KEVIN’S ENTROPY

Life’s windows of opportunity are very much like windows, in that the mechanism is simple. What is elusive and thus daunting, is that we already know well the ones to close them.

CHAPTER THE FIRST: THURSDAY

The sun dips and another glass goes down easy. The hum of consciousness locks into a familiar frequency. At the passing of yet another forgettable day, the descent nurtures a more tolerable sense of reality. A reality no less slippery, mind you, but a lone candle now speaks myriad truths. And demands attention. Certainly, laws of physics reveal themselves in the dance of a flickering flame; how much more closely must I look?

I’ve become aware that most noteworthy ideas come to those who are least likely to remember them. I believe that for this reason alone, language and the art of ‘writing’ are invaluable. I trust that a great many have communicated with otherwise unreachable versions of themselves, by simply leaving their thoughts on a page to be stumbled upon in the morning. A supremely therapeutic means for, and variety of, dialogue? —we shall see.

The sun is gone for now, and what’s left are a few golden hues so soft as to barely breach the nearest window. Earth’s gravity and the thick of its atmosphere bend light so that it may be seen minutes after it has been otherwise lost to the horizon. Another swift glass bends the apparent fabric of space, now strewn imperfectly before a deteriorating state of consciousness. Some find a day’s last light beautiful—what about the last coherent insights of a burgeoning drunk?

Kevin sighed, thoroughly unimpressed. He held no inclination to read any further. A pot of coffee was his only want; there was no space for the taunting of one’s tendency to self-destruct. One cannot stand at the wayside of a world laying itself into wreckage… not without distraction.

Today he woke well before noon, only minutes ago; it was perhaps nine in the morning now—and it was the ceaseless chattering of a core drill that woke him. It was shredding up lengths of concrete, either out in the parking-lot twenty stories below him, or on the balcony adjacent his bedside. The work was being done out in the lot, of course, but the effect was the same; he was awake and resentful.

He hated even the notion of getting up so soon; nobody worth knowing ever rose with the sun. And alas! —some fool with a drill was rushing the day along, and ensuring that Kevin would have fewer lucid hours to spend that night. Fewer hours to spend amongst truly interesting people. His people. Misfits, freaks, even enemies. 

So, it had been his wont to shun the morning’s gold, and the busy songs of its people. He could not; he tossed and turned to no avail, as the incessant drilling would not allow the dusts of slumber to fall unbroken. He grew quite annoyed, and then opened his eyes only to ensure that no strangers rattled around unwelcomed on his balcony. And then it was done; it was time to rise, for he had been summoned by an early sun. So relentlessly it poured.

Less he spend the rest of the day awash in self-pity, permeating every pore of the concrete walls called Home, he’d have to go out and confront people who were ‘busy’. People who ‘got things done’. He wished he could visit every one of their death beds and ask enthusiastically, “are you done yet?” Nay, he wasn’t that sadistic. Fair to blame his foul mood on a thundering headache. He looked back to the disheveled page on the counter, and tried to rub the ache out of his swollen left shin. The words were his own, technically. Forged in darkness, and in reflection of his waking self. He perused the lines and loosed another sigh; so masterfully did he taunt…

A pop singer once sang that “there’s some things you don’t need until they leave you, and they’re the things that you miss”. This is true of loved ones taken for granted, and daylight. A face-plant and bloody shin bred in the short distance between bed and bathroom remind us that daylight is a thing to be missed. Particularly when light switches may no longer be found.

You know, on an unrelated note, self-pity and loneliness are probably the same thing: Only when alone are there few enough distractions that a person may truly feel sorry for themselves, for whatever reason. And one will only revert to actively feeling ‘lonely’ when, for whatever reason, the sole presence of themselves is not conducive to comfort. That is, they are aware of being pitiful. Are they existentialists, then? —I wonder. Right now, I am neither lonely nor sorry, but the notions crossed my mind, so perhaps I’m not so far off.

Anyways, let the sun rise once again, so that its light may be taken for granted. And through these words, might I glimpse a fabled version of my own self.

