Restless

(For a newer draft of this story, click here.)

My chest. The only noise a heartbeat. It throbs. My heart is bucking wildly, becoming unhinged. Am I dying? Nothing else seems alive—all energy is focused to that spot. Frenzied thudding. My head feels lighter. Helium in my brain. Limbs feel distant, noncompliant. I am in a concussive daze, no senses operating properly.

Breathe. You can breathe. You should breathe. I gasp. Phlegm pops in my throat and air breaks through my open mouth. Cool air strains through an irritated throat. It is the refrain, slight and staticy, to the heavy drumbeat. Haunted.

The pounding subsides and the adrenaline dilutes. Other faculties ramp up.

Something is very wrong. My collar is an unsqueezed sponge, hoarding chilled sweat. Everything is absolutely ruined. Dejection. But why?

What happened? Think back. My last memories are fractured. Overcast and rainy. Shiny pavement and old stone buildings. Europe? Travel. A car, silver then mangled. A car wreck. Screaming. She was with me. Was hurt. Vanished. Dead? I twitch at the thought.

Where am I? Crumpled on my side. No pain. My eyes are closed. Open them. Nothing. Blind? It is completely dark. I stare forward. My hungry pupils expand to no avail. Nothing but encompassing black. Crushing. I let my eyelids fall.

Wait. I am horizontal. Lying. Bed. I wiggle my hands over worn cotton. This is a bed. My legs, swaddled in sheets pinned by a hip, are constrained. I've been here the whole time. You’re all right. It didn’t really happen. Invented.

Is she all right? Parts were maybe true. Has she been gone for months? Oh God I am alone. Confused and only thinking the loss of her was a dream. What now? No, no. She is next to you, just sleeping. Check. Go on.

I free myself and rotate cautiously onto my other side. A spring creaks. Stubble grates against the pillow cushion. Velcro. Now silence. She is making no noise. None. Is she there? Has she stopped breathing? Why can’t I hear her? I send out a probing finger. It crosses petrifying lengths of space. At last resistance. A cushy lump. Her back. Respiration. Facing the other way.

Partial relief. At least she’s with me. The disturbance does not abate entirely. Heart slower than head. Doom lingers. If only I could tell someone. Get reassurance. But I won’t wake her. Wouldn’t dare disturb. She is such a light sleeper. She’d never make it back. Instead trapped—inside a skull inside this cavern.

I lie on my stomach with my left ear on the pillow. The hushed rustle of material made loud by proximity. Rest. You need to rest. Kinked neck. Another tired day in store for me. You have to call Leyland. Tell him about the South Bend branch. Incident. He’ll blame me, but… No. Be still. It’s night.

I don’t care what he says. I followed procedure. Documented to a T. Show him the report. Point out the date. Must be careful…

A plastic snap sounds in the hallway. An electric whir. A muffled rumble. The furnace rouses. It’s less than 66. Damn drafts. Heater can't keep up. Complain at Stevens again. Caulk the windows for chrissake. It's like living in a tent. Good for nothing. Once the lease expires. March. Maybe someplace further downtown. Greenwood. We can afford to move up.

Look at you. You’re only getting yourself excited.

I am tired. Come on sleep overtake me. I try detaching. A sink draining. Little currents swirling, emptying down the pipe. Evacuating all thoughts. Relax. Methodic breathes, measured and deep. Yes. Fading away.

The furnace keeps blowing. My legs are off. Splayed out. My hip complains. Roll over. I lay one leg atop the other and wad covers between them. The knee caps press annoyingly into each other. Pillow on the ground? I lean over and paw. I wave at the air. I lean over further, the bedding comes with, and she shifts. Ugh. I graze something. I stretch, envision my fingers lengthening. Enough to pinch. I reel it in and maneuver it in place. Aligned. I lie stiff as a board. There. Stay with this. Patience. It’ll work.

The furnace shuts off. Soundless again.

My ear is hot. I lift up and flip the pillow. I put my head back down. My cheek welcomes the temperature. There. Finally.

How long have I been at this? No telling what time it is. We don’t have a clock in the bedroom. She says it makes it harder for her. Distracting. The curiosity drives me up the wall sometimes. It’s probably two or three. Not a seam of light under the door. It is too late and too early. Must sleep be taken from me? A gracious departure from the day.

Exposed skin struggles against the chill. Blood sheds its heat along the way to the extremities. The tip of my nose is frigid. As soon the heater stops, we plunge. Leaking live a sieve.

Stillness is total. I’m in a cave. Tormented by my own self. Running out ahead of me. No one to talk to. No way to get this out. I keep poor company in here. With myself.

Stop this. Stop listening. No words. Just count. I count back from ten, picturing the numbers, blocky and made of glass. Only the numbers, animated. They shrink to a point. The next bursts forward. I make it to seven before I notice my ankle is twisted funny. I push the pillow farther down to raise it. Better. My arm is cold. Blanket? Clumped round my waist. I feel the plush fibers and pull. The added weight on my shoulder soothes. I am ready. This is it.

From nowhere, an irritant. I must cough. Imperative. A tickle commands me. Swallowing does not assuage. I clamp my mouth shut and spasm slightly. My abdomen contracts. Tears well in the corner of my eyes. Another spasm suppressed. No! I will not. Mutiny within me. The tickle claws to center stage. I make fists and squeeze. Go away!

The demand is too great. I bury my face and let loose a breathy, unsatisfying attempt. The tickle returns. The fabric is wet from my tears. I try again. The volume increases and rattles loose mucus from my chest. Salt on the back of my tongue.

She stirs. Tugs at the covers. Have I awoken her? I listen.

Nothing.

Stop this. You’re going to be ruined tomorrow. Tomorrow will be awful. You’ll be so tired. I’ll blast frantic music to make it through and be spent by noon. It drags. Awful. Nothing too worthy to do. But this, doing nothing, is worse. Frozen in this trap.

Dank underarms. Atrocious. I peel off my drenched shirt and toss it. My silhouette radiates heat. I shift closer the bed’s edge. My throat feels raw. Tells me to swallow but isn’t helped when I do. Saliva manages to scratch. Keeps on telling me to swallow. Vicious. I should have put a cup next to the bed. Sink is impossibly far.

The alarm will violate me. Rise cotton-headed and sullen. Not her. She has something to wake up for. She’s happy. Dream job. Happy at home; happy away. I’m neither. I’m so spent by the time I clock out I can’t muster the will to enjoy myself. What a terrible rut to fall into, to just grind along. Against what? Spirit versus the whetstone. There’s no choice in it—no real, vital choice. You can’t really keep your eyes shut.

The walls may be closing in and I wouldn’t know it. Too damn dark.

A tone sounds. Not objectively audible but still disruptive. It rings, warbleless. Solid. A note through time. Time I am awake hearing something that is nothing. Fabricated. Auditory malfunction. Hallucination. High-pitched. With my index finger, I massage my ear. The tone. More vigorous rubbing. The quick succession of open and shut canal. Ignore it.

Can’t get up. Can’t stay here. Stuck conscious and alone. Dropped in a box and taped shut. Torture. Interrogation without the light. Without the good cop. Just a cellar and you, left to your devices, til you crack. Fissures forming.

Alert, I lie on my back. Arms at my sides. Struggle to relax. Pretend a scan descends, systematically releasing tension. Shoulders. Spine. Hips. Curl and uncurl toes. Melting but no longer drowsy. A random snap from structural settling interrupts the quiet. My eyes open reflexively. No ceiling.

