Michael J. Seidlinger

The Strangest

~ ~ ~

Michael Seidlinger dares tackle one of the literary classics of the 20th century literature and reimagine it for the 21st: and in Albert Camus’ anti-hero Meursault, at once apathetic and violent, unable to connect with his fellow humans, Seidlinger exhumes a perfect metaphor for the Internet Generation. Zachary Weinham, anchorless in terms of morals and committed to nothing except commenting on comments and their comments etc., finds himself involved in the sinister machinations of Rios, someone he meets in a bar, and allows himself to be set up — whether out of apathy or a desire for self-destruction it’s hard to tell. A murder ensues. Shunned by his friends and associates, not sure of what he has gotten into, Zachary heads for confrontation with society — and his own moral values.

“For a line to exist, it would first have to be crossed.”

The Strangest

You are no stranger than you are foolish to think that you are different from anyone else.

— SOME VOICE

Part One

1

Someone died, I don’t know. It’s pretty obvious that someone died. People die every minute. When it hits home, it’s plain and clear. Someone died. You can’t just say it’s a coincidence.

I got the phone call. I made sure to make a note of it.

Someone called. Apparently someone died.

Based on the number of likes and comments, it looks like it’s a big deal. But then again, tonight is like most nights: Not worth remembering. I don’t believe much of anything if it isn’t there in the morning.

I tell myself, it’s real if it’s still there. I remind myself. I think it’s something worth considering.

It sounds bad.

Get there in the morning — skip the hospital, the person on the phone said the funeral is tomorrow. Halfway across the city.

I never travel that far, not for anything.

Wish I could just build a big pillow fort and live there for the rest of my life. That’s a good one. Statuses like that get at least a couple dozen likes. People feel the same way. They see what it’s like when people die. It feels, well it feels like being forced to do something. I shouldn’t talk. I’m not like this. This isn’t me.

This isn’t me.

They don’t like it so I delete it. I post it again, this time with a picture of someone I don’t know. That one catches on.

The phone call, though — the voice was so unfamiliar, it probably was someone I knew.

“He’s dead,” the voice said.

“Dead.” I don’t pick up the phone. I don’t know why I picked up the phone. I never pick up the phone. I don’t like talking on the phone. I have to be eating something in order to talk on the phone, so I started on the only food near me, day-old pizza or something. “You are crying.”

“Andrew, oh my god …”

“Oh my god,” I say it because I have nothing else to say.

“He … I knew he was having trouble, but I didn’t think …”

Didn’t think. What am I thinking right now?

Death and coping with death: The Downer Story of the Year. In twelve steps you find out who you really are. A few people seem to agree. One reply, Fuck you Meurks. I have a lot of haters. Everyone says to ignore the trolls but the trolls know how to really get to you. The good ones, anyway. This is not a good one.

I have nothing to say so I don’t say anything. She keeps talking, sobs at one point and then, clearing her throat, she tells me about the funeral. Details.

“We’re all getting together after the funeral. Like old times.” Then she starts sobbing again. Tears, I imagine.

This is where I say something.

And then she says something.

And then I say something back, but it’s not what she expected. She kind of laughs, and expects it. Says, “Zachary, always the one that makes it awkward. If I didn’t already know you, I’d hang up.”

Is this a compliment?

I don’t know.

I don’t say anything else because I don’t have to say anything else. I don’t have to say anything. I just listen to her breathing and then I listen to her telling me again, one last time, about the funeral. I think this is where the call ends but I stay on the line until the dial tone stops.

Because I was on the phone, I have to play catch up. A lot has happened since the call. Likes, retweets, blogs, reblogs: I think about the person that died. There’s nothing there. “Andrew.” Who is this “Andrew?”

And then I open a new tab and start writing out a blog post:

That feeling that you get when you know you should be doing something but you don’t know what it is you’re supposed to be doing and the feeling that’s missing when something bad happens and everyone but you feels it: This is now. This is where I am, currently. What’s your current mood? Meurks is asking, you might as well respond.

They respond.

People go on and on about their problems.

When they have an open forum, they go on forever.

It’s a lot easier to not listen when you don’t have to stare at a person face-to-face.

Then I remember:

Funeral tomorrow. I could probably not go, but my name is in the program.

Should I go to a funeral if I’m expected to be there?

Followers respond like a guilty conscience. Mostly “yes” with a “but” that has to do with if anyone else is expecting me. I think for a moment. Nothing comes to mind.

