Sigmund
Siggy put his pen down and carried his paper to the desk at the front of the room. The temp on duty didn’t look up from his Sudoku puzzle, just took the offered paper and added it to the small pile.
“Laziness,” Siggy thought as he left the room, “and they pay this kid to sit around,” he scoffed bitterly under his breath. “At this rate, the world will never run out of jobs”, he thought, “we’ll just keep finding more and more mundane tasks for high school graduates to make careers out of.”
“You said it, man.”
Siggy looked behind him. He had been mumbling again, he should really pay more attention, he thought.
“Sorry,” Siggy said, “I didn’t think anyone else was out here.” Siggy started down the dim corridor.
“Hey man, wait up,” said the other man, catching up with him. “I get what you’re saying, the whole systems fucked.”
“Yeah” Siggy conceded, “but what can you do. The worlds going to hell in a briefcase, but none of us have the combination. All we can do is ride the spiral all the way down.”
He was doing it again, the same attitude which ruined the last office Christmas party, the same helpless complaining his own wife finally left him for.
“You have a way with words,” the stranger said, “what are you studying?”
“Journalism, if you can believe it,” he said, “although the test was so god damn easy, I’m guessing any hack could make it in this business.
“I’ve got no doubt you’ll be an incredible writer,” said the stranger, “I can tell, I’ve got a nose for that kind of thing.”
Siggy scoffed under his breath. “You may be the only one” he answered. “Are you a journalism major too?”
“Oh no,” the man said smiling, “I’m a businessman. In fact, I’ve been investigating an investment I hoped might pay off down the track.”
“Any luck?” Siggy asked, despite himself.
“Nah,” he said, shaking his head, “I tried, but some things just won’t change, no matter their potential.”
They walked in silence for a while.
“Well, this is me,” the man said, stopping at another staircase. “Do you mind if I shake your hand before I go? Bragging rights for when you’re a big shot author one day.”
Siggy looked at him sceptically and laughed, “people don’t read anymore” he said taking the offered hand, “paper itself will probably become obsolete before I even graduate.”
The man laughed, “there will always be writers” he said, “people who steer the consciousness of a generation.”
“It’s entropy,” Siggy stated blithely, “civilisation is a sewer, everything drains out eventually.”
Siggy stopped himself, he should really hold back on the anarchy rhetoric. The man’s compliments had made him too familiar.
“It really was a pleasure to meet you,” the man said. Then he left down the nearby stairs.
Siggy continued down the hall and pushed the heavy doors leading out into the yellow glow of the parking lot. Not everyone can stomach honest realism anymore, he thought, but at least there’s someone who appreciates a true word.
It was late afternoon, the evening light fading from the horizons. The campus was mosly vacant by this point, and his car was the only one in the lot. He saw a woman standing near his car. She was wearing a black suit with a striking red scarf.
“Sigmund Novascopf” she called to him, more as a statement than a question.
“Yes,” he said cautiously as he got closer, “but my application says Norman, not Novascopf. So you’re not from the university. Who are you?”
“I have bad news,” she said, “you’re not going to university here.”
“If I don’t get in here I’ll try somewhere else.” He retorted. “Can I get to my car please?”
She stepped out of his way. “You’re not going to be a writer,” she said.
People always come against you when you’re on the right track. “We’ll just see about that” he answered.
“You don’t have the money,” the woman said, “university is expensive.”
“I have the money” he argued, “I have enough saved up for the first year.”
“And the rest?” she inquired.
“If I have to clean toilets to make up the rest, then I will. God knows this whole country is a toilet.” Why do people antagonise him like this? He thought, maybe he’s lashing out because of stress, so much was hanging in the balance. He hated people antagonising him like this.
“Why am I talking to you? It’s not even your business” he said, “leave me alone.”
“You’re not going to be a journalist,” she said as he fumbled with his keys. “You’re not going to write a novel, you’ll never get published.”
“What do you know about it, lady?” Siggy retorted.”
“I know you could go to the community college in your hometown, and be a school teacher.”
Siggy turned and laughed scornfully, “I hate teachers" he said, "and I hate my hometown. Writing is the only thing I've got left, and nothing is going to stop me. So back off, lady.”
“I’m not finished’ said the woman calmly. “You’ll fall in love with a wonderful girl and get married in your final year, you’ll never publish and you’ll work for the rest of your life, but your family will love you, and so will your students.”
“How dare you presume to mess with me like this,” Siggy said in disgust. “How dare you tell me this bullshit, don’t tell me what’s going to happen, I’ve got my own plans. I don’t even know you.” He was fuming now. “If you’re such a psychic then tell me, what would happen if I stayed? The world doesn’t need another cog in the propaganda machine, it needs people who are willing to step up and speak the truth.”
“If you stay here, you will make your first million dollars within eight years. Your ideas will be very popular with many people, and your name will be remembered by history.”
Siggy laughed, “thanks for the career advice but I think I’ll be fine.”
“If it means anything,” she said, looking disappointed, “your parents would have wanted you to choose plan B, the prospect of true love is more valuable then eternal greatness.”
At this Siggy felt physically repulsed. Tears started to form in his eyes. “You don’t know anything about me lady” he shouted, “Love? There’s no such thing, much less true love. My god, the brainwashing this country has put you through.” He left the keys in the car door and turned to face the woman. “My parents said they had that, before my Dad put a gun between his teeth and showered the kitchen table with his bad choices. My Mum, by the way, died not long after with wine in one hand and sleeping pills in the other, leaving my family, leaving me with crippling debt.”
“Even when furious and reactive,” she said, “you can’t stop speaking in prose, can you?”
“You don’t know me, lady.”
“I know,” she said.
It was her calmness that infuriated him at this point. “You tell me there’s love in this world? You’re sick, lady. Go back to wherever the hell you came from.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I’m going to write,” he said, amazed at her persistence, “I’m going to make something of my life. No one in this fucked up world is going to stop me, not even you.”
“It sounds like you’ve made your decision.”
Siggy scoffed again, “she finally gets it.”
“I’m sorry to have upset you, Mr Novascopf,” she said, “I just had to make sure.”
“Get the hell away from me, lady,” Siggy said opening his car door and getting in.
The woman turned and walked away.
Siggy turned the key in the ignition and began to cry over the steering wheel. He hit the wheel angrily with one hand. Maniacs like her should be the first to be locked up, he thought as he began pulling out of the parking lot.
The woman turned a corner and approached a man standing in the shadows. He too was wearing the black uniform with a red tie.
“That’s it,” she said, “you heard him.”
“You might have handled that better,” the man said.
“You know who he is,” she said, “he had the choice, that’s all he gets.”
“It’s about giving him the right choice” he corrected.
“I’ve got the confession,” she said, “I’ve done my job.”
“And you didn’t exactly tell him everything” the man continued, “so he didn’t even have an informed choice.”
“I told him enough,” she said, “do you think with that reaction we’ll have ever gotten a different answer?”
“I guess we’ll never know now,” said the man, “he’s probably more set on his path than he was before.”
“Some people pull loose, some dig in,” she said, “you can only do so much.”
“Why do you think we even do this?” the man asked.
“So they have the chance,” she said, “not always much of one, but its a chance.”
The man shrugged, and the two walked away. They didn’t look back.
Thirty years prior to the meeting in the parking lot, a ship smuggling forty-two refugees was arrested off the coast, the passengers deported back to their country of origin. Among them was a young girl named Frida, who might have married a young factory worker named Frederick Novascopf, if she had stayed in the country.
As it was, Sigmund Novascopf was never born.