How can I clear my mind with all of this? So much discomfort. Pain isn't localized. It is evenly diffused, dredged in defeat. Unintended victory. I spent my best, most carefree years sacrificing to arrive at this place and then… and then old and empty. We're repeating. Life as a rerun. Even when you try to get something fresh and new, you’re undone by the knowledge of the rerun. The novelty only occurred to you because you’re repeating. Pitiful.

I told her once I’d jump off a bridge if she ever left me, that I’d end it all if she ever was taken away. But now I’m not so sure. I think I’d just stay here in this spot and die of thirst. If only. I’d drink eventually. Can’t resist the impulse. Coward.

If to be in despair is not knowing you're despairing, what is it when it’s known? I know I am despairing as thoroughly as I know my waking life.

You’ll be better after you work. Put this behind you. You have to fall asleep sometime. Maybe you can hop on the treadmill during lunch. Get the juices flowing to perk you up. Tomorrow is a new day.

But it’s already past midnight. It is the new day. Again.

Speech Impediment (III of III)

According to my copy of the retreat’s schedule, I’ll be in ‘Conference Room #D’. I resolve to briefly investigate.

The conference rooms are in a detached building accessible by a crumbling aggregate sidewalk. The structure is rustic: a façade of large tan and orange stones and splintery timber framing. The foyer is dark but for the light filtered through the tinted glass door. A vacuum keeps watch in a corner. One of those ubiquitous black signs with white letters behind glass says “Room B - ENG, Inc.” and nothing more. Ed Miller is not a headliner.

D’s door is unlocked and drags against the berber carpet in its path. This is my stage. An amphitheater it is not. Their air is morgue cold. I fiddle with the thermostat and the furnace squeaks on. The west wall features generously sized-windows with vertical blinds, some of which rustle gently with the ventilation. Several stained drop ceiling tiles bulge with ancient water damage. Max capacity looks to be 40. Chairs with diverse colors from varied eras stand behind long rectangular tables. What looks to be a slide projector rests atop of a wheeled cart wedged along the southwest wall. Just what I need. I unplug the projector and put it on the ground beside. I wheel it in front of the music stand that promises to be my modest podium. Bearings gotten, I depart up the path and through the hotel's side doors.

I take 152’s key from my pocket and unlock the deadbolt. The early morning sun pools in a scalloped puddle under the drapes. The room has not changed since the first time I opened the door. Nothing moved, not even the air. The continuity irks me. At home, objects are out of place. There is clutter. On the road, it’s frozen and sterile.

I unsuccessfully try to kill at least one of my remaining hours with a nap. The bed creaks with my presence. I lie on my back and intertwine my hands on my chest. Breath whistles through my nostrils. Glowing coals are in my stomach. The room is dim enough to sleep but not quiet enough. 150 has either cranked the Price Is Right or the walls are made of reinforced parchment. The enthusiastic invitation to join the players in the first row is clear as day. I roll over to my left side. Rental car keys poke my thigh, so I extract them and toss them on the floor. I avoid thinking whenever it occurs to me I am doing so. My thoughts are phrases rather than paragraphs or pages. The jingles and applause disrupt their haphazard beginnings. Stimulants for breakfast may have something to do with it.

I give in to my unrest. The remote on the night stand has six total buttons. I thumb just two: on and up. I surf unimpressed. Of the thirteen viewable channels, three are dedicated to weather. Five are televisual noise in an array of colors, some with rolling black or green bars. At this time of day, the rest are shows with boisterous audiences and paternity tests. I feel worse for my attempt at distraction. A commercial for denture adhesive sends me over the edge of discontent. I rise to brave the shower in hopes of refreshment.

The fan moans its welcome. I disrobe gripping the sink for balance. A dismaying paunch hangs slackly when I bend to release my legs from my pants. I catch it in the mirror, drooping and puckered around the navel. Sucking in does not work. It only creates unattractive dimples, valleys around a receded mountain. Some days it looks worse than others. I’m not certain whether my physique is changing or my frame of mind. Some days I hate myself for what I’m becoming against my will. Other days, there’s much less resistance. It is what it is.

My skin is translucent like taffy wrappers. The purple-blue veins and feathery capillaries meander starkly beneath. The only opacities are the moles. Age spots. I discover more daily. Where do they come from? Even your body hair thins and the remnants go gray. My legs are bald and my quads balding. Not a muscle on my frame is hard any more. At best, the active ones can become the consistency of a stress ball when flexed.

I must sit to remove my socks. My toenails have started to flatten and become brittle. Despite obsessive trimming, they are prone to snag my socks and make me shudder. If only we weren’t embodied.

My ring goes onto the sink’s rim with a clank. There is a pale band around my finger like the midsection on a nightcrawler. I massage it.

I bring the opened bar of soap with me. I pull back the curtain and position myself at a safe distance from the filthy drain. The pipe protruding out of the wall and the showerhead are the same diameter. With a three quarters turn of the knob, water sprays in a crescent moon. Calcium crusts over the rest of the tiny openings.

After a second's delay, the water could cook a lobster. I let swaths of flesh turn beet red. My strongest desire all day is to be swaddled without end in this warmth. My unwatered parts are jealous in their chilly exposure.

The showerhead terminates around my sternum, making me crouch to wash and rinse my hair. My knees nearly knock at the strain. The lustrous shampoo in my palm smells faintly fruity. It lathers well. While I wait for the recommended two minutes, I clean the rest of me. Globs of suds slither down my calves. The young man refuses to leave the back of my mind. The line between stoicism and resignation is faint.

I rinse off and resign to the relatively arctic exterior environs. Mist spins and curls, inhaled by the exhaust fan. Steam shrouds the upper half of the mirror. I dry off as quickly as possible. My loins look pilled like a plucked turkey. I vigorously towel my hair. At least I have hair. I am here and able. It is good to be alive.

I riffle through my shaving kit to find my trimmer. I clip the longer whiskers of my mustache. It’s modeled off of Walt Disney’s. A lot of my persona is. He was the consummate father figure, the icon of benign paternalism. The comb passes easily through my hair and falls in a well-trained ducktail. The scalp beneath is pink and vulnerable.

With cleaning complete, I lay the remaining towels on the bed and collapse again. The set in 150 is muted or off. Here I am again in the familiarly unfamiliar. The pillow crumples like a diaper. The ceiling looks acned. My mind searches for a pattern and finds a grin, sinister for its lack of eyes and meaty chin. The image dissolves.

I think about calling Debbie. It’s the same time in Wichita. She should be awake and moving. I should let her know I’ve arrived safely. But I have nothing new to say, so I don’t bother. What is there to share? She would not want to hear from me anyway. She would stammer through minimal responses while reading the paper. There’s only peace between us—the limpid, disengaged peace of strangers.

I notice the pain in my thoracic spine. It feels like I've been stabbed with a lit sparkler. My back protests regardless of my position. The doctors say it’s the nature of things. So it seems.

I clear my mental debris. It’s time to compose. I visualize adults in a bright lit #D, shifting in their chairs and staring blankly. Some mouths gape open. One person will take notes like there’ll be a test. Another will spend the duration with a finger in or about his nose. I try to concentrate on the task at hand, on what I’m going to say. I cycle through bits. I extract my notebook from my satchel.

The sconce will not light up. I trace down the conduit to find the plug dangling. Once connected to the nearby outlet, the lamp illuminates as it should.

I peel it open and read over entries at random.

