Mr. Archibald Life

I

Do you ever feel old? I certainly do.

Why?

I suppose it’s because there are things that I regret. Things that I couldn’t have possibly anticipated and things that I certainly couldn’t have changed.  Much like my mother’s regrets infact, when she says, “Ah, but alas! Circumstances were thus in those days, what could I have done?” A victim of her time. A victim of Life. What indeed could she have done and what indeed could I?

 Everyday, I find myself  adding to the list of do’s and don’ts for any future children that I may have. A list that seems to be ever populating by my own mistakes, by those dreadful regrets. It is rather absurd, and you will be quite within your rights to laugh. But you must admit that this incessant plodding on with Life can grow to weigh on you. Especially when Life seems to have a mind of his own, added to a rather cunning sense of humour. I must admit, I’ve grown quite weary of Life’s fascism.

And no. These aren’t pretensions to existentialism that them, unripe adults, seem so susceptible to these days. I’m sure you know the ones I am talking about. Say what you will, but I’ve had quite enough of Life and his mysteries. I must insist on putting my foot down. I simply haven’t the strength to submit to Life’s puppetry any further.

My father always said that I am rather pig headedly stubborn, sometimes with affection and sometimes with affliction. His advice to me was, “Work hard, boy. Work hard, and see to it that you find yourself in a place where you don’t have to answer to anyone. You certainly won’t be able to survive the ignominy of obedience. Take it from somebody who’s already tried.”

While I definitely am not a boy, I thought it was sound advice. My father didn't seem to care very much about what he called me, and I suspect that he preferred to think of me in neuter terms. While it was potentially perturbing, I decided to graciously accept it as his rather peculiar way of respecting my individuality.

But I digress. That’s forever been a fault of mine. For the better part of my existence, I've wholeheartedly believed in my own agency to be decisive of my fate. So much so, that for a time, I truly believed that if I wanted something bad enough, and if I worked hard enough, the obvious outcome was that I would unquestionably achieve it. It was like math to me. Want+Work=Result. It simply couldn't be any other way. But I was young, and failures were few, if at all. Variables were few too.  And I didn't know about this dastardly fellow, Life.

Then came the first failure. Of course, there were tears, and sorrow. I shan't bore you with those. What was truly disconcerting, however, was that my infallible equation had failed. Naturally, after much consideration and grave introspection, I concluded that this singular occurrence was most definitely an anomaly. How terribly naïve I was! I was convinced that this horrifying turn of events must have been the consequence of some sort of  lapse on my part, some small detail that I had foolishly overlooked. Thus resolved, I made a solemn vow to never allow this sort of thing to happen again.

But then, I hadn't yet had the pleasure of getting acquainted with our friend, Life.

II

This is story of how I met Life. I was, as I told you before, an unsuspecting youth, spry upon some baseless confidence and fuelled by a staunch, even moralistic belief in the finality of justice. I can see now, how I was simply begging for Life’s attention. Such easy prey I would have seemed.

I shall never forget that afternoon.  I had in my hand the invitation to a rather prestigious, if elitist, luncheon as I walked along the streets. The day was uncharacteristically cold for April, although there wasn’t  a cloud in sight, and you could see the glass towers of the city rising high and reaching for the sun, who upon this day bathed the world in her generous light.

 I should have known then, that the day held irony. And what a brutal and cruel irony it was. 

As I arrived at the venue, my coat and bonnet were taken by some immaculately dressed servants. Thereafter, I was ushered into a large pillared hall, whereupon my arrival was announced for the general benefit of the present gentility. My own invitation here was rather suspect given that my social standing was by far inferior to several here that I could recognize.

The place on the whole was rather opulently decorated, as you can imagine. Not being of a terribly sociable disposition I wafted about a bit till I found a plush looking couch piled high with cushions to rest my rather sore posterior upon. As we waited for all the guests to arrive I felt a gaze upon my back. You know? A sort of prickling at the back of your neck? I turned to find a certain gentleman, staring unabashedly at me. I would go as far as to call it bold, and certainly rude. He seemed to have that ageless quality of some elven king, one that gives the impression of great age but entirely fails to show any physical effect. 

With my attention effectively in his grasp, he made his way across the room in a swift and elegant stride and sat on the armchair adjacent to my couch. He then insisted upon studying me with that unnerving gaze of his for at least a minute, much to my annoyance, till quite suddenly he said, “Do you know why the chicken crossed the road?”

Naturally, I was taken aback; hardly sure of how to respond, now that the safe lines of established etiquette were lost to absurdity. Undeterred he said, “No?” while I continued to look blankly back.

“Because I wanted it to of course!” he announced and left as quickly as he had come.

At the time, I didn't understand why he sounded so triumphant about it. Perplexing as the little incident was, I'm afraid my rationally educated mind presumed that it must be some sort of strange jape. The man, evidently was quite bonkers and certainly not worth another thought, especially after that luncheon which as it turned out was to honour me along with those of my profession. The food was of the most excellent quality and entirely pardoned the lacklustre snobbery of the company. However un-ladylike it is dear, I must confess that I’m rather given to a weakness for food. And so the strange man was soon forgotten and that was that.

Except it wasn’t.

