Avoir Le Cafard

It is indeed woeful, as it should be. And surely, perhaps not as imaginative as it could be. But bear with me, for it is one I must tell. Not by obligation or the need to flex my literary muscles. No. I am simply one for the melancholy, in the full sense of the word. Not in a way to elicit sadness or sympathy. I’ve never courted that which is lachrymatory--that sort of thing is unbecoming of a person, I've found. Melancholy, it’s been said, is the very circumstance under which I was born and in essence so I was, am, and always will be. I don’t know that I could ever disagree. The events that enveloped my birth (not that I remember them clearly), aren’t much for telling. Funny how that works, isn’t it? Hell, I wouldn’t be saying, or revealing, anything new though, now would I? We all know how a child is born. Do note...that I said how a child is born, not how it's conceived. Somehow the former gets confused with the latter. I would know. Last time I told this tale there was laughter, winks, and fist bumps at this juncture. I wonder, why. In any case, it’s (my condition, as I've grown to call it) just… honestly... at this point too much of a hassle, it always is. That air of…avoir le cafard, of my… unfurled melancholia is settling about me. The first wave comes, now at the break of dawn, as sobriety regains acquaintance with mind and body. The consequence to which, should I succumb, lets my condition prevail like stones falling to a bottomless chasm. This is when things come to a lull, and thus glumness, a mind full of pale impressions, or rather, in retrospect, goaded by introspection. The juncture at which it becomes a problem. When the sadness pulls through. Especially when darkness gives way to light. When the city is wide awake and on the move. When the morning commute for time sale is in full effect. There I sit, or lay, or stand with my forehead pressed against a pane. I'm sure a normal, sober man (not sober-with-a-high-chance-to-get-inebriated) appreciates or sees the beauty of Emirates City, not me. There's just....
A bird in a cage, watching the city's moving parts breathe this metropolis to life, in solemnity--nursing a dying soul. This is all I've done, or can do. I hope to break free, to just go out and live; to feel the, now autumn's, gentle breeze against my skin; to, in Mrs. Hefner's hyacinths, truly see creations' beauty. To tell Natalie, I'm sure that is her name, the amber-haired brown-eyed angel from apartment 34D, that...je vous adore. That she should come with me if only for a day. We could go up the coast where there's sand. Walk hand in hand, bare feet caressing grains of sand. Share our needs and dreams, our...favorite Shakespearean quotes. I would cater to her dreams, and, on a sunny day, buy her ice-cream. I would even venture up to Mrs. Hefner's 12th floor balcony to pluck, un-welcomed, from her hyacinths' abundant bloom on a day we would relax by the stream. I'd hold her hand. Dire qu'elle est belle. Kiss her on the cheeks, tell her she's irreplaceable. I'd even tell her that I'd love to have her babies. But I can't. Perhaps never. That part of me which is the seat of emotions and character is dead. And so I indulge to quell the pain that it brings, but that, too, has its problems according to Dr. Gale. "Have you ever had a meaningful exchange with a drunk?" he once asked. "Haven't tried" I say, "but I don't imagine an exchange with the woeful could be any more meaningful."
"You should cease and desist...Sobriety helps," he says. If I'm to taste the fruit that is longevity that is. But that ship has sailed. Sobriety is the wind upon which it did. My...avoir le cafard.
However, there are others as a result-consequences, side effects mind you, that my condition lends me and my telling of this tale stems from them. A man who loses both his legs is sure to acquire strength in other places to compensate, right? I believe that to be. My condition works much to that effect.
And so now it unfolds. Here is where my reason for telling comes revealed, although...maybe not right this minute, but sure. Now it's 7am and as usual I'll wait until the half-hour mark before I indulge. Anytime from now till then, my phone will ring. It'll be Dr. Gale. He'll want answers I'm sure I've already provided him, but I'll give them as usual-he'll be damned if I don't; he doesn't express it explicitly but i can tell. He gets his way with me much in the way that fathers often do. I'll be forthcoming as there is not a reason not to be, but not for reasons I'm sure he has arrived at. It's just...the routine has become wearisome on my nerves. I'm not sure the shrink knows this at this point so he persists. The title of progenitor was passed to the psychologist by my engineer on his dying bed, and so Gale acts accordingly. He feels obliged to as such. But it's hopeless. He must know that... that my condition cannot be helped. Yet he'll investigate and I'll provide short truthful answers-this is one of my side effects, I carry no need to lie. This is an unofficial truth of the melancholy, you'll find. And so now...well, it's 7:30.
"How are you holding up?"
"I don't think I'll be going into the office today."
"Do you think that's a good idea?"
"I don't think it's a bad one."
"Do you think...would it be more a good idea or a bad one"?
Well, this is exactly the sort of question that has prevented us from having an official doctor patient relationship. But I suppose he can't help it. Sometimes I feel he's lost the ability to really hear me. But it does make me wonder of his true motivation which I don't doubt either way, but I wonder what it really is. I've grown to suspect that his concern for my well-being stems from the superficial although he seems honest enough when he gives it. This sort of thing is sometimes a given when material and monetary gain lingers as it does in our situation.
"You know, your father was an important man and what he left behind is just as important. Not to mention he left it all to you, you ought to take initiative or the vultures will settle. You must know this. A man will do his worst for a thousand dollars, imagine what twelve of them will do for fifty billion. This isn't me talking to you as a damn shrink, but as a friend, or a father figure if you see me in that light, you must not show any sign of weakness here for they, those suited men, will devour all your father acquired. Get out there and live, huh?"
"I understand."
But I was right, now wasn't I? Gale does not understand. And of course, he did make the suggestion to affirm my suspicion. He's done it for days...consecutively. The wording is always different of course, but i suppose it's best to pursue such an aim from different angles.
"Someone, one of us, need to be close to these people," he says, "to keep an eye on them, I can do that," he says. "Your father was like a brother to me. I was never really interested in his type of work, but I'll be damned if his life's work becomes a vocation's fund of sort. Do you hear me?"
"You're right, I suppose. But it’ll be fine."
A man will do his worst for a thousand dollars, huh? I wonder what that man will do for fifty billion.
"It'll be fine, huh?"
"Sure...it will. You'll see. Let's talk later, Dr. Gale, I gotta go now."

