The Neurosis of George Fairbanks

By Jonathan Kumar

George Fairbanks is certain God is dead, a stillborn of the clouds. He has been poisoned to death by our indifference and gluttony. George discovers his conjecture in middle age, but develops the theory throughout his life. He was an infinitely curious boy, his interest in the meaning of life piqued by the house he grew up in. George remains an

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atmosphere Press
• Release date: Oct 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781646693337

Book preview

the neurosis

of george fairbanks

a novel by

jonathan kumar

atmosphere press

Copyright © 2019 Jonathan Kumar

Published by Atmosphere Press

Cover design by Nick Courtright

nickcourtright.com

No part of this book may be reproduced

except in brief quotations and in reviews

without permission from the publisher.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The Neurosis of George Fairbanks

2019, Jonathan Kumar

atmospherepress.com

For Brian

who is there to thaw my blood

when it turns to misanthropic ice

I

"God is dead! George Fairbanks shouted to the full capacity of his lungs, abhorrence spewing from his lips as the words left his mouth. Scanning the privileged crowd around him, George’s index finger found another guilty member. And YOU killed Him! he again accused, this time a woman in heels and a dress that fell just below propriety’s benchmark. She made no reply, but George detected her casual indifference as she swirled a dollop of cognac around a crystal cup and directed a puff of cigarette smoke toward his face. As if George needed further fuel to his fire, he turned to a separate reveler, his finger still in the accusatory position. And you, he said impugning her of the same crime, his tone softening slightly in the revelation of such uncompromising apathy. Defeat was upon him once more. Not me though, George continued, acquitting himself of any wrongdoing. I was responsible; I cared for something greater than myself."

The scene was a great ballroom, for it was the size of an athletic field although there were no Olympians in sight. In their place chandeliers molded and formed from French-cut glass encrusted with rubies, sapphires, and diamonds hung from a ceiling so high the room could have likely accommodated giants or perhaps even a range of mountains. These light fixtures formed a sort of universe of which many smaller and weaker planets orbited around their suns. So many diamonds were in this masterpiece, diamonds that took the bulbs’ light, filtered it through their prisms, then bent the refractions into wonderful optical illusions.

As I have mentioned, the ceiling was far removed from the ground. That, however, does not explain how it supported the weight of such illuminated monstrosities. It was the impenetrable concrete foundation that held them in place, the same foundation that ran concurrently with the four walls and bedrock around it, a base that let the denizens inside know what happened within these boundaries would stay there. Yes, the frame of this building was strong, but not aesthetically pleasing in its natural state. That, luckily, was remedied by historic mosaics of man in all classifications of conflict – against himself, his brothers, society, and nature, all beautifully brought to life through the sequence of hues, all depicting scenes of man’s struggle and ultimate triumphs, especially vivid in vistas depicting animals.

Marble was bred and shipped from the Mediterranean for this specific purpose. Upon its arrival it was measured, cut, then set in a checkered patterned, where it now lay. The tile layer was at long last able to pass on the duty after painstaking precision exhausted him of any clear thinking. Next was the turn of a small fleet of hired hands – or hired hands and knees, I should say, for that is the position they assumed buffing, waxing, polishing, then repeating until those who presently stood on it could see the reflection of their transgressions as clearly as in the mirror.

The chairs were firm, although the agarwood was chosen more for its exoticism than practicality. More than being strictly bearers of weight, their objective was to lead the eye to the thousand-thread-count Egyptian cloths that covered the tables systematically scattered about, the materials of these place mats naturally exported from their country of origin.

Under the capacious ceiling, magnified by the galaxy of lights, atop the steadfast floor, among the chairs and foiling, the paintings were the arena’s crowning achievement. Here the profligates helped themselves to an orgy of a buffet not because their bodies required the nourishment, but because the presentation and readiness prompted them so. There was much to choose from among this embarrassment of riches. Included prominently were moving tributes to currency and the spoils it brings, carved from fruits representing six of the seven continents. Most of these sculptures though paid homage to the host of the event by outlying his likeness in the faces of watermelons, cantaloupes, pineapples, and even aggregate grapes. The canvases were chosen for their sheen, firmness, and indicators of health among thousands of their brethren so that they may accurately depict the founder of the feast in all of his seasons, mainly foreboding, brooding, mercurial, and menacing.

Bread was here, all kinds, too. There were dark brown loaves and tan ones, some circular in shape, others oblong, some flat, others fluffy, some with seeds, others smooth; none, however, were pockmarked with blemishes from the oven and none that would not be complemented by a square of rich, creamy butter made the old-fashioned way, churned by hand for hours in an antiquated barrel. More than just the metamorphosing of cream, this butter was distinguished by the cosseting, primping, pampering, and massaging of the cows who produced it so their milk may yield the nonpareil results. But like any who is fattened for the kill, the cattle were bludgeoned to death, their carcasses dismembered after the udders dried.