“There’s an ‘I’ in the middle of every choice.” [Spell ‘CHOICE’ on a pad/board, underlining the ‘I’.]  “There’s an ‘I’ in the middle of life, too.” [Spell ‘LIFE’ on a pad/board, underlining the ‘I’.] But just who is this ‘I’ though?  It’s you of course. The ‘I’ is all of us in this room. I don’t claim to know all about him or her, but I know a little bit. The self-helpers talk about how each of us is unique and different, but I want us to see how similar we are. We’ve never met before, but I can say at least one thing about each of you. We’re all here in this room because we have a job to do. You have a job to do. Now, there’s a lot more to who you are, but that part is undeniable. What does that mean? Let’s go farther than the obvious. [Look around.] I know I can say this: your job is where you are at least 24% of any given week. Take sleep out, and it’s 42% of your waking life. That’s your station. That’s a significant part of you as a whole and try as we might, we can’t really get rid of it. I’ve met a lot of people who like to compartmentalize their life and minimize the place of their jobs. That can be fatal, though. If you lop of 42% of yourself, how much are you left with? [Pause] Everything from the navel down.”


“[Write ‘Money’] Money is a fickle motivator. People are excited by the prospect of it, but eventually the inspirational reality of it in your pocket always peters out. The stuff you can get with it or the times you can buy with it let you down. [Cross out ‘Money’] Principles, though, they endure. [Write and underline ‘Principles’] That’s a secret I should let you in on because you aren’t going to hear it from on the news. You aren’t going to learn it from that desire in you to check out what your neighbor has, but it’s the truth. So, let’s talk about principles. You don’t need to have a great job to believe it deserves to be done well. You don’t need to be thanked in order to earn praise because everyone knows what they’re doing and knows whether they’ve done enough, well enough. It’s part of what it is to be an ‘I’.”

“I heard it in a song that life’s not so bad that it can’t get any worse. I like that. That’s the truth. Have you ever thought about life that way? [Pause] Let’s try it together. What could get worse in your lives? Think about it. [Pause] I’ll go first. [Raise your left hand.] My wife of 30 years could leave me. That’d make it a whole lot worse. What about you all? [Take answers.] Good. Now, that we have that answered, I have another question. Why don’t we live with a little more conscious gratitude for what we have?”

I lick my index finger and turn the page.

“When I was a child, one of my teachers called me simple. Hard to believe, right? Me, simple? Anyway, at the time I didn’t know what it meant, so I asked my mother. And what did she say? [Look around.] Well, nothing to me. She reached for the phone and called the principal directly. That principal got an earful and I still didn’t learn what it meant. Looking back on it, it’s funny to me. Simple-minded is taken as an insult, but it should be taken as a compliment. Simple is good… It’s that simple. The most successful people in the world have been simple-minded. Do you think that’s a coincidence? I’m here to tell you it’s not. The singularity of their purpose is what keeps them from wasting time in the wrong direction. Remember this from school? [Draw a line between two points and then a wiggly line between two points. Put an ‘x’ through the wiggly.] The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. The simplest routes don't have detours. Think about it. We don’t put wide-angle lenses on horses, we put on blinders. People are afraid of limitations, but we shouldn’t be. Friends, we are limited, aren’t we? Who here feels unlimited?” [Pause for affect.] “Nobody?” [Pause for affect.] “Good. I didn’t think so. We are limited everywhere—in our homes or apartments, in our relationships, and in our jobs, too. We need to admit it. We need to see it because limitation can be good. Focus is a type of limitation. You know that.”

I mutter sections aloud. I strike through the last sentence. I am concerned about flow, about sounding genuine. People can tell whether you’re convinced of the truth of what you say from the first words out of your mouth. To avoid suspicion I perform with a casual air, like I’m not there to convince. I am afraid to be charged with hypocrisy. My delivery tends to exonerate me. I get Fours and Fives out of Five on the Believability column of my Feedback Cards.

“What happens when we don’t see something that’s right in front of us? [Pause to take answers.] Very good. We trip over it or we run into it. We get hurt because of our own blind spots. That’s not limited to physical space. Interior space works a lot like the exterior. You can trip yourself up subjectively, too. Did you ever think about that? So, let’s see our limitations and act in light of them. People who harp on the power of choice overstate their case. Have you ever noticed that? [Pause] They never mention how little choice there is in some weighty parts of life. I’m not going to do that to you. I’m not here to sell books. Because there’s a whole lot out there that’s not your doing and isn’t your choice, but there’s some that is. What’s your part? What job do you have to do and how is that limited? We need to get the right scope, here. [Pause to take answers.]”

“You’ve heard of the power of positive thinking, but what you don’t hear so much about is the place of positive thinking. You can’t be positive everywhere or about everything. That’ll get you in trouble, the sort of trouble that makes a person need pills before long. Anybody who has ever worked with electricity can verify if positivity is applied where it doesn’t belong, you’ll blow a fuse at best or start a fire at worst. I don’t want that for you or anyone, so I go around the country teaching people basic safety. You need to protect yourself against faulty ways of thinking as much—if not more—than you do against faulty wiring. Whoever told you, or even implied, that life is all about happiness was either wrong or trying to sell you something. Not me. I say it like it is. There’s sadness and struggling in this world and always will be. You can’t stop it, but you can manage it. Have any of you being skiing? A show of hands. [Pause] Well, if you’ve been skiing, you know there’s a right way to fall. The same goes for football. There’s a right way to take a hit. It doesn’t stop with sports and recreation. There are ways to manage the blows that come from living.”

“[Pour water into the big cup, halfway up.] Folks like to ask: is the cup half-full or half empty? They think it tells a lot about the person answering and I suppose it does. So, let’s see. By a show of hands, which is it?” [Raise the big cup high, eucharistically.]  “Half-full?” [Pause.] “Half-empty?” [Pause] “Well, I say it’s a false dichotomy. You see, there are so many other options. Full and empty doesn’t tell the whole story.” [Pour the water from the big cup into the small cup. Allow spillage.]  “The answer is clear now. Do you see it? The controversy’s gone. My cup overfloweth! Ladies and gentlemen, full and empty has less to do with the water and more to do with your cup. [Pause] Friends, what I’m trying to tell you here is simple. You don’t even need me to say it. You already know it. You knew it before you sat down in this room. You’ve known it since you were a child, but you’ve probably forgotten. Expectations make your reality. If you make your cup fit what you carry, you’ll be happy. I promise you that. Because in the end it’s not about the size of the cup, what it’s made of, or the color. It’s about how well it fits what it holds.”

I grab a pen from the front pocket and add to the last entry.

“Maybe your job isn’t glamorous. Maybe you spend most of your days resetting people’s passwords and unjamming printers. Sounds bad, doesn’t it? Boring? [Pause.] Let me tell you though, there’s a need for that. There’s nobility to that. Maybe a new password will allow your coworker to write that report that changes the course of your company or maybe it lets him check his personal email. Maybe that functional printer lets a person print off that document just in the nick of time to beat her deadline or maybe it lets her print 20% Off coupons at Macy’s. The outcome is irrelevant. You probably wouldn’t know it anyways. What matters is that you have a set of tasks. They are your duties. Yours. Whether you like them or not, you signed up for it—freely—and now you are bound by them.”

I tap the pen to my lip. I continue. “It’s okay to be bound. It’s nothing to be afraid of. That’s what freedom is supposed to lead to. You have freedom, you use it, and you abide by how you used it. Life is a series of obligations. Did you ever think about that? [Pause.] Of course you’re free to abandon what you bound yourself with, but that makes us weak. It makes us liars, contract-breachers. It makes us untrustworthy. It’s disintegrating. Don’t you want integrity? Then do your job as well as you intended to way back when you were interviewed for the position or accepted the promotion.”

