Nathaniel

couldn't help but overhear. “My piece is a spectacular combination of the surrealist movements...I think that my depiction of a shitting dog somehow arouses the baser, sort of natural side of us. Think about it: what is man but an exaggerated animal? I mean, all animals take shits, right? Only we have special places to take them. All animals eat. Only we have changed food into an art form. All animals fuck. But we fuck behind doors, in the dark, and disdain to speak of it. We use oils and handcuffs. We are perverting nature. We’re secret perverts, Benson.”

The nasal brunette in the corner of the restaurant spoke with a slight southern accent. Her rather large blonde male friend answered after a short pause: “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with secrets. I believe that a woman has to have her secrets. It is important that when you express yourself through your art, you need to celebrate the important times of your life, and if society hates your voice, then you’ve got to break the rules. Assert yourself. You must remain confident, secure. I see your work, and I say ‘Michelle’.”

Nathaniel sat alone, listening to conversations in the restaurant. It had been a long time since he had dared go out. More than a year. Or was it two? He had spent that time wondering whether things would be different should he chance another outing. Wondering if perhaps there would be fewer voices. Whether the voices would not be so deeply affecting. Whether they would be more tolerable. Wondering if his deep, irrepressible reactions were, after all, controllable, with enough effort. Was he so weak? And after a year (or was it two?) Nathaniel could resist the self-questioning no longer and ventured out.

Sitting now in the restaurant surrounded as he was, he realized he had overestimated his abilities to repel the attacks that assailed him from the tables orbiting his, and, just like last year (or the year before) he clenched his jaw to fight back the growing buzzing in his head. He made his hands into fists and felt his rough fingernails tear into his palms. Nathaniel felt his body going numb, his feet tingled slightly, and he drove his fists against his thighs repeatedly, discreetly. He needed to leave, now. He needed to run from his table immediately and allow the attack to pass in the solitary quiet of his studio apartment.

“Rebecca, you do not know this, but the Christ myth is actually quite common. Every culture has its own version. Somehow, in our human unconscious, we have decided that we like the concept of a man born of a virgin girl. He goes away and comes back the savior of his race.”

“Damn it! I cannot stand to hear the word ‘girl’ used in everyday vernacular. Men have made that term commonplace because they need to suppress the age of women and place them in diminutive statures. Language is important, Charles. I mean it. Language must be precise. Hopefully my new novel will combat this insidious erosion…"

Nathaniel stood up abruptly, trying to shake the grip that the others held on him, and he knocked his salad plate to the floor. The neighboring intercourses were disturbed by Nathanial’s sudden action. They looked at him, startled, annoyed. He searched their faces and found only mild curiosity which quickly evolved to apathy. Their attention soon went back to their conversations. They only knew that he had disrupted their chain of thoughts and then they quickly forgot him.

A waitress approached quietly, mechanically, stooping to scoop the greens back on the mercifully unbroken salad plate. “Sir, is everything all right here?” Her voice again drew the attention of every table, even the dim ones in back. Two teenaged boys emerged from the kitchen and gawked. They wore white uniforms that were stained with grease and dirt. The people at each table looked first at him then at the wait staff. He had feared such a confrontation, knowing the inevitable result. He would be forced into a predicament where he would humiliate himself. This was the situation he had sought to avoid, for now was his turn to speak aloud.

“I am faring as well as I can,” he whispered and hazard a brief smile. “Um, do you want me to send for more salad?” He could hear his buzzing growing louder. He looked at the boys. Their gaze did not turn from his. One whispered something to the other and laughed quietly. Nathaniel pressed his right index finger into his ear to interrupt the ringing and felt his face grow hot with embarrassment.

“Please do not let my outburst interrupt your rituals. I do not will a change in your life.” The waitress waited for him to continue, then filled the silence: “Um, what?”

The brunette at the next table raised her finger in the air and wagged it gently. “Can we just have the check? I think we’re all set here.” The waitress nodded weakly, first at Nathaniel, and then to the lady patron. Nathaniel sat down again, momentarily relieved of the noises and disgrace. And then the conversations resumed piteously.

