The Presence

The Presence(Xavier Gannon) (Note that this story was written by the author when he was 17 years old.)

Teens these days are like a plague. An epidemic disease that’s always surrounding us. Us, as in, those who know better, or at least think that we do. They drive recklessly. They’re the type that would bring your solid stone mailbox down and leave holes in your grass, holes that never grow back, permanently fixating you as the grain of sand in your suburban neighborhood shell. They’re the type that would have a chef steam broil your shell, suck it down with eight or ten others, and leave a 6% tip for an 80-dollar ticket. They’re the type that blares the top 40 (whatever that may be at the time); impulsively blows their two-week paycheck on a single visit to the mall. They’re the type that float from one trivial concept to another with a certain rambling/disconnected sense of apathy that makes you sick. It really does, your retching guttural moans late in the night, following a visit to a fast food restaurant, the local cinema (to see what you feel to be an underrated film, a sophisticated drama with a hint of well concealed, humorous irony), to Wal-Mart… My god, you loathe Wal-Mart… And those squealing voices, they’ve always haunted you in the night. In your dreams, “Okay, lets go!” and, “Let’s go around the other way, the line’s shorter…” and of course, “…I gotta go, the new episode of Young Lives of Love, Comedy, and Shocking Drama is on…” Will it never cease to keep you tossing throughout the night? I think not my friend. It seems your best option would be to hermit yourself at home, where your mind will be safe, safe from their influence of sluggish corruption.

However, there is a side to their world that many of us will never know. This is, exactly what I’ve been speaking of, because after all, life was different when you were young. That being said, how much do you really know about their world?

First off, Rich was foolish, yet he had a certain charisma to his character that seemed to attract all sorts of people. Many disliked him for no other reason than he ‘tried too hard’. He was the sort of guy that morphs personalities seamlessly, and if he wanted to befriend you bad enough, he would say just about anything. Yet, those who only knew him at surface level, always seemed to enjoy his company because, well, he was just like them, no matter who they were.

Rich was tall, not towering, but somewhere a bit over six feet he finally hit his peak. His hair was dark, and always cut in the same fashion throughout his entire adolescence. It was short, nearly buzzed on the sides, and only slightly longer on top where, each morning, he would add a precise amount of styling gel to Jazz the front. Many other young men his age sported exactly the same doo, but Rich knew in his heart that it looked best on him simply because he had the most people to impress with his casual, yet hip sense of style. “Hip n’ Cascghe”, that’s what he secretly called himself. In his mind, it was just the best fitting description of what he saw in the mirror each morning. Each morning he would primp. He would make sure his khaki’s were unwrinkled, his leather boots unscuffed, his plaid sleeves rolled, his belt buckle slightly off center from his navel, his beaded necklace nestled snuggly against his neck, his face shaven, but not freshly shaven. He found that he was most approachable with just the slightest bit of stubble, and when all was done, just as it had been done each morning for the last few years, Rich would take a step back and finish the ritual with an approving nod that seemed to say, “lookin’ good, Rich… lookin’ good…”. And on that note, Rich would back peddle to his door so he could keep eye contact with the mirror, and at the last possible moment he would turn, move swiftly through the door, but before closing it behind him he would take a final peek through and painfully step away to his car.

Rich's car was something of an eyesore, but he loved it because of what it could do for him. It was an old, beaten gray van. An eighty-seven' Ford Aerostar to be exact, and it looked as if the original paint job had worn off because of the ashy dust that sat upon it permanently. However, the original owner of the van, Charles Harlem, had waited an extra four and a half weeks for the color, which at the time of purchase was dubbed King's Chariot. "King's Chariot" was a reference to a seventeenth century king in England, and his trademark chalky gray coach, which he could commonly be seen gallivanting about the town in. The auto-salesman thought it was quite clever, for he was a particularly educated man for his decade, and he knew much of ancient history. The story of Charles Harlem however, is an entirely different story that may be divulged later.

Back to Rich... ...Rich, at the moment, was busy making notes, or doodling rather, in his notebook for History class. He was doodling about all sorts of things. His life, his style, and most importantly, Rich was writing about when things were not so grand for him. There was a time in his life, when things seemed to stop, when things seemed to, for a lack of a better description, kill. And kill they did. They killed his lust, they killed his motivation, and they killed his glee. Rich, for a time, was in a world of black. His mind became black, and so did his soul. He spent most of the time pondering the concept of suicide, and the results of doing so. It was as if his mind was a hampster wheel, and surrounding that wheel was an endless spiral of black lines. Horrible depression plagued him, coupled with unmanageable rage that struck sporadically. When this rage would overcome him, it felt to him as if the wheel in his mind spun infinitely fast, and the black spiral around it would fade to white heat at an equal speed. As the white heat spread from the center, to the infinite regions of his brain, an insanely angered force would sprinkle from his head, to his toes. And as this happened, his muscles would tense, and synapses would cease to function for a while. Rather, he would grab his hair for a moment and wait for the rage to pass, and as it did, he would belt out a guttural moan of anguish.

