I awoke. My eyes opened onto a grim palate of smoky gray and deep, opaque darkness blended into a looming shadow of despair. Flat on my back, I rest upon an endless dim and empty plain of dead grass and sharp rock, silently watched by that solemn, final sky above. I, the lone and supine body lying between the infinitely distant horizons. Nothing, now. Nothing, ever again. I have seen the end; I have seen many ends, and soon I shall see The End. Nothing now but rock and I, and our gloomy undertaker above. No need to move. The shifting shadows in the sky deepen, and that roiling blanket makes way for the emptiness, the emptiness that grows and will soon consume. Merely a spot in the sky, yet even the empty, deathly clouds make way for that burgeoning void. They twist and turn, a slow whorl of death; those silent whispers of finality swirl beside the emptiness, vanguards to the glorious End that begins to fill the sky.
I watch. That deep ravine widens, exhorting the Nothing beyond to enter upon my realm, to consume, blindly, with cruelty and malice. The empty and endless horizons which were my final fortress walls begin to crumble. Soon it is I, I and no other, I and naught else. A deep and silent thunder resounds; a great and terrible voice calling from beyond the Nothing – and it is the End.
I awake. The birds chirp to greet a new day; the sunlight burns my eyes. But I see the world with a gaze bedimmed. My sole memory now the clouds, the clouds: the clouds bespoke the End of All.
“Whenever I play that game two truths and one lie, I always
say I grew up in a circus, and everybody says that’s the lie,” said Batjargal “Bachka”
Batmunkh ’13, smiling, “but it’s not.”
Bachka actually did spend most of his childhood—from age
four to 12 on-stage with Cirque du Soleil’s “Algeria,” touring around the world and
going almost everywhere—with the exception, he said, of any African countries. His
favorites include New Zealand and Singapore.
[Photo courtesy of Batjargal Batmunkh]
He speaks French, Mongolian, and English, and he even
understands a little bit of Russian.
Since the age of three, Bachka had been traveling with his
mother, who was a coach for acts in the show, and he spent much of his time
backstage watching the acrobats perform. One day, he started imitating some of
the actions of stage (no acrobatics yet though!), and the creators of the show
decided to put him in. When they asked him if he’d like to have a part, “it was
the easiest yes ever,” he said.
“The first thing I did was do a quick move and then go off stage,”
he said, “I definitely made the crowd go ‘awe’.
There isn’t much you can do that is more fun then being a
kid in the midst of an artistic circus act. “Before they opened the house, I
would have my costume on and they would give me a big bag of popcorn,” said
Bachka.
In his younger years, Bachka’s father stayed home in
Mongolia, but eventually joined the Cirque crew as a coach for acrobats and
house troupes.
Though Bachka was the only kid in the show, he made friends
with the children of coaches and technicians. “Most of the time I was fooling
around backstage,” said Bachka, “my best friends and I would always hang out.”
“I also had a super Nintendo and some of the younger cast
members would get in trouble for playing with it, but I was allowed because I
was a kid,” he said.
He got into a fair share of trouble as well, growing up
backstage. Once him and a friend threw into their air a whole container of
confetti that was supposed to be used at ‘snow’ during the show; however the
audience soon found out that there was no ‘snow’ left to be used, and the two
boys were scolded when they had been discovered.
[Photo courtesy of Batjargal Batmunkh]
He has also met several celebrities though his stage career,
but he only remembers them due to the collection of photos his parents
keep—Janet Jackson, Harrison Ford, Whoopi Goldberg. Once he even high fived President
Bill Clinton; Bachka only found out the man’s identity after the show from the
adults. “I was pen pals with that boy from Spy Kids for a little bit,” he said.
“One of the most beautiful theaters to perform in,” said
Bachka, “was the Royal Albert Hall in London with its old design and terraces
for the audience.”
The one this that he missed out on, he said, were the
parties. “I wished I was old enough to enjoy them, but I was 10.”