I close my notebook and attempt summoning my enthusiasm. It will not come. Dread comes in its place. 10:12. I am in a bind. I want to be away from here, but not down that sidewalk. 22 years in, I have seen more sad faces at close range than I care to. With under an hour to go, I don't like what I do any more than them. You can’t like what’s born out of problems. I wouldn’t have a job if people did so often have problems with their own. The issue is bigger than me. Work ruins so many of us, and still for most of us it's all we have. Most days, I feel like the only lives I've changed are my family's and my own and not for the better. So much of what I say just bounces off the walls. I can’t tell if it’s my fault or theirs. Debbie says it’s both but that doesn’t help. I am tired of all of this. I am falling apart. 

But the show must go on. There is no choice. I call the front desk to request an iron. Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. An abandoned iron wrapped by its cord waits at my feet. A note taped to it instructs me to return it to the front counter as soon as possible.

I fashion an ironing board out of a towel and the dresser top. The iron hisses over my collar. No starch could be found. A fresh press will do fine. It’s important to look sharp but not managerial. I hold the shirt up and approve. I put it on, leaving the top button open. I tuck my shirt into my pleated khakis and wrap a belt through the loops. Cordovan penny loafers complete the ensemble. In the still-thick air of the bathroom, I look myself over. After my palm tames a wild hair, I am presentable.

I untwist the twist tie on the white plastic sleeve and eat a series of saltines. The crackers go from crisp to mushy in a single bite. I tongue the roof of my mouth to scrape off the doughy residue. I grab a glass from my satchel and fill it at the sink. I swallow. It must be hard to filter the river out of river water. I dry the glass out with a hand towel, place it back in my satchel, and put the satchel over my shoulder.

For the last time, I head for #D. The hallways are deserted. Everyone must be waiting already.

I am greeted by a middle manager inside the foyer. She must recognize me from the promotional material. Her teeth are impeccable and her dress is best described as ‘smart’. Our banter is cordial but forgettable. I confirm my readiness. I give her my card and tell her to tell her friends. She reassures me her teammates are super excited to hear me. I smile and nod. She asks if I want an introduction and I decline. She says she’ll be sitting off to the side if I need anything else. I thank her but explain mine is a low-tech affair that does not warrant assistance.

Unnoticed, I survey the room. Everyone is slumping and denimed. The rows are segregated by gender. My hungry friend is two rows back, leaning on the chair’s back legs. A fortysomething man sits atop one of the tables, wagging his legs leisurely. He seems to be the locus of the room’s energy. His flannel clashes a bit with his hornrimmed glasses. The rest look winded from the 9:30a Team Building Scavenger Hunt. The men are thick and sweating although it can only be 60° at most outside.

Pre-performance symptoms are exceptionally acute now. The sloshing of circulating blood muffles my hearing. My hands shake, visibly I worry. The knot in my gut is Gordian. I inquire after a water fountain. The manager directs an eager-looking woman to fetch me a bottle. She returns with two. I offer one to the manager, who obliges. After three gulps, I feel more myself. Two deep breathes reset me completely.

I cross the threshold. The anemic furnace struggles to create room temperature. While the audience is seated and chatting, I fuss with the set ritualistically. I grab two glass cups, one larger than the other, from my satchel. I put them on the projector cart, center stage. I want them to see me put these two cups down. The show has already begun. I want half them to lean over to the other half and ask, “What’re those cups about do you think?” Part of my gratis bottle of water goes into filling the larger of the two glasses halfway up. I turn to address the audience. Not many are looking back at me. I put my hands in my pockets and clear my throat. I inhale, close my eyes, exhale, and open my eyes.

“Good morning everyone.”

Speech Impediment (II of III)

Walking down the corridor, I get the feeling I could be anywhere—at least anywhere American. This is one of a million such stretches. The wall art is dated and vaguely Southwestern. Turquoise, sage, and terra cotta. It’s hard to imagine the prints ever looking good, even when new. The signatures are anonymous scribbles forged by a printer.

Traffic picks up on the east wing. I suppress my pedestrian road rage equivalent behind two hunchbacked and shuffling guests. Room 185 has been converted into a makeshift dining room. A wall dividing 185 from either 187 or 188 has a passageway cut out of it, opening onto an area where the chef/waitress/janitor is stationed. The kitchen appliances consist of a microwave, toaster, and two industrial-sized coffee urns. A spread of Danish glisten in fatty dullness on a counter. Waxy apples lie in wait. Trashcans already overflow. A TV mounted in the corner is showing a local newscast. The set is outdated and the screen skews colors to blue. Half of the patrons are more decrepit than I am, which is simultaneously relieving and unnerving. People are speaking more loudly than they realize. Over the ambient din, the employee announces “Sausage!” A wave of nausea passes over me at the thought.

A plain packet of instant oatmeal with a grinning Quaker greets me as I riffle through a bin labeled ‘Hot Ceareal.’ Perfect. A steaming pot of clearish water rests on a burner. I swirl some of it into my bowl. A drop splatters and singes the fleshy part of my hand. I wipe it on my pants leg. The pain subsides. I snag a cup of coffee and a napkin/spoon combo pack. The coffee smells like nothing but extreme heat. I walk with caution.

A two-top is open in the corner and I make a gingerly beeline for it. I settle down and unwrap what turns out to be a spork.

The conference goers in the room are easy to spot by their nametags. Nametags make me sad. The handwriting is rarely precise and often calls the wearer’s competence into question. Letters are bunched, slanted, or squiggled. There’s no quicker way to make an adult seem like a child than asking him to write his name on a sticker and apply it to his chest.

The coffee is in fact molten. After many a cooling breath, I discover it may well have been filtered through a comforter. It tastes synthetic, but it’ll due. Desperate times.

“Taken?”

A heavy-set man in his mid-to-late twenties is already pulling out the vacant seat across from me. With the body control of a server, he palms his stacked-high plate. He’s wearing a black T-shirt under a black untucked Oxford.

“It’s all yours.” I rub my reddening hand.

His name is written in indecipherably light pencil. The tag may be blank. He heeded the sausage announcement. He’s ringless. We eat in relative silence for a while except for the chalky noise of his cutting on styrofoam. I am more alert after my second cup of coffee. I notice the brown liquid on his plate isn’t sausage related. It’s syrup. I prod my oatmeal with my spork.

He begins. “So uh, what brings you here?”

“A gig. You?”

He cocks his head and furrows his brow like a dog to a new sound. “Gig? Like stand up?”

“No not quite. I’m giving a speech.”

“Why’d you call it a gig?”

“It’s just what we call them in the business.”

“Oh.” The disappointment is palpable.

“It’s a lot like stand-up, actually.”

He hums through his forkful of meat. He asks, “You talking today?” between chews.

“Yeah at 11. Will you be there?”

“I sorta have to be.” He discovered the actual plastic spoons and uses his on a bowl of Fruity Floats.

“Yeah.” I pause. “But at least you have the day off.”

He frowns momentarily, squishing the lump in his cheek. “Sure. I’m not complaining or anything. I mean I’ll take any chance I can get to get away from the office.”

“You look a little wet behind the ears to be burnt out.”

I’ve caught him with his mouth full, so he angles his head back and speaks around his food. “You ever work a 9 to 5 job? It doesn’t take long. Two, three months tops.”

Watching him does nothing for my appetite. “Decades ago, yes. I was a guidance counselor in another life.”

Conversation trails off. He slurps the sweet dregs of cereal. He consumes the entire contents of his cup in two gulps. Is he in a hurry? He’s drawn to the commotion surrounding the microwave. He leaves to get something more to eat or drink. I take my first tentative bite. The oatmeal tastes like a moist paper towel. I bury the spork in the mound and leave it there.

The ladies one table over discuss the pros and cons of wool clothing, taking turns to make a statement and reply with enthusiastic affirmation. A peel of laughter erupts from a man with a horseshoe of salt-and-pepper hair. The employee appears despondent. The buzzers of coffee pots and microwaves erupt more often than a single person can manage.

