The Mallard God Complex (12)

12. Fire Rides

            Far away, there is something sniffing at my trail. I can’t see it, but I can hear it. The scrabbling of paws on a hard-packed dirt floor, clumsily fumbling in the dark and searching. The yellow eye of a candle stares at me unblinkingly from the void. It sweeps back and forth like a twisted lighthouse, searching for something. The moment I am aware of it the light focuses on me.

            There’s a feeling I get in the pit of my stomach, familiar and terrifying. It’s the unmistakable sense of that inner privacy that we all pretend so desperately to have being shattered. My glass walls come crashing down around me and I can’t breathe. It has spotted me, just as I spotted it. All those years fighting to control anxiety with bland apathy come to a screeching halt and I am right back where I used to be. My heart is racing, my palms are sweaty and there is the smell of death in the air.

            The core of my being is wracked by the certainty that only a person having a panic attack can possess. A man who has a gun pointed at his temple does not even understnad the dread of somebody in the grips of panic disorder. The car slams back into focus. Time slows to a blinding halt, giving the impression that I am sitting in the middle of an antique shop.

            The oddities of the present situation are piled around me in the air like a bazaar filled with eclectic wares. They all stare, draped in the stark contrast of time’s sudden torpidity. They are shapeless, holding nothing other than the space that I allow them in my mind. I look at the cup of coffee in the holder next to me and find that it is slightly off kilter and about to spill. Gently I adjust its trajectory so that it will stay. This may not even be Snake’s car; it would be a shame to dirty it up for someone else.

            So this is it then? All of your life spent looking towards the future only to leave right when things get exciting. Here lies Michael: He lived the same way he died, in fear. Pardon me if I don’t weep at your funeral, but I save that emotion for people who have actually done something worth a damn in their life. I don’t think that following a psychopath on a brief murderous rampage only to kick it from an anxiety-induced heart attack qualifies.

            I may have mentioned before that my mind is unhelpful in situations of great stress, or really any time that it’s needed. The only time my brain does what it’s told is when it’s being told nothing. A paradox within a paradox, but my brain is a git and doesn’t deserve the mental fortitude required to develop a quality metaphor. Maybe my mind would work better if I stopped treating it like a spoiled child. I shake the thought off and grab the coffee from the cupholder. It’s cold, and off for that matter, but it does the trick.

            Cold lines of water drip down my spine in the form of sweat. Sound flows back into existence all at once. “You popped off there for a minute Michael, and you’re sweating. Would you like me to turn on the AC? I suppose it is quite hot in here.”

            “Yeah, sure.” Things are blunt after a panic attack and the cool air shooting from the AC vents is a welcome awakening. It freezes the sweat across my body and smacks my senses like a sledgehammer. I’m bitterly cold for a brief moment, but it is followed by the warmth of the sun shining through the windshield. I am not going to die. Well, that’s not entirely true. Mostly I am not going to die in this moment. At some point in the future I do imagine that my fate will be to return to the ground, this time hopefully asleep in a peaceful repose. “Thanks.”

            “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you sure you’re alright?”

            “Not exactly. I’m still in this car, so things could be better.”

            “There’s that positivity I’ve come to know so well!”

            “Where’s this friend of yours anyway?”

            “Not much farther now. Should be there in about an hour or so.” An hour longer in the car brings with it the promise of unyielding, anxious silence, and I’m not about to endure it. Another quiet moment could be just what I need to send me back off the edge.

            “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

            “That depends.”

            “On what?”

            “Well, mostly on what the question is. Is it going to waste my time? Will it be something I don’t want to answer? Is it a question I have already put off for a later time? These are all legitimate concerns as our arguments seem to be running in a circular fashion, and if I’m bored with them, then you must be as well. Therefore, in the interest of avoiding mutual boredom, I ask that you be specific, and not repeat yourself.”

            “Fair enough.” It doesn’t seem fair, but it’s what I’ve got. There are so many things about the day that need clarifying, re-asking, or elaboration, but I try to find something new. Being specific in a situation so vaguely extreme turns out to be a difficulty. The question burning in my brain is: Who? I want to know who Snake really is, and what it is about me that made him want to kidnap me into the night.

