The Fight

Today I am going to deviate from the narrative of my on-going fictional story to discuss some thoughts that I have had about something that is real - depression and anxiety.  I know, this is probably a little bit shocking for some of you who have been reading the story, but I recently had a conversation with a friend who struggles with anxiety and depression.  I was completely unaware that he was having any such struggles, but there he was talking about it.  Not being afraid.

He recently started a website/blog with the purpose of bringing the real struggle of depression and anxiety out of the shadows and into the light.  Check it out: http://www.skatetofight.com/

            The results of any one of the “Left Brain or Right Brain” tests that I have taken are always the same – 92-96% right-brained.  The right side of the brain is the control center for creativity, imagination, intuition, art, feelings, visualization, daydreaming, etc.  When I make observations, typically they stem from captivating visuals that spark some sort of feeling.  I vividly remember beams of sunlight breaking through autumn leaves, scattering bright rays of light on the ground.  I remember it because of the warmth that I feel on my face.  The image is cemented in my mind as goosebumps make the hair on my arms stand on end.  I remember it because I think that what I see would make a dynamic painting.  When I finally make it home I begin to paint.

            It is through this colorful filter that the world around me is viewed.  That is what the chemical makeup in my brain dictates, so that is how my surroundings are perceived.  But, what if someone feels no warmth on their face, despite the fact that it’s there?  Some people drive to work or stay at home with their kids in a world that is seemingly devoid of warmth and color.  Some people can’t hear the contagious laughter around them as they sit, all alone, in a room full of loving family and friends.  This is how anxiety and depression have affected my life.  My struggle isn’t a personal struggle, but it is for my mother, who has struggled and fought against it for 8 years.

            I have watched, somewhat helplessly at times, as she has drown in the physically, mentally, emotionally debilitating monster that is anxiety.  I have listened as she has fought to crawl out of the suffocating dark of depression while the people around her continue to smile, interact, and enjoy the color of life.  Despite a degree in Psychology and multiple classes specifically devoted to counseling, I can’t completely understand what she is going through, but I know that it is real.  It is impossible for me to fully relate to my mother or anyone who fights anxiety and depression every day, but I know that it is there, looking them in the eyes wherever they go.

There are a few things that I know that help me to understand.  A combination of formal education and experience with my mother have brought me to these conclusions.  (Keep in mind that these conclusions are based on my own experience.  Each situation is different, so observations and solutions will be different for different situations.  The key is to get up and never stop trying.)

The fight is real.  It is physical.  It is mental.  It is emotional.  Just as patients for any disease may feel drained after overcoming or fighting a sickness, individuals with depression and anxiety feel drained after days, months, and years of fighting.  It is NOT just in your head.  Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.  Sure, there are mental preparation activities and exercises that can help, but anxiety and depression are not imagined struggles.  The perception that you are the only one struggling does not make it any less real.  Please do not let the feeling that your struggle is not real bring you down.  It is real.  Fight it.

You have to allow for help.  Maybe people cannot relate to or do not fully understand what you are going through.  That does not mean that people cannot help.  Friends and family are going to want to help you and that means they may invite you to activities.  You may not feel like participating.  Do not do anything that is going to make you feel worse.  Absolutely do things that may make you feel better.  This may require you to put yourself out there a little bit, and that’s okay.  Just be sure that your positive health and well-being are your priority when deciding whether or not you want to participate in activities.  Try things out so that you can find something the works.  This does not mean that you are going to find something that works every time.  Be patient and fight.

You are not alone.  Whether you find solace in the company of others who can fully relate to your struggle or in the company of supportive friends and family who do not share your struggle, this conclusion remains the same.  You are not alone.  I know that you feel that you are alone, but, I cannot emphasize enough that you are not.  People care.  People are there.  People want to help and support you.

Whatever your struggle may be, whether it be anxiety, depression, or both, please do not stop fighting.  Your fight is as real as the fight against any other disease or ailment.  For some of you depression may be in the rear-view mirror, but the fight to stay ahead continues.  Some of you are staring this hulking monster dead in the eyes.  Keep staring.  Never back down.  You can do this.  Fight.

Meeting Mark - Ch. 2 continued...

Mr. Hatter looked over to the man called James and chuckled heartily.

“I’m afraid he’s right, James.” He looked back at me. I was surprised to see that his grin was still present, “But, of course we were not intending for the package to ever reach the post office were we, Mr. Holmes?  Well, what can we say? Well done, sir!”

I could not help but laugh.

“Surely you cannot be serious, sir.” I looked around the room in utter surprise, searching their faces for some clue that they were joking with me.  “I demand to know what joke has been made at my expense and, additionally, I would like to know how you, sir, know my name.”  I pointed an accusing finger at the back of the rough man’s head.

He stood and turned to face me,

“I assure you that there is no joke unless, of course, you’re referring to this: James, give me a hand, will you?”

Mr. Hatter’s face split into an uncontrollable grin as he raised his hand and bit his knuckle, oppressing bouts of laughter.  The husky man burst into fits of uncontrollable giggles, doubled over and collapsed back into his chair.  James scowled at him vehemently and turned his back to the scene.  He returned to his former position next to the window and again began to nervously glance through the slit in the curtains.  The muscled man in the chair was now practically rolling on the cushion as he tried to speak.

“No!... I’m quite… serious… I need… a hand with this!”  He exclaimed between fits of hilarity.  He reached back behind his head and began to pull at the back of his scalp. “Come, Matthew, a hand. And I knew your name because...as Mr. Hatter has said, we've been talking about you.”  This man seemed to be extremely skilled in making others out to look foolish. Mr. Hatter composed himself enough to walk around the desk to the chair, grabbing the man’s scalp, he began to pull.