Another thing that wasn’t as great for Bachka during those
years was his academic career. In the US, he said, they have a law that if you’re
a minor that works, you can only go to school for a certain amount of time and
are not allowed to be assigned homework. To supplement this, his parents
assigned him their own homework, and his mother continuously taught him reading
and writing in Mongolian, since he spent so much time abroad.
“The hardest thing to learn was actually putting on the
makeup,” Bachka said, “it took me a really long time to do.”
[Photo courtesy of Batjargal Batmunkh]
By the time Bachka was 10, he began to work on acrobatics.
“I was not a natural for it,” he said with a laugh.
The first trick he did was to hold on to the back of a man
who was performing a back flip. “At first it was pretty scary, but then it got
fun,” he said. The tricks did get harder, and he watched talented cast members
perform amazing tricks everyday.
“I thought the coolest act were the aerial high bars with a
net below; it always blew my mind,” he said.
The hardest trick he had to work on was a double back flip
pike. In fact, in one show, he over rotated and landed on his head and passed
out.
“My parents told me that the crowd was scared because I was
obviously the only kid in the show and I wasn’t moving,” said Bachka seriously,
“and it must have scared my parents because I stopped doing Cirque about a year
later. “
After Cirque, Bachka went back to Mongolia in 7th
grade and attended an international school that continued his exposures to a
variety of cultures. Because he
was athletic from his involvement in acrobatics, he continued to get involved
with sports in high school.
“I also learned to play drums from the show’s drummer. I sat
next to him during sound checks, and he taught me for three years,” said
Bachka. He was in a band in high school called “Mohanik” and January of his
senior year, they were signed and recorded an album together. He left the band
to attend Lehigh, and the band has since recorded more albums, played numerous
shows in Mongolia and recorded songs for movie soundtracks.
Bachka’s mother now works as a trainer for young aspiring
contortionists, and is able to send them on to large shows. If you wanted to
make it as a contortionist in Mongolia, you would have to go to her.
Bachka intends to stay in education, and hopefully work
internationally. “I wouldn’t mind being a principal for an international
school, travel, and work with kids.”
Ideally, he hopes to makes changes for the youth in Mongolia because the
government and education, since the change from communism in 1991, has become
corrupted.
The
Registrar’s webpage states “We are here to help you.” From my experience, this has not been the case. The page also states, “Our
responsibilities include the entire registration process.” If this is the case, then it is their
responsibility to revise their inefficient processes set forth by the academic
regulations. Their antiquated and inflexible system was brought to my attention
when I decided I wanted to learn piano. Little did I know that learning piano
first required 10 signatures and visiting four offices in three different buildings
across the campus on multiple occasions.
My dissent with the Registrar, however, is not necessarily that their
processes wasted my time and that of the university faculty and administration,
but that the process is so inefficient that it does not align with the values a
university should uphold.
I decided I wanted to take MUS071
Private Piano Study during the second week of add/drop. As required, I
collected the add/drop form from the Registrar and proceeded across campus
seeking three signatures. First I stopped in Zoellner where the instructor signed
my form and overload petition. I should also explain here that the reason I was
overloaded was only because of credits that accompanied a winter break study
abroad program, and not because I genuinely was taking on more than an
appropriate course load. Next stop, Rauch Business Center. I got the advisor’s
signature then proceeded to the associate dean’s office. The associate dean is understandably busy at the beginning of each semester, so I was told I would
receive an email once the associate dean got a chance to put down her
signature. The next day, I
returned to her office, picked up the signed form, and submitted it to the
registrar. Then it was time to wait for the decision by the Committee on the
Standing of Students (SOS).
I
did not hear back for another three and a half weeks, when I received an email from the
dean’s office. As to why I was informed of the decision 10 days after the
petition was seen by the committee on Feb. 8, I do not know. So, on Feb. 18, I
went to see the course instructor who told me there is no more capacity in the
course. Several days later, after noticing that the Bursar had already done me
the courtesy of billing me the extra $440 required to take the course that I’ve
never been to, I went to the registrar to be taken off the course list. I
described the situation about how I was unable to take the course due to it
being over capacity and that I needed to be officially taken out of it. What
does the lady at the registrar do? She hands me an add/drop form, along with a
Petition form that I will need to remove the “W” that will appear on my
transcript because my enrollment in the class is already “in the system.” What
is this notion of a supernatural system to which we grant authority? To the
registrar I say, YOU ARE THE SYSTEM. So when they say that another six signatures will be required to get out of the class I have
never been to, am not allowed to take, and was already billed for, from the
same people whose signatures I were required to get into the class three and a half weeks
prior, I politely questioned whether it was necessary since, in actuality,
I’m not even in the class. Why do
advisors, teachers, and deans need to approve something when doing otherwise
would be so utterly insensible?
