The Theory of Insanity

by Rick Newberry

  “True, but Knight wanted you to focus on the beginning, and what went before. The young idealist, the optimist who joined the good fight with pure intentions. Dr. Knight wanted you to concentrate on why you were there in the first place. You’re not a monster, Brooks. You never were. Let go of the past.”

  “Funny, since being dead, the past is really all I’ve got.”

  She shook her head. “There’s so much more, you’ll see.”

  Before I could challenge that statement, she turned away, motioning for me to follow. I hurried along and soon caught up. We trudged down the middle of the avenue surrounded by thousands of souls. The skyline of an immense city loomed in the distance.

  I towered over most of the people in the crowd. Generally, I’m not intimidated by anyone, let alone my little-bit, freckle-faced, know-it-all guide. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not someone who thought I could bully my way through life because of my height. Quite the contrary, I learned to tiptoe around situations because of my size. I’m generally a pretty nice guy—

  “You do realize,” Samantha said glancing back at me, “if you have to tell people you’re a nice guy, the statement loses some of its meaning.”

  “Stop snooping around in my thoughts.”

  “It’s not snooping, it’s my job.”

  “Yeah, well too bad you didn’t use your super powers to send me a warning about that bomb in the podium.”

  “That’s not how it works,” she said speaking as if she were the smartest kid in class. “I can read your thoughts, but you can’t read mine. Go ahead, try.” After a self-satisfied tsk of her tongue, she reiterated the obvious. “See?”

  It took a tremendous amount of willpower not to stick my face in front of hers and stare her down.

  “Careful, you just said what a nice guy you are, remember?”

  I counted to ten—no, sorry, I got nowhere near ten. I reached three and bit my lip, realizing she was right. I checked my temper using verbiage instead of violence. “Good God, woman, you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t know all the rules around here, I’m just recently deceased.” I glanced at all the people in the street, millions of them trudging up and down the spongy surface. “Tell me something, if everyone in that arena was killed, why don’t I recognize anyone? Where’s my team? Where’s Dr. Knight?

  She shrugged her shoulders, motioning to the multitude. “By all means, if you’re able to find anyone you know in this crowd, be my guest.”

  She was right. I cleared my mind, relaxed my shoulders and inhaled a long, slow breath. After holding the air in my lungs for a couple of seconds, I pursed my lips and exhaled. Once I discovered the practice of mindfulness as a coping mechanism, I had began each morning with at least five minutes of quiet contemplation.

  “Excellent,” Samantha said. “You know, some people here choose to quietly meditate forever—for all eternity.”

  Ironic. Meditation led me to the teachings of Dr. Knight, and now his teachings led me to a place of never ending meditation. The circle of life. I took in another deep, slow breath and exhaled with purpose.

  The crisp, clean air held the hint of a flavor, a sweet taste lingering on my tongue and in the back of my throat. The fragrant air and peaceful cadence of millions of footsteps soon relaxed me. In a voice so much more composed than just a few moments earlier, I turned to Samantha. “I appreciate your patience with me. Forgive my ignorance.”

  She nodded. “Glad to see you’re finally unwinding. After all, realizing you’re dead can be quite a jolt to the system.”

  Instead of clenching my fists and spewing out, “Ya think?” I kept quiet and concentrated on the scenery. We had finally reached the city.

  Miles of neon stretched out before us. Skyscrapers shot up, piercing through clouds. Quaint shops, lively restaurants, and little cafés lined both sides of the avenue. The colorful skyline stirred my imagination. Shoppers darted in and out of thriving businesses. Small alleyways filled with travelers. Minor passageways crisscrossed the main avenue, calling for increased watchfulness. People were everywhere.

  Vibrant banners advertising “Authentic Thai” and “Genuine Silk” and “Homemade Soup” crossed over the street like clothes on a line. This was more than “Main Street, USA,” try Christmas, New Years and the Fourth of July crammed together, and all on steroids. Thousands, hundreds of thousands, hurried from shop to shop, carrying bags and boxes and satchels, searching for more. People crowded the tables of sidewalk cafés, queuing up in front of restaurants, cinemas, hair salons and toy stores. All the while, the avenue kept filling with even more souls, their cadenced footsteps causing a pulsating rhythm. It shook the ground, throbbing and pounding, sending a beat from the street to my feet, up my legs and straight to my brain.

