The Sadness
Of Being I
Egon Spengler worked alone in
his laboratory, sheltered on the second floor of Ghostbusters Central.
Diligently he affixed labels to notebooks in preparation for a coming project.
His thin frame perched awkwardly next to the bench, greasy hair hung in limp
strands across his brow, his lab coat encased one arm but simply draped over the
other, which was strapped tightly to his chest. He wore no shirt and no
suspenders, but several bandages. His pants sat baggy around his waist. A crutch
lent to one side of the bench in easy reach. Late afternoon light hit the
implements chrome length and made it flash irritatingly in Dr. Spengler's eyes.
He moved the crutch a little to one side, out of the light and proceeded with
his task.
Egon was trying to bring his
thoughts together for his next project. Entrapping ectoplasmic molecules using a
streaming particle beam net was an exciting, if not entirely new, idea. This
version was based on the latest table drawn up for the complexity theory.
Undoubtedly the experiments were going to be a bit of a hit and miss affair,
needing intensive documentation. Dr. Spengler was preparing his notepads now,
knowing that as the trials progressed he would have no time to make them up
later.
Egon wasn't sure how long he
had been about this particular task. The awkwardness of his injuries had made it
slow work, but it was necessary and one of the few things he could do on his
own. And he was on his own right now, never more so. The slide of the sticky
labels from their backing was about the only noise in the entire building, apart
from the hum of the electronics that ran day and night. Egon seldom paid the hum
any mind, unless there was a spike in the power grid, then his attention swerved
towards the noise at once. A break in the pattern might antecede a full power
breakdown and a possible threat to the containment unit. But there was no threat
right now and the electronic hum remained subliminal, unnoticed and
unremarkable.
"Just like me."
Egon thought glumly. He continued labeling, shivering as the cooling air slipped
under the unbuttoned lab coat he wore. As he could no longer wear a shirt due to
the bindings strapping down his arm, there was only the coat. The thick material
was quite comfortable and it was wider in the shoulder area, allowing much more
room for the pinned arm. Egon licked reflectively at his split lip and wished
Ray were there to help him get started on his project. Any of the other
Ghostbusters would have been a welcome sight right now.
How quiet the firehouse
sounded without the other's being near by. Their constant banter was the most
pleasant background to a normal working day. Alas, today was not a normal
working day. It hadn't been a normal working week. The guys had had a call to
Peru and he; Egon, had been unable to accompany them.
Egon frowned at the memory; a
bust at the recently arrived Light and Mysticism Circus had been his 'Waterloo'.
Busy zapping a vaporous class four he'd been knocked to the ground and trampled
by a troupe of panicked circus horses. An uncertain memory of polished hooves,
sleek bellies, bunched muscle and sequins still haunted him. At the time he
hadn't even considered the danger the performing animals might pose and for that
he blamed himself entirely.
Peter blamed him too, the
other Ghostbuster had gone on and on about blowing their health insurance
premium as he held Egon down to stop him moving about and worsening the damage.
Egon had wanted to move a great deal, but Peter and Winston had been worried his
obviously broken ribs might rupture something important, so they held him in
place until the ambulance got there. Egon remembered Peter's white knuckled
fists holding on to his uniform, his equally white face looking frightened and
tense. Peter hadn't wanted to leave him, but the ambulance had certain rules and
Winston had finally dragged him out so it could be on its way.
Back in the present Egon
un-hunched his shoulders, rotated them back to stretch the cramped muscles.
Instantly he felt the pull and aches of his many injuries. The doctor had told
him he'd been 'damned lucky not to get his fool head smashed in' by the pounding
hooves. Instead all he had to contend with was a broken clavicle, two busted
ribs, a badly sprained ankle and contusions and cuts from where the frightened
equines had bowled him along the ground in their flight. Every injury was
throbbing now and he longed for a painkiller. Distressingly the medication from
the hospital had run out this morning.
On any other day this would
not have been a problem. He would just have asked Janine or one of the others to
fill his prescription if they happened to pass a chemist. But the emergency in
Peru was extremely serious and they had needed four people to handle it. So
Janine was in Peru, along with Peter, Ray and Winston. He hoped they were all
right. They were in a no-go area for telecommunication so they had been unable
to speak to each other all this time. After a full week he longed to hear their
voices once again, no matter how briefly.
Winston had promised he would
keep an eye out for Janine and she did have prior experience with busting
entities. Egon would eagerly have gone along to consult, but Peter had been
unusually adamant that he stay behind. He imagined the doctor's warning about
bone marrow seeping into his blood stream, should he sustain a nock to one of
his already broken bones, had scared Venkman considerably. It had certainly
scared Egon.
Without the others to go
shopping for him he had had to find an alternative method of procuring his
medication. Therefore he had gathered his resolve and risked the trek down the
stairway to ask the temporary secretary to purchase his tablets for him.
