Fast

By Stephen F. Cea

Its a fact: no mans story begins or ends with his birth and eventual death. Thats just the span of a lifetime. A mans story begins with the commingled influences of the past and ends with the effects of his existence on the future. While sitting in his prison cell contemplating life, a man considers the events that led him astray.

Those events span a forty-year period, starting with early childhood into the present day. In a way, this mans story is a dark coming of age narrative that may or may not have a happy ending. Fast is a modern interpretation of Faust, except that instead of the hoofed personification of evil, it is modern society itself that beguiles the protagonist.

People react to their particular realities in a manner characterized by Sartre as Being-in-Itself because they dont have time to reflect on their decisions, instead of by Being-for-Itself, which requires a conscious evaluation before making those determinations. In other words, it can be a moments hesitation that leads to the decimation of our souls. Which path would you choose: damnation or salvation? What if you unknowingly already made your choice years ago?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532035012

Stephen F. Cea

Stephen F. Cea was born and raised in New York City. He received a bachelor of arts in English and political science from St. Johns University. He later moved to the suburbs of central New Jersey where he attended Seton Hall Law School. He practiced law in the private sector for twenty years before deciding to start a new career in the public sector.

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Copyright © 2018 Stephen F. Cea.

Cover Art by Harriet Cea

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2017919068

ISBN: 978-1-5320-3500-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-3502-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-3501-2 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 12/16/2017

Contents

Fast

Chapter One The Scorpion Or The Egg

Chapter Two Beyond Goods And Evil

Chapter Three Rosebud

Chapter Four The Kubric Stare

Chapter Five At The Passion Of The Blind Bohemian King

Chapter Six To Know Which Way The Wind Blows

Chapter Seven Lochnerism

Chapter Eight The Red Badge Of Discourage

Chapter Nine In The Room Women Come And Go Talking About Michelob

Chapter Ten As We Forgive Those Who Trespass Against Us

Chapter Eleven Portrait Of An Attorney As A Young Man

Chapter Twelve Breakfast At Trimalchios

Chapter Thirteen The Sword Of Damocles

Chapter Fourteen Pascal’s Wager

Chapter Fifteen Pavlov’s Fire Dog

Chapter Sixteen Infinite Wisdom

Chapter Seventeen Crime And Puzzlement

Chapter Eighteen The Dead Sea

Chapter Nineteen Wiping The Clay From My Eyes

For Jennifer

FAST

Now I have studied philosophy,

medicine and the law,

and unfortunately, theology,

wearily sweating, yet I stand now,

poor fool, no wiser than I was before;

I am called Master, even Doctor,

and for these last ten years have led

my students by the nose - up, down,

crosswise and crooked. Now I see

that we know nothing finally.

CHAPTER ONE

THE SCORPION OR THE EGG

NO ONE’S STORY BEGINS OR ends with birth and eventual death; that’s only the span of one’s lifetime. A person’s story begins with the commingled influences of the past, and ends with the effects of his existence on the future. If I had learned this at an early age, I’m certain my story would’ve been different.

I remember the day Father came home for the first time. This wasn’t the first time I met him. I knew him well. Mother and I used to visit him in Pennsylvania. I was always told that we were visiting him on the farm. I don’t recall what the farm looked like, except for the single Renaissance styled tower seemingly transported from the Tuscan landscape. I do recall all the farmers wearing blue numbered shirts and matching pants.

I remember the car ride being long and tiresome. We drove through the mountains, and then through farmland. Through the mountains the road was winding; through the farmland the highway was long and straight. Mother and I would ride for over an hour seeing nothing but occasional green traffic signs and off ramps. Those big green signs replete with white capital letters and corresponding reflective dots came few and far between, but as a child they were anticipated milestones. They were the hopeful confirmation that we were on a progressive journey. As for the off ramps, I always wondered where they led.

What I disliked was the occasional passing of old farm houses. They were always painted either red or white, and in shabby condition. I never saw anyone around these lonely homes, but someone had to live there because of all the horses and cows wondering aimlessly about. Someone had to feed and care for those animals. It made me sad to think that children might live in those houses, and that they must have been lonely. In my neighborhood there were over fifty kids my age, so when we played stick ball, we had full teams. In those farmhouses lining the road through Pennsylvania, I don’t think there were enough kids to thumb wrestle.

