Authors: Weston Kathman
Nonentity
NONENTITY
WESTON J. KATHMAN
COPYRIGHT © •2014, •BY CONTRARIAN ENTERPRISES
FRONT/BACK COVER ART BY LOGAN FORSYTHE
PREFACE
This story occurs out of place and out of time. Whatever its parallels to actual locations and time periods, Nonentity unfolds irrespective of any map and off the calendar. Its setting is deliberately vague.
Welcome to the next dimension….
TABLE OF CONTENTS
2.
THE FALLEN BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
6.
CATASTROPHE AVOIDANCE THROUGH
8.
LAST DANCE WITH CONDEMNATION
2.
PERCEPTIONS IN RADICAL OVERDRIVE
To my nephew,
Jackson Reeves,
May you someday live in a world
That has sufficient regard
For the individual.
THE WOMAN WHO CHOSE
HER OWN REALITY
It had been years since Lorna was evaporated.
The Permanent Regime branded her a traitor, a terrorist, or something else subhuman. I loved her regardless of their hate. The Regime thereby exchanged one enemy for another, fueling my journey to the great beyond.
Sometimes the mind sharpens. The ground spins faster. There is a floating sensation, hyper-realistic and hallucinatory. A solitary object illuminates. Only upon first sight of Lorna did I savor such phenomena.
She and I met under peculiar circumstances. It was a party for an honoree whose identity was unknown to the guests. The invitation had not explained why I was an invitee. Stranger than the event itself, the mystery honoree never showed.
The celebration took place in a grand ballroom that held maybe a thousand people. It was jam-packed. A discordant aroma of perfume and booze pervaded the atmosphere. Abstract art covered the walls, daring me to puzzle over what it was all about. At the room’s rear was an enormous dais, unattended throughout the affair. I was indifferent to the surroundings. Then I spotted Lorna.
She stood near a butterfly-shaped fountain. Her movements were ripples in a placid sea. Dark hair stretched to the small of her back. Pronounced cheekbones accentuated a face that glowed. Emerald eyes pierced me from afar.
“What is your name?” she said to me, the space between us miraculously erased.
“Sebastian R. Flemming the Third.”
“Wow. That’s quite distinguished.”
“I’ve never cared for it,” I said. “I’d rather not have a number after my name.”
“You’d prefer something more individualistic. Is that it?”
Her firm gaze unsettled me. “Well, uh, you know, I wouldn’t, uh – I’m not sure about that.” I took a deep breath. “Something more individualistic would be better, yes. Who knows what I might have done with an original name? I might be a movie star.”
“Well, ‘the Third’ makes it original. And you are a movie star.”
I chuckled. “That’s news to me. Which films have I been in?”
“This one – right now, right here. You are the leading man in the movie that is your life. Now you’re playing a role in my movie. See? Count all the people you know, including yourself. Each represents a different film you get to be in.”
“Is that so? Who’s holding the camera during all that?”
“Nature.”
“Naturally.”
“Right. Consider this, Sebastian: regardless of how original or unoriginal your name might be, this movie of yours is distinct. Just look at this scene we’re in right now. You and I have never talked before, nor were we even aware of each other’s movies until tonight. Sounds pretty original. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I delighted in the whimsical poetry of her words. “Maybe it’s just you who’s original. I nominate you for Best Actress.”
She giggled melodically. “An actress is only as good as her script.”
“Well the script must be very impressive.”
“That’s flattering. It’s a work in progress.”
There was an extended pause. I turned away. Glancing back, I caught Lorna more squarely: flowing hair, lips exquisitely scarlet, delicate skin, button nose. Above all else were eyes the deepest fields of green. I would continue to see those eyes after she had died. I would continue to see them after I had died.
Her aura, magnified by our silence, rattled me. I laughed uncontrollably.
“What?” she said with a perplexed grin. “What is so funny?”
She was soon laughing as well. Our merging amusement sparked excitement within me: the two of us had somehow landed on the same page. I stopped laughing.
“If only things were always this nice,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“This is just a really pleasant moment. They don’t happen too often, you know.”