This time Kevin laughed in spite of himself; he couldn’t quite remember what he’d done the previous night, but he’d clearly not had the best time. On a lighter note, the kitchen began to swell with the aroma of fresh coffee. Intoxicating.

Over in the next room he drew out an old vinyl record, gave it a quick wipe, and then summoned its dusty sounds in hope of a better morning. Back in the kitchen he poured a seething mug of poison, which meant it would be a little longer, still, before he got on with the day. But yes, he’d get on eventually. Perhaps, soaking in the downpour of a morning sun, he’d seize joy from the ephemeral: maybe in his wanderings he’d convince himself that, today only, daylight was not simply a thing to be taken for granted.

******

The Big City held only a handful of serviced parks, whatever ‘serviced’ meant. Most of the parks could be found in-between her apartment and this very spot. This spot, where she sat coolly, and which afforded her a nice view of the largest Big City park. She sat within shouting distance of its north edge, while a modest expanse of sunlit greenery unraveled beautifully before her— beyond her south-facing gaze. All of the city parks, except this one, were rather small of course, because a strong economy left little room for wasted space. That had been the common narrative, anyways.

Whenever Marissa ventured this way, she closely considered all of the city sights, and she wondered what the indicators of a strong economy might be. It had been a long while since she knew anything beyond the Big City scape, so she was comfortable in admitting that she didn’t really know. Truly, she hadn’t the slightest idea.

She leaned back, easily, to catch a fuller sun. It was quite early still; she’d beaten the morning glow to this very place. It was one of her favourite spots too, which is to say much, because the import of place was never lost on Marissa. The soft warmth of family, like a winter hearth aglow; that was another favourite—a place long lost. Left to decay in the fade of memory.

She brought her mandolin to the park today, because in the twilight ahead of morning she was stirred awake by the melody of a song. A song not yet written. She would write it. Not yet though; on this Thursday her responsibilities were naught, so she’d lay back and melt into the rhythm of the wind and trees, and the chuckle of meandering streams nearby.

******

When he stepped outside on these crisp sunny mornings—quite a rare occasion of late—he took an extra deep breath for all of those who surely hadn’t. He tried to derive energy from the eager commotion of a downtown core, which rose off scurrying humanity like river mists at daybreak. 

But he failed to draw any energy at all; the spectacle was exhausting. That is, muscles tensed and twitched as the populace chased down meetings, transfers, and shorter Starcups lines. The result: incalculable cycles of glycolysis, and heat lost to the Big City air. Human waste, invisible except for its wet shimmer, swirling and mingling upwards with the products of more electrical sorts of combustion.

All this, to the sounds of a motion city soundtrack: the hush of intersecting light-rails, the buzz of antiquated engines, brakes and horns, the pneumatic dip of tubes and buses accommodating the less-abled pursuers of happiness, the clang of construction sites, sirens, and the hollering of a drunk who’d finally fucking had it.

Yes, the day spoke to Kevin loudly; he would have many hours to kill before someone worth his while came about from hiding. So, in the meantime, he lugged through the streets with a thermal of coffee, a bag of beer, a handful of psilocybin, and a pen and a page. His only challenge was to find a place impermeable to post-modern songs—repetitive hit singles of a motion city.

He found a local park littered with vibrant greens, tucked between and beneath two high-rises at its north end. Trickling streams wormed below rows of short metal bridges, like the one underfoot. And off they trickled, throwing spittle and foam against shallow stones. His gaze followed their course; many of the streams shrunk away beneath the loom of high-rises. And their harsh jutting spires.

This place would do. Long as nobody caught him drinking and thinking, Freeman forbid, this place would do just fine.

******

A harsh crackling sound stole Jimmy’s attention —towards the opposite end of his workspace. There, the furthest flask had cracked and shattered across the bench. Jimmy hurried over in a panic. And as he turned to do so, he glimpsed a shadow passing over his left shoulder. In behind, towards the door…is Dr. Clausius here? Finally, he thought.