  Children ran, hand in hand, playing and giggling. A group of teenagers used the spongy ground like a giant trampoline to bounce as high as they could. Their contagious laughter even sucked me in. I caught myself grinning along with them—just another carefree soul.

  Soon, our progress slowed due to the sheer number of people on the avenue, their voices climbing, echoing through the canyon of high-rise buildings. Even though the street had grown wider, as if to accommodate the increased population, the thick crowds of travelers reminded me of rush hour traffic. Every time someone passed close by, near enough to make me lean to the left or right, the ground shuddered beneath my feet. I imagined everyone jumping in unison on the count of three and flying through the sky.

  “Can you picture it,” Samantha said shouting over the commotion, “all of us flying about like birds? What a sight.”

  I made no comment, perhaps growing accustomed to her in my head. That realization brought up another question. “Can anyone else read my thoughts?”

  “No worries, it’s just you and me inside that overactive imagination of yours. You sometimes think of the weirdest things. In fact, I remember once when you actually—”

  “Can we change the subject?” I said attempting to hold onto a thread of privacy. With her, it had become a task that proved exhausting, like swatting at an insect buzzing around my ear. “So how far is this question place?”

  “The House of Questions.” She corrected. “Just a few more miles.”

  “Good, because I suddenly have a lot of questions.”

  “Don’t worry, so will they.”

  What does that mean?

  “You’ll see.”

  III

  Having no previous experience of being led by a petite guide through a teeming multitude to an unknown destination disquieted me. I stopped on the crowded avenue. Scores of people bumped against me, nudging and pushing. They’d just have to find a way around, while I considered my options.

  Samantha turned back and glared. “C’mon, Brooks. We don’t want to be late.”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready for this thing.”

  “What thing is that—this being dead thing?” she said. “Too late for that now, what’s done is done. Pick it up, one foot after the other soldier.”

  In a hushed tone, one which I’m sure gave away my anxiety, I said, “No, I’ve accepted the ‘dead thing.’ I’m just not so sure about this House of Questions thing.”

  She cocked her head. “I appreciate your concern. After all, I keep forgetting this is all new to you.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “Oh, right—the war thing.”

  “Yeah…the war thing. You might say I’ve got a thing against being questioned, I’m sure you can understand.”

  “I do. I guess it won’t hurt to slow down, but just a little. Would that make you feel better?” At last, Samantha appeared to listen instead of lecture.

  “Would it be possible to stop somewhere? I noticed several cafés along the way. Maybe we can grab a quick drink, you know, just to clear my head?” I glanced over the tops of the crowd around us, searching for some place, a bar or restaurant, where we could take a break. Was it even possible to have a drink in heaven?


  “Once again, not heaven,” she said with a sigh. Her features softened. “Don’t worry, I know how you feel. I could use a wee bracer myself.” She winked. “I won’t tell if you won’t.” She threaded her arm around my elbow, leading me away from the avenue, inch by inch, until we reached a sidewalk away from the main rush of wandering souls. Still, swarms of people loitered about, blocking our way in every direction, but they weren’t as assertive as the street crowd. A dozen yards ahead, I spotted a small café just off the main avenue. The establishment appeared cozy and unassuming from the outside, just the kind of quiet, intimate spot I craved. It seemed the ideal setting to relax and regroup.

  There was a time, after the war, after returning home, after the inquiry, when I required a few drinks to muddle through the day. But those times had passed. It’s not that I needed a drink, but, what with being dead and all, a small pick-me-up couldn’t hurt. At least that sounded like enough justification.

  The scene inside the café took me off guard. A vast expanse, teeming with hundreds of boisterous patrons put a lie of the “cozy” vision I had pictured. A thousand conversations, each one rising above the next, melded together in a confusing mess echoing across the cavernous space. I turned back for the door, opting for the quiet “silence” of a million souls instead.

