The Man With a City in His Head by Maxwell Jameson	Table of Contents part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9
part 2

“I saw something today I never thought I’d see,” he said. “I saw Stephen the Historian frightened and unsure.”

He looked briefly back over to where the three men sat.

“I remember first reading passages of the Complete History in high school. I was enthralled. Stephen’s mastery of what was concrete and useful gave me hope. I felt a deep need to find myself a place in that world. But today his facts meant nothing. I could see in his eyes how much that frightened him. He met something that lived beyond them.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s that old man,” Adam said. “He has a city in his head.”

After that day, things changed even faster. My establishment transformed. Frederick returned, and so did Stephen the Historian. He had a notebook with him that he wrote in constantly as he watched the old man. The fear had been replaced by intent focus.

An ever-growing number of people poured in. There were Adam’s fellow bankers, as well as lawyers, stockbrokers and accountants, but also artists, journalists and contractors. The Sharing changed. A sense of enthusiasm, of childlike curiosity took hold of the channels.

Despite my worries, I accepted the feelings. It showed that my history was not the reason for my curiosity, that it was shared by many life-long Citizens as well.

Adam was there as well. Before, I would only see him during breaks from work. But he began staying for longer and longer, sitting at the same alcove, drinking in everything around him deeper than the cup of cold coffee that lay in front of him all day. His face became increasingly distraught. It was not the look of the man I’d known before.

The old man was different, as well. Frederick would escort him in every day, leading him by the arm. Some of Frederick’s poise seemed to diffuse itself into the old man, who walked with purpose and focus. What I could hear of his voice was thicker and more authoritative. He seemed taller and more imposing.

His face lost the open quality that had struck me so much in the beginning. It took on a quality I’d noticed in many faces that were looked on by many people, as if each look from afar left an imprint, a small residue that built up over time, until a new, stronger and more imposing face was built over the previous one.

I could still not hear what the old man said. I had only the Sharing to absorb. They Shared many different impressions. None was potent enough to unify them. At first, there would always be amusement, but once the old man began speaking all that would change. I would see him point his liver-spotted hand to his head, though I could never make out the words over the din of voices.

But the Sharing would change. There would be curiosity, excitement and a certain deep magnetic pull, as if the words contained something so substantive that they couldn’t help but listen. There were also brief flutters of the same fear and anger that came from Adam, but they were the minority.

But I did not have the time to consider it. I realized that the deep lines covering Frederick and Stephen’s faces came from the fact that they’d had so many hours of their lives free the follow the unbridled flow of their own thoughts, digging deep ditches in their minds in which so much information could be stored. The majority of Our City’s Citizens never had the time, had to rely on Sharing to inject the state of mind into them, usually absent the individual kernels of information.

I remembered in my early years all the thoughts that invited me down their dark, unlit streets. Each street was alluring, but I knew I could never follow every single one, but I also couldn’t limit myself to only one. I began to make friends who felt the same way as I, who felt incapable of coming up with one clear objective in their lives. We wished to play many different roles at once, to mix and match the pieces we liked into one coherent whole.

But it became more and more difficult. My friends lessened in number and changed in quality. Their living habits became less civilized. There was less of a central core. They began to sublimate themselves to the outer world. I felt as though a weight had begun to press onto me, pushing me slowly into the dirt as I watched my friends scavenge what discarded pieces they could. They dug through trash receptacles and picked up furniture from the sides of streets. They built tiny, pathetic existences but seemed to have forgotten how to desire more. They took.

Everyone was taught about the Takers early in life. They were an unfortunate byproduct. Not everyone could keep up. And those that could not would of course never be able to admit it to themselves. They would attempt to assert moral superiority despite the obvious. In school, we were forced to swear we’d never become Takers, that we’d grow up to become productive Citizens, even though our teachers knew it wouldn’t be true for all of us.

But revulsion was forced on me the night I was buried. All my weaknesses and limitations became clear. And that knowledge saved me.

