When she entered his life, years ago, he saw in her his own strength. He could sleep with the prettiest woman in New York. Wherever and whenever he wanted. And afterwards, he could walk down the street and smile.
Of course, Geronimo didn’t smile. Not when he walked down the street. Or ever. Still, it was nice to know that he could smile. If he wanted to. Because he’d conquered. Taken what so many desired. Defied the odds. And been justly rewarded.
Despite those rewards, he is slumped against the door of his $9.1 million Manhattan penthouse. Shivering. Having just carried Carmelina, naked, outside. Now listening to footsteps as she walks away. Feeling relief. And thinking about life. Cold. With layers of (stolen) undergarments suffocating the truth.
He wills himself to stand and walk toward a wall-length window that captures the Manhattan skyline. Once emblematic of possibility. A world yet to be conquered. “Now a reflection of” - he’s talking to the window - “my own god-damned hollow self.”
*****
“Open your eyes,” a strange voice says. He darts his head around. Nothing different. Nothing undone. He walks, discreetly, to the kitchen. Opens a drawer. Grips an imported 15th century Algerian butcher’s knife. And walks through the penthouse. Ready to kill whatever intruder is lurking.
“Shut your ears,” the voice says. “And listen to me!” He can’t tell whether the sound is in the kitchen, the living room, or the bathroom. So he stalks the whole house, with knife held high. Opening closets and drawers and looking under tables and couches. But not finding the owner of the voice.
“When you stop searching, you’ll notice that I’m already here.” He stops searching. Stands beside the wall length window that overlooks the Manhattan skyline. And breathes. And sees art sculpted by famous artists. Furniture crafted by renowned craftsman. Architecture imagined by celebrated architects.
“Stop distracting me!” he screams. Not to the voice. But to the the art, the furniture, the architecture. Which is in the way. He’d be able to find the… voice… if he could just rid himself, his penthouse, of all the distractions.
“Yes, distractions! From a series of truths. Which exist, really, as one truth. Which is that I’m not out there. I’m in here. In you. And that everything out there exists to cover me with layers of fabric. That you call life.”
*****
His eyelids are stapled open. His ears are screamed shut. His fingernails tear into his veins. And revelation pulses through his heart. As he laughs. Smiles even! Tightens his grip around the imported 15th century Algerian butcher’s knife. Lifts it high into the air. Screams. And plunges it into…