The skin on the strong man’s head began to stretch and I covered my mouth to suppress a gasp as I noticed that his eye sockets no longer matched up with his eyes!  With one final tug his skin came completely free and underneath, I had to see it to believe it, was another head!  This one was significantly smaller than the last and quite a bit younger.  His jet black hair was a ruffled, sweaty mess and his chin and cheeks were covered in scruff.  The man had an overall disheveled look about him as if he had not shaved nor showered for days.  He smiled cheerfully at me, produced a small knife from his pocket and stabbed himself directly in the gut.  I let out a scream of panic that was mixed with the laughter of this man and Mr. Hatter.  There was a loud popping noise and the man before me slowly began to shrink right before my eyes until he was nothing but a new head swimming in a mess of over-sized clothes and, heaven have mercy, flabby skin!

With a smile and a shrug of his shoulders, a smaller man in a somewhat tattered suit stepped out of the larger man’s body and extended his arms as if completing some trick at a circus.  I found that I could do nothing but stare as he stood there, smiling.  Finally, after what seemed like ages, I was about to compose myself enough to find words.

“What is the meaning of all this?” I asked, still in a slight state of shock.  The new man (for lack of better explanation) before me opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Mr. Hatter stepping forward.

“My dear friend,” he said, walking to my side and putting an arm around my shoulder, “you must forgive me, for I have failed to introduce you to our most important clients.” He pointed to the curious man by the chair, “This is Mr. Holmes.  He… well, suffice it to say that he works just two blocks over on Baker Street.  I believe that you have something that would interest Mr. Holmes, yes?”  I looked at him quizzically, “I’m referring to the business card that was given to you by the stranger on the street.  He took the package and gave you a card, did he not?”

I reached into my pocket and presented the card to Mr. Hatter,

“How did you -” Mr. Holmes dashed forward and snatched it out of my hands with a ‘Thank you!’  

Mr. Hatter smiled, “Ah yes. I’m glad that is all sorted out.  And this,” Mr. Hatter gestured to the man standing in the partial shadows by the window, “is Mr. Holmes’ new associate, Captain James H-“

“That is quite sufficient for my introduction, thank you.”  The man in the corner jerked his head quickly as he interrupted, his dark eyes fixed on Mr. Hatter.  Mr. Hatter simply smiled and continued; however there was something different about his voice.

“Well, suffice it to say that he-“

“I said that is quite enough.”  Captain James’ voice was calm and powerful as he continued to stare at Mr. Hatter with his deep, dark eyes.  His eyes could hardly be seen through his tangle of hair except for tiny specks of reflected light from the window.  Mr. Hatter seemed to understand that he had gone too far.  He smiled nervously around the room and cleared his throat loudly.  For the very first time since knowing the man, I could tell that he was uncomfortable.

“The Captain has his own motives,” Mr. Hatter said, rather weakly, “what can I say?” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and shared a concerned look with Mr. Holmes.

I, being completely overwhelmed by the circumstances, stole a nervous glance at this Captain James fellow as he shuffled past the window, shoved his right forearm deeper into the front of his coat, and sat down on a creaky wooden chair against the back wall of the office.  As he settled into the chair my eyes moved slowly to his right arm which had, almost imperceptibly, begun to twitch.    

Meeting Mark - Ch. 2 "Business Partners and Friends"

Seeing that my deviated course had yielded nothing but new strangers and one lost package, I found myself presented with a choice - I could either continue my pursuit and attempt to recover the item that I had lost, or I could present my situation to my employer (leaving out, of course, all fanatical details) and supplicate forgiveness.  Neither option presented the slightest of positive outcomes as Mr. Hatter had disclosed that the contents of the package were of the highest importance (he would surely be stricken by the news of it becoming lost) and both of these strangers, one of which I had foolishly decided to pursue, seemed uncatchable.

Deciding that I had simply had my fill of whimsical mystery for the day I stowed the card back in my pocket and made my way back to Mr. Hatter’s office.  I had concluded that I would much rather take my chances with a man of reason than pursue these other men who, more than likely, were simply detached pieces of my imagination.  I slumped back down the busy street toward the corner of Lewis and Carroll and rehearsed what I would say to my employer when he would inevitably ask how the package had become lost.  I could not, surely, give a fully detailed account as to what had transpired as that would paint me as nothing more than a raving madman.

How is it that I came to be caught in this most strange of circumstance?  Curiosity had indeed caught me around the arm and pulled me into quite a sticky situation.  I began to pace the sidewalk in front of Mr. Hatter’s office, finalizing a simple version of the story that I was to tell.  Heavy curtains now covered the large windows of his office, indicating that the meeting with his client had taken a serious turn.  Perhaps evidence for some case was being presented and Mr. Hatter had smartly shut the curtains so as to discourage prying eyes.  A simple ruffian had confronted me on the street and had taken the package.  It was simple enough to not merit detailing questions aside from the obvious inquiry as to what this man was supposed to have looked like.  He had pinned a knife to my back and had threatened to spill my blood if I turned around.  His face is a mystery to me.  I was prepared for what was not going to be an enjoyable conversation.

Being finally satisfied with my story, I ascended the brick steps up to the large wooden door of our law firm.  The bronze doorknob rattled under my nervous hand as I slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside.  The polished wooden floors glinted for a moment as the light from the relatively gloomy day broke through the door.  The landing was again thrown back into relative darkness when the heavy door closed behind me.  My soft footsteps echoed down the long, wide hallway as I made my way to Mr. Hatter’s office door.  Pausing for a moment outside I listened intently to the muffled voices coming from the other side of the door.  It sounded as if he was in deep conversation with another man but such was the thickness of the door that I was unable to discern any details.  I took a small, calming breath and knocked three times on the door.  The sharp knock echoed through the landing as the voices from Mr. Hatter’s office ceased.  Quick footsteps approached the door from the other side and it swung open.  I stood face to face with Mr. Hatter, the shadow of a smile danced on his face as he looked me in the eye.