Her smile turned solemn. “I thought they happened all the time.”
“Maybe for you.”
She stared past me for several seconds.
I backtracked. “Uh, forget what I said. I sometimes speak without thinking. Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize. Your movie is not the same as mine. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Oh good. Thanks.”
She rolled her eyes sweetly. “No need to thank me either. Are you always such a gentleman?”
“Well, uh, I don’t know. Most of the time, I hope.”
“I’m sure you are. Have I made you uncomfortable? I didn’t want to do that. I never want to disrupt someone’s peace. Peace is the most precious thing we can have.”
“But can we actually have it?” I asked, no longer fearing my own candor. “I mean, you and I might have it right now with each other, but what about everyone else? There doesn’t appear to be enough peace in the larger world.”
She was quiet. Her face lit up. She said, “Appearances are deceiving. So is the larger world. Men can fight all their wars and pseudo-wars; they can plunder their fellows at will; yet they have no power over independent minds. Each one of us is capable of choosing his or her own reality.”
Those were our final words of note that evening. Alone again, as was my custom, I wondered if the exchange had really transpired. The meeting had been a blur. Still, in the years that followed, the significance of that first conversation with Lorna became evident.
By that brief encounter’s end, I had defected from the Permanent Regime.
****
My office at the Ministry of Miscommunication and Misdirection (“Triple-M” casually) was underwhelming. The “F” in my last name had fallen off my door, so that the nameplate read: Sebastian R. lemming III. There was barely enough space for a rickety desk, chair, and potted plant (fittingly dead). The walls were gray. There were no windows.
Thankfully, most of my superiors ignored me; I would rather be a victim of neglect than ridicule. My immediate higher-up was the exception. His name was Jenkins. His face was as rumpled as his outdated suits. He had the personality of pine tar. He was an ideal establishment man: loyal, eager to execute even the most imbecilic orders, and devoid of critical thought. Whoever invented the concept of “bureaucrat” must have had Jenkins in mind.
“Flemming!” he said one morning. “Did you get the film discs I left in your mail box?”
I lifted the discs off my desk, waving them nonchalantly. “They’re right here.” I took a sip of coffee.
“You and that damned coffee, Flemming. How many cups is that today?”
“It’s my third,” I lied. It was actually my seventh.
Sometimes I wondered if the coffee drank me. Caffeine was not on the Official List of Malevolent Substances. The Permanent Regime considered it a necessary evil, which was good, because I swam in the stuff. I preferred my coffee strong and black as a moonless sky. It had started innocently. I’d have a cup or two, here and there, nothing to suggest an eventual addiction. My consumption escalated as I began losing interest in my mind-numbing job. By the time I lied to my boss about my “third” cup, I was downing massive amounts, throughout the day. My nighttime sleep was sporadic. But what did I need sleep for?
Jenkins said, “Better watch it with your little habit. You need to be sharp. Election season is coming. There’s a lot of candidate material on those discs I gave you. Clean up any problems you find. There’s a new twist this year: we’ll be working side by side with the Dog-and-Pony Department on all election footage. They’ll be double-checking our work and we’ll be doing the same for them. Screw anything up and it’s your ass!”
Ah hell, I thought. I had no desire to deal with the buffoons at the Dog-and-Pony Department (“D&P” casually). I had almost interviewed for a position with them once, before saner judgment prevailed. That I would have to work with them after all disheartened me. I stared lamely at the ceiling, mind adrift, hardly cognizant of Jenkins’s ongoing blather.
“Flemming! Are you listening to me?”
“Oh yes. Sorry sir. You want me to do a good job so D&P doesn’t catch us making a bunch of mistakes.”
“That’s right. And for crying out loud, don’t call them D&P. They hate that. Show some respect. Is that too much to ask?”
“No sir. I’ll try not to do it again.”
“Alright. I can’t waste any more time correcting your manners, Flemming. Remember: election season is coming. Best get on it.” He demonstrated rare kindness by leaving.
His obsession with election season was unreasonable. The campaigns would not kick off for four months. He would nevertheless milk it as an excuse to hassle me. Jenkins relished the role of nemesis.
