Patience.

Journey

 I’ve been taking walks for as long as I can remember. It started when I was around 7 or 8, and I would take walks to sneak out of my Grandparent’s dinners. This year, I took a walk during thanksgiving dinner. Nobody noticed. The great thing about living in a city is that there aren’t a lot of places you can’t walk. And when you designate that time to thinking, you get a lot of it done. 

 Whatever has been going on in my life, I’ve been able to walk away from it for about an hour and consider it. Failures, successes, deaths, breakups. It’s all relative. I can think about it and process it and make myself believe that I’m better because of it.

 It wasn’t until we said goodbye one last time that I realized how her nose wrinkled when she cried. I had seen it happen dozens of times over the years, but nothing helps you gain an appreciation for something like watching it disappear as you sit underneath a motel awning. 

 Our relationship wasn’t sexual. It was a true friendship. But neither of us could appreciate that. We outgrew each other like a kid outgrows their favorite shirt: quickly and unwillingly. We didn’t want to get rid of what we had built, but it was collapsing on itself and if we didn’t get out soon we would be crushed by its sheer weight. If only the base hadn’t been playing cards. 

 To be honest, I only left because she left. I yelled her name a few times, and I cried for a few hours when I knew it was over, but I accepted the fact that I had to leave. Even then, though, I tried to get her to come back to look at what we had built, but she wanted nothing to do with me.

  It wasn’t until we said goodbye one last time that I realized how her nose wrinkled when she cried. I had seen it happen dozens of times over the years, but nothing helps you gain an appreciation for something like watching it disappear as you sit underneath a motel awning. 

 Our relationship wasn’t sexual. It was a true friendship. But neither of us could appreciate that. We outgrew each other like a kid outgrows their favorite shirt: quickly and unwillingly. We didn’t want to get rid of what we had built, but it was collapsing on itself and if we didn’t get out soon we would be crushed by its sheer weight.
 To be honest, I only left because she left. I yelled her name a few times, and I cried for a few hours when I knew it was over. But I accepted the fact that I had to leave. Even then, though, I tried to get her to come back to look at what we had built. She wanted nothing to do with me.

 It took me a little while before I started going on my walks again. I found myself unable to do it, though, without some sort of inanimate companion. I was getting too distracted by my thoughts and  surroundings. I’ve always prided myself as being comfortable in my own skin, but for the first time I was itching to get out of it. My thought process is very forward. That’s why the walk is so beloved. If my body was moving onward, so was my mind. In my walks, I was usually able to maintain internal sidebars without letting them derail me, but now this was not so. I would try to think and my stomach would possess an empty feeling that could not be filled with food. So I just wouldn’t think. And eventually my brain would fill with thoughts that were supposed to be had, and I would feel the need to light a cigarette or listen to a song just so that I wouldn’t have to be by myself. 

It wasn’t just my internal watch that noticed a change, though. It was the physical world around me. The trees seemed to be thinning, and the sky was further away. The river didn’t meander the same way that it did before. I was not naive enough at the time to think that I was changing nature, though I was not sure of what was happening. It scared me, certainly. But I kept walking.

 I kept walking until I couldn’t recognize the buildings. This bothered me more than it probably should have. It’s obtuse to think that one could know all of the buildings in an international city. Still, this new territory did not jive with the theme of my walks. I stopped in a diner and got a very angry cup of coffee from an impatient waitress. It was like she knew that I didn’t belong there. Like I was disease. A vagrant. A stowaway.

 There was a point, though, where we made eye contact. I want to believe that she saw the fear and confusion in me, because her face softened for a second. I know she felt a connection, because she turned around almost immediately and returned with my change. I left a tip, but I don’t know why.

 The wind began to nip. I zipped up my jacket and kept walking until there weren’t any more buildings. It was just houses. This made me feel a little better. It’s not strange for houses not to be familiar. It doesn’t matter much though, because soon the houses were gone too.

And then nothing was around me anymore.

  I looked down at the road that had been supporting me and found that it was there no more. I looked back to see when it had left me, but could not see that far. There’s comfort to know that one does not always need a road to walk on, but it’s difficult to come to terms with the fact that the road eventually stops serving a purpose. 

I got home eventually. My legs were cold and I wanted to got to bed. The walk had fixed me, for I had not felt tired in days. Although one thing that perplexes me to this day is that there was no point in the walk that I remember turning around. I’m still not sure whether or not I turned around at the point in which nothing was around me, or if I just kept going forward. 

Typing II

I walked over to room 556 and opened the door. I looked back over at the repair man. He was just standing there, staring out into what I still assumed was Kansas. 

I entered the room and looked around. The room was nothing like 555. For one thing, it was about three times larger. It was also dusty, crooked and damp. It reminded me of an attic from an old World War II flick. 

There wasn’t much inside. A few half-finished paintings,some empty luggage, and that was it. I walked down towards the other side, and couldn’t find a stair case or any windows. I heard rain pouring on the roof, and figured I was still in Kansas.

I reached the back of the attic. There was a large wooden desk with a new, polished type writer on top of it. I walked behind it and sat down. I looked through the three drawers on the left side and found nothing. The right side only had one drawer.

Inside of it, I found another envelope. This one was yellow, and it didn’t have my name on it. I wasn’t sure at first if I wanted to open it, but it appeared to be my only way out of this place. I slowly opened the three fold and read in horror the five words hastily typed. 

kIlL the rEpAIR MaN befORE iTs TOO LATE.

