An Army of Horseman

It was obvious to Napoleon that this day was to be like any other day, as he woke up with a feeling deep in his gut that he was alone—his mangled body curled into a capital C around a silk body pillow—and this feeling, without question, had the potential to follow him all day, reducing every interaction with another to a solipsistic reflection of his own aloneness. Luckily, coffee. By the time he got his cup of black coffee, he’d usually managed to dull this feeling into submission so he could go to his office and say hi to Claire at the front desk with a half-smile and sit at his workstation with an ergonomic office chair, pretending to be lost in a flurry of deep thinking when all he really did was work for ninety minutes a given day and fill the rest of the time with his favorite internet subculture: otherkin. This subset of people believed they were not human but in fact ethereal beings—usually vampires or ghosts.

Napoleon didn’t really believe he was a vampire or ghost, but he enjoyed interacting with various strangers on multiple forums. He was a bit of a micro-celebrity, his online avatar was a line drawing of Dracula from a first edition of the novel. He’d considered getting a tattoo of Bram Stoker, but like most things in his life, this existed as a never-to-be-actualized fantasy. His mother hated tattoos anyway. Napoleon walked to his kitchen, but upon grabbing the white rubber canister that held his coffee grounds, his heart nearly fell out of his bottom. The canister was unexpectedly light. He began sweating. I live alone. Did someone break in and steal my coffee grounds? Nothing else seems askew. Napoleon glanced around his kitchen. All of the products were in the right place: the toaster he’d had since college, the blender his sister had bought to encourage a healthier lifestyle for him, the set of birchwood candles he’d found at the farmer’s market. Everything is as it should be, he murmured aloud. Where could the coffee beans have gone? Napoleon took a deep breath and opened the white cannister. Upon seeing the contents within, he collapsed.

When Napoleon awoke on the kitchen floor, the deep feeling of aloneness in his gut was nowhere to be found. In it’s place, hope. Napoleon began laughing and then crying and then laughing again. His face was hotter than a waffle iron. You’ve imagined the whole thing, you idiot, he thought. Immediately he grabbed the cannister and was relived to see the contents were not a fever dream; inside sat 20,000 dollars in cash.

Napoleon looked at his reflection in the kitchen mirror. He didn’t like the gnarliness of his beard. He bought the cannister to his beat-up Ford Pinto and drove to the barbershop he passed on his commute but never once entered. Take it all off, I’m sick of it. The barber blinked. Whatever you say, sir.

Napoleon could not believe it, his face was so bare. He hadn’t seen his face naked since he was a teenager. I look like a new man, so much younger and innocent. What was I thinking all those years with that monstrosity on my face? The barber patted his back in the way men show intimacy in public. Looks good man, cash or credit? Napoleon stood up, grabbed a wad of hundreds, and shoving them into the barber’s hands, pecked him on the lips. The barber pulled back. Yo man what the hell. Napoleon’s eyes began to water. Thank you so much. He ran out the door. His phone was ringing inside of the Pinto. Claire Work. He answered.

“Hello”

“Napoleon, where the hell are you? The meeting started twenty minutes ago. Eric is filling for you, but you gotta hurry.”

“I’m not coming in today. In fact, I’m not coming in ever again. You should do the same Claire, freedom feels so good. Like peeing in a public pool. Did you ever do that as a kid?”

Claire sighed. “You are going to shower, get dressed, get in that piece-of-shit Pinto, drive over here, and give this presentation. Do you hear me Napoleon? I don’t know if this is about what happened between us, but Eric is depending on you. I swear to God, if you’re spending all day on those otherkin sites, I’m going to kill you.”

Napoleon hung up and threw his phone out the window. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face if he wanted to.

When he arrived at the airport, the woman behind the desk took his information. Business or pleasure sir? He arrived at O’Hare and walked up to the Hertz booth.

“Can I have something fast? I’ll only need it for a few days.”

“And what brings you to Chicago sir?”

“Oh, just tying up some loose ends.”

The employee smiled and handed him a pair of keys.

Napoleon remembered the streets of Chicago well. He began reciting a poem his mother taught him. Bling stringing Michigan Ave, sunlight’s last-gasp sighing through the artless fog. Vague fatigued promise hangs in the low darkened sky when bunched scrawny starlings rattle up from trees, switchback and snag like tossed rags. He kept repeating the phrase snag like tossed rags over and over again. He couldn’t believe he remembered them, the lines lying dormant in his hippocampus. Suddenly he was overtaken by a memory of hanging out back Pizza Palace with Jerry and Dan after a shift. Jerry did a pitch perfect impression of their boss, Leonard. Napoleon and Dan played the part of captive audience. Jerry had died a few years back. Napoleon hadn’t spoken to Dan since the funeral.

Napoleon practiced the speech in his head. He had to say all the perfect words when Charlotte answered the door. He pictured her wearing acid wash jeans and beat-up Keds, but last he’d heard Charlotte had four kids, so she might not be wearing the uniform of their youth. But he knew she’d be home.

