Part I
Peter Venkman
The view of Manhattan from the 23rd story corner apartment was nothing short of spectacular, and Peter Venkman, Doctor of Psychology (and Parapsychology, but he rarely mentioned that one) had frequently used that view, as well as the money implied in having it to seduce more than one otherwise unwilling companion. Although the forecast for the next several days was for rain with the possibility of light snow, the night sky was clear, and it was easy to see across Central Park to the towers opposite. In fact, if one squinted just so and tilted their head to one side, the intermittent lights still on might be mistaken for stars, or at least low flying aircraft. Manhattan, like Paris, was a city that never slept, and at night, from above it was easy to dismiss the idea that mankind was wreaking havoc upon itself in the shadows down below in a Jekyll and Hyde transformation from daytime commerce to nighttime mayhem. Tonight, however, as had been the case every night for nearly six months, Dr. Venkman found himself studying less the view, and more the reflection of the interior revealed in the smoky glass picture window, including that of the man who stood there.
The faintest reflection was of the dark foreshortened hallway leading to the bathroom, guest bedroom and master suite. Only slightly clearer was the small hall table with the silver butler’s tray near the door. Moving closer was a gray upholstered sofa and matching love seat and lounge, the exact color of the plush carpet underneath it. The heavy coffee table was a masterpiece of brushed steel tubing and glass, matching the entertainment center he could see reflected to his left. The room was softened by several gray velvet throw cushions threaded irregularly with delft blue, which matched the damask drapes currently drawn aside in favor of the resident’s musings. The blue accents continued in a sweep to the right in the dark glass into the white and blue enameled kitchen, just the edge of the bar showing in the dim light from the lamp on Venkman’s desk.
The man himself was nearly invisible in the smoked glass, caught between darkness and light and only his outline truly visible. The light behind him bounced off the light gray silk suit jacket, bits of it gleamed in hair that was full and thick and perhaps just a fraction of an inch too long, splintered on discreet gold cuff links. The darkness before him turned green eyes neutral and clung like mist to the lines of him. The exterior transition mirrored the interior one, the warm, slightly mischievous caring face for the office drained away, tucked back into it's own box and sealed up tight, the remnants of the original personality now a mask over the colder one left behind, which in it's own time had been a carefully crafted façade to hide the lingering fragments of the original.
The desk sat four feet from the window Venkman looked out, and more than one of his companions of the moment had mentioned that the sight of it had persuaded them to stay for more than coffee. On the down side, the desk had been mentioned in more than one vehement breakup, one lovely blonde thing going so far as calling it a liar. He hadn’t understood it then and didn’t now, and somehow he knew that the inanimate hunk of wood was the key to the feeling of wrongness he’d lived with for the last half year and more.
It didn’t match the steel gray and smoked glass theme of the rest of the room being more a writing table than a desk; a pale, nearly white blonde oak, clean straight lines and subtle curves, carefully hand polished with linseed oil. There were several deep gashes in the long legs and edges, and underneath the leather blotter were a pair of cigarette burns and a heart proclaiming the everlasting love, or momentary lust, between Alan and Becky. He’d bought it soon after he’d begun studying for his Masters and it had been with him ever since, through a dozen different moves and three positions, until he’d finally established his own practice four years back and moved into his current apartment, and the first thing he’d done was polish it and give it the best spot in the place.
Frequently he’d look up from working on a journal article, or just updating case notes on a difficult client, and find himself absently stroking the wood along the grain, feeling the silk of it, his own personal worry stone. Sometimes he was startled out of deep thought by the feel of a new, very slight flaw in the surface, and then nothing would do but that it was repaired immediately. That it led to the occasional late night of sanding and polishing didn’t bother him in the least.
The psychologist stopped for a moment to remember the breakup where he’d been the one throwing his desk in somebody’s face. Kris something, he thought his name had been, an aspiring actor, all long tan legs and thick blond hair. The stupid bitch had left a glass of iced tea on the corner without benefit of coaster. He thought he’d never get the water stain out, and when Kris had called after a late audition Venkman had been more coldly furious than he’d been since before his mother’s death.
Still studying the reflection of his desk, Venkman’s eye fell on the heavy, cream-colored, linen envelope from the Columbia University Alumni Association that sat on the blotter.
The Association was hosting a dinner to honor one of it’s own, Dr. Egon Spengler, for achievements in the fields of theoretical and applied physics. Venkman snorted at the thought while his near photographic memory for trivia replayed the fact that they were a little late; Dr. Spengler had been awarded the Nobel Prize the year before.
Peter had met the budding physicist late during his undergrad years, the two had crossed paths with a common interest in parapsychology. The then Mr. Spengler had been unfailingly polite to the not-quite-so Mr. Venkman, BMOC and star quarterback, on occasion even offering his notes when an outside commitment made attending class impossible.
At the time Peter had refused, repulsed, and even outright rejected every overture made by the geek, seeing any kind of association with the man as a danger to his own reputation.
Eyes closed Venkman could still picture him; tall and slender, with almost white blonde hair and cool delft blue eyes behind heavy horn rimmed glasses, a long face with elegant cheekbones to match the long body with elegant hands. White starched button-down shirts with suspenders, an oddity on a college campus, but never seen in public without jacket and tie. For a moment Venkman wondered why he remembered the other man so clearly after over a decade, with only a handful of meetings and scarcely twice that many words between them, but it was based on those impressions that he’d invested in Spengler Labs as soon as the company had gone public, a decision he’d never regretted.
Finally Peter Venkman turned from both the window and his thoughts, carefully closed the drapes against excessive sun damage to his furniture. He stopped at the desk and ran neatly manicured fingers across the invitation, then absently across the surface of his desk. The satin smooth wood had not quite given up the heat of the day and almost involuntarily Venkman’s fingers arched tightly backwards, bringing the entirety of his palm in contact with the surface.
Yes, he’d definitely attend.
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