I dropped the letter. The blood was frozen in my veins. I didn’t know what to do. I looked up at the door, and tried to make my decision. I could answer any of the questions my brain was throwing at me.

 Was this another test? I had no idea who this guy was. How could I kill somebody I didn’t even know? I guess that would make it easier, wouldn’t it? Could I even kill this person? He was so much bigger than I was, and he had all of those tools. He would destroy me. 

Still, this stranger seems to be the only person I can trust. If they say I have to kill him to escape, that might be the only way I can see daylight again. Maybe I missed something. I looked down at my desk to see if I had.

In life, a lot of things come and go that people are sure they want and need. Cars, sex, a new promotion, a big house. They get upset to the point of throwing tantrums after they don’t get what they want. I used to be one of those people. I used to cry until I got what I wanted, and I thought I would be satisfied with material items for the rest of my life.

 After sitting down at that desk, and seeing and reading that note, thinking about what it said, all I wanted to do was read it again. I would have accepted not reading it, so long as I could see it and feel it, just to know that at one point it had been there. For when I looked down and saw that the note had disappeared, I lost any remaining trust in my sanity. Once that trust is lost, it can’t be brought back.

I tore that attic apart looking for that note. Every crevice, every trunk, box and drawer. It took hours. I must have broken down at least three times.  I didn’t know what to do anymore. I was in hell.

I sat back down at the desk and opened the top drawer on the left side. Inside was another envelope, pristine white. The color made me feel safe. I wasn’t even concerned that the other nine times I had opened it the drawer had been completely empty. I was just relieved to have some instruction. 

I carefully opened the envelope, making sure not to damage the flap or the letter inside. This was my only contact with the outside world. It was the one thing that I could rely on to get me out of this attic. I needed to make sure I treated it as a relic.

Ray-

 We’re sure you have questions, and at the right time there will be answers for them. You must understand though, the answers you’re looking for are not in the attic. If you look for them, you will be wasting your time and ours. We highly suggest that you do not attempt to find anything, for the sake of your own sanity.

In regards to your job, there has been a slight delay. By the time you are done reading this letter, however, you will be ready to start. A man is about to bring you in a new letter, and you will transcribe the words in that letter on your type writer. When you are finished, put it in the right drawer and exit.

I looked up as the door opened. In walked a man wearing what appeared to be the most meticulous suit on the market. His blank face looked like it had been in the room for hours, and his body was just getting with the program. He was very slim, and took long, slow strides towards me. I was startled. I stood up and pointed at him.

“Hey man, I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you better tell me what the hell is going on or I’m out of here.”

A smile started to crawl along the left side of his face, but stopped once it reached daylight. 

“Out of here. Out of here? Out? Here? If you knew where you were, neither of those words would have been used in that sentence.”

I paid attention to his wit about as much as I understood it.

“I mean it man,” I replied. “If you don’t start speaking quick, I’m busting out of here.”

The man sat down in a seat in front of the desk. If I was a betting man, I would put all of my life savings that the chair hadn’t been there until he wanted it to be. 

“Let me ask you a few questions first, Mr. Conan.” He said, glaring at the type writer as he spoke.

He pulled out a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth unlit. 

“Please, have a seat. I am not a threat to your well being.”

“Yeah, that’s what they’ve all said.” I scoffed.

“And are you injured?”

I thought for a moment, and then sat down.

“Mr. Conan, does your blood smell of vinegar?” He asked.

“I, um.....what?” I stammered.

“Your blood, does it smell like vinegar to you?” He asked, this time more impatiently.

I couldn’t stop staring at the cigarette. The butt was getting damp, as the man’s mouth was clearly soaked with saliva. I didn’t know how, this had to be the driest room I had ever been in. Why wouldn’t he light it?

“I suppose you wouldn’t know the difference if it was, anyways.” He said.

“Why?”

“Well, Ray, you seem to me to be the type of person who has been spoon fed mayonnaise his whole life, and is experiencing his first days without it. There is no more sodium to slow your body, or cholesterol to clog your arteries. You’re noticing buildings, interacting with people. You’re becoming human again. You’re becoming real. But at the same time, there seems to be a bit of a withdrawal process. Some paranoia as well as an inability to follow directions are persisting. You also have a sore throat.”

Break down

I want to try something new.

 Nobody does that anymore. They say that they’ll try something new, but the don’t do it. They’ll try half of a new thing and get bored, and say that it isn’t for them. I really want to do something that I’ve never done before, and if you’d join me I would really appreciate it. Here’s the thing though, you can’t do it half-assed. You’ve really gotta do it. Don’t skip steps, don’t quit in the middle. If you start this, you have to finish it. Deal? Okay, good.

 Close your eyes for 10 seconds and relax. Done? Okay. Now do it again. Except this time, I want you to picture all of your small belongings. Hand-held items like your keys, wallet and cell phone. You ipod, your TV remotes and keyboards. Tiny things that are relatively easy to replace. Have them all? Now get rid of them. They no longer exist. How do you feel without these items? Any different? Has your world changed for the better, or for the worse? Just think about it for a second, and we’ll move on.

 Okay, we’re gonna take a step forward now. I want you to close your eyes again,and this time picture all of your big-ticket items. Think about your television, and about your computer. Picture all of the furniture in your house, including all of your kitchen appliances. I want you to also imagine all of the things that you associate with these items. Clothes, food, valuables, etc.  When you open your eyes, they will be gone from your life. 

