The Story of Y

By Steven Gnatovich

This is an allegory.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481760508

Steven Gnatovich

Steven has compassion for your struggle. When you struggle, he does too. He has a request: We stick with it, we do the work to be the best versions of ourselves. Then, like a potluck, we can share our creations with others. What a wonderful celebration that would be. We don't need anymore stinkers. Let's go be great.

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© 2013 by Steven Gnatovich. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/06/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-6051-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-6050-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013910391

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

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5

6

7

About the Author

This book is dedicated to you. I mean that.

1

To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

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During the thick of it I thought that one day I would wake up homeless, on the mattress in the alley across from Sol’s. That would have made for a decent ending to this book, too. I’d describe a detailed, colorful descent into some alternate reality that’s all black, then, as if the point of view is split, two eyelids bat together and I’m lying alone in an alley as businesspeople walk past.

Or better still, I’d wake up dead. I was warned this might happen. I’d watch from above, a translucent shade of the human I once was, as people moved me from the couch at Sol’s to the ambulance, the hospital, and eventually, the morgue. They’d rush me from one place to the next in a mash of sirens, stretchers, and screams, as if those were the moments of time that could have saved me. This also seemed possible. Who knows how many times I was on the verge of death?

I didn’t wake up as the homeless man and I didn’t not wake up. I thought about using those possibilities as endings to this book, but that seemed dishonest. Plus, what really happened was even more bizarre. I lost two friends, a lot of money, my job, three fingers, and a toe. But at some point in this year, I learned how to cherish, well, everything. I wouldn’t change a thing. This, like every other written work, is my Bible, your Quran, our story of the Buddha…

HE DID NOT KNOW WHERE HE WAS, BUT IT FELT FAMILIAR. THE LINES OF HER FRAME ROSE FROM SPACE AS IF THEIR SEPARATION WAS NOTHING MORE THAN A TRICK OF HIS MIND.

WHO ARE YOU?

I AM WHOEVER YOU WANT ME TO BE.

SO, THIS… THIS IS MADE UP IN MY HEAD?

NOT EXACTLY.

HER ARMS RESTED IN HER LAP, HER FACE SOFT. EVEN IN THE THICK DARKNESS OF THE SPACE, HE NOTICED A RADIANCE TO HER SKIN, AS IF HER BODY WERE A LANTERN NOT QUITE DIMMING A CANDLE’S LIGHT. SHE PARTED HER LIPS SLIGHTLY AND SMILED WITH HER EYES, THANKING HIM FOR A COMPLIMENT HE DIDN’T VOICE. MENOETIUS STRUGGLED NOW TO KEEP HIS THOUGHTS FROM WANDERING—HE WAS BECOMING RAPIDLY AWARE OF HER POWER.

CAN YOU TELL ME MY DESTINY?

YOU ARE A PRINCE AND YOUR FATHER’S ONLY SON, THUS YOU WILL BE KING.

I KNOW THAT MUCH ALREADY. I FEEL I AM DESTINED FOR MORE. MY MIND WANDERS AND MY HEART SEARCHES FOR WHAT THAT IS. HE OPENED HIS PALM AND PLACED HIS HAND IN THE CENTER OF HIS CHEST. THE SENSATION TREMBLED WITHIN HIM LIKE REVERBERATING BLASTS OF DISTANT CANNONS; IT STARTED IN THE PADS OF HIS FINGERS AND SURGED TO HIS PALMS. HIS WRISTS CONSTRICTED AND HIS MUSCLES TIGHTENED AROUND THE BONES IN HIS ARMS. HIS SHOULDERS TRIGGERED AND DREW FARTHER DOWN HIS BACK, SUMMONING THE ENERGY WITHIN. HE LOOKED AT HER, ASSUMING SHE WAS CONTROLLING THIS.

NO. I HAVE NO POWER THAT YOU HAVE NOT.

WELL, YOU CANNOT DIE, CAN YOU?

IN SOME WAYS, I ALREADY HAVE.

MENO STUDIED HER CAREFULLY. HE REACHED HIS ARM OUT SLIGHTLY AND FELT THE NOTHING, THE IRRELEVANCE OF HIS SURROUNDING SPACE; THIS CAUSED HIM A MOMENT OF NAUSEA.

DO YOU MEAN TO HARM ME?

SHE GAZED UPWARD AS SHE THOUGHT. NO, SHE EXHALED.

HE COLLECTED THIS WITH A NOD. DO YOU MEAN TO HEAL?

MENO, WHEN YOU GET TO BE MY AGE, IT IS FINE TO JUST BE. I AM WHATEVER YOU WANT ME TO BE.

