The Evening Star

By Alexandros Dhavernas

In the specious fiction of the affluential American city of
Leutha, Alex, a late teenager caught in the throws of
narcissism, hiding behind the pale visage of the mirror,
burying his own self derelicts in the wealth of his family,
the flash of his persona, and designer lifestyle, slowly
falling into the madness of his own mental state, burying those around him in the surpluss of apathy of his mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514438169

Alexandros Dhavernas

Born in L.A. Alexandros Dhavernas found some solace in the soft madness bursting from the matrix of words spewing out form the dull persona of humanity, attempting to pull back the mask of commonplace insanity firing satirical shots through life's banality shining light on hidden alleys in the blank catacombs of the mind.

Book preview

1

A slew of familiar faces fade in and out of the crowd; I solemnly listen to its din as I light a black, kretek cigarette, but suddenly pull it away from the flame, as if, for some inexplicable reason, I am appalled by the act of smoking. This feeling quickly fades, and as I light the tip, I am fixated by the sight of the cigarette slowly being eaten away by the flame, and this feels too satisfying. I pull the match away, blow it out, and sip my coffee. I am searching for a metaphor in what just happened, but as I cogitate about such a metaphor, it all seems too cliché and I am about to write a note in my phone about this when I notice the family in the table next to me is giving me a loathsome look and their faces, which appear much more like masks, remain stern and s till.

I sit alone in this café, pondering my life. I’m eighteen, about to graduate with a 3.9 GPA, which really bothers me, despite being the valedictorian. I’m the only son of a not impecunious family, attractive, intelligent, with a bright future, no job, and a brand new Mercedes, the third my parents have bought me since I was sixteen. My girlfriend is seventeen, the youngest daughter of a penniless family, is a talented photographer (probably), works two jobs, has a 2.3 GPA, and is gorgeous. Her name is Alison. We have reservations tonight at my favourite restaurant, and I think I’ll wear my charcoal grey Armani suit. She’ll probably wear the violet Dolce & Gabbana dress I bought her for no reason last month—if she can get her cat’s fur off it.

I’m currently wearing a midnight blue jersey suit, a maroon cashmere turtleneck, and black leather loafers, all made by Gucci.

As I’m sitting here a familiar face walks up.

Hey, Alex. How’s it going? it says.

Hi, Jim.

We, or rather he, begins talking as I light another cigarette, stare out the window at the clouds, and wonder if it will rain.

Excuse me, sir, a waitress walks up to me, you’re not allowed to smoke in here.

I put my cigarette out in the coffee and ask for another cup.

So you have any plans for after graduation? Jim asks.

I say something, not sure exactly what, and I start retreating back into my mind; it slowly dawns on me that I haven’t eaten in three days and I begin to look over the menu. Nothing looks appealing, but I order something when the waitress brings me my coffee.

Paradise Lost was written by John Milton after his release from imprisonment in 1667, and as I consider the political atmosphere that surrounded it, I begin thinking about Lucifer. Milton’s Lucifer.

Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.

My inner thoughts are still wrapped in this seventeenth century poetic English, and of those thoughts I find the contention over Milton’s eloquent epic. Was he in support of the rebellion against God, the liberation of mankind, and the proliferation of free thought, or was the poet, of the Devil’s party, as William Blake put it, that was antimonarchical and in favour of regicide really in support of the wicked, tyrannical god?

I find those perspectives of the work stem from the exclusivity of the paradigms with which the parties of such contention included in their analysis, thus causing me to believe that both perspectives could be true and that perhaps Milton saw Lucifer as wicked and liberator and saw God as both tyrannical and benevolent. It is my belief then that this must have been Milton’s mental construct, and the actualisation of this was achieved by dividing the dichotomies among God and Lucifer by portraying Lucifer as a liberator, God as a tyrant, Sin & Death as tyrannical malevolence, and The Son as liberator. Therefore, in Paradise Lost, Milton presents two tyrants who represent King Charles I and his heir, and two liberators who represent Milton himself, all of which should be obvious when given Milton’s political involvement with Oliver Cromwell.

So I heard you got a new car, he says.

What?

A Mercedes, right? Is that it? He points to the maroon Mercedes SL65 AMG Roadster out the window.

Yeah, that’s it. I actually had it built to my specifications and decided to fly to Germany to approve it before it was shipped. The dealer in town didn’t have exactly what I wanted. That trip to Germany lasted about a week, during which I stayed in a rather posh hotel in Affalterbach. I took a taxi each day to AMG where I had odd conversations, sometimes in German, with people in the lounge. At one point, I took the car on a three hour drive to Nürburg where I drove it around a race track there a few times. I flew back after being satisfied with the car, and it arrived at the Mercedes dealer here soon after.

