The Egotist

  PHILIP FRACASSI

  THE EGOTIST

  Equator Books

  Los Angeles

  Published by Equator Books

  Copyright 2016 by Philip Fracassi

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording , or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Author, except where permitted by law.

  ISBN 0-9669188-0-0

  Second Edition

  NOTE ON TRANSCRIPTION OF MATERIALS

  August 12, 1998

  W. Buhner has passed away. One of his last wishes was that his memoirs be compiled and published. This book, and the many efforts to create it, are the granting of that wish.

  A note on the transcription: Although it was necessary to create a structure of the compiled writings for the sake of order, the integrity of the writing itself remains intact. Most of the essays retain the original titles given them by the author. Some titles, however, are the creation of the Editor - a necessary construction to give framework and a timeline to the novel.

  I hope that you, the reader, will discover the man as I did - through his words.

  - James McHugh, Editor

  “Alone, with a tremendous empty longing and dread. The whole room for my thoughts. Nothing but myself and what I think, what I fear. Could think the most fantastic thoughts, could dance, spit, grimace, curse, wail - nobody would ever know, nobody would ever hear. The thought of such absolute privacy is enough to drive me mad.”

  Henry Miller

  Tropic of Cancer

  BOOK ONE

  W. BUHNER

  Arrogance Breeds Indifference Breeds Hatred

  Brown-haired and blue-eyed, tall and strong and lean, arrogant and steady. I am a man’s man in a man’s world in the month of the woman - and I know it.

  You have nothing on me, no goatee is too sharp and no sideburn too long to penetrate the egotistical exterior aura that is pure I. My place is in every room, front and center, born to be wild, the buzz is in the brain.

  I stride and wince a lot, sweep people away from across a room with a glance, a whistle, or a twist of my wrist. My friends are nothing like me and I have but a few, for I trust no one, and need no trust for myself. I own, dominate, fasten, complete, arrange, focus and seek. I lead, follow, come, go, am, aren’t, was, and wasn’t - whichever seems most appropriate.

  Forthcoming from my lips are golden words, the things that will provide and fulfill, replenish and exonerate . . . give. I speak in harsh barks and smoothy coos, neither of which are, nor sound, genuine. I tell it like it is, how it oughta be, and how it could have been. I make up stuff to make it sound better than it is, and forget things that don’t matter. I languish in conversation for the price of a dime and spit away topics that solicit no controversy, no chance of upper-hand management. I tell it my way, or not at all.

  Corporate America is my home, my place of business, my ramp up, my giant staircase, my land of plenty and my sleep of dreams. I can do anything I want, say it so it sounds good, and pull it off like a trained matador. My story is going to be the one that follows all others, then strides defiantly ahead. I am The Fountainhead, The Catcher in the Rye, Ask the Dust, and This Side of Paradise in one great sphere, and I’ve read them all.

  I hate my life above all else. I want out.

  That is why people hate me.

  School Puke

  High school got redundant and college was a dreary waste of time.

  High school is the impregnation system of the society sperm; college the nurturing, fostering genepool upon which it sucks and grows; Corporate America the fat tit that keeps the food coming, the glass jar with the mushy carrots and the warm bottle with the creamy white milk. I find the whole thing rather disgusting and, even at a young age, I led myself away from it as best I could.

  Up to a point, I had no choice but to live the gender bender that was high school education. I went to my classes, played four sports, got my jacket, my letter, my diploma, my lay, my nicotine patch, ditched my pajamas, my night light, my hoaky tunes and stupid wristwatch with the digital readout and got out of there with my head up high and my libido in a twist.

  High school held itself proud as a way of keeping kids like myself off the streets and teaching them how to talk to each other. On the darker side of education were the “home-growns,” those neurological experiments that parents called children and taught everything they needed to know right there in the kitchen with a couple of text books and a few joints (and the right selection of ties or skirts to accent their arrogant process of lore breeding). I found them to be completely unacceptable. Sure, they were smart, but they had the social graces of a psychotic and the humor of a vegetable. They were ugly, twisted people with no regard for humanity and no kinship with the people of their world. I found them dull, snide, and silly. They were proud idiots who belonged in a more regal time when blue-bloods like themselves could wander great halls wearing great robes copulating in threes and contemplating the world as it will never ever be.

  The only merit of high school is that by the time you get to college you know well enough not to make the same mistake twice.

  I spent a year and a half at a nearby community college where I was taught the textbook basics of French, re-taught basic Geometry and winced through a Philosophy class which ended up being more of a forum on yuppie trends and drugged sex than Plato or Aristotle; not to mention the countless hours watching old black-and-white cinema, reading Mark Twain, and discovering aspects of the human body I never knew (nor wanted to know) about. It was a hodgepodge bowl-of-cold-porridge ride through the indoor-mall version of the ‘It’s A Small World After All’ ride at Disneyland with similar results: I ended up right where I started with a little more petulance and a lot less money.

