From "Remember Me, Nothing" chapter thirty-one: "Brass Jazz" - which details Bryan's arrival at a weird party in a surreal mansion where no one can say what they actually mean.
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Remember Me, Nothing -
Chapter 16: Brass Jazz
The soiree kept enduring for what had to have been numerous days by now. The company I kept was greeted joyously after agonizingly long stretches of loneliness, but these humans were anonymous. Whoever the folks I had been talking to were, I didn’t know. There were no familiar faces; I was quick to lose track of the companion I arrived with. All of them strangers, all cleanshaven, white middle-aged men draped in identical papercut suits like mine. All of them smiling drunkards who carried conversations with me briefly before one of us went to go get another drink. We, the crowd of us, were seemingly unable to talk of ourselves, or anything meaningful for that matter. The subject didn’t come up, and it will soon be apparent, for maddening reasons.
There was a definite attendance in the hundreds, and that’s not counting a small portion of the bulk of the bodies present, only these vanilla caricatures of neglectful father figure salesman stereotypes carried away with some soulless business. Spiritually sterile, intellectually disingenuous, and feverishly misguided, they would ramble on. But damn, I hate to admit how nice it was to have another person to talk to, someone who wasn’t an equivocal darkened archetype of a grandfather wiseman hiker in the woods with vague advice, a red sweatshirt, and suspect motives.
“Yeah well, the fundamentals weren’t there when they needed to be, so we had to pull back, but then someone had the genius idea of...”
It was all complete and absolute hogwash. None of what was being discussed meant anything or served even the slightest of evident purposes, and some of the rubbish even spewed out of my own vocal cords as if someone, or something, was talking through me like a puppet: “...in a similar situation, we bet against the private equity conglomerate who shorted the reserve funds providing the insurance, so all of the...”
The rub was that I yearned to talk of myself, my plight, and of where we could possibly be, what the meaning of this gathering was, or what the meaning of anything was at all. Yet all we did was drink, talk nonsense, and piss. My psyche desperately desired to speak to these souls, and get to know who they were underneath the threads of a fancy suit and tie. This was no tepid timidity, or fearful shyness, my physicality was literally unable to say what I wished to speak. The voice box I carried lacked the ability to discuss matters regarding anything but financial, business-oriented, quasi-political bullshit.
Who were these men? Were these figures surrounding me real people? Or holograms of some kind, like philosophical zombies? Were they under the same social curse as myself, forced to spout out bulbous verbosity while the whisper within was held captive and mute against its will? Or was I the only one who wished to talk of such things as the spirit’s identity, or even the raw flesh, existing beneath the cloak of our dark outfits?
Aching to ask if consciousness was a game, you see, what came out instead was: “The pullback from the sanctions is making those country’s bonds an unattractive leverage. Have you looked into diversifying some risk and hedging with call contracts? When they’re out of the money, you may be able to sell at a premium with a quick enough tongue. Unregulated agreements are much easier to churn under tape than the more...”
“Hang on,” whoever the fuck I was talking to said. “I need another cocktail.” Of course he did. The endless flow of alcoholic drinks permeated the atmosphere of every room. Not one of these humans, with their average physical attributes, ate a bite throughout the glamorous intoxicating celebration rejoicing in not a damn thing specific. Every conversation was sporadic and disconnected. As there was no control to exert over the words propelling past lips as if vomitus, it was impossible to even attempt to craft a secret code message laden inside the verbal bile rolling off tongues. Our sentences signified only immaterial and inconsequential nonsense, therefore even suggesting the indication of a possible double entendre would prove futile.
Feet were stuck to paths providing endless rivers of bourbon, ale, and red wine. In moments where I appeared before one of the several great open bars scattered across the giant castle, I had considerable control over how this tongue wiggled to formulate communication of my drink order.
With a drink in hand, however, I possessed an even greater freedom to navigate the direction in which the shiny shoes trapping soles chose to walk. In the minutes of such autonomy, even if minimal, I could’ve steered the bodily vessel to try and approach one of the various females here to spark, perhaps, a different sort of involuntary conversation...
I apologize, I forgot to mention the other people around besides white men were the white woman strewn about the floorplan. Thin, young, and silent with a necessary evanescent countenance of utter uninterest and disdain for the world, the girls, clearly outnumbered by the multitudes of hologram male clones, appeared friendly enough when approached. Each objectified seductress attained a remarkable ability to force out a genuine sounding laugh at the drop of a hat, and with almost robotic mannerisms, would lead men away to hidden rooms upstairs.
One problem with a uniform cardboard crowd composed of nameless stiffs is that everyone looks the same so hell if I know if the men who decided to leave with the strange feminine mannequins ever returned to the party or not. I, myself, hadn’t gotten that urge to pursue where those steps led. Not yet, anyway. These bones remained comfortably on the main level amidst the epicenter of rowdy madness comprised by chatters of broken symbols picked apart, manipulated to sound important, or intelligent, or valuable. None of it held up.
