returned to the world of ideas.”
I.e., an “endowed” year in Warsaw, Poland.
No university mentioned.
Financing courtesy a Holly-Havenhurst Liberal Arts Scholar’s Award.
I googled the fellowship. No mention of anyone else ever receiving it.
The subsidiary that ran old-age homes.
I.e., siphoning money from Daddy.
I pictured Thurston Nobach drifting the streets of Warsaw buttressed by a fat allowance. All that leisure time leading him to come upon the monster who’d given his life new focus.
Milo was ahead of me, breathing hard, frantically flipping pages of the murder book. He stopped, wide-eyed, slapped a page, reversed the binder, and showed it to me.
The Polish newspaper article Basia Lopatinski had given us.
Ignacy Skiwski pretending to play guitar. Surrounded by a small group of young people. Milo jabbed a face. He didn’t need to.
A figure sitting to Skiwski’s left. Long legs suggested height. Sitting low suggested a high waist.
Over eight years, the changes in Thurston Nobach weren’t radical. Back then his face had been a bit softer around the edges, the black hair even longer, bound by a leather headband. No yellow soul patch, diamond earring instead of an emerald, shabby-looking beige tunic in place of the bright-blue shirt.
John Lennon glasses perched atop a beak-like nose as he observed Ignacy Skiwski.
Just another Euro-hippie digging the street vibe.
Until you checked out the smile: razor-lipped, impatient. As if chafing for the opportunity to utter something clever.
And the eyes: hard, judgmental, challenging the camera. The only one of Skiwski’s acolytes to look away from the guitar and face the camera.
Jackal among the sheep.
I said so.
Milo grunted and returned to the documents, working faster, shoulders bunched. I moved on to the final page of Nobach’s website. My Manifesto.
KIND READER, PERMIT ME THE INDULGENCE OF SELECTIVE SELF-EXPRESSION. OR PERHAPS SHOULD WE SET UP A SYNOD, A CONCLAVE, A TED TALK—insert scoffing laughter—AND JOINTLY COME TO THE REASONABLE CONCLUSION THAT MY DARING TO OPINE IS NOTHING MORE THAN A BIT OF COGNITIVE-AFFECTIVE FLOTSAM MY POOR BENIGHTED CONSCIOUSNESS NEEDS TO FLING AWAY????
I.e., See? I’m a modest guy.
The real subtext: I know how to rein in my arrogance and summon up a Humble Brag when it suits me.
I began reading, bracing myself for another shit-storm of jabberwocky. Found, instead, a surprisingly brief exposition.
The Nature of Consciousness
Submitted, hat-in-hand, by Thurston “Thirsty” Nobach, M.A., ABD, Eternal Searcher
Really, sir? sez I to myself.
You’re going to attempt to scale the alps of a meta-question? The answer: Yes, I will because meta is really mini. Because Nietzsche, Sartre, Caligula, et al., had no clue, histrionic egotists that they were, missing the final stop on the tram ride to oblivion.
There is no consciousness.
No self.
No personal boundaries, no rules impervious to exception, no individual existence that can be truncated from the cosmos, no greater meaning other than the transitory explanations with which we blanket ourselves during moments of weakness.
We are one with everything. We are everything.
More important: We are nothing.
Finis, no coda.
Au revoir.
Arrivederci.
Do widzenia.
I created a page link, emailed it to Milo’s computer. It pinged arrival just as he put down the papers.
He rubbed his eyes and flexed his fingers. “How about you sum up?”
“Don’t want to intrude on your consciousness.”
“What?”
“Do yourself a favor and read.”
* * *
—
When he was through, the cigar had been chewed to brown pulp. He tossed it, printed.
“Guy’s nuts. Toss in his dad’s dough and here comes the insanity defense.”
“I promise to testify otherwise.”
He laughed. “Least you didn’t say cart before horse.”
I said, “Notice his nickname?”
“Thirsty.”
“Amanda had a sticker saying that on the back of her textbook. Bet you he prints them up and hands them out as goodies to the faithful.”
“He’s running a cult?”
“Or keeping it personal—mind-games one-on-one.”
“Hmmph. Well, let’s get into his personal space.”
He pulled out his list of generally agreeable judges. No answer at the first two. The third, Giselle Boudreaux, first in her class at Tulane Law and the youngest sib of three New Orleans cops, said, “Now we’re talking. See? All it took was some elbow grease.”
“Doing my best, Your Honor.”
“Everyone claims that. Lucky for you, in this case it’s enough. Write up the address as a comprehensive and email it. I’ll give you telephonic authorization soon as I receive it but you know the drill: Someone has to come by and retrieve actual paper.”
“You bet,” said Milo. “There are two addresses I need access to.”
“Ah, the guy’s rich,” said Boudreaux. “What, something at the beach?”
“If only.” Milo explained.
“A crib in a dorm? You know he’s there for a fact?”
“It’s likely.”
“Sorry, then. Likely isn’t actual. All I need is