Oliver's Story

The explanations for the things we do in life are many and complex. Supposedly mature adults should live by logic, listen to their reason. Think things out before they act.

But then they maybe never heard what Dr London told me once. Long after everything was over.

Freud — yes, Freud himself — once said that for the little things in life we should, of course, react according to our reason.

But for really big decisions, we should heed what our unconscious tells us.

Marcie Binnendale was standing eighteen hundred feet above the Hong Kong harbor. It was twilight. And the candles of the city were beginning to be lit.

The wind was cold. It blew the hair across her forehead in the manner I had often found so beautiful.

'Hi, friend,' she said. 'Look down at: all those lights. We can see everything from here.'

I didn't answer.

'Want me to indicate the points of interest?'

'I saw enough this afternoon. With Johnny.'

'Oh,' she said.

Then gradually she noticed I had not returned her smile of welcome. I was looking up at her, wondering was this the woman I had almost … loved?

'Something wrong?' she asked.

'Everything,' I answered.

'For instance?'

I said it quietly.

'You've got little children working in your sweatshops.'

Marcie hesitated for a moment.

'Everybody does it.'

'Marcie, that is no excuse.'

'Look who's talking,' Marcie answered calmly. 'Mr Barrett of the Massachusetts textile fortune!'

I was prepared for this.

That's not the point.'

'Like hell! They took advantage of a situation just the way the industry is doing here.'

'A hundred years ago,' I said, 'I wasn't there to say it made me sick.'

'You're pretty sanctimonious,' she said. 'Just who picked you to change the world?'

'Look, Marcie, I can't change it. But I sure as hell don't have to join it.'

Then she shook her head.

'Oliver, this bleeding liberal number's just a pretext.'

I looked at her and didn't answer.

'You want to end it. And you're looking for a good excuse.'

I could've said I'd found a goddamn good one.

'Come on,' she said, 'you're lying to yourself. If I gave everything to charity and went to teach in Appalachia, you'd find some other reason.'

I reflected. All I really knew was I was anxious to depart.

'Maybe,' I allowed.

'Then why not have the balls to say you just don't like me?'

Marcie's cool was melting. She was not upset. Not angry. Yet not quite in full control of all her fabled poise.

'No. I like you, Marce,' I said. 'I just can't live with you.'

'Oliver,' she answered quietly, 'you couldn't live with anyone. You're still so hung up on Jenny, you don't want a new relationship.'

I could not respond. She really hurt me by evoking Jenny.

'Look, I know you,' she continued. 'All your "deep in-yolvement with the issues" is a great facade. It's just a socially acceptable excuse to keep on mourning.'

'Marcie?'

'Yes?'

'You are a cold and heartless bitch.'

I turned and started off.

'Wait, Oliver.'

I stopped and looked around.

She stood there. Crying. Very softly.

'Oliver … I need you.'

I did not reply.

'And I think you need me too,' she said. For a moment] did not know what to do.

I looked at her. I knew how hopelessly alone she felt.

But therein lay the problem.

So did I.

I turned and walked down Austin Road. Not looking back.

Night had fallen.

And I wished the darkness could have drowned me.