 So now you’re just about completely out of physical possessions. What I want you to do now is imagine any property that you own. Be it your apartment, or your house, or a storage space. Any shelter or any large area that belonged to you has now evaporated into thin air. Along with it goes any physical possessions that you owned before this exercise.

 Now how do you feel? Is there any stress building up? It’s cold outside, and you have nothing to your name. You see everyone in their homes with their possessions, and you feel something. Is it jealousy? Anger? Pity? Do you feel like you could relatively go on without the things that they have? Remember, you can always go back and take 10 seconds to relax. Just make sure that you come back to where you left off.

 Now think about all of the world’s infrastructure. Buildings, roads, sidewalks, telephone line, the internet, police and fire stations, parking lots, all of it. It’s all gone. The world is completely empty of man-made creations. It’s just humans now. 

Everybody is now on an even playing field. Nobody has any resources or powers or tools. We’re all just savages on a big blue marble. Do you feel any better or worse about losing your possessions? Ask yourself why that is.

 Before we go on to living people, let’s think about historical figures that fill the mind. Writers, artists, musicians, Kings, Queens and religious figures. I want you to pretend like they never existed. If this is too difficult, just think back to a time before you knew who they all were. 

 Now we move on to something a little bit more important: living people. Close your eyes. Think about all of the people in the world that you have never met and have no association with. These range from complete strangers on the bus to the entire population of a country that you’ve never visited. Now they’re all gone. Unless you’re very popular, this is the majority of the world gone in the blink of an eye. What did it feel like to rid yourself of them?

 After that, think about all of the famous people in the world. Celebrities, talking heads, politicians, world leaders, business men and women. They are all gone. Forever. Nobody is left to influence how you see other parts of the world. It is a society of people who you can relate to.

 Now it’s time to start dividing up the people that you know. Let’s start with those whom you only know by coincidence. Neighbors, your usual waiter and waitress, coworkers and bosses, fellow students and teachers. People whose association to you is simply based on being at the same place at the same time. They’re now gone. 

 We’ve reached the bloodline. Think about all of your extended family. Aunts, Uncles, Grandparents, Cousins, Nieces and Nephews. While you’re at it, picture all of your friends and pets. This time, I really want you to think about them. Picture their faces, and what they meant to you. Now eliminate them from this existence. Was this harder to do to any of the other choices? Why is that? Does it make you view the other choices any differently?

 I realize that some of you may not have a Mom and Dad, but I like to believe that everyone has a parental figures in their life. Take your time to say goodbye to them. Think about all of the things that they’ve done for you. All of the influence that they’ve had on your life. Now close your eyes and wish them away.

 Did that hurt? Why? This is just an exercise. What is the intrinsic value of wishing away your family, and did it hurt more than getting rid of all of your possessions? If you could live without your possessions to keep your family, would you do it? Why? What would be the point? I’m not saying that there isn’t a point, I just want you to think about what it would be.

 So, you’re alone in the world. It’s just you on a pale blue dot. The world and all of its beauty is yours. The oceans, the mountains. Desserts and forests. Lakes and rivers. What would you do with it all if it was yours and yours alone. With overpowering beauty like this, would you desire to share it with anyone else? How do you know if you have never experienced this yet? Enjoy it for a moment, and then let it go. You’re hurdling through space all alone.

 This next part might be hard to conceptualize. I want you to imagine your physical body. All of your muscles and your organs, your bone structure, your physical features and characteristics. They are gone now. What do you have left that’s still redemptive? Your thoughts, opinions and ideas? What good do they do you? What is the point of having them without a physical body? What was the point of a physical body if you have nothing to stand on?

 Throughout life, you have accumulated an infinitum of opinions, beliefs,emotions and knowledge. Many people say it’s the crux of an existence to know as much as you can. Those people don’t exist anymore. Where did you get all of this knowledge? From your possessions? From people? From your body? From the world? Why do you feel the need to keep the things that you know inside of your body? What made you decide to make that a part of your existence? Take them away, and what kind of weight is lifted from you? 

 What can you say about your existence still? Do you still feel like you? If so, what do you have left? What is it that gives your existence the most purpose? If not, at what point did you stop? Why do you hold so much weight in these things? 

Just think about it.

Broken like the rule book.

 My legs hang over the windowsill of my bedroom window as I look out unto the neo-communist utopia that is the Jefferson Park skyline. The moon is at it’s brightest at 2:00 AM, and I’m disappointed that my neck hair doesn’t stand up as I thought it would. I feel guilty, and not in a way that excites me. Rather, in a way that I know whatever I’m about to do is something that I’ll never be tell anyone, not even my closest friends. Not because it’s an adventure. Not because it’s a secret. But because it makes me feel stupid to talk about, and it would make me sound as if I were bragging, rather than confessing.  

 Whenever I do something that is, for lack of a better term, wrong, my Dad takes it so personally. When I lied to him at the age of six, he told me I’d grow up a disgrace. When he found my weed, he said that I wasn’t his son anymore. This is the manipulation technique that he has used to get me to hate myself for breaking his rules. So far, it has worked. Anytime that I’ve gotten in trouble for doing something, it was because I misjudged the consequences.I really didn’t know at the time the difference between truth and a falsehood. I brought weed into the house thinking that if I got caught I would be given a lecture on drug safety. Instead, I was given a screaming match followed by a silent treatment that lasted four days.

