AMADEUS A Tour Through The Underbelly Of The Beast

A Novel by Ravi S. Kudesia  

    To learn more, please visit www.amadeusthebook.com First Edition | July 4, 2012 Copyright © Ravi S. Kudesia 2009 – 2012 Unless Otherwise Acknowledged All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. ISBN: 1463543034 | 978-1463543037 Cover art, illustrations, and text by Ravi S. Kudesia

“The Most Amazing Thing in the World is that a man, seeing others die all aroundhim, never thinks that he will die.”

For James

Based rather loosely on Real Events

Boston, MA | 8/23/2009

   

1. I WANT A GODDAMN SPICY CHICKEN SANDWICH

I wasn’t born rich. Not that I have a hard time

blending in, but there are always tells. Old Money doesn’t sneak away from single malts and prime rib to get fast food. And Holy Hell here I was, on a frantic hunt for a late night Spicy Chicken Sandwich. There’s only so much any decent individual can take of hobnobbing at a geospatial intelligence conference. It had been four days and tomorrow was my keynote. I needed sanctuary, peace, and above all, some grit.

Reconnaissance satellites, unmanned aircraft,

the hunt for terrorists from space ... poor Afghani bastards would never know what hit them. Whatever happened to the common decency to look a man in the eyes before ending his life? You know, chivalry. But I knew all too well that in this gruesome era of technology, the institution of chivalry was dead. I blame the automatic door. No need or even room anymore to exercise acts of kindness – machines do that for us. Why should war be the exception? Killed by an invisible and savage force from the sky.

It’s the Old Testament all over again.

Yet I digress. What I needed was a good dose of the average bum, down on his luck but with fire in his eyes. Just trying to make it through the day. It settles the soul a bit to come into contact with such animal intensity, that quintessential hunger. The raw bottom of Maslow’s needs hierarchy. In my world I see a very different kind of hungering. That of a man who has all the food in the world but has lost his appetite, lost his ability to taste. It’s the catastrophe of success. The metaphysical emptiness of the corner office.

What I was looking for was the soul of a Spicy Chicken Sandwich. If you’ve never grown up eating fast food for breakfast or fighting over Happy Meal trinkets with your twin brother, this may sound strange. Comprehending my quest takes a certain background. As I said, there are tells. Behind all the titles and regalia, you can always tell.

The night’s progression thus far and the

brewing whisky buzz brought me to an appropriately brisk walk. I was a man on a mission, on a journey. No gadget to direct the way and no smart-phone tethering me to the leather sofa realities of the conference. Just myself and the road and the vague promise of a Wendy’s that certainly must be open this late at night. What other purpose could it serve in a place such as this except to meet the alcohol munchies needs of good people like myself? And at such a reasonable price.

Yes, fast food is the crowning glory of the

Global Capitalist System. How an animal could be reared, slaughtered, seasoned, and served in between a sesame-seed bun with lettuce and a tomato slice for just 99¢ was beyond me. But this is the majesty of our

system. Perhaps it evokes in me the same mystic feeling of wonder that some find in the grand architecture of the gothic period. Maybe not, but luck was with me.

I spotted an omen: a group of teenage hipsters

with the marvelous white paper bag. It carried all the necessary identifiers: innocently freckled redhead with braids on the side and savory grease stains peppering the bottom. Yes, I was getting close.

Not too much further now.

2. A JUNKIE WITH NO PLACE TO REST HIS BONES

When I arrived, there was a sense of nervous

anticipation building in me. Strange to feel this way over something so seemingly petty.

“Must be the whisky,” I reasoned aloud, fumbling with the wedding band in the bottom of my blazer pocket. The other diners in this street-side franchise looked over with taciturn dispositions: I saw no joy on their faces. For them, this was the grim daily reality. I was but a tourist passing by, a seeker searching for something of meaning – on a new assignment, but what for this time? It was evocative and really quite glorious. I just had to bring my full thought process into re-memory.

