Читать книгу The Onus of Man - Damian Bouch - Страница 4

On the road, about halfway to Uncle Tim’s farm, Peter knew of a place that contained what is essentially a buried treasure. He had seen it on his way to the university each and every time he went back to school from a break, a weekend at home, or any other reason he had ever been headed in that direction.

Route 22 contained a rest stop not too far from where the family had turned off countless times on their way to Uncle Tim’s farm. Two toilets, a handful of rickety old picnic tables under a pavilion, and a rather spacious parking lot were nestled into the hillside just off the road, and this marked the rest stop. Peter had stopped there a few times in his ventures over the years; it was far enough away from civilization that kids from nearby boroughs thought it too long of a drive to go for some privacy, but convenient enough that he need not put his poor, old car through the ringer getting out to it. He did not visit the site as much as he would like to say he did, but it was good for an occasional mid-day getaway, or for reading and pondering.

The rich store of a prize rested just over the crest of the hill beyond the rest stop. Its concealment was best described as “Hidden in Plain View,” and truly it was only by happenstance that Peter had managed to connect the dots and discover the wealth withheld from the rest of the world. Peter alone was aware of the Treasure on the Hill.

Peter, carefully using his free hand, rummaged through the lockbox he kept between the seats, steering carefully with the other. He withdrew a statement that was issued to him by the bank that had lent him all of his student loan funds. This, he reassured himself, was why he had decided to unearth the Treasure on the Hill. The digits on the bank statement swung as axes taken to his knees; the regular withdrawals perpetuated the illusion that progress was being made, and the sum total remained as high as ever, preventing him from making much of any meaningful gains since his graduation from the university last summer. Despite his working doggedly throughout his enrollment to keep the accumulating interest under control, the principal payments were now insurmountable. He owed the bank, and the bank owned him: his credit was low, his value was negative, and he was a serf.

Debt was his obligation. Debt was his ball-and-chain. The statements he received reminded him constantly of the sextuple-digit bet he had made on acquiring an education, and the misinformation campaign he had been fed as he grew up. His every movement in any meaningful direction was restricted by payment interference: it consumed the credit to acquire capital, it negated his ability to live on his own, and neutered his ability to start a life of his own.

Peter had gone to university with the intention, and under the impression that he would, upon graduation, begin a stable, lucrative career in helping producers and manufacturers meet their demographics more efficiently to better sell their products; “Marketing and Public Relations,” as the university’s school of business had titled the program. The rationale was seemingly faultless leading up to, and during the enrollment process: as long as things were produced, things would need to be sold. Peter was to be the bridge between the factory floor and the consumer; his responsibility was to make sure that browsers became buyers, and that whenever possible, their minds would be made up before they even took a step inside the store.

Everything that is purchased is produced, and this was a very reassuring concept of which he regularly reminded himself during his enrollment. Careers in marketing are virtually limitless, because no producer or manufacturer will ever look at their sales figures and think to themselves, “Say, this is a bit too much money to be making; time to scale back production.”

No, the manufacturers always will want to sell more. Similarly, mankind holds within their souls an insatiable want. Whether the goods are grocery items, processed foods, pharmaceuticals, toys, automobiles, digital technology components or otherwise, the public generally wants more of them. This is why marketing was, supposedly, such a surefire hit of a career: the public generally is not aware that they want something, and given such a circumstance, must be exposed to what they can buy, and know that something exists to be purchased before it can be purchased. The public, once sufficiently exposed to the virtues and values of a particular product, can hardly resist picking one up at the store; once they understand, of course, how much the product will improve their lives.

Peter, for years, salivated at the concept that an unlimited demand means limitless wealth.

He reflected for a moment, trying to recall the moment that the seed for desiring such a career had first been sown. Thinking back to his enrollment, as he filled out the forms and took the placement tests, what had been his inspiration? His home was stable, if humble. Both of his parents were modestly educated, his mother having sacrificed any prospect of a career to raise her two children, and his father having climbed the ranks of a drilling company through on-the-job training; obviously he had not acquired a taste for higher education through their example. Though they encouraged him every step of the way to complete some degree of post-secondary education, they were hardly his main inspiration. After all, they had encouraged him to take hockey lessons as well, and for years he refused, and their efforts bore no fruit.

