Lucy the Elephant

By C.M. Stassel

She makes it. Her story as told by a delusional man, Humphrey. He is smart, handsome, wealthy, and determined, but lost in his own ocean of problems, brought on by his search for the woman he loves. The prophecy of his death is offered at onset, and its fulfillment only draws closer as his story becomes more and more intertwined with Lucy's. He does not make it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.M. Stassel
• Release date: Mar 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310547560

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Lucy the Elephant

Lucy The Elephant

C.M. STASSEL

Π

S. CALIFORNIA

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by C.M. Stassel

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

First Printing: 2014

978-1-329-01167-0

Published in Los Angeles, California, Unites States of America

Back cover art by Jojo Stassel

CMSTASSEL.COM

To my Mother.

And my Father.

1

With a clear view of the world, he crawled.

With a shaken view, he walked.

With a twisted, blurred view, he limped, bumping into the various objects and people passing him by.

Ow.

Look out!

Keep your head up, idiot.

What the…?

The wonderful clog. 

Oomph.

Calmly, unconcerned with the view, he sat. His bones were tired.

Blind, trapped, alone he would die.

It was a view, an outlook, his outlook, an initial conviction that stupidly favored love over all else. Far too romantic to be healthy and far too mixed up to be stable. This conviction would never mature or change, it would stay the same, fixated crookedly on unimportant details. Like a host forcing you to take off your shoes before you enter. Can’t they just be happy you’re there? No.

At first, it wasn’t dangerous. We didn’t think it was. We thought it was like seeing your own wavy reflection in a cup of coffee just before you take a sip. The temperature, an inconvenience. The mouth heals quickly. But actually, it was more like boiling a pot of water to cook noodles with, and then spilling that pot on your shins and feet and toes. It was that kind of view, well intentioned but malignant, one that could burn and turn raw and peel away, but also remain forever.

His name was Humphrey, and for oddly normal reasons his most cherished pastime involved a bathrobe, whiskey, and the sun. He liked these things. He was unapologetic for it. To be paralyzed under the sun, the warmth, that heat was his Eden – yes, Eden. On most days, he was a sun-drunk lizard, a bathrobe and glass of whiskey his only accessories. When I first met this man, I despised his gaudy antics and contentment with such aggressive displays of relaxation.

How are you, young man? I asked politely the first time we met.

To which he responded casually, I’m in between naps, before collapsing back into an entirely excessive stupor. His third of the day.

Will you join us for dinner tonight?

Nothing. Snores. Heavy breathes. A slight wheeze. He’d been drinking. The sun had him out cold.

My animosity, it seemed, stemmed more from jealousy than anything else. My professional career had not afforded me such timely freedoms and I was bitter because of it.  Slowly, however, my sentiments began to warm and this jealousy turned to admiration. Eventually, I would relish our days spent lazily in his garden, high on whiskey and heat. I admired greatly his professionalism in the sport of leisure and his willingness to take it too far. He was also very good company.

Neatly said, sweet Albert, this is a life, with little effort, a man can adjust to. A man can obsess over such a life, he said, shuffling a deck of cards and sitting up straight. Wouldn’t you say?

I guess I could say that…there’s not much to it, really. It’s a simple life…a comfortable one.

The cards fluttered to the ground.

Kind Albert, I think you have tragically mistaken this life for that of a baby’s…bottles of milk, spoon feedings, rear wipings nap times…this life is one of peril.  I do not simply lie here, melting in the sun with an empty head…no. I cover the long list of human inadequacies and deficiencies…I dive deeply into the state of the human mind, seeking to understand why we are so angry with one another…why there is so much betrayal and rejection and hatred. These are not easy topics to go over…let it be, alone in one’s own mind, sweet Albert. And I’m happy to do it, I understand this is what I must do…I’ve been put in this situation and now I must deal with it…for everyone, I must deal with it. You will understand.

And your findings…do you write them down?

