Marc – Day six

I sat in my normal seat. After adjusting my silverware and repositioning the condiment basket, I glanced at Charlee.

Seated across from me, she had her nose buried in a tattered paperback. Her hair, normally a cute mess, was simply a mess. Wearing jean shorts, sneakers, and a sleeveless The Smiths concert tee, it appeared she hadn’t slept since I’d last seen her.

I unfolded my newspaper and situated it on the table. “Late night?”

She continued reading for a length of time that made the silence between us awkward. While I prepared to repeat the question, Jacky walked into my line of sight and smiled.

She set a cup of coffee on the corner of the table. “Good morning, Marc. The usual?”

I met her gaze. “Good morning. Yes, please.”

“Ever since she started that book, she’s been a disaster,” she whispered.

“What’s she reading?” I asked under my breath.

“That conspiracy theory book. She’s convinced the author could see into the future. You should tell her she’s nuts. She’ll listen to you.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She placed her hand on my shoulder. “Thank you.”

I smiled in return.

“It’ll be up in a few,” she said.

I gave a nod, checked my silverware, and looked at Charlee. “Late night?” I said, the tone of my voice raised as if trying to wake her from sleeping.

She lowered the book and looked up. Her eyes were wide and her face was slightly gaunt. It had only been twenty-four hours since I’d seen her, yet her appearance had changed dramatically.

She scratched at her hair with her free hand. Loose strands of her curly locks fell over her eyes, partially obstructing her view. “I have two words for you.” She swept her hair away from her face. “Winston. Smith.”

“Big brother is watching,” I said.

“You’ve read this one, too?”

Her reference to the character Winston Smith, of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, shed a little light on her unkempt appearance. I could see her reading and re-reading the novel, trying to piece together scenes from the book, while comparing them to modern day events.

“Several times,” I said.

She slapped the book against the table with a thud. “I haven’t slept in three days.”

“You were reading it yesterday? I thought you were reading The Great Gatsby again?”

“I tried to read Gatsby again. I’d already read this piece of crap twice.” She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. “I’m almost done with the second read. Orwell’s foresight was genius.”

“It’s an interesting read, that’s for sure.”

“He explained what’s going on today with the government, in detail, almost seventy years ago. Cameras on the street corners, someone watching your every move. He even described Photoshop long before there were computers. Cutting people out of photographs to support your story? Re-writing what actually happened to match the government’s claim of what they want you to believe happened? Re-writing history? Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past. It’s crazy when you think about it. I’ve highlighted about half of this book. I hate Big Brother.”

“The thought of a Big Brother existing, or the depiction of it in the--”

Her eyes shot wide. “The thought of one existing? Hell-o. The White House. The CIA. The FBI. The POTUS. Even Amazon. It’s crazy. Big Brother is everywhere.” She scratched the sides of her head frantically with both hands, and then looked at me. “I’m never watching the news again. They feed us what they want us to believe. Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing. That is never going to happen to me. I’ll be a free thinker forever. When this world goes to hell, and believe me, it will – I’ll be the one handing out propaganda on the street corners.”

Resembling a female version of Albert Einstein, only with much longer hair, she looked like a lunatic. I struggled not to laugh. “Propaganda, huh?”

“Pamphlets.”

“What will they say?”

She pursed her lips, glanced at the book, and then looked at me. “Oppose everyone who opposes you. Oppose the Opposition. That will be the headline.”

“Doesn’t leave much room for growth, does it?”

She shot me a glare. “Are you one of them?”

I chuckled at the thought. “I believe in considering everything that’s presented to me, and only adhering to what it is that makes perfect sense to me. I’ve never cared to have anything shoved down my throat.”

“That’s a decent policy.”

“Sometimes, your opposition’s beliefs need to become your own.”

She cocked her head. “When?”

“Upon realizing your beliefs are preventing you from making progress.”

“So, life is about progress, and nothing else?”

“We’re all on a journey,” I explained. “Every inch traveled between our beginning and our destination is progress.”

“I like that. Okay, we’re still friends.”

I cleared my throat. “I enjoy talking to you. Your mind appeals to me. It resembles my own mind, except that you happen to be insane,” I said, citing a quote from Orwell’s book.

“I may be insane, but one of these days, I’m going to save the world. I need to get a cape and a really cool suit to wear, though. That Super Girl crap is so yesteryear. I want something cool. Something purple with pink piping. Maybe some gray just to make it pop.”

Jacky walked between us.

She set the plate just inside the edge of the table, beside my newspaper. “Three over medium, dry wheat toast, and three pieces of turkey bacon.”

“Thank you.”

She looked at Charlee. “Super Girl, huh? I doubt Super Girl’s bedroom looks like a bomb went off in it.”

“I know where everything is.”

“I’m afraid to go in there. You need to clean it.”

Charlee fashioned a gun with her fingers, and then gave her mother a salute with her free hand.

Jacky looked at me. “Enjoy.” She turned toward Charlee. “Let him--”

“Let him eat, Charlee,” Charlee said mockingly. “I always do, mother.”

I folded my newspaper, set it aside, and moved my plate to the center of the table. Halfway through my breakfast, a line from Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four came to me.

Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.

I wondered how many people simply wanted to be understood. If being understood was often mistaken for love. I doubted anyone could or would ever understand me, and decided to have someone love me would be much easier than having them developing an understanding of who I truly was.

I finished my meal, pushed the plate to the side, and repositioned the newspaper.

“Why do you bring that thing?” She motioned toward the newspaper. “You never read it.”

“Habit.”

“But you’ve never read it. Not once.”

“Maybe one day I’ll leave it at home,” I said, knowing doing so would be impossible.

She gave it another look and then shrugged. “Doubt it.”

I raised my coffee cup and grinned. After finishing it, I folded my newspaper, stood, and tucked it under my arm.

“Are you going to save the world today?” she asked.

I tossed $30 on the table. “I’m going to give it one hell of a try.”

She leaned against the back of the booth and swept her hair away from her face. “Maybe you should get a cape and a cool suit. You’d look good in black.”

“I wish it were that easy.”

“Have a good day, Atticus.”

I paused. “I figured you’d call me Winston.”

“He betrayed his true love to save himself from facing his greatest fear. I don’t think you’re like that. At least not in my mind. If you are, don’t tell me. Now, go save the world, Mr. Watson.”

“Who am I saving it from?” I asked. “I want to be sure and target the right group.”

“Anyone’s whose thoughts oppose yours.”

“That might take a while.”

“It’s easy.” She opened her book and then peered into it. “All you’ve got to do change their way of thinking.”