A/N: Warning for suicidal themes/thoughts.
Everything a Man Could Want (part 2)
They say that Richard Cory owns one half of this whole town
With political connections to spread his wealth around
Born into society, a banker's only child
He had everything a man could want – power, grace and style
But I work in his factory,
And I curse the life I'm living, and I curse my poverty
And I wish that I could be… Richard Cory.
Papers print his pictures almost everywhere he goes
Richard Cory at the opera, Richard Cory at a show
And the rumors of his parties and the orgies on his yacht
Heart and soul he must be happy, with everything he's got
He freely gave to charity, he had the common touch
They were grateful for his patronage, and they thanked him very much
So my mind was filled with wonder when the evening headlines read,
'Richard Cory went home last night… and put a bullet through his head.'
But I work in his factory,
And I curse the life I'm living, and I curse my poverty
And I wish that I could be… Richard Cory
~ "Richard Cory", Simon and Garfunkel
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
"Oh my gosh," Merlin moaned, flopping in the old armchair he shared with Gwen, along with the two-bedroom-apartment entire. "I hate him so much."
"Hate who?" Gwen said, the dishwater muffling the thudding of ceramic against stainless steel because a dishwasher was a luxury they couldn't afford the space for.
"Him," Merlin said emphatically.
Gwen hummed noncommittally. "This is about the late charge on your overdue rent notice? I told you Thursday and again on Friday, we had to turn it in. You could've put your check in the envelope with mine."
Merlin groused to himself, feeling the armchair rock slightly crooked because something was wrong with its structure under the upholstery.
"You could just write your check to me, and I'd cover the full rent," Gwen continued lightly.
It was an old argument; he made a face to himself. He knew very well that if he let her let him trespass on her generosity, advantage would be taken. She'd reassure him out of overtime and odd jobs and temp work and day-hires, she'd wave away explanations and excuses and allow the I'll-pay-you-back promises to pile up. She was like the opposite of a loan shark.
"Yeah, but," he said, "then I couldn't complain about debts and deadlines." Reaching sideways, he manhandled the lever on the armchair, and wriggled and thumped his hips to get the foot-rest to spring out, with a groan and a shudder.
"Perhaps you should try petitioning again," she said. The water gurgled in the drain as she pulled the plug. "I don't think it's a bad idea at all, trying to save a few bucks on logistics because your boss is your landlord, too."
Merlin snorted. "How many thousands of people couldn't say that, too? Cory Enterprises is part or full owner of half the businesses in this city, including real estate… And if I get that catering gig, I'll technically be employed by them twice."
"And then there's tuition to a school where they chair the board," Gwen added, wiping her hands and maneuvering past the card table crammed between the kitchen counter and the armchair Merlin currently owned by possession. "Maybe that should factor in somewhere… Are you going to stay up?"
Merlin rubbed the corner of his eye and blinked at the clock. "Is that the time?" he said, weariness beginning to throb through his whole body. You couldn't feel that when you were moving, but once you stopped… "Yeah, I should. Midterms tomorrow and I won't get a chance to look at my notes after the early shift…"
Gwen gave him a sympathetic grimace, crossing the common area they called the living room in four slow steps and leaning against the doorway of her bedroom. "Do you have to get an A, or will a B suffice?"
Merlin did the math in his head. "Eighty-eight or above keeps the scholarship, but then I need a solid ninety-two on the final, so I'd like to have a scrap of safety net, for my peace of mind."
"Gosh I'm glad I have my degree already," Gwen said.
He made a face, knowing that intern wasn't much better than student-employee. Then he realized she wasn't wearing scrubs, but makeup and jewelry. "You look nice – did you go out?"
"Date night," she admitted. "He was over. I made dinner."
Merlin frowned incomprehension. "Did he have to work early tomorrow morning? He didn't leave because of me coming home, did he?"
They'd agreed when they signed the lease together, one of the perks of cohabitation was getting to blame a roommate rather than owning the offense of an unpopular choice. Like a rescue-call for a blind date. Well, you see, I can't because my roommate…
"No, we kind of… got into it," Gwen said, dropping her eyes. Then reached to pull the band out of her hair, scratching her scalp as her curls tumbled free. "I go back and forth. Because when he's nice, he's really nice, you know? And if we break up for good, I'd have to start all over trying to meet someone to spend time with, and it's impossible with these twenty-hour shifts."
"Yeah," Merlin said. "I can't meet anyone either. I mean, I might have met the love of my life already, and I didn't notice because I was busy or distracted…"
"Well, you'll always have me," Gwen smiled, her cheeks bunching cheerfully.
