Escape Velocity: The Anthology (33 page)

      
Entropy had won, and Lyle McAllister was emperor of all he could see.

Cartoon by Roberta Gregory

The Shower

Mark and Tony Ricca

The water was demandingly hot for this particular shower, but the harder-than-normal spray felt good on his aching neck. He massaged his wife’s fragrant bar soap on his well-defined chest. The right hand barely had to utilize any energy as the gravity of the soap glided down his rippled stomach.

      
Dillon’s mind lost all focus of the board meeting he would be conducting in a couple of hours. His usually regimented synaptic impulses were now clouded. He could not stop the downward mental spiral. Just like all the other times, his exacting stream of thought extricated a low sounding, “No... no!”

      
He shook his head from left to right, telling himself
not again.
His pupil’s dilated. He could not derail the hauntingly repetitious thoughts mixed with imagery unchanged, but like an early dream before R.E.M., Dillon could never understand his behavior, what the events encompassed, or the reason for it.

      
Now bent over, Dillon was leaned down near the bottom of the shower with his foot standing on the drain, allowing the water level to rise. His calf was burning. He tried in vain to hold back the uncontrollable scream that was building in his throat; the one he desperately wanted to suppress, now forgetting who and where he was. It echoed from the walls of shower like a scene from a horror film. His thoughts were so powerful that he could not override them, or control his unfocused mind.
Why should I fight it?
He thought.
I’ve never beaten it before.

      
Was this just a case of re-directed dissonance? Dillon had hidden every outburst thus far from his wife. Shanna could never discover his unexplained screams. He had sworn an oath long ago to keep this a secret from her.

      
Luckily, Shanna had never heard his unexplained enigma. She had a naturally great work ethic, and was an early riser, leaving two, or three hours before he awoke.
How could I explain it if she ever heard me? I couldn’t
. He knew normal people don’t climb into the shower and then after a few moments scream uncontrollably, simultaneously losing track of all space, time, and self. 

      
He’d rather be dirty, filthy in fact; or modify the hours when a shower can be taken, especially on the weekend, rather than to blurt out an inexplicable scream, or shout an unrecognizable noise, even with both hands covering his mouth.

      
Sometimes his hands were not quick enough to defend against the uncontrolled cacophony that emanated from him when his mind rejected control. At thirty-seven years old and having this unique problem for many years, he suspected that if anyone found out he would end up in a mental institution. There would also be his Father’s disgust. There had never been an episode outside the shower, and after so many years to contemplate and evaluate his flaw, his inherent weakness, he still had no answer as to why it always happened. What would his Father think, so perfect in every way?

      
Why only in the shower? Devoid of clothes, nowhere to run, naked in every way, perhaps? There was the uncomfortable realization that he must try to expose this personal weakness. Analysis outside the shower must continue where it is safe, rather than sweep it under the proverbial mat.

      
Dillon thought,
Is it because the shower is so small? Or is it mentally more complex?

      
No, he knew his father too well to reach out. He had to do this on his own. The episodes lasted a half-minute or sometimes longer, but the terror for a type ‘A’ personality losing control was nearly more than he could bear. He could act cavalier and say witty, self-serving things, but not anymore.
Why can’t I talk myself down off the ledge when it counts?

      
He had obsessed thousands of times on far-reaching or plausible excuses. Maybe when he is naked he remembers back to the most vulnerable time in his life, but he couldn’t see through the muddle anymore. Or perhaps it was something seedy from his past that his mind put a mental Band-Aid over. Hidden thoughts to protect his weakling mental state.
Yes
, he rationalized again;
it was for protection, self-preservation, a defense mechanism to help pacify. But it must stop.

       
Dillon dried off outside the shower, wanting to remove himself quickly from the place that had proven to best his limits of control. He wrapped the towel around his well-developed physique.

        “
Is this the day you seek out professional help?” Dillon said out loud in a servile tone. He looked sheepishly at his eyes in the mirror. The eyes looking back did not look like the eyes of a confident young CEO working for a Fortune 500 company. The eyes in the mirror were soft, and without confidence.
They say the eyes are a mirror to the soul,
he thought.
Could this be true?
 

      
Was his soul so weak and tormented like that of a baby who cannot communicate the simplest of frustrations? His eyes were red, as if he had just finished crying, but that was silly, young Dillon Bradford II would never cry. He thought himself weak due to this unexplained episodic quirk. Was today after the board meeting the day he would finally reach out to discover if this abnormal behavior had a rhyme or reason?

As morning went on, Dillon’s adroit mind along with his double-breasted suit considered ways of seeking professional help. He pondered options ranging from a standard visitation with a psychologist to perhaps someone less conspicuous, but closer to the never-ending possible topic; perhaps a pastor or maybe a priest. There was a decadent Catholic Church only a few blocks from his 48
^th
floor office.

      
Dillon strongly suspected now this was a religious neural engram that could possibly unravel into a frenetic mental take-over.
This mental trespassing has to stop,
he thought.
It’s been too long with the same creative excuses.
Yes, it is time to repudiate this invasive host that cannot be controlled or remembered.

