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Loneliness, it is a thirst, a flower dying in the desert.
Star Trek, Requiem for Methuselah |
When the school year opened Mark appreciated the privacy of his single. He could have asked for a double, and it would have been cheaper, but why hassle with a roommate? for the past three years he made good money working for Microsoft, and he could certainly afford a room of his own. But now, as fall gave way to winter and the days grew short, the silence of his room seemed oppressive. A roommate would be welcome company.
Mark sat alone, staring at his topology book, trying to prove that the completion of a metric space was complete. What does a cauchy sequence of cauchy sequences look like anyways? The whole thing made his head spin, and he slammed his book shut with a gesture of finality. Outside his door, other students drifted past, heading for the dorm social in the student lounge. Nobody stopped; nobody invited him to come along. He thought about closing his door and listening to Mozart, but that was a stupid idea, and he knew it.
"I'm lonely, so I'll close my door and hide in my room. Yeah, that makes a lot of sense!" He pushed his chair back from his desk, stood up, and crossed his room in three quick strides. "It's an open party," he proclaimed, "and I'm going!"
As Mark entered the lounge he saw people dancing, milling about, and talking as best they could over the music, which was just a bit too loud. He recognized most of the students, but none of them could truly be called a close friend. Just a name and a casual hello in the cafeteria. He strolled over to one of the side tables and tried to act nonchalant as he reached for a potato chip. He was really interested in Mary, who was reaching for the pretzels. In Mark's fantasy world they became good friends, dated, got married, and had three beautiful children. From 9 to 5 he wrote software, as he had done before; then the evening was spent with his family. When the kids were asleep he and Mary made love, slow and passionate. In this dream world there was no time for topology or algebraic number theory, and he would miss those things, but it would definitely be a step up. He would give anything to have a wife and family, and Mary seemed like a perfect match. True, he didn't know her well, but he was captivated by her beauty and intelligence.
Mary studied law, and her keen mind brought insight and historical perspective to almost every topic. While Mark danced among abstract rings and fields, Mary evaluated international treaties, teasing out their political and economic ramifications. Their academic interests were as different as night and day, but they both wanted a family and a fairy-tail relationship. The difference: Mark wanted it now, while Mary, five years his junior, was willing to wait. She had another year of law school to go, then the bar, and beyond that she couldn't say. So when Mark asked her out she was always polite, and sometimes she even said yes, but at the end of the day she invariably returned to her books.
"Mary." he said, gently touching her on the arm. She turned, and then recognized him.
"Hi Mark, glad you could come. I probably can't stay long, but I had to get away from torts for a while."
"They're actually playing a good song - care to dance?" Mark was 28; too old to be shy. Hell, what was the worst she could do? Say no? That's the same as if he hadn't asked - so a quick calculation produced a positive expected value for the outcome, and that was that.
"Sure." she replied, stuffing the last three pretzels into her mouth. They went out on to the dance floor and he held her tight. Her long brown hair fell against his face. It smelled clean and fresh, as though she had just washed. He wanted to give her a quick kiss, but she was not ready for that, and he knew it. They danced through two songs, then scurried back to the snack table as rap came pouring out of the speakers. They both recognized no-talent garbage when they heard it.
"I'd better get back to my books." said Mary apologetically. "It's hard to talk in here anyways."
"We could go for a walk." offered Mark. "It's pretty nice out, for early December."
"Not tonight. I've got a test in the morning and I really have to hit the books."
"Fair enough." said Mark, hiding his disappointment. He sat down in one of the blue couches and watched the other students socialize. They were obviously better at this than he was. He closed his eyes for a moment and issued a fervent request to nobody in particular. "I wish I could find the love of my life, a true friend, a companion for all my days."
Suddenly the sound stopped. The music, the voices, everything - replaced with silence, as the couch beneath him was transformed into a hard wooden chair. He felt the arms of the chair, smooth and polished. Finally he opened his eyes. The chair was situated on a shelf that was perhaps ten feet wide. His chair backed up against a wall, and six feet ahead of him, along the tile floor, the shelf ended abruptly. Beyond the security of his ledge, a horizontal ladder seemed to stretch to infinity. The rails and rungs were painted yellow, and it reminded him of his elementary school playground. Kids use to walk, hand over hand, rung to run, from one end to the other. Of course that was only ten or twelve feet across; this ladder stretched as far as the eye could see, until the rails seemed to meet in the distance. Two more ladders bracketed his, one on either side, and still more ladders to the left and right, forming an entire plane of rails and rungs. Adjacent ladders seemed to merge together in the distance. Below the ladders, miles and miles of empty space. There was no floor below; no formations at all. And there were no supports holding the ladders in place, at least none that he could see. Surely they would bend under their own weight, yet they seemed fixed in space. This couldn't be real; it had to be a dream. He was at the party, sitting on a couch. Mark closed his eyes again, then opened them slowly. The shelf was still there, and the ladders. He was about to move towards the edge of the shelf to get a closer look when a voice spoke from within his own head. The words were clear and distinct, but they didn't come from any location.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our little game. Each of you has made a wish, something you want very much. Be the first to reach the other side and your wish will come true. It's as simple as that. There are no other rules."