            “Have I met you before the night in the apartment?”

            “Michael, I’m hurt.”

            “Oh shut up.”

            He sighs deeply and the sad lines creep into the edges of his face. “Yes, once, a very long time ago. You must’ve been a kid. I knew your parents for a brief time. You were so full of promise, so full of light. It’s really a shame to see the cynic that you’ve grown into. The boy I knew could have spent a day chasing after a red balloon just to see why it floated. The man I’m looking at today couldn’t give a shit why it floats, so long as it doesn’t obscure his view from the couch.”

            “Well I don’t have a couch anymore do I?”

            “Michael…”

            “Kidding, relax. So you’re a family friend of sorts?”

            “Of sorts.”

            “Do you still know my parents?”

            “Not really, no. We had a…” I wait for him to pick it back up. This is a longer pause. He’s either searching for the proper word to explain how he knew my parents, or has completely lost the train of thought for our conversation. When he’s thinking the lines in his face deepen and he takes on the appearance of a scholar, mastering one of the ultimate questions hiding in plain view.  “Let’s call it a falling out.”

            “Well why? If you were friends, what broke you apart? Aside from you being mental of course.”

            “Funny you should say that, they may have thought the same. Something to do with my line of work I suppose. People either think it complete folly, or complete brilliance.”

            “What exactly is it that you do? When you’re not plugging preachers that is.”

            “That’s really not polite. The man’s probably not even in the ground yet. He may have deserved what was coming to him, but that doesn’t mean we should be making light of it. Death has always been, and will always be a heavy subject. Making light of it does nothing, but perpetuate the violent culture that has become the norm.”

            The hypocrisy of the statement strikes me in the gut. Then I see that he is grinning. “Now I’m the one who’s kidding.” He begins to laugh, maniacally, but in a sort of endearing way. It’s a mad scientist that I can’t help but be friends with, regardless of the horrors he manages to conjure up. I’m laughing with him, partly at the absurdity of the whole situation, and the other half because I feel a bit strange. Perhaps being in the company of the mentally deranged has brought about the same in me.

            “My turn for a question.” This is an odd turn for him. Usually it appears as though he has all the answers.

            “Shoot.”

            “Wow, no caveats, this really could be interesting. Alright, when did the fire in your heart die? When did you become cold and awful?” The phrasing stings, but I’m beginning to understand that it’s just the way he speaks. There’s nothing personal about it. It’s as if the world is an encyclopedia and he is merely retrieving knowledge from its vast collection of pages. His actions hold no trace of emotion.

            The question strikes me as it has been one that I have struggled with myself. It’s difficult to pinpoint. “I don’t really know I guess. There wasn’t really one point where I just decided, fuck all. There are just some situations where being negative is easier than being positive.”

           “That’s all situations. It is always easier to be negative about something than to appreciate its positive aspects. That’s why for every writer there are five critics. We’re all so quick to jump on the creativity of brilliant minds and crush it as drivel, that some of the best are too often ignored.”

            “Come to think of it, I can remember when it started. It was when I began to drift away from my parents. They had always been my rocks, and then one day it seemed as though they weren’t there anymore. Our conversations were superficial, and the only questions they asked were about my progress. How was I doing with my new medication, had I found a job, and if I had settled down yet?”

            “The constant pressure got to me, and somewhere along the line I found growing distant was easier. I can look at the injustice in the world and not give a flying fuck about any of it because it doesn’t directly affect me. I can see a starving child in Africa, go out, buy a burger, and not feel much else about it for the rest of the night. Our world is fucked. It’s easier to just remain uninvolved.”

            “If everyone thought that way, the world would never change.”

            “Well why the hell has it got to be my responsibility to change it?! Isn’t that what visionaries are for? Look at Bono, he’s got to be doing enough good for the both of us. Why don’t we just say screw it, go home and get pissed? Whatever we’re doing here, I’m sure it can be solved by a few beers and listening to a sad record on repeat.”

            “So talkative, yet so blind.” He’s back to the flat affect again. It would appear that my impudent outburst has rendered him back to his uninterested state. Rather than continue down the path, I return to staring out the window…