Tales

Robert France-Doppler looked casually at the step in front of him. He hated this particular stairtower, but he had to reach his professor in order to find out about his exam. He had been extremely stupid the day before and had missed class because he had been sleeping, and so he missed an exam. He only found out the next day, and now he was hurrying to his professor to find out what to do.

He climbed the first few steps, already exhausted. He thought about his academic life and how it had been on a steady decline over the last few years. Now, it had finally gotten to the point where he had missed an entire exam, an exam that counted for a third of the final grade. He wondered if he would have to withdrawal from the course, something he had never been forced to do before.

He knew that he had once been a good kid, that such slacking and irresponsibility wouldn't have been applicable to him over the earlier years of his life, in high school and even the first year of college. But things had changed, and the grime of apathy had begun to rot away at his successes and stability.

He was also out of shape, which was foremost on his mind as he continued climbing the steps to the fourth floor. He had been making a concerted effort to attempt to lose weight and get back into shape, but it never became a reality. Diets only lasted days, if that long, and he had never been successful in his attempts to quit smoking.

There was a girl--there had always been a girl--that he was hoping to impress, but he didn't feel any satisfaction in pursuing her unless he was able to look at himself in the mirror and be satisfied with himself. As a kid, he had been taught that being out of shape wasn't a horrible thing, and, because of that, he had never actually attempted to be fit. In fact, up until that moment, it was rare for him to even really want to be fit.

But these stairs were killing him, and he was only reaching the first platform. The stairtower was outdoors, and, because of this, he could see the next floor, the first floor (since the buildings at his college all started with the ground floor), in addition to the floor above it, the second floor, as he turned the corner on the platform. He could see the door leading in, but there was nobody in sight and the door was closed; after all, it was getting pretty late and most people were out of classes already.

Robert sighed and continued his climb. He still had several flights to go.

The exam he had missed was in his Psychological Approaches to Literature course, a course that he had specifically taken because it seemed to interest him. He loved psychology and he loved literature, and so that promised to make the course one of his most fascinating.

However, his lackadaisical attitude towards his academic career had led him to missing class meetings at least once a week, often more. He barely knew what was going on and he never did any of the reading. He hadn't even looked at the course syllabus since the first day of class.

Robert reached the first floor, already breathing through his mouth. He didn't stop ascending, though, because he knew he wouldn't be able to find the motivation to continue his climb once he discovered the solitude of immobility. He simply continued up to the next platform, looking down at each step as he went.

He continued to think about his class and how angry he was at himself for having treated it so poorly. He even liked the professor, a gentle old man with obviously white dentures and an unobtrusive brown toupee. The professor, Dr. Forbes, also had a wonderful sense of humor and knew more than Robert could ever dream of knowing about psychology.

Robert found himself wondering what the point of it all was. Why was he even going to the class? Why had he signed up for it?

He remembered never making a decision about college. It always seemed to him to be the next inevitable step. His parents had gone to college and so had all three of his older sisters. He had been a bright kid in high school and he knew that people with college degrees tended to get along better with the outside world.

All Robert ever wanted to be, though, was a writer. Did he really need to be a college graduate to write? He had been writing since before he could even remember, and that was, to him, the only credential needed to write. If I write, he figured, than I am a writer.

As he passed through the next platform, he looked up at the third floor and sighed. His legs were beginning to ache and his lungs were tired. God, he thought, I am unbelievably lazy to be worn out already. He continued, though, determined to make it to the fourth floor before stopping.

He returned his thoughts to his writing. He always had a novel in the works, but he had never actually finished one. He was convinced, though, that the novel he was currently working on, an epic historical drama set in the American Civil War, was to be his first opus, the one he would finally publish and the one that would finally make him somebody to note in the world.

He hadn't been working on it lately, though, because schoolwork was wearing him down. Despite the fact that he skipped most of his classes, being in college was like a full-time job for him, requiring more effort than he had in him. Maybe he was lying to himself, though, because he knew that three quarters of each of his days was spent sleeping and watching television instead of studying.

But he knew that studying was important, and he figured it was more important than working on his book. He had never questioned this, however, and so, in his procrastinating on schoolwork, he never allowed himself time to work on his novel. If the novel is less important than studying, he figured, than he must not allow himself to write until his studying is completed.

Of course, since he never studied, he could never write.

He reached the second floor, halfway through his journey, and saw a water fountain. Desperately forgetting his determination to not stop, he stopped in front of the fountain and took a long drink. The water was surprisingly cool and refreshing, mostly because Robert hadn't had anything to drink at all that day.

After a long moment of staring at the water and occasionally drinking it, he leaned back, cracking several joints in the process, yawned, and returned to the stairs, looking up at the next platform, dreadfully too far ahead of him. Casually scratching his shoulder, he blinked and continued upward.

He thought about how wonderful it would be to have his book published and to be famous. He thought about millions of copies going to print and having the words "NEW YORK TIMES BEST-SELLER" written across the top. He smiled, knowing that it was possible, only with a small touch of reality quivering silently in the back of his mind.

He imagined being interviewed about the book. He could even see the young reporter, with small wire-rimmed glasses attached to a black shoestring that was wrapped around the back of his neck. He imagined his name would be Peter Richards and that Peter would be interviewing him for a book segment on CNN.

"Mr. France-Doppler," Peter would say, lifting the glasses to his face to look down at his notes and then dropping them back to his chest to speak again, "You're book, The Greywall Surrender, is one of the quickest novels from a first-time writer to be so successful. Could you tell us what inspired you to write it?"