I look up from the screen; I look at the laptop set in front of me. I look around my apartment. It must have gotten dark since I sat down. The sun was up before I got the call, long before any of this began.

I think about turning on a light. The thought passes.

Then I remember, my name in the program.

If my name is in the program?

This time they answer, “yes” with no “buts” and then I stand up, pacing the entire length of my bedroom until I stop at the one lamp I own. I turn on the light. I turn it off. I look outside, seeing that the streets have a busy night ahead.

Must be Friday.

Or Saturday. Or Sunday.

Not Sunday. I had work today.

I won’t have work tomorrow.

I quickly blame this “Andrew” for the fact that I will have to travel tomorrow. But at least I get off from work.

I should probably call my boss.

Phone drains before I can get to his number.

Tomorrow feels a whole lot like today except I am outside with a bunch of people, 31 people to be exact. 31 people sounds like a lot. It’s a lot for a funeral. How many people do you want at your funeral, and how many do you think will cry? I hold onto my phone, making sure to monitor how much battery is left. There’s no outlet here. There should be, but then there wouldn’t be any trees. Or … grass. There wouldn’t be any graves. We wouldn’t be outside if there were outlets. We shouldn’t be outside.

2 of the 31 people in attendance keep talking to me. One walks over and makes me feel like I’m supposed to say something profound. He puts his arm around me, brings me close, and says, “Andrew was great, just know that. It isn’t your fault.”

“Why would it be my fault?” I shouldn’t have said that but I shouldn’t have to talk to someone I don’t want to talk to.

“It’s not, man, it’s not! Don’t get me wrong. It’s just …”

The guy trails off and then walks away with his head down. I don’t watch because he’s walking in the direction of the coffin and all the people standing around it.

I like this tree. It has enough shade.

Almost like I’m not even outside since there’s a breeze today. Only 4 of the 31 people are crying, and they aren’t crying in the way where you make a sound. They are sort of sobbing. I don’t know why. The other friend doesn’t leave when he walks up. He keeps talking.

“My condolences. I know he was a close friend of yours … your best friend.”

I look down at my phone.

How many people will remember you when you’re gone?

“He was going through a hard time.”

Know that feeling when you are so self-conscious you have to pretend you’re the one that’s dead?

“I just didn’t think he’d do this …”

Without looking up from the phone, I make conversation, “Do what?”

He sort of stutters, “You — you mean you don’t know?”

What am I supposed to know except how to eat, sleep, and maybe fuck?

I say, “No.”

“He offed himself, dude. Just like that, pull of the trigger.”

Suicide is never the answer.

I delete that almost immediately after posting it.

This guy keeps talking, “And his brains, oh hell … what must it be like to wrap your lips around a shotgun …”

Guns don’t kill people, people kill people.

That one gets a bunch of likes. But I don’t like the sound of it so I delete it too.

The guy then tells me, “But he was a good guy. You two were inseparable. This must be so hard for you …”

Trails off. I’m not really typing anything but I pretend to.

He doesn’t leave.

Someone else, one of the people running the funeral joins us and asks me if I’m ready.

I say “Yes” just so that I don’t have to hear anything else.

“I understand you and Andrew were close.”

People say that they know me but how the hell do you know a person if they haven’t decided to show everyone who they really are?

“Yes.” That sounded decisive.

This person shakes my hand, “Our minds and hearts go out to you. Andrew was a great person.”

Who is great and who is merely adequate?

“Well, then, shall we? Let us show Andrew how much he means to us.”

And then that guy that won’t leave me alone adds, “Yeah, Andrew would have liked it simple and to the point.”

I don’t know what “Andrew” would have liked or disliked, but I do know that I don’t like this.

31 people in a half circle listening to one person delivering some sort of speech.

I don’t fit in here.

I stand with hands gripped to my phone. I listen but it’s not the kind of listening where you hear words. I only hear the man’s voice, and the rise and fall of every sentence he speaks. When he stops, he looks at me.

He leans in and whispers, “Ready when you are.”

I whisper, “Ready?”

“Please, you may deliver the eulogy.”

Is this what “friends” do to friends? Would a great friend force another great friend to stand up in front of 31 people and talk about how great their friend was?

I walk slowly, no eye contact, gaze on the phone.

People are sobbing. I walk to the elevated platform where I’m supposed to speak. Public speaking.

Who really likes public speaking except for those people that really seek validation from others? I don’t want these people looking at me! I don’t know what to say! Shit what do I say?