I always hated that ride. It was so long, and our car was uncomfortable. In the summer, the black vinyl was hot. In the winter, the black vinyl was cold and stiff. Sometimes, it was so hot that the car interior emitted a certain smell. It’s a smell only cars from the 1960s possess. It’s pungent, but sweet. It smells like wool and hay mixed together and smoldering. It’s a smell I recall vividly. Maybe it was the painted steel dash board baking in the sun, or maybe it was the stuffing in the seats, but whatever the cause, it remains distinctive.

My only particular memory of visiting the farm was the time Father refused our visit all together. When we finally arrived, we were met at the gate by a man in a well ironed, short sleeve collared shirt and tie. He wore a straw hat with a small brim donning a fine satin ribbon. His pants were well ironed too, but the cuffs didn’t quite meet his well-polished penny loafers, revealing argyle socks that didn’t quite match anything else he wore. It looked a little quirky, but almost planned. He and Mother were discussing something. I couldn’t quite get the gist of what he was saying, but apparently he was apologizing for not notifying her that Father couldn’t receive visitors.

I’m really sorry ma’am, but he can’t have visitors today. I really can’t talk about it, but he is in solitary confinement. Someone from the Visitor’s Office should’ve notified you.

Mother, who was rarely outwardly upset, was visibly annoyed in pure understated exasperation. That was part of her real British heritage. She was an attractive women whose height was altered by her upright constitution. She was more Mrs. Miniver than even Greer Garson, and just as pretty. Her strawberry blonde hair was usually supported by hairpins that kept it from landing on her shoulders, which further accentuated her porcelain skin, naturally manicured eyebrows and complimentary high cheekbones.

I understand, but it would’ve been nice if someone from your office would’ve notified me that he wasn’t allowed visitors today, she stated while gesticulating curt disapproval with her head.

I know Ma’am, and I apologize, said the seemingly pleasant man, while rubbing what would’ve been a chin, if he had one, with the back of his right hand.

Well, couldn’t you deny him visitation next week? This was a very long trip, and we are very hot and tired, she said as she looked down at me lovingly.

The man considered her request for a moment, patting the back of his neck with a dingy hanky he pulled from his front left pocket, and then began speaking.

I’ll tell you what, this is very against protocol, but maybe we can make an exception, the man said while smiling down at me. His grin revealed his tar stained teeth. He passed his hand through the wrought iron gate, and messed my hair. I smiled back, revealing a terrible habit. My two front teeth were missing, and when I smiled, my tongue always found a way of pressing through the space. The man looked at me half amused.

Now that’s a peculiar smile, he said while suspending the moment to stare at me. Then he turned to Mother, Please wait here, Ma’am, and I’ll see what I can do.

The man turned around, and walked down a long cement path towards the building. As I watched him walk away, I clung onto to the wrought iron gate complaining that I was hot, as if Mother could suddenly cool the moment. He eventually disappeared into the building. A half hour later, he reemerged walking back towards the gate. As he approached, he again pulled the hanky from his front left pocket to wipe his brow.

I’m sorry Ma’am, I went to speak with your husband, and told him that since you and your boy drove all this way, we would make an exception, and allow him visitation this week, and continue his isolation next week. He told me not to do him any favors, and to send you away.

That’s what he said?

Yes, Ma’am, but not verbatim.

Well, I’m sorry for your trouble, she said.

Likewise, Ma’am, the man replied, while looking down at me and handing me a small, red lollipop through the wrought iron.

I took the lollipop and said thank you. Mother turned, grabbed my hand, and dragged me away towards the parking lot.

Mommy, are we going home? I asked while trying to keep up.

Yes, sweetie, but first we’ll go eat lunch.

We walked through the parking lot to our car. She opened the driver side door, and let me get in first. I crawled cautiously across the intensely hot driver’s seat, over the center console, and carefully negotiated settling into the equally hot passenger side. First, I rolled down the window to let in the cooler hot air from outside. Then, I suspended my body over the seat by planting my feet in the foot well and arching my back to my shoulders which pressed against the top of the seat. My body remained arched and suspended, casting a shadow over the seating area. After a few eternal seconds, I cautiously made momentary contact with the seat until I could permanently settle upon the hot, black vinyl. All this time Mother fiddled through her purse, searching for her keys. She stuck the car key into the ignition, pressed in the clutch, and started the car. She clasped the steering wheel firmly with both hands, and stared forward, evidently thinking about something. After a few moments, we drove off.