Albert…there’s no need for me to write them down…yet, at least. Someday, I’ll get them on paper, but until that day I’ll happily keep them locked in my head…that very same empty head you were referring to just earlier when you said that preposterous thing about this life being comfortable…oh, Albert… comfortable…hah!

He was hiding from himself, the truth kicked to the gutter, left blatantly out in the cold.

I remember the day it all changed. Humphrey’s mind had been unsteady, rocky in its direction. It was all those thoughts he kept locked away. He’d been going on and on about the keeper of time, and this keeper’s hellish campaign to control us all, to enslave us. It scared me, but he didn’t care. I should have asked him to stop, but I felt it unfair for him to keep any more thoughts locked away. I was much older and, therefore, felt it my duty to be his brave ear. Someone he could say anything to.

This keeper of his, although ever present, was never explained to me. I never asked, I just listened. I imagine, at certain points, Humphrey was the keeper. We were all keepers.

I feel trapped, he said. I don’t understand. Why should this keeper be in charge of so much? Why should he decide when things are right?

Bathrobe spread wide, dangling loosely, droplets dripping from chin, sunglasses faintly present.

They want…they need…they do as they please. They want…they need…they do as they please. They want! And here we are…trapped.  They decide when things are right…when things will work. 

He repeated himself over and over, I doubted he knew what he said – an unfair assessment, as I would come to learn he always understood, but what he said was always a bit off, a tad late, slightly jumbled.

I will always be trapped, he declared.

He then sat up and looked me square in the eyes, it was a dark look that would predict his future. I didn’t know it then.

I’m a sad man, and I can’t tell if it’s because I actually am this way, or because I want to be this way.  The truth had splintered his face, revealing his fears honestly.  I felt compassion for him.  I felt gratitude. He contemplated the answer, but it never came.  With a snap, he stood.

They want…they need…they do as they please…they do as they please. We’re all trapped, and I don’t think we care to get out…this keeper of time out there, he’s a sly thief. He’s stolen everything, he recited, his tone lighter. I’ve lost it all.  I won’t stop until I find…

That was it. He fell silent. Calm and peaceful.

Now, what can I get you to drink, my dear friend?

Humphrey had become completely aware of himself.  And it was at that exact moment he chose to remember. He knew confidently the way in which he would look, the direction in which he would travel.  He shifted his back, the cracks releasing into the air. His eyes were clear, sad but different. He was unapologetic for it.

The discovery, the transparency, lent itself heavily to disappointment – in himself and the chronology of his life. He had arranged himself backwards, putting unimportant things first and important things last. Regret was all that was left, and he focused intensely on it.

As you bob and weave through life, dear Albert, you will find that those with money can behave in any manner they so wish.  It’s one of the unfortunate things about life.  It doesn’t seem fair, unless, of course, you have money…then it seems quite reasonable, almost normal. He winced and twitched as he recounted various events in his life. However, as you age and the perils of living break you down, you will find that it does not matter how things ‘seem’, only how things ‘are’…and that’s just the way it is.  I don’t like it anymore than you, but it doesn’t bring you happiness…it doesn’t shield you from pain, dear Albert. If anything, it makes you more acute to it…more vulnerable…naïve.  On the balcony he sat, trying desperately to understand how he had arrived at this very place of confusion. Silently I sat. There was nothing to say because he had missed the point. Backwards, once again.