I delete this quickly, before it can filter out to all of Meurk’s friends and followers. I search for “good eulogies.”

I find one.

I stand there and read it word for word.

Eye contact, always eye contact. The eulogy has directions, saying when to stop and look up. I ignore it.

I don’t fit in here.

This is not me.

I don’t do stuff like this. Something must have happened — must have been something I said — because things start to move quickly.

When I’m done reading the eulogy I read, I look up and see that the people that had looked sad now simply look at me, sort of in disbelief.

It was something I said, I’m sure.

I walk back to where I stood before I had to deliver this speech. The guy continues where he left off, and you get the impression that after a couple minutes everyone forgets.

Ever felt like you wanted to just crawl into a hole somewhere until everyone forgets that you exist so that you can start over?

I don’t post that. I think about saving it to drafts. I don’t.

I think about texting it to someone but who?

Who is there to receive it?

I don’t save it.

I look up and catch someone staring at me.

I clench my jaw.

I don’t fit in here.

That could have gone a whole lot better. How would it have been any better than what it became? A discussion-in-comments begins before I decide to stop following it. Meurks does this a lot: Whole threads evolve without so much as a single follow-up response.

Nothing to blame. Don’t blame me.

No one said anything is reassured.

The funeral is over. I don’t need to see any of these people again. That’s what’s certain, and I can almost call it reassuring. But they go around, reassuring themselves by talking through their sadness. Their reassurance reduces mine. I pull back, looking to be out of plain sight. It’s too late, though.

Someone tells me, “What a wonderful eulogy, Andrew was a really great person.”

They spot me.

And another, “Such a tragedy when life ends so abruptly.”

I nod.

I think I agree with everything they say.

“Yes.”

Sometimes they sniffle, other times they wipe away tears. Some just look sad. But I can see that they look at me differently.

Like I don’t belong here.

Hate when people judge you even though you were put on the spot. A few likes but no comments, no follow-through.

I delete it a bit later.

Do you care?

When Meurks says it, it brings out the trolls.

When I say it, it brings a good number of the 31 people in attendance to a halt, almost too upset to say anything else.

I did say that, yes.

One person believes it’s because I’m the one upset.

No one believes you’re sincere when it sounds wrong.

A comment says, Amen.

I look up from my phone to see the same friend from before, this time with puffy eyes.

He grabs my hand and shakes it. No matter that I don’t shake back. He says, “Great eulogy dude.”

Ever feel so uncomfortable you hate the person and blame that person for the discomfort?

Delete that. It sounds wrong.

He says, “I didn’t think it could hurt this much.”

I reply, “I know,” so that I don’t have to say anything else.

Someone next to him, a woman, asks, “You’re coming along right?” I don’t know what she’s talking about but because I don’t want to have to say something and then her say something back and then say something again, I settle for, “Yes. I am.”

15 of the most awkward social situations … 1’s got to be a funeral.

“Zachary.”

“Zachary!”

I don’t realize that’s my name until a hand is on my shoulder. It’s the guy that spoke the most during the funeral. I realize he’s a priest when I see that he’s wearing all black with that white collar thing.

What do you call the white collar thing priests wear?

Gets a response that’s almost instant. White collar.

What am I going to do with that kind of information?

I hold back, not saying anything to the priest. He thanks me for the eulogy although I can tell that everyone, everyone, knows how badly of a eulogy it was; they just won’t tell me.

Makes it so much worse. Can’t stand it when people treat you as something lesser. Eat it up haters — this one stays.

They look through me, having already deemed me inadequate, and they feign sympathy. They offer apologies and positive thoughts that aren’t really there. “Yes.”

“Thanks.”

That’s all they’re going to get.

I agree. See? “Yes.” I am strange.

I do not fit in.

This wasn’t my idea. I did not volunteer to speak at a funeral. And I’m the one that’s judged because I was forced to do something I wasn’t comfortable with.

I delete it as soon as I post it.

31 people take their time offering their condolences. I notice the priest leaves first. Another dead person, another funeral. People filter out except for the ones that won’t leave me alone. They offer a ride to wherever they’re going.

I turn it down, saying I’ll call a cab.

“Dude, don’t be weird: That would be like, what, $60!”

Some other guy says, “Yeah, that’s moronic.”

I nod, “Yes.” And then I continue walking.

I don’t know where I’m going.

Just know that I’m not going where they are going. I look down at the phone. It’s got a quarter left of battery power. This becomes the reason for my new direction; I need to find an outlet. I need to charge my phone.