And what was happening to Adam gave me pause. He seemed to be drifting. Staring off into a distant horizon. Like the old man when he first appeared, it seemed as if the electrical impulses from Adam’s brain couldn’t reach his body. He couldn’t even Share anymore; his thoughts were not organized enough.

But about a week later, when I saw him sobbing, I was still shocked.

He sat in his alcove. He’d once again stayed after everyone else left.

“Are you all right?” I asked him again. I realized I asked him this every day.

Adam looked up at me. His eyes were moist. “No,” he said.

I also realized this was always his answer and wondered why I kept asking.

“Why not?” I asked. I knew one of the great joys of being a productive Citizen was telling your problems to a woman.

He sniffed and wiped his face with a a handkerchief. He dropped it on the counter. “I was not born like this,” Adam said. He stared at the handkerchief.

“What?” I asked.

“I was not born a Citizen.”

“What?”

He went on, still staring at the handkerchief. I was not certain if he even knew I was there.

“My parents were Takers,” he said. “There was a Takers’ City many years ago. These Outer Districts made up its heart. Nobody knows about it, because it was redacted from the Complete History. But there was a Takers’ City, with my parents proudly among them.

“These Takers were prideful. They believed they could create a functioning city based on their barren ideology. But it grew quickly; something about the time allowed it. They passed it off as the next step in Our City’s evolution. They claimed to provide everyone with everything they needed, free of charge. All they had to do was ask. Everything... belonged to everyone. Therefore, people would feel more motivated to help their city grow and prosper, because it belonged to each of them.

“This was before the Floating Center, when the rich and powerful ran Our City, when they hid behind walls and refused to allow the poor even to see them. Many people felt detached from the workings of the city. These feelings spurred the creation of the Takers’ City.

“My parents were a part of this movement. They worked very hard to help create the Takers’ City. My father was a builder. He supervised the construction of many of the buildings. They were two of the Takers’ City’s most prominent citizens, as prominent as any member of the Takers’ City could be. I was supposed to be a part of the new generation that would spell the end of the Old City as it had been.

“Naturally, the leaders of the Old City were against the Takers’ City from the start. They saw the obedience and submission of the poor as their inalienable right.

“Though the decisions were made by a noble class, there was an elected council that ran the day-to-day operations of the City. There was a man, the head of this council. He’d been born poor, but had climbed through the ranks until he’d made it to the highest possible position for one not of noble birth.

“When the Takers’ City was formed and the rulers of the Old City wished to get rid of it, this man openly opposed them. He wished to find a compromise. He seemed to believe both cities could live together in harmony. In the Takers’ City, he was seen as a hero, a man inside who was on their side. His support provided the Takers’ City with a sense of legitimacy.

“This man — John the Leader — was celebrated in the Takers’ City. He was seen as its greatest hope for survival.

“But he also caused many of the citizens of the Takers’ City to become emboldened. They saw the head of the Old City’s Council supporting them, and they took this as irrefutable evidence of their inherent moral superiority. Factions rose up more extreme and confrontational than those from before. They wished to sweep into the Old City and take control.

“If John the Leader believed in them, they were invincible. They would seize the Old City and mold it in the form of the Takers’ City. Already, John was instituting reforms to assist the poorer citizens of the Old City that were clearly inspired by the Takers’ City. He stated in public that in many ways the Takers’ City was ahead of the Old City and that it was time for the Old City to catch up with the march of progress.

“John the Leader was known for his brilliance as an orator. He could change the thoughts of anyone watching him in mere minutes. He could tell the masses what to do, and they would follow him. And he never seemed to let them down.

“But soon, these extreme factions in the Takers’ City refused to wait any longer. My parents were not among them. They believed things would work out in due time if they were patient. But after a time, they were in the minority. Most Takers believed in taking as much as they could.

“So the Takers’ Army marched into the Old City, straight to the walls of the Center. They expected John the Leader to greet them with open arms and provide them with the Council’s security force as reinforcement.

