Cogito, Ergo Sum

A disillusioned man’s fantasy of being a hero unexpectedly becomes reality. by Johann Naudé

Why was the conductor looking at him? Geoff couldn’t understand. He was of no importance, had no relevance to the performance. Hell, he hadn’t even been in the theater! He’d been a full ninety degrees to the left, just walking past, and happened to look over when a glorious swell in the music suddenly brought tears to his eyes.

Why, at the height of his performance, when he was the absolute center of attention, would the conductor be looking at him? And Geoff knew he had. Even from a hundred feet away, he could tell, because—and this was the strangest part—when their eyes met, the maestro quickly turned away as if he’d been caught out.

It didn’t make any sense.

Geoff wiped a tear from his cheek and trudged on. What the fuck did it matter anyway?

He veered off the path and collapsed onto a chair beneath a tree. It was a hot day. Not a breath of wind. Just the stench of fish and festivity. He was by the waterfront.

Straight ahead, the conductor was slashing and stabbing the air like a wizard fighting for his life. In more cheerful times, Geoff might’ve parodied the man. As things stood, he just eyed him wearily for a few seconds, then heaved a big sigh and said, “Aren’t you also just so tired of it all?”

Geoff wasn’t delusional. He had addressed the question to a drifter-looking type a little to his right. A poor choice, as it turned out, because the man—whose entire left side, including that hemisphere of his beard, was coated with dust—didn’t seem fit for conversation, especially not the heavy kind.

With his eyes half closed and mouth half open, he was clearly lost in a world of his own. Even so, he slowly came to and said, “Heh?”

Geoff turned to him. “I said, ‘Aren’t you also just so tired of it all?’” Geoff turned back to the theater. “All these games we play, the asses we lick, the compromises we make … the perpetual sense of being someone other than yourself, like some two-bit actor. It’s so tiring! I’ve been at it most of my life, and just look where it’s got me. I hate my job, I just failed to win back the woman I love, and, worst of all, I despise myself.

“You should’ve seen me just now … Puh! How embarrassing! I was gro-ve-ling. No wonder she’s no longer interested in me. And I mean precisely that: not interested. Completely indifferent. Not even angry or hurt. Just plain free of any care for Geoff.

“Ah, how different it was in the beginning … I was bold back then—swashbuckling. With the aid of a few beers, the embodiment of a female fantasy. Women fell for me like lumber. I don’t know if you’ve seen any of his busts, but I take quite strongly after Alexander the Great: curly hair, strong nose, thousand-mile glare. Now, imagine Alexander the Great swaggering around in a nightclub—that was me. Men feared me; women wanted to sleep with me. Now, I no longer even have the nerve to leave an extra button undone.”

He flicked the offending button.

“I’m not sure how it got to this, to be honest. I guess I just started taking the easy road more and more. Became enamored with comfort. Lost touch with my values. Tried to be like water. I don’t know. But I feel … flat, heavy—like wet cement. I’m uninspired! Ellie was the last carrot that made me lick my lips. Nothing else holds any allure … except … It’s funny—when you listen to music, really beautiful music, like this, do you sometimes … fantasize? You know, about some situation, some ideal version of yourself?”

Geoff eagerly turned towards the drifter, but only more disappointment awaited him. The drifter was fast asleep.

Geoff slammed his fist down on the table. “Wake up, son! This is serious!”

The drifter jolted awake. “Huhwhatdoyouwhat?”

“I said, ‘This is serious!’ I am despairing here, on the verge of blowing my brains out, and you can’t even bother to listen!”

“I’m sorry. I’m tired.”

“I am tired!” said Geoff, jabbing his thumb into his chest. “Tired of this goddamn counterfeit life … I’m not made for it. Really, I’m not. I’m living in the wrong era, I realize it more and more. I should’ve been born millennia ago, when men could still be men, when honor was still the highest virtue … and wasn’t trampled upon by effeminate feet.

“I’m made for glory and thunder,”—he shook his arms at the sky—“for gore and savagery. I’m made for blood on my teeth,”—he bared his teeth—“for viscera on my fingertips.” He wiggled his fingertips. “I was born to be a hero, to die a hero. Just look at this,” he said, flexing his right arm every which way. “Just look at that. I wasn’t placed on this earth to code! To engineer spreadsheets! What a joke!”

He spat on the lawn.

“I should’ve lived alongside Caesar—the O.G. Now there was a man. A dashing playboy who could cut throat with the best of them. He led from the front, and fucked from the back. Do you know that he impregnated Cleopatra? What a lad. He was bigger than Rome. They couldn’t handle him.”

He shook his head. “I’m ready, my friend. Ready to offer myself up, to make a grand gesture. It’s the only way I can redeem myself. I’ve been suppressing myself for too long. When I listen to this music, I realize: I’m a warrior. I’ve been placed on this earth to fight, to protect, to sacrifice!” Again, he slammed his fist down on the table.

“There’s only one problem,” he said, looking around in disgust, “everything is so goddamn boring! Just look at all of this: kids running around, tourists licking ice cream, blue skies, carbon-fiber yachts. The only remote threat is these damn seagulls. Did you know that one stole half a croissant from my hand once? Gangsters, all of them.

“But what I’m trying to say is this: this world is too docile, too safe. There are no great threats, no evil fascists to overthrow. Where will I get my opportunity?”