An experienced fisherman may well have embarked on his boat and patrolled the waters from the Pacific to the Atlantic, cast a wide net along the way, collected the contents of these joint journeys, then unloaded them upon the tables, for here there was no shortage of species. King, sockeye, pink, and silver salmon were sprawled on platters directly from the ocean. Accompanying them were bluefin, bigeye, yellowfin, and albacore tuna and similarly marlin, swordfish, and on and on down the pyramid, all of which were swimming just a few hours earlier and all of which now bore the same horrified expression – their eyes hardened, their mouths opened aghast, the rest of their bodies intact except for the divots in their flesh where some bipeds had already picked. The protein was not limited to just the underwater variety. Those from the fledged category were present, including, but by no means limited to, pheasant, grouse, duck, quail, and partridge, and an exception was made to accommodate ostrich, though it was never seen in the sky.

Now, to quench the inevitable thirst these treats would create, a bartender was employed to remedy the problem before it could be raised. At his disposal were copious bottles of brandy, gin, vodka, scotch, whiskey, tequila, rum, absinthe, arrack, harika, maotai, metaxa, mescal, and pisco. In short, anything that was aged, distilled, or fermented found its place upon the mixologist’s shelves, along with ales, lagers, stouts, and pilsners.

Then there were the desserts! Most of these temptations disseminated from the cocoa beans plucked from their host trees inhabiting a tropical environment, trees carefully chosen by their latitude and longitude in close proximity to the equator. This base ingredient spent months in steel vaults, their transmutation closely monitored before it could be converted into the heavenly form these epicureans came to expect – chocolate cemented cakes comprising clotted cream, whipped, single, double, half, and even more complex creams requiring a master’s degree in mathematics to compute their content. Chocolate leveled the playing field of pies, giving them volume and meaning. Chocolate triumphed over the banal butters of walnut, pistachio, cashew, hazelnut, pecan, almond, and the pedestrian peanut. Chocolate leapt the levels of fountains, rising in globs and falling in drops with the precision of a synchronized swimmer, vying for supremacy over the butterscotch, caramel, fudge, and other incidental syrups. Chocolate flowed in ambrosial streams mimicking a mudslide as it gorged the cookies, fruit, and pretzels below. Chocolate and its subsidiaries were the lay of the land: unsweetened, dark, light, white, bittersweet, semisweet, couverture, and gianduja to fulfill the aberrant quota, cold, hot, and undecided chocolate.

And what was the occasion for this extravaganza? The answer to that question would be abundantly clear if this were the end of the story, but since we are still in the beginning stages, I will tell you in no uncertain terms. The occasion was another saturnalia held by Winston Avaris, for Winston Avaris, in appreciation of Winston Avaris, and in celebration of Winston Avaris, but the dialogue opened with George Fairbanks and I intend to return to him. There our pariah stood in the center of this activity shouting – no, pleading – to anyone to lend a sympathetic ear, yet despite the volume of his voice, his rebukes went largely unnoticed. Instead they were greeted with sharp looks of condescension and haute laughter as George’s ordinary garb was visually inspected and deemed a faux pas. The partygoers couldn’t focus their attention on anything other than his loafers (the recipients of such innumerable spit shines that it is a wonder the shoes hadn’t succumbed to holes in their canvas), his rusted khakis regaled with fading on the left shin and right thigh, upon which a charcoal cable-knit sweater of a braided pattern rested above, keenly keeping, along with a salient sport coat, the rare January air at bay while simultaneously concealing a checkered button-up shirt underneath, leaving only the collar to peek through. If the revelers had been able to focus their attention on something other than George’s clothes, they would have seen the conviction that flushed George’s mouth and surrounding areas crimson, stiffened his neck, sent his teeth chattering, shook his bones to their marrow, and curled his fists into a ball. They would have noticed at the top of the frame to which this wardrobe was affixed was a man possessing a pair of cheeks religiously scraped with the razor, connecting to a preservation of an imbroglio of chestnut hair kept a medium length and pulled back in congenital waves indicative of the dreamer, which, had it not been for the illusion of the dye, would have given evidence of a hoary history. The measures George took to maintain these measures were often consuming, yet he never wavered from them. These were, after all, parts of his prosopography and life in general he had complete control over. He was the owner of remarkably sensitive yet probing brown eyes aided by a series of lashes constructed like rows of a sand tiger shark’s teeth, ensnaring the observations, experiences, and speculations, taking in all he had seen, then hurdling them quickly into his consciousness where they would be processed in their meanings, cogitated in their implications, obsessed over in their logic, and ultimately mourned over in their devastation. As a matter of habit or more likely maladjustment, George had taken to trilling these catchers in fruitless attempts to expunge what could not be forgotten, the frequency of these spasms occurring commensurate with his consternation. At this moment of his introduction to you, the metronome would have to be set at a pace of forty beats per minute to keep up with George’s blinking.