Suddenly Mark was aware of the others along the shelf. He was so busy looking at the ladders and the empty space beneath that he hadn't noticed them before. A row of chairs lined the shelf, each situated in front of a ladder, and each one was occupied. He looked left and right, and estimated about 100 people. There were perhaps 30 to his left and 70 to his right. Young and old, male and female, tall and short, robust and frail. They looked stunned, with mouths open wide. Everyone was in a state of shock.
The man to Mark's right was different from the others. He sat in his wheelchair, instead of the hard wooden chairs that supported everybody else. His legs were shriveled from lack of use. Mark could guess his wish - physical perfection - a body that walks and runs on command. His own desires seemed petty by comparison. Granted, they were shaped by evolution, and partly beyond his control, but still, there was a time when one has to grow up. He'd find somebody eventually. That's what the statistics said anyways. He was merely impatient - like a two year old. "I want her now!" Yet right next to him was Mr. Nolegs, who would never walk again. "Perhaps I should just sit on the sidelines," thought Mark, "and let these people compete for their dreams."
Farther down the row was Mr. Bald, whose thin frame and gaunt expression suggested chemotherapy. His wish was not hard to guess. And down at the end he thought he saw a white cane in the hands of a young boy. "The rest of his life without sight." thought Mark. He had always taken his perfect body for granted. He walked, jogged, and swam, and his arms and legs performed without complaint. Was he destined to live in one of these shells in 20 or 30 years?
Other individuals were not so transparent. Like the middle-aged woman on the other side of the wheelchair. He could see her wedding ring, so he called her Mrs. House. She had what he wanted, yet she was here, driven by worry and fear. Perhaps one of her children was ill, or in trouble with the law. Mark always imagined perfect children, a Braidy Bunch family, but that need not be the case. And to her right, Mr. Snow, a gentleman in his 80's with snow white hair. He seemed in good health, but something was troubling him. Perhaps he had no money. He might be one of those seniors that has to choose between food and medicine, in the richest country in the world. And Mrs. House - she might be in financial trouble as well. She might have a sick child with no health insurance. Who knows?
Mark turned to his left and was startled. "Mary!" He almost shouted it out loud, but it wasn't Mary. Her brown wavy hair looked just like Mary's, but her eyes were brown instead of blue, and the curve of her face was not quite right. No - he'd never seen her before, but she did look like Mary at a glance. To her left, Mr. Business, in a suit and tie. Did he run a company that was about to go under, or did he simply want to become CEO? To his left sat a black woman, whom he would call Michele, then a chinese Boy dubbed Ying, then a teen age boy displaying gang colors. Mark would call him Riff, from West Side Story. Was Riff looking for a way out - a better life? Probably. There wasn't time to conjure up names and situations for everybody. One hundred people, lost in their own thoughts and dreams.
The voice in his head continued. "I think everybody's ready. On your mark. Get set. Go!"
In a flash Mark was transported to a position below the first rung of his ladder, his hands clutching the bar. The other 99 were in similar positions, each holding on for dear life. He could see Mr. Nolegs to his right, and Mary's doppelganger to his left. Straight ahead was the far wall, shiny black, as though it were made of fine granite. since it was featureless it could have been just a few yards away, but the ladders, shrinking into the distance, told another story. Mark looked up through the bars and saw a light blue sky with a few puffy white clouds. There was no sun anywhere, so he wasn't sure what made the sky blue. Below him, more blue sky and white clouds. He had never looked down on clouds before. Farther down, the black walls seemed to converge, though he knew this was an optical illusion. Mark was sure the walls were parallel, and somewhere far below was a floor that he could not see. It was a long, long way down. Even the cloud below his feet seemed to be a mile away.
Suddenly his glasses slipped off his face and drifted down past his chest. They fell slowly, like a leaf, and when Mark reached for them with his left hand he caught only air. Gravity was reduced to a quarter of its power, maybe less, and the glasses fell in surreal slow motion. Mark found that he could hang suspended from one arm, while the other flailed in the air, fishing for his glasses. This would not be possible anywhere on Earth. Granted, he was in good shape, but he couldn't hang by one arm for very long under one G, and he shouldn't press his luck in this environment either. He put his left hand back on the bar and let the glasses fall.
