Faster on My Own: Chapter 11
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Lager, whiskey back. Another, another. Another. The woman sitting next to Steven peeked at him, and her face transformed into a man's, but she didn't notice and Steven didn't say anything. The crowd of people behind him blurred and stuttered. Later, they merged into a string of connected flesh and limbs, its own faces barking noise at each other.
Sunlight flickered on and off through the frosted glass window, but the cool blue lights that sold the good bottles of liquor never changed, even as bottles vanished and appeared on the shelves. Steven was in the bathroom and at the bar, drinking and vomiting at once. While he was parading his character around, the businessman in exile, to the laughter of the woman who morphed into a man who morphed into two women, he vomited in the bathroom. To his left he read the graffiti, "Shitty bar," and caught the eye of a woman who used to be an empty seat.
In her brief existence, she had managed to grow her hair just past her shoulders, and acquire a shirt with the shoulders cut out. Perhaps she didn't know that shoulders, too, get cold. Or maybe she planned on becoming a stool before she had to worry about it. None of that was Steven's problem. While the bartender pushed him out of the door at last call, he placed an elbow on the bar and smiled at her. Some words appeared between them as the rain soaked Steven walking home.
When he woke up, he wasn't anywhere else. Steven was wrapped in a blanket cocoon, with a headache squeezing his brain in its fist at exactly 7:45 am. After a shower and some very careful tooth-brushing, he emerged into the hot-light world. His headache gripped tighter, sweat gathered and journeyed down his face and body, smelling itself like a potent rum. For ten blocks, Steven only thought about how much he wished he wasn't walking. But it was too late: he was at the office, his hand touched the door, and the last thirty days collapsed into simultaneity.
Polite greetings. Settle in at the desk. Check the emails. Recheck the emails. Morning meeting. Think about pitches for the new drug, an unsellable aerosol spray for high blood pressure. Check voicemail. Pointless message that could have gone in an email. Message from a familiar sounding woman who didn't work in the office. Steven's ears perked up and he leaned forward, elbows on the desk in his practiced listening pose, once meant to help pacify his direct reports with assurances they were being listed to, but practice soaks through to the bones eventually.
"Hi, I don't know if you remember meeting me last night. I'm Sara Farnsworth. We were talking and you brought up your concept for a talk show."
Talk show? Steven grimaced at no one more than himself. He was tempted to hang up right then and delete the voicemail later. Whatever followed was sure to embarrass him so much he'd be unable to work for the rest of the day. Already, blood rushed to his face and he felt his eye muscles constrict—if he shut his eyes, the world would disappear and his shame would have nowhere to live. But he let the message ramble on.
"At first I thought you were just being funny. But it stuck with me. So, I'd like to hear more! Call me at Brickhouse Entertainment, five-five-five, five-five-five, five-five, five-five. Extension five-five-five-five. Bye!"
Once again Steven imagined the mountaintop. A wind blew by the eyes which had hung alone in the air for the last few weeks. A face filled in, then a neatly-parted haircut. An off-white collared shirt, but with an open neck and the sleeves rolled up above the elbows. One hand outstretched holding a script. Steven craned his neck to see what the page said.
But it was blank. Steven bit on his hand, his upper jaw sinking into the knuckle of his middle finger, while the lower worked to meet it from the other side. He didn't remember. How could he sell this woman on a show, his new path up the mountain, past the light which called and mocked his name, if he didn't know what he had suggested?
He walk-ran into his colleague's office, who he occasionally went out for drinks with. "Hey. Did I say anything about a show last night? I've got some hazy recollection of a good idea and need some help."
"Sorry, can't help you." His colleague said, before returning to his phone call.
Steven rushed to the bathroom, where he could pace around without being observed. What was the show about? He slammed his hands on the stainless steel countertop, and felt his dismay vibrate back into him. He looked into the mirror and asked himself if that was the face of someone who would come up with an impressive idea and then immediately forget it, like an idiot. Aloud, he said, "No," but it felt too much like he was asking a question.
So he returned to pacing, unconcerned by anything else, even when a co-worker exited one of the stalls and walked past him, avoiding eye contact. Obviously if his memory was going to succeed, it would have done so by then. Steven splashed water on his face, hoping the cold shock would slow down his mind or his heart, but it failed.
Back at his desk, after taking the long way around the office to avoid the person who had seen him in the bathroom, Steven scribbled notes on a sheet of paper stolen from the printer. His notes featured wild arrows pointing to ten other circles, a scrawled "Welfare" pointing to "Population Control??" which also had arrows pointing back to "Welfare" as well as "Good", "Bad", and "Full Rural Automation." After connecting "Meteorology" to "Propaganda," Steven knew he was defeated. He crunched up the paper into a ball and tossed it in the trash.
After five minutes spent leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling with his mouth wide open and arms dangling, Steven realized there was one person who remembered his idea: Sara. He dialed half the number before setting his phone aside. He took a deep breath, and dialed again.
"Brickhouse Entertainment, this is Sara Farnsworth."
"Hi, this is Steven Williams. We met last night at the bar. I'm thrilled to hear you liked my idea. At the time, I thought you were put off by it." He tried to copy the smooth intonations of a movie hunk leaning his arm against the table.
"I was. But it's just one of those things where it doesn't make sense, but it hangs around. And then all of a sudden the whole thing unfolds and that's when I knew I had to call you."
"I see. That's how the most crucial knowledge reveals itself. Or at least that's my experience. What part of it unlocked it for you?"
"The whole thing about personal responsibility and the Ouroboros." She laughed. "I thought it was so silly at first, but that image stuck in my head. And I could see generations of families making the same mistakes, feeding the snake and starting it all over again. I knew I had to get in touch with you."
"Of course, the ouroboros. A very useful illustration, though obviously I couldn't diagram it for you there in the bar."
"No, you did. Sort of. You spilled some beer and tried to absorb parts of it with a napkin until it was a picture."
"I see. Was that helpful?"
"No, but I got it anyway. I have to run, but why don't you come by my office tomorrow? You can pitch me the whole thing, with all the diagrams you need. It's at 4432 South 8th St. Suite 1100, office number twelve. Does one work for you?"
"Well, yes, but-"
"Great, see you then!"
The call ended and Steven had only a few more fragments than he had begun with. The ouroboros, personal responsibility, and that's it. Those clues, substantial though they were, did not jog Steven's memory. So he left work to go home and create an ideological framework out of a snake and a phrase.