Charging phone is tantamount to forced socialization: Loathe it when it happens but can’t help but end up letting it happen.

They drive up next to me, “Hey!”

I don’t hear them at first, or, I choose not to hear them at first. I walk slow enough that the one driving barely has to tap the pedal. The car cruises in neutral.

I can hear the engine. The sound razes my mind. Headache, and then I feel dizzy.

“Dude, we understand!”

Voices cutting through, I choose to nod in agreement.

With phone nearly drained, I look to the ground, the sidewalk is stained with flecks of gum and other dirt and grit. I count out the corner of my eye how many people are in the car.

3—how could there be so many?

“You’re upset! It’s okay! You shouldn’t have to go through this alone.”

Who said anything about being alone?

I pocket the phone; brush my short hair for no real reason. I cut this hair myself.

How to cut your own hair or don’t do what Meurks just did.

Then I scratch my cheek. They keep at it.

They don’t really care.

And it’s easier to let them think what they want.

I don’t say anything else. I keep walking down the street and they keep following until I see a building and walk up the steps. It must be some kind of store, I guess. I step inside and hide behind a nearby aisle until they drive off.

Weird, strange, whatever.

I don’t fit in here.

I don’t know those people. They claim to be friends, but would friends put me in such an uncomfortable spot?

Sometimes I cannot help what I say or do.

The situation in the store is 8 people, 2 cashiers, one staring at me, curious, probably expecting me to buy something.

So I leave.

They are not friends. They are not anyone to note.

I am a stranger. They are strangers.

Our lives do not cross paths.

I don’t know “Andrew.” Maybe never did. If I had, I probably would have been a different person. These are not people I associate with. If I can remember, and I don’t, I only know of the people that fit into my daily life.

I know of the people that are friends and follow Meurks.

I know of these things, and I might know of a little bit more. But the day moves on like the wind, it passes and soon I don’t remember anything. It’s another day.

I walk down this street for some time.

I hear cars honking their horns but assume it is not me that they are honking at.

Who am I? I am a man. I am Zachary. I am plain looking and even plainer in personality. I may be considered strange if only because I have accepted this plainness. I do not expect anyone to enjoy my company or even be warmed by some sort of compassion. I am a person, like you are a man or woman. We are people. And I am searching for a power source for my phone.

A diner at the corner of this street and some other street consists of 43 people, all of them busy with their own lives. Much like me, I am here to continue with mine.

I must catch up.

I stand waiting for a woman to finish charging her phone. She looks at me, and smiles, “Oh sorry, almost done!”

I nod — eye contact didn’t feel right.

I hold onto the phone in one hand and the charger in the other. Some people have coffee. A lot of people have laptops. Some people are talking and they seem to have fun.

Mental tweet for Meurks’s profile:

People in coffee diners are like people in debate: Full of opinions and full of caffeine.

Maybe post that later. Maybe not.

“’Kay done!”

She is one of 43 people that are here to market and maintain their lives. I am the 44th person. I know. I counted.

I am strange, most likely, because she kind of tilts her head, she kind of mumbles, “Okay …”

But I plug in the phone and I see it charging.

I catch up to what I missed. What Meurks missed.

I don’t look for a seat, since there are no seats and looking for one at this point means having to ask someone to move.

I don’t ask and they don’t offer.

Imagine being invisible for one moment. Now, use your screen to make everything around you invisible.

And: Though you can’t be invisible, the rest of the world can.

Also: Every single person, no matter how kind, will have to assume something about you before they can really figure you out.

And then another: Is there any other confirmed destination other than death?

That should do it. Meurks usually posts a lot. Meurks has a range of followers, more than a few haters. But they follow.

And I post. Meurks doesn’t appear strange.

Meurks is recognizable. Meurks has trended, has hashtags.

Meurks has posted on a number of blogs not his own.

Someone stands in front of me. “Hey, no rush,” and then laughs, “just got to do the same. Need some juice!”

That isn’t funny. I think about laughing though.

But thinking about laughing instead of just laughing makes it impossible to laugh while it’s still funny.

So my laughter confuses the man.

But he waits.

I tell him twice, because the first time he didn’t hear me:

“I have to call a cab.”

“How long will that be?”

Why does it feel like people always seem to think that they are entitled to what you have?

He spots someone else leaving and it’s like we never said anything to each other.

Whatever. I don’t fit in here.

