The History of Writing (Part Three) Old Randal Fincher

Of the millions of Americans who didn't know, didn't know they didn't know, etc. etc., Randal Fincher was probably the most handicapped by his lack of awareness of all things related to the tiny god formula. 

For most of the last 20 years he'd either: been in state prison for his part in a successful robbery of a grocery store...released on parole, living in homeless shelters or abjectly poor housing...been in possession of illegal narcotics & opiates and therefore returning to prison...or attending various group- and one-on-one therapy sessions intended to cure him of his dangerously bad habits and philosophy toward what he considered "social crime." And as bad as being betrayed was, and as bad as the harsh restriction of prison was, and as much as he knew in his soul that he was biologically built for something better than this angry routine of horseshit: the therapy was the absolute worst. 

For instance, since about 2020, when he had any personal memory of breathing imprisoned air to compare to that of a free person's air, when Randal hadn't celebrated the universally-pivotal 30th birthday that often leads to self-disqualification from criminal behavior of any kind: Randal felt an abnormal degree of hostility toward bettering himself. His peers were generally at least ten- or twenty years older, obligated by the same types of poor decisions to practice self-criticism & fully-invested reform, and Randal could never rid himself of the habit of questioning their personal, individual failures nor could he reshape these nagging suspicions and the larger, reflexive doubt that followed and colored their burden. He was, is, what is now referred to as an especially perceptive person of low class-standing. The sort of people who are righteously pissed off when someone says they're too smart for their own good. The sort of people whose kind words and pragmatic advice are, on a daily basis, patronized & dismissed by the very people who would either benefit from practice of the same or at least have the common sense/decency to know & behave as though they had heard something wise from an unlikely source of wisdom. He was told he was special, but that he shouldn't let it go to his head. He was told he acted too sad all the time, and then provided a buffet of reasons and things to be sad about. If he focused especially well at any task--either in or out of prison--he was all but forced to take a break. If he called-in sick or showed-up late to one of the several minimum-wage jobs that awaited him upon each successful release from a facility, he would surely be punished for acknowledging/admitting any limitations to the demands set before him. 

And he was always picked as "the group leader" in talking about his emotions in group. Think like Stanley in Magnolia, except it's slightly-less about points & records & cash-prizes, and considerably-more about dealing, hardcore drug-addiction and the lives of people who never measured their worth as a human by holding a (fucking) ruler up to a t.v. screen. He'd look about the room/s at the faces pretending ignorance and modesty. He didn't think it'd get much better than that, and it didn't. 

His life became a sort of game without a time-limit. Almost every free/available moment was dedicated to autodidactic, curiosity-guided research of all things related to studying brain function and a deep concentration on philosophy. Somehow, he sensed, if he got those right, everything else would either be solved or tolerable enough that he could keep his freedom and not resort to petty acts in the name of his so-called "social crime." Not like he walked around pushing a cart loaded with monitoring-equipment connected to his heart and cerebrum, but, on an autistic/ADHD level, pretty close. 

By his late-30s he'd almost entirely given up on the idea of close relationships. The habits of an intellectual monk and the easy hellos and goodbyes of working at a Hannaford's in Carmel, New York (less than an hour's drive from the place he was the only one who didn't get a cut from robbing) would suffice for the nearly middle-aged Randal Fincher. It was enough to not have to impress or make an impression on anyone. 

It was, however, a condition of his third and final parole that he be obligated to participate to certain independent studies funded by exorbitantly wealthy corporations wherein the participants--voluntary and paid or taken into custody and not-paid)--provide something like 4-500 answers to 6 or 7 questions. The reader is encouraged to not use their imagination too much here. But do what you prefer.) 

So, finally, around the middle of 2036, when Randal was watching the morning news as part of his pre-work routine, all of the dead-ends and hassles and reckless choices just then behind him: he caught the news of a man who was supposedly a reincarnated figure of rather curious origin. Namely: Sisyphus. 

And Brooklyn wasn't that far of a drive. 

He'd find the time, somewhere. 




****

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