III

“I will take something from you.” The barest whisper. The ageless man walked past me with his easy grace, the very evening after the luncheon. I was almost near my humble quarters upon the 5^th Avenue, having concluded all engagements for the day. As you can imagine, my rather delicate nerves did not take very kindly to this, seeing as you are quite familiar with my need to control my own destiny.

My father did always say that I wasn’t one for handling stress. I wouldn’t be caught dead admitting it, but I knew there was truth in it. I worried on it like a dog with a bone, and perhaps I can admit in the strictest confidence to you, that I was just a wee bit afraid. You must understand that I had no premonition whatever as to the identity of this rather alarming gentleman, much less why he should want anything from someone as pedestrian as I.

I bolted all the doors and windows with particular caution before bed that night. I felt almost silly checking under the bed and in the closet. How was I to know then, that mere locks and bolts weren’t enough to keep him at bay? Why, a fully manned and armed fort wouldn’t be enough. Nothing would.

It started with a single stone. And then more till finally one managed to break through the glass. Then came a tide of angry voices followed by the fire. Who was it that had said to never underestimate the power of stupidity when backed by numbers? No name came to mind, but it was all that I could think of in my hysteria. The torch had landed in the room my parents slept in. My mother was away, at her sister’s. I watched the room burn in horror, knowing that my father was in it, and also knowing that it was too late.

And here’s the irony that I promised. The angry mob outside my door were the very people that I had hoped to help. It was why I was honoured at the luncheon that very day. But their ignorance kept them from seeing how I might have been their benefactress. Ignorance that I couldn’t begrudge or blame, for I knew that it wasn’t their fault. They might have been kinder, had there been a benefactor. Alas, I could only be a benefactress.

I stood helpless in a burning house. To go outside was suicide yet I could not very well stay in. In all the noise and confusion, sirens blared. When the fireman found me, I was sitting fast and stiff by the tea table, tearing the table cloth to shreds. It was as I was being dragged out of the burning house, that I caught sight of him across the street. A mere observer casually leaning on his walking stick, watching this macabre drama unfold.

He would not be suspected of anything though for some inexplicable reason it was abundantly clear to me that this was his doing. My rationally educated mind simply could not fathom how or why, but at the sight of this madman I knew in my gut that it was his fault.

The next morning I was quite prepared to forgive that momentary lapse of reason. You tend to feel better with the sun shining and illuminating the world around you. It makes you a little less prepared to believe in the monsters lurking in the shadows. Little did I know that the monsters roamed free in plain sight everyday. We simply failed to recognize them.

In the days that followed, it became clear to me that years of my efforts were not only being undermined, but were being scrapped altogether. Nobody wanted to risk another tragedy. How cruelly the crowds turned, my dear. How cruelly I found myself reduced to the ghost of the person I used to be. Hesitant, unsure of myself and afraid of society, I found comfort in little and pleasure in less. My profession soon became my torment.

The horrible injustice of it all left in me a deep sense of betrayal. It made me think: this time I was positively certain that my infallible equation remained unmolested by lacking of any sort. Infact, my efforts were on the verge of being rewarded when things went awry. It couldn't have been my fault then! It definitely was not! There was the irrationality creeping in again, that unruffled figure across the street.

What was I to do? Accept defeat and carry on? Or act upon an inkling of irrationality that I was taught to abhor so?

IV

At the time, I made several discreet enquiries about the ageless man and I must admit that I was most perturbed by his sheer non-existence. It was most strange. Several people at the luncheon remembered seeing him, and some had even spoken to him, yet no one had the faintest notion of who he was.

I however, continued to persist. Oh, certainly I was being quite obstinate about it, dear, but wouldn't you be too? If you were to be cheated of your honest work? If your family was to be taken?

Several weeks after the incident, I sat nursing a cup of coffee at a café I frequented. Having exhausted yet another lead, I was scratching away at my notebook of secrets, trying to discover another, when I felt that unnerving gaze on the back of my neck.

“It would seem that I have inconvenienced you greatly. May I sit down?”

I nodded at the little wicker chair across the table. A most horrible welling of anger, resentment and grief stubbornly stuck at my throat, preventing any flow of words. I watched him sit with some amount of ceremony, not trusting myself to speak.

“Silly girl!” he said, “You merely had to ask! Why ever did you bother to go through all this trouble trying to find me for a silly little interview?”

“But who would I have asked, Sir? It seems to me that you're quite the slippery sort.”

“Oh, you needn't have asked anybody! You should have just written to me.”

“And how pray am I to write to somebody when I don't know where to address it?”

“Why you simply write it in a bit of paper, crumple it up and throw it to the wind!”

“That’s absurd! It would simply get lost. How is one meant to find words given to the wind?”

“Ah! But if I'm right, you suspect that I'm not simply anyone.”

“Who exactly might you be, then?”

“Goodness, aren't you silly! I thought it ought to be clear to anyone with half a brain by now. I suppose you can think of me as fate, or simply as the horrid person who messes things up for no perceivable reason. Or for any reason at all, for that matter! Archibald Life, at your service.” 

“Well then, Mr. Life, did you kill my father?”

“Again with the silliness! I thought I just told you that.”

So the irrationality had triumphed to my very great surprise. It wasn't the culmination of some completely random and utterly mundane series of events that had led to that fateful night. It was entirely choreographed, leaving me with just one more question.

“Why?”

“Oh, my dear girl! Because you are so terribly amusing!”