March used to think that was the reason he was drawn to, well, less healthy interests than his classmates: Dad never around. Mom tackling her own Get in her own special way. Plenty of free time as a boy. The solitary games.
Come on, Serena.
A little closer, Serena.
Look what I have for you, Serena...
March honestly couldn't say if he would have turned out different had he spent his evenings curled up in jammies as Mom or Dad read Lord of the Rings to him.
No, not much anger. Sure, "Markiatikakis" became "March" but that just made sense. He kept Antioch, didn't he?
Though I prefer Andy.
And he'd followed in his father's shoes. Life on the road. Life in business. And he was a salesman in a way.
In the employ of the website.
And working for his main boss.
The Get.
He could recall the exact moment of coining the term. In college. Hyde Park, U of C, the week of exams. He'd aced a few of them already and was prepared, completely prepared, for the rest. But he'd lain in bed, sweating and chewing on the inside of his cheek with compulsive molars. He'd tried video games, TV to calm down. No go. He'd finally given up and picked up a textbook for his Myths in the Classical World as Bases for Psychological Archetypes. He'd read the book several times and was prepared for the test but, as he flipped through the pages, he came across something he hadn't paid attention to. In the Oedipus story, where a son kills his father and sleeps with his mother, there was this line that referred to Oedipus as "the get of Jocasta and Laius."
The get...
What did that mean?
He'd looked it up. The word, as a noun, meant "offspring."
Despite his anxiety that night he'd laughed. Because in this context the word was perfect. Something within him, a creation in his own body, something he'd given birth to, was turning on him. The way Oedipus would destroy father and mother both.
And--he couldn't help but think of the pun--whatever this feeling was it forced young Antioch March to do whatever he could to "get" peace of mind, comfort.
And so the hunger, the lack, the edge was named.
The Get.
He'd felt it all his life, sometimes quiescent, sometimes voracious. But he knew it would never go away. The Get could unspool within you anytime it wanted.
It wanted, not you. You didn't have a say.
And if you didn't satisfy the Get, well, there were consequences.
Somebody wasn't happy...
He'd talked to doctors about this, of course--that is, shrinks. They understood, they called it something else but it was the same. They wanted him to talk about his issues, which meant he'd have to be open about Serena, the Intersection, about Todd. Which wasn't going to happen. Or they wanted to give him meds (and that made the Get mad, which was something you never, ever wanted to have happen).
March always tried to be temperate on his jobs. But the Get was pacing on clawed feet. The Asian family's death had been denied him, the theater disaster too.
What the hell? He flagged down the cheery waitress.
"A Johnnie Walker Black. Neat."
"Sure. Are you finished?"
"I am, yes."
"A box?"