Runaway Train

The young man burst into the board room clutching folders and files, looking as if he had run through a wind tunnel on his way here. He took a breath to recover with all the eyes in the room turned on him.

“I’m not late,” he explained, “just really early for the next meeting.”

My gaze turned toward the Director, waiting for the explosion which was sure to come.

However, Nathaniel Benedict, who had been leaning on the table in his usual commanding stance, surprised me. He stood upright, gave the newcomer an intense evaluating stare then said, “Have a seat.” Nate pointed at the man sat nearest him with one hand as if it was a gun and fired the invisible bullet. “Summarize the information I have covered so far.”

He then gazed all the way down the table to where I sat and made a gesture I recognised as indicating he wanted a drink.

Rising smoothly, I walked to the door, aware of being watched because I was female and wearing a backless black dress which sparkled with glitter and revealed too much of my legs.

I reminded myself that I would not have to fulfill any of their sexual fantasies. Here in San Francisco, I belonged to Nate, a possession rather than an asset sold or actually rented to profit the illegal side of his business.

I sought out the drinks’ cabinet, not the water cooler.

As I selected a bottle and liberated a clean glass from the stack, a soft voice spoke from nearby. “Candis?”

I kept my cool and did not spill a drop. When I finished, I turned around and said, “Excuse me?”

“Candis?” she asked again, but with less certainty.

I shook my head, feeling the ebony ear-rings sway, though I recognized Pamela and our student years on the East Coast flashed through my mind. I gave her a neutral smile and said, “My name is Desire. I need to deliver this drink to the Director. Nice meeting you.”

Though I yearned to respond to the puzzlement on her face, I walked away and wished I had a handy vial of arsenic to add to Nathan’s drink.

Nate gave me one of his burning looks as if he wanted to have sex right now, which he probably did. “I’ll thank you for this later, Desire.” His words, though quiet, could probably be heard by everyone, exactly as he intended.

I smiled as if he was the center of my universe, which he once had been before he drugged and blackmailed me into whoring for his business. A classy slut some of the time, attending concerts and theater performances. Some of my clients don’t even require a kiss on the cheek. Luckily, my time in San Francisco gave me a welcome respite from other clients who did not have such refined tastes.

After I sat down at the other end of the long table, I zoned out but kept my polite, interested expression focused on Nathan for the duration of the meeting.

Poets in Rebellion, the four of us, ready to change the world through the power of words. Davidovich created our dark green symbol, a backwards P combined with the letter R, interwoven with thorns, the flared leg of the R blossoming into a perfect rose.

If I could go back in time and change my mind, I could have earned my Master’s degree alongside Pamela, Davidovich and Stanley. I would still be riding my horse. My mother and I would still sometimes be like sisters together. I might possibly have met someone special and escaped my father that way.

I wondered whether any of the Poets in Rebellion had gotten a poem into The New Yorker which was always our top goal. Had they brought out a chapbook or lost themselves in relationships like I had? If so, I hoped they had made a better choice.

Of course, freedom to choose was not part of the equation in Nathan’s methodology when he chose a victim. He researched or perhaps got someone else to research me thoroughly. Horse riding was a natural connection, but assuming the guise of an expert in French poetry?

Only his ability to speak fluent French was real. I hated whoever had loaned him the French volumes, though Nate had probably charmed them with some story or other. He should have been an actor, a much better use of his chameleon ability to deceive.

The latecomer to the meeting was the only person to speak to me as everyone shuffled out of the board room. “I’m Eric,” he said and rolled off a complicated title that I didn’t understand. “Good to see some new talent joining the business, Desire.”

Aware of Nathan watching us, I carefully gave Eric just a slight nod, no smile, and said, “Thank you.” I looked down as if shy and pretended not to see his offered hand.

“Well,” Eric said without any awkwardness, “see you around.”

I didn’t glance up, not wanting consequences for this naive young man who hopefully would never discover the shadowy underside of Nate’s business.

Staring at a paperclip on the floor, I heard the door being locked behind me.

Nathan spoke quietly in French, so I had no idea what he was saying but could tell from the tone that he was annoyed. Then he broke into English, not raising his voice because of where we were. “Stupid mare, who’s your new friend?”

I braced myself for whatever would come next as I replied. “He said his name is Eric and was just welcoming the new talent to the business.”

“New talent?” Amusement filled his voice.

I looked at his handsome face and dared a slight smile.

The laugh that I once loved filled the boardroom.

“Bright boy,” Nate said, “but thick as two planks as Tom would say. Let’s get out of here. I prefer a bedroom to a boardroom, any day.”

“So do I,” I agreed, no longer the rebel or the poet I once had been. “Just need to powder my nose.”

“You do that,” he said. “I need to see a man about a dog.”

***

The ladies room had so often been my refuge that this corporate version felt like coming home. I attended to nature’s call then washed my hands. I was peering into the mirror to check my makeup when Pamela joined me, her reflection next to mine.

“So, when did you change your name, Candis? And why? I thought you were going to keep the same name even if you married and had kids. Candis Blythe, perfect name for a poet.”

Her gaze through the medium of the mirror made me feel I was a butterfly pinned to a specimen board. I blinked as if taking thought and grabbed for an intelligent denial. “My full name is Desiderata but most people struggle with that. Kind of you to take an interest, but I must be a doppelganger, not who you think I am.” When she kept silent, I turned toward her and added, “You know the theory – for everyone alive, there is one other person on the planet who looks exactly like them.”

“So, you didn’t write Runaway Train?” Pamela asked, sounding a little doubtful.

“I don’t write anything if I can help it,” I replied with a smile, displaying the manicure that Solace had given me to prepare for this trip.

“The Myth of Mercy?” she asked. “I remember you reading your first draft to us.”

I shook my head, my throat too constricted for words.

Pamela frowned. “I was reading your chapbook last weekend and remembering the old days.” With sudden energy, she said, “Pebbles and Bamm-Bamm. You remember that drawing that Davidovich drew? I’ve framed it. I made a frame with seashells and sweet little pebbles of course.”

The silly Flintstone nicknames from Poets in Rebellion brought back a flood of memories. I kept my composure with difficulty. The sketch was of her and me, seated at a small table, leaning toward each other simply because the café was so noisy, it was difficult to hear. It looked like so much more, as if Davidovich could see into Pamela’s heart because she adored Pebbles.

“Nice meeting you,” I said in as level a voice as I could muster, “but I have to go.”

As I left the ladies room, I was very grateful that this conversation had been private. No need to explain to Nate. No chance that his interest would be piqued or that he would try and drag Pamela into jeopardy. His aim would be to enjoy watching us have sex and then joining in.

I walked almost blindly through the corridors. It hurt to remember why I could never have taken that drawing home where my father might set eyes on it.

More painful still to recall that one drunken invitation from Bamm-Bamm. If only I had dared to explore with Pamela what now was part and parcel of my working life. Though dabbling in such a taboo expression of love was totally against how I had been raised, I wished I had risked it now that it was too late.

The only benefit from this unexpected meeting was that I could perhaps sometimes think of the poet who loved me when I needed to satisfy female clients, though always alert to whatever each individual desired. And when I next had some time to myself, I might try to resurrect the lines of the poem I wrote comparing love to a runaway train.