The wallpaper features small bouquets of cornflowers repeating on diagonal axes atop a taupe background. A chair rail of dark wood skirts the room and a border of vintage mechanized farm implements trims the top of the walls. Most of this country is country.

He approaches our table with a cup in each hand a slice of toast in his teeth. Maybe it’s the challenge of free food that drives him. He places his toast in the puddle of greasy syrup on his plate and sits. “So do you say the same stuff everywhere you go or what?”

“Not exactly. The professionals have five to seven canned acts. I don’t have any fixed speeches. It varies.” His eyes are on me but are not focused. He blinks. Perhaps he wants more. “My material—what I say—is mostly in a notebook I keep with me. I basically write my thoughts down in script form, complete with stage directions. It calms my nerves to have it memorized." He's wiping his fingers on a napkin. "I mix all the little snippets together based on what the situation calls for from talking with whoever books me and anybody I talk to from the company beforehand.”

He retrieves a packet of Squeeze-able! grape jelly from his hip pocket and squirts it onto his bread. The deep violet jelly coils haphazardly. He eats it in a fashion reminiscent of corn on the cob: side-to-side. “Is that good?” I ask, not really interested in the answer.

“Eh.”

He leans back in his chair and nurses his apple juice.  “What do you say? Like in a nutshell?”

“That’ll ruin the surprise. If I tell you now, you’ll just tune out later.”

“Well, what’s the gist then at least?”

“I don’t have a schtick, really. I think of myself as a realist. No gimmicks.”

“But others have gimmicks?”

“Sure. Most of us have marketing or advertising backgrounds. You’ve got your if-I-can-do-it-you-can-do-it guys, your life-is-too-short guys, your all-you-need-is love guys. You know.”

Two boys yell at each other and come to blows over the last cheese Danish. The mom yells louder than them both. The loser gets a final kidney shot in.

I try to alter the course of where we’re headed. “You’ve been here since yesterday, right?”

“Yeah we had to get here by like noon yesterday.”

“What else have you been doing?”

“Games and stuff. Dinner. The vice president gave a little talk, commencement type thing.”

“What do you think of the VP? You can tell a lot about a company from the people up top.”

His eyes wander again. When they return to me, it’s as though the last five minutes never happened. Burnt toast or bagel diffuses through the air. “How’s a guy become a motivational speaker?”

I cannot determine the level of genuine interest behind his queries. I want to believe he’s only curious. “D’you have a minute?”

He consults his cell phone. “I’ve got a couple hundred.”

“Mm.” I pause and drink from my cup to gather my thoughts. “I haven’t told this story in a while.” Memories tumble out of their pen like bouncy balls. The pictures are foggy and dim from disuse. “Uh... I wasn’t very happy where I was at—the school. The kids rarely listened to anybody over the age of 20. At 27, I was out of the question. The pay was pretty terrible too and my wife and I had a newborn. So, I looked around to see what else I was qualified for. Turns out anyone can be a speaker.” The TV’s volume increases to a distractingly loud level. I lean in to compensate. “The pay was better and had real prospects of improving even more. I could travel and I could help more people or so I thought. Adults are supposed to be able to listen, right?” I sip. “My wife—Debbie, her name’s Debbie—was supportive, at least to me, so I contacted an agency. There were a few of them popping up in Kansas City, which was nearby where we were living at the time—it’s centrally located—and the nation as a whole was much more open to psychotherapy and touchy-feely stuff, so yeah, I more or less signed up. They sent me a few canned lessons and told me whenever I was ready I could do my own. It was extremely liberal, the agency—very hands off so long as you didn’t get negative reviews. It’s a lot like sales—all about your numbers. So yeah I was on a plane in a couple weeks.” I recall that first flight, Debbie’s haggard face, Will screaming in her arms. The plane was peaceful, a deserted redeye to Omaha. “It was unfair to Debbie of course, but she never protested.”

“Do you like it?” He stacks one of the empty cups into the other and begins work on the third.

“Parts of it, yes. I’ve been at it for a long time and have as long of a leash as you can get. I can turn down a gig if I want. Our savings are healthy enough. I’ve missed out on a lot back home, of course, but I’ve seen a lot, too. I get to meet all sorts of people—like yourself—and I like that. Keeps me young. I get a fair amount of positive feedback and most nights when I’m unwinding I feel I’ve given three or four people something to chew on, something that might stick with them and help them get by. That’s a unique opportunity as far as jobs go.” I sip again more to break up the monologue than anything. “But I’m on the road a majority of my time and I don’t really know anybody to be frank. It’s a lonely profession. I’m kind of like an itinerant preacher.” I clear my throat. “It is what it is.”

His posture suggests he’s bored. He’s reclining as much as possible. “I don’t know you but you don’t look too happy to me.”

I’m stunned by the abruptness of his observation. Either he is preternaturally observant or I look even worse than I feel this morning. I consider taking offense but think better of it. “I’m not too happy.”

“How can you make people happier if you aren’t yourself?”

“My job’s not to make people happy, it’s to motivate them.”

“I would’ve thought happy people were motivated.”

“Not usually, no. Happiness is static, stationary. You wallow in it. Soak it up. Motivation is active though. It’s forward movement and most everything else is backwards. Most of my crowds are slipping when they take their seats if you know what I mean. My job is to give them a push.”

“Hm.”

“Happy or not, I can do that.”

We both drink ponderously. “Eggs!” rings out and chair legs squeal against the asbestos tile. The place is a lot less full. An unknown saint turned the TV back down. My oatmeal is clammy. I push the bowl away. I have some saltines in my bag.

“What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“Your job. I mean, the life.”

“It depends on the week. We’re scheduled on one week and off the next. In on weeks, you make a swing through a section of the country, landing someplace bright and early Monday, renting a car, driving stop to stop through the hinterland, and you end up Friday morning about 600 or 800 miles away from where you started.” I rub my temples. “Then you’re supposed to go home.”

“You only work like half the year?”

“If you’re doing a terrible job, yes. If you want to pay your mortgage or alimony…” I laugh; he doesn’t. “Well, you’re on the road more than that anyway. All the money is in the extras. Make a good impression, hand out some cards, and you can schedule talks on your off weeks. The agencies let you keep a higher percentage of the fees.”

“I couldn’t do it. I don’t like travelling. You waste so much time waiting in lines or with flight delays or security or whatever.” He pauses, visibly reflecting. “God, you must’ve spent like 10 years in airports.”

“That’s probably true. Travel isn’t so romantic when it’s the rule not the exception.”

“Why are you still doing it?”

There’s a confrontational tone behind his words I used to hear a long time ago. “You’re full of questions, aren’t you?”

“You’re the closest I’ve come to meeting a rock star.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He grins. It is impossible to read him. “I’m still doing it because I’m comfortable doing it. When you get to be my age, comfort counts for a whole lot.”

“Oh.” He consolidates his trash, stuffing his utensils and napkin into the fourth and final cup of his column.

 “What about you? What brings you here? You look younger than everybody else.”

He crosses his arms and stares at what he’s made. “I am. I started in June.”

“What do you do?”

“My title’s computer support specialist. The IT department’s just me and this other guy. I basically reset people’s passwords and unjam printers all day.”

“Do you like it?”

“What do you think?” He’s tearing off thumb-sized edges of his plate to give it a buzz-saw quality. “It’s not exactly what I got a degree for.”

“Be patient. You’ve got a lot of career to go.”

“I know. That’s what scares me.”

“At least you have a job. That’s not a given anymore you know.”

“Yeah.”