If from the outset you are inclined to agree with his detractors and regard George Fairbanks as a loathsome, or even detestable, figure; if he seems like the type of person you would wish not to pass on the street, and if you did, you would most certainly turn in the other direction; or if he seems like someone you would rather sacrifice advancement because you prefer not to do business with him altogether, remember this: we are not born with an inclination toward love or hate, forbearance or allowance. Those must form from a series of observations, traits, and critiques that must challenge or reinforce what we believe, what we’ve been told or taught, and what our better nature held to be true, just as the imprint to kill is not written in the panther’s DNA. That, too, must be discerned then learned, although some still carry their kill with compunction. And if in momentary lapses of reason or reaction those same eyes would sneer at George even on roseate days, know the events which I am about to relay occurred at the height of enlightened fatuity, when tabloids became gospel and celebrities, disciples – when the twilight of the idols lasted past the dawn.

This aside notwithstanding, George’s philippic was interrupted by the discovery of Lieutenant Dominic McCabe and his partner standing at the entrance of the ballroom. You want me to cuff him? Dominic’s underling asked him while beholding George’s hysteria.

Don’t bother, the lieutenant said with a smile. We’re old friends.

Be that as it may, the two officers approached the trespasser who made no resistance, only a concluding supplication. The time of decadence is at an end! Once more George turned himself into a megaphone and once more his entreaty was rebutted with a collective, derisive ovation at the sight of this broken man being led away by the law’s guardians, his shoulders hunched, his head bent in frustration and disbelief, looking for a clean exit before the fire could resurface.

II

Outside the sun and moon had already rotated shifts and the latter disappeared into the distance, past the province of the human eye. In its absence, the darkness wrapped its ponderous cloak around this part of the world, drooping from the apex of the city’s skyscrapers onto the pavement, blackening the crevices of the alleyways and darkening the peering glass of the apartments where the residents nestled safely inside. The darkness furrowed its heavy brow at the befuddled strangers feigning their way through its midst. Dense, sticky fog hovered high in a collective patch and swallowed the light to soften the intrusion from the modern-day Towers of Babel without a thought of their encroachment on the celestial tenants above. The wind befriended the night and in exchange for its cover, personified the strong current, giving it the power to push, gathering strength from above the edifices, then teleporting to where the poor passers below walked, hurdling them from square to square of the pavement into one another, guffawing egregiously at every assault. The clouds, sensing the impending doom, had long gone, their cotton fibers no longer drifting aimlessly through space as a jellyfish vacationing in its native waters, electing instead to imitate the urgency of a scuttling captain upon the realization he had stumbled into a squall.

Borrowing from these elements and adding its own contributions was the inchoate rain – gelatinous drops with the weight of metal as though some mischievous weather god was hurdling nickels through the atmosphere from the throne where he sat. These dewy parcels were gavels from a furious judge, pelting out the verdict by way of dents on the rooves of cars and welts upon the people’s skin who firmly felt the spattering of applause. Amidst this tempest, George and Dominic emerged, attempting to somehow step in between the hail. George’s thoughts had already turned inward, and because of this preoccupation, he walked to the rear driver’s side of Dominic’s car and waited for the officer to unlock it, unconcerned by the deluge chilling his body. Dominic brought his hand above his brows and folded it, extemporizing a visor to prevent the rain from obstructing his view. Seeing George’s stare intently fixed on the ground as if the answer to his inquiries lay somewhere in the accumulating puddle, Dominic lassoed his detainee’s attention back to the here and now. Where are you going? he laughed. George lifted his head just enough to indicate acknowledgment. We know each other better than that, Dominic continued and with a nod, motioned to the front passenger seat.