“Man no longer has an avenue for his natural aggression. You see, my dear, that is why we need sports. It is wrong of you to knock football. It is therapeutic, like religion.”

“Charles, aggression is naturally replaced by passivity as our environment becomes less hostile. Darwin’s theory is still in effect. We mayn’t fear for our lives any more, but there is natural selection. The physically strong are no longer guaranteed longevity. The rich are. Our environment is such that financial strength, not physical strength, provides security from the animals of the inner city jungle.”

“Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca. Your naivety refreshes me! I read, and dismissed that same article that you reductively paraphrased just now…allow me to explain to you what should be clear to all but the most casual of observers. What you, and the author of that superficial piece, fail to see is that we still prize physicality above financial worth. The most attractive males are still the ones who possess physical strength, not large bank accounts. You instinctually want to breed with one who will provide continuity to our race. You cannot help but be drawn to the most masculine. That is why fitness clubs are so popular. Why I myself, in a fit of vanity, recently joined one…”

Nathaniel closed his eyes and willed away the noise. He shook his head violently. If he were alone, he would have hit it on the table frantically. If he were alone, there would be no need.

Just then, a young woman came in. She looked around the crowded dining room and waved at a group in the back corner. As she passed by he could smell her perfume. He imagined the young woman applying it to her neck and behind her ears. He concentrated his attention on that image, willing away the scene around him. He remembered how his mother and aunt used to practice that custom. They wore perfume. Not expensive, just distinctive. Nathaniel recalled his mother’s old face. She could have been his grandmother. He had only a vague memory of her--just her smell.

“Oh my God. That woman absolutely bathed in Obsession. Did you smell that? I hate someone who wears too much fragrance! Anthony, are you listening?” “You said that you hate people who wear too much perfume. Robin, did you ever wonder about the purpose of perfume? I mean, what do you want to smell like that for? Perfume doesn’t smell like anything, really. I think I read someplace that it’s really just a badge for the rich. Only the rich can afford to smell like that, really, right? It's kinda weird. When you think about it.”

Nathaniel wondered whether he could survive. He had endured his affliction for many years and had learned to avoid situations that evoked it. His self-imposed hermit-hood seemed the easiest and surest solution. How could he have forgotten the pain of exposure? How could he have decided again to risk it? He was now paying the price for his carelessness.

“Scott, have you heard this one? Three sailors went to a hotel to get a room. The manager charged them thirty dollars, ten apiece, right? So, the bellhop took their bags to their room, but they forgot to tip him. When he got back to the front desk, the manager remembered that the room he had given the sailors was only twenty five dollars, right? He gave the bellhop five singles as change. So on the way back to the room, the bellhop decided to take out two dollars as tip for himself and only return three dollars to the guys, right? Each sailor got one dollar back. So basically each guy paid only nine dollars, right? Nine times three is twenty seven dollars, plus the two dollars the bellhop kept, all that makes is twenty nine. So where’s the last dollar? “Oh my God! That could totally happen. Where is it, Scotto?" “l think it has something to do with supply and demand?” “Ah…like economics,” said Scott’s friend, enlightened.

Nathaniel reached for a glass of water in an attempt to distract himself. He knew that he must act before he was completely consumed. Never had he been so close to losing himself. At that moment, he became dizzy and reached for the edges of the table for support.

“What I don’t get is why they put a law on my rights. If I want to buy a gun, so what?” “You just can’t buy a handgun, like a pistol! C’mon…” “That’s bullshit. Why not? Just because they say I can’t? Are they my parents?” “Look, Bill, handguns are used exclusively to kill other people. And maybe for intimidation. That's sick.” “Whatever.”

