“'This here is probably our bestselling love seat' says man who would have been powerful, revered warrior 4000 years ago.”
- Onion headline
It was Sunday afternoon in Youngstown, Ohio. A man stood in the middle of an overgrown, ill-maintained field behind a dying factory, wearing the most ridiculous outfit.
His garb was a mix of rubber, plastic, and aluminum stapled together in the approximate shape of a medieval knight's plate armor and spray-painted black. Underneath it he wore three T-shirts and a set of hockey pads for additional protection. On his left arm was a wooden shield painted with a fire-breathing dragon and in his right hand was a sword forged from the finest rattan and bound with the shiniest duct tape in all the realm. Standing before him was a smaller man whose sword was made of rubber and whose armor was painted silver instead of black and falling apart at the seams. His shield was a trash can lid painted with a red rose.
Taking away from the insanity of this scene were the twenty or so grown men dressed in similar garb arrayed about the field and whacking at each other with very similar swords and shields. Sanity, after all, is a matter of consensus.
This helped.
For a moment the man saw himself as others might see him, a young but clearly adult man in homemade armor and a fake sword standing in a field by an old factory. Then he concentrated. At once he remembered his name and title. He was the Black Knight, Lord Alypius, the Scourge of the Eastern Kingdom. He was clad head to toe in plate and mail, his very shadow striking terror into all who opposed him. His mighty shield he bore with lightness and ease, and his great sword he wielded as a lesser man might wield a weapon made of some lighter substance, such as, say, rattan. It was laughable for anyone, least of all the weak, pathetic Sir Lancelot, to stand before his Legions of Terror who carved a bloody swath across Midrealm.
Behind these knights rose the Republic Rubber factory, a once-prosperous factory that was now fighting a long, slow battle against irrelevance. In earlier decades this had once been a major industrial center; now, it was something of an eyesore. For Lord Alypius, however, it was as tempting a prize as one could possibly hope to conquer. True, cast a depressing shadow over the garbage-strewn field, but with a little imagination it was possible to see the crumbling, ivy-covered brickwork and shattered windows as the ramparts of an ancient castle along which guardsmen in steel hauberks and gleaming suits of mail patrolled their lonely rounds, the cold, dead pipes brown with rust as high watchtowers from which the Princess (removed there for her safety) watched with wide eyes and trembling lips to learn if the valiant knights of her stronghold would protect her virtue, the chain-link fence as a moat churning with alligators whose fearsome jaws awaited anyone foolish enough to attempt entry. Even the few remaining workers staring out of the fewer non-boarded windows could be nobles hiding in the garrisoned keep while their castle was under siege.
And all this was mustered to defend Princess Gerune against the vile and loathsome Lord Alypius, the Black Knight, whose invincible sword had cut down dozens of would-be heroes in their prime and whose armies of orcs, goblins, barbarians, outlaw knights, and sellswords would lay waste to the fortress, raping, pillaging and burning, while Alypius carried off the Princess for himself.
The knight facing him was smaller than he, but cut a dashing figure in his homemade armor of leather, plastic, and tin, held together with duct tape. The Black Knight laughed to see him, so brave and yet so pathetic, thinking that the puny strength in his sword arm would save his castle and his princess.
“What fool is this,” he bellowed to the field, “who so boldly faces the mighty Lord Alypius?”
“It is I,” said the smaller knight, hand on the hilt of his sword, “Sir Lancelot.”
“So, Sir Lancelot, have you come to surrender?”
“Sir, I have not.”
“Then you must be a great fool. Lay down your weapons, open your city gates, and I promise your lives will be spared.” Of course, Lord Alypius had no intention of showing mercy. Once the gates were open, his Legions of Terror would rape and pillage the homes of the peaceful townsfolk, and anyone who resisted would wind up as a head on a spike. Survivors, assuming there were any, could be sold into slavery. But sometimes heroes could be foolish and could be counted upon to naively assume that everyone was as stupid as they.
Not Lancelot, though. He stood tall and proud and gave no inch of ground. “Do you think that I have come to treat with you, evildoer? Rather I seek to end our conflict, here and now.”
“What do you propose?”
“Let us not expend the lives of our men in needless bloodshed,” said Sir Lancelot, “I challenge thee to single combat, dog of a Black Knight. If I should fall, you will gain what you desire. If I prevail, you and your misbegotten rabble shall this very day depart from this place, and never again trouble Princess Gerune of Midrealm, nor the good and true knights who serve her.”