And then something remarkable happened. Some might call it fate, destiny, or God’s will; others may simply put it down to extraordinary coincidence. Whatever the case may be, it seemed almost unbelievable that at that very moment, just as he’d thrown his hands up in hopelessness, the psychotic sound of machine-gun fire broke out.

“What the …” was all he could get out. Multiple gunmen, dressed in black from head to toe, were spreading across the grounds, firing at anyone and anything that moved. All around him, people were running, screaming, falling, hiding. The drifter too, when heaven and earth began to shake like a hammer drill, displayed an unexpected capacity for action—falling off his chair and bolting into the horizon. Only Geoff didn’t move—that is, until very suddenly, he did.

It was pure instinct. Unlike most of his decisions, such as whether avocados were worth the price, this one required no rumination, act of will, body scan, consultation with a life coach, or 10-day silent retreat. When he saw the gunman closest to him turn his Kalashnikov on the kids in the playpark, he rose with the gravity of a god and, going against the grain of the masses, charged straight at him.

He dove into his ribcage torpedo-style, the man groaning like the Titanic as they went flying through the air. The moment they crashed into the ground, Geoff quickly drew himself up onto his knees, ripped the Kalashnikov from the man’s grip, and smashed the butt into his face. One, two, three times—the man was conked, his head lolling limply to the side.

Being a devoted gun nut since the age of five, and having feverishly simulated this kind of scenario countless times late at night as he lay in bed, clutching his blanket, there was no fumbling or questions about what to do next. Like never before in his life, Geoff knew with absolute certainty not only what to do next, but he also had no qualms about doing it. At long last, he felt aligned, on purpose.

After checking that the magazine hadn’t come loose during the scuffle, he swung his left leg over the man’s torso and planted it firmly to get a more comfortable and secure aim at the gunman further along the path, who was spraying the line of restaurants behind the theater.

Steadying his left elbow on his thigh, Geoff drew a bead on the man’s back. Rat-tat-tat. He fell into a crooked heap.

A moment later, Geoff felt a searing hot pain against his neck. He had been grazed.

But far from retreating into his shell, he experienced a kind of elation as he took cover behind the body of the first gunman. Even at this critical juncture, as he came under intense fire from somewhere to his right, he was thinking, “This is it. This is what it’s all about.”

As he felt his neck and saw a splotch of blood on his hand, he grinned. He didn’t mind going down today. He was a made man. All his sins and inadequacies would be forgotten. Forevermore, he’d be remembered as a hero.

He snarled with satisfaction.

When his opponent’s magazine ran out, he rolled onto his stomach and unloaded on him with abandon, all while shouting unpublishable obscenities.

* * *

When the guns eventually fell silent and no man was left standing, Geoff lay face-up in the middle of the stage, a pool of blood forming around his chest.

Only a few feet away from him lay the conductor. Dead. Headshot.

Geoff was also dying, but it didn’t matter. Everything was peaceful now. The blue sky had never looked more beautiful. Even the squawking of the returning seagulls warmed his heart. And then, like a kitten finding its way home late at night, he heard Ellie’s anguished voice in the distance, “Geoff! Geoff!”

Joy flooded his body; she cared …

When she reached him, she fell to her knees beside him and touched his face with trembling fingers. “I’m so sorry, Geoff, I’m so sorry! I love you. I love you! Please, please, don’t leave me. Please!” It was just like in the movies …

“Now, now,” he said, squeezing her hand. “It’s all going to be okay. I promise.”

But even as he said it, the world began to fade, taking on the character of a long-forgotten photograph. His eyes slowly began to close.

“Geoff! Geoff!”

He vaguely heard her bursting into tears, and he felt one final pang of sadness at the thought that everything was over now, that he would never see her again, never again feel her warmth. There was still so much left to be enjoyed. And then the final sliver of light went out, and everything was quiet.

* * *

Is this death? he wondered, perplexed.

He couldn’t move, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear, but he was still aware of himself. There had been no break in transmission.

Am I in a coma?

He was in limbo a moment longer, then suddenly, with the intensity of a freediver surfacing for air, his eyes and ears popped open, and the world and all its sights and sounds rushed back in. As they did so, an enormous cheer erupted, and—were those … trumpets?

He seemed to be surrounded by masses and masses of people, all applauding and whooping and shouting as if he had scored the winning goal at the World Cup. Ellie was still by his side, beaming down at him.

But far from enjoying this reception, Geoff looked around in bewilderment. Something was off, way off. The perfect timing of the cheer, the festive nature of it, the fact that no one, not even Ellie, showed any signs of relief or surprise. It seemed almost as if they had been waiting, been expecting for him to come to. But how?

What little hope he still had that something truly bizarre was not afoot vanished when he lifted his head and met the twinkling eyes of no one other than the conductor—fit as a fiddle, full of cheer, and, most significantly, free of any bullet holes.

Geoff panicked.

“What’s happening, Ellie?! What’s going on? I saw him just now,” he said, pointing a shaking finger at the conductor. “He was shot. He was … dead.”

The conductor leaned in and shouted, “I nearly gave it away earlier, didn’t I? Ha! What a silly ass I am, sneaking a look.”

“What’s he going on about? Give what away?!”

“Don’t worry,” she said, stroking his hair, “it will all be explained to you soon. Just relax, baby. Just relax. It’s all going to be fine. It’s all going to be great. Just wait, you’ll see.”

He felt his chest, his shoulder—searched desperately. His wounds were gone as well.