The Fire Inside

[realitycheck44]

The Fire Inside

I check my watch as I leave the office. 2:34 A.M., the scratched surface reads. I cross the deserted, half-lit reception hall, my shoes echoing sharply against the marble floor. I notice a young man dressed in suit pants and a slim brown jacket walking briskly towards me. He notices me the instant I do him. There is no trace of fear or humility in his glance, only a frank honesty coupled with arrogance, made all the more mocking because of its indifference. A sharp nose dominates his angular face. His prominent lower lip contrasts with his rather thin upper one, giving him the appearance of having an eternally frozen half-smile: a hard, uncomfortable, contemptuous expression. He looks too happy and walks too purposefully to be like any of the other men walking down the street at half past two in the morning. I realize it’s my reflection.

I continue through the revolving doors, turn the corner, and begin my brisk walk to the train station. The night air works like caffeine. I turn my collar up and draw my jacket closer toward me, thrusting my hands into pockets. My brain finally leaves the office at the sight of the city lights and what they stand for. Thwarting gravity, skyscrapers reach up toward the heavens. Light streams from the buildings, illuminating the sky and banishing the primeval darkness, making the stars above a humble second thought. Man has said “let there be light”. How can some say this makes them feel small and insignificant? As I gaze up towards the lights, I smile involuntarily, overcome with emotion. Man’s mind- my mind- makes all of this possible. The rest of the city is sleeping, but I am alive. Melancholy starts to set in, but only for a second. The rest of the city is sleeping. Don’t they get it? All they do is sleep. Don’t they get it? Doesn’t anybody get it? But, I realize, they don’t need to get it. I get it. They can’t stop me.

I have four hours before I will go back. I can’t sleep. I lay awake staring at the ceiling – a whiteboard filled with calculations. Where did I go wrong? There is an answer: every problem has an answer. I simply need to find it!

“Zak?” says the oddly familiar voice into my ear.

“Yes?”

“What happened to your customary ‘Hello this is Zak’ greeting?” the sarcastic voice on the opposite end retorts.

“That only applies before midnight,” I laugh, instantly recognizing my best high school friend. “Hello Steven”

“What? It’s past midnight? You don’t sound tired.”

“It’s after three. I’m just leaving the office,” I say, not realizing I already have.

“You’re joking right? Zak, you can’t do that. It’s not right; it’s not normal,” he chides, as if the two have some sort of correlation.

I don’t respond.

“Sorry for calling so late; I completely spaced out. Anyway, are you coming to the 10th year anniversary?”

“Whose anniversary?” I reply, trying to recall who he could possibly be talking about.

“Oh, you know,” he says patiently, almost sweetly, “the high school reunion.”

“Probably not…no. Why?”

“You really need to go. You haven’t been since… Zak you’ve never been to a reunion.”

“There’s a reason for that.”

Silence.

“They bore me,” I say delicately, exhausted from trying to explain this over and over again.

Silence greets me once more.

___________

Two weeks and another phone call from Steven later, and I find myself standing in front of a hotel mirror, scrambling to be downstairs before dinner starts. Having forgotten the invitation, I am not entirely sure of the dress code. I decide to go with my old standby- a slim-fitting grey suit and white shirt. The ring of a hotel phone interrupts me. I answer, half annoyed at the interruption, half glad at the excuse to abandon the tie.

“Are you coming or what? Everyone else has been here for ages.”

“I’m almost ready.”

“You said that an hour ago,” Steven retorts.

“I got side tracked. I almost figured it out though. I need to transfer the pressure off the – ”

“Zak! I don’t care. Just hurry up.”

____________

The drone of voices reaches my ears even before I enter the reception room. The violent red drapes in the exquisite ballroom lift my spirits, and excitement starts to creep in. It might be nice to see how everyone is doing: to talk about my job and to hear about theirs. Maybe it will be different than I originally expected; maybe they have changed. I chide myself for assuming the worst. Maybe they care now. Maybe people will talk about things that matter. Then maybe I will care. With that thought, I stroll into the room.

