“And at that moment I knew I needed to stop…funny that I’ve said that three times just talking here.”
[The screen cuts in an a man, who looks very average, stands before us with a inexpensive looking fold up chair behind him. He has an average shirt that conveys nothing about him on it, he hasn’t shaven in maybe one day; nothing out of the ordinary. The bags under his eyes show something a bit more than what he wears. We don’t know his name…we wouldn’t know it. On both sides of him we can just manage to see people sitting and looking up towards him as he speaks. Sometimes they look towards their hands clasped together. They, again, are not people that we would know the names of. Ironically enough, they all have name tags on. The camera does not take the time to focus on them.]
Man: But…it just can’t keep going on like this. I need to be able to sleep at night. I need to be able to have a choice, and I couldn’t choose. I don’t want to drink anymore…and I think that’s something that I’ve lied to myself about before. But…I’m sober right now. And hopefully now will be long. Um…I don’t…I don’t think I have more to add right now.
Voice: (off) Thank you for sharing, Julian.
[Oh…there’s a name. It isn’t important to remember…none of these people will remember, and none of those watching will remember either.]
Voice: (off) And we have somebody new here today! (shuffle of papers) Patrick Bickle! Welcome, Patrick, to our little circle of trust here.
[The camera pans away from the man that has already taken a seat, and looks a little more disheartened than when he first stood, as if he was looking for something that didn’t come in his speech. The camera stops panning at Patrick Bickle, eyes looking just below where anybody’s eyes could be trying to meet his, and he sits. He sits for some time and then rises, though his head does not rise with him.]
Bickle: My name is, according to the highest form of Parliament, Patrick Bickle. It was not the name I was born with, but that doesn’t effect you in any way, and it is not known by many people though I haven’t intended on keeping it a secret. However, the name remains to be Patrick Bickle if you seek it on any form of paper. You will not remember it tomorrow, and I do not wish you to.
I am not an alcoholic.
[A murmur begins in the room around, and one voice can be heard to say “but if you aren’t..” before it cuts off. A voice off shushes the group, the voice, which we can assume to be the group leader, and the murmur tones down.]
Voice: (off) Now, Patrick, that’s alright. But in this circle you can trust us around you. We will remember you, Patrick. And denying your alcoholism won’t get us closer to the final goal. Please, you can open up to us! Just try to tell us your story first.
[Bickle continues staring forwards, and whether or not he is looking towards the voice speaking is completely unknown.]
Bickle: As I have stated, I do not wish to be remembered by this group of people who have failed at the most passive activity, that activity being life in general. This circle of people have taken something so simple that it becomes ambient, and have made it a marathon for themselves.
[The murmur picks up again, and one sob can be heard off to the side, but Patrick continues unfazed.]
Bickle: I have consumed very minor amounts of this liquid at very spaced out moments in time. Inebriation hasn’t followed, and that in no way has brought me upon this endeavour of finding a spectacle of humanity worth my attention. You are the spectacle. This veritable zoo without walls, without cages save for those you’ve placed around your poor-willed selves with a mindset. I arrive for free, receive a poor glass of a different drink with a different addiction for the same people, irony at its absolute best, and I watch.
[The murmur is no longer apparent at all, and a silence has fallen. There is a clearing of a throat and one word seems to start, but before they continue the camera pans to the sound of a chair skidding backward from a quick stand-up.
The man in front of the camera looks depressed, he is small and mousey, his hair is in no way styled, and he is clearly not yet on the road to success. He is now standing though, and his eyes look, though dreary, intent on speaking.]
Man: Look Deborah, don’t stop me here ‘cause **** your passive method. This man doesn’t need a ****ing reason to stop talking. He needs to leave.
[The camera cuts back to Bickle, where there is no smile, and there is no frown. His expression hasn’t even flickered. There he stands.]
Man: You come in here when we’re doing our best. Sure you say we’re low and we know it! We know we’re low! But at least we are ****ing here trying, not back in the bars, not looking for teeth on the sidewalk that we just lost. So **** you when you come here when I’m at my lowest, ‘cause you’ve taken one step below us you freak. You’re below me and Daniel here, and Louise. Go shoot some ****ing heroin or beat your children or something else.
[The man looks directly at Bickle, then his eyes snap to a watery gaze and he slowly sits down as if he doesn’t know exactly what happened.]
Bickle: I don’t suppose you’re aware of my general daily habits. For a living I walk between four walls made of rope, merely to keep men from fleeing when I throw them hard in a direction. A wall of ropes to keep men from fleeing. I work upon a canvas with give so that when those who wish to exchange with the concept that I am fall, they will not fall to a death. When their necks lead toward the ground, the canvas gives them a sliver of a chance of walking moments earlier than they would otherwise. I work in an environment created solely for the purpose of keeping men alive when they would find themselves in a world of darkness were we to exchange in a different location.
This is in no way a speech of intimidation for you, for I am confident that if you were to engage in a battle with me, I would be the man left with feet in the aftermath. This is to display that I am able to succeed in the basics of life; survival, battle, consciousness. You are all in a battle which you are losing, on your way to an accelerated death, often without a clue of where you are or what you’ve done or why you cannot refrain. I am a step below? You are the gladiators to my social status. Fight for my entertainment, beasts.
[The room has become absolutely silent. Not a word is spoken.
Suddenly one woman rushes forwards, apparently having had enough of Bickle’s speech, and looks as if she’s prepared to make it a physical dispute, but happens to lose her footing before making it to the concept of a man in front of her. She hits the floor hard.]
THUD
[Bickle stands over this woman as he has just finished laying a kick into the top of her shoulder and part of her neck. The woman is moving but very little and motions comparable to that of a worm.]
Bickle: I’ll try my best to return next week, as I’ve been the only successful force in stopping you from focusing on inebriation, and I’ve deterred your hate from yourself towards me, being the manifestation of your hate, for some moments. For now, I have to leave a man, much like you, in the centre of a ring. Goodnight.