Book 1 - Chapter 2: Spring Puppy Young Chicken Fever Love

Patience Shelly Freeman grew up only 15 minutes from Chester, or Chessie, as she was the first of friends to call him. He'd become a little perturbed when others started using that name for him, as he secretly wished for it to be what she alone called him. However he was never in a position to reprimand those friends who piggy-backed the name, or request them not to, without giving away his boyhood crush on her.

The Freeman and the Bridgeman had been family friends since the passing of Patience's father when she was 12 years old. Her father had done occasional work with Chester's, and it was actually tardiness that really solidified the relationship between the cross-town neighbors. Mr. and Mrs. Bridgeman had been fighting throughout the day of Mr. Freeman's wake; it was not a frequent occurrence, but both were silently passionate individuals, so their spats ran deep. It wasn't until a fussy, uncomfortable Chester walked down the stairs in an awkwardly adorned black suit that his parents remembered the date and the time. After everyone hustled to become presentable, in the rush forgetting to attend to Chester's garbled apparel, they left the house nearly an hour after the end-time of the wake. The ride was silent from start to finish; Chester sat in the back seat and could make out his own reflection in the window when a dark colored car passed them, or when they drove past the forest preserve. He'd seen enough to recognize the fussy state of his hair and was trying his best to pat it down with his licked hand, moving as if in slow-motion in fear of breaking the silence. When they finally arrived the parking lot was empty, and the only sound aside from the closing doors of the car was his mother's audible scoff at finally seeing her son. She tugged at his jacket and he shrugged her off, sending her into a quickened pace leaving both him and his father behind.

It was quiet inside the funeral home. Seven or eight rows of chairs were empty save Mrs. Freeman in the front row, face in her hands, and Patience sitting on a couch in the corner of the room farthest away from the casket in the same position. Chester's mother eased her way into the seat next to Patience's mother, and, both startled, shared a laugh and a seated-hug. Once the males arrived, the parents all stood and chatted solemnly while Chester anxiously approached Patience. She was a year older, and at that age, that was enough to scare a boy from reaching puberty for another 5 years. He could see that she was not as upset as he imagined he would be if his father died. This comforted him a little, but that comfort was thwarted when she looked up at him and said hi before he had really composed himself. He stammered out a few syllables, of no real comprehension, and she giggled.

"What happened to your clothes?"

Chester sputtered out a few more sounds as she stood and began to manipulate his clothes into the appropriate, or at least more appropriate, placement. This was enough to scare a boy into immediate puberty. Even at that age, though, he understood the significance of this young girl reaching out to help him at her own time of need. She continued to talk to him throughout the redressing, and they started conversing not too long after when Chester finally found his voice. They must have talked for another hour, as did their parents, and soon...too soon to Chester...his mother was calling for him to come over. He bashfully said he was sorry for Mrs. Freeman's loss, trying his hardest to raise his eyes to meet hers. His mother instinctively patted at his hair which was now already in place thanks to his new friend. He hated the thought that now she had been the last to touch his hair. As they walked to the car, he noticed his parents' altered mood. Arm in arm, head on shoulder, they were his loving parents again.

After that, the three adults would have dinner together at least once a week, often more. During the lucky weeks, they invited the children as well.

Patience and Chester even dated briefly in high school. Nothing too serious, but enough so that for a spell Patience was scribbling "Patience Bridgeman" into her notebook. As innocent high school relationships went, it was the simplest and fell victim to maturing interests on both of their parts. Chester became serious about his writing which often led to the unveiling of some of his personal beliefs that did not coincide with hers. Even as high schoolers, general education had committed to helping students form their serious, life-long worldly views at an earlier age, so as to "eliminate conflict" by avoidance later down the road. Chester had also continued through his awkward stage, riding on his literary talents as a socialite, while Patience sparked into a beauty by the standards of every clique in school. Both understood and respected their friendship, and that of their parents, and remained very good friends...even enough to upset immediate and following romantic interests.

Upon graduation, Patience received a full scholarship to attend Emory University and study psychology, while Chester eased his way into his journalism degree at Ohio University. Not from lack of attempts, the two struggled to keep in contact. The demands of education and career, and the commitment to the craft consumed both. At least from Chester's end, he soon found that the combination of his own lack of success and assumption that Patience had become a highly successful psychologist created a fear that he could not overcome. He passively hoped that someday she would look him up. Little did he know she was doing the same, before it was too late.