The
quiet lady at the registrar replied saying that “this is the way our office
works,” which was actually the same filler line she used when I first submitted
the forms to the SOS Committee. If
people were content with “the way things are,” then nothing would ever
happen. Alumni would not be so
generous as to donate their hard-earned money which the university so actively
seeks out. I hope some of this
money will fund some administrative restructuring so that we do not have to
continue wasting our own time making sure our own students aren’t over-stepping
the university’s bounds. If the
benevolent SOS Committee approves my petition, it will be the 17th
signature in this process. I’m sure the administration would agree that they
have better things to be dealing with, which is probably why the committee only
meets every 2 weeks. It amazes me how unrefined this process is at such an old
institution. If the Registrar is really here to help students, I have yet to
see it done. It looks like I won’t be taking piano.
The new off campus restaurant will leave you feeling full and satisfied. Although Lehigh has several dining options, students living on campus can grow weary of having to eat at the dining halls for every meal. Upper Cort offers a food court style alternative to the traditional dining halls, but after countless trips, the variety seems less appealing. For those students looking for some new options and for fraternity and sorority members whose chefs don’t cook meals on weekends, venturing into Bethlehem is an attractive choice. There are always the classics like the Goose or Sal’s to get a good meal at. Yet, the line at the Goose is often out the door, and there may not always be time for a sit-down meal at Sal’s. New to the food scene at Lehigh, Full of Crepe offers a creative and quick alternative to standard fare in the form of delicious crepes served at an affordable price.
Full of Crepe is easy to miss, located on New Street between Subway and Sal’s. Once you get your first crepe here, though, you’ll never have trouble finding it again. The actual restaurant is no bigger than a dorm room, and there are only two hot plates on which the crepes can be made. The counter to place your order is located at the very front of the store near the entrance. Although it can be difficult, try not to stand too close to the entrance, or risk being whacked by the door as an incoming customer arrives. Despite the small size, there has not been a line once in all my visits; that must be a crime considering how delicious the crepes are. What is not a crime is how polite the staff is. Immediately upon entering, you are warmly greeted by the two to three workers. Every time I’ve gone, I have been offered coffee without any delay at all. Then, they patiently wait while you decide which crepe suits your tastes, even offering up some of their current favorites. I say “current favorites” because, as they explained to me, they love all their creations but cycle through favorites all the time. Prices for the crepes range from 4-8 dollars, depending on how complex your selection is. Once your order is placed, you watch as your crepe is assembled on a hot plate, cooked, and ultimately placed in a conveniently designed crepe holder. From walking in hungry to leaving happy, the process is smooth, quick, and pleasant.
Where Full of Crepe really shines, however, is in its interesting menu choices. The menu is diverse with both savory and sweet options. Whether you want a satisfying, meaty crepe or just a sweet treat, there is a crepe for everyone. Take my personal favorite, for example, the “Turkey Lurkee”. This crepe consists of turkey, spinach leaves, balsamic reduction, tomato, mozzarella cheese, and pesto mayo. The ingredients work perfectly together, sending your taste buds on a flavorful ride but also leaving you more fulfilled than any other old crepe. In a more odd combination, there is the “Christy Cristo” which consists of raspberry preserves, ham, turkey, Swiss cheese, maple syrup, and powdered sugar. Full of Crepe pushes the boundaries of this succulent crepe by adding raspberries and turkey to the traditional ingredients of a Monte Cristo, resulting in a fruity yet savory masterpiece. More traditionally yet just as deliciously, Full of Crepe serves the “Blue Plate,” a combination of eggs, cheese, and ham or bacon; the “Canuck,” simply bacon and maple syrup; or the “Moravian Sugar Cake,” consisting of brown sugar, cinnamon and butter. There’s no other restaurant that I can honestly say I want to try every item on the menu. However, if none of the menu choices are to your liking, there also is a “Fill Your Own” option. Additionally, the restaurant offers gluten-free batter for an extra dollar. With all of the appealing choices and the opportunity to customize your own crepe, you can’t go wrong.