 I remember in the third grade, I said that I was going “out.” My parents assumed that I meant to the front yard. I meant I was going to a friend’s house who lived a block away. My friend had a rough home life, his parents had split up when he was 8. As a side effect, his mom was always “grounding” him. Maybe it was to keep him home, or maybe to take out some frustration. But it wasn’t because he was a bad kid.

 I got to his house at about 4:30. We went to his room and played Gamecube until 5:15, which is the time that I had decided would be a good curfew. It was Kirby, by the way. I couldn’t stand Kirby. 

 I remember, so vividly, entering my living room. The Astros and the Cardinals were playing in the NLCS on TV, and my science project, which was due that week, was sitting in the corner. I looked at the TV. Edgar Rentaria was on third base for the Cardinals, and Rodger Clemens was pitching for the Astros. In my peripherals, I see my Dad, in his recliner, watching the game with glassed over eyes. He looks up at me. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” He said over a Clemens fastball. I look back at him.

I had heard my Dad swear once before, and it was on a phone call. I would have never dreamed he’d use an f-word towards me.

“Are you kidding?” I asked, in hopes that this was one of his classic, light-hearted jokes.

“The hell I am. Do you know where your Mom is right now?” He demanded.

At this point I realized I probably wasn’t supposed to have left the front yard. Through this, I realized that if my parents thought that I was lost for almost an hour, they would be frantic.

“In the backyard, looking for me?” I asked him, in hopes this time that maybe things had not escalated too far yet.

“She’s at the police station, saying that her son is gone.” He said.

The way he said “Her son”, as if he had nothing to do with it, broke my heart. It’s dumb, I know, but I still think about that.

What followed was a long, long lecture from my Mom, my Dad, and Officer Drew on the importance of safety and telling adults where I am at all times, all of which does not contribute to the story. 

 I was grounded for a week. That night I cried myself to sleep.

 I remember, it was a Sunday when all that happened. So Monday morning, I walked to the school bus stop. I went up to my friend Rich, whose house I had been at the previous day, and told him the story.

“Here’s the thing.” I relayed to him. “I’m grounded for a week.”

Rich’s jaw dropped. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was the neighborhood angel. I’d never been grounded in my life. I was who other mothers wanted their kids to be like. I was the model citizen of our little lower-middle class community. 

“No way! Wow, man. How does it feel?” Rich asked, still not totally sure if he believed me. They way he phrased it made it sound like a right of passage, which confused me. There was no doubt how to feel about this. To me, being grounded meant that I couldn’t see my friends, my parents hated me, and I was a bad kid. There were no positives to take away from this.

“Bad. I hate it.”

Rich shrugged his shoulders. 

“The first one’s hard. You’ll get used to it. Congratulations.”

 But I never did get used to it. I felt bad enough every time that I stepped outside alone, even with my parent’s permission. To this day, I still feel uneasy leaving the house in broad daylight. It was a while until I got into that kind of trouble again, and it was when I was a teenager. By that time, I could process punishment at a marginally higher level than a 3rd grader could.

 So, as my frayed canvas Vans hit the cold dirt that paves the gap between my room and my neighbor’s house, I keep that feeling of guilt inside of me. It lines the pockets that I keep my American Spirits in.I light a cigarette as I drag myself down the alley between the Metra tracks and the copernicus center. The blue line runs 24 hours a day, so any chance of a new experience goes through that.

 The car shakes and I jump with a bit of excitement. Nobody is here with me, but I feel someone’s energy. Maybe it’s residue from all of the commuters today, but I think it’s someone else. I think it’s that kid in third grade who knew all the answers in class, and always impressed Rich’s Mom. The kid that I could’ve grown up into if I wasn’t always trying to fix him. 

 By the time that I get to Clark and Lake, a few people have come on the car. A homeless-looking guy, and a suburbanite and his drunken hook-up. I side-step past them as I get off.

 I walk to the beach by Navy Pier, on Ohio Street. This is a nice place for me to sit and think, but I don’t know why. Chicago’s spine lights up, and it’s beautiful. But I’m just staring at the homes of rich people. Rich people who probably don’t even live here but a few months out of the year. 

 This is it. I’ve snuck out. This is what all of the books and movies and TV shows have told me is the most exciting thing about being a teenager. Except, there’s something missing. I’m not sneaking out to go anywhere. I’m just sneaking out to prove to some kid in the third grade that he shouldn’t be afraid of his Dad. I’m just trying to show myself, all versions of myself, that I can do it. That I’m not afraid of the consequences. But I still am. Not even of my Dad, but someone. And I cry on the beach, like a fucking third grader.

stevie

His SOUL rests on an indigo night in the rainforest. 

It is away from taxi cabs

overpriced delis

red lights or green lights. 

There are no economic theories here. 

Only a Horizon beyond the trees. 

I am back to sitting at my cramped kitchen table, 

Watching the clock drip past 3 A.M. 

Cigarette after cigarette breaks the boundary between me and the real world. 

I wait for the train to pass, a rumble in the jungle ever seven minutes. 

There isn’t a perfect formula to living in this town. 

Thus the need for 3 AM trains. 

It sips, stretches and hums.

It breaths once, and stops.

Taking only what it needs.

There is no energy crisis here. 