"Christ, don't worry about the glasses! It's a long way to the other side, and if you spend your energy now, at the start, you'll never make it." this was a test of intelligence and strategy, along with physical endurance. Mark had to keep his wits about him. The glasses sailed past his legs and began to pick up speed. In ten seconds they were falling at a substantial rate, and after 20 seconds they were merely a dot in the sky. Two more seconds and they were gone, falling and falling for who knows how long. Yes, gravity was weak, but relentless. It would always win in the end.
Mark saw something out of the corner of his eye and turned to the right. Mr. Nolegs was moving out fast. Everyone else was frozen in fear, hanging from the first rung, but Mr. Nolegs made up his mind, and was determined to win. His powerful arms were twice as strong as anyone else, and he weighed less than most of the adults on the line. Hand over hand over hand, Mr. Nolegs marched along like a well oiled machine. He was 30 rungs ahead, then 40, then 50, while everyone else just stared. It seemed unfair. This man, with his deformed body, was perfectly suited to win this race. Why compete? Why even try? And indeed Mr. Snow, three ladders over, had reached that very conclusion. His frail arms were just strong enough to pull him up against the weak gravity. Feet and legs thrashed about like a fish out of water until his head and shoulders were above the bar. His left hand was on the first rung and his right hand was on the shelf. He pushed himself up until his torso was above the ladder, then threw himself backward up onto the shelf. He pulled his legs up through the bars and sat on the ledge trembling. Eventually he crawled back to his chair and waited for the game to end.
"One guy is out to win, and another just gave up." observed Mark. "Those are the only two people with brains. The rest of us are just hanging here, squandering our strength. It's time to shit or get off the pot. It's time to move out."
A minute earlier Mark had released his grip to lunge for his glasses, almost without thinking, but now he was frozen in terror. His hands gripped the bar and refused to let go. "How far down is it anyways? Is there a bottom at all, or do you just fall forever, until somebody reaches the other side and the game is over? And what if nobody reaches the other side? Do you fall forever?" Mark imagined wind rushing past his ears as he reached terminal velocity. He was tumbling in the wind, out of control. Atmospheric pressure increased until it broke both eardrums, then pressed against his face, crushing his sinus cavities. His intestines and stomach squeezed flat, and the thick air felt like pea soup as he forced it in and out of his lungs. Nitrogen poured into his bloodstream, creating a state of narcosis. This provided a welcome respite from the agony in his ears and head. His last moments were filled with drunken joy, until the nitrogen robbed him of his consciousness, and finally his life. Of course there might be no nitrogen in the air. He could be breathing sulfur hexafluoride, in which case he would survive much greater pressures and endure even more pain. It was all speculation.
Something startled him away from his morbid daydream. It was Riff, moving hand over hand, trying to catch Mr. Nolegs. Other people were moving away from the wall as well, and Mark was just hanging there, frozen to the bar. He looked at the next run, three feet away, pried his left hand loose, reached forward, and grabbed it. In a panic he brought his right hand forward to the second rung. It was an awkward movement, and Mark found himself swinging back and forth as a result. Mr. Nolegs and Riff were traveling hand to hand to hand, without ever placing two hands on the same bar. They had found a rhythm, and he better do the same or he didn't stand a chance. Mark moved his left hand to the third rung, then brought his right hand forward to the fourth. Slowly he learned the motions, keeping his eyes on the rungs ahead, never looking up or down. Occasionally he glanced at his competitors, but that only added to his fear. "focus. Focus. Left, right, left, right. Just look at the bars ahead. Not too fast, sure and steady. Left, right, left, right."
The field moved forward for about an hour when the first casualty struck. an older woman, far to the right, missed her grip as she reached for the next rung. Her arm flailed about while her legs kicked back. she tried to swing, to reach her target, when her right hand lost its hold. She let out a scream and everyone else stopped to watch the macabre spectacle. the hapless woman drifted down slowly, and for a moment it looked like she could make a mad lunge and grab the bars that were just out of reach - just overhead, but soon she was ten feet below the ladder, then twenty. Ten seconds later she was 100 yards down and picking up speed. Mark watched her fall towards the clouds below, twisting in the wind. She shrank to a dot, then disappeared, though faint echos of her screams continued to reverberate between the acoustically perfect walls.
after another hour Mark's arms were getting tired. He looked ahead and saw 8 people, with Mr. Nolegs so far out in front he was practically out of sight. Mark spotted him only because he knew right where to look - straight ahead along the right rail. Behind him, dozens of people were moving along at a steady pace. Mark craned his neck around to his left and saw Mary, Michele, and Mr. Business about a hundred yards back. To his right, more people coming up from behind, and a few that were sitting on top of the rails. He thought he saw Mrs. House straddling a rail, each hand grasping a rung for support. She stared straight ahead, almost as though she were watching Mark. She wasn't sure how to proceed, but she knew she couldn't win, and she certainly didn't want to fall. So she pulled herself up through the ladder and sat on the rail with a bar on either side. Perhaps ten others had done the same.
