Mr & Mister Danvers: Initiation - 6. EPISODE 5: CHARTREUSE

EPISODE 5: CHARTREUSE

Looking at the busses passing by, there was solace in the confounding truth that everyone was meant to go in every direction.

That a path opens and closes for those yearning to seek it, those desperately wanting it, and those trying hard to fight for it.

Allowing my heart to crow praise for deeds I have yet to make, I empowered myself to think.

You deserve more.

You deserve more.

You deserve more...

That I am more than the cruddy estimate of those in line to wear me down, sloughing the very fabric of my tattered clothes until I am stark naked, feasibly dissevered from the crutches of my own good opinions.

I deserve the right to think well of myself.

Without it, I am but a floater suspended in space, waiting to vanish and disappear.

And I swear to god, I’ll have none of that.

I was at the pedestrian crossing, waiting for the sign to turn green.

Losing sense of time as I quietly ruminated on the more important things in my life, starting with my family, than the opinion of that vile woman and what was said, I regarded this day as another day to muck about and move on, as with all other days.

"Hey! Wait up!" shouted a voice behind me.

My head bobbed to look for the voice, and it was the man at the coffee shop running towards me.

I recognised the bucket hat from the supermarket and said to him, "What do you want stalker?"

He handed over the uneaten carrot cake inside a plastic bag, haunched forward with his hands on his knees as he took off his cap, panting as though he’d just run a marathon. "I’m not," he said, heaving in between, "...a stalker."

"Yes you are."

"Maybe I stalked you a little at the supermarket."

With my free hand, I wrung him by his neck, pushing him against the wall beside a clothing store.

Everyone waiting at the pedestrian crossing stared at us, assuming we were having an argument in the streets.

Phones were drawn up in time for our faces to be plastered on the news or up on YouTube.

I looked up into his eyes and exclaimed, "So you were stalking me!"

"I was at first," he said with both hands raised up like he was surrendering.

"Were you following me?"

"Not really—well, yes."

"Then why were you at the supermarket following me? Why were you at that bakery?"

My hold on his neck tightened. Minutes from now, I know someone will call the cops if I keep this up.

Someone said, "Hey man, let go of him."

"Yeah, he’s done nothing to you," called out a woman.

But I didn’t care.

I let go of the grocery bags, pulled back my arm, and was about to throttle his face with my fist, undeserving of the blood of this man, as I finally revealed what my soul had been yelling for all this time.

I was mad—mad at that woman, mad at my situation, and mad at the world for how fucked up it has become.

Ready to punch his face and make a statement to this creeper, he held my fingers as he tried to loosen my hold on his neck.

"It’s ok. Do it. Punch me. I deserve it."

He presented his face and jutted his cheek. I was surprised at what he was doing. "What the fuck are you saying?"

"Punch me if you want to. You didn’t deserve those things that were said to you. Come on. Do it."

Pulling back my arm, without thinking twice, or really, without thinking at all, my fist flew straight into the concrete wall centimetres behind his face.

It hurt.

Oh yes, it definitely hurts.

But the trembling inside my heart proved more hurtful than the bones in my wrist that would heal in weeks.

Being mocked, shamed, and embarrassed—I too had my limits, as quiet as I am and as calm as I can be.

I sized him up and saw his sweaty brow.

He really must have thought I was going to punch him.

Suddenly releasing my hold on his neck, I asked, "Tell me why you’re following me."

"Your hand is bleeding." He grabbed my hand solicitously. "We need to patch this. You’ve broken around 4 or 6 bones," he said, assessing the damage to my stupid outburst.

"Piss off and leave me alone!” I blustered.

Getting the bags on the ground as passersby recorded evidence of my blowup, I had reached that limit where the things I would say would come bite me later. "What do you want from me, huh, you bloody tossers?" I said to the people, to the crowd with their phones up, so eager to share online proof of this world’s reality. "You want to know the truth? This guy was stalking me, and yet I’m the bad guy? Great! Just abso-facking-great!"

I hurtled my feet away from the crowd, away from the judicious eyes of strangers who barely knew me.

From a good distance, lacking the spirit to walk faster, I began plodding the street on my way home as though my shoulders had gone heavier and the bags were kilos of bricks.

My eyes were drawn to the ground, sizing up my place in this world based on how insignificant I was and how small and tiny I felt.

For sure, there were moments in my life when I felt smaller, but this right here made me feel like I didn’t matter.

Was I wrong to feel this way?

Did I not have the right to feel pitiful about myself when I knew someone out there had had it worse?

Keenly aware that this madman had followed me, I looked beyond my shoulders and saw him blending among a crowd, his face etched with great worry. "I’m sorry," he shouted from a distance as he walked briskly to get close to me. "I’m sorry I made a scene."

"Leave me alone," I answered, suddenly quickening my pace.

"What were you thinking?" he asked, with a mingled tone of concern.

