Flying Without Wings

Flying Without Wings
(Approx. 2,500 Words)

NOW early evening, and hundreds of unseen miles from Hampstead, Theo
found himself on a high scenic road, still heading west. He must be in
South Devon, he thought. Below, to his left, nestling unobtrusively
between two immense cliffs, lay a small fishing town. It looked quiet
enough. It would do as well as any. And surely he was far enough away
by now? As an area of common was coming up. he decided to pull in. The
car soon came to a gentle stop, wheels a few feet from the cliff edge.
He switched off.

Exhausted by now, he crawled out to stretch mind and body for a minute
or so, then stood gazing at the miles of pink sandstone cliffs
diminishing into the distance. For a few minutes he stood enthralled as
they grew slow to orange in the dying rays of the sun. Finally, he
looked down at the harbour and saw a dozen yachts bobbing head to wind
on their moorings. Even at this height he could make out the tinkle of
a few carelessly tied halyards as they slapped against the masts, and
remembered how there had once been a time when sailing was all it took
to be happy.

It was after nine as he strolled round the harbour in search of a pub.
Approaching The Sailor's Arms, he heard a young woman singing a
favourite ballad, 'She Moves Through the Fair'. Inside, his spirits
lifted a little to discover a folk group jamming together in one
corner. He almost felt pleased. He used to enjoy folk music before all
this happened.

By his third pint, the singer-cum-barmaid began to look attractive -
having made it obvious the feeling was mutual. 'Barmaid is willing,' he
thought, parodying Barkus' words from David Copperfield. But that was
the last thing he needed. In any case, he didn't deserve to be loved.
He hadn't fled in order to pile complication upon chaos, but to drown
himself; either in self-pity, or the sea. He still didn't know
which.

*

Two years before, at thirty, Theo had become impotent; suddenly
impotent. He and Rhea had been married seven years. They had one child,
a daughter. He still wanted a son.

It was some weeks before he showed signs of depression. Rhea suggested
a visit to the doctor; there was bound to be some pill or other that
would do the trick. But Theo adamantly refused, saying he'd no
intention of discussing either his sexual capacity or his mental state
with anyone. He just needed some time.

It wasn't until he was unable to see the point of rising from his bed
one morning that she finally took things into her own hands and called
in Dr. Baker, who soon decided there was no physical or organic reason
for his impotence. However, suspecting suicidal tendencies, Baker then
referred him to Murchison, a psychiatrist. After several sessions,
Murchison concluded that Theo's subconscious appeared to have come to
look upon Rhea as something other than a wife or mistress. Also, from
what little Theo was prepared to describe of their past sex life, there
seemed a possibility that Rhea's own mind may never have accepted him
as a mate since the beginning, but rather as a kind of surrogate
father. This would explain, he said, why she'd always behaved like the
abused, submissive child, a passive non-participant during their
lovemaking.

For Theo, this answered a number of unsolved questions. It explained
why, when he'd tried to force her to admit her sexual needs were as
great as his own - periods of abstention and final capitulations - had
all been in vain. It also explained why such a magnificent body had
shown so little aptitude for its discrete purpose.

"Simply as a matter of interest,' said Murchison, 'perhaps by way of
experiment, I suppose you've never considered ? never thought
of??"

Theo didn't answer. Until that moment the thought of another woman had
never entered his mind. He'd not thought of other women in that way
since the day he married.

Murchison carried on by saying he only had to keep reinforcing the idea
that his relationship was most certainly not incestuous. 'A few months
should do the trick. Can't the two of you get away somewhere? Spend a
month in the sun? Amazing what a drop of sunshine can do for the old
hormones.'

Not incestuous. The words still haunted him.

But that day, Theo left with more positive feeling for giving life
another chance than for many months. Recent thoughts had centred on
death, not procreation; annihilation, not alternative ecstasy. He found
himself looking at every woman he passed, aware of a certain
excitement, sensual excitement. He'd almost forgotten the innocent
pleasure of indulging in sexual fantasies with strangers. Moreover, he
found he could still en-gage the eye of any woman he wanted. At least
that hadn't changed. Perhaps Murchison was right. Perhaps he should try
another woman - if only for the sake of experiment.

