DISCLAIMER: As to the RGB, I don’t own anything but a piece of imagination and an ability to feel affection. None of those are extremely profitable in the financial sense. So I happily don’t make any money of my activities in this field.
NOTES: English is my second language, so there could be lots and lots of mistakes in the text; thanks to Sandy A., it avoided being grammatically and stylistically crippled in several places.
I’d appreciate any comments (including the most severe criticism). Thank you in advance!
INTERLUDE 1: A Curse of Irrationality
...I don’t rely on intuition too often. I was raised to believe in logic and scientific method, and premonitions are not my general argument in any discussion, even if I am holding a dispute with myself. But there is no logical explanation for my initial impression of Peter Venkman. He did behave logically - for someone who was as full of himself as he looked, but sometimes a hypothesis seems flawless until it proves to be 'too flawless', preternaturally flawless. There is no absolutes in the universe - and Peter’s attitude was absolutely perfect. He acted like a perfect representative of Thackeray’s Vanity Fair.
Perfection is cruel to both its owner and those around him, and I had never seen that confirmed as thoroughly as in this particular case. I witnessed Peter enjoying popularity, but I doubted very much that it was what he truly needed. Any image demands maintenance, and if the one you are wearing doesn’t fit you, it is... rather unpleasant. And Teddy provided me with the last fragment I required to make sure my conclusion had not been baseless.
I don’t often indulge in irrationality, either. But it had been most irrational of me to become possessed with the idea of helping Peter to… relax, at least. I am not a psychologist, and I’ll probably never become one because I certainly lack abilities to understand people adequately and to react accordingly. Sometimes I wonder if an individual can be deprived of such a gift - as the others are deprived of an ear for music...
Part 2. DO YOU SPEAK SPENGLERIAN?
By Wednesday it had become clear that news of the events on the skating-rink hadn’t crossed its borders. And I almost regretted it. There are few times when I hate being right, but this was one of them. I couldn’t put it out of my head that I knew for sure he wouldn’t tell anybody about my escapade. Of course, he was not too talkative and I doubted very much he would waste his valuable time speaking to anyone from fraternity, let alone the football team. So it would have been a sure bet anyway, wouldn’t it?
Damn that Spengler!
Three days ago I would have happily sworn the guy didn’t pay attention to anything in the world except his books and test tubes; I’d have bet he wouldn’t recognize a joke, if it came and sat on his beaky nose - and I could definitely forget about him in a hot minute. Well, almost. He's kind of hard to ignore, despite being so quiet.
We had two classes and several seminars together, and I am neither blind nor deaf. All the professors got a bit nervous around him, though he never asked them any questions during the lectures. That was a pity; I had no doubt it would be fun. But they had to be really grateful for Spengler's silence. The seniors told legends about Egon’s first semester at Columbia and his first – and last! - question...
Okay, he is smart, I have never denied it. But is it enough to make me wish... Hell! to make me wish we could talk?
The answer is no, that’s a given. I had plenty of people to talk myself to death. And none of them would come up to me and Teddy. They would certainly know better than that.
Who cares?
The scary thing was, I didn't know why I even cared.
I thrust my fork into a piece of cucumber with more force than was strictly called for. The plate protested loudly, and I pushed it aside, fighting the sudden urge to do it again, on purpose.
“Try again,” I heard an encouragement from behind, as if on clue. “Perhaps, you will actually pinpoint four intermolecular spaces this time.”
I growled. Literally. Double damn him! Is he gonna haunt me? Maybe I should make a ghost out of him, so he'd be entitled.
“Well, well, well,” I said with a serene smile,“aren’t we honored!”
“Hardly.” Spengler put his tray down on my table and took a seat.
“You know, this seat is taken,” I notified him confidentially.
“That’s obvious,” he admitted. “By me.”
I grunted in spite of myself. I was going to make a lousy psychologist. He never ceased to amaze me. From day one. “Sorry, I didn't notice at first.
“Never mind. You managed it on your second attempt,” Spengler consoled.
Just who was making fun of whom here?!
“Will I get a medal?” I asked sarcastically.
“Hmm...” He studied the table for a moment, then he fished a cracker out of the pack and handed it to me.I took my award and tested it with a tooth.
“That wasn’t gold,” I announced indignantly, chewing the offending thing.
“Second attempt,” Egon reminded, unabashed. “It was silver.”
Damn, he was good. I mean, I like challenge, and by that time I knew for sure Egon would give me plenty. Maybe, more than I could handle. Wow!
“Can I contest this result?”
“No. Not before you win a skating-race.” He arched an eyebrow questioningly.
The truth of the situation dawned just before I found myself about to nod eagerly. So much for my alertness.
Okay, I was horrified. So I struck.
“That desperate for a company, huh?” It could've sounded like a joke or good-natured taunt, but I packed plenty of disdain into it. And that's someting I'm pretty good at.
Egon actually blinked. And for a fraction of a moment he looked not a day older than seven. An easy trick with those big blue eyes and long lashes. For some reason I felt like a jerk. Well, that wasn't a new sensation for me, was it? I put a glass with juice to my lips and sipped, wondering vaguely what this juice had been squeezed from. It was absolutely tasteless.
He recovered immediately - faster than anyone who had happened to find himself under Venkman’s REAL fire.
“No, you don’t seem desperate, rest assured,” he replied dryly.
Again! Turning my own barbs against me, but not before the edge is poison free. He did it again, though I saw him ready to say something, which which would, no doubt, have been dead on target... and unbearably so.
Spengler was a big “why” - in more ways than one. And - a rare thing! - I didn’t want to know any of the reasons. Not now. Never, if I could help it.
I pushed my stool backwards and started to get up.
“Must you be fleeing... er... going already?”
Stunned, I fell back. Hell! I couldn’t leave it at that. He was reading me like one of his books – the one he knew by heart! If I gonna become a psychologist, he must be psychic - already.
“Did they feed you with milk or acid, when you were a baby?” I asked sourly, taking his glass to pour over the shock.
“As a matter of fact, I was told my mother preferred quite a special formula.”
I choked and sprayed the juice in a fountain which would’ve done a whale credit.
“Most impressive,” Egon approved, handing me his handkerchief.
I glared at him, but not too vehemently. If looks could kill, he just would have been scratched a little.
“I’ll make you pay for that,” I promised, trying to clean the stains from my light green sweater.
“Do you mean your laundry bill?”
I raised my eyes to Egon’s face, suppressing the urge to laugh and studying his blank expression, spoiled by the sparkles in the blue depths behind the glasses.
“No, dry cleaning.”
He sighed and nodded, hiding his smile rather effectively behind the napkin pressed to his lips.
“Very well. You will have your property restored to its original condition. When shall we race?”
“Even you can’t be THAT ignorant,” I challenged. “I'm not exactly making a fashion statement in juice stains, here. I can't go to town like THIS."
“Vanitas vanitatum, Peter,” Egon rebuked.
Jeez! Do you speak Spenglerian? I had a feeling I would be forced to learn.
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