“Ah ha! My good man!” his face broke into a pleasant grin, my heart plunged.  “Come in! Come in!  We have recently been discussing your extraordinary efforts here at the firm!”

Mr. Hatter swung open the door and extended an arm, inviting me to enter.  I smiled slightly, nodding my head, and stepped over the threshold into his familiar office.  I felt entirely drenched in guilt at his kind words.  My head hung and my eyes suddenly found great interest in my feet.  It brought me great distress to think that this man who had trusted me entirely ever since the day that we first made acquaintances was about to be fully disappointed.

Upon taking a few more steps into the room, I remembered that we were not alone and looked up to see who Mr. Hatter had been meeting with all morning.  The two men before me could not have been any more opposites in their dress, age, and demeanor.

The older man seated in the chair in front of Mr. Hatter’s large wooden desk was grizzly and seemed too large to be allowed.  This is not, by any means, to say that this man was portly.  No, no!  Slouched over in the leather, high-backed chair he looked more like a bear than a man.  His shoulders were hunched but broad and muscular, as were his arms and legs.  Alas, the entirety of the man’s body seemed to be made of hulking, chiseled muscle.  He wore tattered brown work boots that had been patched in various places and his light blue pants were in similar disrepair.  By the smell of him it was clear that he worked at the docks, for the man carried with him the fragrance of seawater and fish.  His upper body was covered in a tightly knit, faded yellow coat that went down just past his waist line.  It was the type of coat that was mostly worn by sailors as its tightly knit design did not allow much penetration of water.  His bald head was coarse and overly scarred.  One scar in particular stretched from the very top of his head, down his forehead and ended just below his left eye.  His face seemed entirely askew with small dark eyes and a short, crooked nose.  His jaw protruded slightly forward and was cocked a little to the right.  This man was clearly an experienced brawler who had been in a dozen too many fights.  He looked quickly over his shoulder as I entered, made fleeting eye contact, looked me quickly up and down and then turned to focus once again on the opposite wall.

His younger associate stood next to Mr. Hatter’s desk and had yet to look at me.  Instead he stared intently through the small slit in the curtains where a sliver of light shone on the bookcase behind the desk.  He was tall and slender and seemed to be more rigid than the other man.  While the older man slouched and seemed overall uncomfortable (he began to fidget with the sole of his shoe), this man stood straight as a post and barely moved but for his darting eyes.  

The man was dressed completely in black except for white shirt cuffs that protruded slightly from the end of his coat sleeve.  His black, slightly heeled shoes were long and shiny.  He wore tailored pants with crisp creases and cuffs.  His long coat hung down below his knees and was buttoned tightly around his neck.  He had long, dark hair that fell over his face and eyes.  His hair was the only thing on his figure that did not seem to belong.  Here was a man dressed in the finest of fabrics yet his hair looked mangled and unkempt.  The skin on his face was tanned and slightly weathered.  Under his long, slender nose was a thin, greased mustache.  His lips curled into a frown as he extended his left arm out and parted the curtains a little more.  His right hand was stuffed into the front of his coat.  This mannerism prompted me to be reminded of (I felt extremely odd as I had to stifle a laugh) a tall, wicked Napoleon Bonaparte.

I stood on the hardwood floor and was overwhelmed by my own foolishness.  My employer had been speaking of me to these gentlemen and now I was to stand here and inform Mr. Matter that I had lost possession of his important package.  The door shut behind me and Mr. Hatter clapped me on the back as he walked back around to sit at his desk.

“I was just informing these gentlemen that I had sent you to deliver their package.” Mr. Hatter said with a fond smile.  

My stomach seemed to drop into my knees.  The package had actually belonged to Mr. Hatter’s very stern visitors.  My head dropped again as the chances of a decent outcome to this series of events was whisked away.  The man by the window looked sharply at me and then at Mr. Hatter, who was now leaning back in his chair and smiling.  Mr. Hatter nodded to the tall man and then looked back up at me, his eyes twinkling.

“Well?” Mr. Hatter clapped his hands together and twiddled back and forth in his chair.  “You have it, I assume?”

My head shot up and I looked quizzically at Mr. Hatter.  He simply beamed back at me.

“H-have it?” I looked from Mr. Hatter to the other men, who were now both eyeing me intently.  “But...you didn’t want the package delivered, then?  Forgive me; I am at a complete loss as to the motive of the questi-”

“By the powers, does he have it or not?!”  growled the tall man in the corner, balling his left hand into a fist and stamping his foot.

“James.” the man in the chair raised a hand in silence, “Surely you have noticed that he is not in possession of the package and it has clearly not been delivered. So, I would assume that he must have it.”  

The bulky man  who was seated turned to face me over the top of the chair; “Otherwise...” he paused for effect and looked quickly from my shoes to my face.  The amount of showmanship on display was something that I would never have guessed would come from a man such as this nor would I have guessed him to speak so eloquently, “...he would have informed his employer immediately upon his return. Furthermore, have you ever seen a messenger looking so distraught after a successful delivery?”  He looked me up and down again,  “Clearly he does not have the package, nor was it delivered. If you require further evidence, consider his shoes”  He looked quickly at Mr. Hatter and then back at me, smiled and slouched back down into his chair, his fingers slightly intertwined in front of his face.

“Pardon me, but, his shoes?” inquired Mr. Hatter

“Yes, of course his shoes! Oh, don’t be so dull. The post office is situated four blocks north of the corner of Lewis and Carrol and, therefore, in order to deliver the package our boy would have had to cross the street and unless I am entirely mistaken it has been raining outside for at least a fortnight,” the man looked around the room, scoffed, and then continued, “So, unless the streets have been paved since this morning, they would be made of mud and unless Mr. Wilshire is highly trained in shoe cleaning...” the man glanced at me again, “Unlikely… then he must not have strayed from the sidewalk, therefore he must not have delivered the package.”