8:00 has come about just as the line goes quiet. The fact that Gale has validated everything my old man foretold of him, produces even more sadness to couple with my condition. Except the thing is...well, it's that I appreciate his kind of problem because my condition has granted me just the tool to find the solution, observation. This is the reason, you'll find, that I'm able to tell this tale. The things that I've seen and what I've come to believe as a result of my--as I've grown to refer to it--essential inability to go out and live. Think of me as the anxious party-goer--except that I'm not anxious nor a party goer. I'm not a goer, period--who sits, in a slight stupor, but mostly always as sober as a mid-summers' day, and watches the party unfolds around him. Participation is not an option and reasonably so, but ask him anything worth knowing about the party the day after and you won't be surprise to find that his account is clear. So is mine, and the party that I observe is one just outside my twelve floor window, the party in which I lack fortitude and desire to partake and so I observe it.

But not without longing. Longing of the sort a trust fund couldn't appease, nor could this, of the pinot noir variety, now front and center. Father was quite the connoisseur and quite a few of them were left in his wake, I suppose they were left to me as well-not that I'm complaining. But what does it matter? It's all the same in the singular purpose they serve in my case, Romanee-Conti or otherwise, since it's just an avenue of sedation. Yet it is what I prefer and none other. Perhaps it's the hint of Violet and Ruby, with a trace of Cherry, or, in yet another dosage, life's way of torturing me-the hell that I've been allotted. How cruel is it that a man in my position should be reminded of the ones he has yet to let go of? Is it so better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all?
At any rate, that is best kept for later. Now, as so driven by my proclivity, I indulge; so begins the filling of the void, the dousing of sorrow...the drowning of pain. The world below is especially vibrant beneath autumns' early morning sun from my living room window now. The trees springing up from their entrapped soil, lining the sidewalk, sheds crisp, golden leaves with every swoop of the mornings' gentle breeze. Up above, now in full bloom, Misses Hefner's hyacinths advertises a rainbow-variety of colors, visualized against her glass window in curious little glitters by sunrays. Down below, the early birds move with methodical determination, weaving by and through one another, to get the worm. But now my observation draws me to the early bird dressed in slacks adorning a hooded overcoat.
This leads me to open window by which I have situated myself. The air is cool and crisp, filled with the smell of baked dough and freshly brewed coffee from Kelley's, the little eatery here on 4th avenue. Mrs. Kelly is as jovial as ever today, as she walks to the front of the shop to check the neon open sign is alight, ardor and grace oozing from her lithe frame. She's a beautiful woman, though I wonder if she truly is, and every man passing by is almost compelled to sneak an affirming gaze as he continues on his way. The man in the overcoat stops when he reaches her, his previously adroit movement dissolving with every approaching step. The exchange of words ensues between the two as the day grows brighter, and the morning commute grows to a myriad, oscillating commotion around the two.
Other business owners are beginning their day as well now. The owner of Kendal, a women's boutique two doors from Kelley's, tips on his toes as he attempts to fully raise the ascending gate to his shop, nodding pleasantries here and there to passers-by as if to distract them from his predicament. A lanky fellow strolling on by eventually puts the short businessman out of his misery, and with a hand shake and nodding heads they part ways.
On the corner of 4th and photoset, and man and a woman are entwined in the arms of one another, they are lovers from the way the woman caresses him. Not married though, the embrace is too raw and almost erotic, the way the man strokes her waist as he kisses her, without a care that the world might be watching. The woman is clearly headed for work, dressed in business casuals, but cannot seem to will herself away from her male counterpart. An almost magnetic pull draws her back to him every time she makes up her mind to leave, but she finally gives in.