Inside a Roman Mind

Cinque

Cinque

It had been about an hour and a half since he had popped that little blue pill into his mouth and so far he had felt absolutely nothing. Of course, as he became aware of that fact was when it really kicked in, and almost as soon as the disappointed thought finished its course through his mind, suddenly he felt a peculiar kind of weightlessness envelop his body. Enlightenment comes in the form of many things, but he could never imagine feeling this way in a nightclub. Strangely enough, it was just like real life, only about six inches off the ground, and that's what true weightlessness really seemed to be to him at that exact moment: the complete realization that his life was not a drag, that his body wasn't heavier than his strength permitted, and that enthusiasm was only ever a change of perspective away.
If it's been an hour and a half, then that means he has to start heading back in about half an hour or so... Wait, isn't this what he wanted to completely ignore? These circular kinds of thoughts, the ones that ground you. And he wasn't particularly interested in the ground at the moment. Suddenly he just wanted to text everyone and tell them what they meant to him, let them know, particularly, that he cared about their continued existence both as it stands and as part of his own life. It was beautiful. There was nothing to see but real life itself and it was absolutely stunning, the way the trees just seemed to sway, it was sexy and amazing, and all these people walked past each with their own complex back-stories, like a seventeen dimensional web connecting the entire world with itself, leading up until this exact moment. And, in this moment, he felt right in the center of it. That's what the ego is, in any case, isn't it? The 'I' of it all is the collection of thoughts and history of actions, the single force that occupies the center of this particular narrative. What a way to escape it all, with his best friend in a beautifully foreign country with no plans at all. A proper way to just wind down and regain control of the situation, do what you want to when you want to...
...Escape?
What a peculiar word to use. A vacation shouldn't be an escape. How could anyone possibly need an escape in a mood like this? Why should it be necessary? There's eight thousand years of recorded human history to look back on, surely in that time we must have progressed past the point where our lives are destined to be no more than a practice in mundanity, some sort of trap. But as soon as this thought passes, there seem to be two faces in his head. On one side is Mike and on the other side is her. She doesn't even get a name, apparently. She doesn't deserve it yet. He still hasn't forgiven her it seems, even with one of the strongest cognitive shifts available. And what about him? Why are these two faces side by side? Of course he was right: Sam came here because he was escaping. He just wanted some time to himself, to ignore her and not have to deal with the problem that he'd managed to create for himself. On one hand, really, he didn't care. On the other, it's always painful to have to sit through a breakup. And, being frank, that's what this was. They were in the process of breaking up, there's no reason to try and obscure the truth. But why had Mike come along so willingly? If this was merely an escape, why Mike? Why not a sole journey, a personal retreat to something new? Maybe Mike played a larger part in this all than what he'd initially thought, or what either of them had known. His perspective was jumping erratically between considering this thought a bona-fide conspiracy and dismissing it as a lazy red herring in a B grade self-published mystery novel. Complicating this particular predicament was the fact that there just seemed to be too little information available for either side to be correct, as if it was some kind of abandoned plot device in a horrible film that poorly tried to convey the story of a love triangle with a hilariously tragic ending.