Of all the strange things that I had seen today this surely had to be the strangest.  The other experiences could merely be dismissed by daydreams or my own imaginations.  This, however, was truly extraordinary.  This rough and tumble man who smelled of fish and was covered in the most brutal of scars spoke with the grace of a Cambridge law professor.  I opened my mouth to speak but found no words.  I stood, mouth drooping, looking from the back of the man’s chair to Mr. Hatter, who merely smiled back at me as if completely amused.  The man by the window stood silently, a look of great loathing on his face, his eyes fixed on me.

(Next Post: Chapter 2 continued)

Meeting Mark - Ch. 1 continued...

Keeping a good distance behind, I followed the man back down to the end of Carroll Street and past our handsome building on the corner.  A tinge of guilt crept up my body as I pulled my own bowler hat down over my brow so as to hide my face should Mr. Hatter steal a glance out the front window of his ground floor office.  I knew that, Mr. Hatter being currently engaged in a meeting, his opportunities to look out the window would be slim, but I could not chance his inquiries.  

Having successfully passed my place of employment, I continued my pursuit of this strangely dressed and most intriguing man as he skillfully darted around the corner of Lewis and Carroll street dashed down the sidewalk.  It was there on the busy sidewalk, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the street, that I first questioned the sanity of myself and of the situation (although, in retrospect, the question of sanity should have been addressed upon descending the white brick stairs of Mr. Hatter’s law firm and laying eyes on the man of whom I was in such curious pursuit.)  I, being by no means a gambling man, would put my entire week’s wages on the notion that I was clearly the only one who was able to see the man in the bowler hat.  As this man continued to weave his way in and out of the crowd, not once did his peculiar attire merit the slightest attention of the men and women crowded along the busy street.  He skillfully navigated his way down the sidewalk, squeezing between happy couples and, once or twice, walking horizontally along the wall of a street-side building in order to avoid a crowd! I on the other hand was forced to barge my way through the waves of pedestrians in a flurry of ‘good mornings’, “pardon me’s’, and “excuse me’s’.  Upon seeing the man quicken his pace as he curled around the corner at the end of the block I was forced to abandon all sense of normalcy and start to run in order to continue my pursuit.  I had not taken three quick strides when I heard the sharp voice to my right.

“He’s gone.  You will not catch him now.”

The man’s voice was so clear and so piercing that it was as if his vocals were the only noise on the bustling street.  I stopped dead, immediately trusting the clarity of his observation. My pursuit had ended more rapidly that it had begun.  More than one inquisitive eye met mine as I came to a stop and, glancing around at the curious looks of the people on the street, straightened my hat and tie and tried to show some semblance of normalcy. .

What was more curious?!  My frustrated mind was ranting, because I had clearly been made out as the odd person in this situation, a man with a messenger bag running down the street, clearly delivering a package, or the curious behavior and dress of his other odd person?!  Of course my behavior was seen as odd simply because, I was becoming more aware of this as all eyes were now fixed on me, the other passersby could not see what I was seeing!

My mind had been working so frantically that I had momentarily neglected the flicker of hope that I had been presented with.  I quickly turned to see who it was that had informed me so suddenly that my chase was over.  My eyes, or perhaps my mind as a whole, must have been deceiving me, for as I turned I saw that the street behind me was completely empty except for a tall, oddly dressed man leaning carelessly against a light post.  To describe this new stranger as ‘oddly dressed’ simply does him immense injustice.  His dress was curiously similar to that of the man with the strange book under his arm.  However, the man before me had clearly taken better care of his wardrobe.  It was either that or every piece of his clothing had been recently purchased that very morning.

His shoes were made of the finest black leather and had been meticulously polished so that they glinted as if coated by glass.  The stranger’s pants were made of a material of deep purple and were designed with purple pinstripes just a shade lighter than the pants themselves.  Wrapped around his slender frame was a long, clearly custom tailored, coat of the same material as the pants, but of the same exact color as the pinstripes.  He appeared to be wearing a vest or shirt of radiant sunset orange, though I could not see clearly into the coat.  The collar of the coat was fur-lined with black, shiny, and clearly exotic fur.  The cuffs of his shirt were also lined with the same fur.  His hands were covered by tight black leather gloves that were embroidered with deep purple stitching.  In his right hand he held a cane which glinted with a coat of the finest silver I had ever seen.  Golden veins flowed from the top of the cane to bottom like the stripes of a tiger or zebra.  His collar was pulled up tightly around his neck and a silky curtain of hair fell from his dark purple top hat and framed his pallid face.  The little that I saw of his face -essentially his chin, brow, and cheeks- was almost grotesquely white and his eyes were deep brown and piercing. He looked me square in the eye with a sense of wonder. It was enough to make me look away.

He smiled at me and stood up to his full height.  The man was at least ten inches taller than I and was perhaps ten inches thinner.  He reminded me of a jovial scarecrow in need of some sun.  He tapped the brim of his hat with his cane and said again in his clear, smart voice,

“He’s gone.” he now rapped the end of his cane on the pavement and stepped out in front of me, “But I’m here.  Perhaps I can quench your curiosity for the strange and unexplained.”

I stared into his darkest eyes. It was as if I were staring into the reaches of the sky. He simply smiled back down at me as if very pleased with himself.  He slowly sidled around me, keeping his eyes fixed to my face. I kept curious eye contact, or as much as I could manage.  As he stepped, his coat opened slightly and I saw a glittering belt buckle embedded with diamonds and was able to confirm to myself that he was, indeed, wearing an elaborate vest of deep, pastel orange.