Lord Alypius had actually prepared a speech for this occasion, but as the preparations had taken more time than he'd expected and the sun was dipping down towards the factory walls, he decided to skip ahead. “Ha! You think I fear to cross blades with you, boy? Stand, then, and prepare to die, for none has ever defeated the Black Knight Alypius!” Okay, that was actually better. Besides, his armor was stifling and he wanted to get to the exciting part.
The Seneschal, whose duty it was to supervise these kinds of events, stepped forward. “Do you, Lord Alypius, knowingly accept this challenge, honestly and in good faith?”
“I do,” said the Black Knight, but he turned to an onlooker (not someone he knew, and normally he wouldn't have involved the guy without discussing it beforehand, but the opportunity was too good to pass up) in a ragged costume and a rubber goblin mask.
“If I should happen to fall ….” he began in a loud stage whisper.
To his credit, the goblin seemed to understand what was going on almost immediately. “Understood, my lord,” he hissed in a high-pitched and raspy voice, fingering the hilt of a long rubber knife with red paint splattered along its length, a very realistic prop. His big rubber eyes seemed to glitter with malice as they turned toward the doomed hero.
Across the field Sir Elveen and Sir Locke were engaged in mortal combat. Lord Alypius didn't know Locke well in real life, but he did know that the guy was supposed to be his second in the duel. It was just that Sir Lancelot's second had been having car trouble and they'd tried to get a substitute without success, and finally the Seneschal had just made the executive decision to go ahead with the duel and forget about seconds. Fuck historical accuracy. If they'd wanted historical accuracy, there would have been no goblins.
“You are sure that you swear to participate honorably?” The Seneschal frowned.
“Of course, Good Seneschal,” said the Black Knight smoothly.
“Then I call upon God Above to bear witness to this trial of blades, to smite the disloyal and dishonest, to lend His strength to the arm of he whose cause is just.”
“Be it so,” said Lord Alypius.
“Be it so,” said Sir Lancelot.
“Then begin.”
The air was split by wild war-cries and the thumping of rattan swords wrapped in duct tape bouncing off of one another. Dust motes flew from where the fell blades crossed. Broadswords hammered upon shields, and the sun caught the gleam of plate and mail where knightly foes most valorously did battle upon the muddy field.
Alypius bore down upon the valorous knight like a charging dragon, and yet Sir Lancelot did not quail at the approach of his terrible foe. He whipped his sword up through the air and caught the descending blade of the Black Knight in mid-air, stopping its descent an inch before it might strike his face, mighty thews flexing with the strain. Abruptly he slid the sword downwards, aiming for the gauntleted hand of the evildoer, who disengaged, sending his blade veering to one side. With Lord Alypius's head left exposed, the dastardly foe attempted an upwards cut.
Too slow was he, the gentle knight! For as he raised his own sword, Lord Alypius slid the attempted blow off of his shield in a perfect upwards block, then, bearing down, slammed into his foe. Both men went down in a clank of metal on metal, yet one was on top and drawing his poinard from the belt of his sword, he held the dagger poised above the black knight's enameled visor. “Yield, sir!” he panted, chest heaving with the exertion of fighting in full plate armor on such a warm spring day.
“I yield!” Watney Harris, or Sir Lancelot as he was known to the Society For Creative Anachronism, grinned as Eugene Phillips, or Lord Alypius, rolled off of him, retrieving his knightly weapon. Eugene raised a hand and lifted his sparring partner to his feet.
“Nice job,” he said, feeling almost boyishly proud of himself. Seldom could he beat Watney, who, while smaller in size than Eugene, was more experienced and had in fact introduced him to this sport in the first place.
“You too.” Watney pulled off his helmet, though with some difficulty. “Hey, you wanna go another round?”
“Nah, I gotta get back.” His girlfriend, Laura Dumont, had been bugging him about spending too much time with the SCA. It was already getting late, and he had to get up early for work the next day. “But next time, definitely.”
The sound of applause came from the bleachers on the other side of the high school football field. “Nice job, guys,” said Will Scarlet, or William Hulsey, as he was known when not in his role as local seneschal of the Youngstown SCA chapter. He took his role seriously, and wore his mottled green Men of Sherwood livery with the same unselfconscious ease that most men wore T-shirts. “A couple sessions like that and we'll be in good shape for Pennsic this year.”