  Samantha held me still. “Stay the course,” she shouted. “It’ll be worth it.”

  I followed her lead and we soon stood, at last, on a firm surface, in front of a gleaming bar that must have been a hundred yards long. Glasses of various shapes and sizes, each filled with colorful liquids rested in the hands of served customers on the smooth polished surface. Only one bartender stood on duty, his manner easy and unhurried.

  The short, rotund barkeep, wearing a black apron and wide grin held my gaze across the bar. “What’ll it be, sir?”

  “Bourbon—neat. Make it a double.”

  He nodded and grinned but didn’t move a muscle. Had he not heard me? I repeated the order over the din of the crowd. Samantha picked up her Guinness Stout and glanced down at the bar in front of me. A cocktail glass awaited my consideration. I picked it up and sniffed at the contents. The aroma of pure Kentucky bourbon brought a smile to my lips.

  “How’d he do that?”

  Samantha took a gulp of her muddy beer. “Do what?”

  “Get me my drink without moving? He got yours, too, and you didn’t say a word.”

  “Oh, I’ve been here before, he knows what I drink.” She raised the glass and took another deep pull, wiping away her beer moustache. “Yum.”

  I sipped my drink, testing the golden liquid. “Oh my God. This is the best whiskey I’ve ever tasted. Smokey, with just a hint of sweet.” Bringing the glass to my lips, I tilted my head back, and drained it. The warm blend put a smile on my face.

  “How much?” I shouted at the barkeep, feeling for my wallet. Uh-oh. I must have lost it somewhere between the explosion and this bar stool.

  “No charge,” Samantha shouted. “Everything here is free.”

  “Another, sir?” the bartender said.

  “You bet.”

  Samantha nudged me. “We should really be going.”

  I shook my head. “Oh, I’ve got to have one more, especially at these prices. C’mon, Sam, join me?”

  “Sam?” Her face brightened. “Okay, just one more.”

  In an instant, our glasses refilled.

  “Nobody’s ever called you Sam before?”

  “Nope.” She sipped her Guinness. “But I think I prefer it to Samantha. Short and to the point, you know?”

  “Just like you.” I winked at her and downed the contents of my double Old-Fashioned glass. “Tell me something,” I said above the crowd’s banter, “why do they allow alcohol here? I mean, it seems a little off book, doesn’t it?”

  She put her glass down and gave me a sideways glance. “You still think this is heaven?”

  I froze. “Why, is…is this really the other place?”

  “No, no, this isn’t the other place. Listen, alcohol in and of itself isn’t a bad thing, just as money isn’t evil.”

  I lifted my glass in a mock toast. “I’ll drink to that.”

  “And on that note, I think it’s time to get you to The House of Questions. Maybe then you’ll discover exactly which place this is.”

  The bartender raised his eyebrows and said to Samantha, “He’s new, isn’t he?”

  She nodded, then turned to me. “Let’s get back on the road. We still have a fair bit to travel, and the crowds outside are getting thicker.”

  “Fine.” I tipped the glass over my mouth, allowing the few remaining drops of bourbon to splash onto my tongue. I simply couldn’t let this delicious concoction go to waste. “Do the crowds always get thicker this time of day?”

  Samantha blushed. “No, not…I mean, it isn’t the time.” She turned away. “Not the time of day, anyway. Let’s go.”

  After easing my glass down on the bar, I nodded to the bartender, and followed her out. “Right behind you, Sam.”

  The first rays of morning sunlight illuminated the sky in a dazzling display of orange and yellow. A few scattered clouds remained overhead, but the mild temperature was perfect. I breathed in a lungful of fresh, flavored air, enjoying the after effects of the bourbon. We made our way back onto the congested avenue and continued the journey to The House of Questions. My anxiety had been put to rest by the “wee bracer,” and the remaining miles flew by.

  By the time we reached our destination—a freshly painted, well cared for Victorian—the clouds had reduced to nothing more than a memory.