In my left ear rang a boisterous voice: “...it’s important to glance at the standard deviation every now and then, but we try to fixate on determining which direction the price will move, and let the markets decide how high...” It all oozed of awful sterile lifeless fuzz. The poisonous fungus had taken a tight grip hold onto all of us, the cumulative soul, if in fact any of us were even a semblance to what might be defined by some minds as ‘real.’
Into the other eardrum, another mess of rambling tumbled as such: “...so when monopolistic tendencies are left unchecked, this usually indicated a demise in the social structure, ultimately affecting local government bonds and our overall revenue stream, but when...”
Had this been the Earth I once assumed under the name of Bryan, I am sure that most of these projected guests would have left long ago, growing rapidly exhausted or sublimely tired, or straight sick. It was as if a bizarre curse enchanted this particular area. The participants of the undedicated festivities, including yours truly, required no sleep, held no threshold to crash when it came to consuming alcohol, and perpetually fell into a pattern of drinking and yelling amongst the sea of clamorous talking before pissing and then retrieving several more beverages. In scenes when I approached one of the bars, the tendency was to get a small shot of whiskey and one large mug of beer although sparingly I would enjoy exercising the scarce liberty I possessed by requesting a glass of merlot.
And then that awful ether resumed its manipulation of the bodily manifestation providing a cage for current conscious activity, the innocuous discussions resumed. Our faces lacked the ability to express not even a fraction of the misanthropic listlessness pulsating underneath. A desire in my chest really wanted to tell someone else how odd it felt to be as happy as I was in this place, if not solely for the reason that I was not caught in one of the previous incarnations of reality where raw pain and solitude were much harsher. Unable to communicate such observations on emotion, agitation of inner moods exasperated the existent discomfort, ironically diminishing the very happiness that caused the thoughtful reflection in the first place.
Instead, the words that somehow formed and slipped through my lips despairingly resounded as follows:
“...the contract gets broken into sections and several funds are allocated to cover each agreement in different rate guarantees, so we figure the more pots we’ve got to piss in, the less chance we make a mess. Really, risk is inherent in everything, so with volatility being the main focus, diversification becomes an efficient gear operating for corporate beneficiaries...” The surrounding mob hollered canine-like laughter at the mention of urine in a colloquial term, because that’s what we do here.
Inside, personal thought patterns forged images depicting fantasies regarding how badly I’d rather rip my fucking skin off than stand and drivel on about economic mechanisms used to operate a society I no longer participated in. Even when living, consumed by an ego called Bryan on Earth, there was absolutely zero interest in any sort of fiscal or monetary matters other than how I could get cash to feed assorted obsessions and drug habits.
An aside is perhaps needed to convey how succulently satisfying it was to imbibe liquids again. The divine moisture that enraptured the mouth tickled nerves with pleasure. It all tasted fine enough. Good to drink a good beer, feel that burn of whiskey in my belly like I was a man again, in my old life somewhere, which I remembered for no other reason than to occasionally torture myself, it seemed. The pain of loss stung always. The tarnished concept that once shaped my identity rusted further, but while beguiled in our decadent prison here, shards of joy bubbled for brief seconds in the belly from alcohol’s toxic vapors.
The omnipresent sorcerous spell prevented my functionalities from experiencing adverse effects normally associated with drinking, and to some extent, living in general. Sleep could not be met, and felt unneeded for the body never touched a level of exhaustion warranting unconsciousness. There was no food available, but the gut bore no appetite to express. Our perpetual drunken state shifted alternatively between levels of intensity, but no matter the amount ingested, the more powerful symptoms of alcohol poisoning never prevailed; not dizziness, regurgitation, blind unbridled aggression, or death came to pass. “I need another one.”
Of the numerous pointless conversations overheard across this uncharted timeframe experienced within the present setting of a haughty mansion beside some peculiar sea, the most significant phrase /heard derived from a dialogue occurring between one of the joyless bartenders and a drunk white middle-aged man in a suit. The utterance expressed was: “Someone told me here that the alcohol y’all serve here was provided by the devil. That true?”
The bland barkeep’s response drowned what tattered certitude I still somehow clung to, and flung it into further confusion and doubt. He was but another older white guy in formal clothes, and replied from behind the elegant mahogany bar, “Our CEO was once employed by a major oil corporation, and everyone else here may have holdings with various illicit partnerships, but I assure you our relationship with the economic network upheld by the authority of the Occult is not entirely ownership related in this capacity.” The words stunned my eavesdropping as numerous drunk conversations crashed around my eardrums. The last I heard from that intriguing exchange was its uninteresting conclusion, “On the rocks?”
“Yes, please.”
On several occasions, I figured most of the attractive young ladies present must’ve been benefiting from some sort of arrangement to keep them cheerful and alluring while on display at the mansion. Was there a pimp sponsoring the event, supplying necessary incentives to the flirtatiously disinterested women, and the obedient but stone-faced bartenders, here? Were they prisoners of sorts? Was it the devil himself who pulled the strings? I would’ve asked the nearest rat beside me what the ‘authority of the Occult’ was had I been able to speak the question to even vermin, but as I’ve repeated with frustration, the tongue lacked any capability to talk of such things...