The law required that everyone older than six vote. “Voting is your sacred duty. Voting is your sacred duty.…” a dronish female voice instructed ad nauseam in propaganda tapes aimed at children. An election was a religious sacrament. To believe otherwise was heresy. Only when I ceased voting did I qualify as a full-fledged opponent of the Regime.
The national government consisted of a holy trinity: legislature, judiciary, and executive. The Central Assembly was a body of the people’s representatives. They enacted the Regime’s laws. The Almighty Council of Jurists was the country’s highest court, manufacturing confounding legalese to justify the runaway State. Those branches were ciphers. All substantive power resided in the Grand Premier. He was the focal point of the whole wretched system.
Even the Grand Premier lacked serious authority. His function was to distract everyone else. The Regime paraded him around to foster a cult of personality that bamboozled a sheepish public. Placing all emphasis on one figure concealed the truth: that a cabal of international financiers, military industrialists, and well-connected jackals controlled everything.
A race for Premier was a soap opera – with plastic storylines, every syllable scripted, and wooden actors playing the key parts. My task as a communications editor was to minimize the farcical aspects of the soap opera. I reviewed film footage and suggested modifications. I fantasized about recommending things that would lower the material’s quality.
After fetching another cup of coffee from the break room, I returned to my office and turned on one of Jenkins’s film discs. The candidates for Premier soon proved as lousy as any lineup in memory. They hardly deserved to win even a fake election.
Among the four contestants was Cynthiana Davinsky. Her serpentine smile forewarned base motives. She wore brown hair in an old-fashioned bun to evoke classic virtues that she lacked. Her trademark monotone made me envy the deaf.
I identified Davinsky’s campaign slogan early in her footage: “The children are our future.” What future? The young were pawns in a game not of their choosing. Regime officials constantly trumpeted their devotion to “the children.” “The boys and girls of our great nation” was a favorite expression. The children were indeed valuable. They provided a useful pretext for all manner of State tyranny.
One factor that set her apart was a decorated military record she and her minions touted incessantly. “As a combat veteran,” she began so many sentences – as if such status indicated exceptional patriotism and foreign policy expertise. I didn’t buy it. Her “heroic” exploits “in service to our great nation” were inflated to add gravitas to a vanilla campaign. Moreover, her army background offered stronger grounds for the establishment’s endless butcheries overseas. Advantage: Davinsky.
Another prominent candidate was Gabriel Manchester. He was tall and good-looking. His dignified voice settled pleasantly upon the ears (in contrast to Davinsky’s). Manchester’s credentials were considerable. He had worked in numerous State positions, winning accolades for his competence and grace.
The material I had on him contained a powerful address about the Regime’s fabled history. Manchester’s delivery turned stale mythology into gold. He referred movingly to “a shining city on a hill” in which we were all “noble inhabitants.” He lauded “freedom” and “peace,” saying with conviction, “Our glorious past announces to the world that we will bear any burden and overcome any hardship in our continuing quest to advance the cause of human liberty everywhere on God’s green Earth.” It was bullshit, yet he infused it with romanticism.
This man seemed more than a soulless puppet mouthing empty platitudes. Something made him distinct, though I could not reduce it to words. In time I would discover that Gabriel Manchester was anything but the typical Grand Premier aspirant. The Regime discovered it before I did.
The other two candidates bored me unmercifully. Disinterested in their footage, I rummaged through a drawer in my desk. There must have been two hundred yellow pills scattered all over that drawer. The Regime called those pills “mental peace facilitators”; the oppositionist underground deemed them “thought stoppers.” The medication subdued the overactive mind, countering any tendency to question the words and deeds of the State. I could not recall when I had last ingested one. Abstaining from those meds was illegal. I should have disposed of them with caution. But they reminded me of Lorna.
I opened another drawer and pulled out a photo of Lorna. Almost two years had passed since her evaporation. It was ill-advised to keep that picture considering her fate. I disregarded the danger.
I would stop at nothing to ensure that she had not died in vain.