“Yeah,” said Eugene. He and the others started to peel themselves out of their bulky costumes. Eugene grimaced at the smell, feeling that he needed a shower after spending so long in armor under the sun – Will tried to avoid this by hosing himself down with Axe body spray before each practice, but it didn't really work – and yet not wanting to leave the Middle Ages just yet. “I guess we better get going,” he said, hoping that someone would stop him.
“Come on,” said Watney, already divested of his armor and looking plump and sweaty underneath. “At the least you could stop over at the Pullman with us?”
“If you insist,” grinned Eugene.
The Pullman was an accustomed hangout for the SCA. It was located on the edge of town, a couple blocks or so from the field where the valiant knights of Midrealm practiced their mortal art.
In Eugene's mind, the Pullman's proximity was its only positive attribute. You couldn't find a less atmospheric place if you tried, at least not if you were a brave and chivalrous warrior of a more civilized age who knew little of fanciful things like “electricity” and “indoor plumbing.” The place was sleek and shiny, with neon signs in the windows and waxed tile floors and fresh urinal cakes in the restroom. Eugene always found it to be jarring after the clash of swords and the clank of armor. It ruined the illusion.
“Hey, how's life in the Dark Ages?” Ricky the bartender looked up from the sink behind the counter as his regular customers sat at their regular table by the window. Eugene also didn't like this, as watching the rush of cars and the scurrying of shoppers further broke his immersion and reminded him that he was done being the bold and dastardly Lord Alypius and was back to being the boring Eugene Phillips.
Watney grinned back at him and patted Eugene on the shoulder. “Would you believe this asshole was able to beat me?”
“Yeah, okay, but how'd he hold up against, like, a fuckin' dragon? That's what I wanna know.” Ricky rolled his eyes, grabbing bottles off of the shelves behind him. “Your wine, good and gentle knights?”
“With good will!” cried Watney, and they all laughed.
They drank, enjoying the coolness after the hot armor on the practice field. “You know,” said Will, “I thought our new members were gonna be washouts.”
“Yeah?” Eugene glared up at him, but he had to admit that Will was very experienced at this. When Will had joined up, the society (or at least the local chapter) had been about four or five guys at most. They'd met up on weekends to drunkenly beat the shit out of each other with giant fake swords, much to the displeasure of their respective wives or girlfriends. Over time a surprising number of people, including Eugene, had found this a compelling idea and now they regularly had upwards of twenty guys attend their weekly meetings.
“Well, you're not.” Will patted Eugene's shoulder. “But I thought we might be able to take this public, you know?”
“We're not doing this in public already?” Watney's eye had been caught by a pair of girls entering, and he didn't seem interested in the great possibilities awaiting the SCA.
“You know what I mean. We could tour Renaissance Fairs. We could stage events, do choreographed performances.”
“Oh, yeah, maybe.” Watney shrugged, still eyeing up the woman.
“What about you, buddy?” Will nudged Eugene with his elbow, nearly spilling his drink. “You got any ideas?”
Eugene stared moodily at the Coors in his big hands. “Have you ever thought?” he said slowly, “about setting up some kinda medieval-themed pub?”
“What?” Watney was glancing off toward the other end of the bar.
“Well, you know, it would be a nice extension of the SCA lifestyle. Like, we could go from the practice field to, uh, serving mead in drinking horns. They could have wooden walls and animal heads over a fireplace and, I dunno, bearskin rugs or something.”
“Sounds like Little House on the Prairie,” said Will.
“Yeah, but it could be a good idea.” So fired up was Eugene that for a moment the idea of quitting his job and starting a Ye Olde Draughts of Ale pub actually seemed thrillingly possible. “Think about it, man! We could have swords and suits of armor around the place! There could be a long wooden table down the middle of the room, and stained-glass windows! The waitresses could wear tavern wench costumes and bring horns of ale or something.”
“I'd like to see them in a costume like that.” Watney gestured down the bar at a pair of college-age girls with frizzy hairdos chatting with each other.
“Nice, huh?” Watney took a swig of beer. “I'm gonna get one of them a drink!”
“Good luck, man,” said Eugene.
“Thanks, pal. Hey, you guys want me to put in a word for you?”
