Sage and the Scarecrow - Between Spirit and Anonymity

Project Summary: The following is a chapter from my 2004 novel The Sage and the Scarecrow.

At the moment, I am revising the chapters from this book into 3-4 page short stories for posting on my blogs and in literary magazines.

If you are interested in reading the eventual completed revised edition of “The Sage and the Scarecrow”, please email me at ghostsofnagasaki [at] gmail [dot] com

The Novel in Short: Six months after his father has died from cancer, Pierce finds himself in a state of anxiety and crisis. In his mind, there are two worlds. In one world he is a second-year college student trying to finish the semester; in another world, he roams an apocalyptic landscape searching for scraps of wisdom that will lead him to the perfect society. In both worlds, he is on a quest to find a girl named Jennifer, his best friend, true love, and the only person he believes can cure him.


Chapter 9
Between Spirit and Anonymity
or
The Downside to Practical Solutions



Sympathy takes me to her tribe. They live in the husk of an old community center.

I see a group of people. Some do something strange and unfamiliar. What is it? Yes, they smile.

Others stand apart.

The ones who smile introduce themselves. I am introduced to Spirit, Soul, Serenity, Vibrance, Essence, and others. Each is beautiful in that I-live-in-the-apocalypse-but-I’m-not-covered-with-shit sort of way.

As they each introduce themselves, I can’t help but notice that they each sound like a brand of shampoo. I’m mostly starved and half-mad, but I still remember what shampoo names sound like.

“Um...if I may be so bold as to ask a question, why is your name Essence?” I ask.

“Because Essence is Serenity,” she says and smiles. As she says this, Serenity says, “And Serenity is Spirit.” And then, Spirit says, “And Spirit is Soul”...and they each continue.

As they make their introductions, I notice there are others, too. Covered with more shit than Spirit, Essence, and the others, and also noticeably quieter.

They don’t smile. They mostly just stare in disgust.


*

When I stopped writing Jennifer completely (around the beginning of the summer) I thought that eventually she would assume that she had the wrong address. She couldn’t call me, except at my dad’s house, which was empty (I hadn’t given her my dorm phone number or address). The letters kept coming every other week to my dad’s house until they stopped sometime around the fall. I had my aunt send them to me, and I read them, of course.

I generally got the feeling that she was doing well. She was concerned but she guessed that I wasn’t getting the letters or that I was too busy to respond. A month ago the letters had stopped completely, and I was satisfied that I had probably stopped being on Jennifer’s mind altogether. I felt at peace about this…and that’s what I told the three girls from South Africa: that I was glad that I was out of Jennifer’s life.

*

I socialize more and more with my new tribe.

The others who don’t smile come to greet me. Mostly they just grunt, spit, and nod, habits more familiar to the apocalypse, though I’m glad their thumbs are steady and mostly inactive.

One gives me a kind of sneer and says, “Yeah, you can fuck right the hell off with that ‘Essence is Purity shite,’ just call me Spit.” Another one just looks at me and says, “Don’t bother givin’ me a name. Don’t got one. Don’t need one.”

So, I take to calling him, “Downtgotwan.”

*

We spent some more time in the pool hall playing. It was one o’clock when the pool hall closed and so we left with no real aim in mind. We walked a couple of circles around the Student Union Center, and the three girls told me more about their country.

The skinny girl with the light complexion and the bigger girl left to go back to their dorm, but the redhead said she wanted to spend some more time talking with me. We stayed on a bench outside the Student Union Center and she told me some more about her boyfriend, how he was studying business and had planned for them to eventually move out of South Africa to London where he would start his own business.

She asked me what I wanted to do with my life and I told her that I wanted to get paid money to discuss books with students. I told her how my dream was to write a modest book on depictions of psychological disorders in contemporary literature or something like that.

“You know, they say there’s a connection between certain psychological disorders and artistic ability. They think it’s because certain disorders allow people to view the world in an atypical way; for instance, disorders like schizophrenia, which typically are associated with disorganized speech and other problems, also allow people to restructure the world in a way that’s new and interesting to the viewer.” I tried to think of some examples, but couldn’t think of any for sure. I was pretty sure Jackson Pollock, Andy Warhol, and some other American artists I couldn’t remember had been insane -- Picasso maybe? Nietzsche for sure -- but I couldn’t remember the details.

*

As it turns out, even in their small tribe there are major frictions. Soul, Spirit, Essence and the rest of what I call “The Shampoos” generally stay away from Spit, Downtgotwan, and rest of what I call the “No Namers.”

The Shampoos would spend much of their time involved in meditation and conversations about the meaning of the universe, including the meaning of suffering. They had even developed complex theories to explain the thumb-twitchers.

“Each motion of their thumbs pulls a string attached to a soul that was lost when the world came to an end,” Essence says in a sing-song voice.