Jimmy walked over to the broken flask. Searching, he could scarcely recognize its contents, which were strewn about the bench. How could the flask have gotten so hot? —and yet the precipitates were still colourless. Interesting; he really messed this one up. The glass debris was manageable, while what was left of the apparatus lay steaming. It seemed profoundly broken. He placed a cautious hand over the mess, and found it to become rapidly chill; the broken apparatus was cooler than ice, exhaling heavy frosts. Jimmy muttered a string of confused curses.

Did he enter the wrong code? Either that, or there was something seriously broken in the bench computer. Whatever the problem, Dr. Clausius was likely to ascertain. He was in charge of the workspace, after all.

Jimmy gave a long sigh as he looked all around him, around the expansive workspace. It was a splendid place where things had a knack for getting done; worlds change where great minds gather. Which they no longer do… much.

It was odd though, because the doctor had just recently moved to the Big City. So recently, in fact, that the space couldn’t always have belonged to him. Jimmy had wondered often whether Dr. Clausius owned any of the lab space at all. Especially considering the impossible variety of machinery and chemical supply that it held. Some ‘students’ had been gathering here for a year or two, as if the space was just… there for them to use. Why here though? —way out in the west end of the Big City? So far from the university? He would have to have a lengthy chat with Dr. Clausius about all of it—they’d not spoken for a month, at least.

Jimmy peered down the empty rows of lab benches and machinery, and then thought it peculiar that Dr. Clausius had not offered a ‘hello’. Maybe it wasn’t him. Whoever it was though, they were awfully quiet. Had they simply slipped in quickly, grabbed something, and then left without a word?

There was some shuffling outside the door, and then a strong female voice greeted him, “Hey Jim!”

“Good day!”

She smiled, and was about to go for her workbench, but then she turned suddenly to face him squarely:

“Oh! —actually, I’m really glad to see you here; I almost forgot: I saw Dr. Curie back on campus this morning, and she was looking for you. Something about a lab result? She said you’d know.”

“Yea sure,” Jimmy said excitedly, “that’s perfect, thanks!”

He paused. “So, who are you meeting with today?” He asked lightly.

“Nobody.” A thin smile found her face. “Must I be meeting someone? You’re here alone, aren’t you?” She teased. “I refuse to believe that sexism, or misogyny, is alive and well within you, Jimmy.” She held Jimmy with a controlling smile, then added, “I have my own projects going too, you do know that?”

“Yea, I do. Sorry; I don’t know why I asked that way.”

“It’s fine.” Her smile was dominant, but also quite warm. Jimmy liked Moira.

“Anyways, what are you working on today?” He asked politely, though he was also genuinely interested.

“Multivitamins,” she said with a hint of pride.

“Oh wow, that’s a big one.” He was impressed.

There was a brief silence, and Jimmy grew evermore surprised by the fact that there seemed to be only the two of them in the lab. He looked over Moira’s shoulders, into empty rows of glistening lab benches. He could feel her curious eyes weighing into him. He was acting oddly, and she was judging him. The moment dilated with discomfort, and Jimmy felt anxious about salvaging their conversation:

“Multivitamins, eh? Have you found anything?”

“Not exactly,” she began. “They’re a total mess, as you might imagine…”

A pair of familiar faces came laughing suddenly into the lab space then, and they gave Jimmy and Moira a friendly wave. Another couple followed in behind them, chatting loudly about something—something that they were certainly collaborating on. The sound of conversation billowed out into the deadness of the lab, and breathed some life into its many polished aisles.

Jimmy was saved from having to salvage his conversation with Moira, and he turned back to his workspace; now he’d better try to salvage his experiment.

The broken apparatus was still rather cold. Whatever was the cause, there seemed to be no more power running into it; he was safe to clean up. Jimmy made a few notes and took a few pictures, so that when one of the tech-workers arrived later he could mention the accident. Until then, there was plenty other work to be done.