  I stood back and saw college for what it was: A hybrid test tube of fresh minds and bodies being twisted and formed into social groups with social graces, balanced minds, and flares of injected creativity. All of the categories had been created, it was just a matter of fitting the square pegs into round holes and so on - but never fear, for the great Professors of our land are here to help along those who stray off the board, searching for their own map to a life that has, to date, been constructed out of a cardboard shoe box with their own Barbie/Ken existence inserted neatly into each scenario. Results are thought out ahead of time to keep things tidy and take away any chance of that pesky “rebellion” in which so many of today’s confused teenagers seek refuge in to escape the everyday rigmarole of an overbearing society and its confining categories.

  College creates pedigrees, ribbons, papers, awards, transfers, diplomas, BA’s, MBA’s, GI’s, funds, functions, grants, scholarships, jobs, books and medical science without bothering to ask any of its millions of members if they really think the world is a good place for them to be - and hey, wouldn’t you rather be doing something else than listening to me talk about what I’ve only read about until such time that we, as a deciding group, decide on your net worth and hand you a piece of paper that will allow you entrance into society’s mainstream and use the social skills we’ve given you to go out there and talk with the other brain-washed theory junkies who expand our world every day into new destructive, horrific, polluted, war-ridden, poverty-stricken, garbage-barge drivin’ shapes?

  Or maybe not. I never did well in school . . . it was written off as immaturity with a sprinkle of leftover teen angst.

  Loveless Loss

  An excerpt from my time with a woman.

  “Man’s child is Man’s arrogance. It’s my contribution to the world. What carries on my name. In comparison, women got it quite easy, don’t you th
ink? What’s the pain of birthing compared to the burden of lineage?”

  “You’re not making any sense,” she retorted.

  “In other words, my great ancestors fought in wars to protect my name and to keep the names of men moving along through the generations. The weak were cut out, don’t you see? All you have to do is give birth! Metaphysical versus physical - a no-brainer,” I said assuredly, attempting to bring her around to a point.

  “Like metempsychosis . . .” she added snidely.

  Her comments aside, I thought I had been handling the conversation quite well so far. I saw no reason to extend any more strenuous an effort to the Lady Godiva sitting across the table from me here at the corner coffee shop which I frequented on a regular basis.

  I had begun noticing her a few weeks prior, and her sudden appearance had made me test the waters of her dismal fate - for no one frequented the coffee shop during the weekdays unless they were in a certain type of situation: A divorcee? Fired? Out of work actress? Something much darker than these? Either way, after seeing her eyes for the fourth or fifth time with no return glance of recognition, I decided to simply have the whole thing out. It was arrogant, I knew, but the boundaries had not yet been established and for all I knew she would like it.

  “That’s quite a line,” she replied, her face failing to hide her amusement at the creature who had lain itself before her.

  “Well, I’m not a writer so I at least have to try and act like one,” I said straight, feeling less confident with every word she mustered in mock defense.

  “You don’t write? That surprises me,” she replied.

  I shook my head before sipping quickly at the hot coffee. “Nope, I don’t write. I’ll tell you this, though,“ I said, leaning in, “if I did write, I’d never use my real name.”

  “And why is that? Are you worried about being quoted?”

  “No, not that,” I said, trying to keep an air of flippancy within my tone, “I worry more about being watched, being read. If you never write your name on anything you never have to worry about being held to something you don’t want to be held to. It’s all about freedom.”

  “What about a driver’s license?” she asked slyly, “You have to put your name on your driver’s license.”

  “I don’t have one,” I lied.

  She chuckled doubtingly. “No way, I don’t believe you. Let me see your wallet.”

  “I don’t carry one.”

  “No bank account?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Trust me, it isn’t,” I said carelessly, “The last thing I want is for our country to go to war one day and have the government get stuck a bit behind the eight ball and announce to the people that they are going to start liquidating bank accounts in order to pay for their shells and mortar or whatever the hell it is they fight wars with.”

  I almost gasped when she laughed aloud, knowing then I was in trouble.

  “How old are you?” she inquired, a broad smile on her face.

  “Twenty-two,” I replied, now showing her serious disinterest. She could kill me at any time, I thought for no reason.

  “Do you always approach older women?”

  “You’re older?” I replied quickly, already regretting the words. My charm was stumbling out of me uncontrollably, a cartoon drunk rumbling down a sunny-day sidewalk, tripping over skipping children and Sunday papers. The words escaped me like a serpent’s tongue, more out of quick habit than necessity. She must have been aghast at herself for being so immediately enticed by a boy almost half her age.

  “You’re very sweet - but, I’m sorry, I don’t believe that you could mistake me for part of your graduating class.” She giggled quietly at her reply, not knowing how slowly I was becoming unaware of her.

  “No, I guess not,” I said with utter disdain, and actually found myself getting up to leave the table when her voice pierced me like a cold blade to the throat.

