Arcadian Dream

 

-         Propagandhi

 

 

Prometheus Walker presses a sweaty palm to the glass door, heaving it open. As he enters the bar the stench of cigarette smoke and stale beer hits him in the face with such strength that his eyes begin to water. He shuffles forward, the cuffs of his pants tattered. The hem of one leg has come unstitched: it drags on the floor. Prometheus doesn’t seem to notice or, if he does, he certainly doesn’t care. He mounts a barstool. He taps his fingers on the counter top, covering the tips with a thin layer of grime. The barman tilts his head in Prometheus’ direction, as if to take his order.

“Scotch,” is all Prometheus says. It is ten o’clock in the morning.

 

The day wears on. People come and go, the door of the bar creaking open, and slamming closed. The heat outside intensifies, and with each new patron a gust of sticky, summer air assaults Prometheus’ senses. He continues to drink. He feels sick. He thinks he may throw up, but he doesn’t. He orders another drink.

“Scotch,” is all Prometheus says.

 

It has been hours. Prometheus has moved only twice: to use the bathroom. His legs feel heavy, but apart from that, he feels nothing. Nothing. Except, sometimes sick. Evening begins to encroach on the day: Prometheus can tell, because the air that the door ushers in is now considerably cooler. Outside, the sky is a dusky pink. Dirt hangs heavily in the air. Prometheus reaches into his trouser pocket. “Pills,” he mutters to himself, popping an anti-depressant from its hygienically sealed foil enclosure. The tiny white tablet tumbles to the surface of the bar. Prometheus clutches at it: he fumbles. He doesn’t know why he still takes these damn things. He knows he probably shouldn’t – not with the way he drinks. But he keeps filling the prescription. He is at a loss as to why: he only went to the shrink because Edith asked him to; and now she is gone. But he still has the pills.

“Scotch,” Prometheus orders, once again: he needs something to help the medicine go down.

 

Prometheus gazes blurry-eyed out of the dusty bar windows. Stars peer nervously through the black canopy of sky, spying on the people below. The television, perched over the bar, buzzes. The room is filled with sounds of drunken laughter, old rock songs blaring from a tacky CD jukebox and the clickity-clack of pool cues connecting with the balls.

 

A young man steps into the bar, his face split into a wide grin. His almost-iridescent white teeth pierce the dim lighting of the bar as he takes a seat next to Prometheus. He is young, Prometheus thinks. The young man orders his drink (a beer: what else?) and turns his attention to the picture on the wood-veneered television. Prometheus follows the young man’s eyes with his own, resting upon the image of an authoritarian looking man, the sun bouncing off of his stiff white collar: the president. Prometheus scoffs derisively. He lifts his grimy shot glass to his dry, cracked lips as the young man turns to face him.

“What?” the young man asks defensively, his eyes a-glimmer with youthful naivety: the kind that always does what it’s told.

Prometheus does not speak. He merely shakes his head.

“What?” the youth repeats, “You don’t think this is serious? You don’t think this is a serious situation? You think we should just sit back and wait, wait for them to attack?”

“Them,” Prometheus mutters, more to himself than to his defensive companion.

“Yeah, them,” the man continues. He is up on his high moral horse, and doesn’t appear to be dismounting anytime soon.

 

Prometheus pities him: he can see the gullibility in his eyes. Prometheus knows: he used to have the same look in his eyes. The same blind, unquestioning faith in authority used to stare back at Prometheus every morning in the toothpaste-splattered bathroom mirror. Fool, Prometheus thinks: not only of the young man, but himself. Fool, his mind viciously spits the word. At that moment, loathing engulfs Prometheus.

“Scotch,” snaps Prometheus, as the young man, and his moral outrage, recede into the background.

 

*****

 

The righteous young man has long gone as Prometheus looks up from the amber pool of liquor swirling in his glass. A quiet has fallen over the bar as strangers leave: some alone, some two-by-two. Prometheus leans back in his stool, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. Beside him, the vinyl seat of a barstool creaks: his eyes fall upon a woman. She is by no means attractive. Except, maybe, for her eyes: a warm, gold-flecked hazel. Like Edith’s. And she is there.

 

Prometheus stumbles into the elevator. The wood-grained box warps and spins around him as he mashes the buttons with his palm. He leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. He allows the sound of the clunking elevator, and his rapid breathing, to consume his attention. The women beside him presses her body against his, giggling. The doors open and Prometheus walks out or, rather, he tries to walk steadily, but fails miserably in his attempt to do so: he reaches the door of his apartment on his knees, forcing the key into the lock.

 

The bedsprings whine beneath Prometheus as he thrusts mechanically into the woman. He looks into her face: it is painted with a sad confusion. Prometheus hates her. Loathes her. For being here, with him: a murderer. How could she? Prometheus rolls off of her, as a mixture of groaning and sighing escapes his lips. He closes his eyes, and listens to the sound of her feet padding on the carpet, and the door slamming closed as she leaves.

 

Prometheus lies; sweat beading on his forehead. He cannot stay like this. He tramps purposefully to the living room; crunching tattered papers and take-away food refuse underfoot. Prometheus sinks into the armchair, positioned close to the television. He reaches forward, and presses the “play” button on the VCR. Prometheus sits, naked, engulfed by darkness: the only light – the cathode rays that radiating from the television screen.

 

The images swim before Prometheus’ eyes. First: the explosion. The amber violence demolishes the landscape, leaving a gaping crater, where once such unique natural beauty existed. “No more,” Prometheus mutters under his breath. Screams assault his ears. Children run, terrified, the flesh peeling from their young bones, their burnt tear-streaked faces pleading before the camera. “No more,” Prometheus croaks. The camera spans the length of a road: bodies lie, devastated, blackened, the life choked or burned out of them, piled on top of one another. “No more,” Prometheus whispers hoarsely, tears tumbling over his flushed cheeks; his neck; his heaving chest.

 

*****

 

A police officer kicks papers out of the way with a heavy black shoe.

“How long’s he been here?” he asks, surveying the apartment with a mixture of pity and disgust.

“Judging by the smell, at least a week,” replies the coroner from Prometheus’ living room.

“Fuck,” mutters the police officer, “Hell of an apartment for a drunk”.

“Well, he wasn’t always,” the coroner states, matter-of-factly.

The police officer looks sceptical.

“Don’t you know who this is?” the coroner asks, incredulous at the officer’s ignorance, “Prometheus Walker. The scientist”: she waits for the bell of recognition to ring in the officer’s mind. It doesn’t.

“He developed weapons for the last war”.

“The bomb guy?”

“Yeah,” the coroner has to suppress an urge to roll her eyes, “the bomb guy”.