Alex Klein

by Rachel Levine

Alex Klein believed that history belonged to the victors and that children should stay with their mothers. He was a man of some principles, some too conservative for his time, but at least he had principles, which was better than most mindlessly adrift on the sea of agreement. A man of principle is not swayed by the media or the vox populi, does not throw himself into fleeting causes, and in the privacy of his bathroom, dark blue towel about his waist, he rubs the fog from the mirror and envisions himself as a Senator of Rome, unshaken and unswayed though confronted with Anthonys and Brutuses, making choices that are for the good of his city, his state, his familias.

We give history our heroes, he thought to himself, then lamented the lack of pen, paper. The phrase was brilliant, recordable, and soon to be lost, as so many other of his thoughts. A great man should have a device attached to his brain to keep these passing musings that touch great genius.

He looked about the subway car at the sheepish, sad faces of the passengers engrossed in disappearing from the misery of commuting. “What do they think about,” he wondered, “these insects who go from hive to flower and back again without ever thinking about higher things?”

For, of course, Alex usually thought of higher things.

Alex invented some thoughts for those sharing the seats closest to him.

“It’s hot in here, fucking hot. I don’t remember it this hot yesterday.”

“This woman is sitting too close to me and her hip is brushing against me. I’ll bet she has fat, luscious, edible thighs. I hope she doesn’t have a disease.”

“Will it be pizza tonight or McDonalds?”

Simple thoughts. Singular, focused, self-centred, geared towards modern day acts of self-preservation. Most do not think. These are not men of principle, but of the 7 o’clock news and the free commuter newspaper, thinking of family, job, friends, but mostly of the self, un-elevated, unenlightened, bored, little more than animals with an education of a history that belongs to the victors.

The train hustled on through its tunnels, jolting and whining, stopping at last at his stop. Ascending from the bowels of the city, Alex was reborn into the light at the top of the escalator and stormed home, disgusted by the common men who both fascinated and repulsed him, disgusted at himself for being a common man.

Home. Trumpets would sound in his head as he arrived. “The King has returned.” No, no. Not that. Alex was too much a man of the mind to be a king. Perhaps a special diplomat, a Prince Metternick. Much better. No trumpets, just a secret open gate to allow him passage. Of course, his home was no castle, not with its two bedrooms and a kitchen too small for a table. Alex had sequestered the second bedroom as his own, a place where he could maintain order. His books were grouped by subject, by publisher, so that like sat beside like. He was especially proud of his collection of Japanese fiction. Alex believed a man should fill his life with things he could display with pride, beautiful things, choice things, admirable things, things that the common man would be wont to have just because of its arrangement and order.

My existence is covetous, Alex thought to himself as he ascended the flight of stairs to his apartment. Beyond exemplary character, for without character, what would the rest be, I have published two well-received books on Michaelangelo and earned accolades from the greatest scholars in the field. I am just six months away from achieving tenure at the top school in Canada. I have a girlfriend who looks sexy in her white lacy nightgown, with skin that smells like frankincense and who makes me a perfect coffee every morning. Even my coffee percolator is a well-respected brand, imported from Italy, difficult to find here and an irreplaceable example of my higher existence. My cat is a purebred white Persian whose parents were Grand Champions and whose parents parents were Grand Champions as well. I wear tailor-made suits of the finest silks and weaves, and purchase clothing at stores where the Xs know me by name. I eat sushi for dinner three times a week.

Alex unlocked his door, swelling with pride at his superiority, his hard earned claim to excellence. He removed his leather, polished shoes, set them on the rack beside the front door, bent to stroke his meowing cat, pulled off his dark blue socks, stretched his toes, caught sight of the answering machine flashing, poured himself a brandy from the sifter, seated himself in a large black leather chair before his entertainment system, and turned on the television to catch the sports high lights.

©Rachel Levine 2003