During the nineties, a decade I am very fond of, and a time when energized entrepreneurs thrived (blow) and budgets were balanced (Slick Willy), Humphrey acquired his fortune.  Following the untimely death of his grandfather (heart attack), from whom Humphrey gets his name, he inherited a vast sum of money (too much).  The money, although appreciated, was never truly valued and, therefore, instilled in him a glass sense of confidence. This trait would serve him poorly. Along with his exuberant loafing, this confidence slotted Humphrey neatly into a gambling hole. These traits lend themselves easily to that particular vice. And although you wouldn’t know it by looking at him, it was an infection, slowly destroying his body and mind, attacking every morsel of good judgment, evicting every ounce of restraint until he could no longer operate as a healthy man. The only medication, of course, was more wagering, but this only fueled the cancer – and so it grew, spreading to his heart, which turned cold and black and caused him to recline further into himself, no longer a willing participant in life, but a lonely observer, analyzing and overthinking, guessing and worrying.  The man became crazed. He became obsessed. Game for anything, the scope and legality of little consequence or importance.  The thrill of victory drew him in, the anguish of defeat kept him there, locked with no key. A Muy Thai bout in Hong Kong, a fútbol match in Madrid, a pick-up basketball game in Venice Beach, the contest made no difference because the high never changed.  His moods, however, dipped and dived with each victory and defeat – and as his victories became buried beneath his defeats, his style of betting became impulsive, based purely on gut.

I don’t look at stats and I don’t have favorites. I just go with what I’m feeling in here, he said, pointing inward to his stomach.

The next moment, as if playing with phony money, wagering thirty thousand dollars on an amateur game of ten-pin bowling – a gut call.

On this random game? Do you even know these bowlers?

Never seen ‘em before a day in my life, he said, smiling proudly, mistaking his own ignorance for bravery. Now, he declared, pausing briefly, using his hands to set up the next string of broken ideas. If I were to bet on myself, then I would surely win…but that just wouldn’t be fair. Now would it?

I don’t know why it wouldn’t be fair.  I’m not even sure I’ve ever seen you bowl.

That is precisely my point…I don’t bowl because I’d be tempted to bet on my own games.  Then, where would I be?

I don’t know, Humphrey. Where would you be?

Well, I’d be betting on my own damn games! And that would take all the fun out of it…I don’t want to bet on myself. I want to bet on these random boys that I’ve never met.  I don’t know if this man can curve a ball in there like a cyclone, or if he’s going to step up to the line and with two hands swing the ball between his legs and huck it down the lane like a Cyclops.  He smiled, amused at his own wit.

Okay, well I just don’t understand why you feel the need to bet so much money on something you know nothing about.

It’s not that I don’t know anything about it, my dear friend.  It’s that I don’t know how it’s going to turn out…and that’s where the excitement is…the excitement is in the unknown! I’d be a selfish man to bet my money wisely…betting it on predetermined outcomes, or results I can control.  It’s not that I don’t know how to bowl, he spat, winking and picking up a bowling ball. It’s that I choose not to interfere with the world around me…I’d rather see if I can guess what’s going to happen next. 

Approaching the line with stuttering feet, stopping just before the lane became slippery, Humphrey hurled the ball. Where ten pins once stood, they had now fallen, every last one of them.

He would lose the thirty-thousand dollars and spend the next three hours in the emergency room. Nothing was wrong, he just wanted an IV.

The room is whispering to me. It’s a nice room, he mumbled to the doctor. The doctor diagnosed him as backwards. I agreed.

I think I would have done a better job than God, he once said. I’m certain I can create a much happier world. I know I can. Although, I don’t even think I believe in God. I don’t know what I believe in, but sometimes I... he trailed off, masking the thought with a cough. I wish I’d created the world so that I could take care of everyone in it…I’d know where everyone was and what everyone needed.  As it is, things don’t really turn out the way you hope…most of the time, at least. 

He then sat down and thought quietly for several hours, watching the sun set and then some.

To understand further the state of this strange man, I must apply a bit more specificity. The year was 1992. George H.W. Bush was president, Los Angeles burned in the aftermath of the Rodney King Riots, Hurricane Iniki had just battered Kauai’i, and Dow Corning announced that it would no longer manufacture silicone breast implants.  I only offer this tangential, pointless information to say this: it was the same year the Toronto Blue Jays played the Atlanta Braves in the World Series.  It was the first World Series where games were played outside of the United States of America, a realization that shook the nation’s grip on its beloved pastime.  It was also the most important game in Humphrey’s life.

Humphrey, whose gambling habits had matured into adulthood,