The Egotist Read online

  Mr. W. Buhner

  Re: The Incident Involving Your Sister

  Dear W.:

  With regard to the above caption matter, please accept this letter as a formal response to the events of two evenings previous.

  After much cautious deliberation, I do in fact regret the actions that occurred. Furthermore, I regret the potential harmful consequences that now encase us. To wit; to expose our relationship for self exhilaration is unforgivable. The end will never justify the means, nor the ensuing ramifications.

  It is with great hope, however, that I think of some type of amicable resolution. I therefore need to reserve any further response or admission until I can better understand the situation, and the exactness of its problematic nature.

  Respectfully Submitted,

  John J. Liggins, Esq.

  P.S. error qui non resistitur approbatur (An error which is not resisted or opposed is waived)

  Reading something like that filled me with such an incredible feeling of domination that I can’t really quite express. . . not fully.

  I have to pretend that I’m a dog, and it’s my job to lead the blind of the world around from corner to corner, or whatever. John Liggins is a blind man, and I am his German Shepherd. Without me to guide him, John Liggins will just wander aimlessly about, bumping into posts, waving his hands through the air like a dimestore magician, squinting like a Magoo. And here I come, barking orders, taking the blind man’s hand, leading him to the places he needs to go.

  To the grocery store, the laundromat, the video store, and then back home. Quite a successful trip, hey? But then, suddenly, the blind man gets overly confident. He heads out the door one day, searching for the grocery store. He wanders into the street, causing accidents as cars swerve to avoid him. Small children are pushed aside in his mad pursuits. Havoc reigns.

  Now, as the lead dog, I track down the blind man. Barking and biting, I chide him into submission. Then, like a good handicap, he takes my collar once again, all but begging my forgiveness. Crowds cheer as the blind man is once again brought under control.

  Except now I am no longer an average-sized dog - I am a huge, bristling dog. I stand over six feet, I can read and play music. I can drive, and I work for a long time at a grocery store before receiving a large inheritance which promises steak for life!

  I am a giant freak dog. People are afraid of me, and I demand respect. I lead not one blind man, but millions of blind people. I take them to the stores, I snarl at those who look like they are going to mess with my flock, I defy all existence. Yes, I am a very big dog. Standing on two legs rather than four, pissing grandly on all my new territories, I show my superiority to all those around me.

  This letter from John Liggins, it is the blind man taking the collar once more. The big dog is back, leading him once more, beating him into quiet, stupid, submission.

  Power is a drug, and it is intoxicating when taken in large doses. Even for a large, burly beast such as myself, I must be careful how much I absorb. My conscience will keep me level-headed, holding my arrogance at bay. But the money I now have overrules my conscience, buying it off at a larger price, and I have free reign to be as hostile and contemptuous as I wish.

  I don’t think I will forgive John Liggins.

  As for my sister, I hope she dies a slow and painful death at the hands of some serial killer. I am older now and realize the absolute potential of something like this happening. If I see John Liggins again, I shall destroy him.

  I am not the same person I once was. I am rich now, and mighty. I will not pray, I will not give offerings, I will not be nice, I will not go out of my way for anyone, I will not concern myself with affairs other than my own, I will not bend, I will not bargain, I will not blend in.

  My writings are like golden fleece that will cover this paper in divine warmth, and, for the first time in my life, I feel very clear. I find myself unconsciously rubbing the scar where my kidney once resided, and I feel a strange sort of alien freedom. I am a freak - I am not of this place or these people.

  Bow before me, small people! Bow before me! Bow! Bow! Bow-Wow! Eh-hem...

  My Big Chunk of Commonwealth

  When I receive my first check from Tim Dugan, Attorney at Law and handler of my father’s estate, I can think of nothing better to do with it than run right out and invest in a recreational vehicle that will leave Lemus’ puny little anthill-hopper in the dust.

  I drive right out to the dealership, the one I have passed a million times with all the big trucks right out there in front. The place is quite regal, with a long row of flags running back and forth across its border, the shadows of the flapping cloth flickering along the glossy surfaces of the new cars and trucks. It is all very exciting.

  I pull into the lot and park my ugly, uninsured auto right next to the curb adjacent to the main showroom. I step out of the car largely, a blank check with about fifty G’s backing it up burning a nasty hole in my pocket. I turn to face the showroom and see a young man wearing a red v-neck sweater come out to meet me.

  “Are you a salesman?” I say grandly.

  He stammers at my sudden verbal assault, and looks spinny for a moment before coming back around.

  “Um, no. You can’t park this here.”

  “Of course I can,” I say, laughing. “Now go and fetch me a salesman, quickly, chop-chop!”

  I turn away from the dazed intern and focus my attention on the sprawling parking lot of choices before me. It’s a magnificent tapestry of colors, glistening like false treasure in the sunlight, a glorious pulsing of sonorous cadence. I wish only for someone with which to share the experience.

  I had thought of bringing Lemus with me, just to make sure that I didn’t miss any features, but decided that I would rather surprise him with the purchase, and leave the options up to the salesman. If the salesman missed anything, it would be his head when I returned.