"And we'll always have Paris," he returned, referring to her favorite sappy-romantic movie. The worst form of torture, in his opinion, and one of the reasons he didn't encourage her to dump her boyfriend, who was really nice when he was nice. Because her post-breakup rituals included ice cream they couldn't afford, and Ingrid and Humphrey on the silver screen they shared.
"Goodnight, Merlin."
" 'Night."
Her door closed and he sighed, forcing himself to reach sideways for his backpack, tucked into the corner between the wall and the side of the angled armchair. Sometimes he took his books and papers and assignments to work with him, and sometimes not. Sometimes the required breaks didn't happen for orderlies any more than they happened for nurses and doctors.
He should have some caffeine, wake sluggish nerves and brain cells. But then he wouldn't sleep til seven – and he had to leave at six o'clock for his next shift. Pulling out the Behavioral Psychology textbook, his hand encountered folded paper – the campus newsletter, free copies given out at the library where he often studied.
Allow the distraction? He lifted both to his lap, opening and turning the paper so he could see the front page beneath the fold, which he hadn't had time to look at earlier.
Some stage picture of whatever production the drama department was hosting, or… no, it was some elite club that had been called on to fill supporting roles in a professional production. Die Fledermaus. The secondary picture, however, had him scoffing bitterly once again.
Him.
Richard Cory, rich kid extraordinaire, spoiled brat du-every-freakin'-jour. Evidently had attended a performance, and so his picture warranted front page next to the honored players. He was dressed in a tux, slouched over the arm of a box seat toward two gorgeous females – one right next, and the other in the row behind but leaning forward. And they were the very image of eager admiration for whatever scene of the opera was current, while the playboy millionaire business-heir smirked heavy-lidded, yawn-boredom with the whole thing.
"I bet he's an ass," Merlin grumbled to himself, scrunching the paper back down into his backpack, the corner catching on the zipper that couldn't make up its mind to stick or to rip away from the fabric panel. "He looks like an ass…"
Probably those tickets cost as much as Merlin's don't-have-all-of-it-quite-yet rent. Probably a guy like that didn't have a problem in the world that he couldn't pay someone else to take care of. Not like the callers that made Merlin's heart ache all week til he went back to the call center for another week-end all-nighter.
Which reminded him, there was a candle with a particular name on it for him to light again…
Sighing, he flipped through the pages of his textbook, trying to force his mind to a more absorbent state. Test – scholarship – degree… Better job, better income… Free time to sleep. Volunteer at the call center without his body punishing him for lost sleeping hours…
Livin' the dream.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
The first week was perceptibly better.
He remembered the coincidental and highly unusual phone call with incredulous fondness. Proof that he wasn't just a name and money? Or proof that those sorts of places hired people with an uncanny knack for getting along with and helping anyone. Even those who never meant to call for help.
Because he never meant to call for help. Only information. Because that was what a Cory did; you never made decisions without all the information at hand.
The second week, Uther decided that they needed to pull focus from any small-business middle-management sorts of problems to dedicate their attention to the upcoming elections. Who to support and how openly, and what issues to press and what issues would lie behind those issues, and how they should be resolved to benefit…
That's still months away. And I need a new foreman on the sun-room project for the children's wing in the hospital now.
He tried to network on his phone, searching contacts and employment websites for the perfect person, someone who could see the vision and comprehend the enormous value of the space – not monetary – and still have the steel backbone to keep the workers performing at better-than-peak capacity. The structure was done but the details… The life of the room was in the details, he was assured by both architect and interior designer alike, and it was meant to be opened for use – publicly, oh-so-publicly – the first of next month.
And he had a suspicion that the assistant director of the community center downtown was skimming funds, and if he was right and it was more than occasional till-dipping, it meant an investigation into the accountant who managed nearly a dozen of their interests…
"Are we boring you?" his father said icily, standing in his place at the head of the table.
Every eye was on him. Lawyers and campaign managers and public relations consultants and Morgana next to him with sharp elbows and… he was on the wrong page of the chaptered agenda, his pen on the floor and his phone screen blank from inactivity.
He stared back into his father's imperiously-offended eyes, fighting the urge to be honest.
Yes. Bored out of my skull and positively antsy about issues that matter to real people. You all can handle this meeting without me, and Morgana can handle your empire when you're gone, I'm going back to the bank to pull some records and find my calculator.
"I apologize," he said neutrally. "My mind wandered momentarily."
"See that it doesn't happen again?" Cold condescension, and the plunge into a quarter-hour reiteration of the stakes of the election. Each candidate, each issue, each outcome having a dozen primary implications and hundreds of secondary potential repercussions and it felt like a sticky web of manipulation he wanted no part in.