Dominic and George certainly were not strangers, and thus the schema of the two of them riding together was familiar to the lieutenant. Accordingly, the former initiated the formalities by allotting the latter the imperative of introspection. Dominic could only amuse himself in the interim at the sight of George’s nonverbal cues, sufficiently demonstrating his struggle with his thoughts with a jerk of the knee, quiver of the lip, or shake of the head. All of this Dominic found endlessly fascinating, wondering what frontiers had been traversed and what wastelands had yet to be wandered inside that crown of his. Through the use of dramatic irony, you the reader are privy to the secrets of Dominic’s speculation. Here follows part of the transcript: How could you have given in? You do not have the final say; who are you to tell anyone else how to live their lives? You are just as at fault as them. This was the moment you’ve prepared for. You were taught how to recognize it and what changes you should have made, yet you reverted to your old ways. You were supposed to help, not hinder. It doesn’t matter how you feel about the situation. The affirmation of this implication came from scripture: Judge not and ye shall not be judged: condemn not and ye shall not be condemned: forgive and ye shall be forgiven. Give and it shall be given unto you; good measure, pressed down and shaken together and running over, shall men give into your bosom. For with the same measure that ye mete withal it shall be measured to you again. This is the end of the discussion then. You were faced with a challenge to see how you would react and you failed – worse, you sinned.

George sank into his seat in light of this condemnation. He folded his arms at his chest to ward off the cold and positioned himself off balance to the right to shield his embarrassment. What consolation is there for me now? There isn’t any; it’s too late. George panicked in the broader sense. The arrival at this conclusion was more than George could take. He sat idly until at length his mind found solace before it could contemplate possible punishment. No, it can’t be too late! The God I’ve come to know offers infinite opportunities for salvation. Pay your penance and it will be as though none of this ever happened. This platitude brought immense relief to George. He untied his arms, shifting them loosely to his lap where his hands gently crossed. A smile overwhelmed him, but this was not to last, for George’s unconscious mind was working diligently replaying the events in question. In front of him fluttered the images of excess, of lavishness. All of that food and all of those drinks. They did eat, they drank, they married wives, they were given in marriage, until the day that Noah entered into the Ark and the flood came and destroyed them all. I was right! They were the true sinners; therefore, my condemnation was correct. George’s inner narrator assumed a truculent tone, his visage formed a menacing sneer as he conjured up more support. Likewise also as it was in the days of Lot; they did eat, they drank, they bought, they sold, they planted, they built. The celerity with which George’s thoughts were coming was too quick to be slowed. But the same day that Lot went out of Sodom it rained fire and brimstone from Heaven and destroyed them all. Even this shall it be in the day when the Son of man is revealed.

George’s paradoxes continued in this manner until a crucible presented itself inside a parallel vehicle. With insatiable interest, George studied the actions of a man at the conclusion of consuming a salty snack. George pressed his nose against the passenger-side window and saw the man lick the powder residue one by one from his greedy fingers. And here came the moment of truth. Don’t do it, don’t you do it! George commanded as if he and the stranger were communicating telepathically. He believed his experiment had worked when the man crumpled the bag and lowered it as to drop the wrapper into a cup holder. Maybe I was wrong about everything, George thought, unfairly selecting this individual as the representative of an entire race. Perhaps there is still hope, but George’s false reassurance only solidified his core beliefs as the man, in what George interpreted as a cruel prestidigitation, lowered his window and offered the refuse to the wind where it indecisively drifted before being impaled by a branch.

Did you see that? George shouted, startling Dominic in the process.

See what?

That man, he said pointing to the perpetrator. He just littered and right in front of a police officer, George continued, apoplectic. Aren’t you going to at least give him a citation? He committed an offense in plain sight.

I could if I would have actually seen him, but I’m sorry to say I didn’t.

Of course you didn’t. You’ll never see what you’re not looking for.

Has it occurred to you yet that it might have been an accident? How do you know the wind didn’t blow it out of his hand? the officer asked.

Has it occurred to you he did it deliberately exactly because of that kind of enablement? And why wouldn’t he? The wrapper served its purpose and was now of no use to him. He’ll be able to go on with his day without giving his infraction a second thought and as you have demonstrated, no penalty will be incurred. And what’s infinitely worse is the realization that there are trash receptacles on every corner, and even if there wasn’t, why couldn’t he have held onto the garbage or dropped it onto his car’s floor until it could be properly disposed of? What is this exigence people feel with ridding themselves of such refuse at the expense of pollution, and furthermore, when did this become such a complicated concept? George drew out his words sardonically as though he were speaking to a toddler. Garbage goes in a garbage bin. And you wonder why I hate humans.

Hate is a strong word, Dominic reminded.

I know. That is why I chose it carefully.

Seems a bit crass, but humor me. What should I have done? Should I have arrested him? Would the punishment then have fit the crime?

"No, because that maxim is fundamentally flawed. If the punishment fits the crime, that means criminals are breaking even every time they perpetrate, so I ask then, what is there to discourage them from repeating these unwanted acts? I’ll say again, the punishment cannot fit the crime; it has to far exceed the crime, so much so that the thought