Full of Crepe only allows takeout due to its small size. Plans are in place, however, to expand the building into an adjacent room in order to allow for in-restaurant seating. Also worth mentioning is that the restaurant only accepts cash at the moment. Taking the time to go to an ATM will be well worth it, though, once you’ve had a chance to experience this hidden gem’s food. If you are looking for a quick, delicious, affordable, and unique alternative to on and off campus dining, look no further than Full of Crepe.
Gregory Warmack (1948-2012), better known as "Mr. Imagination", a Chicago artist, lived in Bethlehem from 2001 to 2008, and contributed many pieces to the town, including the bus stop on 4th Street and "Alferd" (yes, spelled like that!) the Mule, which can be found in the Lehigh University Art Galleries. His artwork can be found in places like the Smithsonian American Art Museum; the House of Blues in Orlando, Las Vegas and Chicago; and the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. His works features the use of mosaic tiles, bottle caps, and other recycled pieces. Below is a collection of photographs from the "Sculpture Garden," which he made along with Professor Norman Girardot, from the Department of Religion Studies. The small meadow isn't kept up by the school, so it has been deteriorating since its creation. Every once and a while, however, different student additions show up to the space, breathing new life into it.
[Photo by John Brodish '13]
[Photo by Meghan Barwick '15]
[Photo by Meghan Barwick '15]
[Photo by Meghan Barwick '15]
[Photo by Meghan Barwick '15]
[Photo by Meghan Barwick '15]
[Photo by Hilary Hla '13]
[Photo by Hilary Hla '13]
[Photo by Hilary Hla '13]
[Photo by Hilary Hla '13]
[Photo by Hilary Hla '13]
[Photo by Hilary Hla '13]
[Photo by Hilary Hla '13]
[Photo by Hilary Hla '13]
[Photo by Hilary Hla '13]
One could take hours to pour over the small details that Warmack has included in his pieces on Lehigh's campus, and it is definitely something that should be on every student's bucket list.
I was halfway through my second bowl of Captain Crunch last Thursday morning when I came to the realization that I have lied to myself my entire life—more or less.
I’ve gone through life thinking I was destined for greatness in everything I’ve done. My parents, so worried about the self-esteem phenomena may have bolstered me a little too high. I’m not blaming this entirely on my parents, but I’m just saying, they started it. At a young age, I knew I was going to be a country music singer. Never mind that I didn’t listen to country music, it was going to happen. I had the cowboy hat, and a voice—not a particularly good voice, but a voice nonetheless. I got some weird looks in the middle school hallway from wearing the cowboy hat 24/7, but I was a kid with a dream. I’m sure my fellow classmates assumed I was going through some strange Madonna-esque stage of life, due to the buckteeth/cowboy hat combo.
My parents encouraged my deluded behavior; maybe thinking I wasn’t serious, maybe thinking it was cute. My mom took it as an open invitation to buy me hats, which led to a terrible bowler phase I’d rather not discuss. My dad sincerely told me to follow my dreams. But, here’s the kicker, what if I’m especially shitty at my dreams? After a year or so of intense vocal training, I lost any passion I had to win a CMA; kicked the country music star dream, and picked up a much weirder pastime. I have no idea where the inspiration came from, but I decided to be a professional fencer.