Mark decided he too would climb up on top, just to rest. He wasn't giving up, but he had to rest. With the last of his strength he pulled his head and shoulders up between the bars, moved his right hand to the rail, lifted his torso through, and leaned across the plus sign formed by the rail and the bar on either side. He pulled his legs through and laid them on the rail and the prior rung. The rail was six inches wide, 50% wider than a standard balance beam, and he could almost sit on it, but not quite. After all, he was no gymnast. He grasped the adjacent bars for support, as Mrs. House had done.
What a relief! His arms were shaking from the strain. Several people were pulling away, but they were fools. They would get so tired that they could not pull themselves up for a rest, then they'd drop off and fall into oblivion. Surely he had the winning strategy.
Just as Mark was mentally patting himself on the back he spotted a woman moving ahead and to the right. She was on top of the ladders and moving fast. "She's walking the rail!" Mark exclaimed aloud. He was surprised to hear his own voice. so far nobody said a word to anybody, except for the screams from Mrs. Fall. The words barely left his lips when he saw someone else, a bit closer to him, rising slowly to his feet atop the narrow rail. It was clear; that was the way to win. Mark placed one foot on the rail and then the other. Carefully, slowly, he stood up, his arms out for balance. He took one step and then another. Each stride was three feet in length, in sync with the rungs of the ladder. If his foot slipped, he wanted to land on a run, rather than thin air. He tried to pace himself - slow and steady. Step, step, step.
Everybody saw the walkers atop their ladders, and the idea spread quickly. Within ten minutes everyone was on the rails, taking a rest, walking carefully towards their dreams, or crawling back to the sanctuary of the chairs they left behind.
Mark walked on for a half hour, maybe more. It was hard to tell, since his watch wasn't functioning. He sat down for a rest and looked around. Six people walked ahead of him, and another 50 behind. Mark couldn't take his eyes off the man at the far left. There was something about him, something amiss. He was unsteady, teetering with every step. It was like a nightmare. You know something horrible is going to happen, and then it does, slowly, before your eyes. The man slipped, his left foot sliding off the edge of the rail. Arms shot out for balance, but to no avail. His right foot left the rail, and he fell directly onto the rung, one leg on either side. A loud yell escaped his lips as he reached for his groin with both hands. Leaning to one side, he began to pivot around the rung. Pain blinded his thoughts, and he didn't reach out to steady himself. His head crashed against the next rung as he tumbled through the square opening, his legs flipping up in the air. By the time he recognized the danger the bars were out of reach. He clamped his feet together, but the rung slipped through, and another player was falling, falling, falling.
It took 15 minutes for Mark to regain his composure. He was just about to resume walking when he saw someone coming towards him. It was Mr. Nolegs, coming back hand over hand. He could probably hoist himself up for a rest, but he certainly couldn't walk the rails. this was not his game.
"Heading back?" Mark asked when Mr. Nolegs was within ear-shot.
"Can't win." was the concise reply. "But I'll make it back to my wheelchair."
"What did you wish for?"
"A perfect body. Like yours."
"Sorry it didn't work out."
Mr. Nolegs was on his way back to the ledge, back to the life he knew. His disability had no silver lining after all. The game was unfair, just as life was unfair. If there was a God, he was perverse indeed, as he had been 6000 years ago when he killed Job's family and afflicted him with boils. The God of the Jews was consistent with reality, the kind of God who might permit a Hitler or Stalin from time to time; but the Christian God, both loving and omnipotent, was a child's fantasy, ensconced in millions of adult minds. Gradually, over the past several years, Mark had slowly, reluctanly, pushed this comforting myth aside, not by choice, but through the inescapable forces of reality and logic. Yes, life was terribly unfair to many, religion and philosophy notwithstanding. And the game was unfair too... so he may as well try to win! Everybody else was trying to win, why not him?