  “Wait a second! Just where do you think you’re going?” she said in a most overly dramatic fashion, reaching out for my forearm with the strong fingers that all forty-something women seem to have.

  I froze in my tracks and lowered myself back to the table, really looking at her for the first time. “I was getting us more coffee,” I bumbled, brandishing my own dwindled supply to use as a prop.

  She looked at me for a second as if studying me. I, too, took a moment to investigate further, close-up, the woman I had chosen. She had gold-streaked hair with an underlying mat of brown. Her eyes were dark and of average size, and the book she read was non-fiction and had something to do with the destruction of the Nile River, the sinking of Alexandria, and the growth of Cairo. I hoped she wasn’t pedantic.

  A moment of silence passed, and her look of concentration faded. I was actually a little surprised when I saw her go back to her book with the simple words “Double Latte - no whip.”

  I got up from the table to retrieve us both fresh drinks. I wondered in a daze what the consequences would be if I just kept walking away from the place, forgetting her and the coffees. Then I would be a coward, and she would have me. It would be she who would own the world of the coffee shop, and I who would have to avoid it, and her, for days and weeks to come. Weak and frustrated, I moved to the coffee counter and ordered two steaming hot cups of defeat.

  Later I learned that her name was Sherry, and I found myself liking her. She was irreverent and irrelevant at the same time, and when we ended up sleeping together I knew there would be scrambled eggs waiting for me in the morning - not a bad thing by any stretch of the constrained imagination.

  Music and Porn

  One afternoon I find myself waking up in Sherry’s bed. I notice she has already fled the scene, having recently opted for a life of nine-to-five in Corporate America. As it turns out, she is an out-of-work actress as well as a divorcee. I don’t hold these things against her. I actually find them quite endearing in a pathetic sort of way, the way you pity a person who is less than yourself.

  Glancing over toward one of the white stucco apartment walls, I notice a long wooden shelf unit filled with music CDs. Interested, I slide over the bed and walk to the collection and, standing naked in the cool air of the room, survey my new girlfriend’s tastes.

  A lot of classical, for which I am neither happy nor upset. To me, people who buy classical music are either really stupid, really smart, or really bored with everything else they have in their collections (and think they really need some “mellow-time” with themselves).

  Except Tchaikovsky, Tchaikovsky is great.

  I sit down on the hardwood floor, the cool slick wood feeling good against my skin, and continue to flip through, finding nothing of regard.

  “No rock-n-roll . . .” I say aloud to no one, more confused than disappointed. I get up and search for my pants.

  Dressed, I sit down in the living room, looking haphazardly for the day’s paper. I find a note she has left for me and set it aside without reading it. As I continue to shuffle through a stack of papers and magazines on the coffee table, the note falls gracefully to the floor. I ignore it and continue through the pile.

  “What the devil is this?” I say, thinking my eyes deceive me.

  I pick from the litter a Penthouse magazine left sitting casually amongst the stacks of assorted Harper’s, Livings, and Times. I find myself quietly disgusted and wear a disturbed grimace as I flip the cover open and proceed to file through the pages of porn.

  “Unbelievable . . .” I mumble to myself, seriously put off that such obvious smut is in the apartment of the girl with whom I have been steadily sleeping with. “She’s forty-two for Pete’s sake.”

  I sit back into the second-hand leather sofa, spending some quality time with the magazine. Slowly, my look of disgust turns into surprise, then intrigue, ending with amazement. I stop with the magazine briefly in order to get myself some orange juice (the last of it, I notice), then continue going through every page until I reac
h the back cover.

  Closing it, I set the porn back down on top of the coffee table stack, gulp down the last of my juice and set the sweating glass beside the pile.

  I stand, tuck in my shirt, do a visual sweep around the apartment and head for the door. By the time I close the door behind me, I’ve made the decision that I am not going to see Sherry anymore. I’ll avoid her for awhile, not answer her calls, use a different coffee shop - that sort of thing. Then, one day, I will just tell her I am dating someone else, a girl I had been involved with before I even met her. She would accept this and we would both move on. Hey lady, no hard feelings.

  As far as who would end up ruling the coffee shop, well, that was no problem for me. No self-respecting woman could own porn and still expect to look down on others simply because they were assholes.

  BOOK TWO

  INDUSTRY

  Selling Out

  Sitting at the keyboard I feel the sweat on the back of my neck begin to bead. My fingers feel slimy and my palms are all but dripping. The test is about to begin, and at the end of sixty seconds, it will all be over. I let out a breath and curse myself for letting this thing get to me. Why I need to be here I am still not sure, but I do know that if I don’t get some sort of employment soon I am going to lose my place - and that isn’t good for anybody.

  I have chosen a temp agency right out of the phone book, deciding simply to go to the one with the biggest ad, and that was here - Tempopolis.

  I have just given a work history to a person about six months older than me, and I feel my teeth tingle with bitterness as this fellow calmly nods, jotting little notes while informing me of my status as a temporary employment candidate - which isn’t very good.