Eyeing the statement periodically, and driving with the summer evening sunshine at his back, he again racked his memory banks. What had driven him to undertake such a reckless gamble, which resulted in such an egregious error? He thought back to high school, at the pivotal year his grades took a long-overdue turn upwards: his sophomore year. Long days of television, biking and gaming had become long nights of studying chemistry, biology and math. That year he first abandoned applying the condemning notion of “busywork” to all of his assignments, and had begun completing all of his assignments with a newfound fervor, even enthusiasm.

A memory of an exquisite, luxurious lust came floating to the surface of his mind. Peter was offered a taste of a lifestyle from another dimension; a spoonful of wealth, stability, and prosperity was given him by a man he barely ever knew. From that moment on, he knew the ends he wanted to achieve; the only riddle was to acquire the means. This was my inspiration, Peter mused, and began reminiscing about the day that had had a profound impact on his busy teenaged conscious.

The summer preceding his sophomore year of high school, the family had attended an event that was very unusual for them. In the midst of summer picnics and birthday parties was a stuffy, dressy, pretentious social event, held at the home of his father’s boss.

Peter’s father spent weeks at a time away for work, working on oil rigs for an international energy corporation. The extraction of resources from beneath the surface of the Earth was a very mechanically and manpower-intensive line of work, and demanded a great deal of time and effort from its employees. Fortunately, the money he earned in the process gave his family a stable lifestyle. Mom could stay home and devote her full attention to raising the kids, buy name-brand groceries and clothing, they were able to afford a new car every few years, and even a vacation just as often.

Unable to recall the specific details and cause of the event, the drilling company had landed some sort of big contract, and in commemoration of the event, an older fellow, many rungs up the corporate ladder, had decided to throw a big party for all of his team and their families. Peter was a bit apathetic about attending, as most kids at the age of sixteen are when they are about to meet older, influential people.

The family’s preparations for the event were over-the-top and extravagant, as well as, in Peter’s opinion, unnecessarily formal for something that was supposed to be fun and enjoyable. Peter and Trini, then a ten-year-old squirt, were dressed up very similarly to how they had been when attending weddings, which were the opposite of fun. He was forced to wear a necktie of obnoxiously boring patterns of beige and tan. Fancy dress pants, white collared shirt, and jacket were exhibiting their full, sweaty, stuffy glory. Trini was coerced into trying on about 100 different preteen dresses a few weeks prior to the event, and fought Mom in between every trip to the dressing room. Looking absolutely miserable in the dress Mom had decided she would wear, Trini was also wearing a few frivolous ornaments in her hair, also at the behest of her mother. The little squirt sulked around the house all morning before they left, with her little hands balled into fists and her arms either folded or straight at her sides.

Mom and Dad had each made new purchases for the event at hand: Mom in a bit of formal wear, and Dad ecstatic to try out a new suit from a menswear store. In addition to the great fuss made over formal attire, the siblings were subject to what Trini, in hindsight, cleverly referred to as, “Introduction Camp.” In the weeks leading up to the event, Mom and Dad periodically quizzed them on “Appropriate Squeeze Pressure” for a handshake, how long to maintain eye contact when introduced, not to lean forward, to smile, and to be prepared to answer questions about school and, for Peter, college. Well understood was the idea that they were to make their parents proud at this party, and look dashing in the process.

Whereas most trips of this sort entailed a long ride in the family minivan, Dad had made an executive decision to rent a luxury sedan for the occasion so as to arrive in style. Dad always had a flair for the extravagant, but this time it meant leather seats in an air-conditioned cab, instead of a hot, stuffy voyage in the minivan, so neither Peter nor Trini voiced a word of dissent.