*

He discovered Sophie, a new-fledged actress not long out of drama
school; a flaxen-haired beauty with green eyes and a seemingly
insatiable appetite for bizarre sexual adventures. And not only that,
but demanded he enjoy his lovemaking, a novelty which soon made life
good and worth living again.

But no one who has lived through the experience will be surprised to
learn that Theo found the experience of falling in love with his
mistress both sad and joyous. For he still loved Rhea. Not as in the
first heat - no mind could endure such a conflagration. No, but her
body still obsessed him. To an outsider, it would seem obvious he loved
Rhea's 'potential' rather than what she had in fact become. Poor Theo,
she'd always remained the unattainable goddess. Though not Aphrodite,
for Rhea had never been the least demanding.

But to fall for someone like Sophie was perhaps too ironic, an almost
ludicrous contrast. Again lovemaking had become the antidote to stress.
Again it was fun, as well as physically and mentally soothing. And so,
no matter how confused Theo was before meeting Sophie, soon afterwards
he became even more so. How was it possible for hormones to pick and
choose which woman he might have? If Sophie, why not Rhea? Such
questions plagued him until, now, he neared mental collapse.

*

On this particular morning he crawled from bed after Rhea left the
house and made his way to the bathroom.

After relieving himself, he stood naked and sad at the open window from
which the couple enjoyed priceless views of Hampstead Heath, no matter
the mortgage consumed half their income, and the view was best seen
standing with legs astride the WC. It was the price one paid for views
in Hampstead.

Much had happened since that last visit to Murchison. He was in his
darkest mood ever, nearing desperation. He looked out at the
new-mantled oaks and chestnuts which in spring and summer obscured his
view of Parliament Hill and again went over every event of the last two
years. Then something, a bird, a squirrel, darted in the boughs of the
nearest tree, and brought him sharply back to the present. With sudden
impact, it occurred to him that every miracle of April and May had
somehow arrived unseen, and the thought stunned him. He felt ashamed.
What on earth had happened to him?

'And now this!' he shouted. 'A m?nage ? trois!'.

That was their solution, the three of them under one roof! He would
have two wives! And of course, when he'd refused to entertain the idea,
they'd come back at him with plan B.
'Then you'll have to choose, Theo. We've decided we're not prepared to
go on like this. Either of us.'

They made it sound so simple. Heads or tails? Soup or main dish? Bath
or shower? Christ! How could they believe it could ever be that simple?
Had we all gone mad?

"No way!" he'd suddenly screamed. Christ, didn't they even understand
the elementary logic of sexual love? He didn't expect them to
understand he could love them both, but he did assume they at least
recognized it required more than one persona, two very distinct
identities. He'd need to be a mind juggler to hold them both under one
roof!
Distraught with fury, he turned and crossed to the medicine cabinet to
jerk open the doors.
Aspirin. He counted them. Not enough. Paracetamol? Just as uncertain.
Hair re-mover, shaving cream, razor blades.... Razor blades!

Suddenly he was appalled to find himself being careful with the
wrapping paper! 'Absurd! Fucking absurd!' he screamed. He was
contemplating suicide, yet taking care to remove the blade without
injuring himself!

Now he examined it, turned it over, marvelled how such an insignificant
wafer had more power than all the medicine in the world; it knew the
cure for 'thinking'.

But would it be noble? That would depend. Socrates, Brutus, Seneca -
they were noble. But surely these women were better off without him?
Know exactly where they stood? Could get on with their lives? He'd be
giving them back their lives! That'd be noble. What other alternative
was there?

There was running.

*

Theo didn't wait for closing, but left the Jolly Sailor on an angry
impulse, a rollicking 'strip-the-willow' still jigging between his ears
and the singer's tacit invitation still tweaking his loins. Perhaps she
preferred the sullen type. Too bad. On this occasion he'd taken
control, left before Jasper could twirl his whiskers and prime the
primordial pump. He headed up the hill out of town again. Reaching the
same spot as earlier, and without reducing speed, he jerked the car off
the road and headed for the cliffs.

And it was as if the car knew. He had to fight the wheel every inch as
it bucked and tossed over the ground, but still he drove on at reckless
speed, seeing the cliff edge approach rapidly as the ground between
shrank until nothing was ahead but moon and stars. This was it, had he
forgotten anything? He must be only feet away ...