Hastening my speed as I tried to out-walk him, I said, "Go away." Looking behind me, he was a great deal closer to me, and his face hadn’t changed.

Something about his expression bothered me, like he would fling himself from a speeding truck or jump from a high-rise tower because he was wracked with guilt—he looked blameful, troubled, and mortified, and the least I could do to comfort his spirits was answer him truthfully.

"Stop looking at me like that. I was mad, ok. That’s why I punched the wall. You’re not to blame, so go away. This isn’t about you."

With his lengthy legs, he moved quickly and kept up with me. "I know you’re angry, but this was stupid."

"Hey! You were the one egging me on to do it."

He grabbed my wrist, and lowered his voice.

"Because I thought you were going to hit me—not the wall. My face is softer if you notice the difference between a concrete wall and someone’s flesh." I tittered at the way he sounded. "What’s funny?" he asked.

"You sound too polite to be angry."

"I may talk politely, but I can show anger, and right now, what you did was maddening."

He dragged me inside a bus stop around the corner and shoved my shoulders down to sit on a bench.

"You better stay still. I’ll try to fix your hand," he said, ignoring the wild stares of those waiting at the bus stop.

When a mother saw the streak of blood on my fist, she drew her son close to her.

The man next to me on the bench shifted seats further from me.

I sat there while he MacGyvere’d a makeshift splint with a pen and wrapped my hand with pieces he’d torn from his polo.

It amazed me how he did it so quickly. So I asked, "Are you a doctor?"

"Yes," he said, doing the finishing touches on my hand, wrapping the blue torn linen on the base of my arm up to my wrist.

There were bloodstains all around the front of his shirt. He looked like he was the one who had started a fight and had smashed a bottle on someone’s head.

The bus then pulled up, and those waiting shuffled onboard while the driver hollered at him to inquire, "Is he oohl'rayt?”

“Yes,” he yelled, “He’ll be better if he listens to me though.”

“Hey! I’m listening.”

The bus drove onwards, and while the two of us were the only ones left, he said, "I’m a general surgeon at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. We need to bring you in to get this properly fixed."

"Sorry mate, but I’ve got a kid to feed at home. I’ve got my dad, who I need to take care of. And I’ve got a million other things to worry about than this broken hand. This hand will get better. A starving child will keep on starving if I don’t feed it. Thanks for everything, but I have to go."

I tried standing up, and he held my shoulders and pushed me down.

I looked up and saw a dirty blonde, feathered hair covering a pulchritudinous face; the blues in his eyes calmed down his striking features, such as the patrician nose sitting on his chiselled, square jaws.

And like a broad-chested Viking trapped in the body of a tall English professor, he lectured me with his refined English, mellifluous with a received pronunciation common to lords and aristocrats.

"If you don’t go to the hospital to get that fixed, that’ll last for several months. Would you want a broken hand?" I nodded, thinking about the fact that my job requires me to have a working appendage. "Then we’ll go now. I’ll drive you to your house. After that, we’ll go to the hospital. Does that sound appropriate for you?"

I said, "Ok."

Now, I wasn’t really keen on being driven by this weird bloke who sounds and talks funny and looks like he’ll swing his arm up to call his beloved hammer, Mjolnir, but it was already 12:22 PM, and if I were to walk 40 minutes to get home, I’d be there past one.

That’s way too late for Brady and dad to have their lunch.

The whole incident at the coffee shop pushed me back by an hour and a half.

Reaching over to grab the takeaway and groceries lying on the floor, he quickly prised the bags from my fingers and said, "I’ll take that. You’re not lifting anything until we get your hands fixed."

We were walking back to the parking strip in front of Aldi when I asked him, "Why were you following me? You still haven’t answered that question."

Walking in front of me, he said, "It’s silly."

"I’m listening."

"You’re going to think I’m very peculiar," he muttered.

"I won’t judge, I promise."

"You see, I was in awe.”

"In awe of what? Did you hit your head or something?"

"I was in awe of you, you silly goose. Your facial symmetry is very pleasing, do you not know that?"

I laughed at how stupid he sounded and muttered, "Oh fuck off," as he continued walking.

In the middle of the parking lot, he abruptly stopped walking and stood there.

I remained motionless as he turned to face me and inched closer.

I couldn't understand what he was doing.

Standing about a foot away from my face, he said, "Your eyes are the colour of chartreuse—an iris that has the lightest shade of brown in the centre, giving it an illusion that it’s yellow. Central heterochromia is what it’s called. Two sets of eye colours, both yellow and green. They can also wear someone down, looking suspicious for a moment, then gentle, kind, and then shock you with sudden melancholy. All I've seen so far is the lack of joy or the embodiment of it. You may have a hardened expression. But your eyes can speak volumes well before you speak your mind. And that is one mystery I’d like to uncover."

Words failed me.

There were lots of times I felt I was a stranger even to myself.

But at this moment, I felt seen.

And he saw through it.

