This is Part 19 of What Happened to Trunkin. If you missed the beginning, start here:
“Me? I was in the neighborhood, err…passing by, you know, and I thought I’d stop in. See how you were getting on…” He shuffled his feet, scratched at the back of his head before he remembered his dandruff. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
That excuse is thinner than my curtains, Trunkin thought. What he said was, “I was only reading.” He gestured toward the book on the table and Stuart turned his head to read the title: Realism and the Background of Phenomenology. The words meant nothing to him, nor did the author’s name, but it was clearly some kind of philosophy. The sight of the book brought back memories of their early school days. When Trunkin wasn’t entertaining, often as not he had his nose in some book, in dogged pursuit of truth or meaning. That habit had fallen by the wayside after they’d discovered Sky. Back then, Stuart hadn’t given it much thought; the patterns of his life had been redrawn as well, but now he supposed that books—even great books—could not compete with transformative experiences while they were available to you. It was a good sign that Trunkin was reading again, wasn’t it? A sign of recovery.
Other memories came to life in his mind. Of their last months together, while he took the final steps toward completing his education, and Trunkin shrank, turned inward, pale, wan, his physical form diminishing in ever-starker contrast to his expanding astral one. Memories of concern, and a growing sense of responsibility, for Stuart had not only introduced the mushrooms to Trunkin’s life, but continued to supply them. Memories of discussions that became arguments. Of deciding to cut him off. Of trying and failing. Of Trunkin, increasingly unhinged.
Though it was the mushrooms that had brought him, Stuart now felt determined not to let Trunkin see them, for he realized if he did, he’d be forced to explain why he’d come. Now, with Trunkin the person before him, and not the cutout in his head, it was plain his coming was not only selfish, but cruel. It had been to deprive Trunkin of the golden lampshades—and more importantly, Sky—that Stuart had ended their relationship. His last and most drastic attempt to drag Trunkin unwilling back to the real world, no matter how little he cared for it, where he could get a job, pay his bills, fall in love, and live a respectable, healthy, boring life.
And now, ten years after he’d sacrificed their friendship to save his friend, Stuart was back, on the verge of offering Trunkin the very thing he’d been saving him from. Heartless! Self-absorbed! And you call yourself doctor? Guilt and shame washed over him in prickling waves. What were you thinking? Look around, you fool! It’s plain as day Trunkin is obsessed! The house fairly reeked of mysticism. Everywhere he looked, some nod to the occult. Old maps. Star charts. Censers. Pentagrams, hexagrams, texts in languages he neither knew nor recognized. Not to mention the paint job outside. Stuart was surprised not to find Trunkin reading some downloaded grimoire.
Trunkin watched Stuart with growing concern. He’d been silent for longer than was normal, lost in some painful inner dialogue. He fiddled nervously with something in his pocket, and Trunkin wondered what had brought him. At last Stuart he seemed to remember himself, and though he’d been there for a few scant minutes, he turned towards the door.
“This was a mistake.”
Trunkin’s eyebrows rose. “A mistake?”
“That’s right. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.” Stuart backed away, but Trunkin held up his hands to stop him.
“Ho-ho—now hold on! Where are you going? You’ve only just got here. You aren’t going to tell my why you’ve come, or ask me how I’ve been? That’s not very nice is it, after ten years of silence.” Trunkin smiled to soften the words, which he meant half-jokingly, but Stuart winced.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. It was insensitive…but I really must go.” He turned.
Trunkin interposed himself between Stuart and the door. “All right, that’s enough. You came here for a reason, and you aren’t leaving till I’ve heard it.”
“But I—”
“Sit.” He nodded towards the table and the cushions on the floor. It was clear by his tone that he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Reluctantly, Stuart sat.
“Good.” Trunkin nodded. “Now—would you like a bowl of cereal?”
“What?” Stuart blinked at him.
Trunkin inclined his head at his own half-finished bowl. “You caught me in the middle of dinner, and it’s polite to share. I don’t want to go on eating in front of you if you’re hungry. Would you like a bowl?”
“Oh, well—no. I mean—yes.” He coughed. “Um. Sure.”
Trunkin strode off into the kitchen, robes swirling behind him. Dishes clattered. A cupboard door banged. The fridge squeaked. A spoon tinkled. And a moment later, Trunkin reappeared, brimming bowl in hand. He set it down in front of Stuart. “Alright. Now tell me, Stuart Jenkins, who I have not seen or heard from in ten long years, what has got you knocking on my door at ten o’clock at night on a Tuesday.”
Stuart thought about what he’d come to say and he knew he couldn’t say it. Still, he didn’t have to lie. Not entirely. “I hadn’t planned on it,” he answered sheepishly. “It was a spur of the moment thing. Call it…temporary insanity.” He forced a laugh.
“Brought on by what?”
“Err—I suppose it all started with a man called Zesh Afridi. He’s a patient of mine, you see.” Stuart told Trunkin in fits and starts about his day. About the doubts Afridi had awakened about his ability as a doctor, made worse by Doctor Whitehead’s highly unhelpful advice. He left out Nethermoor Lake, and claimed instead he’d simply been driving around and found himself—by force of old habit, he supposed—on the familiar streets of Arbourthorne.
“I was feeling lost and frustrated, and…I haven’t really anyone to talk to.” This much was true. Though Stuart was friendly with most of his colleagues, between his innate shyness and his learned strangeness, he’d never managed to make any actual friends. It had been many years since he’d had any of those. The older he got, the harder it was to find people to relate to. “I know it’s odd, just showing up like this, but I didn’t know where else to turn.”
Trunkin took his time chewing before he answered. “You expect they’ll fire you?”
“Nothing quite so neat,” Stuart replied bitterly. “Something gradual strikes me as more likely. First they’ll ask me to work alongside these machines. Train them up a bit. Feed them data. Then they’ll ask me to cede some of my responsibilities, because you don’t want to put your trust in a new system all at once, but as they prove their competence, I’ll shift to a supervisory role. ‘Human in the loop’ they call it—glorified proofreading. And finally, somewhere down the road, my job will be signing off on their work, a formality that the administration will no doubt keep up far longer than necessary, for legal reasons. But as soon as they can do away with that, they’ll do away with me. It might take six months or ten years, but the outcome will be the same.”
Part 20 coming soon…!
Thanks for reading.
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