Book 1 - Chapter 1: Revolactionary Times

Chester, or Chessie as he'd been called by his closer friends, had been fairly unsuccessful in establishing himself as a writer. He did the school, internship, entry-level thing but nothing had ever developed. As bills quickly established themselves, Chester found employment that he could, most consistently as a doorman for a high-end apartment complex.

He continued to pick away at his craft in his free time, but rarely found a welcoming outlet for his work. He hadn't been a complete failure by any means; he had a few articles published in magazines bordering on being titled, Mediocre Quarterly, and had actually had a novelette adapted for network tv. This however he found as more of an offense as his piece of historical fiction, Counter-Coup, a story about a deposed leader working his way back into the political system by attaching himself to negative fallout of the minimally planned usurpation to win over the opinion-less constituents, was turned into a show about a soldier reincarnated as a little girl, who then inspired and a group of alcoholic generals to be better men and better soldiers. The show was geared toward an older audience and lasted only a season and a half. The sellout led to many nights of Chester crying himself to sleep, however with the heat on in his apartment.

This piece highlighted the focus of the Chester Bridgeman Library, which with all pieces owned would still slide harmlessly away from a bookend. His fascination came in the reactionary tendencies of a culture, and having spent his entire life living in the US, he was embedded into the fabric of Reactionism.

His most recent...success...had been a bi-weekly column on the website of a local paper. He'd been given the job because of the...success...of his novelette, and was expected to write more in-line with the adaptation which he did not write, something that often put he and his supervisor at odds. Chester figured that because this was simply an opportunity to exercise his literary muscle, he continued to write what he wanted. "Time Before and After Time" took a historical political stance and attempted to marry example to evidence that the country forever needed failure to react to in order to create the next level of reactionary success and thus another failure. He'd also fully accepted, after only the third article, that no one was reading, and those who were often left evidence of such in the comments box at the end of the page, randomly assigning him Communist, Socialist, or Asshole monikers, all of which he valued as better than @BearSkin42, @Amerikaroks, or @ProvingIDon'tUnderstandWhatYouWrote.

His frustrations grew, bi-weekly, but he wrote, and little did he know that considering the political atmosphere and sensitivity of the society they all existed in, his name would quickly become broken-household.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

President Garveson was yet another, though more current, benefactor of Reactionism in America according to Chester's column. As had become the standard practice of voting in the Presidential elections, each newly elected candidate had to be as opposite the previous President as possible. This had gone back years: before President Garveson was a hand-holding hippy emotional-therapist, before him a socially unweathered former CFO with a slight stutter, and before him the first minority President of the United States. Victors of elections could only really expect one term of service as many people had become too sensitive to really allow anything to be seen through, and with everyone claiming expertise on everything, it was senseless to fight. This however did lead to greater efficiency in the highlighted issue of each voted-on candidate's campaign. Needless to say, younger generations were much more accepting of minorities in office, the economy was slightly better prepared to deal with its natural fluctuations, (although the foundation of the stock markets requiring reaction became more apparently ironic), state parks had been expanded and further protected, and marijuana had been legalized (and taxed). 

President Garveson's platform was created for him and under him. An unsuspecting candidate, with no real interest in becoming President of third most powerful country in the world, he had simply been enjoying a quiet, retired life with his wife Mary. When President Swimming Bird's utility grew stale only 10 months into his term, many began scouring the country for a man's man. Ex-military but not ex-soldier, strong and silent, traditional almost, classical, a throwback to some of the first presidents. 

Though starting well before the need to find such a candidate, many of the names being thrown out represented the itchy-triggered, "look at my chest hair", "let's bomb the bastard" types that were these days only activated in movies; there had not been an international conflict worth entering for over a decade according to each Commander in Chief, individually and collectively. 

Chester had been most proud of his article about returning focus to the country while there was very little to offer others, and take the opportunity to strengthen from within. The reality was more closely accurate to the former, with the latter receiving no real attention or dedication. 