Nathaniel 's shaking hand spilled water down the front of his shirt. He looked about the room at his tormentors, none returned his gaze. They could, at any moment, hurt him. They could, with a few casual words, destroy the unsteady grasp he now maintained on himself. He was angry that they were unaware of the power they held over him. At once he wanted to tell them that he was at their mercy. “Do you know,” he longed to ask, “that you could, at your whim, destroy me, break me, drive me to utter submission? Do you not want to try?”

Nathaniel noticed that now a few of the others were watching him. He hung his head again and continued his discussion with himself within the confines of his mind. “What would it take? What would it take to satisfy my need to be like them? That would, of course, free me. I could be a member of their interactions, contribute in a carefree, transitory, meaningless way. But I cannot interact with them. I cannot find pleasure in their interests. What am I to do then? There is no possibility of winning. There seems to be only one solution.” Nathaniel had, of course, had this internal discussion with himself dozens of time. Yet in the restaurant a new thought occurred to him. “Perhaps, one day, I could find others like me.” But he knew that he would not choose to befriend them. How could he? An entire group of men like himself? How intolerable.

“...Republican? Did you say Republican? I just can’t believe that. I won’t…”

“Are you trying to say that you are religious? Jesus Christ, that’s just crazy”

“How can you stand there telling me that you enjoy such smut? That shit is just total trash…”

“Oh, I get it. So you can’t tolerate my intolerance? Well, little Miss Hypocrite, aren’t we a contradiction of terms. Very intriguing."

Nathaniel tried to stand up, but his will was not sufficient. Somehow he simply was not physically capable of leaving. The buzzing was growing so painful that he could not bear it. All of his mental energy was focused on not screaming. His face contorted into a grotesque mask that attracted the attention of the tables nearby. “Why did I try this?” he asked himself. “Why, when I knew better?” Nathaniel thought about his paralysis. It was, at least partially, self-imposed. He knew that putting himself through this was the very reason he had come, and now, through the anguish, he would receive his reward. And with that admission, Nathaniel sat back to receive his punishment. He lowered his forced defenses and allowed the voices to batter him.

“So anyway, Tiffany is like totally hot. She has legs that come up to her tits, and then the fun really begins." “Did you dog ‘er?” “All good things to those who wait. Won’t be long now."

“What did you do on Saturday?” “Oh my God how could I not have totally told you this? So I was at that concert, right? And I was up front by the stage, and these guys start to shove me. So I turn around and go ‘knock it off’ right? Well that dickhead pushes me so I throw an elbow in his face. The guy goes down, right, holding his nose and his girl looks at me and starts flirting. It was totally cool.” “God! I wish I would’ve been there.”

“Rebecca, my dear, dear woman. Here you are, sitting in one of the poshest restaurants in the city, and you pretend to sympathize with a breed of animal who dares call itself human? The differences, physiologically speaking, are scientifically provable, and the evidence of their rudimentary intellect is obvious, though taboo to mention. And now you want to reward these creatures with money for their shortcomings? Tuck that humanitarian instinct away and buy yourself a puppy, for that animal is not only more deserving, but better mannered.”

“That’s just what I’m talking about. In other countries, it is a pleasure to serve customers. Over there, it means something to say ‘thank you’ when they pick up your dirty plates, you know? In America, ‘the home of the fucking free’ we can’t even get a decent cup of coffee. I hate it! Here it's like pulling teeth to get anything done.” “No shit. I’ll be damned if I'm going to tip that asshole.”

* * *

The restaurant was empty and the wait staff had begun to sweep the floors. He had finished his meal and, after a long while, he stood, dropped a large bill from his wallet onto the table, and nodded cordially to a waitress as he left. On the way to his apartment, he passed hordes of people. They all contained a lifetime of rich experiences; Nathaniel could never speak to any of them. With each passing person, Nathaniel became more and more resolved never to leave his seclusion. He felt the sadness growing inside him and resented, more than ever, his inabilities. He knew that time would batter down his resistance, and eventually he would repeat that scene: a predictable lifecycle that occurred as his memory grew inevitably fainter. And Nathaniel realized, as he had 12 months before (or was it 24?), that only the faces would change.