"Well," Robert would reply, trying to sound modest but happy, "I'm not sure, exactly. I've always been fascinated with the Civil War and the story, which actually has very little to do with the setting, has been rattling around in my head since I was in high school."

Robert sighed. He would have to get to the fourth floor before he could finish that book. He'd have to get this exam business sorted out before he could even get back to thinking about that book.

As he rounded the next platform, he looked up to the fourth floor, only a floor and a half away, and tried not to feel defeated. He honestly didn't think he could make it that far without stopping again, and being able to see it high above him did not make him any less challenged by the idea. He shook his head, trying not to think about it, and continued his ascent.

He also didn't want to think about his book anymore. That was too frustrating for him, because he knew it wouldn't be finished for a long time. Writing was almost becoming laborious for him, simply because he couldn't find time for it anymore.

He chose, instead, to think of Cindy. Cindy was the girl he was in love with, the girl he wanted to see every minute of every day. Robert was a hopeless romantic and, even though he had been burned by relationships in the past, he refused to become disillusioned and bitter about women. He continued to live for the dream, wishing only to find the perfect happiness, the perfect contentedness. He wanted a wife to love him and he wanted a family to raise. And he wanted Cindy to be the woman for whom he had been longing his entire life.

Cindy was a sophomore Physics major, though, which promised to be a long academic journey. With Robert finishing up his senior year in eight or nine months, it would be difficult for them to have a relationship. It was probably for this reason that they had not made anything official. Robert knew that she was interested in him and he knew that he was interested in her, but neither had made the effort to make something out of it.

They merely saw each other and wrote each other as often as possible. Robert had to restrain himself from telling her how much he dreamed of her and of all the romantic fantasies he had of a life together. He had to stop himself from holding her and kissing her every time he saw her and he had to convince himself that he was taking it slow in order to survive it.

He tried not to fear the end of the romance, and he tried not to fear that it was all in his head. He could only live with the idea that it would one day come into fruition. He could only live with a promise that had never been made.

He reached the next floor and, knowing that he only had one floor to go, he eagerly continued, this time moving a little faster than before.

He also continued to think of Cindy. He was used to thinking about her, and it made him happy to know that he would probably see her again later that night, and that they would spend time together, doing and accomplishing nothing, but enjoying every second of it.

He thought he might buy her flowers, but then thought again and wondered if that would be too much. He thought he might confess his love for her as soon as he saw her, take her in his arms and kiss her for as long as humanly possible. No, he thought, that would also be too much. She was delicate, and he didn't want to push her away.

He also couldn't let her go. He had to push somehow, even if it was subtle, or else he knew he would lose her. It had happened to him before, and he didn't want to think about that; it had been too painful a rejection.

He'd probably just take her to a movie or something.

When he reached the platform, he stopped. He could see what he thought was the fourth floor, but there was still another floor above it. The fourth floor was the highest floor of the building, and yet it seemed to go on. He tried to rethink his steps--perhaps he had miscounted--and couldn't honestly remember if he had counted the ground floor as a separate floor or not.

That must be it, he finally conceited, it must only be a miscount. I have one more floor to go and that is it. He shrugged his shoulders, sighed loudly, and continued up the stairtower, trying not to concentrate on the fact that he was out of breath.

He didn't want to think about Cindy anymore, he realized, because it was too frustrating. He didn't know where they stood and he didn't want to confront her about it. He wanted to remain content and he didn't want to make things at all uncomfortable for either of them.

Instead, he returned to his novel. He knew he had to finish it. He knew he had to sit down and write it. With a newfound determination, he began to hurry up the steps two at a time. When he was done with Dr. Forbes, he would go home and work on his novel. He would write a chapter a day until it was finished.

He began to realize that it was the most important thing in his life and that he couldn't afford to put it off any longer. He had too finish it before he left it behind like his other novels. He had to be determined and he had to work. Forget school, he thought; just finish the thing.

He reached the next floor, which he assumed must have been the third floor, and stopped to catch his breath, putting his hands on his knees and staring at the floor. He had been stupid to run up those stairs--Jesus, he had to get in shape--and now he was paying the price. Looking futily for any indication that this was the third floor, he again thought of Cindy. Maybe another reason he hadn't done anything about Cindy was because of his being out of shape. He had already thought it before, but now he thought about it a little clearer: he had to get in shape in order to think of himself as capable of being loved. The truth was, he hated being the way he was and he wanted to fix it, once and for all.

He needed to start, he thought, by continuing up the stairtower.

Feebly standing erect once more, he looked upward at the next platform and slowly worked his aching legs toward it.

Now he was depressed.

He was quite possibly failing out of school. He had lost his self-esteem. He had a novel he had been putting off for too long and he had a girl he couldn't confess his love for simply because he didn't like the way he looked. He felt pathetic, and that only made him more depressed.

He tried not to think about anything as he approached the next platform. Maybe if he thought of nothing, he could get his head straight.

And so, thinking of nothing, he reached the next platform and looked up, seeing yet another floor above the next one. He stopped, defeated. How was it possible? How long had he been climbing these stairs?

He walked to the edge and looked down at the flights of stairs beneath him. He could see the doorways he had passed, stretching downward into infinity. There were more floors than he could possibly count, all reaching to a point beyond his vision, lost in the black mist of incalculable distance.

Then, calmly, he looked up, trying to see how many floors were above him. Again, he saw them stretching onward to infinity, more floors than he could possibly count.

"I sure have a long way to go," he said to himself.

And then, with a sigh, Robert France-Doppler continued his ascent.