So, with very little warning, Carter Garveson's name had been entered as a candidate anonymously. He was former Marine, so he didn't find this to be unbelievable, but troublesome. He had never liked crowds, he had never liked the Marines. He served briefly and confidently, but it was his distaste for brotherhood and intensity that left a bad taste in his mouth. His greatest moments in life came more recently, sitting on his porch swing with his wife of 55 years, her with a lemonade and him a Democracy, a drink of Crown Royale and limeade, ironic in that his distaste for the present state of the Union outreached only his desire to care. 

His experience had led him to desire pursuit of a Morale, Welfare, and Recreation specialty, but he had achieved closure much before he'd achieved the required ranking to obtain his process-of-elimination dream. The rest of his professional life was spent as a hiking and hunting guide, both done as much recreationally, and as his life-balance shifted beyond 50-50 of professional and personal, he gladly returned home more and more to his Mary. 

A first grade teacher since she herself could read, Mary loved Carter for whom he was, and that feeling was very much supported by what he wasn't. She knew him to be a sensitive, caring man, enjoying all sorts of music and the arts, loved his two children and his five grandchildren, and had the warmest hands and softest eyes. He was quite the opposite of an ex-Marine, and quite the fulfillment of everything a man should be, and eventually, quite the opposite of everything all of those constituents would want him to be. 

Epilogue

The all-female team of lawyers that had been sitting across the long rosewood table from Chester Bridgeman exited the room through a pair of finger-smudged glass doors. The cool lacquered surface felt gloriously against his face; his head felt as if he'd just removed it from an oven...on broil.

His lawyer sat next to him organizing papers, doing the best he could to not stir Chester to conversation understanding that any verbal review of his performance would not be pleasant. Unfortunately for him, the right side of Chester's face had warmed the table and turned to find a new coolness with the left, leaving Chester facing him.

"Whyyyyy..." he grunted a sigh, "are you still heeee-ruh." It was a crescendoed whine that concluded with a gravelly defeat.

The lawyer said nothing but clumped the rest of the papers together messily, shoved them under his sweat-soaked armpit.

"Now is that necessary?" a sarcastic voice rang out, dripping with a tone of victory.

Chester rolled onto his chin, his body remaining slumped and unmotivated to rise.

"The boy did his best, I'm sure."

The smirk that accompanied this address made Chester bite hard and breathe forcefully out of his nose.

The woman stood, a formidable figure with enticing curves, (though he would never admit to that now, (beyond the obvious admittance that came from being in this situation in the first place), due to the laws and such), and smiled proudly as she, too, left the room.

With his heart in his throat, Chester did the rational thing: he forced himself to accept that he was capable of dealing with this situation, that he had to regardless, and that he would do, from then on, exactly that which was societally expected of him...and he didn't buy into it for a second.

He had officially, and legally, entered into a game controlled by women, within a world now run by women. Unable to figure a more depressing and hopeless position to be in, he pushed back off the table and let his chair roll until his legs were locked and extended, his head slumped and he saw only the floor. With a new appreciation for that which is always walked on, he chuckled to himself, rose, and walked toward the door.

Hanging on the wall just inside the room was a portrait of President Bellona. Understanding fully the consequences of his action, he reached in his breast pocket, removed a pen, and poked it through the canvas. It whispered as he pulled down, splitting the painting in two.

If this was the world that women had endured previously, he had nothing but respect for them then, but now resented everything they'd come to make that time represent. He pushed through the glass door and headed toward the elevator.

"Stop!"

He expected capture but was a little discouraged at how quickly it had come.

A young woman rushed to his side. She wore jeans and a t-shirt, strange he thought considering many things, but didn't question as he put up his hands in surrender.

"Put your damn hands down and follow me. I can get you out of here before they notice that."

His trust was near depleted, but he figured there was no real harm at this point, so obeyed.

She led him quickly through a door that had been propped open and made sure he kicked said prop after he'd passed through. A few corner turns and he could see out a door marked Emergency Exit and into the parking lot.

"Well that was painless," he spouted doing his best not to sound out of breath.

She gave him a look as she opened the door. No alarm sounded. She held the door for him, he stepped outside.

"Down on your knees, now!" boomed a voice immediately to his right.

Unsurprised, he rolled his eyes, put his hands on his head, and dropped painfully to his knees...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He hated to place blame, especially for a situation that had clearly taken on a life of its own, but he could trace the entirety of this Nouveau-Redondantes Society to the third year of the first (and unfortunately only) term of President Lance Corporal Carter Garveson...