Why?

What do you mean?

I mean why did you have to get a new car? Your last one was fine. I sense malevolence, maybe jealousy, in his voice. And as I look at him I notice that he’s wearing an ill-fitting black hoodie, baggie black jeans, and a cheap black beret. His long, straight hair looks particularly greasy, and he seems to have more acne than normal.

Well I guess you could say I wanted a change. I am becoming bothered by his inquiries.

A change?

Churchill said, ‘to improve is to change.’

You tend to change quite a lot.

And to perfect is to change often.

Fucker.

I see. He responds, almost dejectedly. Well, I should go. I’ll see you at graduation.

See you then. I smile, feigning mirth at his intrusion into my lunch.

He walks back to his table where the unsightly girl sitting there, whom I haven’t seen before, stands up, kisses him and they walk out together.

I met Jim when I started at this high school as a sophomore. My parents wanted me to pursue my piano playing, so they enrolled me in an art academy. I didn’t complain. It was certainly a welcome change from the private Catholic schools I attended before. Jim and I have always had a mutual antipathy even though we remain friendly. I partly feel that way toward him because he dated Alison before me, partly because he is unattractive, poor, and Mexican, not that I’m racist, and also because his very existence is somehow egregious to me. Also his guitar playing is obnoxious.

My thoughts turn to Alison. I haven’t asked her what she thinks. She always thought me spoiled and it, for some reason, upsets her knowing that I have more money now than her family has ever had and that I will only have more in the future.

My food hasn’t come yet, but I feel that I need to go, so I leave a hundred dollar bill on the table and walk to my car, while putting on my Giorgio Armani sunglasses. It’s two o’clock and the reservation is for eight tonight. I drive to the shopping district and go into J Crew. The clothing here is a little inexpensive, but nice. I buy two sport coats, a pair of jeans, and one of every pocket square they have, some of which I already own. After I leave, I buy another pair of Persol sunglasses at Sunglass Hut. I then drive to my family’s three-story estate which sits at the back of Romulus, a gated community in the heights at the edge of the city, where I ignore my parents and head toward my study on the second floor to read The Aeneid, but as I walk past the multitude of mirrors in the foyer I stop and stare at my partially heterochromic eyes. They glare like a growing fissure in the black canvas of the night sky, opening up to a world of light that is so incomprehensible that the mind cannot begin to fathom it. This has always fascinated me.

2

I pick Alison up at 7:17. She is wearing the dress I bought her, and there are only trace amounts of fur on it. I get the feeling that she has been sitting on the couch watching TV all day. As we’re in my car, she starts talking about how she has plans with her friends next week, and this bothers me so much that I begin biting my left index finger. I almost draw blood. I tell her that I hope she has fun and I make a note to myself to see Ashley that day and to tell Alison about it. She hates Ashley and is convinced that I’m going to cheat with her.

At the restaurant I order Pigeon Rôti aux Petits Pois. Alison orders a steak. As we share an appetizer of Carpaccio and sip Sancerre wine, we begin talking about what to do over the summer. I suggest that we should go to California, even though I’ve been there too many times. She begins saying, But that’ll cost too much …

Don’t worry about it, I cut her off.

But I have to work. I’ll probably have more hours over the summer. I don’t think I’ll be able to.

Well, I could go by myself.

Don’t be ridiculous.

Then I could take a friend.

Like who?

Maybe Ashley. Alison stares at me indignantly. I take a sip of wine. Did I tell you that I have plans with her next week?

Really?

Yeah, we’ll probably go shopping or…

Or?

Do you like the wine?

How do you get wine anyway? You’re only eighteen.

I’m friends with the maître d’.

The what?

Don’t worry about it.

After dinner we’re sitting in my room and I’m playing Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C# Minor on my Bösendorfer 290 Imperial. Alison is reading some book about fairies. I stand up from my piano, walk up to her, and begin lasciviously kissing her on the neck. She puts the book down and starts grabbing the back of my hair.

3

I drive Alison home early next morning in hopes that her parents wouldn’t notice that she didn’t go home last night. We kiss each other goodbye and say that we’ll see each other at graduation. I drive to Starbucks and sit in a chair by the window, drinking a macchiato and smoking my e-cigarette. Graduation is tomorrow. I start thinking about what I should do today and decide to text Harrison. As I’m waiting for him to text back my mind begins wandering into the past. I have never been able to remember my childhood. Despite this, I still attempt to do so. My memories begin when I started high school. I remember the theatre of St. Lucy, drama class, girlfriends, drugs, uniforms, parties, twenty page essays, hallucinations, and poetry books by Jim Morrison. I stop thinking about it and focus on my coffee. Then a thought comes to mind: Alexis. My hands start shaking and I pull out my pillbox and take my Loraz epam.

