Into the Light

Chapter 9

Chapter: 9

The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really are. You trade in your reality for a role. You give up your ability to feel, and in exchange, put on a mask.

Jim Morrison

Jim sort of riffed T.S Eliot on that quote ... In the room the women come and go/Talking of Michelangelo... but he is the Lizard King and can do anything. Guess he was wrong.

A black stretch limousine, beyond all sense of decorum, rolls as a chariot after a triumph at the Circus Maximus to the front of the Alexander building. Blake dons his best black suit and feeds Tyger before heading out the door. Carlton Guilder with swirls of cropped hair sips Johnny Walker Blue in the back of the limo and looks at his phone for the time. Blake slips out into the day and the world looks odd like the city was painted in watercolors. The city of windows growls in anticipation.

The driver, who looks like a shaved ferret to Blake, gets out and opens the door. He waves in acknowledgement. Carlton's gleaming smile and saucer sunglasses reflect the timid autumn sunshine. He scoots over to let Blake slips in across the black leather. The driver closes the door.

"What the Hell are you doing? Let's go knob the hobs," Carlton says.

"Nothing," Blake says.

"Touchy, touchy, touchy," Carlton says and thinks this is going to be a horrible day if Blake keeps up the attitude.

"Sorry, I've had a bad couple days. So how long is this exercise in pretense going to last?"

"Chill, I brought you along to help you," Carlton says and coughs.

"You brought me along for what?"

"To help you out of the bullshit."

"Man, I don't need your help getting out of the bullshit."

"So, you admit to the bullshit."

"Of course, I do."

"Cool. Anyway, let's get some free drinks and chow and see if any dignitaries' daughters are there to impress. Most of them will probably be in high school so you have a shot," Carlton says.

"Funny."

The limo shimmering like a piece of polished coal passes through the city of windows. The sounds of the streets do not penetrate the back seat. After ramming though a few congested streets they hop onto the FDR Drive that runs along the East River. As the buildings that scalpel the horizon cut off in the distance, the automobile that protects the fragile leaded glass minds of the passenger from the changes in economic levels launches onto I-87 after taking exit eighteen.

Power resides in social agreements such as laws, contracts and cash. The rich are allowed to have more. You agreed to it. You put faith into it. Money is nothing but a contract and power one person gives to another. But in a moment, it could all be gone. Power is nothing in a vacuum. Fun huh? Well, here are some rich folks to poke fun at as Blake falls slowly apart.

The destination is the Haven, in Silver Ridge, a place of sound, sight and out of mind, a true twilight zone of the idols, where Henry the Eighth and the Sultan of Brunei would be embarrassed by the excess.

"Moxie, get me the brandy will you. I don't want to get there and be sober. Shit I haven't been sober in that area of the country since I was ten."

"I know what you mean, sort of."

In a few brief exits and turns, the landscape changes to modest houses and buildings unable to go above certain heights because of zoning. Carlton drinks from the decanter and Blake sinks back. Carlton keeps his tongue from tasting the air and squashes certain comments before they come out of his mouth. His friend looks off, so he will allow him to get a buzz before prying.

Concrete and asphalt open their arms and bow to give way to cobblestone streets in the land of Silver Ridge. Houses get farther away from each other on the side of the road. The hills rise from the coast and transform with a gradual progression of old growth timber to resemble the Black Forest of Germany.

Blake holds up his hand to the light through a lowered window and inspects his digits. His finger glow with halos of light and Carlton snickers.

"Moxie you just get stranger every day but you're not as strange as my father. Listen to this. He bought his own gas tank, or should I say station, and when gas is cheap he buys it and fills his huge ass tanks. Plus he'll only drive the Rolls, twice a fucken year when he has insurance on it. June and July. Otherwise it's the secret Honda Civic. He's got solar panels, a fucking windmill with an electric turbine hidden in the back acres. He installed rain barrels, with my aid of course, to harvest rain water to water the lawn and plants and use in the toilets. Guy went all conservation on us."

"That's good though," Blake says.

"Just another manic driven behavior though. He's done it my whole life. When I was a kid he heard about saving money by not using you toilets all the time. I had to piss in one toilet downstairs and only flush it twice a day to save water."

"It's one thing to make money but it another to keep it," Blake says.

"Really? The guy's a billionaire and he buys toilet paper in bulk, three ply and makes a single ply by unrolling it and then re-rolling for one bathroom and double for him, it lasts for about a minute when I visit. But you won't see any of that when his buddies are around," Carlton says and swigs down the last of his booze.

Blake sees the massive estate coming up and breaks into a hot sweat as they reach the first iron gates. The main manor house looms above the rows of majestic trees lining the snaking driveway scattered with white stones. As the gates open, Blake thinks the place reminds him of a college campus. He knows this is not a college campus. It is more Versailles than Vassar. The divinely manicured main lawn is something that golf courses fantasize about.