“Wh-where did everybody go?”  I said nervously, now desperate for some interaction. The man seemed friendly enough (his smile certainly did not lack charm), but it was this current situation and the events of the entire morning that awakened my nerves.  “This street was,” I paused and spun around to look up and down the entire street, “full of people...”  It was difficult for me to find breath such was the level of my astonishment.

The tall man sidestepped his way back to the light post and gestured to the empty street with a wide sweep of his gloved hand.  He chuckled and looked from me to the empty street.

“On a day like this, can you be certain that you saw what you saw?  A street such as this, at this time of day, cannot simply be full of people one moment...”  I gasped in amazement and fell backwards onto my backside as the street was suddenly full of busy bodies hurrying along the sidewalk and walking up and down the steps of the shops that were crammed together on the block.  “...and then empty the next.”  The street was again completely unoccupied.  

I stared from the vacant street to the tall stranger who continued to look, as if transfixed, toward the other side of the street. Not so much as a piece of discarded parchment could be seen on either sidewalk.  He lowered his hands and looked back at me, his gloves squeaking slightly as he moved his fingers over his coat and placed his thumbs in the little pockets of his vest.

“What is happening to me?”  I asked in a shaky voice.

He swept behind me as swift as the wind and stood on my other side.  For a moment I felt completely engulfed in his flowing coat.  The man reached down and offered me his hand, which I somewhat reluctantly took.  He pulled me to my feet, put a hand softly on my shoulder and continued to stare across the street.

“I understand that you’ve been having a bad day.  You’ve been... seeing things that you should not have seen.” He paused to breathe in the crisp afternoon air.  “The man with the book, for instance...”  He cocked his head to the side and looked down at me, “Have you seen him before?”

“Uh, no... no I had not seen him before.” I answered, now starting to feel extremely uneasy with the situation.  What an odd question!  Of course I had never seen such strange, unexplainable things!  And what of this?!  What strange power did this man possess that he could make entire crowds of people disappear? My outrageous thoughts were betrayed by my confused look.

“Of course you haven’t.” he said with a smile.  “But that book... It sure is a curious thing, isn’t it?”  I looked up into his face and it was clear that he was not expecting me to answer.  The man looked back across the street.  “I guess it doesn’t matter what you think of the book, he will have, eh...immersed himself completely in its pages by now.”  He smiled back down at me, took his arm off my shoulder, and began to walk back down the sidewalk.  He turned abruptly and extended a hand toward me.  I could see that he was holding a small card of the most brilliant white paper.

“I really am looking forward to seeing you again.” His face split into an enormous grin, “Go on.  Take it.”

I reached out slowly, never taking my eyes off his face. His smile was less pleasant than a moment ago. It now seemed as if a wild animal was caged behind he countenance. I took the card and glanced at it.  The card was blank and I immediately thought that he had handed it to me face-down. However, upon flipping it over I was confused to see that the other side of the card was also blank.  When I looked up to inquire of the absence of information, the man was striding away down the street, his cane swinging at his side.  He was making his way toward the corner of the block where the strangely dressed man with the book had disappeared.  This was strange behavior indeed, giving another man a blank business card when no business had been agreed upon in the first place!

“Sir!”  I shouted, “Sir! There is nothing here!  You must be mistaken!”

“There is no mistake!” he shouted without turning around.  “When you need to know who I am, you will be informed!”

“But, why would I need to know who you are?!”

The man turned at the end of the block.

“That depends on how familiar you are with what you had in your possession when you arrived here.” The man had not yelled his answer, but I clearly heard him as if he were still standing next to me.  He tipped his hat, rapped his cane on the pavement and disappeared down the perpendicular street.

The sidewalk was suddenly full of people busily going about the errands of the day.  I looked down at the blank card that the mysterious man had given me and for a moment thought to toss it into the gutter and brush the whole thing off as a strange fantasy.  Stuffing the card into my pocket instead I began to walk back down the street toward the postal office.  I reached for the bag on my hip and froze.

My messenger bag was gone.

I spun frantically on the spot thinking that I must have set it aside in all the confusion, or perhaps it was dropped on accident.  The bag was nowhere to be seen on the sidewalk, nor was it anywhere along the muddy street.  The bag was gone and with it the parcel that I was to deliver.  My heart suddenly filled with panic as I raced back down the street toward where the tall man had disappeared around the far corner of the block.  Upon rounding the corner I found myself looking down another empty street with this new stranger nowhere to be seen.  Remembering the card, I jammed a hand hastily into my pocket and extracted the slip of paper.  Upon leveling it with my eyes, I saw that it was still blank.  The man had stolen my bag along with the package from Mr. Hatter and I did not possess the sense to even notice.  I looked down the street again and then back at the card.  My spirit leapt when I noticed that there appeared to be something written on the opposite side.  Quickly flipping the card over, I saw long, slanted lettering written in the brightest purple ink.

W. Wonka.

(Next Post - Chapter 2: Business Partners and Friends)

Meeting Mark - Ch. 1 "A Chance Encounter"

I loved pretending to have serious conversations about silly things with Mark because, sometimes, he would talk very seriously about very silly things.  His eyes would focus and become as engaging as flickering coals in the belly of a fire pit.  His speech would slow so that your imaginations hung on every word and the steady cadence in his speech was like that of the constant whisper of the tide slithering up the shore.  His was a pattern of resonating speech followed by pauses that would slice their way into unconscious thoughts.  His voice had a way of making you recall things.  Or perhaps it had a way of making you imagine things.  

My memory strains when I try to recall the last conversation that I had with Mark.  It has been so long - so very long.  Perhaps the reason for this is that the silkiness and refinement of his voice soaked into the unreachable corners of the mind, never to be extracted except by the kindling of new, original conversation. That is where you come in.