THEN WHAT IS THIS? WHAT IS THE POINT? HIS PANICKED EYES DARTED AROUND THE SPACE. THERE WAS NOTHING TO RECOGNIZE. THERE WAS NO TEXTURE, NO COLOR, NO SPACE. HE WANTED TO LEAVE.

LEAVE THEN, IF THAT’S HOW YOU FEEL. YOU ASKED WHO I AM. BE CALM. I CAN OFFER YOU THIS: WHEN YOU HAVE QUESTIONS, WE CAN TALK ABOUT THEM HERE.

I SUSPECT THAT YOU ARE THE SPIRIT.

YOU ARE CORRECT.

WHY DID MY FATHER BANISH YOU, IF YOU MEAN NO HARM?

YOU SEE, MENO, POWER IS A WELL AND A WILL. IT MAY BE SHARED SO THAT ALL MAY DRAW THE WATER FROM IT, SO THAT EACH PERSON MAY QUENCH THEIR THIRST, TEND THEIR CROPS, AND BATHE THEIR SKIN. THE POWER OF THE WELL IS THE POWER WITHIN IT—A PARCHED WELL IS NOTHING BUT A TUNNEL THROUGH DIRT. THE WELL MAY BE THE BEST WAY TO BRING WATER FROM THE EARTH, THOUGH SOMETIMES, WATER STILL FALLS FROM THE SKY.

YOU SPEAK IN TONGUES. I DON’T UNDERSTAND.

THE WELL DOES NOTHING BUT FETCH THE WATER FROM THE EARTH—THE REAL POWER IS IN THE WATER. SAY YOU SURROUND THIS WELL WITH GUARDS AND ALL THAT YOU MAY DO WITH THE WATER…

I SEE. NOW, THE POWER OF THE WATER NO LONGER MATTERS. THE PEOPLE WILL BEGIN TO SEE THE POWER OF THE WELL IN THE GUARDS, NOT THE WATER.

AH! YOU WILL BE AN EXCELLENT KING!

HOW HAVE I FOUND YOU IF YOU HAVE BEEN EXILED?

PERHAPS THE RAIN HAS FALLEN ON YOUR FACE. WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF A LAKE?

IT IS A BODY OF WATER. BUT THIS DOES NOT ANSWER MY QUESTION. WHAT IF FROM THE WATER IN THAT LAKE, EVERY PERSON GREW CORN?

THEN THOSE PEOPLE MUST ENJOY CORN.

WHAT DID YOU PREDICT OF MY FATHER? MENO ASKED, NOW HARVESTING IMPATIENCE.

THAT HE WOULD BE MURDERED ON A DAY OF CELEBRATION.

WHO WOULD DO SUCH A THING? OUR KINGDOM IS BEAUTIFUL.

YOU WILL SOON FIND OUT.

AND WHAT ABOUT ME? WHAT IS MY DESTINY?

YOU ARE A DROP IN THE LAKE. YOU WILL STRUGGLE AND IN THAT STRUGGLE YOU WILL FIND YOUR INNER LIGHT. ONCE FOUND, YOU WILL ERUPT INTO A GLAZE OF PEACE AND ENERGY: A MOMENT OF INCOMPREHENSIBLE BLISS AND CONNECTION THAT PEOPLE WILL SPEAK OF FOR YEARS TO COME.

This is beginning of my story.

The rest of my friends had gone on to fill entry-level positions across the country; two course credits prevented me from joining them. My father reminded me that I would have the rest of my life to work, and suggested that I should enjoy my last bit of college freedom. That wasn’t exactly comforting but if finding a career was the elephant that joined me in this classroom, I was at least happy to sit with her for a few more weeks.

Introduction to Modern Philosophy.

I walked into the summer class on my last first day and took a seat in the back corner of the room, in front of what I thought was an air conditioner. Freshman mistake. Just as the furnace cranked on and scoffed hot air on my back, a tall blonde girl walked in and took the last remaining seat in the opposite corner of the room. I glanced at the clock just as the minute hand ticked to noon and I knew that this was my seat for the next three hours. Great. The chalk whispered on the blackboard as the professor wrote Property, Capital, and Power.

Anybody familiar with Locke want to kick us off with a thought? the professor asked. Little piece of advice: if you talk, these classes go a lot faster.

I looked around the room and couldn’t help but tuck my chin and laugh into my chest. Some students sat slouched with their necks arched back waiting for the room’s heat to melt them into puddles, others gazed longingly out the windows, hoping class would magically be over, and the rest stared absently forward, discretely trying to send text messages beneath tented copies of John Locke’s Second Treatise of Government. As a Political Science and International Studies major, I’d read this book at least once a year for the last four years. There were so many highlights, underlines, stars, and scribbles that my copy looked like a college-level coloring book.