After a two hour drive, they pulled into the host’s driveway. Peter was immediately intimidated, as the area of the parking lot alone was easily twice the area of the home and property on which he had grown up. A few hundred feet in, Dad pulled the rented vehicle through an open, wrought-iron gate with lamps atop each post of brick and mortar. Overhead, suspended by more wrought-iron architecture, was an insignia in Victorian cursive: “Pavlovitch.”

They parked alongside the driveway, amidst a fleet of similar vehicles: clean and shiny, fleets of luxurious sedans and SUVs were parked down the rest of the driveway. The four of them emerged from the car into the hot summer sun and dense humidity, the pleasant AC effect quickly wore off while beads of sweat formed upon their lips and foreheads, and they began walking towards the estate.

From behind a curtain of trees and foliage emerged a home that could easily be mistaken for a resort. The house itself was a matching brick-and-mortar arrangement as was seen at the gates, and contained three floors; the roof of the building contained the third floor, and was quite steep with several windows emerging around the perimeter, giving it a unique, if subtle, gothic shape and style. The second and first floors collapsed into a greater rectangular area. Ground level extended outward. Patios of fine hardwoods emerged from and wrapped around all sides of the home, and descended from the foundation and led tenants and guests to the currently vacant swimming pool and hot tubs. A significant portion of acreage was a lush, grassy carpet.

The parking lot extended up alongside the house, and a four-stall garage was its opposite. Peter presumed the doors were shut so as to best conceal the motorcycles, boats, performance vehicles and classic cars undoubtedly hidden within. Extending about fifty feet back into the woods, the garage clearly held more than enough space to keep a few cars warm during the winter, most likely keeping an on-site maintenance bay, among other indulgences.

On the opposite side of the house from the voluminous garage were several acres of gardens which ran right up to the border of the woods. A stone pathway led from the side patio out into a garden which held flowers of every color and shape. The flower garden was the border of the vegetable garden, and extended several hundred feet into the property; the vegetable garden, Peter observed, was full of productive plants. Several acres of vegetables were visible from the driveway before it became indistinguishable from the property beyond, and a few men and women were seen tending the produce. Peter guessed that his father’s boss rarely ate vegetables from the grocery store when the garden was in season, and neither must he harvest them himself.

A few acres of recreational area extended up alongside the driveway towards the gate from which Peter and his family were walking. Dotted with high-hanging elms along the borders, the deep green yard could easily host three full football games simultaneously. The lawn was mown in perfectly straight patterns along its whole length, and grass clippings were nowhere to be seen. A gazebo with a picnic table and benches bordering the inner perimeter, perfect for fair-weather luncheons, sat a few yards from the patio.

Black, smooth asphalt covered the entire driveway, and its border was tended and mulched every step of the way. The driveway swelled into a giant teardrop shape, which would provide more than enough room to host a small car show, or a graduation ceremony. Beyond the teardrop’s edge was what seemed to be an orchard. The trees were clearly in season as bulbs of various sizes and colors, hanging down from the branches, were visible from the driveway.

Peter could tell from their faces as they approached the patio closest to them, that Mom and Dad were intimidated. Even after all the fuss about what to wear, how to shake hands, silky smooth hair and fancy rental cars, they were visibly taken aback. Dozens of coworkers and employees, from executives to secretaries to roughnecks, were commiserating and moving about the estate. Most were talking in some informal groups, and a handful of couples were giving themselves a tour of the property.

They made their way up the stairs and through the crowd gathered on the patio and into the house. Inside the home, a distinctly effeminate and motherly touch emanated from the decorum. High ceilings, bay windows, lavish drapery, tables and bars all gave the impression that some collaborative effort was undertaken so as to thoroughly impress and welcome the guests.

Mom and Dad began to exchange pleasantries with some well-dressed men and women gathered about a bar. Peter and Trini were introduced several times and obeyed their prescribed routine for meeting new people, the latter mechanically reciting canned responses through an obviously forced smile. Peter casually pretended to take an interest in some pretentious-looking art hanging from a wall nearby, and slid over to pretend to look at it and Trini followed suit, pretending to be interested.