Perhaps I should begin this trip down the rabbit hole by recalling for you the first time that I saw Mark, and then telling the story, as it were, all the way up to the last time that I saw this man.  He was dressed in the most peculiar attire - although I will always remember him for holding a large leather-bound book under one arm as he skipped jovially down the cobblestone sidewalk.  His whole being seemed to radiate with the light of the sun and he was completely unencumbered by the lightly falling rain which had gone uninterrupted for the past fortnight.  His worn shoes were in want of an experienced cobbler’s touch and his pants, their tattered hems dancing around his ankles, required the maintenance of a skilled seamstress.  The fact that his clothing was beyond repair had clearly not held this man back from attempting the needed repairs himself.  Mismatched patches flecked the legs of his pants like unwanted splatters of paint on a masterpiece of Michelangelo or Da Vinci.  The pants were made of a material of the deepest midnight blue (or so appeared to have been the original color of the fabric) and flowed around his legs as if they had been pieces of the wind materialized and then tailored to fit (or, perhaps, more appropriately in this case, not to fit but merely to be worn).  The pants continued up his noodle legs until they collided into a large black coat which had the most magnificent coattails that kissed the ground with every bounding skip.  The coat, unbuttoned in front to show an immaculate silver vest, was in the same state of disrepair as the pants.  The coat also appeared to be made of the same supple material.  The shoulders and collar of the coat were also worn and spectacularly frayed.  Atop the man’s head there grew a mess of hair darker than a moonless night and certainly more restless. Perched on the very top of the mess, slightly askew, was a shiny black bowler hat with a pink flower tucked into the side.

Despite all of this, distracting a spectacle as it was, I was mostly intrigued by the brown leather book which was over-sized, disheveled, and tucked under one of the man’s arms.  The pages of the book were a sight in and of themselves, sticking out at odd angles as if every one of them had been previously ripped out and then haphazardly strewn back into the binding.  The man was holding the book in such a way that the binding was placed firmly underneath his armpit with the tattered pages of the book facing the sidewalk.  I watched as on multiple occasions a page or two fell free from the binding, floated down inches from the wet ground, and then got pulled violently by some unknown force back into the book.  The man did not seem to notice anything out of the ordinary.  Here he was, dressed in this peculiar manner, skipping through the rain as the pages of his mysterious book broke free and then returned back into place, yanked by some unseen anomaly.  Admittedly, and quite needless to say, my interest in this man was stimulated enough to allow me to forget the small brown paper package, wrapped in twine, that I had so eagerly promised to deliver for my employer.  

I had been lucky enough, being as young as I am, to find work as the financial clerk for a small law firm on the corner of Lewis and Carroll Street.  The building was a handsome two story red and white brick structure built in the Queen of Hearts District of Dnalrednow Township, UK.  (The letter ‘n’ in the city name being silent in the English language since the province was taken from the Saxons nearly 150 years before.  However, the spelling remained the same).  The early history of the district, as recorded while under the watchful eye of the Union Jack, was that of gambling and other raucous behavior.  Thus the district was named for a piece of its gambling history - The Queen of Hearts.

The building was erected as the second of such in an effort to build a sprawling business district in that appendage of the blossoming city.  The first being a general store of a most curious name where I first found employ.  The gamble, excuse the pun, paid off and places of business began to sprout and flourish, driving out ruffians, gamblers, drunks and other such persons of low moral standing.  They were promptly replaced by the upper-class businessmen of Britain and other middle class folk with the highest of aspirations, such as myself.  Due to the fervor of the times work was relatively hard to come by and I was happy to jump at the first opportunity, even though it was not in the field of law.

When I first laid eyes on this odd man with the book under his arm I had been working not two months for an acquaintance of my cousin, Alice.  This acquaintance was a sharply dressed, ambitious, middle aged lawyer from Cambridge with short, slick black hair who was hardly to be seen without his monocle and a puff of pipe smoke around his visage.  He also had the most impressive collection of tall top hats which varied in color. “A top hat for every coat!” he would say in his charming voice.

Before coming to Dnalrednow to start his firm he had spent the previous six years in London laboring over a case of serial killings by a man known as Jack the Ripper.  Having brought the notorious Ripper to justice, my employer sought the quiet life of a small-town lawyer in Dnalrednow.  Having successfully secured the lease to the main floor of the building on the corner of Lewis and Carroll, he had packed up and moved in within the week.  I had been urged by my dear cousin, Alice, to make an appointment and to seek employment with this man.  They - Alice and my new employer - had met at Cambridge where he studied law and she had been studying the outlandish “science” of psychology.  I had always thought the two to be a smart match as they seemed to be counterparts in intellect -this being based purely on how she spoke of him in letters home.

I had been working two years for the local general goods store, Tweedle Brothers Co., and was anxious to start a profession in law when I received correspondence from Alice.  Having also studied law at Cambridge, but being unable to find employment in that respected line of work, I had jumped at the opportunity of running the general store but dreamed of working tirelessly in the field of law.  It was on a day just like this one that I had received the letter from Alice regarding the possibility of employment with her old college friend.

Dearest Cousin,

    I hope that this correspondence finds you happy and in good health.

It has come to my attention that a dear friend of mine from Cambridge, by name of Matthew, has begun a firm not two blocks from your employ at Tweedle Brothers Co.  It would please me very much to see you under his employ.  If you wish to make yourself stand out apart from other applicants to his firm, you may, in an informal setting, remind him of the name that I playfully bestowed upon him of “Mad” Matthew.  I am quite sure that he will in the least enjoy a good laugh at being brought to a remembrance of our joyous excursions while together at Cambridge.  At the very least a good laugh will be had by myself at the thought of him, now a respected lawyer, being called by this silly name.