Whether they could angle for the construction of a fourth runway at the airport. The budget for official vehicles for police and fire department as it effected public opinion or vice versa. Whether the taxes – and which ones – should be raised for street repair or educational resources or promotional marketing…
Money. Money money money makes the world go round…
Or was that supposed to be love?
The third week he went to a party thrown by the twenty-something daughter of the current mayor and wondered if this was part of their campaign for re-election. The same two or three hundred names, give or take, of the top five hundred most influential or potentially influential of the twenty-one to thirty-one age range.
He was dancing. In the dizzying flashes of candy-pink and electric-blue lights, he realized he was dancing with five girls at once, all around him, pressing in on him as he twisted and moved, surrendering his body to the beat and rhythm. Undulating against him in their barely-there shiny-sparkly-slinky-silky… The mayor's daughter was one of them.
Desire for movement faded. His limbs felt leaden and ungraceful. One of them crawled up his arm, her wardrobe threatening to malfunction, and took his earlobe in her teeth.
"Need another drink, honey? Or something stronger?"
He didn't resist.
Not til his head cleared to realize he was staring at a ceiling and the mattress of a bed was moving under his back and his legs were bent to hang off one side – uncomfortably – and someone was unzipping his trousers.
He didn't care what they were doing; he felt no arousal or embarrassment. There wasn't much feeling of anything at all.
"Is he out? Is he still out? This won't work if he's too far gone…"
The words suggested more than one other person present, and those implications roused him. He moved his hands to readjust and reclaim his zipper, ignoring the exclamations of flirty protest.
"No means no," he said aloud, unable to focus well enough to identify his company. At least enunciation was intact. "Get out."
Murmurings, sarcastic-bordering-on-shrill, and the door slammed petulantly on relative silence. He zipped and buttoned and let his hands flop to his sides again and didn't move to change his position any further, letting his eyes aimlessly roam the textured ceiling.
His life was like that. An endless expanse of sharp white points, stylishly random, and the shadow-valleys in between. He blinked and tears rolled down his temples and the music pulsed in some other room and he wanted to lock the door. He wanted to disappear.
That feeling used to stem from embarrassment. He used to care if his peers saw him in a state of impairment, doing or saying anything that could reflect badly on his family and earn his father's disapproval.
He still cared. But now the feeling rose from a place of denied peace, from frenetic activity and emotion that was all so meaningless.
Sliding off the bed, his thousand-dollar shirt rucking up his back as his knees bent to his chest, his thousand-and-a-half-dollar trousers pocket kinked to drop his phone to the floor.
His hands were trembling. He couldn't do anything here, obviously. But maybe if he drove home and veered into a tree, or off a bridge… With his luck, he was sure he'd wake up to lights and voices and the screeching of metal as they pulled him free, and pain. And then in hospital to discover that he'd lost an eye or some fingers or had seven surgeries left to undergo and two years of therapy before he could walk with a cane for the rest of his life… Nope, too risky.
Not with a gun. Never with a gun. And with today's technology, he wasn't certain he could dispose of himself and his car and no one would believe he hadn't just disappeared. Another scandal slow to die down, but not near as bad as the truth.
He picked up his phone, activated it, and turned to his Calls list. Really he should clear that more often. Every number labeled – the numbers he didn't have saved were dialed by his assistant, like the sandwich shop he had deliver to the bank offices on a whim a few weeks ago, the first work-day after… that phone call.
The scrolling motion of names and numbers slowed and paused. The one just after Poison Control.
Calling once by accident was all right. It was amusing, even. A joke he'd tell later. Calling twice would be… weakness. Weakness disappointed his father and made him feel like a failure again and again and again and-
He thumbed the number. And then the green symbol to place the call.
It occurred to him that it was almost exactly three weeks after the first call. A matter of a few hours' difference.
Please hold for the next available counselor. Your call is very important to us. If you'd like to speak with a specialist on issues relating to veterans affairs, or sexual identity, domestic violence, substance abuse, please select 1, 2, 3…
Huh. People had more specific problems that he would have guessed. Did that make his whatever-it-was, less important? Rich-boy angst. Spoiled-brat ennui.
"Good evening sir or ma'am, we're glad you've chosen to call us. What is the nature of the difficulty you are experiencing tonight?" It was a brisk no-nonsense female voice, and it made him think of Morgana.
"Feelings," he said. A layer of ridiculousness and almost hilarity capped the dropping pit of despair. "Nothing more than feelings… Don't you absolutely hate feelings?"
"Which feelings in particular are you struggling with tonight?"
