Reality
By Joseph DiMari
Copyright 2014 Joseph DiMari
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I abruptly left work. No, it wasn't time to leave, and it wasn't a holiday or anything like that. I just went to the supervisor and told him I had to go. And I went. The middle of the day. Something I'd never done in my twenty-year work span. Always on time. Never an unscheduled break. Never a sick day off.
Even with the sterling work record, I could tell he was upset, but I didn't care. A string had broken inside me. Or maybe it was a cord, thick as a bridge support, which had rubbed and worn, until it could bear weight no longer.
I got in my car, exhaling loudly, and thought to use my phone here in the parking lot, but decided against it. So, I drove to the park a few blocks away and called.
Yes, a counselor was available to see me right away. If they'd said no, I'm not sure what I would have done.
Or was I?
In half an hour, I sat across from a sandy-haired, neatly dressed man who introduced himself as Tom - only Tom - I guess, as a gesture of informality.
Fine. I didn't feel like being formal in the least. I felt only a need to unburden. To let go what had for so long, been the center of my concern - alright, of my life - for decades.
Tom began the session by mentioning the heat we'd had yesterday, and I cut him off, bereft now of all social amenities. I needed to know damn it. I needed answers quickly. Answers about the wretched companion inside me, who wouldn't let go, until I finally found the truth.
"Do you know who I am?" I said flatly, meeting Tom's eyes with as neutral an expression and voice level as I could muster.
Tom glanced down and turned over his information sheet. "Uh, you are Robert…"
I interrupted again, "No," and shook my head slowly, repeatedly. "Do you know who I am?"
Tom put a finger to his lips in thought before answering. "If you mean, do I know you personally, I'm afraid I don't."
I sat back, closing my eyes in torment. I sighed deeply. "I wanted this kind of answer: 'Yes! I know you as well as you know yourself, Bob. You love lasagna, just like Garfield the cat. Your wife has panic attacks at least monthly, and your dog broke his leg last week when it got tangled in the rope you had him tethered to. The right rear leg, to be exact.'
Couldn't you have said that just as easily?" The words came more as a sigh than a question.
Tom pushed his chair a smidge forward, and if his look wasn't of genuine concern, it was at the least, a great impression.
This time, it was his turn to shake his head. "Robert, uh, Bob, if we've met before, I sincerely apologize. I just don't recall…"
"You don't un-der-stand!" I found myself shouting. "You do know me. Or, at the least, I know you. And I know you because…I created you. Don't you see?"
I sat back, trying to collect myself, to think clearly.
"Oh, I know what you're thinking. God complex. Delusions of grandeur. Classic schizophrenia.
For years, I've been hounded by this thought: Am I alone in the world? Are everyone and everything only self-manufactured-conjured even-products of my being? How do I know you are real? How can I be sure your secretary out there is still there? That she hasn't evaporated into unreality until I open that door to leave? I know that I exist, but the fact that I cannot verify that others are real, are tangible creatures like me, is becoming more than I can bear.
I can't stand it any longer! I'm dogged night and day by this question."
Tom nodded, trying, I guess, as good therapists should, to look empathetic. First rule of therapy; don't let on you believe the Stones have left the auditorium.
He sat back in his chair, staring at the wall above me. "So let me paraphrase: You believe that you might be the only person who really exists. That everything around you is created by your thoughts, your consciousness. That nothing really exists but your consciousness. That reality is only thought, only illusion."
I pointed at him, finger trembling, nodding, part of the horrid weight of containing these feelings, lifted. "Yes…yes! Exactly!"
Tom shifted his weight, deep in thought. "And the thing that bothers you the most, is that you are powerless to prove it. Or, at the least, that you have not found a way."
His words came as healing water over gentle falls. I could only repeat, "Yes, exactly! Can you help me?"
Tom nodded slowly. "I believe I can. But first, I must ask one question, one all important question: Do you love life?"
In spite of my misery over decades, the answer was unequivocal. "Absolutely," I said.
Tom stared into my eyes for a long moment, before rising. "All right."
He went to his desk, opened a drawer, stooped behind the desk and appeared to be working with something mechanical. He stood, and in his hand, held a pistol. "I keep this nearby for protection, but today we'll use it in a unique way."
He sat back down and held up the weapon.
"This is a 45 automatic. It may or may not be loaded. If I say it's loaded, it must be true, because, if I am only the product of your consciousness, it actually is you believing it to be loaded. If it's not loaded, the same logic must apply. Do you follow me?"
I held up my hand as if to ward something off. "Now, wait a minute. You're going too fast. Let me think this out.
First, why would you bring a gun into the equation, especially after meeting me for the first time? I could very well be an unstable individual. I realize that possibility myself. It doesn't jibe with the actions of a responsible therapist."
It was his turn to hold up a hand. "Ah, but if I am your creation, we're merely cutting to the heart of things. That is, to prove once and for all, whether your belief is a reality."
I continued. "Secondly, how do I know that you're telling the truth? You - I - could be lying." I couldn't help staring at the large bore of the pistol. I knew enough about guns to realize this was no replica, no toy.