He is expecting your correspondence no later than Saturday next.  I do hope that you find this opportunity most agreeable and to your liking.

Most Sincerely,

Your Dearest Cousin, Alice.

REPLY TO:

Mr. M. Hatter

Corner of Lewis and Carroll #1

Dnalrednow, Queen of Hearts, UK.

   

I hastened to send a letter to Mr. Hatter the following morning and anxiously went about my business at the general store.  I found myself in a most gripping mood of anticipation and fear that it may have affected my work on that particular day.  The thought that I would have the chance to showcase my studies in the field of law engrossed me so much that I jumped to my feet at every patron who entered the store.  Upon seeing that he or she was not the mail carrier, I went about normal business in an admittedly slothful manner.  

Though my excitement seemed to prolong the duration of my wait, Mr. Hatter had responded promptly and, to my surprise, in person the following afternoon.  He stepped into the store, theatrically removed his tall top hat, introduced himself in a flurry of smiles and invited me to join him for afternoon tea and sweet cakes.  Having been raised in a society where sweet cakes were only indulged on special occasions such as birthdays, I inquired as to the occasion and informed that, being a stranger, I wished not to intrude on the birthday of a family member or close friend.  Mr. Hatter chuckled and rolled the brim of his hat in his hands,

“My dear friend!” he began, “if a simple birthday is cause for celebration then a day without birthdays is certainly worthy of the same festivities! After all, they are both days in which people are born and people are not.”  I could not find room to disagree and, upon hearing his refusal to accept my declining, I readily accepted his invitation.

I wasted little time in becoming good friends with Mr. Hatter and found him to be most enjoyable and good natured company.  He laughed heartily at my mention of “Mad” Matthew Hatter and indulged me with stories of the most embarrassing nature that he insisted I relay to “Dear Alice”, as he so fondly called her.  He, in turn, wasted almost no time at all in appointing me to work as his financial clerk.

It was on a business errand for Mr. Hatter that the strange man crossed my path on that drizzly afternoon.  I looked down at the neatly folded and tied parcel in my hands and resolved to deliver it later in the day, along with my other errands.  Stowing the package securely in my messenger bag, I hastily followed the man in the bowler hat.

(Chapter 1 continues with the next post)

Meeting Mark - An Introduction to Strange Events

My name is Jonathan Wilshire and nothing fantastic or whimsical has ever happened to me in my entire life.   Forgive me, what I mean to say is that that statement was perfectly true until I had a chance encounter with a strange man in a bowler hat - but, we will get to him and his eccentricity later.  At this time I feel compelled to demonstrate that of my many good and admirable qualities none are beyond the realm of perfectly fine and acceptably normal.  That is to say that nothing fantastic or whimsical... had ever happened to me in my entire life.

As I reflect upon the events that transpired and, ultimately, changed my life (for good or for worse I still do not know) I feel a sense of hesitancy in writing any of it down.  You see, writing such experiences as mine on a physical sheet of parchment has the, perhaps, undesired effect of making those experiences physical and real.  As I am not particularly fond of applying such descriptions to the things that have happened to me I am somewhat reluctant to continue.  Alas...

As I attempt to describe some of the experiences that I had over 20 years ago I will attempt to do so as if I am telling a story rather than recalling actual events.  I do this because I am still reluctant to believe that any of it actually happened outside the confines of my subconscious.  I sincerely hope that you, the reader, will not judge these events to be the imaginations of some madman, but, in the very least, the recollections of an extended dream that was had by someone who is perfectly sound of mind and has never had anything fantastic or whimsical happen to him in his entire life... or, I should say, hadn’t had - well, I think that you get what I mean.  I do not wish to scare you away by reiterating my normalcy.  At the very least it should be said that it is my hope that, given the abnormality of these events, readers should glean some sort of entertainment from reading these experiences.

My upbringing was quite normal - well, that is to say it was… well, it was perfectly… The events of my life that had transpired before what is to be recalled in this manuscript are very realy and, in every sense, they are completely... that is to say they… well, suffice it to say that before the day that I was asked to deliver the small, brown-paper package nothing fantastic or whimsical had ever happened to me in my entire life.

(Next Post - Chapter One: A Chance Encounter)

October 31, 1981

Glowing autumn leaves hissed and scratched the pavement as they were swept down the warm street.  Small patches of leaves checkered the sidewalks, splattering them with golden orange and blood red.  The last remnants of sun shone through the branches of the trees lining the narrow lane and cast long, skeletal shadows.  The street slanted carefully down from the west edge of town toward the town square which was situated in the exact middle of the settlement.  Each house on the block was quaint, showing signs of age, but looking comfortable nonetheless.

As the sun slowly set, the warmth was not the only thing hanging by a thread; a few of the trees clung desperately to the last of summer’s leaves.  The effect of the dying sun gleaming through these last vestiges of life on the branches mirrored the magnificent stained-glass windows of the small church situated in the center of town.  The church windows on the west side of the building were a splattered masterpiece of oranges, reds, and yellows.  On evenings such as this, when the sun blasted through the windows, it painted the inside of the church with radiant, fiery geometry.  

The town square was a cobblestone intersection that had been cut off from traffic and was specifically reserved for pedestrians.  The wide streets made for a perfect open market and benches had been put in place on each corner.  A circular bench surrounded the small war memorial that had been erected in the middle of the square.  Positioned on the northwest corner was the church with its large stone steps leading up to dark iron-framed oak doors.  An entryway to a small graveyard was set to the right of the stairway and was bordered by dark juniper bushes.  Through the pale light, headstones could be seen stretching along the side and then wrapping around the back of the church.  Just across the intersection was a brightly lit pub that doubled as a meetinghouse for the townsfolk.  On most nights the atmosphere of the pub was that of muffled conversation and good-natured laughter.  Tonight was a quiet night.   