  Samantha and I ascended the wooden stairs leading to the porch. She knocked on the massive front door then turned to me. “Now remember, keep an open mind.”

  “What does that mean? You’re not coming with me?”

  She pulled back, avoiding my gaze. “I’m afraid it’s not allowed. You’ll do fine. Just answer all of his questions as best you can.”

  “He? With a capital H?” She didn’t answer. Instead, she glanced down and to the right, a classic tell, meaning she was “thinking it over.” To lie, or not to lie. Visual cues, body language, and facial expressions are accepted methods of detecting deception, and I was familiar with them all. “Sam, tell me the truth, do they question everyone who’s brought here?” This time, she avoided eye contact altogether and said nothing. Her silence piqued my interest. “What’s going on?” I leaned in and whispered, “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I can’t. You’ll have to trust me.”

  If Samantha was on my side—my guardian angel…er, guide—I couldn’t imagine her leading me into harm’s way. Besides, I consider myself a pretty good judge of character. “I trust you,” I murmured. Her green eyes turned glassy. I brushed away a rogue tear from her cheek. “What’s wrong, Sam? Why are you crying?”

  “I can’t tell you…not yet.”

  “Why not?” I said. “Trust is a two-way street, Sam.”

  In slow motion, the huge door opened—and yes, just as I expected, the hinges creaked.

  IV

  I didn’t want to leave Sam like that, but I needed to understand what was happening. I put a hand on her arm and whispered, “Wait for me. Will you do that?”

  She nodded, turned away and faced the crowded avenue.

  A short, round man of indeterminate age stood at the door. He wore a formal tux, complete with tails. His white satin gloves matched his scraggly hair. The faint glow around the man made him look like a hologram.

  “Are you real?” I asked.

  “I am.” He bowed. “So good to see you again, Brooklyn.”

  I had never seen this man before in my life. “What do you mean again?”

  He winked. “My mistake. I see so many faces. Please forgive me. Come in.”

  I couldn’t move, as if the soles of my shoes had been nailed to the boards of the elevated porch. Someone nudged me from behind, pushing me over the threshold. I turned around just before the
door shut to catch Samantha mouthing the words, Good luck.

  The weathered face of the round man gave me the willies. I assumed he was the butler—who else?

  “My name is Eadward, sir—a pleasure to meet you,” he said with a quick nod.

  He ushered me down a narrow passageway and up a short flight of stairs. The landing opened to a large den. An enormous fireplace built into the far wall glowed, the substantial blaze giving the room more than enough illumination. The hearth spanned about eight feet wide and as tall as me. The high ceiling topped out at around thirty feet. Despite the massive size of the room, just a few pieces of furniture were positioned with obvious care. Two red leather wingback chairs faced the fire, though turned slightly toward each other. A small mahogany table occupied the space between. On the table rested a gleaming silver tea set. In the corner opposite the fireplace stood a massive grandfather clock. It had to be ten feet wide and climbed to the ceiling. A gigantic brass or gold pendulum swung from side to side, it’s hypnotic tick-tock echoing off the walls.

  “How do you take your tea?” the butler asked.

  He poured two cups of dark, steaming liquid and waited for my answer. I didn’t know how I took my tea—I’m a coffee man—but I didn’t want to come across as a smart ass, so I said, “Three sugars, one cream.”

  The butler stirred the cream and sugar into my cup, then motioned for me to sit. I settled into the chair’s butter-soft leather and gazed at the fire. The white-hot flames licked at the firebox and roared up the chimney. The consumed logs released an intoxicating aroma.

  “I love the smell of a cozy fire as well.”

  I stood and turned to find the source of the booming voice. A tall, well-dressed man, wearing a dark tweed suit, complete with vest, tie and scarf, entered the room. He had a spring in his step and a smile on his face.

  “Sebastian Thorogood.” Speaking with a British accent, he offered his hand. “So very pleased to meet you.”

  I would never get used to English handshakes. Why don’t they take the whole hand? I clamped down on his fingers.