“We’ve been here for ten minutes and these stupid fake butterflies are already sliding out of my hair,” Trini said to her brother, loud enough to inform a middle-aged couple actually admiring the abstract art.

“Just keep them in for now, Trini-Beanie,” Peter replied. “Mom will lose control if she saw anything less than four shiny insects-clips in your hair before we leave.”

One of Peter’s informal duties as an older sibling was to provide entertainment and distraction for his younger counterpart. This was never an easy task, but since she left the second grade she became less curious and more miserable, so his role shifted from entertainer to that of an arbitrator.

Trini approached a table full of hors d’oevres. She eyed the items on each plate with an adolescent scrutiny. The table itself had a wide, round base and a smaller shelf protruding from the top. Both levels were covered with a scarlet tablecloth, with what appeared to be gold and silver embroidery around the edges and throughout the fabric. After a lap around the table, Trini returned to her brother’s side. Her face wore a common expression of preteen contempt.

“It’s like a thousand degrees out, and this guy is serving the weirdest crap. No burgers, no dogs, no fruit salad. No summer food.” Trini was apparently exasperated at the host’s inability to cater to her simple tastes. “Nobody wants to eat this crap. Everything on that table is a thing wrapped in another thing, and most of it has some kind of weirdo, slimy, sauce on it. There’s not even anywhere to sit down and eat this stuff, even if I wanted to.”

She went over and plucked a small, round, reddish brown article off the table with her fingers, completely disregarding the sterling silver tongs resting on a place beside the tray. She popped it in her mouth. Looking back over at Peter, she rolled her eyes, licked her fingers, and after a moment of perturbed chewing, swallowed.

“That was a freaking shrimp… wrapped in freaking bacon,” Trini shared, promptly extracting another from the plate. “Who comes up with crap like this?”

Peter did not mind the sound of such a concoction, but let the issue slide and instead commanded, “Let’s make ourselves scarce, Trini-Beanie.”

Trini nodded her assent, and tagged along behind him through the crowds occupying the high ceilings and open floors of the Pavlovitch estate. Peter carefully, and his sister indifferently, weaved their way through the other guests while they scoped out other portions of the home. The first level contained the kitchen and dining room, which they had just left. Two rooms with armchairs, sofas and fireplaces, each with its own color and furniture scheme were alongside the kitchen and dining room. Peter speculated that the furniture in these two rooms alone would allow half his class to sprawl out with space to spare.

A TV room was also on the first floor, and featured a step-down into a seating area that could be mistaken for a theater. Upon a fixture in the corner hung a massive TV. The floor was covered in carpet that felt like it soaked up his feet even through his dress shoes, and was easily a quarter inch in foamy thickness. The windows in the room had curled up black blinders hanging over top of them, in addition to the elegant curtains that were drawn off to the side; ideal for full immersion while watching a movie. Peter again speculated, and guessed that the blinders were raised and lowered via remote control. He began to feel slightly jealous…

Trini meandered off and led her brother downstairs. She hit the lights on her way down the stairwell, and Peter noticed that the banister was several inches thick, and made of a dark hardwood. The cushy carpet was replaced by a thinner carpet on the stairs.

The two of them emerged into what appeared to be a basement rec-room. The entire floor was covered in a padding made to soften the impacts of falling and jumping. The whole floorspace was maybe half of what the high school gym was, but was not quite high enough to hold basketball hoops. Several heavybags, of varying lengths and thicknesses, hung from a steel I-beam that ran the length of the room, and a full set of free weights were resting along the furthest wall. A rack of plates was in between a bench and lat-pulldown set, and a mirror was mounted upon the wall. Dumbbells were resting on a rack underneath the mirror. The basement doors opened out onto a porch, but none of the guests were occupying it at that time, which allowed the siblings to explore the basement as they pleased.