I feel impotent. He does not want to be encouraged. His eyes are on me and I avert mine. The employee is frantically wiping down her area. A Leaning Tower of Pisa fashioned out of refuse will tip at any moment. A little boy asks his dad to add his plate to the top of the pile. The dad obliges.

We return to silence. The novelty has worn off. I am uneasy in at least two ways. My abdomen is audible now that the ambient noise has diminished. I cannot bare this any longer. “Well, I best be going. I need to figure out where I’m supposed to be and all that.” I pull my bowl and cup toward me. “It was good talking with you.”

He seems caught off guard. “Oh all right. See you later then.”

“I’ll be looking for you in the front row,” I say full of mirth. He glances at me but does not otherwise respond.

I stand and walk to the far corner with the less swollen trashcan. I flip my oatmeal onto the top of the trash. I push down and the contents crumple and spring back slowly. I thank the employee as I pass. She nods and says, “Mmhm,” while unplugging the urns. Checking the corner table, I see the young man watching the news. Exiting, I sidestep a grizzly man with biker garb who smells like the area around a gas pump. My elbow grazes his leather vest and I am more frightened than I should be. The grizzly does nothing.

I check my watch as I walk down the hall. Roughly two hours to go.

Speech Impediment (I of III)

The Office light glows with an emphasis on the Off. One of the bulbs is burnt out. Still, in the early morning haze, it’s hard to miss. A bad omen? 

I wrestle with the door, which is entirely too high strung to be welcoming. My satchel slides off my shoulder and compresses with a clank on the concrete sidewalk. I hoist it up again and dance awkwardly using my foot and elbow to get though the threshold. The ground is farther away than I remember. In tow, I drag my overnight bag. The handle isn’t tall enough, so I have to walk a little contorted. An expressionless young woman has been watching this unfold. She perks up behind the counter once I’m through. She darts around, deftly preparing for our exchange. She looks to be sixteen. ‘Julie’ is stitched in cursive white below a screen-printed logo of a river or stream. She’s wearing a dark green polo and her hair in a pony tail. Blonde frizz dapples her temple’s hairline. 

She is bubbly from the first. “Good morning, sir. Do you have a reservation with us?” 

“Miller. Ed Miller.” 

 “Can I see some ID, Mr. Miller?” 

I extract my wallet from my inside my jacket and hold it open for her. The enthusiasm drains from her face as she concentrates, verifying my name letter by letter. She types. 

“Um okay, Mr. Miller. It says here you’re with the conference, is that correct?” 

“Yes. I’m the entertainment.” I look at her with expectation. 

“Okay great.” She doesn’t miss a beat. “Let’s see. Says here your room’s already paid for.” The frantic chatter of an inkjet starts and we do not continue until it stops. “So if I could just get your autograph here…” She writes an X and circles in one motion with a Bic pen. “I’ll give you your key and you’ll be on your way. This here just covers incidental charges like long distance calls or any damage to your room and things.” Her high pitched voice and slight shrug effectively trivializes the prospect. 

I scrawl illegibly where I’ve been instructed. 

“Thank you.” The paper quickly disappears behind the counter. “Now, we’ve got you all grouped together on the first floor here on the north wing. You’re in 152. It’s just down this hall on your left before the sign for the ice machine over there. See? On the left.” She points. “Here’s your key. Just drop it off here tomorrow morning and you’re good to go.” 

“Perfect.” I feel slothful in her presence. 

“We’re serving a warm continental breakfast in room 185 until 9:30 am. Room 185 is on the east wing, so it’ll be through the first set of double doors over there on the right.” She points to clarify. “Would you like a map?” 

“No. I’ll manage. 185 breakfast. 152 room.” 

“You’ve got it. Great. Okay then Mr. Miller, is there anything else I can do for you?” 

I recite the numbers in my head. “No, that’s fine.” 

“Okay great. Thank you choosing Midland Inn. We hope you enjoy your stay.” 

She has done well. “Thanks, Julie.” 

I give her a half-hearted smirk and she returns a full on smile as I break eye contact. My satchel starts to slide off as I bend to grip the handle on my bag. I grab it and, in the process, knock over a clear plastic display of maps and visitor information. Glossy pamphlets scatter like dropped mercury. Damn it. 

“Oh I’ll get that, sir. Don’t worry.” She has not stopped smiling.

“No, no. It’s my fault.” I groan as I squat. An extra set of hands joins mine on the carpet-tiled floor. She’s wearing a Claddagh ring on her left ring finger, which puts me in a momentary stupor. God how old I am. 

I collect the brochures for CANDLES Holocaust Museum in Terre Haute and put them on the counter. The photo on the front is of a gray sky split by a line of barbed wire. Never Forget is in stark red block letters. I am unsettled but only for a moment. With key in hand, I murmur my thanks and trudge off. 

The keychain is a maroon plastic diamond with ‘152’ stamped in white courier font in the middle. There’s nothing written on the back. It was created before the days of security preoccupation—anonymous keycards or ciphered numerals. 

The room numbers ascend in an alternating pattern of twos and threes for no discernable reason. The floor underfoot sounds hollow. I am alone in the hall. I note the double doors on my right as I pass them. There’s some action halfway down. An elderly man with chocolate brown Velcro shoes is carefully balancing two plates with two cups precariously wobbling on each. His shirt has a thick teal band at the abdomen’s crest. I l avert my eyes, anticipating a mess. 

Arriving at the door, I slide the key into the lock. The bolt clicks over and the door opens without a turn of the knob. The air is stuffy and smells faintly of detergent or maybe cardboard. I run my finger over the textured wallpaper in search of a switch. Nothing. Red light from the digital clock spills onto the nightstand. 7:22. I’ve been up for nearly three and a half hours. It could be a week. 

There’s enough light diffusing through the drapes to safely make my way to a lamp on the dresser. With a twist of the knob, I reveal my temporary lodging. Golds and hunter greens are everywhere in this tiny rectangle. No desk. 

I lock the door behind me, wheel my bag next to the dresser, and put my satchel next to the bed. By the feel of it, the bed is made of the same coarse springs used in heavy truck suspension. I run my hand over the bedspread, which is two sheets of polyester sewn together with the ghost of something insulative in between. Skinny strands of thread like fishing line twist pubicly from the edges of the sewn pattern. 

I can see myself dimly reflected in the screen of a black plastic television that’s deeper than it is wide. I am slouched. My limbs feel heavy. It is silent except for the wheeze of my nostrils. Allergies reach unfathomable heights in the Midwest. 

 I sit for a long time with my chin nearly resting on my sternum. I ponder the weight of my head, of how tempting even these sheets are, of my desperate need for caffeine. Muffled, a nearby door creaks open and thumps shut. Knocking and passionate inquiry follows. Two women, probably friends since way back when, croak greetings. 7:33. I rise to survey the bathroom. 

Incandescent light filtered through the yellowing plastic fixture gives the space a jaundiced complexion. An exhaust fan drones. The edges of the last square of single-ply toilet paper are folded to create a point in the middle. Does this make the roll more inviting? The hospital-grade curtain rattles cheaply on the rod. Inside the shower, a clump of hairs huddle over the mesh drain. A cylindrical bottle reads Conditioning Shampoo. I unwrap what passes as a bar of soap to wash my face. The label declares it to be moisturizing, but the product proves otherwise. I furrow my brow, scrunch my nose, and exhale sullenly. Three drops drip off my nose into the cream-colored basin. I watch them collect and slide to the drain. I nearly dose off in my inclined position. A white facial towel is startlingly coarse and abrasive. 