About two and a half hours after they had made their initial split, Sam had accidentally stumbled his way into a bar-come-cafe just opening for the day. It was ten. To be fair, even by his standards ten o'clock was too early, but he felt like it had been far too long since the last time he had consumed any water. Whatever was in that pill was still hitting hard and he was still most definitely within its grasp of influence but he didn't feel unable to speak. But now he felt older, wiser. He looked back over the last few hours with some kind of bittersweet condescension and, strangely, nostalgia. He could look back at how casually he had decided to consume that drug, how nonchalantly he had just popped it into his mouth without a care in the world for what it was, and yet he could also look back at how absorbed into his own mind he had been, how many interesting thoughts had become tourists to his consciousness on their way across this ever expanding universe. It had been a genuinely enjoyable time so far, even with all the out of place oddities and schizophrenic paranoias that managed to creep into his head, unannounced, unplanned for.
He couldn't get his mind off the original question and things were starting to become more lucid. That Mike had so shamanistically been able to determine that the reason why Sam had travelled here was to escape his quite possibly soon to be ex, wouldn't it make sense then, in some nefarious way, that Mike too was here for the same purpose? It would be odd company to keep if one was here for no more than shits and giggles, while the other was legitimately trying to heal personal wounds. There was definitely the thought, floating somewhere between the front and back of his mind but without being confident enough to take center stage, that wanted to dismiss the idea. There was another idea, competing for the same understudy role for a minor character in his mind's play, that suspected some uncommunicated trouble in Mike's world, something that Mike was drawing on in so correctly diagnosing Sam.
His entire attention completely involuntarily snapped to focus when out of the corner of his eye he noticed something unusual in this café-thing he found himself sitting at. It was recognizable but it took mental decades for him to understand what it was. Something about that man's face sitting right over there was so familiar.
Right, that damn moustache! What are the odds? Not knowing exactly what to do, he sat at the table with his glass of water for a considerable length of time, weighing up pleading complete ignorance against actually going and speaking to the man. He had come across as extremely shifty and, in recounting to Mike during the trip over here what had happened the night before, Mike too had agreed that the man was off. Of course he happened to run into him when Mike wasn't here. So much of that still didn't really make sense. The only real possibility that would make sense of that scenario is if he actually turned out to be Jesus, or some kind of nonspecific, omnipotent miracle worker who could peer into the mind and soul of a man and examine their troubles. At that time, his troubles were most definitely his complete and total inebriation, a mystery to this day. Mike adamantly claims he hadn't done anything to the drinks. No matter, that fiasco is behind him now.
In the end, he is too passive to bother actually approaching the man. Somewhat out of embarrassment, somewhat out of uncharacteristic timidity, he instead sits at the bar and observes. He's crashed back to sober, a strange feeling. It's only been an hour, how can it be over so soon? When this thought passes, the Godlike moustache-man, either through design or by total accident it will never be revealed, notices Sam.
'You're that kid from Civitavecchia, aren't you?' He asks confidently as he makes an approach towards the table that sits Sam. Acting surprised, Sam looks up and, for a brief moment, feigns an amnesic response. 'You... you're the guy from the hotel?' He responds, his tonality dipping into incredibly fake, but possibly believable, inquisition. The man smiles and so Sam stands up to shake his hand. 'I owe you a beer man, you were a huge help last night.'
'Oh no really it's fine.'
'No I'm gonna grab one as well don't be rude.'
Where was this conversation going? The man sits down at the table as Sam asks for two drinks to be brought over. Briskly they are, and two bottles of Peroni appear before them. Peculiar that the biggest brand of Italian export beer is also, supposedly, the house beer here. Or maybe it's just the beer they give to obvious foreigners who didn't even bother to courteously learn the language, even just a few phrases, before coming here.
Bars in this country are intriguing, operating more as coffee shops than simply establishments for the drunks like himself. Of course, the coffee shop nature of these places didn't obscure the nature of his visits, most times. This time seemed to be a deviation from the norm. He wasn't hungry and didn't really feel like he needed any more energy than what he currently had, all he wanted was a break from the strengthening sun that was beginning to take its toll in this glorious summer all of Europe seemed to be simmering through—or at least, has been since he had arrived in this country. As he spoke with the moustache man he learned that his name was Ben and that he was actually a physician in Texas specializing in addiction psychiatry. He was in his early thirties and came here on an extended stay to unwind from work. All up he'd been in Europe for about nine months. Mostly he'd travelled between Spain, France, Switzerland and Italy. He'd never been further east than Germany; never visited Greece or inspected the migrant crisis of Europe first hand. He was satisfied with these small, mid-tier European countries and their racist, xenophobic tendencies to hold their own culture with value that would warrant protection. Even countries like Italy weren't immune from the 'humanitarian crises' happening in the angry bearded countries that straddled the invisible borders which lineated Europe from the last bastions of communist-inspired mandatory state socialism. Ben was particularly learned in these issues and had a sort of conflicting belief system regarding things like handling refugees entering Europe. The conversation very quickly swept itself from awkward small talk regarding the events of the night before into political education, and Sam sat and listened, hanging onto every word that dripped from the mouth of this beautiful creature that sat before him.
'The problem,' Ben posited. 'Is that accepting a refugee is a global thing.' He straightened his posture to drive his point, pausing for long enough to allow his argument some leeway for consideration. 'You can't expect to vacate an entire country and just move it to another country. Then you get what's happening in Germany, where the prime minister or whatever it's called, she's saying things like oh women should protect themselves and learn to not get raped by all these migrants that are coming in completely undocumented.'
'So you think that there should be some kind of check?'