“I can’t take these things anymore,” Trini complained to her brother, fiddling with her butterfly hairclips. “I’m sweaty and hot and gross and I can’t stand these stupid things! They’re coming out!” No sooner had she issued her declaration of intent did she dispose of them into one of the wastebins. Her hair fell down to its natural shoulder length, now with a few irregular waves. Nonetheless, her disposition lifted significantly with the disposal of the clips.

Peter strolled about the downstairs rec-room and discovered quite a few articles which piqued his interest: a shelf full of martial-arts combat equipment, weighted vests, medicine balls, resistance bands, balance balls and a pull-up bar. He always held certain esteem for fitness guru types, but never felt nearly enough inclination to act on a desire of his own for bodybuilding or sports training. Having never tried out for a sports team, he decided it would never really be worth all that effort of jumping and running and throwing around great lugs of weight. Neither was he very interested in looking buff for any of the ladies in his class, but this was, of course, almost a whole year before he had met Skylar…

“Whoa!! Come check this stuff out, Trini-Beanie!!”

Trini hustled over to her brother with enthusiasm. To even elicit a bit of excitement in her these days was borderline miraculous, but with the awe of being in a mansion still in her conscious, she was apparently buttered up for a good surprise.

Peter stood just inside the doorway of the treasure trove, and Trini stood just next to him. They ventured together into a room full of old pinball machines and arcade cabinets. Peter’s inner nerd applied so much pressure to his manners that he capitulated and started playing an ancient pinball cabinet almost immediately – no coin required! A few feet away, Trini settled herself into an arcade racing machine, complete with pedals, transmission, and an additional screen as a rear view mirror.

“Hey Pete,” Trini inquired, “Do you think we’ll get in trouble playing these old games?” Her concern for staying out of Mom’s wrath was evident in her voice. However, Peter reassured his little sister that all that fancy food and drink upstairs could keep a battalion of middle-aged, career-driven worry-warts entertained for years; there was literally no reason for any one of them to go downstairs for a workout, or a round of pinball.

Peter played around on a few different cabinets, excited to be trying all of these relics in the flesh. Being born in the late 80s, he missed the arcade generation by just a few years. He would read columnists in gaming magazines and hear stories from his older cousin, Brody, about the intense arcade rivalries and arcade culture that bloomed in the 80s, blossomed in the early 90s and then died, leaving no legacy. Trini played a few different cabinets, but had trouble reaching the buttons and sticks, as she was yet a little squirt. Nonetheless, she was enjoying herself. Playing on these machines was stepping into a wormhole and visiting the past.

From the basement gym, a muffled clink of glass was audible over the blips of their secret recreation. They both heard it and froze, a horrifying realization dawned upon them immediately – they had been found! Now, a most certain course of action would involve a casual rumor circulating that a few young kids had been found playing in the game room; a lanky kid of about sixteen in a suit and a little squirt without her butterfly clips in. The witness to their crime, according to the informal parents’ constitution of not chastising other peoples’ kids, would most likely not burst into the room and administer justice for not having asked permission to visit the downstairs game room. Trini locked eyes with her brother, and they both understood that it was only a matter of time until Mom’s hellish fury was unleashed upon them for their recklessness.

“What’s going on in here?” An older man lightly asked, poking his head through the doorway. He sounded pleasant, and not necessarily surprised. “Find anything cool?”

Peter eyed up the man before answering. He was an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair, physically built, and held himself confidently. A sports jacket and a green shirt with matching tie constituted his colorful garb; he probably did not quite fit in with the fashion scene upstairs. A bottle of liquor and several glasses were in his hands. Wearing a playful smile, he emanated good humor rather than intimidation, so Peter replied casually, “Just playing some of these old games. Pretty sweet, actually.”

The older man set his bottle and glasses on a bench in the gym, just outside the door. “I was just getting some old liquor out of my cabinet down here, and was surprised to see that someone had the common sense to come down here and enjoy themselves. Yeah, I put a lot of time in on some of these. A lot of money, too; some of these machines are twenty years or older, and cost me a pretty penny. They’re worth it, though. I guess you could call me a collector.”

