That World Inverted

When I lived in NYC a few years back (1999-2003) I wrote a novel. Granted, I was drunk on whisky and pastrami sandwiches while doing it, so I don’t remember much ( I call it my Bukowski period) but I did finish it. I think it would be better as a graphic novel or an epic TV series…but I think I’ll post some chapters. So Here is part 1 of Chapter 1 of Imago:

It is a Wednesday afternoon and you are standing on the southwest corner of Prince and Greene. You feel a sudden burst of fear as if something were about to happen. You look around but there is nothing to notice in the day, only the quotidian doings of downtown New York. There are no strange omens, only a few pigeons nosing about in the trash, perhaps rats lurking in the sewers beneath you. But nothing extraordinary, no crows or snakes or magical beasts.

You search your pockets for a cigarette, find one and light it. You take a deep inhale and then let out a great plume of smoke into the crisp June air. You feel a bit lost, unmoored, in the shadowy streets of SoHo, looking at the things you’ll never own. You don’t know why you have stopped at this corner, but there you are, frozen to the spot. Once again, you look around, searching for some kind of explanation, but all you see is a well-dressed man in a fashionable grey suit. He too seems unable to move. He stares across Prince street, and you follow his gaze. Across the street you discover a construction site where many workmen are buzzing around a broken wall. You turn back to look at the man.

Suddenly, the light turns hazy and opaque. The man seems to have been struck by something you can’t make out. Some sort of gleam, or rather a glow. It is vague and wild and indescribable, obscuring everything but itself. You are paralyzed by this incongruity. This should be happening somewhere else, a cornfield in Ohio, certainly not a street corner in Manhattan.

The man takes a few hesitant steps toward the glow. You crane your neck to get a better look. You realize he means to go towards it. You fear for him, you want to warn him, hold him back. But you do not. Where before the street was empty and quiet, now it is frantic: messengers on bikes, busy pedestrians, and, more distressingly, a speeding taxicab, its yellow color ominous and deadly. You stand where you are and watch as his foot falls into the street. You hold your breath as the man crosses the street and are amazed and relieved when the taxicab narrowly misses the man’s kneecaps, the bikes nimbly maneuvering past him. The first danger has passed; but what of that disturbing glow? What will it do to him, what will it make of him? You imagine the glow as an engorging member, or the widening jaws of some feral creature. You can’t imagine what kind of twisted future lies in store for this man as he stumbles childishly towards his obvious doom.

It is too much for you to watch. You have become conscious of your strange involvement in this stranger’s destiny and are embarrassed. You marshal the will to turn away and begin the walk south to the Financial District, searching for another cigarette. Reality descends on you like a vulture with the recollection that you have scheduled an interview that takes place in (you check your watch) twenty minutes! The man, the corner, the glow have been replaced by more mundane requirements, and you are not sad to see them go. You think, as you rush to the subway, ‘How strange,’ and assume that it is over.

But for Maxwell, it has just begun.

A few hours before, Maxwell was sitting in a hideously overpriced café around the corner on Spring Street. He had arrived early. Maxwell hated being early, hated the implication that he had nothing better to do, especially when he was meeting Judith. Aggressively critical and domineering, she was sure to notice Maxwell’s apparent eagerness for lunch and to remark on it in a manner far from subtle. And now he found himself at a ridiculously small table covered in white table cloths, white cloth napkins, wine glasses, water glasses and an orgy of silverware. A vase with a single bloom, a small porcelain box containing sugar, salt and pepper, and a carafe of sparkling water with a pale green lime floating on the surface also managed to occupy the table. But he was smartly dressed, in a grey suit, cream shirt, and blue silk tie, and contented himself with this.

He was very nervous about lunch. Judith and he were associates at one of the most respected and successful modeling agencies in the city and were in constant competition. Maxwell didn’t consider himself a very competitive person, but with Judith, he had no choice. She was a prime example that social Darwinism was still alive and well and living in the fashion industry.

Maxwell had been under the naïve impression that his dues had been paid, his career was set, and it could not be undone. However, since Judith’s arrival in the industry, the mandarins of fashion had barred his entrance into their sphere through the use of such administrative stalwarts as the unexpected vacation or the extended game of phone tag, which invariably ended in a draw. He had watched his achievements dwindle, unable to sign a single client in months. His existing clients were barely able to get in the door at even the least discerning of firms. Land’s End put them on the waiting list. Accordingly, his roster shrank like a cock on a cold day.

This lunch was exceedingly important. He didn’t know what he was going to say, or even what could be accomplished, but he was determined to come to some sort of truce with Judith. Convinced that she had something to do with his recent downfall, he had asked her to this lunch to come to some sort of understanding. He did not thrive on this kind of pressure and he was prepared to politely withdraw.

Prada pumps clicking behind her, Judith stormed into the restaurant and sat quickly down in her chair. Holding her clutch purse in her lap, she turned her fearsome eyes on Maxwell and smirked. It was an impatient and leering smirk. A dismissive, unsympathetic, joyful smirk. Maxwell’s confidence withered.

“Yes? Well? What is it?”

Prepared for at least some semblance of civil conversation, Maxwell was taken aback by this sudden attack. He had expected the offensive to be more devious and tactical. Judith continued:

“We can’t all slouch around cafes picking our noses, can we? No, we can’t because then we get nothing done. We don’t make any money lollygaging about, do we? No, we don’t. So hurry it up, what is it?”

“Well, I, I guess I just wanted to have lunch with you, go over a few things…it seems we’re having some problems-“

“You’re having problems, you mean-“

“Yes, well, and I was hoping we could discuss some of the issues that have cropped up between us-“

“Us? I’m afraid there is no us. There is you, sad, lonely, early for lunch, and then there is me. Two entirely different things-“

“And maybe we could get over this current hump, and perhaps work together-“

“Once again, I must correct you, there is no ‘together,’ the hump is all yours-“

“Perhaps we could talk shop…I could pick your brains on a couple of things, some ideas I had-”

“Alright, that’s enough,” she said with a smile, “Pick my brains? How truly Midwestern you are. Talk shop. I see. Well, my shop is bustling and requires constant supervision. Yours finds a sign proclaiming, ‘Be back in ten,’ hanging from its door. Or is it ‘Gone fishing’ or something like that? Pick my brains. I wouldn’t let you near my brains. This is a complete waste of time. What could we have to talk about?”

Judith realized she was being a bit overdramatic, but, really, what had she to lose? Time spent with Maxwell was a great opportunity to let loose some aggression, like getting on and off a subway, a good chance to shove someone from behind, or stick out your leg or give them a sharp shoulder check as you pass them by. And she was passing him by, that much was certain. Really, being seen here with him could do serious damage.

“Listen, Maxwell. Let’s stop this little rap session right now. I have to run. I have a meeting. A lunch date. A phone call. Take your pick. It really doesn’t matter. Perhaps we’ll catch up at the office.” She gathered her things and added, “Perhaps not.”

She stood up and scurried out of the café, squirrel chasing after acorns. Maxwell sat there, stunned.

“A big bottle of Pinot. Right now.”