Minions (27 page)

Devlin looked to Conrad, expecting to see a reaction to
the comment, but Conrad said nothing.

“I was a reader, like you, and I used to marvel at the
messages that I would read.  At first, I naïvely read, believed and applied
Glen’s protocols.  I expected things to happen, and I slept soundly at night,
happy in the knowledge that I had done my part.  I’m assuming that this is all
familiar.

“It exposes a different side of people, and I’m not just
talking about what you might glean from people through reading their messages. 
You’ll read the confessions and the secrets and the thoughts, and it changes
the readers themselves.”

“Glen suggested that stress was going to be a big deal.”

“At first, possibly.  There’s a certain helplessness that
comes from reading messages, particularly when there’s nothing you can do about
them.”

“Does anyone try?”

“Do you like your job?” Malcolm asked, changing the
subject.

Devlin shelved his immediate disappointment at the
question.  “I expected a little more than career guidance from you.”

“Do you like your job, Devlin?” Malcolm repeated calmly. 

“I’m only new in the role,” Devlin attempted to buy
himself some time to assess the bias in the question.  “It seems OK, but
there’s no shortage of people trying to convince me otherwise.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.  Tell me what you like about
it?”

“I like the money.  Not wanting to appear fickle, but …”

“Let me guess,” Malcolm interrupted.  “Glen’s said
‘there’s more to life than money’.  He’s right of course.” 

Malcolm said nothing more, leaving Devlin with a confused
look on his face as if expecting some continuation.  He watched with disbelief
as Malcolm returned to the computer and continued reading the on-line versions
of several newspapers. 

Conrad felt the stress rise in Devlin until he could
actually see the thumping of his elevated blood pressure in his temples, and
his neck cramping at the weight of his head.  He saw that Devlin had edged
forward on the couch in nervous anticipation, expectant of wisdom of some
description, but now he slunk back into the couch, and rested his head on the
cheap fabric of the back.  After a few calming breaths, he spoke, eyes closed,
as if absolutely focussed on saying something rational.  “Can someone please
tell me what’s going on?”

Malcolm was unperturbed at the question leaving Conrad to
comment, “Don’t ask me!”

“This is so stupid!” said Devlin, finally having had
enough.  He stood and marched the few steps to the door, muttering as he went,
obviously hoping that someone would call his ruse and stop him before he
reached the door.

Conrad took his cue from Malcolm and allowed Devlin to
leave.

*          *          * 

Malcolm felt no obligation to stop Devlin.  He didn’t
really care that Devlin didn’t understand, nor did he care.  He remembered that
Glen too was so focussed on what was in LastGasp’ that he was unable to see
where the real power of his creation lay.  It wasn’t the blissful ignorance of
the greater population.  Instead it was like a naive expectation that things
would work themselves out.  Describing it as ‘naive’ had upset Glen at the
time.  They’d debated the point for a long time, primarily because he himself had
suggested that Glen’s mentality was little better than childish.  They’d
settled on the word ‘misguided’.  He accused Glen of being
misguided
in
his expectations, and in return Glen suggested that it was he who was
misguided.

A little older but a lot wiser now, he understood that in
so doing Glen was making another ever so subtle point.  That it had taken him
time to come to this realisation was testament to how little he understood at
the time.  Glen understood more than he’d given him credit for.

He’d met Glen at a community support group.  Attending
wasn’t his idea and he didn’t really want to stay, but his television had
finally died and the venue offered shelter from the cold and human warmth when
he lacked these things in his own hovel.  He’d bypassed the cheap coffee in
favour of a comfortable looking lounge and in so doing had unwittingly joined
the group.  It was counselling with a friendly, albeit amateur face.  Sixteen
people assembled in an open circle, the lounge completing the ring.  By sitting
on that particular chair he as much as indicated that he had something to
share.