Given a ten-minute run
through the office by a distracted Janine, the temp had been out of sorts since
her arrival. The woman's name was Marie something (Egon was appalled at his lack
of manners, he never had quite caught her last name and hadn't the nerve to ask
it again of her); she was middle aged, had black hair, dark blue eyes, and was
about to make a very valid point. When he posed his question she had removed her
radio headphones and given him a long, assessing, somewhat un-nerving look.
"Mr. Spengler, I don't
make coffee, I don't do shopping runs." She established firmly. "You
want to buy a scarf for your girlfriend's birthday, you buy it yourself. You
want chicken soup and a handful of painkillers, you can organize that yourself
too. I was hired to take messages and write up schedules, not play nurse
maid." She'd snapped the band of her radio headset back down and began
touch-typing again at once.
Dismissed, Egon had begun his
slow assent back up the stairway and tried to think what to do next. He supposed
the pain wasn't that great, really. It was rather hard to think around it all,
though. Pain fogged his judgment more than mere medicine could and he would much
rather have had a clear head. But the prospects were beginning to look grim for
his acquiring the medicine before the others returned on Monday.
Unfortunately he had no ready
cash to hire someone to deliver anything here and was quite unwilling to
contemplate Marie's reaction to being asked to go to the bank for him. As he
gratefully made it to the top of the stairs (having gripped the railing for dear
life at every step) Egon caught a glimpse of the message Peter had written on
his ankle cast. 'Denial is not a river in Egypt!' It had been to remind him to
take his medication on time and not pretend he wasn't in pain. How well he
knows me. Egon had thought, reaching the sanctuary of the lab. Oddly the
message had reminded him there were some headache tablets in the bathroom and he
made plans to take some of them later.
He felt that now would
qualify as later. His work for today was at an end and he viewed the pile of
tidily labeled notebooks with some satisfaction. It had grown quite late and he
assumed Marie had gone home, he couldn't hear the snap-snap of her typewriter
any more. Egon found her failure to call up a simple good-bye disheartening. She
had been his only contact with the outside world all week, with the guys out of
touch and nobody else having any reason to call. His current papers were all in
and the students he taught on and off at the university knew he was ill and
would be reluctant to interrupt his convalescence.
That is what he told himself
as he cleared away the discarded label backs, feeling the heavy weight of
loneliness settle onto his shoulders. All week he had been preoccupied, asleep
or happily drugged into a coma. Now, with time to think, he was finding his
situation distressing. Deciding to call it a day he struggled the crutch into
place under his arm, bunching the material of his lab coat as best he could to
give extra padding and began limping for the doorway.
Honestly, what did I
expect? he asked himself sorrowfully. People
bringing gift baskets and flowers? Offers to cook and run errands? It wasn't
like any of his relatives lived close by, most of them were in far of Ohio. His
friend Percy was on a dig in Arizona and everyone else was currently out of
communication in Peru. There was nobody left to come and visit with him, even
just to chat and remind him of the outside world.
He felt trapped here in his
own little universe of helplessness. Wider problems like paying bills and
ridding New York of phantasms had been totally superceded by his unfulfilled
need to change his bandages, which he had found impossible to do on his own.
Plus the problem of the painkillers still needed resolution. He was in quite a
bit of pain now. There were acquaintances he could have called, but Egon did not
like feeling vulnerable in front of others. He tended to mask his problems even
from his closest friends, be damned if he was going to parade them before near
strangers.
That left grin and bear it as
his only option. Wonderful thought. Exiting the lab he headed for the bathroom,
turning off light switches as he went. Leaning awkwardly on the crutch (luckily
the clavicle break was on the opposite side to the ankle fracture, leaving one
hand free to manipulate the crutch with. Unluckily the broken ribs were on that
side too, making leaning on the crutch quite painful) he fumbled open the
medicine cabinet and pulled down the headache tablets. Setting them to one side
he brushed his teeth, being careful not to reopen the split to his lip then took
a washcloth and gave himself a cat bath.
How he longed for a shower,
but the mechanics of it were far beyond him. His hair was a disgusting mess;
he'd tried washing it in the sink earlier in the week, but had ended up leaving
soap behind during the rinse, producing an even more horrid look. Life sucked.
Egon was justly proud of his coif, and to have it reduced to a greasy mop on his
head made him cringe. Yet another reason not to call in outside help, he would
hate to be seen in this condition by outsiders. He glared momentarily at his
reflection in the mirror; he looked pale and unkempt. Most unsatisfactory!
Sighing he replaced the
washcloth and got out the antiseptic cream. He produced enough to cover the
scratches and abrasions that he could reach and dabbed a portion onto each. When
that was done he cleared everything away before carefully picking up his
headache tablets.
A drink to wash them down
with, then bed, he thought firmly. Out
in the hall he found himself dreaming longingly of a nice hot cup of cocoa.