Back to Rich…
Of course I wasn’t speaking of him earlier, for Rich was a simple-minded fellow, and depression was something of which he was entirely alien to. The white heat, and the black wheel, was something that belonged to Tell. We’ll get to his story later, but Rich, at the moment, was making notes, or doodling rather, in his notebook for History class… Wait… Back to Tell Gannon… Tell was something of an antithesis, something of a… well, basically, Tell and Rich were complete opposites. Yet, they seemed to get along just fine, in fact, they were best friends. I suppose their conflicting personalities were like night and day, black and white, North and South… They just seemed to work against each other, and yet, depended upon each other to survive.

Tell and Rich were similar in one way… Tell also had a daily ritual, just as Rich had. Each morning, he would look into the mirror, after hours of primping in a much different way, and speak to himself. After meticulously creating the appearance of one who did not seem to care much about his appearance, he would speak aloud into the mirror that lay in front of him. Not on a wall, but rather a small, rectangular one that he sat in front of him each morning. He would intentionally leave his hair shaggy, unkempt, his t-shirt aged to a vintage aura, his jeans ragged and worn on edges, no patches, no sewing jobs, for that would mean he put effort into his appearance. So, yet, his lack of effort translated to an immense one.
When all was done, he would give himself a final once over, just as Rich did. Only, Tell gave himself more of a stare, rather than a satisfied glance. He would stare directly into his own eyes, with a piercing gaze that suggested ominous intentions. At first, Tell would only catch a twinge of these intentions, totally disregarding the emotions he felt toward himself. He could see in the eyes, those sunken, almost black eyes staring back toward him, that whoever this was, did not particularly care for him. In fact, he hated Tell, the man in a parallel reality, and Tell knew this solidly, with no other backing than the villainous gaze that was directed toward him from the small rectangular mirror before his chest. Then, in an instant, it played out like clockwork each morning, Tell would remember that the man before him was none other than himself, and in fact, he did hate himself, and at times, he would love nothing more than to kill the image in the mirror, in turn ending his own existence. And each morning, in an instant, it played out like clockwork. Tell would fully realize the sentiments coming from the man in the mirror, and he would be struck with a bolt of fear through his very being. He would let out a scream, but his nerves, unfailing, would always squelch the yell into an insignificant squeak. He would then turn to run from the man in the mirror, but his legs would freeze up, causing him to fall. In a moment of desperation he would let out a cry for help, paralyzed on his bedroom floor, “Mother, help me! … Oh God, someone please…”, at which point his grumbling, drowsy father would yell, “I’m tryin’ to sleep god***it. Get your ass to school.” And each morning, like clockwork, the scream of his father would bring Tell back to reality, he would stand, brush himself off, and make his way to school.



THE PRESENT

Each morning, Tell would wait by his door for the obnoxious, bleating horn of Rich's High Jet. Rich would give Tell his usual, groggy morning greeting and Tell would respond with his usual, energetic, "Hey Buddy...” or something along those lines. Their energy levels always fluxuated in opposite directions. The mornings were always Tell's domain, but as the day wore on, Rich most always came out on top.

On this particular morning, Rich's mind was on more important matters than talking to Tell. He had stayed up late working, incredulously, on a review sheet for his History class, which unfortunately was his first period of the day. No matter how hard he managed, at some point in the class he would fall asleep. He needed this sleep badly simply because, school started too damned early for Rich. Anyone who knew him well, would doubtlessly describe him as, "not a morning person".

However, one individual who seemed to disregard this fact was Mr. James Beltfield. Beltfield was hard, a total pleasure nazi, and he got off on this fact. He thoroughly enjoyed the suffering of his students, and made sure to reap each class period for at least three humiliating occurrences for three choice students, which were chosen at random. This totaled up to 18 humiliated students per day, 3,240 students per year, which ultimately meant, that each student in his classes were humiliated at least four times per semester. For this reason, most “impudent children”, as Beltfield commonly referred to them, regarded him in different ways. Some regarded him with respectful fear, but most thought of him as a pompous ass, and a particularly hateful one, coming from both his own and his students’ perspectives, at that. Even his fellow co-workers would snicker behind his back, discussing his practices not only as a teacher, but also as the horrible human being that he was. However, the school’s principle, Sgt. Dean Digby, a former vet, had no reason to fire this putrid adulterate that sent quite a stench throughout the hallways. This was so because, truth be told, Beltfield did his job well. Yet even Digby, knowing Beltfield only on a surface level, could recognize his obvious character traits. As Digby described, Beltfield was arrogant, he was uptight, as if a 14-inch metal rod had been surgically implanted in his rectum from birth, and he held a similar opinion of Beltfield as that of the children. He was a pompous ass, and a pompous ass he would always be. However, Digby was something of an enigma, and his sentiments were often confused. We shall drudge further into his story at a later time.