“Or, maybe they’re just morons still obsessed with their lost mobile devices,” I offer helpfully.

This comment does not improve my standing with the Shampoos.

The No Namers spend most of their time wrestling, jerking off, and fucking loudly.

*

She told me that she liked the way my eyes looked when I talked about intelligent stuff. It was a strange thing to say.

At some point, I asked her whether altruism was a place in Europe—it was something a friend had told me as a joke a long time ago, that altruism was a place in Europe, a jibe a materialist makes to an idealist.

She said she had never heard of such a place. Then she said, “Altruism means to help someone without wanting anything in return, doesn’t it?”

I told her that it was only a joke and explained to her what it meant. I thought about Brian for a second because I was pretty sure he was the one who had said it (probably the only smart thing he had ever said in his life).

“Tell me more about psychology,” she said. “I’m thinking about taking a class in it sometime soon.” She took out a cigarette box with marijuana joints rolled up in it. She took one out and began to smoke it. “Do you want to take a puff?” she said.

“No,” I said. “I don’t really like the way I feel when I’m high.”

“How’s that?” she asked.

“I can’t really think straight,” I said.

“That’s the point,” she said.

“It’s uncomfortable for me,” I said. “If I can’t think, then what am I?”

She looked at me strangely. “You’re still a human, so no bother there,” she said. “It’s like that whole thing you were telling me about: it helps you be more artistic, get into your subconscious, lose your inhibitions and stuff.”

I shrugged. “Right,” I said. We sat in silence for a while. I felt bad for not being more talkative, but I didn’t really feel very congenial, and I didn’t really have much to say.

*

The No Namers and the Shampoos have a grudging respect for each other. I mean, at least they aren’t twitching their thumbs mindlessly. And each, in their own ways, solves problems.

The No Namers like to think of themselves as more practical and useful, but it’s clear that the Shampoos were the ones who developed the system for sheltering their small store of food from radiation poisoning and rats.

Whenever I try to point this out to a No Namer, they just say, “Yeah, what the fuck do I know? Think I’m shit, I bet you do.”

“No, you’re not Shit. Shit is over there. You’re Spit.”

“Yeah, well, the way I’m treated here, I’m better off with no name.”

And, then he goes off someplace to fuck with another No Namer.

One of the Shampoos named Honesty says to me, “That looks like quite a bit of fun actually.” She allows herself to stare at the two people fucking not too far from where she sits.

Then, she takes out her Essence-is-Spirit journal and pen and begins to write about her feelings (probably about the nearby fucking).

*

She smiled at me as if suddenly struck by an epiphany. “I’d never date a pothead,” she said to me, for what seemed like no reason whatsoever.

“I’d hope not,” I said. “From what I hear, pot affects men’s libidos. Limp noodles good in Chinese food, but no good for sex life,” I said in the best Asian voice I could muster.

She laughed very loudly, and I was afraid for a moment that we would draw someone’s attention (although, from what I’ve heard, the security guards on campus were pretty relaxed when it came to minor drug offenses). I put my hand over her mouth to quiet her laughter.

Once she stopped laughing, her mood changed very quickly to one of the utmost seriousness. “You’re right, flaccid penises are not a laughing matter,” she said. “A girl needs to get off.” She looked at me, and then started chuckling again. “You haven’t been smoking. I bet you wouldn’t have any problem getting stiff, would you?”

(Many people -- philosophers, former statesmen, the financially successful -- have said, quite rightly in my opinion, that you pay for your virtues more than your vices.)

“No,” I said, but not with any real enthusiasm. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t.”

*

I don’t know whether I am a Shampoo or a No Namer. Better to exist in the in-between spaces, I think.

My belly is full. This tribe knows how to grow vegetables and scavenge for food. And they know how to store food and plan for bad days. It’s as close to an oasis as you get in the apocalypse...a Shampoo and No Name oasis.

But my heart aches. The scribbled notes of a perfect society are in my satchel along with the books...now probably four…

Last time I had shared a thought like this -- better to live in the in-between spaces -- it had brought down a tribe of philosopher / wise men.

Better to live in the in-between spaces...better to live in the in-between spaces…

Too philosophical. I would need something more practical.

For all their differences the Shampoos and the No Namers had both dedicated themselves to practical solutions to everyday problems. How much better do they really need to be?

Still, I can’t leave well enough alone.

“Oi, Downtgotwan! Hello, Spirit. I need both of you. I have a practical solution to your class struggles.”

*

I was very quiet for a moment; she just looked at me. I got the idea that she was pretty serious about the entire sex thing. I just sat still and tried not to look too awkward.

“You’re no fun, are you?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I’m not. I study literary theory, remember.”

“So we should talk some more,” she said. “You can talk more about literary theory, and I can keep smoking. That way…” she stopped in mid-sentence and laughed a little. “That way after a few more hits I’ll find whatever you’re saying entertaining.”