I recall the servant continued to speak while preparing his patron’s drink, but had reverted to the typical drivel.
“Anyway, there’s a new theory about the correlation between emerging markets and unilateral fascism we should discuss...” So, in short, the most interesting conversation I was able to snag while occupying the strange soiree had rapidly receded into the typical orgy of needlessly complex utterances that infested the castle’s perpetual and discordant noise, devoid of any relevant meaning.
Although unable to discuss it with those surrounding me, there was music playing in the ambiance. At times I noticed toes slightly tapping along. A brass jazz tune that was easy to ignore reverberated from some corner of the enclosing walls. The melodies and rhythms bounced around from more old-fashioned swing and classical songs to ones which sounded cooler with blues elements or hotter drums, modern like funk or rock. With time now such a warped concept, it ceaselessly struck my psyche with amazement how much knowledge I retained in reference to a human history that no longer mattered to my present state of existence. This kingdom’s court, filled with peculiar replicant human-like crowds, was a strange inebriated place for sure. Whether the music echoing throughout this setting was live in house or on some form of stereo recording, I am unable to say with no evidence indicating either way. In the head, a tormenting preoccupation grew in wondering if there was some sort of puppet master wizard host behind the curtain of this palace; was Gatsby in his office upstairs?
The setting was a clusterfuck portrayal of time periods and trends. There was no robust indication of modern technology prevalent in this space specifically, but I’d hear things like, “We divested from the electronics sector when headwinds in wheat futures were unable to sustain the impact of certain computation companies’ preferred equities...”
The suits on the men’s backs displayed styles bearing the subtle changes of decades across memories of mankind’s crumbling histories. The jet-black color of the jacket, pants, and ties was uniform, though, with a customary white oxford shirt buttoned underneath, of course. The young women’s collective wardrobe was more polychromatic, but no matter the singular dress, each one exhibited a solid tone of whatever the given color. Individual garments showed slight differences, but a rather low cut was the unison length, well above the knees and allowing for a good look at the cleavage. As if cranked off an assembly line, their heights were roughly in the same range, around five-foot-five, lacking curves, and their tits were all perky cookie-cutter B cups.
Intestines churned at the conformity even I exhibited, and in a more nauseating fashion than any of the hundreds of drinks I must’ve gulped down by this point. But hey, at least these replicas resembled the presence of other people, something that had been so sorely missed since, from what I suppose was, death.
If Satan himself was the responsible party for the gathering at hand, did Lucifer’s carnival serve a purpose? Or were our spirits merely caught in the unending underworld, caught in the celebration of fatalistic nihilism? Nothing matters and so here we are: condemned to waste away lavishing in sin eternally, incapable of speaking about neither suffering nor truth.
Hours vanished away in droll moments, slightly euphoric from analgesic reactions to whisky. The bladder expanded and I had to pee again. Located generously about the large building, bathrooms were numerous, mirrorless, and private. Down every hallway, near any corner, a guest could find a quiet room to piss in. Expelling liquidous waste did not completely alleviate the effects of that odd perfume overpowering me, but its influence relented slightly. Whatever elusive force coerced my movements was defined only through the agonizing uncertainty obscuring it by means of its mysterious origin, and an alarming acceptance I subconsciously revered toward it. Fear rippled across my consciousness when I realized part of my psychology enjoyed not having to think, not having to be in command of my own muscle movement. It was like a weight was off my shoulders, and although I knew the soul could not stay here in this mindset forever, the old guide had been right. I did not want to leave.
Inexplicably, I had grown partial to a specific toilet in which to urinate. Perhaps it was because choosing a bathroom was one of the few decisions the mind was privileged to make. In each and every separate commode (for they were all identical except for what picture hung on the wall), a mighty porcelain throne bolstered beside a deep, clean bathtub of similar pallid material. The spigots, faucets, flushers, and knobs appeared to be of solid gold. The idea of enjoying a bath had yet to cross intentions as actions were not entirely of my own volition.
The only contrast between each restroom inside the castle entailed a singular framed painting or photograph on the wall, which never mounted a mirror or even reflecting glass. Each individual piece of artwork appeared totally unique in style, content, and message. I saw a broad array: from still-life drawings of amorous peaches to serene alien landscapes to the more abstract canvases portraying weaved sequenced geometrical patterns or dissociative blotches of multicolored theoretical polygons.
The most mundane work, supposedly produced like all the rest, by an anonymous artist, would have to be the depiction of a jug with milk, three-fourths of the way full.
In my preferred lavatory, the picture on the wall illustrated a lengthy, narrow, and coiling shape. One’s perception could discern, after focusing for a long enough duration, that there was a face at one end which revealed the spiraling figure to be but the treacherous symbol of a vociferous snake...
Written by BW Derge, All Rights Reserved 2024
© USA
This was an excerpt from "Remember Me, Nothing" - Chapter 16: Brass Jazz- to be published in 2025!