A couple hours passed, and now there were about thirty people in the lab. The scratching of metal trays and glassware punctuated the room wherever silence endeavoured to fall. Slow and thoughtful science chatter rung out wherever a new reaction was under wait. Altogether it was a rather pleasant ambiance so far as Jimmy was concerned. Between tasks, he went over to ask Moira a little more about her multivitamins, and learned that she’d stumbled upon a deeply fascinating mess. He was probably distracting her though, so he went back to his work with a renewed enthusiasm. She would have more to tell.

In terms of himself, he was particularly proud of his present project, despite today’s uncanny setback. There was joy in his work. The smell of ether brought a light cheer to his movements. His work appeared more enthusiastic than diligent. It looked as if he, too, might bubble off into the air with relative ease.

The quarters were tighter now that more people had arrived, and for the fact that Jimmy had a tendency to use up all the space that was given to him. Must be from inhaling all those gaseous by-products. On his bench there were stacks upon stacks of paper, highlighted with all sorts of chemical spills and stains.

Then there was a brief flickering of the lights as some unseen machinery began to hum. The work-space contained all kinds of freezers and coolers and chemical storerooms that most of the ‘students’ never used; the humming seemed to be coming from one of them. Trays and glassware continued to rattle, and conversations continued to spill across the lab in every direction. Jimmy was totally focused and obsessed in his work. But then his attention was broken; the background chatter took on a different note. There was some excitement.

He looked back into the closest row of workbenches, and he saw a small group gathered, talking and pointing to something. He couldn’t see what it was, as it was hidden just beyond the nearest corner. He walked over, ever-curious. The confused excitement seemed to involve the brain of their workspace; maybe it wasn’t only his computer that was a problem. The small group seemed particularly worried about the multiple distillations that were currently on the go. One of the group members quickly investigated their bench’s physical control board, and found that they no longer had much control over the amperage running through any of their devices.

And then, as if to mock their meagre resistance, the distillates began to boil violently. Without leaving a moment to react, two huge fractional distillation columns exploded into a hail of scathing acid. Similar sounds broke out all throughout the lab, and then the door shut with a resounding boom. That was when the screaming began. And then the whimperings of those who’d been overwhelmed by hot glass.

The lights began to falter. Of course; what better way to rouse panic and disorder? Between flashes of darkness it became apparent that the floor of the aisle was melting. Peeling away. On the floor, too, was a liquefied young man, who began to pool into the ground wherever it fizzled into nothingness. No ‘acid’ could do such a thing…

Jimmy wasn’t hit or hurt, but was gripped with fear and horror. And then his body betrayed him; he turned and ran thoughtlessly into the flickering darkness. He stumbled and crashed into a tangle of unfamiliar things; faces and equipment and squishy sounds. And then everything blinked away into an impossible state of blackness.

Only a select few died. Many others were taken. Their minds repurposed.

So, for now comes the end of Jimmy’s story, and the stories of everyone else who melted into the crumbling floors. Anyone passing in the halls outside would hear nothing more than a gentle hiss.

******

Her day had been rather uneventful. That was sort of the point however—she’d been meaning to relax. But relax is all she did. Only in stillness does a simmering, primordial angst lend itself to feeling, somewhere beneath. The day was perfect in its beauty though, and again her mind went adrift. The sun stretched higher, and despite herself, Marissa allowed her thoughts to soar…

Layers of stacked sky glide noiselessly, anchored by careening shadows, many leagues below. The nearest clouds chase each other through an unbound pearl of soft blue, as if great triremes charting Aether’s domain. The topmost layers of sky appear to retreat in the opposite direction; uninterested in the silent pursuit, for there is no ground to be gained. Of course, the wind only strikes a single direction, and these most-heavenly clouds do not withdraw. Not but an illusion of parallax. A soothing sight nevertheless: the tiles of the heavens shift eternally, silent at the moment, and bound to give way to a roaring display. A most turbulent reminder of impermanence. So for now, let my thoughts drift as the clouds, and my senses rejoice like birds in the sun-soaked rivers of a whispering sky.