People have already formed into little circles, just like ten years ago. This works for me, as I am not especially interested in talking to the majority of the people. I try to stay out of the way with the simple logic that if they don’t notice me, maybe I won’t have to talk to them. As I cross the room, people start moving in. They greet me and start talking. I start thinking about the office- is it managing okay without me? My mind drifts over to my current project: my new submarine hull design isn’t quite right- isn’t quite good enough. The mention of my name brings me back from heaven. I stare at the person in surprise. He seems to lose the words he meant to say. Finally, he mumbles something about what I think of a new actress’s relationship. The truth is, I don’t.

When I look around the room, all I can see are faces that are bored- bored with this party, bored with their jobs, bored with their lives. I realize that not once so far has anyone said anything. Everyone is content on talking about the same droll topics they usually do. It is as if they expect the fancy clothes and the brilliant drapes to make the evening special, not the other way around. Why am I the one deemed “heartless” when they are the ones incapable of feeling? I am suffocating from their lack of caring. Don’t you want to be happy? I want to scream. Don’t you want to live? Why don’t you just THINK! All I want is a sign of purpose, of passion, of life, of self, from someone… anyone. But whenever I start talking about what I care about- ideas and my job- I get blank looks from all around until one of them decides to continue on about some mundane subject.

Somebody makes a remark about being too selfish. I stare incredulously. These people are the epitome selflessness, but not in the way they intend. In what act or thought of theirs has there ever been a self? Fame, admiration, envy- everything they strive for requires other people. They have no self. Others are their motive power and their sole concern. They don’t want to be great; they want others to think they are great. They don’t want to think; they want to be thought of as smart. They want people to like them, at the cost of liking themselves.

I finally quit with the knowledge that these people are just as purposeless now as they were back in high school. I weave my way through the mediocrity, answering anyone with my customary formal “Hello” without stopping. It is still early. I haven’t yet caught up with my friends, but I need to get out, if just for a little while. I walk out onto the balcony. The clouds are the focal point in the sky, made into silhouettes by the full moon. Some stars are out, but not enough to crowd the sky. No one else is outside. Perhaps it is the cold, but I am warmer than I was in the room. I stand and observe the sky, marveling that light rays refracting through water droplets could produce such beauty. The water will fall, making greater the mass that once separated continents. Man overcame travel above the sea. I will overcome travel below it. It doesn’t matter how great the mass becomes. It can not stop me. There is a solution!

“I thought I’d find you out here,” Steven says. “Enjoying the party?”

“No,” I state innocently, turning around. “Are you?”

“Yeah, it’s been really fun catching up. Most of the old group isn’t here, but still…why can’t you just relax? Have a drink or something.”

“I don’t drink. And I am relaxed. Are they?” I say, tilting my head to the people inside. This is so important; I want him to understand.

“You know what I mean,” comes the reply.

“Yes, do you?” I state quietly, confidently. Do you understand what I mean?, I wish to say, knowing the answer already.

“You need to quit working so hard. That’s all you care about; that’s all you ever do. That’s all you ever want to do.”

“Yes,” I reply softly, greedily. “Why should I want to do anything else? In the end, what matters except my productive value, except my happiness? I, unlike most people, happen to know exactly what makes me happy. Why should I do anything else?"

So what am I doing here?

-Zak

Edited December 13, 2005 by realitycheck44

[realitycheck44]

I have to add a disclaimer. I wrote this essay for AP English (I'm a junior in high school), but I don't like the overall negative tone. Normally, I wouldn't let such people bother me, but without them there is no contrast of personalities and no conflict. I didn't notice the negative tone until the end, and it was too late to do anything about it. Upon reflection, doing away with the tone would not work for the paper as well. So, I'll just have to write another one to show how much I value people like me.

Zak

[non-contradictor]

Gods, Zak, I just read this and I almost cried. It's very poignant, and I didn't find the tone overly negative, just sort-of... longing, I suppose. I know the feeling well.

I was talking to my mother about high school reunions one day. She said that the only reason she'd ever go would be if she had done something spectacular to show off. I said that at my old school, I didn't care what anyone thought of me, so I wouldn't have gone to a reunion no matter what I did, because I didn't care then and I won't care 20 years from now. I think it's easier for me to say that though, now that I've made some friends in school that I respect and whom I would actually like to see again in the 20-years-from now type of situation. I know only too well the kind of desperate hope that accompanies being utterly alone in a room full of people who just don't get it.