"All of them, it feels like." He might have giggled. There might have been tears on his face.
"Maybe you could start at the beginning…"
A very good place to start.
He said, "A is for Anger. B is for Bitterness. C is for… Concern, I suppose. D is Despair. Definitely. Doubtless. E – oh, Ennui, I just thought that word, it's French for something like sucking boredom. F is clearly for Fu-"
"Sir, are you currently under the influence of alcohol or drugs?"
Both, probably, at this point. He said firmly, "Never. We do the influencing. We are never under influence. Is that clear?"
"Of course, sir. Are you experiencing any thoughts of harming yourself?"
He sighed into the phone. "How long have you been doing this?" Uncertain pause, so he clarified. "This, the answering of calls on this cry-for-help hotline?"
"Altogether, our cumulative expertise is over twenty years of education and experience, rest assured you will receive the very best of care… Might I recommend that you make an appointment to start seeing a therapist on a regular basis as soon as it's convenient for-"
"It's never convenient for me." The altered mood was beginning to mix and muddy to a headache rather than swirling in a feel-good kaleidoscope sensation. "Look, this was probably a mistake, anyway. It's not you, it's me, but it's over now, so…"
"If you feel like it will help you to speak to another of our counselors," the voice suggested, with an edge of tension. It wasn't really her fault, how he was feeling contrary. She was doing the best she could.
"I don't know," he answered, rubbing his face with his free hand. This was someone else's spare room, someone else's house. "I really… I don't know."
"Please allow me to transfer you to-"
"Hey," he said suddenly, his heart pounding with an odd anticipation – or maybe just struggling against his polluted bloodstream. "You got anyone there named Merlin? I talked to someone a few weeks ago said I could call him Merlin. He was cool."
Silence. Stupid, no of course that wasn't someone's real name, who would name their kid after a-
"Please remain on the line while I connect your call…"
Click. Music. Something instrumental, not classical; he didn't recognize it.
He did scramble to his feet – double-checked the state of his clothing – and let himself out of the room. Couldn't even remember how he'd gotten there, but it wasn't hard to find his way down the hall, down the great staircase curving around the entryway, and then out the door.
To various calls of his name: Sorry. Phone call. Important. See you later…
Outside, the night – early morning? – air served to brace senses and clarity. He fumbled his keys from his pocket and headed across the paved courtyard for his car.
It occurred to him to be jealous of whoever Merlin was talking to. Did every one of his conversations feel like a genuine connection, or was he just that good? Or did people tell him, it's not you it's me, too?
It occurred to him that he'd talked to Merlin for hours, last time, what if the conversation he was holding for took hours?
It occurred to him that the other caller had life issues, too. Probably more important than his.
He stopped when he reached his car, the music still thumping audibly from the house – open windows, probably. And if he got in and drove away, that was it. If he stood here a minute and changed his mind, he could go back inside to the party and shrug off the attempted phone call… The thought made him want to vomit in the flowering shrubs lining the driveway.
And then – click. "Hello? I'm glad you called, what's going on tonight?"
He smiled involuntarily – how pathetic he was – before realizing. "Um. This is… Arthur, I told you my name was? We talked-"
"Like three weeks ago, yeah. So how is life treating you these days? It's been a good three weeks?"
"Life is grand, probably," he said honestly, relaxing at the thought that Merlin remembered. That he'd mattered enough for Merlin to remember. "Just… not mine. I was trying to do like you said, focus on the aspects of my work that I enjoy and it was… I wasn't allowed. There were other requirements on my time and I couldn't… I couldn't ever choose."
Thoughtful hum. "Am I mistaken, or are you at another party?"
"Another?" he asked, feeling stupidly slow.
"Last time you called. I could hear music. Like I'm hearing now. It's a good party?"
"What makes a good party?" he said, opening his car door with the chirp of a deactivated alarm and folding himself down to the driver's seat.
"One where you don't want it to end, and when it has to, you say, that was fun, let's do it again soon."
He snorted, closing the car door and inserting keys to start the engine. Tap, tap, swipe, and he could set the phone down to use his hands to drive, and the call transferred through his speakers. "In that case, I can't remember ever having been to a good party. You?"
"Not lately. Too busy."
"Classes," he remembered. "College is good for partying though, right?"
"Yeah, but – nontraditional student, that's me, so not many peers to socialize with. But birthday parties? My mom had a way of making the whole day seem like a party."
"Your mom," he said, turning out of the lantern-lit driveway and heading for the greater darkness. Whatever it was he'd taken, at least his vision was clear now and his reactions seemed normal enough. And he didn't need to go far, just to get away…
"Oh – sorry! Gosh, I'm sorry. I forgot you said yours was – I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he said – because after all, Merlin had remembered without prompting. "Tell me about your mom?"