Will glanced over and looked the women over in a detachedly appraising manner. One looked up, met his eyes, and quickly looked down, crossing her arms over her breasts and saying something to the other girl. This did not make Will look away – he continued this visual inspection for a few seconds and then turned back to Watney and Eugene.
“If you like,” he said indifferently.
“What about you, Gene?”
“You know I'm dating someone, right?” So was Watney, but that never seemed to stop him from getting up the skirts of any girl who caught his eye.
There was an awkward silence. Eugene took a sip of his beer.
“You're a great guy, Gene,” Watney finally said, gazing at Eugene with a mixture of pity and contempt. “Laura's lucky to have you.”
“Thanks.”
As Watney wandered off to buy the two coeds a drink, Will turned back to Eugene.
“He's got a way with women,” said Eugene, though neither of the girls looked very impressed at the moment.
William considered him in the same appraising manner that he'd done with the girls.
“What is it, man?” Eugene tried to meet Will's eyes, and found it difficult. Will was a good guy, but sometimes he could be weirdly intense, almost to an intimidating degree.
“You know,” said William slowly, “when I first met you, I didn't think you were gonna make it. In the SCA, I mean.”
“Yeah, well, a lotta fucking good that did me.”
“It has, though.” William sounded very serious. “Your skills with sword and shield have much improved since I knew you. And you've made rapid progress. You should be proud of yourself.”
“If a dragon ever starts terrorizing the neighborhood, you know who to call.”
“I think you'll find,” said William, “that these skills you've developed will come in handy later on.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah.” William smiled. “They might even save your life.”
“Well, I'm going to get right to it,” said Mr. White. “Some of this behavior here is unacceptable.”
“What behavior, sir?”
Mr. White's fat wormy lips pressed together in a scowl. “That sort of attitude, Mr. Phillips. Now, we've been having reports from some of the junior members that you've become surly and uncommunicative.”
“I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand.” He didn't. He'd been working longer and longer hours these past few weeks.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Montgomery crisply, “There is a feeling among the office that you're not ….Mr. White, how did this go?”
“That you're ….not a team player, Eugene,” said Mr. White in the tone of the Archangel Michael rebuking Satan.
“I'm sorry.” It seemed the proper thing to say.
“I'm afraid that's not good enough.” Mr. White's jowls jiggled like those of a bulldog as he shook his head pompously. “We here at Plastek International take our company culture very seriously.”
“But ….but what have I done?” Eugene's heart was beating faster. He found he couldn't look directly at the two HR people, and instead stared at the thick, dark hairs on Mr. White's knuckles. His own fingers played with the handle of his coffee cup.
“That's not a good sign, that you don't even know what you've done.” Mrs. Montgomery's voice was crisp and disapproving. She reminded Eugene of his eighth-grade English teacher.
Mr. White harrumphed, his worst fears clearly confirmed. “Well, like I just said – not that you were listening – you don't communicate with your coworkers. You don't make them feel like you're part of the team. You don't come to the company lunch hour and when you do, you barely say a word before heading off. You're dismissive and rude to everyone.”
“Particularly women,” sniffed Mrs. Montgomery. “We've had a number of complaints from female employees regarding your conduct. In today's world, it's essential that misogyny be rooted out from the workplace.”
“But ….but what have I done?” Eugene, to his disgust, found that his voice was shaky and that he was genuinely nervous. “I haven't ….”
“You see, you're not listening,” said Mr. White in a tone that was, if possible, even more damning than before. “She's told you what you're doing wrong. She's told you what your problem is. But clearly you haven't taken in a word.”
“You're still acting defensively,” said Mrs. Montgomery. “You need to listen to what I'm telling you, Mr. Phillips. You need to take my words in, instead of dismissing them out of hand just because I'm a woman.”
“I'm not dismissing you because you're a woman!” shouted Eugene, then stifled himself. If he showed any kind of emotion here, he was done.
“So why are you dismissing me, Mr. Phillips?”
“I'm not dismissing ….”
“Enough!” The palm of Mr. White's hand slammed down on the desk, making the lukewarm coffee jump inside the mug. “I didn't call you in here to argue, Eugene. It's clear to me that you haven't heard a damn thing either of us has said. Now, I want to make it clear to you that we have no tolerance for unprofessional conduct, especially misogyny. You can consider this your only warning.”