'Well, definitely not what someone like Trump is putting forward, I mean they're people not cattle, but I did read somewhere, someone who was going to great lengths to keep his identity secure because he worked for some backwards country's border control, and he said pretty simply, what's happening to refugees in his country is horrific but the real ones, the ones that are genuinely fleeing war, they aren't the ones that are causing problems and rioting and complaining about the benefits that they're being given. They're the ones that just stand in line and wait and don't complain because just being out of the line of a gun to them is a huge improvement.' He stopped momentarily, almost as if he was expecting Sam to provide some kind of input, maybe a counter point, something more to consider or explain in greater detail. 'And I suppose it's a bit of a shame because in not complaining, their cases aren't going anywhere and they're just sitting in limbo on temporary protection visas and what not for years on end, never really being given a chance to just become a member of society and contribute and function normally. But if they do complain, they're kind of the bad egg, you know, they make it worse for everyone, like that handful of skittles argument that those really hardcore, man-hating type feminists like to use against men.'
Sam laughed, inciting Ben to do the same. 'I know the type, that shit's ridiculous.'
'Don't get me wrong, I believe in most of the rhetoric of the human rights advocates that are trying to improve the situation of refugees, but it's kind of a global issue. You know like if a country gets hit with a natural disaster and only one country offers a hand in support, the country supporting is going to have its budget ransacked and the problem is going to take a lot longer to fix, if it ever happens at all.'
The conversation took a sharp turn when, halfway through their third beer, Sam asked Ben exactly why he was here.
'Don't get me wrong,' Sam continued the sentiment. 'I don't want to offend, it's just that nine months seems like a fairly... long time to spend away from work just simply for unwinding.'
'Oh yeah, I'm a heroin smuggler.' The two laugh. 'I dunno, I guess I picked up enough odd jobs here to be able to just continue to afford to live reasonably well, I usually just go from place to place renting for short term.'
It turns out, although he liked doing something good back home and having that sort of structure, the unpredictable, almost day-to-day lifestyle that he was living in Europe had been intoxicating. When he had saved up enough money, he would retreat on a small holiday for a few days as he found a new house to rent. He had just finished a short lease agreement in Rome and was travelling north over the next few days to find another home. He was like some kind of educated gypsy, and it was somewhat inspiring to see someone able to live like that. Of course, his profession, including the fact that he holds a master's degree, and his American credit rating made finding a house much easier than normal. He seemed to have been given a blank check to life. Successful, young, cashed up, and with a job that at any time he can return to which he loves and feels is incredibly valuable to society and personally rewarding—on top of his total bohemian wanderer lifestyle he had found himself a willing participant in for the last two hundred and fifty days.
'What about you?'
'The full story?' Sam asked, playfully as he finished his beer and asked for another.
'Well I've got all day.'
'I guess I'm here to escape.'
'Do you think America doesn't have an extradition treaty with Italy?'
Almost wheezing, Sam chokes on his drink as he slams the glass bottle down to collect himself. 'An ex.'
'So you're here by yourself then? Like some kind of tour to get your mind away from things?'
'I think the exact opposite...' he trailed off momentarily. 'I'm here with probably my closest friend—'
'Ah I see,' Ben interrupted. 'Where is this closest friend? I've seen you twice and never with him.'
'Conveniently, he and I split when we got into the city, we figured we could cover more ground.'
'Are you looking for something?'
'Myself?' He stops, realizing that Ben, very courteously, is refusing to nudge his way into the response. 'Honestly I came here to retreat to within, just do things I wouldn't normally do back home.'
'That's very new-age of you.'
'So I came with him, his name's Mike, and we're just travelling around I guess.'
'So... just randomly doing things? No tours or... structure?'
'I don't really like the idea of organized tours, they're kind of disingenuous, I mean if I wanted to travel just to see things I'd drive across America. Going overseas is for immersion, not simple sightseeing.'
'Don't you think that they don't have to be mutually exclusive? Like I think that tours can really help with as you say immersion, like it can show you things you didn't realize existed.'
'Oh yeah, I guess... I don't know, I mean I'm kind of shifting the goal post here but I just suppose I like the... solitariness? Is that a real word? The that of travelling alone or in a small group. Just you know, getting lost and then finding my way back. Not having the country yellow brick roaded to me.'
What an unusual conversation. Almost as if he could feel the physical forces themselves, he could feel the tone of the conversation stepping further and further into something much deeper than that which he would normally have with a stranger—or with a nominally close friend, for that matter. He could feel himself speaking more openly, more honestly, and he could feel himself trusting this man a lot more than he has any reason to.
Ben had stopped drinking at number... four? They had paced gratuitously, but Sam had continued onto a sixth drink, moving from beer to whiskey while Ben ordered coffees and pastry treats to share. It felt almost weird drinking soda before midday—it felt like he should have been mixing his alcohol with juice or something rather than cola, to preserve the essence of the morning. But as midday struck, Sam, very suddenly and without warning, stood himself up and downed his last drink. 'Tell me stranger,' he opened his concluding line. 'Where do you plan on going next?'
Ben too stood up. 'I suppose I'm going to be sitting around here for a few hours before I guess I make my way towards the French border.'
'You're moving countries?'
'Not yet. I have some business lined up there but it's definitely this side.'
Sam extended his hand which Ben once again took, his own strength in the shake rubbing off as a welcomed respect. 'This isn't goodbye,' Ben too concluded. Sam smiled back.
'Another time.' He turned his back and, without having received any substantive answer that he thought could have been acquired through that entire exchange, moved himself out of the café. He was, strangely enough, only about an hour's walk from the meeting point. This town wasn't really that big, in hindsight. Beautiful sights passed him by on the stumble-come-stroll motion that he had managed to perfect over his years of accepting his fate as an alcoholic. Next stop: Firenze.

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