Caesar

Abstract

Caesar Richard Burgin (bio) He leaned back and looked briefly at the Christmas lights on Kingshighway, then at the oddly-shaped planetarium that looked as if an alien spaceship had landed on the outskirts of Forest Park. A piano piece by Debussy was playing—not the usual thing you heard on the radio. “Is the music bothering you, sir?” the driver said. “No, I like it. That’s Debussy, isn’t it?” “No, sir. I think it’s Ravel.” “That’s right, of course, Ravel. How angry it would have made them to be confused with each other. Anyway, it’s a great relief not to hear any more Christmas carols for a while. Those Christmas carols are like zombies, aren’t they? They never die. I mean it’s almost New Year’s Eve, isn’t it, and they’re still playing Christmas music everywhere, and the Christmas decorations are still up because somehow it all still goes on.” Onward Christian Shoppers, he thought to himself, but didn’t say it lest he possibly offend the driver. He’d realized for some time now that St. Louis was a conservative town where young men like the driver were just as likely to be religious as people his age. But the driver was laughing or making some kind of equivalent sound. “I feel the same way, sir,” the driver said. Was he a kindred spirit? Maybe it was worth a try to continue talking. The alternative was twenty minutes more of his dark thinking and staring at the half-dark highway. “Do you like Ravel?” “Very much.” [End Page 617] “Of course you do or you wouldn’t be listening to it. What other composers do you like?” “Oh, quite a number.” The driver rattled off a list, including Beethoven and Mozart, of course, but also Bartók and Prokofiev and one or two he hadn’t heard of. When he asked him if he ever studied music, the driver said, “Yes, sir, I studied piano for a number of years.” “Really?” So they were both musicians, though he was pretty sure he’d never worked as hard at it as the driver had. “You know, I enjoy talking with you but I wish you’d stop calling me ‘sir.’ I’m beginning to feel like an institution of some sort.” “Sorry about that.” “I remember the first time someone called me ‘sir’—it was like the beginning of death—like my death watch began from that moment on.” The driver laughed. It was a youngish laugh that made him think he might still be in his twenties. “Of course I haven’t given you an alternative, have I? I haven’t told you my name.” “No, you haven’t.” “There’s a good reason for that. My name is Caesar.” “Mine’s Chris.” “How appropriate for the season—a real Chris. I, myself, wanted to be a great dictator like Julius Caesar, that’s probably what my father had in mind, too, when he named me, but instead I merely repeated the second part of Julius’s life and got stabbed quite a few times in the back. So I should call myself Caesar II, I guess.” The driver laughed again, probably out of politeness, he thought, but maybe not. “The truth is Caesar is actually my middle name. My real first name is Malcolm, that’s right, I’m a Malcolm. Ever know a Malcolm?” “Sure.” “Ever like one?” Again, the driver laughed. “You all right? Everything OK tonight?” [End Page 618] “You just make me laugh, that’s all. You’re very funny, Malcolm.” “There you said it. You know a Malcolm. Now, I’m afraid there’s no going back.” More laughter, definitely slightly forced this time. Then as quickly as they talked, they fell silent. It was as if there were a certain number of potential subjects they could discuss like a little school of fireflies all lit up and waiting to be picked, but then just as quickly as they arrived their lights went out, and they disappeared. He didn’t like that. If it continued, he’d have to try to control his...