'Damn! They'll blame themselves!'

He'd left no note, no explanation, no last words. In an instant the
wheels locked, the car stopped, and he slapped the wheel with both
hands and fell back in his seat in a cold sweat. Slowly, he turned
everything off and again fell to thinking... thinking...
thinking....

Eventually he fell asleep.

Though he woke several times with a memory of his buttocks pressed into
a warm belly - it could've been either woman - he slept until dawn,
when a thousand seagulls finally made sleep impossible. He rubbed his
eyes and glanced at his watch; four-thirty, the sun already above the
horizon; he peered over the front seat.

At first he couldn't believe it. Beside itself with fury, one was
attacking his car, holding down a wiper-blade and ripping it to
shreds!

'Piss off, you stupid bird!' he yelled.

It did, not before giving him a hard look, then lifted majestically to
float motionless over the cliff. He watched it, envied its cool
acceptance of miracles, its arrogance as it headed the currents, its
head an arrowhead between the string and bow of outspread wings. He
remembered an unfulfilled ambition. He still wanted to fly; still
wanted a glider. Was it something to live for?

A fine morning. And there was myth and magic in Devon. It drifted down
from the moors, was in the air, the soil, the very stones. And he'd
always felt the sea breathed freedom like no other kingdom.

Suddenly he was a boy again, expecting a puppy, a new bike, a pair of
skates. He felt better, much better. He didn't know why, or how, but
putting those miles between himself and London had somehow made a
difference. What need of either of them if he could feel this good
without them? Seeing the pink clouds freckling the sky, the beauty of
it all chastised him. He grinned self-consciously; after all, there was
beauty in everything, one only had to look. Yes, where did all that
wonder go in the adolescent storm? Before then he'd never needed to
know how a cat's eye was made to feel its beauty.

He couldn't die yet, one day he must fly like a bird!

A minute later he was stubbing down a winding track thick with shrubs
and birches. It zigzagged, dropping between boulders long-bedded in the
blushing soil. His feet crushed essences of thyme and sea campion;
fragrances rose, filling him with old-remembered wonder as he scurried
down to the bottom. The path ended in a secluded cove with a steep
pebble beach that fell to a calm, slow-breaking sea.

Hell! He must run into the sea!

In a moment he was naked and off down the shingle, Old Jasper slapping
painfully back and forth.

He dived.

As his chest cleaved the water the sound of shifting gravel came loud
in his ears, and needles of ice pierced his flesh end to end. It felt
good, and he ploughed on, swimming far out before turning to tread
water and look back at the still, sleepy old town.

To the left the cliffs rose and fell like pink dinosaurs nose to tail
on a morning's stroll to Land's End. Ahead, the car sat like Rosinante,
waiting to carry him to the next belligerent windmill. Feeling his
nakedness at one with all nature, he clutched his testicles with joy,
threw a fist in the air, and screamed, 'Eureka! Bloody eureka!'

Once dressed, he took a notion to lope to the western end of the cove
where a rocky barrier bled into the sea, a good place to explore. He
remembered a day when he and Dad spent an afternoon doing the same
thing. And he found the rock pools and swaying world beneath no less
filled with beauty today, teeming with complexities he'd mislaid since
childhood.

In this mood he wandered over one more rock, one more castle, the new
poem's lines rising from mind's fancy until, after an hour or so, the
thought of tea and lashings of eggs and bacon overrode his muse. Strong
exercise had done the trick, had restored his lost appetite.

Paradoxically, he realised, the car was nearer than when he'd started
off along the beach; in fact just a few hundred feet above him. Sizing
it up, he decided it was an easy climb; plenty of purchases.

He set off with his mind given to the poem, the higher plane. The
lyrics flowed like confetti, albeit with less value. Nevertheless,
after ten minutes, the fringe of marram grass along the brow showed
very welcome. But half-buried stones are easily mistaken for jutting
rock. Before falling, Theo teetered, looked at the red-stained oval in
his hand, thought of a dinosaur's egg, rocked backwards and forwards,
hands darted left and right, knees made vain attempts to grip bare
rock, and then he surrendered. He gave in calmly; simply sighed, turned
to look down on the place where he was to die, stretched his arms like
a gull, then hovered for an instant, as though flying without
wings.

End