What was I really searching for again? “Hold on to that thought,” I thought. It was

time to order. “I’ll have a number six: Spicy Chicken Sandwich

with medium fries and Diet Coca-Cola. No … actually make that a regular Coke.”

“Celebrating something?” The pleasant and seductively overweight Latin woman said to me with deadpan delivery. The other cashier – hair all done up with greasy Medusa locks – cracked a smile.

I said nothing.

“That’ll be 7 dollar and 95 cent,” my cashier announced mechanically. She took my proffered 8 bucks and deposited it into the machine. Five cents promptly slid from the change dispenser down into a little ashtray-looking contraption in front of me. Genius, I thought. Even the most rudimentary mathematical skills of this job had been outsourced to some petty-change amusement-apparatus with its buttons and slides. What theatrics!

I picked up my newly acquired nickel and

inspected it for any rarity value. Finding it lacking, I then dropped it into the conveniently placed charity donation box. Not so much because I cared about Dave Thomas’ adoption cause, but because I didn’t want to be troubled by loose change in my pocket. Now, I don’t mean to cast aspersions on change. It’s quite the contrary: I gratefully recognize even the humble penny as an important hedge to inflation.

“Sir, your order is ready.” And so it was. What timing. Marisol may have lacked the ability or practice to perform simple arithmetic, but she had the speed and grace of a lioness in making her sandwiches.

It was brilliant. And so I walked up the stairs with my very own

bag of grub, gathering a few ketchup packets and some rations of salt and pepper for good measure. I found myself seated at a small table in the corner overlooking the interior of the restaurant. The wall to my right was made entirely of floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Over my shoulder, I could see Boylston Street gradually emptying outside as nighttime darkness settled in.

I removed the sandwich from its precious bag, enjoying the aroma as I gently unwrapped it. I munched on a few fries, sprinkled a little salt, pepper, and ketchup on top, and then had a few more.

As I slid off my blazer, a slight peripheral

motion caught my eyes and I glanced up to see my new neighbor. Seated one table away and directly facing me was a rather unfortunate-looking individual. A ragged hoodie worn thin with use covered his sooty and tormented face. The fluorescent lights above coupled with his crooked posture cast a shadow over his entire being. Except for his eyes.

I could tell instantly from his strange mannerisms and quiet mumbling that he was schizophrenic … and the deranged look in his eyes told me he was high. With both hands clenched, he twisted and knotted up the collection of yellow napkins he had accumulated and continued to murmur some potpourri of insanity to himself.

Shit! This was not the kind of grit I was looking

for. I needed a good working class chap, not some strung out junkie with no place to rest his bones. He had a small coffee. Strategic choice. Buy whatever minimum order is needed to ensure a few hours of respite before getting the boot from this place too.

Its warmth would do him well in the chilly

Boston air.

3. AMADEUS: URBAN NINJA AND HOMELESS TOUR GUIDE

“Give Me Your Fries,” the Junkie snarled

gruffly. His voice confirmed the speculation: our human family has not completely evolved beyond the Brutal Realm of the Animal Kingdom. I looked him right in that hauntingly vacant stare, suddenly territorial over my newly acquired food. Out of some primitive autonomic instinct, my back straightened, brows furrowed, and a surge of adrenaline shot through my body as if injected by needle straight into my brain. Probably through the nose like the Egyptians preferred.

He had broken the barrier of silence that separated us. Communication had been established! No amount of concerted ignoring on my part could change this unfortunate reality.

The bastard was getting up. He was taller than I

anticipated. A lanky and awkward 6 foot 2 inches I reckon, but still barbaric and heinous – as is anybody in the throes of a heroin high. Heroin was the perfect drug for such an encounter: decreased inhibitions, increased aptitude for merciless violence, and nearly no ability to feel pain. Jesus. The Junkie meandered his way around the tables and stood tall and towering,

facing me again, not three feet away from where I was seated. He repeated himself, with a thick and frothy contingent of saliva clinging to the sides of his lips: “Give Me Your Fries.”