He strode inside and extended a hand. “You can also call me Pavlovitch. Theodore Pavlovitch. Mr. P if you prefer.”

Peter shook his hand in disbelief, trying his best to realize that they were not – for the time being – in heaps of trouble. His heart sunk back down out of his throat, and into his chest. “This is your house?”

Mr. P gave a hearty laugh, and a wide smile. “Yup! Every inch of it. My boring party, too.” He inched closer to Peter’s screen. Trini remained motionless. “You know you’re getting your ass kicked by aliens while you stand there gawking, right?”

Peter followed his implicit command, and returned his attention to the game screen, trying to wrap his head around exactly what was going on. “Oh, and I’m Peter. This is Trini.”

Mr. P turned his attention to Trini, who politely extended her own hand for introduction, with slightly less robotic mannerisms than she exercised with the upstairs company. He sincerely shook hers, smiling, but did little to relieve the apprehension on her face.

“Hey, come over here and try this one out! All three of us can play together.” Mr. P beckoned them over to cabinet with three sets of buttons and sticks; another team-based, multiplayer, alien-slaughtering explosion-fest. The trio booted up the game and began issuing extraterrestrial death sentences.

“I used to play these things all the time with my nieces and nephews, when they would come to visit. They’re a bit older now, but we still play sometimes for old times’ sake. Y’know, during reunions and stuff.” Peter had not even wondered why a man in his fifties had a room full of arcade cabinets. “How old are you guys?”

Peter replied truthfully, and Trini followed suit. He elaborated on the party upstairs, and how they got a little bored and curious, and then how they wound up downstairs. The conversation drifted to how Peter and Trini occasionally played games together at home, what they were doing with their time in school, and other small talk. To Peter’s relief, he never inquired about what he was planning to do after high school, because Peter never had a good answer to give.

After a few levels of gaming, Mr. P sighed, and walked back to the door. “Well, folks, I gotta run. There’s a few brown-nosers up there, waiting to suck down all my booze. Have fun!”

As he bent over to pick up the bottle and glass, Trini spoke up, “Hey Mr. P? Don’t tell our parents. Please - I mean, don’t tell our parents we came down here. We’ll be up in a few minutes.”

Mr. P replied with nonchalance, “I got you covered, Trini. Who are your parents again? Oh, well, nevermind anyway. If anyone asks if I’ve seen their kids, I’ll just tell them I haven’t. Good deal? Good. No one will be coming down here anyways. See ya ‘round!”

The siblings watched in amazement as the owner of such immense wealth casually strode up the stairs, leaving them as he found them. Not wanting to press their luck in the game room any longer, they went outside, around the house and back in the front doors again. They were awkwardly re-introduced to “Mr. Theodore Pavlovitch” later, by their father. Mr. P played along as though they had been strangers, to their relief. Trini, however, attracted Mom’s intimidating glare, suggesting that she had not gotten away with the disposal of her butterfly clips.

When the daylight waned and was replaced by a pink sky, and the surrounding woods were replaced by a dark skyline, the guests were leaving, and Mom and Dad led them out to the rental car. On the way home, Peter was subject to a lecture he would hear countless times over the next few years: the virtues of a college degree.

Mom and Dad both were constant and sincere in their conviction that a college degree leads to assured prosperity. Dad, in his time home, had always included in his lectures, the phrase, “The working man stays afloat, but the thinking man rides the waves.” After that night at Mr. P’s house, Peter had acquired a taste for a completely different lifestyle. Forget name-brand cereals, he wanted high-class anything. No longer were stability and equity promising goals; now he knew he wanted vacations, cars, basement gymnasiums and underground arcade rooms. He latched onto an idea that would, like a rocket, carry him to the stars; but what never crossed his mind was the possibility that it might not launch, and would bind him where he stood.