I was that pretty girl in high school, buttered with alluring praises by the hot varsity football player I had watched in those American films.

I blushed.

I was frigging blushing.

After being peppered with curiosity by the mellow in my voice, I asked, "You saw all of that just by looking at me?" As he looked down into my eyes and stared through the windows of my darkest secrets, he crept closer than anyone I've ever allowed into my space. My hands were clammy; I wiped them off on his shirt. “Ok. Get back...get back...this is getting weird mate.”

He finally smiled from that stern expression I’ve seen throughout our encounter as he kept walking ahead as if he hadn't won me over with his flattering remarks.

I stopped moving after being startled by how directly he appeared, and he saw me standing still.

He turned around, and I said, "You still haven’t answered the question of why were you recording me."

"My father passed away last year. I was planning on visiting him this afternoon, and I had this cockamamie of an idea to show him, er..."

"Show him what?"

He transferred the takeaway bag to his right hand to scratch his neck. "I wanted to show him the man I’d marry.”

I was gobsmacked; is this guy nuts? “Sorry, but can you say that again?”

“I know. It’s ridiculous. And it’s impossible. And it’s dumb. Forget about it."

“So you wanted to show your dead father a video of a guy you plan on marrying in the future?”

“Yes. Perfectly said.” I exploded into laughter. He cringed and began to walk away. But I was laughing so hard at the unbosoming of his inner makings that he mumbled, "Yeah-yeah, I'm hilarious."

I approached him quickly and snatched his arm. "I didn’t mean to laugh. I'm sorry."

"You assumed I was kidding," he said testily. I could tell that he was genuinely earnest from the expression on his vacant face. My demeanour changed when I saw that he wasn't kidding.

"Bloody hell mate, you’re really serious about it, weren’t you?"

"Yes. I am. I was really planning on telling my father about it. Well, it’s foolish knowing my father can’t hear me, but my therapist said sharing intimate details with my dead father would help me process my own grief. Such beliefs are sacrosanct to psychology—but I loathe psychology, so it doesn’t matter. Anyway, I wouldn’t lie about these things."

"Do you always speak like this?"

"Yes. I’ve been told."

"And, er, you usually this honest?"

"I do not like to lie. I prefer honesty amongst other things. Except, of course, when it involves the safety of my loved ones, then the white lie is considered detrimental to their welfare, to which I’ll concede and lie until necessary, at which point I’ll stop lying when it’s no longer required. Does that make sense to you?"

"Yeah, kinda’."

His candour jolted me into reconsidering my opinion of him.

Or, he's a breath of lunacy, and there's something seriously wrong with him.

Either way, he didn't seem disingenuous to be uttering such things. "Thanks," I muttered.

"For what?"

"For considering me, I guess."

He proceeded to keep walking in the parking lot among the lines of cars.

"For a straight guy, you seem very relaxed with a queer man who had just confessed his feelings to you. Are you one of those modern-day allies?"

I kept quiet.

It was better to keep my silence and let him assume I’m straight rather than let him think he has a chance.

As I’ve said, I have a thousand more things to worry about right now than being bamboozled by this infatuated bozo.

We were nearing his car, a black 2008 Volvo XC60 that looks oddly brand new.

When he opened the boot, there was a large garden shears with leftover strands of hacked bushes on the tip, and I said, "You know, if you plan on murdering me, there’s a good wheat field up north—very good to hide a body."

"There are ways to kill a person without the person knowing they’re about to die. In fact, I could inject you with a neural agent that would render you incapacitated, and you could be dead without you knowing it," he said matter-of-factly. He closed the boot after placing the grocery bags inside. Startled by what he’d said, I slowly stepped back while he rolled his eyes. "I’m not a killer. I would barely hurt a fly."

"That’s what a murderer would say."

"I’m more scared of you than you fear me, to be honest."

As he entered the car, he gave me the takeaway bag to be placed in the passenger’s seat.

He was turning on the engine when I asked, "Why are you scared of me? Because you think I’m going to mug you?"

"Nope. I’m afraid that I’ll catch feelings and this will become unrequited, therefore hurting me in the process,” he said sternly. “So I think it’s better if I distance myself. Today might be our last day to see each other." He glanced at me, waiting for me to give a reaction. But I was biting my lips at how ridiculous and funny this confessional was. "You’re being facetious. Do you find this funny?"

"Yeah. This conversation is mint," I said, blurting out a slight chuckle. "You’re the weirdest person I’ve met so far, mister—this is the part where you tell me your name."

“I’m not weird. I’m just highly rational.” He backed up the car and was about to make a left turn to exit the parking lot when he stopped driving and reached out for a handshake. "I’m Nathaniel Worthington. Call me Nathan for short.”

I accepted the firm handshake with my working hand and said, "I’m Gregory Danvers. Just call me Greg."

"Greg," he said, pulling forward to drive. "I like the name," he muttered. "But where exactly are we going?"