“Yes, sir. Can I go now?”
Mr. White's face seemed to search his for any sign of sarcasm. Eugene could not meet his clear blue eyes. “Alright,” he said, sitting back in his chair and puffing his chest out with the satisfaction of having set an employee straight. “You just remember everything I've told you, okay?
“Eugene, is everything alright?” The lady director's plucked eyebrows narrowed.
“What? Oh, yeah.”
“Well, you'd better shape up, son, because right now you're not looking too good.”
How would Sir Alypius, the Black Knight, respond to this situation?
“Now, do you hear what I'm telling you?”
Eugene imagined cleaving his flabby, self-satisfied face with a broadsword. He imagined facing the man on the dueling field, steel against steel. He did not think then that Mr. White would care to reproach him for his unprofessional conduct.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I understand what you're saying.”
“Are you just saying that, or will I actually see some change from you, going forward?”
“You will actually see some change from me.”
“Why don't you take the rest of the day off?” Mrs. Montgomery looked almost sympathetic. “Just to clear your head. We can discuss this further tomorrow.”
At this point, Eugene would have agreed to almost anything just to escape that stifling room and the glare of the two office tyrants. “Okay,” he said. “Sure. Yeah. I can leave early.”
“In the morning,” said Mr. White, apparently unwilling to let Eugene leave without a parting shot, “I want to see a new and improved Eugene Phillips.”
“Yes, sir.”
During the trip to his apartment, Eugene's mind was filled with rage and misery. He'd done everything they'd asked him! Nobody stayed later than he did! So what if he'd rather be practicing with swords than attending some bullshit office party? And what was all that about women – Christ, he barely talked to the women there, especially the young secretaries who wore pencil skirts and makeup and heels and who frankly looked like sexual harassment lawsuits waiting to happen.
He should've said something. They had no grounds to fire him. He should've challenged them to prove anything against him. But no, he'd felt like a kid again, being grounded by his dad, and he'd just tried to escape as quickly as possible. He tried to think about what Conan the Barbarian would have done in that situation, but it didn't help and just made him feel like crying.
Maybe he oughta stop at the Pullman. He needed a drink.
Well, okay, that was too far away and he didn't wanna explain himself to Ricky. But there was an arcade coming up.
No, there were a bunch of teenagers walking into the arcade, bouncing quarters in their palms. He'd feel out of place in his office shirt and pants, surrounded by a bunch of young people in stonewashed jeans, bomber jackets, and bright neon shirts.
Well, maybe he could grab something at McDonald's, then.
When he drove past a pair of golden arches, he became aware that some part of his mind desperately didn't want to go back home. That it would, in fact, do pretty much anything rather than return to Apartment Five-Seven-One-Zero.
Habit was a harsh mistress, though, and since he hadn't definitively decided to do anything else, Eugene found himself pulling into the parking lot. After all, he told himself, there was no need to actually tell Laura what had happened. He hadn't actually been fired yet.
The elevator buzzed. The elevator rose. Too soon, the long, narrow hallway opened up before him. With the long, slow steps of a condemned man, Eugene approached his apartment door.
For some reason, he found himself walking quietly.
The door to the bedroom was ajar, and noises were coming from within. The impulse to flee once again seized him.
Go on, get outta here. Go to the arcade, the movies, go out to the practice field and work on your swordsmanship. You haven't seen it. It hasn't really happened.
His fingers brushed the handle.
But if you go in there, if you do see it, then things have changed forever between you. All those moments, all those years together ….you'll never look at them the same way. And you'll have to make a choice, whether you're gonna be a man about this or not, and being a man is so very hard for you, isn't it? Just get back and ask her how her day was and try not to think about what you never saw. Eat a microwaved TV dinner and watch Happy Days together as you sit on the couch with your arm around her and her head leaning against your chest as you both try to stay awake.
But somewhere in Eugene's breast there beat the heart of a man. Perhaps it was the Black Knight whispering in his ear, the black knight who ravished maidens and split the skulls of foemen with his broadsword and drank wine out of whichever skulls he hadn't managed to split. The Black Knight would never, ever feel tears prickling in the corners of his eyes if some other knight had carried off one of his many wenches. But whether it was Eugene Phillips the data analyst or Sir Alypius the Black Knight who reached for the handle, the bedroom door creaked open just the same.