Only the tall glass of Midnight Oil 

Sitting in the Sky.

I forgot to close the bedroom door when I got up. 

Even as the light glares on her back, my wife doesn’t stir. 

She’s grown accustomed to these types of things. 

I used to be a salesman before I grew up

And I gave her the best pitch of my career. 

I wonder if any of my other customers are this miserable. 

 It breaths again.

This time in unison with the breeze that comes from the east. 

Its does not move.

There is no concept  of ‘Time’ here.

Only a Chicagoan’s soul

Resting in the rainforest.

A second train rides by. I’m going to be a mess at work tomorrow. 

There Doesn’t seem to be a place in this world where I can sleep.  

I need to work things out with the woman I chose to spend my life with. 

I need to quit smoking. 

I need to get through another night in Chicago.

And find a way to stay in the rainforest. 

Fear and loathing in the hills behind metropolis.

There's a creek that sits a dozen yards behind my house. Recently, I've gone down there after my Dad finally falls asleep, and taken what feels like real long walks down it. It doesn't seem that dangerous, a few crawfish and raccoons, but they don't bother nobody. Animals have always been real friendly to me anyways. If you walk far along enough down the creek, there's a bridge that supports the train tracks. Every Wednesday at 3 AM there'll be a train that stops on that bridge for a good 10 minutes or so. My Uncle who works at the yards tells me that it's a shipment of foodstuffs on its way to Memphis. Our town is its second to last stop. I get so tempted some nights to get inside of one of the train cars and make my way to the big city. I get scared that I'd miss my Ma, so I never do it. But one of these days, maybe after I finish 8th grade, I'll go there. Boys at school keep talking about how the wind storms gonna blow over this dirt trap, and I'd best get out of here as soon as I could. Georgia ain't as much fun as it used to be when I was young.

300 words or less.

 MY SOUL rests on an indigo night in the rainforest. Away from taxi cabs,overpriced delis, red lights and green lights. There are no economic theories here. Only a horizon that sits beyond the trees. There is no energy crisis. Only the tall glass of midnight oil sitting in the sky. 

 I sit at my cramped kitchen table, watching the clock drip past 3 A.M. Cigarette after cigarette breaks the boundary between me and the real world. I wait for the train to pass. A rumble in the jungle ever seven minutes, they say. There isn’t a perfect formula to living in this town, thus the need for 3 AM trains. 

 I forgot to close the bedroom door when I got up. Even as the light glares on her back, my wife doesn’t stir. She’s grown accustomed to these types of things. I used to be a salesman before I grew up, and I gave her the best pitch of my career. I wonder if any of my other customers are this miserable.

 As all sorts of animals graze underneath,in and above the plethora of trees, it breaths again. It walks along the river to a pond that is as still as it is clear. It does not bother, nor does it consume any of the liquid inside it. All it needs to do is watch it.

 A second train rides by. I’m going to be a mess at work. There doesn’t seem to be a place in this world where I can sleep. I need to work things out with the woman I chose to spend my life with. I need to quit smoking. I need to get through another night in Brooklyn.

Typing

“Well, Ray, we love your stuff. You seem like you’d be a great fit here. We have to do some background checks, standard procedure, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about. We’ll get back to you in a couple of days.”

That’s how every interview had ended since I lost my job. I would leave the room feeling confident. Sometimes I'd even celebrate with a few drinks. Okay, most of the time.

Every time. Even when the interview didn't go well. I would tell myself it did, and that was excuse enough to celebrate. Reason, not excuse. Reason. It's not an excuse unless you feel guilty about saying it. 

 I was new in Denver. All of the friends I had made here still worked at my old job. I wasn't going to call them. So really, it wasn't a choice to drink alone. It was all I could do. That was my rational, anyway. It worked well enough for the bartender at Pressure, so it was good enough for me. 

I'd finish off my victory lap of unemployment with glass after glass of gin and tonic. It really was a sight. I was a fun drunk, a loving drunk. I was able to reciprocate my joy with total strangers, and it felt right. Every time I opened the door to that tavern, I convinced myself that I was free from the tyranny of my impoverished living situation.But after a couple of days, without fail, a dissapointed voice would be meeting me on the other end of a phone call. 

“Hi Ray. 

We’ve been evaluating the available position, and we’re not sure you would be the right person for the job. It’s nothing personal; we just want to go in another direction. We’re sure you’ll find something soon.

It's a shame. I was really looking forward to working with you.” 

This was what they said every time. It was like a goddamn script. Except for that last bit. They would always ad-lib that. 

After being unemployed for a while, your brain starts to get bored. It's no longer happy without structure. It needs a repetitive task that it can look forward to. Whether that's waking up at the same time every morning, or filing the same paper work every other wednesday. The brain needs structure. But when that structure is not around, the brain needs detail. It devours it. It is the organ's carnal instinct to just consume and consume and consume all of the little things it sees. The crescent shaped mustard stain on the left shoulder of my red Clippers T-shirt that gets recycled into clean clothes every four days. Or the way the bathroom carpet feels stale against my left cheekbone at three in the morning. I always thought it was dried toothpaste, but further examination leads me to believe that it may have been some sort of make-up that a date spilled that caused the roughage. Regardless, I can't get it out because it set in before I could wash it.

Like I said, details. 