My eyes have retreated still farther into my skull. The capillaries on the perimeter outshine the ring of cloudy blue in the center. My under-eye pockets are ominously dark, like a gathering storm. When did this happen? The bridges of my nose bear permanent footprints from my glasses. I massage them between thumb and forefinger. The cartilage beneath has little elliptical divots. My knuckles are cracked and swollen on top of my hands gripping the sink. No amount of lotion will replenish me. I am wrapped in paper, a cochina doll.

With a flick, the room goes dark and quiet. 

My stomach is the sort of unsettled that will be pacified by neither eating nor abstaining therefrom. Debbie says I am nursing an ulcer. No matter. Whatever the culprit, it is not happy and will not be dissuaded. I know I should eat on principle alone. Continental breakfast awaits. I need to mingle. I need to get my juices flowing. Less than four hours to show time.

Time Off

(For a newer draft of this story, click here.)

A finch squeezes a sunflower seed with its beak. The black shell cracks open and a dark tongue pushes the kernel. The shell splits and falls away. The bird’s eyes are glassy black and gazing off into the trees. It seems to be chewing absentmindedly. Its movements are jittery. It punches its head into the feeder’s hole and spherical tan seeds spill to the ground below like sparks. It extracts another sunflower seed and deftly sets about splitting it, too. The claws are thin and boney, yet they suffice for balancing. Its head cocks robotically. Spooked, it darts away in a smear of yellow. A blue jay swoops in and lands weightily on the perch. The jay pecks frenziedly and wastes a great deal of feed. I squint up at the sky through the stationary tree branches overhead. It is cloudless.

We’ve been sitting on the porch since three. It is as early as four or as late as five. My drink is sweating but I am not. An irregularly shaped puddle accumulates around it on the crackled glass tabletop. I heard the high should be 73° today.

“Something on your mind?” She’s looking up from her magazine, which is now tilted in her lap. The lighting is such that I can see one eye tinted behind a sunglass lens and the other is hidden.

Yes. Where did that finch go? “No. Nothing.”

She angles the borrowed magazine back to a reading position. Her legs are crossed at the ankle atop a wicker ottoman with a maroon cushion. The tops of her bare feet glow in the early autumn light. Her toenails glisten red with chipped edges. Little white nets of dried skin frost the side of her big toe.

The blue jay is gone. The feeder sways gently from its departure.

Faintly on the air is the sound of children. One of them is either excited or upset. Genders can’t be established. A family lives up the street judging from the toys strewn about the front lawn. They don’t fret about theft. Who would do such a thing?

I rub the outside of my ear by the opening, which feels oily. I can take another bath tonight. I’ll submerge into the warmth and melt. I’ll leave my nose exposed, pinch my ears shut, and hear the stethoscopic sounds of respiration. I’ll feel the strange heft of my body as the water recedes down the drain.

Watchless, I pat my pocket in search of my phone. There’s nothing to retrieve. I remember my phone is dead in our room. How am I to know when to get moving? Hunger or boredom will have to do. It’s okay. We have no reservations. We are going to try the seafood place tonight. She’ll order a shrimp dish. We will dress up and walk holding hands. It’s not too far.

This town is not so much sleepy as it is antique. Design is neither showy nor neglected. Ornamentation does not announce itself but patiently awaits its audience. Lights do not flash at night; the iron street lamps shine steadily. Billboards do not obstruct; sandwich boards splay below eye level. The architecture whispers. The buildings of the town square are mostly made of weathered brick. They will stand tomorrow, monumental and undiminished. They are like a grandfather to a toddler, tall but not imposing. Corbels like fiddleheads coil underneath ledges trimmed with repeating patterns. Each storefront abuts the next with its own color and texture, unity out of diversity. Skinny plate glass windows reveal high ceilings edged with molding and lined with tin. Doors are topped with transoms. The palate of the surrounding houses contains unabashed pastels. Wood shingles armor the roofs. The sidewalks are rumpled by sweet gum and sugar maple roots. The lawns are supple and edged to perpendicular perfection. Weeds are not allowed.

It feels wholesome. People are more courteous. The church bells keep time. The drug store serves ice cream by the scoop. Take your seat on a chromed bar stool. It’s a tourist attraction, but I don’t mind. Locals patronize it, too. I imagine semi-annual parades with lazily flapping American flags. How can you be nostalgic for an era you never knew?

The children and birds have departed. We are alone. I shift my weight. This is nice, not doing anything. I feel empty but am fully here. It is so quiet now I can hear the ginger ale fizzing as I pour more over the ice. The translucent cluster rises and bobs near the surface. The carbonation makes a fountain above the rim. I haven’t had ginger ale in ages. It was complimentary. The innkeepers know what they’re doing.

The thought of this ending makes me complexly sad. A fluttering heart and a dingy lifeless color are where the feeling starts. It stops in paralysis. Checkout is a looming storm over the lake. There is no stopping it. I wait for times like these and can never keep them. Even memories will be forgotten. We have one more full day, though. Don’t ruin what's left. Do not think about work. Stop thinking altogether.

The spice tickles my nose and I try to suppress a cough unsuccessfully.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

The soda gently sloshes in the glass as I set it down with a soft clank. I look at her. She is staring serenely into the magazine. The stillness like a photograph. What is on her mind? She never seems as bothered as me. She is simpler.

I wipe my fingers on my pants and leave a damp trail of three fat, merging lines. A turning page is all that interrupts the breezeless afternoon. The ginger’s heat lingers in my mouth.

My book lies split open out of the spreading puddle’s range. I am not halfway to halfway. It is a lost cause. A lone and spartan black ant is wandering futilely nearby the novel. Its antennae twitch in syncopation. There’s nothing for it there, no crumb to cart away. How will it get back down? Maybe a bird will snatch it.

Something small and hard under my shoe scrapes the ground as I readjust. The patio is made of irregular white stone peppered with dirt or maybe mold. Emerald tufts of stubbly moss frame a few pieces. Everything is newer back home but not nicer. Everything here is used but no worse for the wear. Age is not to be feared. Preservation is a virtue. These people are investors who don't seek profit. They are a part of their town.They maintain instead of replace. 

I slouch, clasp my hands on my stomach, and close my eyes. I should be reading, but I can’t bring myself to. I’d rather idle. I planned on finishing two books. That would be something to talk about, a clear answer to post-trip inquiries. I should be taking advantage of the freedom. This was what I had been anticipating for months. It’s what we worked for, scrimping four hours off for every eighty worked, and it’s almost over. What have I done? I have not done enough. My inactivity is shameful. Wasting time feels felonious. I am a time killer. I plead guilty. Lock me up.

A part of me is uncomfortable with happiness. There is no earning it, no taming it. It just comes and goes on its own. I would rather strive. You can always strive.

Why am I classifying this as a waste? The rules do not apply here. We are outside all jurisdictions. We are unknown and unknowing. We have immunity. It is okay to rest.

We are different now, children again. Alarms go unset. We walk without clear destinations. There are no dishes to clean and towels are left wadded on the ground. Meals are the only items on the list of things to do. We drift, floating on our backs to nowhere in particular. We are disconnected. There are no headlines to process and e-mails are left unread in inboxes. I cannot remember being so uninformed and out of touch. We are out of touch, though. Our relationships have no tactile element. At home, physical distance has been traded for digital proximity. These people shake hands, hold doors, and slap shoulders. I long to be one of them.

Like a child, I don’t want to go. I want to stay here and now forever.

I warn myself against listening to the Sirens. This place is unreal. It is not your home. Your home is with her. This trip is make-believe. There is more than leisure and loafing. We must toil. The living truth of here is buried a foot deep in snow. The smiling citizens with their cable-knit sweaters, topsiders, and half-moon reading glasses must fight the cold. The freeze and thaw cycle, the road salt, and the tire chains disintegrate this place annually. Transience is inescapable. Remember the grass does not stay greener. My back aches at the thought of hefting a shovel.