Her deep brown eyes met his. Her brown hair was plastered to her sweaty face. Her long legs wrapped around a chunky waist and a pair of pasty-white buttocks that jiggled as they pumped back and forth.
She screamed.
Eugene had no strong reaction to this. Whatever grief or rage he might have felt was dull and leaden, as though he'd had weeks, maybe months, to get used to this knowledge.
“Hey, Watney,” he said to the buttocks.
“Get off, get off!” Laura squeezed out from underneath Eugene's friend. The predominant thought in Eugene's mind was that now he'd have to avoid the SCA meetings, too. Now, the Black Knight was gone – he would never be able to put on the armor without thinking of Watney. In a way, losing the Black Knight was worse than losing Laura. Will would be disappointed.
“Look, Eugene,” said Laura, standing there with her hands on her hips, unconcerned with her nudity.
“Are you going to tell me that this isn't what it looks like?” He looked from one pale, naked body to the other. “I guess you didn't manage to score with those college girls last night, huh?”
“Look, man,” said Watney, whose broad, pale back was crisscrossed with red scratches, “I know you're pissed, okay? I'd be pissed if it was me. But don't do anything you'd regret, later, you know what I'm saying?”
“I know.”
“Like, you don't wanna go to jail over this, man. I swear, I'll never touch her again.”
Watney still had that shit-eating grin, but Laura rallied almost instantly. “I don't know what you expect, Eugene!” She stomped off of the bed, those breasts he'd adored so much bouncing as she moved, her body still slick and flushed with desire. Quickly she slid a robe over her shoulders.
Watney had to fend for himself. His penis had gone limp, perhaps from fright, and it hung between his thighs like some slimy worm. He was still breathing heavily, and there was a semicircular bite mark on his chest. “Hey,” he said, getting up, “listen, man, for what it's worth, I'm sorry.”
“I'm not sorry,” hissed Laura.
“Look, babe,” said Watney nervously, “how about you don't ….”
“What, you're scared of him? Eugene isn't gonna do shit.” She sneered at her former boyfriend, her legs and breasts visible through the slit in the robe. “Go ahead, do something.”
That seemed like good advice, but Eugene couldn't think of a single thing to do. So he stood there stupidly, staring at the two of them.
“You see?” Laura gave Watney a sneering look. “What's the problem?”
“I just think we shouldn't ….” Watney began, but when he saw that his paramour wasn't listening he trailed off.
“Face it, Gene,” she said, “you brought this on yourself.”
“What?” He couldn't even muster any indignation. All he felt was very tired and very numb. He wished desperately that he'd gone to the arcade or the Pullman or something on the way back home. After all, what was the harm if his friend and girlfriend liked to fuck each other when he wasn't around? What Eugene didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
“You never spent time with me, you never showed me any concern, I got tired of finding myself getting rated behind that stupid science fiction collection of yours and your stupid swordfighting club!”
“Hey!” said Watney.
“Shut up, both of you! Jesus, you men are like children.”
“We ….baby, we need to talk about this.” Eugene would not cry. Eugene refused to cry. He could see his vision wavering, but he would not let the tears fall. “You can't ….I mean, you can't just expect me to ….”
Laura sighed. “Watney, get out.”
“Yeah, okay. Uh, Gene, buddy, I just wanna say ….” but Watney apparently couldn't think of what he just wanted to say, because he stood there with his hands cupped over his limp genitals, staring.
“Okay,” said Eugene dully. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“Sorry?” Watney looked incredulous and more than a little dismayed, almost more so than when he'd been afraid of Eugene. “Um, this ain't your fault, man.”
“Go fuck yourself.” There was no force in the words; indeed, he almost sobbed them. “Get out.”
Watney stared at him, then at Laura. Watney's mouth opened wide like a gasping fish's, then he closed it again and shook his head. He slipped on a pair of shorts and gathered up the rest of his clothing, scurrying out. The door slammed.
Laura was ready. “Gene, I don't know what you expect. I'm a girlfriend, not a housepet. If you don't look after me, you can damn well bet I'll find someone who will!”
“I ….you cheated on me.” Later, Eugene knew, he would think of some retort, something he should say. But for now his mind was full of a sullen, leaden blankness. He felt exhausted.
“Listen, Eugene, when you treat me like some aside, when you only spend time for me when you're finished with your work and your games and your stupid kid's toys, you can't get surprised when I look for someone else, understand?”