I thought about it. “Finally, the perfect relationship.”

*

“A tea party solves all,” I explain.

Downtgotwan grunts and Spirit waxes poetic about the dignity of something, something, but everyone agrees in their own way that a tea party is what everyone needs.

We find instruments to put our tea in. Cups and bowls and such.

We boil water and I use some of the magic mushrooms in my satchel and herbs grown by the Shampoos to make my own solution to class conflict.

It is a pungent solution, but close enough to tea that we can pretend it’s just tea.

I raise my glass. “With this, we free ourselves from the oppression of overbearing Spirit and Anonymity. After today, there shall be no more Shampoos and No Namers. We will be one tribe, hopefully with normal-sounding names.”

“Well said,” says Essence. “I am truly and deeply touched by the spirit and purity of your words.”

“Da fuck you two on about?” says Spit.

“Drink up you guys.”

*

I didn’t say anything for a while. I just started thinking about very personal things. I started to feel kind of depressed and alone, even though I was sitting with a very attractive redhead from South Africa. I suddenly felt like just going back to my dorm.

I told her that it was late and that I should be getting to sleep because I had to wake up early for work, which was a complete lie.

“Will you walk me to my dorm?” she asked.

“Okay,” I said because I couldn’t think up a suitable excuse not to.

*

My practical solution to the problem of class conflict is a sterling success. As it turns out, Downtgotwan had actually been a surrealist painter prior to the apocalypse and Essence had been a carpenter. Both had been playing their role to keep the delicate balance in their society.

Under the not-so-subtle influence of my magic mushroom and herb concoction, all their inhibitions melt away.

For a sublime moment, they are all happy. It is bliss (not Bliss, a member of the Shampoos, just bliss.)

And then the fear takes over.

“Who am I?” Downtgotwan says. “If I’m not no one, then who am I?”

“You can be ‘Bliss’” Spirit says.

“No, she’s Bliss,” Downtgotwan says freaking out in a big way. “We can’t both be Bliss!”

*

The walk from the bench outside the Student Union to her dorm building was quiet. The girl from South Africa told me that it looked like I had a lot on my mind. I told her that I did, that a lot had happened to me that day, and that I was thinking about leaving campus for a while.

She asked me if it had anything to do with the girl in the picture, which was strange since the possibility hadn’t even crossed my mind. I said, “No, not really. It has to do more with getting away from people for a while.”

We walked on for a little while and she asked me if I wanted to talk about whatever was bugging me.

“No,” I said. “Not really.”

She laughed at that, which I thought was funny. She took my hand in her hand and told me that if she didn’t have a boyfriend, I could be her boyfriend, even if I was kind of odd.

I told her that I was very flattered, which was true. I kind of liked her.

We walked to her dorm building, and I walked her up to her room. She asked me if I wanted to come in. I said no.

“It was really nice meeting you, though,” I said, and then told her how much I had enjoyed talking to her. She laughed a little and then hugged me very unexpectedly. Then she kissed me on the lips, which was even more unexpected. I long kiss as I remember. Then, without another word, she went into her dorm and shut the door.

And that was it.

*


As it turns out, without the Spirit of the Shampoos and the Anonymity of the No Names there is just lowercase anarchy.

The tribe splits up into smaller bands and decides to go their separate ways. This is actually a gross understatement of what happens. It is actually more chaotic than this since no one can even decide whom they want to go with.

The tribeswoman-formerly-known-as-Sympathy says, “You meant well. We all know that. Your blessed soul hasn’t just cursed us, it has also freed us.”

She’s wrong, of course. I had just cursed them, plain and simple. I had taken away that fragile thing that provided order in this new world. This “freedom” is simply a fiction created by the tribeswoman-formerly-known-as-Sympathy for my benefit.


*

I was walking through the lobby of the dorm building on the ground floor when I heard a girl crying in great big sobs. She was turned the other way, and all I could see was the back of her head. She sounded so miserable, and my first thought was to go over and try to see what was wrong with her. I was about to walk over and say something to her when I started thinking how from the back she kind of looked like Angie, and how she could be Angie or someone like her. I thought about all these things, and I could see myself just standing there like an idiot, just waiting.

The more I thought about it, the more the thought of going over there and talking to her became terrifying. I looked at the back of her head as she was leaned up against her chair and I couldn’t decide whether to help her or not. I began to feel very anxious about the girl crying in the chair. I began to think about how her crying wasn’t really any of my business. Suddenly, the idea even seemed rude.

Eventually, I just left. I walked out and made my way back to my dorm, thinking about the girl in the lobby. She occupied my mind longer than she should have.

*

“You may call me Sympathy for a little while longer,” she says. “It will make things easier for you.”

Her slight figure hugs my arm as we walk -- so much like Jennifer.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll travel with you a little bit longer until you find her.”

“Who?”

“Your guardian angel.”