Hours passed; perhaps days. There was no need to sleep, eat, or drink - somehow those needs were met. But physical exhaustion was real. The players had to rest, and often. Mark tried to pace himself, walking for two hours, then resting for a half hour. He saw other people fall, though they always managed to catch themselves on rungs or rails. That was their cue to slow down and take it easy.
Hour after hour, step by step. Mark kept his eyes on the rail, glancing occasionally at the people around him. Some folks passed him by in a mad sprint, but as hours melted into days he saw them sitting or lying on the rails, exhausted and defeated. Some displayed bruises on their arms and faces, having fallen many times.
Finally Mark had a sense that the journey was almost over. He sat down on his rail and took a moment to look forward, then back. He had come 90% of the way, perhaps 95%. It was hard to judge distances based only on the convergence of the ladders. As far as he knew, he was in second place, with Michele just ahead, and three others, including Mr. Business, coming up behind. Michele was lying on her back on the rail, her eyes closed. Everyone had learned to do this. sitting on the rail was ok, but sometimes you just had to lie down, arms and legs spread out in all directions. And it was best to keep your eyes closed, since looking up at the vast expanse of blue would only remind you of the consequences of a fall. Best not to think about it.
Mark's only real competitor was lying on the rail with her eyes closed, and a hideous idea kept surfacing, like a monster from the depths of his primitive subconscious. He had a pocket knife that was very sharp. He could sneak over across the rails, cut her neck, and dart away. She would lose consciousness in 30 seconds or less, and die soon thereafter. She wouldn't die in real life; he was sure of that. It was only a game. It wouldn't really be murder, just part of the game. He pictured the blood spurting out of the severed artery, staining the ladder red and raining down through the light blue sky - Peter Gabriel's red rain. She would thrash about, but only for a few seconds, then it would be over. Mark would trot on to victory. He pulled his knife out of his pocket and stared at it, then put it back. He wasn't that kind of man, and he didn't want to become that kind of man. True, it was only a game, but when the game was over he would be changed forever. Blood would be on his hands, and like Lady Macbeth, it would never wash off.
Mark looked again towards his destination, and saw something he had missed before, a figure far ahead and to the right. He wasn't in second place after all, but a distant third. Had he killed Michele, he still would have lost the game. There was no point.
Mr. Business came up from behind, walking a steady pace. Mark was too tired to go on, so he sat on the rail and let Mr. Business pass him by. Michele heard Mr. Business coming up from behind and rose to her feet. She also spotted the man on the right, about 200 yards ahead, and she was determined to catch up. Mr. Business quickened his pace as well. "They're going to fall." thought Mark. "They'll get close to the end, and try to pass each other, and they'll fall, right through the bars and down and down. I'm glad I'm not playing any more. I should have climbed back into my chair on the ledge like Mr. snow; he had the right idea."
He watched until the three figures became mere dots on their respective ladders. It was hard to tell who was ahead, but the man on the far right seemed to hold his lead.
An hour went by, then two, then three, then somebody touched the far wall and the game was over. The music was back, along with the feel of the upholstery under his arm. The same song was playing, as though time had stood still. His eyes were still closed, and he kept them closed for at least 15 minutes. "It had to be a dream. Time is distorted in dreams. I only slept for a moment, but it seemed to go on for days. That's happened before; it's not unusual."
Mark felt someone sit down next to him on the couch. "Are you all right?" asked an unfamiliar voice.
Mark didn't want to talk to anyone, but he didn't want to appear rude. "I'm all right." he responded, his eyes still closed. "Just trying to figure out the meaning of life." He chuckled at his own sarcasm.
"Well my name is Nadia. What's yours?"
Mark opened his eyes and saw the woman he knew as Michele. "I know you." he stammered. "You were in the game. You were on the ladder."
"What?" she asked with a laugh.
"Oh never mind." He wasn't sure it was her; he only saw her from a distance. And it didn't really happen anyways. What was he thinking? "I was just remembering something, someone who looked like you, but I guess it was somebody else."
"Probably. I just moved here from Wisconsin. Just started classes last week. I don't think we've ever met."
"No I guess not. Anyways, my name is Mark, and I'm glad to meet you. What are you studying?"
"Say again - it's kinda loud in here."
"I'm a math major; what are you studying?"
"Chemistry." She looked around the room, then back at Mark. "You don't look like your dancing or mingling. Would you like to go somewhere else, somewhere a little quieter, so we can talk?"
"Sure."
They left the lounge and found a quiet table in the cafeteria. Mark looked at Nadia from across the table and he knew it was her. She was in the game, or at least some essence of her dreams and aspirations. He didn't kill her on the rail - no blood on his hands - and as a result she won the game. Her wish was the same as his, and somehow he knew both their wishes were about to come true.