  I hear the glass door swing open behind me, and I turn around and see a rather portly fellow with white hair, a white mustache and little white sprouts of ear hair. He’s very tan with sparkling pin-prick brown eyes and white teeth which shine nicely in contrast to his red v-neck sweater and gold jewelry. Brilliant, I think. This guy’s the ticket.

  “Hello, are you a salesman?” I question him giddily.

  “Why, as a matter of fact, I am,” he says, responding to my playful tone.

  “Are you the best salesman on this stinking lot? I want the very best.”

  The salesman moves up to me, and I notice his eyes shifting from side to side in a sneaky fashion. He sidles closely, and sort of whispers.

  “Let’s just put it this way: We had a competition this past winter, and the one who sold the most automobiles went to Florida for two weeks - all expenses paid.” He looks around once more, his tiny eyes shining like dimes. “Let’s just say I’m the only one around here with a tan.”

  “I see,” I say, not really seeing at all, but deciding to play along. “Well, that’s fine. Can you sell me the best truck on this lot?”

  He scoffs at the very suggestion, and begins to walk away from me.

  “Can a deer see a headlight? C’mon, partner, we got some looking to do. You trading this in?” He points to my jalopy.

  “Yes, I sure am. Can I get a good price on it?”

  “Only the best in town. Only better than what your mother would give you for it.”

  I follow him now, like a trained seal following the fish, I bound along trying to keep up with his urgent strides. He begins to walk past truck after truck, and I start to wonder where exactly we’re going.

  “What about these trucks? Aren’t they any good?”

  He turns on me quickly, causing us to nearly bump chins.

  “Let’s cut the crap, friend. You want the best truck on this lot, right?”

  I nod. “Is your sweater red?”

  “That’s what I thought. Now c’mon, I don’t show these to everyone.”

  We move on for a bit more, and I
see the trucks he’s referring to. These aren’t just your everyday trucks, these are like houses on wheels. The names are mammoth in scope, and the large, sweeping curves of the mammillary metal bodies are grandiose and sexy like a big roaring woman wearing latex.

  “Now, what you have here are not your typical recreational vehicles. What you have with something like The Pilgrimage here is more like an urban cruiser, you understand what I’m getting at? This thing glides along like a berth, with all the fandangle of the most luxurious palace at your fingertips. This is the truck you want, trust me. What’s your name again?”

  I tell him.

  “Well W., I’m Barry. You wanna sit in it or do you want to go back to that air-conditioned showroom and hit the paperwork?”

  “Let’s sit in it.”

  The inside of the Pilgrimage is quite the thing. All plush leather, I can do everything from lock the doors to turn the radio station to revert from bright interior lighting to dim interior lighting - just from the steering wheel! It had Lemus’ truck beat to hell, and I knew I must have it.

  “Now, Barry, does this have everything?”

  “What do you mean, everything?”

  “You know damn well what I mean. I want every option. No questions asked. If it’s an option, I want it.”

  Barry looks at me for a second, a sort of awe coming over his leathery face.

  “Son, I respect you. I respect your way of doing things. And yes, damn it, yes, it has everything. What color do you want?”

  “Red.”

  “I’ve got black, gold, and midnight blue in stock. If you want red, we’re going to have to order it. I could make some phone calls . . .”

  “Barry?”

  “Yeh?”

  “Midnight Blue is fine.”

  “Interior?”

  “Black.”

  “W.? Let’s go get your paperwork done, trade in that hump of compost you got blocking our doors, and get you into this vehicle.”

  As it turns out the truck is going to cost me just a shade over what I can cover with the check, and I have to go into a payment plan for a few thousand. No matter, another check will be around in six months, it can wait until then. Why my father had wanted my inheritance given to me in installments is beyond me.

  After I fill out all the paperwork and have been offered my sixth cup of coffee, I sort of sit back and ponder the choice. It is a good one, of that I am certain. The truck is big, much bigger than anything else I have seen. Barry figures that the insurance on it will probably run me somewhere near three G’s a year, and I make a note to call the lawyer for an advance on that next check.

  I have a spell of doubt, however, finding the point of purchasing the vehicle evading me. I certainly don’t need to spend all my money on a new car, I could have probably gotten quite a good one for a lot less money. Of course, I wouldn’t have the running board lights or the side-window defoggers, not to mention the ten-speaker sound system.

  Maybe it’s the pure stature of the purchase that has created this feeling of circumspection within me. The sense of having bought something so large, so mobile. A machine capable of so many things . . . it’s almost breathtaking. It’s life-changing.

  The thought sends a cold piercing vein through me, rubbing against my spine and the back of my neck. I smile, and it feels like the wickedest smile I’ve ever worn. For a second, I can’t quite make out who I am, and although I feel somewhat uncomfortable, it’s as though I no longer have control.

  Who am I now that I have purchased myself into mainstream society? Have I have become the antithesis of all I have ever been? I feel that my days now are numbered; I am reduced to a mortal. I am cognizant of being extremely tactile, as if the slightest touch will send ripples through me.

  The deal now closed, I ride off the lot in the mountainous brute called The Pilgrimage, and I can’t help carrying with me, despite my sumptuously encased surroundings, an odd sense of fragility. I sense that the end is very near.