“Fencing” is just a nicer way to say fake sword fighting. Twice a week I would spend evenings at the local rec center learning how to fence. Reflecting on it, I must’ve grown up near a very diverse rec center, but that is beside the point. The point is, why was I allowed to fence for a year? I was terrible, and only had an interest in reenacting the fencing scene from the Lohan Parent Trap. Wasting my time, and my parents’ as well, I sometimes wish they ‘d forced me to become a spelling bee champ or the like. To this day I’m not so great at my times tables, and perhaps it would’ve been worthwhile to focus on that instead of my Jack Sparrow impression. Realizing I didn’t have the drive for late night practice, or qualifying matches, my fencing career ended in under a year. The dream died even faster than my fling with country music.
Fast forward a decade or so, and I’ve grown. Not physically, I’m probably around the same height, minus the buckteeth. I can admit without shame that I am neither a country music star, nor a professional fencer. But, this doesn’t make me any less crazy.
A friend the other day asked me what I was going to do the rest of my life. This wasn’t as existential as you think, seeing as I’m graduating college soon and all we see is this empty continuum called “the rest of our lives”. I replied to her question in a cocky way. I would be a writer, of stories, articles, books, opuses, you know? Maybe produce a piece of literature to rival the Bible, or at least Harry Potter? My friend responded to my half sarcastic comment with sincerity, assuring me that I was an excellent writer. I was ready to accept this as fact chiseled in rock, when something snapped. Like a detective noticing when the prime witness slips, everything started to go slow motion, and there was that Law & Order “dunk dunk” sound going off in my head.
This friend of mine had never read a work of mine, and okay, okay I understand. She was being nice. But, this pseudo-compliment led me to wonder—what does it really mean to follow your dreams?
Why didn’t my parents tell me the cowboy hat wasn’t doing me any favors? They could’ve pointed me in the direction of cobbling or taxidermy, hobbies that may have better suited me than country music. But no, they encouraged my dream to the point where I thought I could do anything. I dreamed big, with no follow through.
Now in my 20s, I have to wonder if I’ll succeed at what I’ve put my mind to. Since given my first journal, I’ve been writing nonstop. I believe in myself, but in the course of this essay I’ve proven I’m not really trustworthy. I’ve given up many times before in crazier pursuits. Does it matter if crazy people believe in themselves? If a crazy person compliments his or herself in the forest, does anyone hear it?
This truth only came crashing down on me during a phone call with my dad. After raising two older girls, I think he’s become a bit of a realist towards my problems. On the precipice of tears, I explained how I am a phony (you understand, because I talk like Holden Caulfield most of the time).
“I just feel like I’m out there. In a sea. Or ocean? What’s the difference? Anyway, I’m out there, with like, no ropes or pool noodles, and there’s a storm of sharks surrounding me or something” I lamented, “I’m not sure I’m meant to do what I love.”
“You’ve never picked the clear path…” my dad said, and followed that up with a family anecdote I wasn’t entirely listening to. “You will succeed. Eventually,” my father’s soliloquy concluded with Buddha-like certainty. Not, “You’ll do great” or “I believe in you,” but with the far more ominous, something good will happen to you sometime.
I’ve been meditating on this little advice nugget for a good thirty minutes now, and I realize he’s right. I also realized that’s exactly what I’ve been preparing for my entire education at Lehigh. These past four years have taught me more about myself than I believed possible.
Through speakers and workshops, classes and lectures, I’ve been surrounded by success that didn’t always come easy. Those who find success possess the winning combination of passion balanced with determination. We have students on campus engineering cures to cancer, making amazing art, and beating Duke. No one’s calling them crazy. If we called Jesse Reno a crazy person, we’d all still be huffing and puffing up stairs instead of taking the escalator. If we called Howard McClintic and Charles Marshall crazy, we wouldn’t have the Panama Canal, or the anagram “A man a plan a canal, Panama”.
What I’m trying to say, in this long-winded rant is, my time at Lehigh has taught me to “Work Hard. Play Hard, and then Work A Lot More”. If I put my mind to it, I can use what I’ve learned here to persevere. I’m not saying success will find me in all of my ventures, but eventually, I will succeed. It won’t just be my crazy dream of writing for a living that leads me to success, but also the determined passion. I gave up my silly hobbies because I lacked the determination to continue them. This time, I’m truly passionate about what I’m doing, and I can’t imagine just giving it up.