This isn’t philosophy, it’s vacuous criticism.

I’m sorry? The professor stared at the blonde as if she’d just called his mother a whore. Some students looked at her dispassionately.

I hate how he talks about it: ‘little piece of yellow metal,’ like there’s nothing good that can come from it. This is all just a game, it’s one big game. Money’s a way to keep score.

Hold on. I’m sorry, what’s a big game? the professor asked.

Life.

That’s a shitty way to keep score then, I said, leaning forward and pulling my t-shirt from my back like it was Saran Wrap on a microwaved bowl. I think that’s his point: capital assumes the role of value. When he says, ‘little piece of yellow metal,’ he’s comfortable belittling it because it’s this thing that carries no natural value. Despite the vast beauty of the human experience, this thing, this random thing, money, assumes the role of human value.

The blonde stared forward, listening, and then shot back without turning. I get that, but it’s like saying, ‘It’d be great if we had gills so that we could swim in the ocean.’ We don’t have gills, life isn’t perfect, and so we make do with breath. Nearly everyone cocked their head slightly, as if to say, um… what? I understood her.

"But we are perfect. Your composition of that thought, how you walked to class, your capacity to plan your day… humans are perfect."

Right. Well, you’re wrong, but that’s what I’m talking about. She focused forward at the space between the end of her desk and classroom’s baseboard.

I know that look—I do that. She can’t even see that space right now; she’s building in her head.

I disagree with you. I think humans are nasty. We’re terrible creatures. But Locke doesn’t examine how the individual actually is, he just complains about the constraints they’re under. It’s a weak philosophy because there’s no individual empowerment to change one’s situation, when that’s exactly what an economy can do. There isn’t discussion of the human, aside from the systems to which they belong. Describe people solely in terms of the systems they’re a part of and of course they’re going to appear weak.

She stared forward like she was reading aloud words written on a wall inside her mind. Some people feel uncomfortable or distracted with this kind of distantly focused stare. As an owner of one, I know all the troubles and beauty that came with that perception. She turned again and our eyes connected. Instead of feeling as if we were piercing each other, for a brief moment, we saw into the other’s soul.

That’s getting pretty far ahead, the professor interjected. Let’s start at the state of nature. Who can tell me what that is?

The professor’s interruption broke our stare. I touched my ear for no particular reason, picked up my pen and wrote State of Nature on the first line of my notebook. I knew I would write no other words. There was a cadence to our words: a rhythmic back and forth, as if we danced to an organized score. When she stepped forward, I eased back, when I leaned forward, she fell back. We could have done this dance with our eyes closed, with no direction but the silent rhythm. I’d never once considered that the problems Locke presented might be problems with our own nature.

I leafed through Locke’s book like a jukebox at a bar’s last call. I scoured for what would be our song, trying to find something about what makes people bad or why we get greedy. I couldn’t find it.

Let’s take a break. Be back in ten minutes, the professor said after a while.

We all filed out of the room like molasses through a jar. I went outside to smoke a cigarette and found her sitting on the building’s steps.

Hey.

She turned. Hi.

You had an hour and a half. You probably should have thought of something to say.

I was digging what you were talking about in there. You’re right, there’s so much blame on the systems. I never thought about Locke like that before. Anyway, cool.

"To be honest, I just try to find something I’m interested in talking about. It’s brutal when you just sit there. I’d rather have a real conversation. That, my friend, was a real conversation."

Definitely. I lit a cigarette and sat beside her. What’s your name?

Athena. Yours?

Peter. You want one? I offered the pack.

Sure. You’re pretty hot, she paused to light the cigarette. Then exhaled: like sweating… like, you’re wet.

I laughed, watching her stumble over her words; they revealed an awkwardness that seemed incompatible with her beauty, then synonymous. I would have been embarrassed at my back sweat if it weren’t for her earnest, almost self-deprecating delivery.

Tell me about it—there’s a furnace next to my seat. I can’t understand why it’s on. What year are you?

Senior. This is my last class.

Me too, I paused. You want to get a coffee or something after class?

No.

Oh. Ouch. All right.

You’re basically melting. I don’t think coffee will help. How about ice cream?

Two hours later, we got ice cream and argued about natural laws.

*     *     *

Two days later, we were still together. We lay in her bed about an hour before our third class smoking a joint.

Do you do any other drugs?

Sometimes. Do you?

No. What do you do?

Nothing too bad, some coke, some ecstasy, some acid. I love DMT, but don’t really care for shrooms. I avoid needles altogether.

"Oh, yeah,