He arrived at her brown bungalow in Jefferson Park. The house had been in her family for three generations. When they were kids, her father would warmly invite Napoleon over to Sunday dinners. He’s a good kid, Mary! Charlotte’s father would plead to his wife, who found Napoleon to be nothing but a nuisance in her daughter’s life, a temporary blip in an otherwise flawless trajectory.

Napoleon straightened his shoulders. He looked in the car mirror, attempted to swallow his nerves. He grabbed a black notebook from the passenger seat. Inside, he’d written out his speech for her, his romantic monologue. Underneath the prose, he’d written in all caps, SPEAK FROM THE HEART NAPOLEON. Napoleon walked up to the house. His right hand twitched.

And then, he knocked.

…

When they were kids, they’d been in the same English class. Ms. Doris Wilson wore a brown cardigan, minimal makeup, and believed in the importance of recitation.

“To recite the words of Shakespeare, Sappho, Dante, Virginia Wolf, Gogol, William Carlos Williams. That is to take part in a lineage that goes back to our oldest ancestors. It’s a pleasurable endeavor to read, it’s a spiritual one to recite. During our time together, you will pick a piece of writing that speaks to you and only you. That makes you feel less alone in this world. This class is a safe space for any feelings you might be having. Are you sad? Angry at your parents? Are you joyful? Do you love football? Do you love music? Do you love a girl sitting next to you?”

At this, the classroom of fourth graders giggled. Napoleon looked at Charlotte and she at him from across the room. His body didn’t feel like his body when she looked at him. He felt weightless. Ms. Doris Wilson continued, a knowing smile on her face. She closed her eyes.

“Some say an army of horsemen, others say foot soldiers, still others say a fleet is the finest thing on the dark earth. I say it is whatever one loves.”

The room of children was dead quiet for the first time all week.

“Does anyone know who said that?” She paused, no one answered. “Her name was Sappho. She was a Greek lyrical poet. Born a long time ago. The only reason we have her poetry is because writers after her preserved it on papyrus fragments. Does anyone know what papyrus is?”

“It’s a fruit,” answered Tommy, a thin boy with large specs.

“That’s a good guess Tommy. But, papyrus is a thick paper made from the papyrus plant. People in ancient times used it to write on. And the poem I just recited is from a papyrus fragment. I just spoke the words of a person dead for thousands of years because her words mean something to me. They make me feel things on the inside. What do her words make you feel?”

“Like I don’t have a body,” shouted Napoleon. Ms. Doris Wilson was surprised by this outbreak as Napoleon rarely spoke up in class. “Say more,” she said.

“She’s talking about love. How it’s, like, more important than battles. And when I feel love, I don’t feel like I’m really here at all.”

The classroom exploded in laughter. Napoleon blushed. Ms. Doris Wilson shushed them.

“That’s a very beautiful thought Napoleon. Maybe we have a young poet in our presence.”

After class, Napoleon walked to his locker to get his lunch box. Charlotte approached him. “I loved what you said in class,” she said to Napoleon. “Everyone laughed at me,” he had tears in his eyes. She took his hand and kissed him on the cheek. “I didn’t laugh,” she said.

…

When Charlotte answered the door—her hair in a ponytail and holding a baby on her hip—she looked remarkably similar to how Napoleon remembered her. Freckled cheeks, a pointy nose, soft hazel eyes.

“Hi,” his voice nearly cracked. “It’s... Napoleon.”

Her eyes widened. “Napoleon! Oh my god. Come in, come in.”

She walked him into the kitchen which was in a state of disarray, pizza boxes and toys everywhere.

“Man, I haven’t heard from you since Jerry’s funeral. How have you been? You look great.”

“I’ve been pretty terrible for all of the years since we were together. You made everything make sense.”

“Napoleon. What are you saying?”

“I’ve missed you every day. I was put on this Earth to meet you. I am for you and you for me. I want to take you somewhere nice, I’ve come in to a bit of money recently.”

Charlotte didn’t say anything in response. She just looked at him. Just then, the baby began crying.

“Sorry, let me feed him and put him down.”

Charlotte left the room. Napoleon waited. His initial adrenaline from seeing her freckled face had worn off a bit. He examined the contents of the room.

The carpeted floor was covered with Nintendo games. Above the television was a set of framed photos. Napoleon recognized Tom and Jeannie, her parents, in one. The three of them were in some sort of theme park. She looked so happy with her young, crooked teeth. Then, Napoleon saw a picture of her with her husband and four kids. They were all wearing black polos and jeans. The caption engraved in the frame read CHRISTMAS 2019. The husband had his arm around Charlotte. One of the kids rested on her shoulders. They looked content. Napoleon began to cry.

As soon as Charlotte re-entered the room, Napoleon was nowhere to be found.

She walked to the dining room table, a pink post-it note catching her eye, and looked at the backyard and kitchen and carpet and realized, with a full-body sob coming on, that she was filled with longing.

Sorry I came. Lead your life. Be happy. The kids are cute. We’ll always have Sappho.

The tea kettle began to whistle.