(Final) Case and point--where you are reading this: The Goblet. It’s an idea, sort of crazy, started by students. But if it weren’t a little bit crazy, and a lot ambitious, it wouldn’t be a Lehigh idea. I’m not saying it’s easy, but I am saying, “You will succeed. Eventually.”
A
few videos went viral over this week. Here is a recap of the of my top 5 videos
for the week.
5. Our first video is
cheerleader half-court trick shot...UNREAL! This features the impressive
ability of Ashlee Arnau, a cheerleader at
William Carey University. She was the star of the night with her almost
unrepeatable half court shot.
4. Coming in at
number 4 we have Fragile Italian Glass Snowboard by Network. In this video a
group of snowboard enthusiast (aka Signal
Snowboards) travel to Italy and visit the beautiful mountains of
Tuscany. The purpose of this trip was to create and test the world's first
glass snowboard. They chose to do this in Italy because of the history of the Glass
blowing there. There they meet up with Signal
Snowboards Italy team rider Giorgio "Iannino" Morell who travels with
them to the different factories where they construct the board.
3. At Number three we
have “How it feels [through glass] by Google.” In this video Google shows off
its newest product: the Google glass. This is a pair of glasses that contains an
android computer that functions very similarly to your run of the mill smart
phone. The video shows a collection of people experiencing life in a first
person perspective. The video shows many of the interesting things that you can
do with Google's glasses. The glasses are expected to hit shelves some time
later this year, but if you want to see all of the interesting things that the
glasses watch the video.
2. The second place
video is Taylor Swift - I Knew You Were
Trouble Goat Edition by Christopher DrifterSX. This short clip shows part of
Taylor Swifts “I Knew You Were Trouble” replacing her yell with goats from the
other viral video “Goats Yelling Like Humans.” Many people found this joke very
entertaining. If you want to see the hysterical rendition of Taylor Swift’s
song you can catch it here:
1. The number one
video of the week was “Kittens on the Beat” by Corridor Digital. This video
shows the epic struggle between kittens and what can only be surmised to be
sock gnomes. With tunes by Savant blasting in the background the battle for the
socks is portrayed in epic grandeur. If you like kittens and Freedom then this
is the video for you. To see the majesty that is “Kittens on the Beat” click below.
They hit the window with the force greater than it could bear. Glass splintered and burst into the Portland night sky. It was over seventy eight floors below until they would have impact. Blood trickled in the air next to their slow-motion bodies. This freefall would seem longer than a lifetime. And this fall was just the start of the end. Their bodies fell with a cursed grace, like grains of sand dripping to the bottom of the hourglass. Their time was almost up.
This was just the climax in a long-standing rivalry and an old feud. The two men falling towards the pavement are Jack Redman and Adam DeLarge, half brothers cursed with paternally linked brotherhood. Their father, Frances DeLarge, was an overbearing businessman and CEO of the Jetstone Company, the most powerful industrial mining company on the west coast. The brothers had a shattered relationship full of hatred that kept them from ever developing a bond or even coming into contact. This would all change when they entered into their father’s company exactly five years ago. Their loathsome relationship developed into complete and utter abhorrence. Both scratched and clawed their way up the corporate ladder, becoming more successful each year. When one would do a project successfully, the other would steal the credit. When the other got the promotion, an argument would ensue and both would be given the job. They absolutely hated one another and would stop at nothing until one, and only one, would become the CEO.
It was a silent, cool November night when the brothers received news that would change the rest of their short lives. The brothers’ phones rang in synchronicity miles apart from one another.
“Hello?” Jack answered the phone as he looked with burning eyes at his alarm clock. It read 2:14 am. Who would be calling this late? His unshaven face glared into the darkness. He was still a young upstart still getting used to a 9-5 job; sleep was the last of his problems. Little did he know, this call would change his destiny.
On the other end of the phone was a hospital nurse who aided in the attempted recovery of the victim of a drunk driver. They tried as much as they could but the man would not be revived. He left the staff with two names before he passed away, uttering “Jack Redman, Adam DeLarge,” with his last breath. These two names were to be contacted and told of their father’s passing.