Harrison doesn’t text back until 11:52 and I suggest that we get lunch together. We go to a small French café that he’s never been to and talk about college. As we talk I start thinking about how upset I was able to make Alison last night and I suddenly begin laughing hysterically.

What’s so funny? Harrison asks, surprised by my sudden cackling.

I run my hand down my face and stop laughing. Just… Alison.

What about her?

Nothing.

How is she, anyway? I haven’t seen her in a while.

She’s fine, hanging out with some friends next week. I’m suddenly upset.

That’s great. How have you been? I haven’t seen you since school ended.

I’m great. I got a new car. I look at it through the window and smile.

I noticed, he says laughing, It’s nice, really nice.

Thanks, I say smiling. What about you? What have you been up to?

I’ve been writing some poetry. He says shyly.

I’d love to read some.

Now?

Sure.

He pulls out his phone and presses the screen a few times then hands it to me. I take it and stare at the screen. I don’t read the poem. All I can think about since this morning is Alexis. I haven’t thought about her in so long, perhaps a year. Our food is brought to the table and I hand the phone back to him.

What do you think? He asks.

I love it. The imagery is incredible.

That means a lot that you said that. I know you read a lot of poetry and can be quite the critic.

After lunch we go see a movie with some famous actor who is rather handsome and this upsets me. We then go to a park and smoke cigarettes together. We start talking about philosophy and I tell him Nietzsche’s Parable of the Madman. Harrison asks why he lit the lantern and what the significance of that is. Paradise Lost comes back to mind.

He is the bearer of light, the Morning Star, I say as if I am being pulled into the words.

What?

Do you know who that is?

No, who? He is very curious.

Lucifer. Harrison seems confused. Lucifer brought forth knowledge and emancipated man like the madman who brought forth the knowledge that God is dead. Lucifer rebelled against the shackles God placed on the world and saved mankind from our slavery. I seem to be becoming obsessed with this.

Harrison cogitates about this for a long time and says nothing. I can tell that what I have just told him is in direct opposition to his Mormon upbringing and his mind is reeling from it.

I go home and find my parents absent. I jump into the pool in my Ralph Lauren swim shorts while I listen to the opera Don Giovanni. When I get out of the pool, I dry off with my Armani beach towel and go inside to look for apartments online.

4

G raduation is today. I wake up at 12:24 and as I get out of bed I’m suddenly melancholic. Alexis comes back to mind, and I light a cigarette. After finishing it I take a shower and get dressed in a white shirt with black topstitching on the collar and cuffs and smoke a bowl of DMT, like some quick progression hurling my movements forward

The graduation ceremony is monotonous and banal. I’m sitting next to Ashley and we keep looking at each other and smiling. I start thinking about the Raven Paradox.

After the ceremony I’m having dinner with my parents at 180, a high-end restaurant by our house. My mother gives me her glass of merlot and I’m wondering what Alison is doing. Probably having dinner at Denny’s or some other loathsome establishment. I take my Lorazepam for no particular reason and look up quantum entanglement online on my phone and as I read an article on it, I take notes on a receipt from my dry cleaner.

So how does it feel, son? My mother asks.

What? I spit out, irritated.

How does it feel?

How does what feel?

To be done with high school.

Nothing, I feel nothing.

Silence reigns for the rest of dinner after which I drive out of the city and park my car on the side of the road. I stand leaning against the door with the windows rolled and the car stereo on playing End of the Night by The Doors and I’m smoking a cigarette. I text Ashley and we talk about hanging out next week. She says she might not be able to because she has work all week. I tell her to just not go. But I have bills to pay, Alex, she texts and I can hear her almost shrill voice in my head. I’ll pay your bills. Don’t worry about it, I respond. I drive home and think about pursuing a career as a model as I stare at myself in the mirror and I notice that my canine teeth look particularly sharp tonight.

But it’s not like it matters.

5

I t’s 4:48 in the morning and I haven’t slept. I’m staring out of my window with my headphones in listening to Handel’s Dixit Dominus. I wonder if Alison is up. It’s doubtful. I take a shower and spend the next few hours reading a B. F. Skinner book and doing stomach crunches. At one point I call my therapist. There’s no answer. I wonder how others would feel about me if they knew what she knows. I haven’t even told her the whole truth about myself and I frequently