He pretended to be shy, but that day was a good one and he
was not at all intimidated by the prospect of having to talk in front of an
audience, but he did need to know
what
to share.  He could have said
anything.  All of them had issues, especially the most vocal of them, apparently
the group leader.  It wasn’t Glen, though Glen was without question the most
rational of them.  He didn’t burst into tears at the slightest provocation or
escalated tone, and he didn’t nod or make noises of approval or acknowledgement
when the speaker paused momentarily for reflection.  Though Glen was the most
cryptic.  A lifetime of listening to people to gauge what they wanted to hear
made Malcolm very good at understanding their intent.  But Glen was different. 
He wasn’t guarded, which Malcolm would have spotted within the first
sound-bite.  Malcolm also sensed that Glen wasn’t fishing for medication or
carefully composing feigned thoughts to avoid medication or battling the
suppressive effects of medication, all of which Malcolm himself had variously
done, tried or experienced.

Malcolm felt guilty for the way that he’d taken a liking
to Glen and ignored the others.  It wasn’t him really.  It was the day, or the
meds or the lack thereof.  On another day, the day before or the day after
perhaps he might have focussed on someone else.  Who knows where he’d be now if
that had happened.  He tried not to dwell on it though, just as he didn’t stress
that had he paid the gas bill he possibly wouldn’t have been wandering the
streets for company.  The upside, the greater good in its most basic
incarnation, was that he’d met Glen.  This was the first thing that Glen had
ever taught him.

The next thing that Glen suggested was that he should look
forward, not back.  Malcolm warmed to his eternal optimism.  On that particular
day, Malcolm saw his positivity being appreciated rather than psychoanalysed,
and he felt sure that his down days would be accepted equally.  Indeed they
were.  Within a week he’d lost his job, as menial and below him as it was, but
to be employed he needed to leave the house and he just wasn’t capable of
facing the world.  He just sat alone in bed crying at the prospect of needing
to close the curtain a little more.

However, Glen came and stayed.  He brought a thermos of
coffee and a pillow and talked through the door for hours.  Others, not many,
but a few people had reasonably assumed that Malcolm was holed up in his room
and made a token effort to coax him out, but when he kept quiet, they left. 
Perhaps they reasoned that he’d been successful, this time, in leaving.  But
Glen wasn’t perturbed at the wait.  He talked knowing that Malcolm would be
listening despite an absence of any signs of life from behind the door.

There was nothing in particular that Glen said that made
Malcolm open the door.  It could have been just reward for his persistence, but
it was more than likely what he’d said about his mother.  His mother wasn’t
directly mentioned, but Malcolm understood the veiled references.  Glen spoke
of family exposing the darker side of people.  He later learnt that Glen was
possibly talking about himself, but that sentiment was also true when he
thought about his own family.

Malcolm had never known his father.  The guy had died
before Malcolm was born, apparently.  He’d doubted his mother’s story but not
enough to seek the truth for himself.  It wasn’t a significant problem as a
child, primarily because in his ‘passing’ he’d provided for his family, even if
he hadn’t shared his surname.  Of course as a child he didn’t understand the
concept of wealth, but there was love in his mother’s heart and food on the
table.

He was a teenager before his health became an issue.  It
wasn’t a problem in his education as his mind was largely idling at school but
he was still doing better than just keeping up.  His social development,
however, was different.  He always tended to think a little differently to his
peers, which was fine, but not if he lacked the confidence to carry himself. 
His good days weren’t a problem; he had friends.  Irregularly but often though,
he had his down days when he was not capable of leaving his room, much less the
house. 

Even worse would be when his mood was on the turn, when he
was liable to be erratic and impulsive.  Like falling barometric pressure, the
swing would give warning but there was nothing that could be done short of
battening down the hatches.  That his mother didn’t need to work was a
blessing.  She would allow him his bad days, riding them out, until the sun
came out.  Like any concerned parent, she sought professional help but that
invariably resulted in medication, no matter how many second opinions she got. 
Fear of air travel was the only thing that prevented her trying foreign
specialists.  Eventually she reluctantly conceded that her only son would
require medication.

His troubles made it difficult for others to understand
him.  Was he the average of his vivacious, exuberant highs and his desolate, hide
from the world lows, or was he something else entirely without the tidality? 
His mother didn’t really know either, but she knew that he was not the docile,
zombified adolescent that looked back at her while on medication.  Wealthy as
she was, the price of the near perpetual sedation was too high.  She removed
her son from the doctor’s care, purchased a little cottage in a remote seaside
village and lived away from the less than supportive talk or thoughts of
others.  On their own it didn’t matter if he was up or down.