“Are you sure? You say you did everything you could?” Jack paused and listened to the nurse’s quivering voice. “And that’s all he said, just our names? Has my brother been contacted?” His eyes shifted madly around the room. “Okay, thank you.” He hung up the phone.
Jack’s emotions were torn. Should he actually feel remorseful for the loss, or smile with a sigh of relief? He had never been close to his father, as Jack’s mother had been “the other woman.” Jack’s name was Redman, not DeLarge. The man had practically disowned him if for no reason other than to hide his infidelity to his wife. Jack deserved to be the head of the company now after all the hardship he had to face. It was his turn to finally be successful, and by doing so get revenge on his father and brother by becoming the new CEO. He needed to go to his father’s office and see the will. Jack knew he would not be left with the company and the will would have to be changed before anyone would get access to his assets. Jack couldn’t let Adam have control, not after all these years, after all the hardships.
Jack got dressed, throwing on a collared shirt and black slacks, leaving his apartment in a rush. His father’s office was five minutes from his apartment. He hurried, not knowing if he would be the only one there when he arrived.
Jack soon ascended the floors of the building, tapping his foot nervously on the floor of the elevator. His anxiety grew with every drop of sweat that arose on his arms. He had to claim his right to a good life. Jack longed to be someone in this world and with all the desire in his body, wished to gain the power, the control of his father’s company.
A bell rang; he had arrived at his destination. The elevator doors opened with a lurch on the seventy-eighth floor. He stepped out cautiously and looked down the narrow hallway. He never liked to be in his father’s building at night. The lights of the city gave off cynical shadows that reflected the shady business deals made within. This building was the capital of business in Portland. Nowhere else in the city could a place be so busy and energetic during the day and yet so dismal and maladroit when the sun went down. Jack could feel his nerves twisting into fear, into hatred, into that animalistic drive that keeps greedy humans searching for power.
Jack walked the length of the hall quickly, keeping his strides short but his tempo upbeat. The door of the office was a large oak mammoth that towered over the cowering employees it faced. Many a man had broken down just before stepping through the threshold to learn that he wouldn’t be able to provide for his wife and kids this Christmas. The lumbering menace had the same effect on Jack. He stood there frozen, anticipating the large desk and leather chair his father had occupied for so many years. He turned the cold, silver knob with ease. Frances never left his office open after work? Jack gradually stepped in.
The creak of the door startled Adam. He nervously twitched as he looked up from the file he had open in front of him. Jack was halfway through the door when Adam stood up from his father’s throne directly in front of the wall of glass perched above the city. Adam was towering figure, only a few years out of college but still three years younger than his brother. His conservative manner was reflected in his cardigan and black slacks. Adam quickly scurried to the shadows that covered one half of the room and pressed along the book-lined wall. Jack’s head peered in just as his brother sneaked past his peripheral vision. Adam crouched behind the dusty artificial plant that occupied the corner into which the door opened. He gazed at Jack with such abhorrence that he had to bite his tongue from screaming out. He has no right to be here.
Jack took deliberately-measured steps and made it half way to the desk before he stopped short, noticing the open file. He felt a heavy thud from behind. He heard something shatter and then felt intense pain throbbing in the back of his head.
“Aghhhhhhh!” Jack shouted, falling to the ground. He had been blindsided by his rival. Adam slowly circled to the front of Jack.
“You really thought you could just waltz right into my father’s office and take the will for yourself?” Adam spat, aiming at Jack’s face. Jack winced away from the projectile, rubbing his bruised bleeding head.
“Honestly, what makes you think you have any right to this empire?!” He kicked Jack in the stomach with great force. Adam’s boot penetrated deep into his torso, tearing a button off his now dirtied white shirt. Jack let out an exasperated gasp for air and fell onto his side in a fetal position. He started wheezing heavily, trying to regain the wind he lost.
“You’re pathetic you know that? That’s why I have my father’s name and you have nothing more than what that whore left to you before she died, Redman.” He drew a smug smile and sauntered to the desk where the file laid open. He read the opening line aloud to Jack.
