Fury owns a part of him, an anger forty years old and more. He’s looking for another weapon, though he isn’t conscious of that, won’t allow himself to be conscious of that, is only half-aware that he grabs something, rejects it, grabs something else, a short length of reinforcing bar, bent at one end, hefts it, decides that it will do, and hurls himself, all without thinking, toward the darkest area he sees, a complex of shadows farther along the abutment, where dark tarpaulins cover stacks of paving blocks. He squeezes into a gap between two piles as high as himself and tries swinging his weapon. When he finds the space too confining to allow him to swing well, only then, and only far back in his mind, does he realize that he’s been looking for a place to strike from, not to hide. It may be that he has been looking for a place to strike from for a very long time. He peeks around the corner and sees no one, though he can hear the cabdriver calling out, “Where are you, you fucking bastard?” and hears the kids blowing the horn of the cab and calling the driver to come back. He slips out of the confining space and moves farther along, slides into a wider gap, where he can swing the weapon easily, and takes a stance, waiting.
All his emotions, all his thoughts, have found their common thread in fury, but they’ve brought him something new, another emotion, this thrill he feels, crouching there, elementally alive, thrilled by the thought that he can be doing this. He’s not afraid. For the first time in a long time, he realizes, he’s not afraid. Part of him wants the cabdriver to come this way, and that part of him is in control now. He wants to strike out at him, he wants to be forced to strike out at him in self-defense. He wants to hurt him, to hurt someone. He can imagine himself hitting the driver, and his imagination takes a tactile form: he can imagine his arms swinging, imagine the resistance when his weapon hits the driver’s head. He feels the strength in his arms, and he admires it, he’s proud of it. What has all that time at the health club been for, after all? To make his suits hang better on him? To lengthen a life that disappoints him again and again? To make him more desirable sexually? No. Here is the reason. Now he sees, feels, the reason: to make him better able to take revenge, revenge on the big, stupid boys who ruined his youth, who smeared shit on his underwear, revenge, revenge. Look at his posture, his expression. He’s standing upright, not cowering; smiling, not whimpering; eager, not anxious; aggressive, not defensive. He was never good at sports, but in this angled light, in these cinematic shadows, he looks like an athlete: confident, capable, cool.
No, no, says a smaller, weaker, fearful part of him. Don’t do this. Hide, just hide.
Shut up, says BW.
There he is, the cabbie, squat, thick, muscular, holding his bar.
His is smaller than mine.
Get back, get down.
No. It’s now. Now.
Matthew feels cold suddenly. The sensation surprises him.
It’s the wind, that damned wind! He smashes the rod against the ground, since he cannot strike the wind.
It won’t leave you alone. It intrudes on any emotion, any time.
Even now.
It won’t let you be.
Won’t let you be happy.
Won’t let you be blue.
Won’t even let you be angry.
“It’s always there!” he cries, and swings the rod again.
[to be continued]
In Topical Guide 557, Mark Dorset considers Building Materials: Concrete Reinforcing Bar (“Rebar”) from this episode.
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