I said nothing as I stood up – it seemed only

natural to assert some sort of personal authority in light of the situation at hand. But then, like a wild animal set off in a frenzied bout of paranoia, the Junkie sprang into action. He swooped down like a bird of prey with his twisted and gnarled hand, making a grab at whatever food would fit into his talons. I too was in some sort of fight-or-flight response and it seemed my biology had decided upon the fight option. I forcefully swatted his hand away from my table, spilling ketchup and soda everywhere like some sort of Jackson Pollock.

As his swatted left hand flew back and away from me, his right hand swung forward with equal and opposite force. Newtonian motion in action. He pivoted from the waist and before I could react in any sort of meaningful way, His Cold and Icy Hand was already thrust deep into my stomach. It felt a lot like metal. This man must also be a machine, I thought.

Winded and in an appreciable amount of pain, I

winced and reeled downward – in vertical fetal position of sorts. I grabbed his frigid metallic claw, pulled it out of my stomach, and pushed him back a foot or two. It was then, out of the corner of my eye, that I saw what I could only describe as the human equivalent of a dirty rag rising from his table – which was perched by the stairs about ten feet away. Had this hobo come to assist me or join in the violence? I would soon find out.

Hobo strode forward in a few quick paces and pulled Junkie off of me with a vulgar eloquence. Hadn’t he broken some sort of Street Code by taking sides with the gated-community-inhabiting enemy? It seems all parties involved understood the import of what had just occurred. Junkie picked himself up off the floor and departed quickly with his fare: a few mashed up French Fries and my tomato slice.

Then, in a moment when no other eyes could see us, the urban ninja flashed me a horrific sign. It was Masonic. The gesture brethren learn but once, yet never forget – the one about sudden death. Being cut down in the midst of your prime. I’d describe it here if I could. He approached as if we knew each other and took my hand in his grip. How did these dirty hands learn such secrets?

“I’m Amadeus,” he informed me. “Connor,” I responded. His crooked and yellowing teeth betrayed a

surprising charm as he smiled mischievously. There was a certain fierceness to the way he looked me in the eyes. I respect that in a man no matter what his background.

“Looks like you’re already dressed for your funeral,” he said.

I glanced down at my manner of dress. French cuffs and tie bars are not typical for late night Wendy’s. I felt a momentary irrelevance – aside, of course, from the crimson ketchup splattered everywhere on and around me, binding me irrevocably to the scene.

“What … are you?” I managed; myself not even sure what I meant by that hopeless question.

“I’m Blackenese: half Black and half Chinese. A real-life Buddhist street-niggah!” Amadeus howled into the empty top floor of the Wendy’s.

I looked down at the mangled Spicy Chicken

Sandwich. The sight of it made me feel sick. Or maybe it was the unexpected turn of events. Whatever it was, I needed to make a quick exit. The vibes in this dining establishment were not sitting well with me.

What was I searching for and what did I find? I couldn’t reflect on such questions amidst the emotional pandemonium surrounding me. One by one I descended the stairs, growing quicker in pace with each and every step. I pushed the door open and took a step outside – the cold city air was jarring. I had forgotten my blazer inside.

“Don’t worry too much about the jacket.

Everything you really need you already have with you,” Amadeus informed me like some sort of prophetic fortune cookie.

I was in no mood for such Neo-Confucian Wisdom, yet had very little of my own to contribute at the time. I had no choice but to indulge this curious stranger. After all, he did deliver me from that mess. “What happens next?” I asked.

“I’m a tour guide, Connor. I show people the things they don’t know to look for. Your tour has already begun and I’m on a tight time schedule. We can discuss compensation later.”

As if it would provide some degree of clarity or

legitimacy, he added in an arcane manner, “My Boss is quite particular about punctuality.”

“But … you’re … homeless?” “Tell me. What better job could there be for a

man with no home than wandering the city streets and giving tours for a living?” Amadeus grinned triumphantly. “Don’t disappoint me this early in the game. I hope you’re smarter than you put on – I signed up for this gig especially.”

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