“How long?”
“That's none of your business, Gene. You don't fucking own me. Who I see and what I do are my own business.” She sat down on the bed and brushed the sticky hair from her face. The flush had receded and she seemed perfectly at ease with the situation. In a way, she reminded him of the HR department at Plastek, reproaching him for his conduct, or his mother giving him a scolding after church.
“I understand.”
“I'm only human.”
“Yeah.” Eugene found that he couldn't stand to be in the same room as her anymore. Even her sleek white nudity was repelling to him. “I'm ….I'm going for a drive. When I get back I want you out of this apartment.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” He opened the door and stepped out.
As it turned out, he'd done the one thing that could've perturbed her. Her voice followed him.
“Hey! What the fuck d'you think you're doing, walking out here on me like that? We're not done! Don't you dare ….”
The hour grew later. Eugene found himself tooling around the city. He was mostly afraid that his books or action figures might be damaged by Laura in her rage. And he knew with absolute certainty that when he did get back, she'd still be there. He owned the apartment, so he could probably force her out, but the idea of seeing her even once more was repulsive to him, let alone however long it might be until he could get a court order or whatever. And when she left, how would he afford the apartment? He might not even have a job.
Honestly, he felt completely drained, exhausted, as though he'd just run a marathon. Any action at all seemed like too much effort. Had he not begrudged his opponent a total victory he might have jumped out the window. As it was, he'd stumbled on over to the Pullman and considered the possibility of drinking his way into an early grave.
“You're here early,” said Ricky as Eugene downed a beer. “What's up? You got some kinda trouble?”
“Well yeah, give the guy a fuckin' cookie. Caught my girlfriend in bed with my friend.”
Ricky shook his head. “Gotta find yourself the right woman, buddy,” he said. “Some of these girls out there are pure poison. I tell you one time when I was younger, I dated this hot redhead, y'know ….hey, buddy, what can I do for you?”
The smell of Axe made Eugene look up from his drink. “William,” he said nervously, wondering if yet another friend was going to betray him.
“I heard what happened.” Will sat down beside him with a sigh. “Fucking Watney.”
“Yeah.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
Eugene thought about it for a second. “Nah.”
“Fair enough.” William ordered a beer. He hesitated over it for a second, as though checking something, and handed it to Eugene. “Cheers.”
“Thanks, man.”
“No problemo.”
“How'd you know I was here?”
“Watney called me up. Told me what happened.” Will made an indistinct noise which somehow conveyed contempt. “I could guess where you'd go afterwards.”
“Why the fuck would he tell you?”
“Said he felt bad.”
“Yeah, well, imagine how I feel. Tell him if I see him again I'm gonna beat his ass.”
This part was a lie, and Eugene was pretty sure that Watney would know it. They were – or had been – friends, after all. In the future, Eugene would go to great lengths to avoid Watney Harris. The Black Knight would have begrudged the loss of a common slut not at all, but would still have slain Sir Lancelot for this insult.
The Black Knight, however, was dead. Eugene had a brief, vivid mental image of Watney in his Sir Lancelot costume sitting on a throne and drinking wine from the Black Knight's skull, with Laura Dumont sitting in his lap.
“How'd Laura react when you caught her?”
Eugene took another swig of his beer. “Acted like it was all my fault. Said I wasn't paying her enough attention, shit like that.”
Will's eyebrows raised. “She didn't apologize?”
“Didn't seem sorry at all.”
Will seemed amused. “Women can't be trusted,” he said. “They must be kept in their place. They oughta be kept in chains and never let out of the house. But such things are against the law here.”
“Yeah, like those fuckin' Arabs do.” Ricky nodded righteously. “Or the Asians. My uncle Doug, he was in Vietnam, and he said he met this Vietnamese chick while he was in Saigon. He got her pregnant, was gonna start a family. When the city fell he rotated home and never heard from her again, but when he gets drunk he talks about her. Still remembers her, still wishes he'd brought her back.”
“Yeah?” Eugene didn't really think that he wanted a Vietnamese woman, and he further thought that Ricky's uncle sounded like a first-class asshole for leaving his babymama behind in a war zone, but anything that took his mind off his current trouble was welcome.
“Yeah. Asian women, they're raised right. They know how to look after a man. Some guys go to East Asia just to find a wife.”