It was this consumption, nay, addiction to details that made me notice the conversation pattern I always had with these people. They greeted me with a tone of disappointment. They didn't want to give somebody the kind of news they were about to give, it was supposed to destroy me. They didn't want to do that. I always wanted to tell them before they started that they couldn't hurt me, and that they shouldn't be so disappointed to be doing this. It wasn't their fault. But that would defeat the purpose of their phone call in the first place, wouldn't it? There was no need to continue the call if I already knew the conversation. So I played along. It was a good exercise for them anyway. The only thing harder than dealing with rejection is dealing rejection when you don't want to.

Inhale.

They always would inhale deeply before they started speaking. It was recital. These people were given cards with a little speech on them. Whether they were there to ease the pain for them or me, I couldn't tell you. A little bit of both, probably. They would go through it as quickly and as clearly as they could. As to leave no doubt in my mind while making it end as soon as possible.

Exhale.

Then came the personal apology. The "it wasn't my choice, and I don't like the decision."  
At first I asked them to elaborate on this decision. They would get all hasty. As if that wasn’t supposed to be a part of the conversation. They would usually go on apologetically about nepotism, that it was a favor for some higher-up at the company. Sometimes though, they would just hang up. 

I stopped asking them that after a while, though. I would thank them, say I had been looking forward to working with them too. That these situations happen. That life goes on and that they were a very good company who would find an amicable employee soon enough. That I was sad things weren't going to progress, but I understood why they couldn't. Even though I didn't. All of my words were just to make them feel better, because I knew it wasn't their fault. It was the reverse break-up speech. 

I had interviewed at just about every office in Denver. I was thinking about going into construction and giving up life in an office. Working with my hands had always seemed nice, I just would hate to give up on keeping appearances. I wanted to work 9 to 5 in a suit and tie. It wasn't work to me. It was maintenance. It was giving my brain a duty an occupancy. It was purpose. But if I had to give up that luxury of pleasuring my brain so that I could keep the lights on, so be it. I was beginning to accept that. 

That’s when I got the letter. 

It came a few hours after the rest of the mail. The flag had not been lifted up, so it was nothing but a trance that led me to checking the mailbox a second time that day. When I opened the metal hatch and looked inside,  my eyes were not unlike saucers for what felt like hours.
 What drove my fixation was nothing but a pale white envelope. I know, it sounds minute. But that was the beauty of it. The envelope was the purest piece of postage I’d ever been presented. It was so specific. I was addicted, if only for a moment, to looking at that white envelope. I felt restitution of the convoluted emotions in the deepest parts of my soul that I hadn't felt since I was a young man and that I had forgot even existed.  I saw in that envelope everything that would accumulate my mind,soul,and body for the next thirty years. From fear to glory, then joy to anger, and finally an empty, cold death. And it was all in that simple tin mailbox. Had I known  that this canvas for a poorly painted oriole would be the home for such a glorious dedication to omniscient casing, I would have made better arrangements.

I truly believe that the only thing that stopped me from looking at the envelope for the rest of my life was noticing the writing on the front. 

RAY CONAN. 

When I read that, all of the things that my soul had just gone through was sucked through a vacuum. I forgot it all. I was back to being Ray Conan, a simple client executive.

There was nothing else written. No address, no return address, not even a stamp.

I looked on the back:

DO NOT OPEN UNTIL SATURDAY.

It was Thursday. I knew myself. I couldn’t wait that long, so I didn’t even try. I practically tore the letter in half trying to open it. Inside was a yellowed piece of paper. It looked like it had been sitting in an attic for years, and crumpled at the touch.

It read:

Ray-

We appreciate your excitement, although in the future, we ask that you follow the rules. 

We have a job offer for you, Mr. Conan. We cannot give you very many details, but don’t let that offend you. It’s just not in our plan at this moment.

On 1400 West, you will find a tall, black building. The door will be unlocked. Let yourself in, but DO NOT draw attention to yourself. Take the elevator to the thirty-first floor and enter room 556. In there, you will find further instructions. You start this Friday.

I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing: The fact that they knew I was going to open the letter, or that I ran down West every day and had never noticed a tall black building. Certainly not one large enough to host thirty-one floors. 

Every crevice in my brain was filled with neurons shouting “Don’t test it.” But I needed the money. Almost as important, I needed a job. I had begun to get a little stir crazy sitting around, doing nothing all day. I felt like a zombie. 6 months of all by myself. Nobody is meant to think for that long.

When I woke up the next morning, I wasn’t sure if I should even try to find the place. I began to believe more and more that this was a hoax. I had an uneasy feeling in my stomach as I walked out the door. 

Sure enough though, at 1400 West stood a tall, black sky scraper. It looked to go on forever, endlessly shooting up into the clouds. I looked around, nobody was paying any attention to it. Everybody was acting as though it hadn’t just appeared over night. On the corner, there was a newspaper vendor. I ran over to him.

He was a larger man, with a grease stain on an avocado-green t-shirt. Even for nine in the morning, he looked entirely natural with a cigar in his mouth. 

“Excuse me, sir? This may seem like a strange question, but it’s to test my own sanity. That tall, black building right there, how long has it existed?”

The man looked at the building, then back at me. Then back at the building a second time. His mouth started to open, but nothing came out for a few seconds.

“Well, um, I’m afraid I don’t know. I would love to say that it’s been here for years, for my own sanity’s sake, but I’ll be damned if that’s not the first time I’ve ever seen it. Funny thing is, I didn’t really notice it until you pointed it out. It just...fits.”

