The Egotist

by Philip Fracassi

  Other things begin to appear on the walls of this cranium. It is as if they are popping out from somewhere inside, rather than being put there by something on the perimeter, as I am, which would indicate that somebody else existed in here with me, and I know that is not true. I know that I am the only one, alone here with these solicitations.

  I read the postings here and there, some are paper with words, some are screens with moving images, some are speakers emanating sounds. The sounds are interesting. Sounds of me yelling, sounds of me explaining, sounds of me cursing, sounds of me crying. I sit inside my head and listen to all the voices, and I shut my mind’s eye as I try to remember, to place them within the appropriate context. To finally, at long last, understand myself.

  There are new sounds, and this noise is not familiar. Distracting noises. I am not the one creating it. Not from inside my head, but from the street where I am walking. Excited, I stop and try and focus in on the sound, forgetting my thoughts and the images in my head.

  The real world beckons me, and I plan to heed it. I dismiss the little voices of dismay, ridicule, and anger that spawn inside me, telling me to ignore the call. I revolt, choosing to shut out these inner voices. Madness! I am W. Buhner! I will follow my own path, no one will tell me what to do! Blah, blah, blah!

  I locate the direction of the sound and cross the street, almost running now, my overcoat feeling suddenly very heavy, and my knit hat beginning to itch my forehead. A bead of sweat runs onto my cheek. I ignore these physical distractions and continue to move quickly toward the noisy mystery. One possible solution.

  I turn one corner, panting slightly as I find myself sprinting to the next corner, and turn that one as well. Now I see it!

  It is a beautifully lit place. A small, quaint place. It is stuck here amongst the taller, bigger, blackened, desolate buildings, where it sits placidly, like a gift. I move cautiously towards it. There is no sign on its exterior, no indication of what is happening inside. There are no windows that I can see, only a door.

  I move to just in front of the door, sweat, panting. I study its surface, the grooves that decorate it. On the other side of the door, the noise takes shape and body. It is laughter, and conversation. People are inside, and the atmosphere is party-like. It appears to be a public place, I think. I see no reason why I cannot at least attempt to go in and check things out.

  Standing outside on the sidewalk, staring at the door, a small smile creeps its way along my face as I listen to the obvious joy that abounds within this venue, the conundrum of hidden activity that dwells within this small, illuminated, blissful place.

  I question what lies inside waiting for me. I think about the possibilities of joining the fray, the freedom of throwing the door open, stepping inside grandly and saying, “Here I am, here is W. Buhner!”

  I think about these things and smile, but cannot make myself open the door.

  As I continue to stand here, debating, another cold gust of wind rumbles into me. I feel my face grow chill and my body absorbs the breath of the world that strikes me.

  My smile fades, and the door no longer seems inviting. The noise from inside no longer appealing, or welcoming. I feel I have been betrayed somewhere along the way, I have been turned into a lifeless coward.

  I pull the seams of my coat tightly to my chest, feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise as a brittle air settles itself on my skin. I look to my left and to my right. I lift my hand to knock . . . and I stop, thinking of you.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  THE EGOTIST was originally published in 1999.

  Of the original 2,500 copies printed (we printed books back then before folks ordered them), approximately 1,000 were sold and the rest burned in a warehouse fire.

  So those First Printings are scarce.

  This new edition has been only slightly modified by the author.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Philip Fracassi is an author and screenwriter.

  He lives in Los Angeles, California with his family.

  You can find him on Facebook, Twitter (@philipfracassi),

  and at his website – pfracassi.com

  The Egotist is his first novel.