He nodded. "Good point." He stood, picked up a notepad from his desk and handed it to me along with a pen. "Without my seeing, I want you to write down whether the gun is loaded or empty. And you must be completely honest with yourself. Completely. Then fold up the paper several times to be sure I cannot detect what you wrote. And be certain not to leave an imprint on the other note pages."
I did as he said and laid the folded paper and tablet on the table in front of me.
I looked down again at the handgun. "What next? Do you point the gun at me and pull the trigger? If you're planning on doing that, I'm not ready for it. This all just seems too surreal."
He ignored my question and reached for the pad. "Now, I will write down whether the gun is empty or loaded, and I, knowing its status, must also be truthful." He rotated his chair away momentarily, and then turned back when he was finished. He placed the tablet on the table again and showed the folded paper in his palm.
My nerve was waning further, and I could feel cool sweat on my forehead.
Tom closed his fingers over the paper. "I know you feel this is extreme, and that is completely the point. It wouldn't mean much unless all the marbles were at stake. Would you not agree?"
I thought for a long moment. "You're right. It's time to put this to rest, one way or another. It's just that I…"
I feared he would raise the gun at this point, but he (I?) made another unexpe
cted move.
He handed the gun to me. "You may not examine the magazine or check the chamber. The noises you heard behind my desk may have been caused by either loading or unloading the weapon. Or maybe I just made the sounds for the sake of confusion. But I will say that I cocked the action and eased the hammer back down."
He said in a remarkably calm manner, "I want you to point the gun at my heart. Not the wall. Not the desk. Do that now, please."
I began to lift the gun, but dropped it to my thigh, my nerve leaving me. A long sigh, and I raised it again, sighting it directly on his chest. On his heart.
"And now, pull back the hammer."
My hand shook as I followed his direction. I was captivated, yet horrified as the hammer clicked mechanically into place.
And it was that sound that jolted me to the reality of what was happening.
I slowly, carefully, brought the hammer forward with my thumb and laid the gun on Tom's desk, shaking my head at the same time.
How could I have even thought of doing this? To risk someone's life to prove a theory, notwithstanding its all-consuming proportion? And coming out of the emotional funk, logic pointed to the fact that I could easily have been guilty of murder. My obsession had blocked this simple stark realization until now.
Tom seemed undaunted as he picked up the gun. "We will see this to the end."
He raised the gun and, for a moment, I thought he would aim and fire at me, standing in front of the desk. Instead, he turned it to his body, directly over the heart, cocked the hammer and pressed the trigger.
In panic, I backed away from the desk about five feet. My hand went out in a gesture for him to stop, the folded note paper dropping to the carpeted floor.
It was too late.
They say at times of extremely high emotion, that all perceptions, slow down. Indeed, it seemed the index finger's pull of the trigger and the fall of the hammer took seconds rather than the actual instant of time. But time's rhythm resumed when it completed its travel.
And harmlessly fell on the empty chamber.
I breathed out heavily. "My God. You could have…died. If I'd been correct, you would have died." I reached down, picked up the yellow paper and unfolded it.
I showed it to Tom. Showed him the word, loaded.
In turn, he unfolded his paper to reveal the word, unloaded. "Bob. Now are you certain your theory, your belief, is not correct? It's not, you know. You're not alone. We are all pieces of the universe, separate, yet together. Do you believe that?"
I nodded, and as I did so, threw the yellow paper into the waste basket beside the desk, a symbolic acceptance of a new way to perceive life.
I thanked him as I'd never thanked anyone before, left the office joyfully, waved at the secretary, who waved back, and walked out into a fresh world where the air seemed cleaner, the sky brighter. I was a man, newly released into the world. If there actually had been an Ebenezer Scrooge, I knew exactly how he would feel.
The old derelict rubbed his whiskered cheek as his eye lids cracked open to a new day. It wasn't exactly his usual rising time, but one p.m. would have to do. In fact, it would have been later if the voices hadn't disturbed him. He'd stretched a bottle over a whole night and part of the morning, and was still a might unsteady - that he knew even before he tried to stand.
He roused from the cardboard box and squinted at the vacant lot where he thought the voices had come from. There. Two men.
His sleep-ridden eyes suddenly widened when he heard the shot. He wanted to run away, but the whole thing was like a fascinating dream. One man tumbling backward, holding his chest, blood spurting as he fell. The other walking away through the scrub and litter in the empty lot, happily waving at some invisible presence, then getting into a car and driving off.
He hobbled his way to the site, as the life drained from the man on the ground. Standing above him he watched as the figure, the blood, and the gun beside him, became fragmented, unclear, until all finally disappeared.
"Dammit, now, Everet," he slurred. "You just gotta get a hold of yourself. Can't be seein' things like this no more. Better get a goddam job and get yourself together. Them goddam hallucin…ajaytions all over again, goddammit."
He turned to walk away from the scene, but noticed something standing out amid the dirty weather-faded debris on the ground. He picked up the clean yellow paper, read the one word on it, and stuffed it into his ragged pocket.
"And that 'bout describes you, Everet, my man," he mumbled.
"Loaded."
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