“But John met them outside the walls and what he said was unexpected. He pleaded with them to fall back, that there was still too much work to be done, that now was not the time. I have heard stories of the speech he gave. I hear it was entirely extemporaneous, and it was his greatest achievement, although it will go forever unrecorded.

“But it was unsuccessful. The militant Takers felt betrayed. Betrayed because they were not allowed to take all they wanted. They attacked. They stormed the walls of the Old City’s Center.

“But then a great, deep rumbling was heard. The ground began to shake. The Center slowly began to move upwards. It began to launch from the ground, the fire roared out from the massive, shiny engines and the light and heat disoriented the Takers.

“But they quickly adjusted. And they saw the turrets and ramparts covering the now-floating Center’s bottom half. On the ground, the gates opened. The Old City’s security force marched out. And the firing from the gun turrets at the bottom of the new Floating Center began.

“The Takers were decimated. They scattered in shock. But that was not the end. The security forces marched straight to the Takers’ City. With their meager defenses already routed, the Takers’ City was ransacked. Everyone was forced to flee. The Old City took over. The Takers’ City was finished.

“But the Old City was changed by this. They had to adjust the way they functioned to ensure it didn’t happen again. They borrowed a few things from the Takers’ City. Most importantly, was its name. Because in those days, the Takers’ City was not called the Takers’ City. It was called Our City.”

Adam picked up the handkerchief and ran his fingers over it. His face shone with the supple residue of tears.

“John the Leader vanished during the battle. It was assumed he’d been killed. The vast majority blamed him. He was seen as an imbecile, almost bringing about the fall of Our City due to his flirtation with the forces of chaos. By his apologists, he was seen as well-intentioned but naïve and unrealistic. He was all but removed from the Complete History. So was the Takers’ City. Instead it assumes that the Old City and Our City were always one and the same.”

Adam’s voice darkened as he continued.

“But my parents never stopped idolizing him. They said he was a good man trapped in an impossible situation. They believed he had survived the battle, but that he was underground now, waiting for the right moment to return.

“They lived on the fringes of Our City in near-squalor, stubbornly refusing to play by the rules, believing they were holding true to their ideals. They reused their trash, and they bought old things, and they refused to accept anything beautiful or transcendent into their lives.

“I spent my entire childhood deeply ashamed, feeling inadequate. As I grew up, I hated John the Leader. I saw him as the one who took everything away from my family by dangling seductive fantasies in front of them. I read the Complete History. I knew that John the Leader was a fool and that when he died he’d taken his fantasies with him.

“I knew my parents were stupid and naïve, that they allowed themselves to retard their own growth in the name of some illusory greater good, when the greatest good is living to your own personal potential. So I followed the rules. I knew what had to be done. I have come far. I have escaped from the sad, desperate world of the Takers. I have become a Citizen. I am proud of what I have accomplished.

“But today I learned something frightening. Something that makes all of that meaningless. Today I learned that the old man — that pathetic, crotchety, senile old man who can barely tie sentences together — is John the Leader. He did not die in battle, but was imprisoned in one of our asylums. He was released just a few years ago and since then has lived quietly. Until now. Because now he insists he has the key to a new beginning, to the return of the Takers’ City, to the return of the original Our City.”

Adam picked up the handkerchief and put it into his pocket. He sat up a bit straighter.

“So, no,” he said. “I am not alright. Everything I have worked for is being revealed as a lie, and the very people I have followed are stating that they were wrong. Stephen the Historian believes him. He is preparing a work that will state just that. That the Takers were right. That the Old City co-opted the ideas of John and the Takers. That we owe the Takers our greatness. That everything I have lived to believe is wrong. So no. I am not okay. I will never be okay.”

He stood. He tried his best to straighten his rumpled clothing. He took out a large, silver coin and dropped it onto the table. It landed with a thunk, spun briefly and then clattered to a stop. He turned and shuffled towards the door with his head down.

“It’s too much,” I called after him.

“It no longer matters,” said Adam the Banker as he walked out the door.

Proceed to part 3...

Copyright © 2011 by Maxwell Jameson