Deep green grass reached through the scattered leaves which had fallen in thin patches, like bright puzzle pieces spilled from the box.  Waist-high picket fences surrounded each lawn and were adorned by a variety of rose bushes, blue boy holly, elderberry, and other shrubs.  Aside from the natural decor, most fences and doors were speckled with fake spider webs, dancing paper skeletons, smiling straw scarecrows, and plastic witches on brooms.  Nestled on most every porch were small groups of pumpkins carved into smiling jack-o-lantern faces.  A man at the end of the row was placing two flat, cylindrical candles inside the couple of jack-o-lanterns resting on his steps.  

Three small children, dressed as a skeleton, a witch, and a pirate, burst through the front door and began kicking up leaves in the front yard.  A woman appeared in the doorway, stepped over the threshold, and shut the door behind her.  She gently brushed her light brown hair behind her ears, folded her arms and smiled at the children.  She watched them play for a moment before beckoning to them and calling for them to come to her.  Once the children had settled down the mother busied herself handing each of them a bright orange cloth bag, exchanging pleasant words with her husband as she did so.  He carefully placed the top back onto each pumpkin, sheltering the candles from the slight breeze.  The children, bags in hand, bunched together at the front gate as their mother zipped up her jacket and traced their steps down the walkway.  The family exchanged pleasant waves as the father turned to enter the house and they opened the gate and made their way down the street.  The porch light flickered on and the dim eyes and mouth of the jack-o-lanterns danced in the fading sunlight.  Up and down the street, young children accompanied by parents and small groups of teenagers flooded the lane, each dressed for the night.  

A porch light burst to life and the door crept open as two young boys, both dressed as pumpkins, stepped out into the night.  Their mother squatted down behind them, spun the youngest around and began fiddling with his puffy orange scarf.  As she made what she felt were necessary adjustments she glanced at the older boy.  She felt a small pang of guilt as he looked longingly up the street.  A group of children who all appeared close to his age boisterously approached a nearby house and situated themselves on the porch.  The doorbell rang, followed by a merry chorus of “Trick or treat!” from the group.  The boy looked over his shoulder at his younger brother and then met eyes with his mother.  She smiled at him and patted the younger boy’s shoulders, signaling to him that she was done.  He jumped off the front step and skipped down the walkway toward the small white gate.  The mother put her arm around the older boy and pulled him into a half hug as they followed.

“Thanks for going with your brother.  I know that it’s probably no fun for you to go trick-or-treating with your younger brother,” the boy looked down the street again at the retreating figures of the small group of trick-or-treaters, “but, he is so excited to go with you,” she concluded in a low whisper.  She scrunched his shoulders in a loving hug.

“I know.” he said, half-heartedly.

Despite his desire to make the best of things, the boy’s tone was flat.  He could not help it.  The mother pulled him close again and kissed the top of his pumpkin head.

“Next year you can go with your friends, okay?”

“Okay.” the boy even managed a smile.  He got along just fine with his younger brother, but had approached the age where he would much prefer the company of friends.  The mother opened the gate and waved at the two pumpkins as they waddled down the street.  She folded her arms tight against a short gust of cool night air and glanced across the street before turning around.  She could see the family through their open front window.  A father was playing with his son.  The boy was far too young to participate in trick-or-treating.  She thought for a moment and realized that the boy had only turned one a few months ago.  She turned and walked back toward her house where her husband was standing, leaning casually against the door frame.  He looked at her knowingly and she knew that he was aware that she was worried.  This was, after all, the first year that neither of them had accompanied the boys as they made their rounds trick-or-treating.

“They’ll be fine,” he said softly, bringing her in close for a hug, “the street lights are on and they’ll be back in less than two hours.”

The couple turned on the threshold and closed the door behind them.

She couldn’t help but glance at the clock every five minutes or so, but she prided herself in the fact that she had only gone to the window twice - a fact that she was now joking with her husband about.  Night had fallen completely and the soft glow of the street lamps warmed the night.  The moon shone in the starless sky, casting stark white accents on everything it touched.  The boys had been gone for almost an hour and forty-five minutes and, admittedly, she was hoping that they would have been back by now.  She fought the urge to go the window again.  Aside from the maternal worry, it had actually been a very pleasant night alone with her husband.  With two young boys they rarely had any time to themselves, so these nights were cherished.  She fought the urge to go to the window again.

Another fifteen minutes passed and she felt herself growing legitimately anxious.  Her husband, again sensing her feelings, assured her that the boys were just fine and that they would be home at any minute.

“I just want to go look,” she said, jokingly; though the joke lost its luster as she made her way to the front window.  Her heart jumped as she saw two boys in pumpkin costumes opening the front gate and making tracks toward the house.  She flew from the couch and sprang to the door, swinging it open with a wide smile on her face.  The boys were at the threshold and both were beaming up at her.  She resisted the urge to hug them both and resorted to asking how things went.  Both boys began talking excitedly about the different costumes that they had seen and all the treats that they had obtained.  Stepping aside to usher them into the house, she glanced back across the street.  She saw through the open window that the father was still playing with his one-year-old son.  Orange light bathed the front yard and glowed through the small glass windows at the top of the door.  The man’s wife entered the room, smiled, swung her red hair over her shoulder and placed her hands playfully on her hips.  They smiled at each other and exchanged cheerful words before the wife scooped the child up in her arms and left the room.  A cloaked trick-or-treater opened the gate and made his way toward the house.  

She looked away from her happy neighbors, shut the door behind her own little pumpkins and turned, smiling, to listen to their enthusiastic account of the night’s events.  Over the commotion she never heard the sound of splintering wood as the door to the house across the street was blown off its hinges.  It was just another Halloween night in Godric’s Hollow.