      
Who in the hell created this unfriendly narcissist rebellion of self-destruction that controls me?
Dillon demanded a self-awakening of his own parameters. He had once heard a clinician talk about something similar on the television one night when he couldn’t sleep. All he could remember was that serotonin was artificially introduced and made that individual able to work through his problem similar to astral projection but more conscious and deliberate. Dillon was hard wired to think that mental counseling was a weakness, and that real men worked through their problems – like his father did – a man who believed in resolution and proper discipline.

      
However, Dillon recognized the difference between many of these people who were helped, and his own problem. Many of them recognized what their problem was, while he did not. Or the psychoanalysis they participated in eventually unlocked the hidden problem that manifested the individual’s mental illness. Dillon’s drawback was that there was no transparency, not even degrees of opaque. He had absolutely no understanding of what happened during the time he was out of control and screaming, which was always accompanied by feelings of total worthlessness. 

While enjoying dinner with his beloved wife at their favorite restaurant, Dillon was looking and nodding to her every statement, paying close attention to her tone and tenor. Simultaneously he was also listening to the people behind them talk about a man’s mental salvation through the mental vehicle of a psychologists ability to make the man’s body to go limp as he was put in a state of unconsciousness.

      
Dillon was contently listening to Shanna yet not missing a word of the other conversation. But he never caught what was the main problem other than this man was healed of whatever malady had afflicted him. By this time had already forgotten the essence of what his father had ingrained in him, and a simple thought crossed his mind.

      
Suicide.

Dillon’s plush office made him feel in control. He had just finished a meeting with men and women twice his age as the chairman of the board. The board meeting went flawlessly. He thought it was late in the day but the sun was abnormally high for that time of year. Regardless of the planetary position, he had to get home to his wife as negotiating traffic between Century City and Malibu would take hours. He was apprehensive as he did the math on his fingers calling out the rest of the night’s priorities; “Get through traffic, stop at the corner wine shop, have dinner with Shanna, watch a little television, talk about her day, go to bed – and then wake up and take a shower.” Dillon’s face tightened, his hands immediately turned clammy. This was not the man who hopped over the ottoman as he came into his office after the board meeting.       

Dillon was a visible mess as he shot a look at himself in his office mirror on the way out of his comfort palace. He decided to take the stairs just in case someone might see him looking mentally and physically disheveled.

       
He manually opened the door to his Porsche Turbo 991 Cabriolet rather than doing his usual jump landing into the driver’s seat. Before he started up his personality extension he looked in the rearview mirror and saw his eyes welling up with tears. He activated the Porsche’s Bluetooth, punched in three numbers, and the car spoke to him. ‘Say a city and state... or say other services.’ 

Shanna was already home making dinner. She had recorded last week’s cooking show and now watched the host from the kitchen television with the volume up. Shanna was petite, but loved to cook and eat. The dish she made before was good, but she had left something out.
This second try should turn out perfect,
she thought. Once Dillon came home the entrée would be ready to flash-fire with a little vermouth. He was into the fire and fresh seafood fettuccini at their favorite restaurant in Malibu.

      
Shanna lived life large. She loved Dillon very much as his exuberant personality and witty ability to tell the right joke at the right time kept her happy and in-love with her man. They had tied the knot three years ago after a long engagement. Dillon had kept saying he just wanted to make sure they were doing the best thing, after growing up as an only child with parents who were seasonally dysfunctional, four times a year, but proper beyond belief.

      
She kept teasing Dillon over all the excuses he gave her to keep putting off the wedding. She loved to tell all the stories to their good friends about how Dillon had an excuse for almost any possible contingency a man could have for not getting married. Shanna was so impressed with Dillon’s chivalrous behavior when it came to intimacy and staying over at his house. Shanna would always go on about how he was the perfect gentleman and treating her like a prized trophy. He had been different from any other man she dated. He said he wanted the relationship to blossom first before he would let her spend the night.      Shanna was impressed with his discipline. He made sure that even when things got hot and heavy in front of the gas fire, or lying on the blanket on the beach, essentially in Dillon’s back yard, that he always ended up driving her home. Or if they had a little too much wine, he would call a town car. He was always the perfect gentleman.

As the white antiseptic door opened, a nurse walked into the waiting room and looked around at the waiting patients. “Mr Bradford?”

      
Dillon stood up quickly and raised his arm. “That’s me.”

       “
The doctor will see you now.”

      
As he grabbed his leather gym bag, he retorted, “I am Dillon Bradford,” in a voice that screamed nervousness.

      
The nurse stayed about three feet in front of Dillon as they walked down the hallway. “Mr Bradford, we’ll be going to the end of the corridor to room seven. That’s our Aqua Room. I see you brought your bag, an extra set of clothes and miscellaneous effects per the instructions you were given?” Her soothing voice took Dillon’s racing mind off the procedure as they faced each other.

       “
Yes, I brought everything. I’m sorry, what’s your name again? I am usually more personable, but considering…”