We stopped at a small farmers’ market. It was an unpaved, dirt lot with booths organized in rows. There were fruit and vegetable stands selling potatoes, tomatoes, and eggs. There were food stands selling funnel cakes, sandwiches, and drinks. There was a hay ride, and a petting zoo.

The air and ground was a sunny mix of mist and dust. Molecules of water and particles of dirt scintillated in the yellow sun creating a soft amber hue. I couldn’t tell whether the mixture was settling to the ground, or if it were rising up. The air was a glowing gold haze, masking an otherwise dusty reality. It was almost welcomed.

At the fruit and vegetable stand, I noticed the eggs were packaged much differently than I’d seen before. I always saw eggs at the supermarket in cartons of twelve, and refrigerated. These eggs were packaged in cartons of sixty, twenty eggs stacked three high. Little white orbs all cooperating with each other, standing together, and supporting the next level. They were stacked upon each other like a leviathan, not in a refrigerator, but in the hot sun. They seemed so stalwart and unison. Alone each egg was delicate, but together they created a strong organized system, ready to be sold and devoured.

We stopped at one of the food stands. It was one of those aluminum stands on wheels that could be hitched to a truck and brought to the next fair. We shared a funnel cake. It was lukewarm and soggy with grease. It was so wet that the powdered sugar was no longer white and powdery, but a dingy hue of gray. After we ate, we visited the zoo. I petted a llama, and saw an ostrich. There were chickens and sheep. Mother knew not to stay too long at the petting zoo. She knew the smell would eventually make me sick. That’s why I never visited Staten Island Zoo. The smell always made me nauseous. Next, we went to see the snake and bug exhibit. I remember a long covered truck with cages and fish tanks on either side. On the side of the truck was a sign which read, Colonel Kernel’s Popcorn Traveling Zoo.

In the cages were snakes. Most of them seemed docile, except for the cobras. They were alert and hissing. They appeared extremely angry that they had to be in cages. I figured they didn’t realize that they had to be in those cages because they were dangerous. Their movement was abrupt and violent. Even in their cages they were very scary. I flinched as they jolted.

Don’t be afraid little boy, he can’t hurt you while he’s in that cage, said the man standing next to the truck wearing a blue uniform. I thought he must have been the colonel himself. His uniform looked worn. His hair was white and disheveled, and he wore a thick, bristly mustache.

These critters are too dangerous to be kept with the other animals. That’s why we keep’em here on this truck separate like. These critters ain’t indigenous to these parts. They’re shipped in from all over, and wind up here in these cages, he said while smiling down at me, and raising his hand to his brow to salute.

It dawned on me that he thought I was saluting him, when in reality I was squinting with my hand over my eyes to block the sun. I stopped looking up at him, and continued walking cautiously around the truck. Another odd habit of mine was that I delicately pointed in whatever direction I was walking. He followed and continued talking, while I only halfheartedly listened.

On the other side of the truck were the fish tanks. They were filled with tarantulas, hissing cockroaches, centipedes, millipedes and scorpions. They were all disgusting. None of them were very interesting, except for one scorpion. He was large and bright red. His tank had a sand floor, some rocks, and an old piece of wood. Unlike the hissing cockroach tank containing numerous bugs, hiding in carefully placed tubes and under dark brown debris, the bright red scorpion was alone, prominently displayed in his clean, arid tank.

Now that critter there is a scorpion, the man explained. He’s a marvel of evolution, he continued. He’s a killing machine.

He became animated as he described the scorpion.

His hard exoskeleton is impenetrable by other insects. His flat wide body, attached to his arching legs, gives him a lower center of gravity, making him difficult to tip over. Now for the good stuff; his claws are strong, and can crush other insects. Best of all, his tail is venomous.

As I walked by the tank, the scorpion seemed to keep turning in my direction, like he was watching me. I stopped, and he stopped; I moved, and he followed. He was keeping me in front of him, like a boxer in a ring. His tail was pointing towards me, ready to strike. His legs were making a pattern in the sand resembling hieroglyphics, similar to those realized by antediluvian nomads lying in the desert just moments after being stung. We stared at each other intensely. Mother walked up to the tank, and stood along-side of me. Strangely, the scorpion didn’t turn towards her. It remained fixated on me.

