on rooftops, striving after survival even through the smog and smog-laden rain), the forests of lamp-poles and powerpoles, the hills buildings: let us examine this, I say, and talk of other things.

You see I have no holster. I have only this walkingstick, and you have your pistol. Yes, I'm rather good with the quarterstaff, but it is after all only a close-quarters weapon.

Yes, indeed. These lambent colors remind me of an island where I once lived. It seemed to exist in a perpetual twilight (the very occasional clear day was greeted with surprise bordering on dismay, since the usual humidity was around 85%), transforming the colors into their own glowing shadows.

I thought this better for you, too. I've seen you -- what is it? three times? -- sitting by yourself in that same halflit shabby bar, caught and ensnared by thoughts' imprisoning, prisming web. Your brow furrowed, your head lowered. Once I even thought to catch you writing, or rather attempting to write: scribbling away madly and then crossing out great portions, or perhaps all: scowling fiercely, muttering to yourself. You begin to sense the trap. It is a pity you don't yet understand that the truest trap lies in habit's assumptions, "I must do this" and "I must do that" and really you don't have to do anything at all. And you hesitate toward your task, your duty.

But not today, I think. There are two faint grooves between your eyebrows now, like mine. Thought is perhaps -- at least in its purest and least wordy form -- the hardest cross to bear.

So I created, I say. Commercials and novels and reams of poetry -- a good deal came out after my supposed death. And I drank and drugged my way nightly to oblivion, or rather oblivion's simulacrum. I was plagued by dreams and phantom thoughts. And I was estranged -- as you are and have been estranged.

For actually you were nearly born a killer, I think. There, I have said it. That is our mutual trade, or... But no matter.

I was my sister's lover, once. I have no idea what had happened; I awoke to find her naked and in bed with me. On my part, hormones thoroughly replaced deliberation, and after that demanding sensation ruled. I think she had used both drink and drugs, and for some reason needed sex, or perhaps merely reassurance of desirability. Though I'd considered her beautiful -- and had had, yes, the expectable occasional (and abhorrent) fantasy -- I'd never really considered this occurrence. When I'd ejaculated, my tumescence subsiding -- I think this can't have been long, I was a virgin -- she kissed me once, and slipped from my bed. She whispered, "Never again," and left.

I couldn't imagine what she meant by the act. We hadn't been particularly close. She was the school beauty, and I the tiresome pedant with his scribblings.

Of course, I suppose it might not have been her. But who else could it have been? I was sure -- I assured myself I was sure -- it was not some hormone-fueled dream. Besides, her manner changed; subtly, to be sure, but it changed. I'm not sure we ever touched again (if, again, it was even her, or real).

I was overcome, of course, by fear... and desire... and shame -- and, probably, every possible emotion between. So I on my part tended to avoid her and her glance, as much as possible. Because of the fury of emotion that overwhelmed me (and the confusion, as well) I even blocked my door closed at night. Some nights, at least.

There remained too, I felt, an unspoken and indeed unindicated closeness between us that was new. I suppose I longed to protect her... the next year she went to college, and we only met briefly and by accident again.

But, for tonight, that is enough. We've had our little walk, and conversation at least of a sort. Until next week, then.

iv

And we meet again. You replayed what was to be our only meeting a thousand times, after you were given the assignment. Odd, isn't it? sometimes the simple is only the imagined. No, tonight, I'm drinking only water, my friend.

I told you about my sister so you can understand the next step in my story. I had become disaffected. I felt myself, really, a traitor to myself and my art, such as it was. I never managed, you see, to find faith in my own abilities. I rarely managed to find satisfaction in my creations: the praise from others always somewhat astounded me. I was -- I am -- rich: and the rich suffer in ways that the poor can only envy. Ennui, disgust and a following depression easily devalue all... though I have been poor, too, and have not forgotten. It was worse because I knew that suffering was also related to extreme privilege... I don't know if you can understand. I felt unreal.

And she was killed, collateral damage to an assassination. I was consumed by fury -- partially fueled, I'm sure, by boredom. The guilt over that one scene (real or not) intensified my rage even more. I'd dreamed a thousand times of some, of any continuation -- even if it were to be a violent and mutual final parting. In fact, I think that was what I desired... and it couldn't be done. No period to the sentence, no final line to the verse. And more than that, she was an actually good person. Though beautiful, her beauty hadn't (as it seemingly does for most) overcome her personality: in fact, I'm not at all sure she knew her own beauty. Or perhaps she felt about that as I feel about my artistic accomplishments: we had the same parents, after all.

I should add, too, that it was really an assumption, at first, that she wasn't the target; since the other person killed was an influential protestor (on many fronts) and near- or perhaps-revolutionary... that assumption seemed feasible. Money can buy many things: I managed to acquire security tapes for the restaurant in question, and so an image of the probable killer.

He wasn't, surprisingly, hard to find. I don't know what other avenue the man I found chasing him had taken. We met near the target's house (he went by the name of Don Smith), and he told me to go away, as he began to pull his pistol from its shoulder holster. In nearly one movement, I broke his arm, stunned him (heel of my palm to his chin) and slashed his throat, killing him. He'd had a watching partner covering him, who took me to his masters. They offered me a deal, though it made no real difference to me: they'd let me live for Smith's death -- I was to contact them when it was over.

