The Immortal King

I imagine the Gods weeping every time the rain falls. There are no wails of despair, only silent tears that blanket the landscape, nourishing the beauty of the world around us while depriving us of the warmth that comes with the sun. I feel as if here, in Portland, it’s always raining, as if the gods are as sad as the poor souls trapped in this decaying shit hole. Slumped shoulders of wet pedestrians accompany the overcast skies and water-logged shoes that are the norm for most of the year. Why would I expect anything else on the one day that mattered? We have two seasons here: the hot one which comes with a permanent coating of sweat and a constant sun glare, and the wet one which accounts for the other nine months of the year. You would think that growing up here would cause a person to become accustomed to this shit, or that we would at least learn to carry an umbrella and invest in some boots, but the vast majority of us, including yours truly, never catch on.

I was nineteen years old, wearing an ill-fitting, mismatched, hand-me-down suit that I had picked up from the Goodwill down the road and getting soaked because I still lacked enough sense to purchase proper rain gear. I could feel my socks getting wetter and my toes getting colder with the squish… squish… squish of every step.

I was on my way to the most important interview of my young life, and I looked like a child playing dress-up. My black pants were being held up by an old, brown, leather belt and had my torn, off-brand sneakers sticking out the bottom. My white, button-down shirt was soaked and nearly see-through, and my only protection from the rain was my too-large, navy-blue blazer and a poorly-tied tie. I was wet, I looked like a joke, and I was feeling lost in an unfamiliar neighborhood in shitty weather. If not for the promise that I had made to James, I would have already been on my way home.

Six-foot-two and lean, James, my caseworker, had short, greying hair and glasses that made the man easy to underestimate, but he was no pushover. He was one of the most intelligent men that I have ever met, and some of the best philosophical and theological conversations that I have ever had were with him. He didn’t just keep me off the streets. He kept me mentally stimulated. He taught me to question everything and to think for myself. Looking back, I could honestly say that without him, I would not have made it to where I am today.

I was born with a significant amount of methamphetamine in my system and spent the first few days of my life in detox, and by the time I was ready to go home, I had no home to go to. My mother was an addict and a whore, and she left me as soon as she could to go get her fix. As much as I want to hate her for leaving me to become just another child of the system destined to be another statistic, I wouldn’t be here if she had never gotten strung-out and knocked-up. This is where James came in. The man was assigned to be my caseworker shortly after I was born and has worked with me since.

My name is Seven. Yes “7.” Like the number. There is probably a reason for this, but I never really cared enough to ask. My birth certificate reads: “7 -- July 14, 1986 -- Mother: Jane Doe – Father: NA” Long story short, I was a nobody. James however, treated me like I was somebody. As if my life was worth something.

The first family that I ended up with were worthless excuses for parents, or so I’m told. I was only left in their “care” until I was two so I do not remember much. What I do remember is bouncing around from family to family until I was sixteen. That is when I sat down with James and filed all of the paperwork for emancipation. When the legal crap was finalized, he and his wife let me stay with them so that I could find my footing in this world. Don’t get me wrong. Not all foster families are bad; I spent some time with some great people. I have been told that the problem was me. I do not deal well with change, and had troubles letting people in. This would explain a lot. James was the only constant in my young life, and the only person whom I had allowed myself to trust. He helped me deal with a lifetime of disappointments and transitions, and pushed me towards my G.E.D. after my emancipation. So when he called me last weekend and told me to be down here for a Monday morning interview, I gave him a “yes sir” and marked the date on my phone. Which leads me back to walking in the rain.

So there I was, a nineteen-year-old high school dropout showing up in a rain-soaked mismatched thrift store special, on my way to meet a strange man for some unknown position with a company of which I had never heard. I was ready.

Arriving at the location of the interview, I was taken aback. I had expected to see some worn-down office building or something of the sort. Someplace where a kid like me would be qualified to kiss asses part-time. Instead, I was walking up to one of the most expensive and luxurious condominium buildings in the Cascadia Territory. Everyone was familiar with the image of the tall dark tower looming over the rest of the city which most people referred to as “the castle”, but nobody that I knew had ever gone inside. Places like that were not made for people like me. I couldn’t help but to doubt myself and my appearance, and to question how James had gotten me an interview in a place like that. What was I doing there?

As I was walking up to the entrance, I was watching my reflection in the windowpanes. I lied. I was not ready for this. My nerves were getting to me, and by the time I had reached the doors – my hands were shaking, and my stomach was queasy. The doorman opened the oversized glass door without a word, and I stopped and stared like a jackass.

“You are expected, sir.”

“Huh?”

“Mina will help you at the front desk.”

The man then proceeded to wave me through without making eye contact or breaking form. I felt like I was walking through the front gates of Buckingham Palace.

I approached the desk with a sense of both amusement and wonder. Expected? How could the doorman know who I was? How many others were coming in today? So many unanswered questions ran through my head as I approached the white marble desk with the young brunette standing behind it.

She smiled as I approached, and I could see that she was more than a little attractive. She had a flawed smile, and it fit her face perfectly. She was about five-foot-three and slight of frame. Her raven hair was pulled into a bun and it let her face shine on its own. There was a sparkle to her dark-brown eyes that made it seem as if they were smiling at some unspoken joke. For a split moment I had forgotten the reason for which I was there. I was okay with that.

“Seven,” she said, as I approached, snapping me out of my mental journey “Mr. Tepes is ready for you.”

“Mr. Tepes?” My confusion and insecurity had returned and Mina noticed.

I was not prepared for this. I looked around and noticed, for the first time, that the building I was in was not designed for people of my class. The floors and walls were all white marble. There was a set of black leather sofas in the lobby with a glass table and a p of black marble planters which were filled with some exotic-looking plant with an almost neon-green color and broad leaves. The lobby even had a couple of bookshelves that were fully stocked. The only exits were the doors through which I came in and two elevators on the opposite wall. air

One of the elevators was in the center of the room directly in front of the doors. The other was set to the side, neatly tucked in behind the desk which was manned by the alluring Miss Mina. Both elevators were darker than Mina’s onyx hair, and had the sheen of obsidian. The one behind the desk, however, had no buttons by it. This elevator was the gateway to my new life.

“Are you ready?” she asked with a tilt of her eyebrow.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Right this way then.”

I followed her around the desk to the secluded elevator. As the doors opened up, Mina leaned in and whispered, “Stand tall and smile. They don’t bite,” into my ear. Her words had the right effect, and that smile of hers was all the encouragement I needed. I walked into the elevator ready to face whatever was to come my way.

The doors to the elevator closed behind me and the short ascent left me feeling more alone than I had ever felt before. That short burst of courage gifted to me by the smile of a stranger had faded, and my nerves threatened to consume me. My doubts began to resurface, and the emotions that accompanied them manifested themselves as anger. How dare James set me up for failure?! Didn’t he know that this place was above me? I was ready to turn around and bolt. I wanted to go home, crawl in bed, and give up on life -- but it was too late for that.

My heart was racing as the elevator came to a stop. I used the split second between the halting of the lift and the opening of the doors to gather myself. I straightened my over-sized coat and whispered to myself “remember: they don’t bite” as a last-ditch effort to regain my composure.

I looked up and was once again taken aback by the unexpected. This was not the office that I had been prepared to walk into. There was no desk nor chairs, no sense of formality. This was no office. This was a man’s living room. There were some sort of palm plants tucked into the corners of the room near the windows, and a couple of black sofas in the middle with elegant glass tables at each end and a matching coffee table between them. This “interview” was taking place in the home of the wealthiest man alive. I was in way over my head.

To Be Continued...