Then he thought about the
juggling trick he would have on his hands to make a cup of cocoa. Boil the milk,
get the cocoa out, the cinnamon, the cup. All done mostly one handed and with as
little stretching as he could possibly manage. It wasn't feasible. He was out of
milk now, anyway, he suddenly remembered. For five days he had survived on
sugary breakfast cereals for every meal, not an uncommon event. He'd been far
too involved in reading up on the new complexity theory (when he wasn't deeply
asleep, recovering from his injuries) to break off and get something nutritious
to eat. Normally Peter would have come to drag him out for a decent meal, he
usually did when Egon had spent days researching and living on junk food and
air. But there had been no Peter this time and he'd now used all the milk.
Sighing Egon made his way
past the kitchen to the bedroom, moving slowly over to the pitcher of water
besides his bed. He had placed it there so he wouldn't have to get up to get a
drink if he were thirsty in the night. Pouring himself a glass he took the
headache pills then gulped them down. His injured lip stuck to the drinking
container, reopening the split that had been nearly healed there. He tasted
blood and licked at the wound, glad when it closed itself quickly.
Thirst satisfied and tablets
taken Egon looked at his messy bed, all rumpled and unmade. Tired as he was he
found himself tempted to just fall into it. Instead he made himself peel off his
clothes, then wriggled into his nightgown; the one arm still tucked under with
the sleeve dangling uselessly down. Turning off the lamp besides his headboard
he lowered himself gingerly until he lay prone.
The darkness pressed in on
him. Silence screamed in his head, pointing out the lack of heavy breathing and
rumbling snores that told him his friends were nearby. Determinedly he took his
mind off all the little problems that had been blown to such huge proportions.
The other Ghostbusters would
be back soon. He had only to wait another two days. Two days and it would all be
over, he would be fed, and cared for, and have someone to speak to again.
Someone to tell him that he was alive after all, and not forgotten about. His
mind slowly cleared of thought.
This did not prove to be the
relief he had hoped it would be. Having let go of the problems of the day Egon
found himself free to feel every ache and pain of his body throbbing
rhythmically. He attempted to will the pain away as he had his spiraling
thoughts, but his body wasn't as disciplined as his mind was. Then to add insult
to injury his stomach rumbled.
Realizing that the cereal
bonanza was over and that he would have to seek alternative forms of
nourishment, Egon had raided the cupboard earlier today. After much
contemplation and a considerable effort he had managed to open a tin of beans.
With a sense of triumph he had eaten them directly from the tin, enjoying them
more than he could ever remember enjoying beans before. Apparently his stomach
had just decided that that hard won meal hadn't been enough and now wanted more.
But he couldn't do anything
about it. Couldn't contemplate getting up one more time, heaving his tired body
up one more time, turning on lights, finding implements, seeing if there was
another tin, (he hadn't noticed any more beans, come to think of it. Maybe he
could start eating the tinned fruit?) clearing everything away. It was too much,
he couldn't do it. Didn't think he had the energy to stagger to the fridge and
claw out that last little bit of cheese he had spied earlier. Fridge. Now why
did that ring a bell?
Fridge...the downstairs mold!
With horror Egon realised that he had failed to check on the mould experiment he
had in the basement in days. Sitting up with a grunt of pain he stared unhappily
about the darkened room. He had to check on his mould!
But
as he squinted blindly into the dark at the far doorway his mind traveled past
it, to the stairs. It had not been easy the few times he had made the journey
downstairs. He had feared falling. And today, or rather, tonight, was a Friday.
Nobody would be in tomorrow. If he fell while descending the stairs tonight it
would be Monday before anyone found him again. Monday. With a shiver Egon sank
back down onto the bed. Pulling back the arm that had instinctively reached out
to scrabble on the sidetable for his glasses he clutched the sheets about him
and closed his eyes.
If only Peter or one of the
others were here. Egon realized he had hardly spoken this entire week, except to
make that request to Marie, and the good-mornings that he had called down when
he happened to spy her entering the building at the beginning of the day. A
whole week without sharing the thoughts of others. Without communicating with
anyone. No wonder he felt so miserably alone.
I
have been deprived of Peter's alleged witticism all this time. he thought
wryly. While he no doubt is running around merry as you please with the
Peruvians, making newer and less wretchedly isolated friends.
Lifting
one hand to wipe away the warm moisture that slid unexpectedly down his cheek,
Egon drew a deep breath and tried to bring himself under control. Rolling
careful onto one side (it hurt no matter which way he lay, he had decided, so he
might as well achieve the position he was used to) Egon drew the second pillow,
the one he used to prop himself up with for reading, down into his arms. Hugging
the soft, yielding object close to his chest he exhaled softly.
I
miss Peter, he thought, feeling another tear make it's way down his cheek.
I wish he were home. I wish I could call him and talk to him, just to hear his
voice. I wish I wasn't so alone...
And that is how Egon spent
the night, huddled in his unmade bad, clutching the tear soaked pillow and
thinking of his friend. Of how much he did so dearly miss Peter Venkman.