“Hey, I’m gonna go get ready for dinner, okay?” She closes her magazine and puts her feet down.

“Yeah okay. I’ll be in in a minute.”

She rises from her seat and smooths the wrinkles in her shirt. As she passes, she strokes my shoulder. I follow her with my eyes. A ballpoint pen poked through her hair keeps her bun together. The spiral of brunette arcs is galactic. As she walks away, I notice her neck. Her vertebrae slightly protrude, making a peapod shape. I feel the back of mine. My fingers rise and fall over the bumps. 

The feeder remains unoccupied and will increasingly be so. What can migrate will. The leaves are starting to turn. Yellow and orange are seeping into the green. The edges are going dormant despite its lively appearance. Soon the trees will be stripped bare. Emaciated winter with its skeletal limbs is closing in. The chill will clutch those who remain.

I can and cannot move. Moving is dreadful. Sloth is hypnotic. I hate time. I sigh emphatically.

An oak leaf flutters downward. In its twirling, it is balletic. It falls with dignity but lands without hope.

Get up. It is time to go. 

Memoir of a Pseudo-Amnesiac: 5

It was not all sweetness and light and I do not intend to relay a false impression. Once a few months into our undefined relationship we had a magnificent altercation precipitated by hair conditioner and its use. (She would shower at my place on occasion.) Before presumptions blossom, I’ll offer two non-incriminating reasons for the practice. Well water, the sort that supplied the Benson plumbing, is not the cleanest. Plus, there was the modest pleasure of bathing in foreign territory we all know from motel stays.

Co-ed comingling was strictly prohibited inside university residence halls. Within the dorms, though, the inmates ran the asylum. What rats there were had been sufficiently threatened/intimidated with plausible reprisals to be silenced. All one (or more realistically two) had to do was simply get inside the place. Fashion was camouflage. A slim figure and a hoodie can make most outlines unisex enough to stay off the guards’ radar. Having a distrustful bend, I went a step further. My dorm room was accessible via a disintegrating fire escape, the tetanus hazard of which was not lost on Allison. (Tetanus is a clear and present danger for those who regularly operate threshers, tillers, and balers. Fun fact: tetanus is caused by bacteria in dirt, not rust. As it so happens, rusty things are often dirty too and a great way of introducing bacteria into your bloodstream.) The escape was used as equal parts entrance and exit in daily, non-fire related events. That’s how she usually came to see me or how we departed. We felt like burglars and liked it.

All this is to establish the backdrop against which showering occurred. I had been growing my hair out in order to scowl/hide/be mysterious behind it. [1] To nourish my locks, I had a bottle of salon-quality conditioner (the brand name of which was not effeminate but is here omitted) resting in the corner of my shower. The conditioner was one of the lone indulgences in my otherwise ascetic life. (It was a gift/favor from my mother. She bought it for me at my request. It is a Long Story. In sum, I would not step foot in one of those beauty supply places with the poster-sized images of a woman looking confidently askance at you.) It left my shoulder-length mane frizzless, which is no small feat in a swampy Midwest summer.

Once it was established she would be using my shower on a semi-regular basis, I knew my reserves would be depleted. I would not let that happen; I wanted the product for myself. Because I understood even then how petty it was, I could not risk being direct and asking her to abstain from the product. That would have segued into a discussion I could not escape untarnished. So, I turned to subtlety. To keep her from stealing my mojo, I bought her a bottle of something cheap and flowery. I put it next to my bottle, hoping she would do my bidding without being bade.

Following the next shower, she was rubbing her hair with my towel and I could smell my brand in the air. (It was nutty from the oatmeal extract, a substance I never could fathom.) I was figgety with suppressed indignation. Finally, I spoke up.

The following is a roughly accurate transcript:

“Hey, um, did you use the Suave?”

“No. I like the other.”

[Hair-rubbing sounds]

“But that's mine.”

“Oh?”

[Hair-rubbing sounds]

“Didn't you see the Suave?”

“I didn't know it was for me.”

“You think I'd switch to Pear Blossom?”

“I didn't give it much thought at all.”

[Hair-rubbing sounds]

“Will you use the Suave next time?”

“Why?”

“I got it for you. I thought you’d like it.”

“Can't we share?”

“Not really. We’ll run out. Why can’t we each have our own?”

“This is the first I've heard of your...possessiveness.”

“It’s got nothing to do with being possessive. Look, I put the Suave in there right next to it.”

“You didn't say anything.”

“I thought it was implied. It's girly.”

“Okay.”

[Silence]

“So you don’t want me using the good stuff?”

“No, that’s not it. I don’t want you using mine.”

“Wait. What? How is that any better?”

“Better has nothing to do with it. They’re just different. One for you and one for me. His and hers.”

“Yours isn’t exactly a ‘his’.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Selsun Blue is a ‘his’.”

“How would you like it if I used your ChapStick or something?”

“Go ahead. I don’t care because I don’t have a problem with sharing. I’m 22.”

“So I’m an effete child, is that what you’re saying? Because I’m just asking to be respected here.”

“Respected? How?”

“I think I should be able to ask you to do something and you just do it. It’s not a big deal.”

“You’re right it’s not a big deal, which is why I should be able to use your shampoo. We can get more. It’s not the last shampoo bottle in the world!”

“Conditioner.”

“Don’t be a dick!”

“How am I being a dick here? There’s nothing wrong with boundaries, Allison. I’m not a bad person for drawing a line.”

“Fine.”

[Silence]

“Well. Thanks for the hospitality.”

It escalated from there, climaxing in an exchange of hyphenated name-calling and a solo trip down the fire escape. I spent the next half an hour fuming and reiterating my commitment to not be the one to blink first and say sorry. To my later shallow triumph, she was. I accepted her apology and agreed name-calling was not constructive. In return, I explained my behavior as poor communication (which is bound to happen between even the best of people occasionally) grounded in my innocence and excusable naiveté. We moved on. Still, the episode caused an unforeseen rift that we would subsequently fall into in the most random ways. She saw a ‘mine and thine’ at every turn and I exhaustively defended my selfishness. We had another ugly spat over left-overs.

It wasn’t until a late morning coffee and study session months later at the local eatery that I discovered what was wrong with me. At a corner table overlaid with the required red and white vinyl gingham table cloth and tantalizingly near a rotating pie carousel I sat. Four or five mugs in, a mother and daughter were served their respective omelet and French toast. Spying as I do, I saw the blonde pony-tailed girl’s eyes enlarge after the first buttery, syrupy bite. She said, “Oh my gosh, mom. You’ve gotta try this!” and handed her a loaded fork. “Wow. That is really good,” the mom said between chews. The scene hit me hard. I may have teared up. This kid's first impulse upon eating something delicious was to give it up. If that were me and I had a tasty meal, I’d downplay it when asked so that I could keep it all for myself. I was a hoarder. The only time I’d spread anything good around was if it shone kindly on me, like if I had made something beautiful and by letting you see it you’d think more highly of me. I wrote a lengthy mea culpa to Allison then and there.

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[1] I was vain but not the sort of vain that comes from self-infatuation. It’s not as though I thought I was handsome. I only wished to be so more than I ought. I paused before reflective surfaces, not because I was rapt with pleasure, but because I had an insatiable desire to know what I looked like. I wanted to make the best of it--tame a stray hair, pick at my face, or adjust my shirt. It's still a temptation. I suspect this revelation is one many people could share and chose not to. I do so only to contextualize the story.