“Hmm. Yes.” I replied. “It does fit. Maybe that’s the answer. I’ve run past it every morning for the past six months, and this is the first time it has caught my eye.”

“Well what made you spot it this time?” He asked.

I hesitated before answering. I remembered the directions from the letter, and decided against telling him why I was there. 

“I guess the street was in a different light this morning.” I stammered. 

I walked off. Now I had to wait until he wasn’t looking. That didn’t take long, though, as he immediately got a customer. I walked into the building.

What awaited me inside the heavily tinted windows was an immaculate lobby. Large, plush carpets, a mural on the ceiling, portraits on the walls, and I counted 3 chandeliers. It was one of the nicest buildings I had ever been in. The only problem was that it was totally empty. The lights were on, music was playing, but nobody but I was there to enjoy it. I looked over to the elevators. There were six of them. 5 were masked over with caution tape, one was open.

I felt less comfortable than I had the night before. I wanted to go back home. My curiosity got the better of me, though, and I entered the elevator. Inside, there was the largest elevator panel I had ever seen. Eighty-five buttons for Eighty-five floors, and I had to go to the thirty-first. I knew that when I hit that button, it could be the last time I was every on ground level. It was a risk I had to take.

When the doors closed, though, two metallic sheet-doors did not meet. Instead, a new hallway wiped through the doorway, from left to right. Like a scan. At first, I thought it was a single door closing, but then I realized the hallway was ready. 

It was surreal. Stepping through the elevator, my body shivered. It thought I was entering another climate. Or another dimension. The hallway was similarly styled to the lobby. It was carpeted, well lit, and smelled like it had just been cleaned. But in a good way. That’s when I looked out the window. I realized that I wasn’t in Denver, anymore. It was storming outside. 

I appeared to be  in a cornfield, but why the hell would there be a building out in a cornfield?

 Nothing was making sense. I didn’t want the job anymore. I spun back around to get in the elevator. The doors were closed, and there was caution tape wrapped across the threshold. Taped to the ‘down’ button was another bleach white envelope. I tore it open. It read:

Nobody leaves until the job is done. Go to room 556, do the work, and the doors will open.

I began to panic. I started pounding on the doors and pressing the button, yelling at nobody in particular. 

“Bring it up! Bring it up! I don’t want to do this anymore. This isn’t fucking funny! Give me my goddamn elevator.”

After about two minutes, I realized that I had no choice but to try working. I started walking down the narrow hallway. As I walked by the first door, I peered inside the glass window.

It was an empty, dark room. I could hardly make out a roundtable in the center of it. I noticed red light directly across from my side, inserted just above a wooden door. It looked like a confession booths at church.

The light flickered for a moment before turning off. When it did, the room flared with overhead fluorescents. I looked around, and the entire wall was lined with about a dozen similar doors. The only difference was that the one across from me was the only one with a red light.

People began to enter from all the doorways, men and women in business attire. They were speaking, but I couldn’t hear a word they were saying. They all looked so familiar, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on why.

“Help! Somebody open this door. I’m fucking stuck!” I yelled. Nobody answered, or even looked up.

Then I realized why all of the people looked familiar. They were all people who had interviewed me for the past 6 months. Entering through the door with the red light were three other people. A man in a suit and a mechanic, neither of whom I recognized, and a casually dressed, overweight man with a cigar in his mouth. It was the man from the newspaper stand. His demeanor made him looked more out-of-place than his attire did. He was shifting in his seat uncontrollably. He was constantly looking around. He didn’t seem as trusting of the suit as the others were.  

The suit was clearly running the meeting. He went around the room, asking questions to each person seated at the table. When he addressed them, they would look down at the floor, or at the ceiling, appearing to avoid eye contact with him. Then he got to newspaper man.

The suit started asking questions, and newspaper man looked directly at him, speaking with more confidence than any of the others. The suit then took a more direct approach and began asking questions more rapidly and with more edge.

Newspaper man wasn’t having any of it. He stood up and began shouting furiously at the man in the suit. The suit looked to be trying to calm him down, but almost half-heartedly. Newspaper man climbed onto the table and started charging towards him. The man in the suit began to yell, and pulled out a gun. The rest of the table members looked aghast, and tried to calm the newspaper man, but he wouldn’t stop. 

The man in the suit fired one shot, right through his head. He didn’t fall. or even bleed.

He just fucking evaporated. 

The rest of the table members were unanimously shocked, their mouths hanging wide open. One of the men began to cry. Nobody dared comfort him, though. The man in the suit yelled at him, pointing the gun in his direction. He shut up. He looked around at all of them and began speaking in a very firm, very direct way, still holding his gun toward the crier. The nodded their heads and looked down in fear.  

The man in the suit picked up his papers and exited through his own door.

I couldn’t feel my body at this point. I would be wondering what was going on, but my brain had lost the ability to ask questions for the time being. I didn't know who was dealing with anymore. 

I was so distressed that I didn’t notice the man in the mechanic coming to the door. I finally saw him coming as he felt the door knob, and I stumbled onto my back. I tried to get up, but he was already in the hallway.

“Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me. I’ll go do my work I swear.” I said. Even in the moment, I was a little ashamed of my begging.

The man rolled his eyes.

“Take it easy. I’m not here to kill you.” He said.

“Aw Jesus man. You can’t scare a guy like that. Well who the hell are you? And what are you doing here?” 