Even though it was his quarter-and-dime, again. Even though they weren't friends. That was exactly what it felt like, and he couldn't remember the last person who made him feel like this. Like he mattered. Without his name and without any exchange or expectation of money. And maybe there was requirement, Merlin had to take the call and had to satisfy his psychological needs, but it didn't sound like it. Not like the other counselor had sounded.
Merlin told him about waking up in the morning to his mom singing Happy Birthday. And being able to choose his own meals all day, whatever he wanted. Pancakes and hot dogs. And his mom baked angel-food and mixed homemade frosting in whatever shade they could manufacture from food coloring, and lit candles. And there would be one small gift to open, but it was usually just what he wanted.
He found a service road to pull into and put the car in Park. Turning off the engine, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes and imagined a mother whose eyes crinkled when she laughed. Who yelled when he did something stupidly dangerous, but then hugged him like there was nothing more precious in the world and she'd never let go. Someone who got up in the night to change the sheets on his bed when he was sick, to get him a large plastic tupperware bowl in case he wasn't finished vomiting and a cup of Seven-Up and tuck him in on the couch.
"She sounds great," he said into the first pause.
"Yeah, she… she was." He could hear the smile in Merlin's voice, but he cleared his throat roughly over the line, and then the verb tense was obvious.
Was.
"You mean…" he began, his own throat furry with regret.
"Yeah. It's been a few years. She was sick. That's why I'm nontraditional, I had to drop out to… Oh. Hey, I'm sorry, I'm not the one supposed to be doing the talking."
"It's fine," he said, and meant it. "I think… I think about myself too much, maybe. I said last time no one listens to me, but… no one talks to me, either. I mean, people talk to me all day long but it's… not personal. Not real. It's work or it's gossip or it's asking favors…"
All my life. All my life. He remembered being small and awkward and realizing his friends from school asked to come to his house to play with his toys – newer and costlier than their own – not to be with him. Not because they liked him.
Had anyone ever liked him?
"What do I do?" he said. "How do I get out?"
"I have a feeling that the only way you can do that in a way that lasts… is to be honest. With your family, with your boss, with yourself."
"But the disappointment," he whispered. "The people that depend on me. I'll let them down, it'll be like I failed…"
"Maybe it isn't so bad, to fail at something that doesn't make you happy? Then you can start again trying something that might be better. And sometimes you can learn more from failure than you do from success. How difficult would it be for someone else to replace you, do what you do that people depend on?"
Impossible for someone else to be his father's son. To make Uther proud and carry on family tradition. If Morgana had been a boy, he would be free. But she wasn't.
"If I can't get out," he said.
"Well, if you can't see any way of removing the things from your life that are bringing you this tension and pressure, how about… adding some things in, that bring you pleasure and release that stress? And I don't mean bad parties. Call in sick to those and… I don't know, go star-gazing. Set off fireworks, or go hit golf balls on a driving range. Go to a batting cage. Go to a… I don't know, go to a spa and get a massage."
They did have a masseuse on call. She was a wiry middle-aged mother who had standing appointments with Uther. But he'd never assumed he could avail himself of services. Didn't want any hint of weakness to get back to his father. But maybe some spontaneity in his personal work-outs could be good, too.
"So we chat like girls," he said. "Now we're going to discuss a spa day?" Those he knew about from Morgana, too.
Merlin sniggered. Honest-to-goodness sniggered. "Takes a man confident in his own masculinity," he said. "Next time maybe we'll discuss your love life."
He scoffed even as he recognized next time gave him a warm feeling. "I don't have one."
"Me neither. Pointers? I have a female roommate who's like a sister and I think that hinders rather than helps the whole boy-meets-girl thing."
"Older or younger?" he said, grinning and remembering that bit of their earlier conversation.
"Older. Is that what it is? Everyone she knows to set me up with thinks I'm cute like their little brother? Which is the opposite of the impression you want to give someone you want to date."
He sniggered. "My sympathies."
"Really?"
"No." The pause was comfortable, and once again he thought, I do feel better. Not everyone is shallow and opportunistic. People like this are out there, even if I'm separated from them because of who I am… "Hey. I should let you get back to your other calls. I feel selfish taking up your air time."
"Don't feel like that. Call if you need to. Always glad to help."
"Thanks, Merlin," he said. "I mean it."
"Good luck, Arthur."
He sat in the darkness and silence, and it felt good. It was serene, and he wasn't lonely.
And the dawn of a new day was lightening the sky when he drove home.
(not the end either…)