Beckett and the Heathens – Episode Five

A Weekly (or so) Fictional Series – Episode Five  – ”Christ!”

(Previous episodes can be viewed here, for those truly bored)

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Beckett finished playing a few of Bach’s toccata’s, and after the final notes’ reverberation could no longer be heard in the blessedly empty concert hall, he let out his usual audible exclamation after playing Bach – “Christ”!

As his brother Melvin would have observed at such a moment, “my brother is completely deranged.”

Beckett gathered himself, taking his black, cashmere overcoat and draping it gently over his arm, walked briskly toward the exit and once out in the elements found that he immediately wanted to go back into the concert hall, not because it was necessarily too cold outside but more because the city, with all its inglorious ugliness, smacked him square in the face.

A 5 minute walk and Beckett arrived at his digs located in a high-rise apartment building in the downtown area that use to be hip to live in a couple of years ago but now, not so much.

“Have you anything for me?” Beckett asked of the doorman as he entered the lobby.

“Ah, Mr. Beckett…just the usual letters of admiration from your many followers,” he started in, producing a handful of letters, waiting for Beckett’s nod of satisfaction.

The doorman was of a sizable sort of fellow – quite adept with kissing the ass of all the deliciously blessed who had a residence in this high-rise – assholes who hadn’t a thought of those attempting to etch out a living on the streets or of those souls being the homeless they pass by each day.

“You haven’t seen a rather shapely dark-haired vixen roaming about these confines, have you?” Beckett asked of the doorman.

“Shapely vixen?” the doorman asked.

“Yes, you the know the sorts. A rather wholesome beauty, highly tasteful with a wisp of intelligence about her, yet sadly, a bit unkept in the head and quite quarrelsome?”

“Haven’t seen such a creature. The only creatures I’ve seen lately are the homeless attempting to come in here, begging for change, the doorman offered.”

“You haven’t spent any time on the streets, have you? Of course you haven’t.  I have a rather deliciously splendid idea. I say that you put out a jar on your desk here, make a simple sign asking the cretins who live here to pitch in their spare change. If they ask what it’s for…make up some cleverly inane thing like you’re collecting funds for birds that don’t know how to make a nest. The idiots living here will inhale deeply with that one, not having a clue of what is all doesn’t mean, and donate magnificently.  Then, I’ll take the offerings from these morons, double it, and take it to the local shelter for the homeless. Are you with me, man?”

“Oh, I don’t think I could do that, it’d be against rules .”

“I see.  You’ve accepted the slush of shit of the hideously ugly modern era. You can’t come to even an elementary understanding that involves an original thought of your own. Have you no clue, man…of what I speak?”

The doorman looked to the front door, desperately hoping another tenant would enter.

“Don’t worry about it,” Beckett let out with an exasperated sigh. “You’re one of the many lost souls who have yet to have to the dawn of thought. Though it’s probably your fault for not giving a rat’s ass beyond what the heathen who come through that front door each day, bemoaning their jive-ass problems they think they have – you’re uneducated just enough to believe that their world is something more than what they tell you it is…one drivel of nuttiness from one minute to the next.

Here’s a bit of free advice. Next time one of these cretins waltzes through the lobby, complaining of how difficult their lives are – or asking you to rise above the stench from the outhouse of shit they produce each day, hoping that you might drop a bit of adoration their way – ask them, will they give up masturbating about their inner delusions; ask them are they willing to forego their sensory pleasures of the moment. Ask them if they’ve experienced the dawn of thought that frees up their demented minds long enough to come to terms with an existence outside their vanilla BS.”

“I still don’t understand,” the doorman said.

“Of course…of course you don’t… and never will.”

Beckett walked to the elevator, casting aside another idiot of the modern era, the doorman he always tried to ignore each time he walked through the front door, and gave into the next thought he had – that of playing Bach.

Bach’s music was magic, was precise, was glorious, was heavenly, was everything that the modern world was not – it was purified beauty.

The perplexing thought that annoyed his senses, that continued to stay with him; that continued to mess with what he considered to be the highest of orders, that being his mind, was, where was Elizabeth and why was she not as enthralled with him as much as he was with himself.

Next week’s episode: “Screw me”

***

Bach: Concerto for 4 pianos – BWV 1065 III – Allegro (David Fray, J. Rouvier, E. Christien, A. Vigoureux)

Photo credit (front page): http://www.unsplash.com/@brucemars

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