If you don't like the tone, then maybe you should meet a girl on the balcony.

This reminds me of Dagny's first ball. I cried when I read that, too. I wrote a story like this about my first high-school dance. My sophomore English teacher suggested I submit it to the school literary magazine. It was rejected. I read the other stories in that magazine; I'm not surprised or upset that they didn't like mine.

Great job with this!

[Olex]

Great short story. It does nail a rather annoying topic in the common life.

Gods, Zak, I just read this and I almost cried. It's very poignant, and I didn't find the tone overly negative, just sort-of... longing, I suppose.

I think the tone is fine as well.

...If you don't like the tone, then maybe you should meet a girl on the balcony. ...

I was kind of expecting this, but it did not turn out to be so in this story.

[Ifat Glassman]

I have to add a disclaimer. ... but I don't like the overall negative tone. Normally, I wouldn't let such people bother me, but without them there is no contrast of personalities and no conflict.

Bingo! my thoughts exactly, as I finished reading it. I was very surprised to see that you, as the writer of the story had the same thoughts as well.

I imagine our reason for seeing the tone as negative is the same: that a portrait of a heroic man should focus on his passion, on the positive in his life, and by putting too much emphasis on other people it seems almost like their presence makes him suffer. Which is opposite than how you intended to portray him.

Your story made me question something I never wondered about before, about Howard Roark: the mocking expression.

Here is what bothered me about it: mocking is a reaction to people, not to innate matter, an emotional reaction to something unworthy, ugly, or inferior (though I'm not sure this is how Rand used the word "mocking" in TF). Wouldn't it indicate second handishness if one's expression is constantly mocking, even in the absence of something to be mocking of? It would indicate that he is basing his self-esteem and pride on being not like others, rather than on being himself.

Now let's suppose that the mocking expression is also meant for nature (which I think it does): Why would a man deal with nature as if it is an enemy to conquer, rather than with a passion of creation? I think that Galt was the later, without the mocking characteristic, and I think this is something that makes him better (than Roark). What do you think?

[realitycheck44]

I'm sorry I missed this, Ifat. Hmm, I'll have to think about it some more. Some intial thoughts: the mocking expression is simply a reaction to being good. I often find I smile and laugh (mockingly I assume) more often by myself than with anybody else around because it's simply natural to laugh at how easy some things are for me, to smile because of who I am. I have been told by people that it is often a sort of mocking expression. I took the liberty of assuming it's kind of like Roark's mocking. (I cannot really observe myself, so I honestly don't know.) As far as expressions of happiness go, people often consider it those who are good at something and smile about it to be mocking those who aren't. The word "mocking" is not something one can say about themselves or their own expression, but rather about someone else. Which is another problem with the essay: you cannot really write in the tense I chose. But that's already been discussed elsewhere.

Hopefully some of this makes sense to you. It does to me, but I can't seem to explain it very well.

Zak

[B. Royce]

I think there can be a kind of mockery toward things, as when they present a challenge to you, but you are confident in your ability to solve the problem or to overcome the difficulty. It is somewhat the feeling I have in mind in this stanza from my "The Mind Of Man". The "It" in the second line is the earth.

I blast, and I drill, I drive endless still;

It gives me nothing easy.

I laugh and I sing for this very thing;

I am the mind of man.

[Ifat Glassman]

Some initial thoughts: the mocking expression is simply a reaction to being good. I often find I smile and laugh (mockingly I assume) more often by myself than with anybody else around because it's simply natural to laugh at how easy some things are for me, to smile because of who I am.

Nope. The mocking thing (as a constant expression) still doesn't make sense to me.

I tried thinking about it, and here is how such person appears in my mind:

"Earth, I mock thee for being so easy to walk upon, to be under my control. Air! I mock thee for I can breath you in and out as I please. Hand! I mock thee for I can command you and create with you. Sun! ..."

In short this person looks like a total idiot in my mind.

As for Roark: while reading TF I it only made sense that Roark would smile mockingly at certain times (not as a permanent expression): When he first met Dominique (because she was trying to hide certain facts from him, or to pretend), when Wynand tried to force Roark to betray himself (because Roark knew that Wynand was fooling himself) when he met contemptuous people, when he experienced some inner pain (and mocking was his reaction to that pain).

But that's as far as it goes.