Home schooling sounds so alternative, but Malcolm got a
better education away from the greater teenage population.  Every few weeks his
mother would make the short trip to the city to see friends, meet with her
financial advisor and enjoy the different pace of life.  Malcolm would come
along on each visit.  If he was not well enough to travel, his mother would
delay the trip.

One of his father’s investments, some mining company, hit
pay-dirt one day and overnight their comfortable existence was changed
forever.  Suddenly they were
decidedly
wealthy and his mother felt
obligated to do more than hide away.  She looked for ways to share their good
fortune.  Malcolm could not fault her approach, even now.  She didn’t want
attention; that was not why she was doing it.  She just wanted to do the right
thing.  Had they ever met, Malcolm was sure that his mother would have gotten
on well with Glen on that point alone.

Despite her best efforts for anonymity, soon she was being
courted by all manner of foundations desperate to impress of the worthiness of
their cause.  She was not prepared to compromise her lifestyle, or her
dedication to her son, and soon it became common for visitors to appear at
their home.  They would stay for a time, typically after lunch, which gave them
time to drive from the city in the morning, push their case and then drive back
to the city in the afternoon.  Some would make the drive home considering the
trip worthwhile, but most would call it a pleasant drive but a wasted day.

One day, Malcolm’s mother hosted an effort by a refugee
advocacy organisation apparently in search of a patron but they’d settle for a
sponsor.  Two men arrived to lobby their case, one was a nervous looking
individual who just sat quietly allowing the other to talk.  Malcolm didn’t
feel up to meeting anyone, so he just listened to their discussion from his
room.  The case for their organisation was that without support, refugees and
asylum seekers would be marginalised in this foreign land and their charitable
organisation was the best to provide this support.  About the only thing
constructive that the quiet one offered was to present his colleague who then
took centre stage, describing himself as proof positive of successful
assimilation of a refugee.  The organisation was legitimate, as were the
credentials of the quiet one, but the other guy was a charlatan at best.  Not
that a lack of confidence is the hallmark of a refugee, but he didn’t seem to
fit his story.  His mother too saw a dubious story, as if his press release
didn’t match reality.  They left empty handed.

The next day Malcolm felt much better and opted to clear
the grey away completely with a long walk on the beach.  He made a day of it
and didn’t return until it was almost dark.  He turned down his street just in
time to see a car, the same car from the previous day, pull out of their
driveway.  His mother was tearful as soon as he entered the house but put on a
brave face that didn’t convince or help either of them.  She spent much of the
night on the phone with the door closed.  She was not ordinarily secretive and
Malcolm was un-nerved more for her sudden demand for privacy than the sobbing
that couldn’t be contained behind closed doors.

In the morning, his mother was distracted, edgy, irrational
and she resented Malcolm’s presence.  From the moment he surfaced he sensed the
difference, and try as he might, he couldn’t account for it with something as
simple as hormones.  When she rushed to the toilet to throw up after staring at
him for a time, he decided it was time to confront her.  He wasn’t a child, and
that she would shun him suddenly was disconcerting.

She didn’t say much, only that she hoped that he would
understand.  Their solitude was broken by the arrival of her lawyer.  Malcolm was
sent on an un-necessary errand to allow them some privacy which he accepted but
resented.

Malcolm was orphaned at the age of eighteen.  Legally he
was responsible for his actions, emotionally he was more than adequately
developed, but was ill-prepared nonetheless.  That she killed herself was a low
blow.  That she left him with nothing was even lower.  Before her body was
cold, his mother’s lawyer executed her will and intent.  He was, quite
literally left on a street corner with a wallet half full of cash and a puzzle
book.  In the space of a few days, her assets that had attracted no end of
interest as a source of philanthropy was gone.  The stocks and shares sold, the
real estate sold, and the proceeds of the sales and outstanding cash assets
gone.