Well, what do you say sweetie? Should we get going? she asked.

Whenever you’re ready Mommy.

Good morning ma’am, said the Colonel.

Good morning, sir.

Please call me Colonel.

Okay kernel, have a nice day, she said.

That was the last time we visited Father at the farm. Ten months later he arrived home. No one told me he was coming until that evening. I was a little apprehensive only because of the change in circumstances. I wasn’t afraid of him. His affection was always apparent. True there were five other kids in our house, but I was the baby. I walked out of the bedroom shared with two of my sisters, down the tiny narrow hall, past the dark, rich, mahogany doors with natural patina and crystal doorknobs, and into the living room. He was standing by the front door. Mother and my siblings were all standing in the living room. I stood in the archway frozen and silent. All eyes were fixed on me.

He was stout and bald, with a thick band of hair starting at a thick sideburn, and wrapping around the back of his head to the other side. He had a pleasant smile revealing straight white teeth. He wore horn rimmed glasses, which at first glance seemed goofy. He resembled a bulky Phil Silvers, but upon further inspection, revealed a much more menacing persona.

Go kiss your father hello, instructed Mother.

I ran up to him and jumped in his arms. He kissed my face, and wouldn’t put me down. I felt his harsh stubble scratching against my cheek. It was comforting. I knew that from that moment on things were going to be different. That night I felt him sitting at the foot of my bed. I didn’t let him know I was awake. I think he was crying, but I couldn’t tell. He sat on my bed for hours. I heard Mother enter the room, and order him to bed. He obeyed her wishes without hassle.

CHAPTER TWO

BEYOND GOODS AND EVIL

I WAS A QUIET, TIMID boy. I didn’t like attention, and didn’t want it unnecessarily drawn towards me. On my first day of school, the teacher mispronounced my last name. The mispronunciation was so awful that she called it three times before I realized she was calling to me, and that I should answer. My delayed acknowledgement caused the class to laugh. The teacher must have figured that she probably mispronounced my name. When she questioned whether she said it correctly, I was so scared to speak that I just nodded, Yes.

Yes? she asked.

Yes, I nodded nervously.

From that day forward, and right through high school, my surname was mispronounced by all my teachers and classmates. It just stuck. It was a small price for avoiding what would have been a fleeting misunderstanding.

Father didn’t mind my being shy and timid. It was endearing to him. He would have hated if I were a bully or a big mouth. Those were two traits he despised. He was a pleasant man with a good sense of humor. He was always polite and courteous, except when he got angry. When I think back on his double personality, if he were analyzed by a psychiatrist, he probably would have been diagnosed bipolar or even paranoid schizophrenic. He could be jovial, and then like a flicked wall switch, he was uncontrollable. The weird thing was he never got angry with his kids or those from the neighborhood, for that matter.

He loved the company of children, and had unbelievable patience when it came to them. You could break things, make a mess, or get in trouble. He would usually just laugh it off. A bully however, someone who belittles others, would make him incensed and violent. I remember an incident between Father and a bully.

During the summer, I often accompanied him to work. He owned a trucking company. I was told he had the only non-union trucking company left in New York City during the 1970s. He hired Blacks, Whites, and Latinos. From what I recall many of the Latinos didn’t speak any English whatsoever.

One day two men in suits came to the warehouse. They were well dressed, large men. They belligerently parked their car in the loading zone, and walked up to an employee named Jose. Jose was helping a nice older gentleman named Mr. Klein, whom always wore a beautiful suit, white shirt, silk tie, and dark brown leather wingtip shoes. He was a Holocaust survivor. I happened to be present when Mr. Klein and Father met for the first time.

It was an unusually hot Saturday. I was sitting in the office. Father was in the parking lot directing loaded trucks out of the facility. Mr. Klein was welcomed to have a seat until Father finished outside. He took off his jacket, and hung it on the coat tree next to the door. He sat quietly with his hands in his lap, looking forward. The room was hot, so he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. When Father returned to the office, Mr. Klein stood up, and extended his arm to shake Father’s hand. I immediately noticed that Mr. Klein had a six digit tattoo on his forearm.

As the two men began to shake, I saw Father notice the tattoo. When their hands met it formed a