“And then she ditches him once she's got her green card,” said Will. “Women, man, they're the same all over. They need to be kept constantly under control. If you give her an inch she'll take a mile.”
This type of rhetoric was strange to Eugene, as Will had never seemed to have many problems with women. “I've never heard you talk this way before.”
“You weren't ready to hear it.”
“Maybe.”
“Isn't that the truth?” The intensity had crept back into Will's expression. “If I'd told you before, you would have said that I was jealous, that I was hateful, that I was irrationally prejudiced. But now you see what even the most loving woman is capable of doing with a clear conscience. I tell you, should we let such creatures wander free? Shouldn't they all be the slaves of men?”
Then again maybe that was why Will was so successful with women. Yeah, that was probably it. “You're not wrong, buddy,” he said, draining his beer and extending his hand for a new one.
"This one's on me." Will took the can from Ricky's hand, seemed to fiddle with the lid for a second (he'd turned so that Eugene couldn't quite see what he was doing) and then got it. "Here you go. Least I can do."
“Thanks, man, I really appreciate it.” And to prove it, Eugene took a swig.
"You just remember what I said about women. Keep them in their place."
"Maybe." A thought came to him as he stared at the condensation beading on the outside of his drink. “Well, I think it's better not to have a girl at all, if you gotta keep her tied up like that. I mean, if you can't trust them, what's the fucking point? You're better off without them, I say.” And as he said it, he nearly burst into tears because it was true – he'd believed that he and Laura had shared something special, and to have that connection broken was as painful as a physical wound. Never, he thought, would he grow so attached to a woman again.
Eugene took a deep drink. The room seemed to spin dizzily around him as he did so.
Will sat there in silence. Ricky went into a back room.
“As your seneschal ….” began Will.
“I'm done with that shit.”
“Gene,” said Will, “you're doing very well with the Society for Creative Anachronism.”
“Well, I'm not doing it anymore.” Eugene drained his can and set it down with a decisive clink on the top of the bar. “Fuck that. All that fucking time I wasted, learning shit that's no use to everyone, fucking over my job, my relationship. I mean, it was childish, man. I was just running away from reality. I was living in a fantasy world, man, no offense to you or anyone else except for fucking Watney Harris.”
“Perhaps it would be better for you to live in a fantasy world. I hate to say it, buddy, but you're doing a lot better at the world of fantasy than you are in real life.”
Anger flooded through Eugene and he had the urge to stand up and deck Will right in the jaw, but as he turned he felt himself swaying unsteadily and nearly vomited. It had been a while since two or three beers had affected him this much.
“You're right.” He slumped down again, clutching the side of the bar to stop the world from spinning. “But what the fuck can I do? I live in a real world, Will.”
“You don't have to.”
“The fuck d'you mean?” Eugene was aware that his speech was badly slurred, but Will seemed to understand him.
“There is another world. A world of gold and steel, of honor and chivalry, a world where men are men and women know their place.”
“I don't wanna hurt women,” said Eugene. “I just don't want them to fuck me over.”
“They will fuck you over unless you hurt them. You must keep that clearly in mind. I'm telling you this for your own good.”
“I never knew you were like this, Will.”
“We never had a reason to speak of it. You wouldn't have believed me until you'd experienced it yourself.”
"I can't even believe it now. You know, it still seems unreal to me." Eugene had apparently drank more than he'd intended. He felt unsteady. His head was spinning. He tried to rise, but Will's strong hand pushed him back down in his seat.
“You have a good heart. A good heart and a strong arm. You deserve better.”
At the moment, Eugene felt so miserable that he didn't believe he deserved anything. “Okay, fine, I deserve better. Who can give it to me?”
“I can.”
“You?”
“I can show you a world where you can start anew. A world where a strong man with a sword might do well for himself.”
A shrug. Even drunk as he was, teetering on the edge of consciousness, Eugene knew that such times were in the past. There was only the ticking of the machine, the fluorescent lights of the office, the creaking of the assembly line. Honor and chivalry were for men who had never outgrown their childhoods and gathered on weekends to play pretend when they should have been working overtime or taking their girlfriends out to dinner or something.
But Will was being friendly, and Eugene did not want to dissuade him. “Show me this world,” he mumbled.
“Of course,” smiled Will. “Just as soon as you finish your drink.”
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