I returned to the site, scouted it from the outside, and settled to watch. Less than an hour later, he left on some errand or other: I entered (using tools and skills acquired along the way: you might be surprised what half a million dollars can accomplish in a short time), set explosives, and returned to my watching-post (which had been that of the dead killer's partner).

When he came back with his groceries and was safely in the house, he died in the explosion. I informed the masters of the killer and his partner, and they insisted (a great deal of money and clearly-implied though never quite spoken threats) I work for them. I was glad of it. You see, there was no following regret. Instead, there was a sense of skill, victory, attainment... and (to my near-horror) a savage joy at having killed. I had become alive again. This would be my canvas, now; the accomplishment of death would be my art.

But enough, for now. Do you see how my hands shake? and there is much pain, these days. Next week I shall finish my tale.

v

And we have come to our final meeting, my friend. I see you tense as I say this. Don't worry. I mean this literally, because... but I'm getting ahead of myself. Besides, I've gotten thirsty, and beer sounds the best of remedies. For that matter, endings are only assigned by the storytellers.

I was an assassin for ten years: after the first three, I was free-lance. You look surprised. ...I should say, have been: and actually it's a few more than that: but no matter. I became freelance because of a special job. Senator K__, from, shall we say, Iowa. He'd forgotten his underworld ties -- only as far, though, as loyalty might go -- and had just succeeded from nuisance to a steadily increasing problem. The violation of loyalty (not checking, since two years ago, on how to vote had been the nuisance -- the established illegals are after all by definition established and rich, and generally mix in with their law-abiding peers particularly bearing in mind the re-definition of crime with regard to social stature (and though this must include wealth, it is not in the least defined by it) -- the problem arose when he began to support and even introduce laws against the underworld.) Worse, having injured their revenue (temporarily, of course), he'd begun pursuing the royalty of the underworld: this was intolerable, and the only fitting punishment was death.

The problem, of course, was that any violent sort of death (whatever the cause) would be attributed to the Mob (or however you might like to characterize that underworld). The last time this had happened, there had been years of trouble -- and, more seriously of course, drastic loss of revenue. Currently, the good senator actually had a covert bodyguard supplied by the underworld.

I'd already carried out two "traceless" assassinations. There is no such thing, of course, so the main object is to avoid even the suspicion. So they offered me the job, two million -- at the time a great deal of money -- and my freedom to work for whom I chose, all obligation permanently settled. I agreed: the Senator (who was very overweight) suffered a heart attack after slipping in the tub and striking his head, and drowned to death there, because his head had plugged the tub enough to allow it to fill.

I remember clearly that it was in my tenth year that I was offered the job on the one special case. He was an assassin, as are we (you wince again: in these final moments let us at least seek honesty). He'd killed a capo -- I see you're familiar with the term, unsurprisingly. Part of the reason for the outrage felt was that he hadn't even been treated unfairly, not that that would have excused it, of course. There was some suspicion that it might be an internal affair, one of the dons wanting to take power and figuring to kill off the others, one by one, carefully implicating someone else at each step. So I was to be a private investigator, too.

I'll admit I was thrilled. Here was something to exercise all my scattered talents -- well, most of them, anyway. I'm also very good at sharpening knives (which hardly seemed likely to come into play) and I hardly intended to write any sort of epic about it.

I was quite careful, and needlessly. Ludicrous as it seems, he'd taken no precautions. Yes, another couple of beers, please. I found him within a day. I see you considering the similarity. But bear with me. In fact, he accosted me in a bar -- this bar -- just as I have you. And I killed him. It was my job, after all, and worth my life if I'd backed out at that point.

Here comes the part that will be hard for you to understand or believe, though it's actually quite vital that you do. The man was haunted -- or, perhaps, possessed. He'd killed one who practised the Dark Arts once, and she had cursed him. And you laugh, as I laughed. He'd told me all this beforehand, you understand; I, as have you, indulged him. It was merely a fanciful tale, designed to prolong his life. The curse had been, "You shall know each one you kill, and with every death your thirst for knowledge shall increase." Harmless-sounding enough, isn't it?

It had been a gradual thing, he said. A whisper, perhaps, or a peripheral vision (disappearing, of course, when he tried to view it directly). The heads were very pleased with his report. Once paid (he was a rich man too -- richer than you'd probably believe: he, too, was very good at his profession), he decided to take a vacation. But he couldn't finish it. Somehow he needed another job. This was the neurotic, spoiled and relatively stupid wife of someone who couldn't afford publicity... and she was indiscriminately unfaithful. Dorothy, by the way. Anyway, he found out the meaning of the curse. He strangled her, and she was in his head.

It's hard to describe, and I can't imagine just one. A crowd's more easily ignored than a single person, generally. She wouldn't shut up, he said. So he got another job, and on the way killed a bothersome policeman... which meant a cop, an easy lay, a jewel thief and a killer were locked inside the same skull -- the killer still had control... the more so the more he killed.

When I killed him, he tried to warn me. The curse, you see, or the crowd that lives within me -- can't or doesn't bother to control my speech. But as I draw the Thompson -- as you do not see the sign on the gun ("Kill yourself")... you shoot me with that pistol -- drawn quite rapidly from its shoulder holster -- and stand over me with dawning comprehension... and it is too late. And as I realize that hated presence (that for so long was myself, and thus loved too) is gone, I was no poet, I see... I put my pistol away, already hungering for the next kill. I laugh shortly as I see his sign, as I survey his wornout corpse. This is almost (I think, for the thousandth time) worthy of a poem.