  Cabal

  A coarse-textured shadow,

  conniving in the night,

  planting dark seeds,

  thinking pernicious thoughts,

  plotting meticulous deeds.

  The spirit of one versus another,

  the light of speed

  against the pitch of depth,

  the plot of will

  slanted by the sway of evil.

  Dust is returned

  and the Black Dog moves on,

  A shining is snuffed,

  A rhythm is halted,

  and the Black Dog moves on.

  The Worm and the Rose

  Tragedy . . . welcome it.

  Do not try to hide from it. Do not try to run from it. Do not go to group sessions and talk about it, hoping somehow to realize it. It is unfathomable. It is without shape, form, or conscience. Fear it, and honor it, as you would the Grim Reaper - for both will visit your door, and no matter how many locks you put on it, the door will open, and Tragedy will enter, as will Death.

  I say welcome it because you’ll be better prepared for the consequences if you do. The shock won’t hurt you quite so badly, the pain will not stab you with such brutal force, and the confusion will not cloud you for the rest of your days - not if you greet it, make it at home in your life always. Then, when it finally does visit, it will neither inconvenience nor impress you, for you will have planned for it always. So plan for it, I tell you now. Plan for it. For tragedy has visited me in this life more than once, and its final incarnation was the most grim of all.

  In a world not my own, in a place I did not recognize, there passed a series of events which I will never be able to describe in any certain terms, or with any clear-headed emotions. A “series of events . . .” That sounds so plain to me. It was more of a series of blows, breath-taking blows that were pounded into me over the course of an evening which I will never forget. My mistake, all of it. My mistake. My brain is so sick, so twisted. My tendencies have always been to bend others in different ways, but never to hurt them . . . only to bend them.

  Where my night begins I do not know. Where I am sitting now is a different plane of reality, a different level of consciousness from the action itself. The action itself is a dreadful thing, but I feel I have no compassion for its results, only an empty, uncaring process of dissection, of reviewing what happened, of thinking it through in an analytic way. I bar out any use of emotion, for it seems to be the only way in which I can think it through. My useless shotgun shell of a brain has abandoned me, and although I see my hand pushing the pen, I cannot feel its substance on my fingertips, nor clearly understand the words that I create.

  It was dark, that much I remember - a solid dark, not wispy and dreamy, but heavy, thick, and moist. The night was like a wet blanket, and the actions of the night were the same. Thick, syrupy, unreal.

  I remember thinking about him and my sister, the implications of it all. I suppose, looking back, that it was fear that drove me to it. Fear and consequence are very good friends, and although they don’t hang out much, they definitely appreciate each other. My fear led to the most extreme consequences, and now I suddenly feel myself entering that soupy world again.

  As the thoughts of it enter my head once more, it’s as if I’m back in that fantasy land, that timeless, non-breathing world. My heart pounds, and sweat is running off of me, and my thoughts are blurring, and I must now pour out the details of the actions, because emotion is riding the rail and the ship is leaning to one side, and the wind is blowing in bursts and the dog is barking and the sun is burning my eyes and the whole of it is melting down into atoms. I hope you will forgive me.

  Donnie Lemus, you poor bastard, I see you now as I would see a piece of some infinite puzzle, or a pawn on the board of a chess game played by lunatic gods.

  John Liggins, who reads book upon book upon book. Who used to read to me things from books. I read your books, John Liggins. Once, you were in the shower, I was waiting for you, and I read a book
you were reading, and it sent a chill through me. William Blake was the author - the poet - who had written the book. I went out and bought the book by William Blake, and I read from it now while thinking of you. One portion, one phrase, stands out to me as I read through it. I’ve been crying all night, and reading this portion, this phrasing, it stopped me from crying and made me realize that I do not deserve to cry.

  Beth, my bastard sister, who I hate but now see as an adversary . . . I think nothing of you.

  These are the players, the scene a restaurant, more a bar, where Donnie Lemus and I had been, drinking up the night, speaking of our trucks and of our money, laughing at the world like we always did, plotting our next great folly.

  Into the bar walks the doomed pair of lovers, a tedious Romeo and Juliet, their embrace stymied only by their uncoordinated footsteps and a cumbersome briefcase. John Liggins and Beth from across the room seem like any other couple in the world, but on this night they are not any other couple, they are marks. Targets. The fates are there also, singing songs of doom, change, and action.

  I spot them quickly and am moving before I even know why. A head full of drinks has given me incredible direction, and my focus is clear above the clouds, despite the fact that my feet are firmly planted on the floor. Lemus is watching me from behind, I don’t even know if he has seen them. I just cussed and rose, and now my movement has cadence, and a song plays in my head like a merry-go-round and look out! Death is knocking.

  I don’t say a word and my vision is blurry when I grab the back of John Liggins’ collar, pulling him off-balance to the floor. I look at my sister, and she just stares back at me. I’m surprised at her, I expect a reaction, but there is none. Is she blind, I wonder? No, it is something else...just there below the eyes, those wrinkles, the lips, the way they are still and open . . . breathless. She is afraid. It’s fear, I realize. As I said, with fear travels consequence.