But back to Rich, and his plight with Beltfield… Rich, at the moment, was busy making notes, or doodling rather in his notebook for History class…
“Rich, could you come to the board…” said Beltfield smugly. Rich had no choice in the matter; he sheepishly shuffled to the board, knowing that he had not the answers of which his teacher would ask. “Rich, I’d like you to diagram the events of the American Revolution on this timeline… You have two minutes, the clock is ticking…” Rich became quite nervous, which many would say is his best trait. This is so, because when someone seems nervous to approach you, you relax, you become elevated in status from them. Therefore, you’re superior, yet you appreciate their efforts to know someone whom you feel is insignificant. All this usually creates a general atmosphere of compassion, but in this case, there was Beltfield, back peddling to the seat of his desk, and waiting with anticipation for Rich to make a mistake. At that moment it was Beltfield’s move to be made. He would simply jump up at first notice and proceed to point out such a mistake in a light entirely alien to the audience of his class. This light was one of scrupulous, intensely descriptive nature. Rich approached the board with a certain, wavering stride. He picked up the chalk with his chubby fingers and prepared to begin writing, but first he hesitated.
"What are you waiting for?” Beltfield preemptively blurted out of antsy desire. Just as he said that, Rich was in the process of beginning. The chalk drew near to the board, inch-by-inch, nanosecond-by-nanosecond. Of course, only Beltfield was counting at that level. The last eight seconds seemed like a lifetime for him, he simply could not wait. Not because he hated Rich, but just because he thought of him as a metaphor, as he did many of his students and co-workers alike. However, Rich's metaphor in particular was precisely speculated upon in Beltfield's many spare hours at his moderately sized, self proclaimed "bachelor pad". Indeed, Beltfield was a bachelor, but he found it hard to admit that this reality was not as he would will. In fact, Beltfield was a single man, and nothing more he would be, simply because no woman would have him. It wasn't his fault that so much effort was put forward into being the pompous ass that he was, it was just the way that he consciously knew as his own personality. On this day, his true nature shone brighter than usual. Perhaps it flared up because earlier that same day he was reminiscing of his own loathsome childhood, when he was not unlike Rich.

It was on his seventeenth year… It was a good time for Beltfield, one of his last. He still had a powerful lust for life and all its opportunities. A tiny sparkle of hope, now forever lost, twinkled ever so softly in his eye. Some say it was the left eye, but no one knows for sure. To recall a specific incident that took place in this short but strangely refreshing period, there was once a girl. Her name was Frenchie Carlyle, and she was Beltfield’s one and only chance at companionship. Do not misinterpret that because, believe it or not, in Beltfield’s early years, he had an absolutely quaint personality and his looks were quite respectable. Without the cowling sneer and arched eyebrows now frozen upon his face, he looked surprisingly similar to a young William Dafoe, quite endearing really. He had no trouble getting a lady’s attention up until he met Frenchie. They were incredibly alike, in nearly every facet of life. They both enjoyed the primal pleasure of brousing the local flea market. Most of the time it was a bust, but every once in a blue moon something truly notable could be found.
“Frenchie, my god, look… it’s the used origami instruction pamphlet I’ve been lusting for.”
“That’s nice, James…”
(Beltfield’s inner monologue: That’s always her response. She appreciates none of my pointless eccentric infatuations. Perhaps I’d be better off with someone who can appreciate the small, but most definitely finer, things in life. Like origami, or French cuisine, or the psychology of Satan… I mean, I know when you get down to the nitty-gritty, all that doesn’t amount to a hill of beans in the modern world, but there must be someone who can connect with me on such a level…)

After over a year of dating, he realized, or so he thought, that Frenchie Carlyle and himself were a complete mismatch based on their obvious differences in artistic taste. He became crude, contradicting any comments and holding steady in an attitude of general malaise and dissatisfaction with the relationship. Over the course of their relationship, as many young men do, Beltfield went through an immense personal change. Frenchie most definitely altered his natural growth as a person and is perhaps significantly responsible for the smug man he evolved into today. Perhaps the most interesting element of their courtship and rejection is the fact that Beltfield was completely oblivious to the fact that he was slowly pushing away the most important woman he would ever know. In fact, he became so miffed with the way things were going with Frenchie, that he subconsciously lost all contact with everyone else that mattered in his life. He simply lacked the motivation to call his friends because, well… that all depends on what situation he was currently in. Like the time she fell asleep when he was horny, or the time she answered his questions about folk art (and/or Dutch wooden crafts) incorrectly… But when she finally split up with him, growing tired of his self-infatuation, he realized what a fool he had been. Although at that point it was far too late.

Then things went a bit Pear-Shaped… and the sadness came like a cloud….