“I, Frances J. DeLarge, hereby make this Will and Testament…”
He paused, hearing a wounded chuckle, the laugh of a madman, coming from Jack. Adam stared at the will, blankly listening to the nonsense and finally looked up. Jack was on his knees, giggling away, and in his hand, he held a gun. The barrel of a .44 gawked at Adam and it seemed as if the handgun itself was laughing.
“It doesn’t matter what the will says!” Jack cheerfully sneered though his grin. “All that matters is that I’m the last man to have the will before the attorneys get it. I can change it to whatever I please. Sorry, brother, but you’ll never have your happy ending.” Jack’s giggle started growing maniacal. His shoulders shook as he laughed like a demon.
Adam stood stunned, unbelieving of the turn of events. His heart raced and his head beat to the sound of his pulse. This is it, he thought.
The hammer came down on the back of the pistol. The gun fired and an overwhelmingly loud blast filled the room, followed by crackle. His shot missed, passing Adam’s left shoulder and turned the limpid window into a spider-web of glass fissures. A blur sprinted towards the confused injured man on the floor. The bang acted as the shot of a starter gun. Adam dropped the will and dashed. Jack’s eyes grew large with anxiety as he saw the embodiment of rage approaching at full speed. He jumped to his feet and threw the gun to the side with a wince.
Adam wound up his fist and brought it down on Jack. Jack ducked the punch and countered with a quick jab to the Adam’s kidney as he fell to the right. He gasped for lost air and turned around to face Jack. They circled each other, one taking slow careful steps and the other limping rhythmically. Each grunted with hatred at the opposite man. Their fireball eyes clashed in the darkness.
Jack lunged forward and swung a left hook at Adam’s face. Adam threw up his arm, taking the full impact of the punch with his forearm. Adam withdrew in pain, wincing back several steps out of harm. He looked at the bookshelf next to him and grabbed the first thing saw: a thick leather-bound Bible. The book weighed close to ten pounds, but Adam had no trouble throwing the holy script directly at Jack’s chest.
Jack dropped back and the book fell to the floor with a thunderous bang. He bellowed out, trying to get his wind back once more. Adam ran at Jack, jumping into the air and roundhouse kicking him right in the ribs. The force caused Jack to fly back and slam into the desk behind him. A large shoeprint appeared dirty across his white shirt. Writhing in pain, Jack grabbed a letter-opener off the desk and pushed himself forward. He rushed right at Adam, grunting in both pain and anger.
“Meet your father in hell!”
Adam raised his hands in self-defense, but it was no use. Jack brought down the blade with great might. His rage overpowered him, swelling in his heart. It enflamed with each drop of sweat that poured into his eyes. The makeshift knife slit Adam’s outstretched hand and tore through his tendons. The blade exited the other side of his hand and blood gushed out onto the floor. It splattered Jack’s shirt, the red blots adding a tactile feel to the present shoeprint.
“AHHHHHH! YOU STABBED ME!” Adam grabbed at his wrist in agony. His sleeve was starting to stain. Blood enveloped his hand like a red glove
He charged at Jack, with his arms spread, ready to tackle his brother. Jack braced for the hit and drew his arms in. The impact of the hit was immense as the brothers flew backwards, crashing over the paperwork and stationary on the desk. As Adam wrapped his arms around Jack, he jabbed him in the side with his wounded hand, knife still protruding. The knife penetrated just below Jack’s ribs, pinning the brothers together.
They flew past the desk, still in the air, and crashed through glass curtain. This would the first and only hug Jack and Adam would ever share. The two brothers fell all seventy-eight floors, hatefully embracing one another until the fatal impact. Neither would take over their father’s reign over the city.
The will, crumpled and bloodstained, lay unread in Frances DeLarge’s office, the paper that resulted in the death of two brothers.
“I, Frances J. Delarge, hereby make this Will and Testament. I hereby leave all my assets and the future of the Jetstone Company under the care of my pride and joy, the most inspirational person I know…”
A slight breeze lifted the will out of its resting place and floated out the window into the dreary night sky…