“I’m the elevator repair man. Once you get your work done, I’ll get that thing fixed and bring you back to Denver. But you have to actually do it. You can’t bribe me, I’ll promise you that.” 

“Where are we now if we’re not in Denver?” I asked.

“Well there’s some stuff I can tell you and other things I can’t. This is one of the things I can’t tell you.”

“What can you tell me, then?” 

He looked around.

“Um. Nothing actually. Nobody ever asks anything else. I don’t know why I said that. Now go to work.”

I didn’t want to end the conversation, but it seemed I had no choice.
TO BE CONTINUED

Six word stories

I don’t know where I’m going.

Drinking lemonade, she watched her slaves.

Super hot fire. I spit that.

He’s lying to you right now.

I got 99 problems, help me.

I only have six words, so

In the end, she was disappointed.

Through thick and thin, they lost.

ICU

I once tried to kill myself by chugging a bottle of hand sanitizer. Back then, I wasn’t super good at planning things out. If I had been, I probably wouldn’t be around right now. The whole thing was pretty impulsive. I was sitting at my desk, and I just couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to get out. So I popped off the top of the 8 OZ bottle, and started drinking.

See, the thing Purell doesn’t want you to know is that while that gel might kill 99.99% of germs, it tastes like shit. And I have a tendency to hold things in my mouth before swallowing them. At first, I was holding it down pretty well; I can handle my alcohol with the best of them. All of a sudden, though, I started feeling pretty sick. It was like I was going to start puking out everything from my feet, up. But as soon as my stomach started bubbling, my chest locked up. It wasn't going to let anything else out or in. I started stumbling around, and then everything got blurry. Then black. The last thing I remember was my mom shouting from down stairs “Jeffy, quit stumbling around up there. Are you okay?”

 When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed, my parents in tears, being hugged by my Aunt Karen.Her husband, Rick, sat sheepishly in the back chair. When they realized I had come to, they all breathed a sigh of relief, which was followed by a flurry of angry comments.

“Jeffy! What the hell were you thinking? You could’ve gotten yourself killed! Don’t you know that stuff is poisonous? If you’re feeling sick, just get a glass of orange juice.”

“You had your mother worried to death. You teens and your dumb ideas. You’re lucky to be alive!” Aunt Karen said.

“Son, if you want a beer, just ask for one. I’d rather that than you start boozing it up on Purell.” My Dad said, in what is still today the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard said in a serious tone.

I was thoroughly confused. Did they honestly believe I thought drinking hand sanitizer wasn’t dangerous, but in fact good for me? I suppose there isn’t much to say to people after a failed suicide attempt, but when the people around you don’t even realize it was suicide, words are even harder to come by.

“Look at you.” Mom said. “This little experiment has made you as pale as a 

church mouse.” (Mom tended to mix up phrases.)

“We should get him some food.” Karen said to my Mom.

“That’s a good idea. How about Chinese? Jeffy, is Chinese okay?”

I hated Chinese. Beyond that, I was pretty sure you couldn’t bring food to ICU patients. But I wasn’t in much of a position to argue. In their eyes, I was the kid who drank hand sanitizer to cure a cold. I nodded my head in agreement.

My Aunt and Mom left the room. My Dad was never much for one-on-one in awkward situations. He excused himself to smoke. That left Rick and I.

Uncle Rick never spoke much with me, but I didn’t take that personally. Karen did most of the talking, and he didn’t converse with anybody in the family.

There were a few seconds-that-felt-like-minutes of silence before he broke it.

“You, uh, really had us there for a second, kid.” He said, looking in any direction other than my bed.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” I said, laughing, trying to break the tension.

“You gotta be more careful. If anything ever happened to you, you parents would be crushed. We all would be.” 

“You’re right, it was a dumb mistake. I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

He paused, and looked at me for the first time, a stern look manifesting itself on his face. I had never seen anything like it come from Uncle Rick before.

“I know exactly what you were thinking.” He said, his tone matching his demeanor. “You were trying to end it.”

“Wh-what?” I said, not expecting this sort of detective work from Rick.

“The others, your mom, your Dad, Aunt Karen, they’re all in total denial. They want to believe that you’ve just made a dumb mistake, and that they don’t have to worry about anything. But we both know that’s not the case. You wanted to kill yourself.”

I was paralyzed. In all the years I’ve known Rick, he had never seemed like the type of guy to be so confident in an accusation like this, let alone correct.

“I’ve been in your position before. In fact, I did the same god damn thing. Hand sanitizer doesn’t work unless you’ve got a lot and you aren’t near anybody. But if you’re drinking hand sanitizer to off yourself, you’ve gotta be pretty desperate and pretty impulsive. Am I right so far?”

I nodded my head, mouth open in shock. 

“ I know this is tough for you right now. The next couple weeks are going to be the most disillusioning time of your life. But it pays off, because you get to meet your Aunt Karen. And people start being nicer to you, and all of a sudden, you have purpose. So don’t quit. Because we like you, and other people do too. Okay?”

“Okay.” I said. 

Karen and Mom walked into the room, with bags of Chinese food underneath each arm, unaware that the man who said three words at his own birthday party had probably just saved my life.

“Okay, who’s hungry?” My Mom asked.

As the words left her mouth, a nurse walked in.

“Excuse me, you can’t have food in here.” She said. “This is the ICU.”