The moment what a person needs from you disappears or is given is the moment that person is no longer interested in you.

Tomorrow will be today soon enough. I think about what that means but then move on with it. I look around, trying to remember why I’m where I am.

Then I call a cab.

The app tells me how much the trip is estimated to cost.

I hit accept reservation.

I have to wait fifteen minutes.

My phone is charging. Fifteen minutes — this is acceptable.

During those fifteen minutes, I do not speak to anyone and no one speaks to me. The baristas do not expect me to buy a coffee and I do not look up at the menu full of options.

Soon the cab arrives. I get in the backseat and we drive off.

The cabbie tries to talk to me but I am paying for this ride so I can tell him, “I don’t want to talk.”

The cabbie replies, “No problem.”

For him, this is a job.

For me, this is exactly what it is.

By the time I arrive back home only two things stick: I didn’t have to work today and I don’t have to work tomorrow.

I am going to sleep for fourteen hours.

2

I forgot to call. That’s what I remember first. What I remember next is that I still need to call, or at least contact, my boss about my absence. Then I thought about what that entailed; before I could get out of bed, I fell back asleep. I had been awake enough to open my laptop and begin catching up with everything that I missed overnight. When I woke up again, the sun was high up, and my laptop was on the floor.

What got me out of bed so quick this time was that I needed to check and see that the laptop was okay. Now that I was up, the reality of what I needed to do today hit me hard.

I have to call my boss.

It’s my day off and still my job demands something of me.

For a moment I stand at my nightstand, staring down at a pile of unread books, wishing that I had a better job. Wanting a better job. Deserving a better job. This is something Meurks would say. I type out a paragraph long post about the ironies of education and how the more educated are likely to be poorer than the marginally educated because, mainly, I am worried about having to call my boss. I don’t like talking on the phone. The senselessness of my post gains a lot of replies. That’s good enough for me. Letting it all out.

And then I start to lose interest when I notice that I’m hungry.

It takes a lot of effort to cook up anything but I’m out of microwavable meals so I make some toast and scramble some eggs.

I stand and eat the food at the sink.

I look out the window nearest to the kitchen.

For a moment I think about going for a walk. The next question is, Where would I go? When it’s such a nice day don’t you feel guilty if you don’t go outside and make the most of the sunlight, the day?

I field the newsfeed for answers.

Walking in the park. Playing football.

Going to a field to pick fruit.

Sitting outside and talking.

The list goes on. I tell myself to make a note of it but I don’t. I’ve finished with my food. Now I have to wash the dishes. If I don’t wash the dishes when they first need washing, I will never wash the dishes. There needs to be a sort of order to things or else I lose track of everything.

I wash the dishes, running water over the plate and fork and pan, to rinse the soap off, while I reply to various comments on my phone.

It used to be difficult typing something out on my phone one-handed but I’ve gotten good at it.

Practice a lot and anything can be mastered.

No longer hungry, I can see and think clearly.

I stand at the front door, looking at the doorknob.

I should go outside.

But I don’t turn the doorknob. I don’t take any of my friends/followers’ advice. I listen to the central air and I observe the way the sunlight hits the chipped paint of the door.

My day has already been planned for me.

I stay inside the whole day.

Mid-afternoon I start to feel guilty. There is only 1 person here and it’s me but it feels like I have someone watching, someone waiting for my call. I still need to call. I get frustrated and settle for the lesser of two worries. I stand outside on my fire escape. People are outside. People are having a lot of fun by the looks of it. I go back inside a moment later when someone waves to me.

I forgot my laptop.

I get it and go back outside only to go back in a minute later.

I forgot my charger.

Plugging in the laptop, I hear people talking a floor down.

They talk about all kinds of things, and soon I understand that they are planning out their night.

I listen, making sure they don’t notice that I’m listening. To do that, I type and then I start posting some more. Meurks is active today. Meurks is active on most days.

It sounds like a whole lot of fun. People doing far more interesting things than me. Whatever I come up with feels tired, old. I don’t know how to have fun.

One of them mentions calling someone and then I remember.

I write it down as a draft, Call boss and explain funeral.

Funeral. There must be something of a valid excuse in that, right?

I also write, “Andrew” was my best friend.

I listen to the people laughing, and then I add, This is sad.

Because I want to mostly think of something else, and also because I want to appear busy, I write out a post that outlines a series of other posts, the entirely of my Sunday.

The comments range from supportive, If people say they are having fun it’s probably a lie, to You’re just a depressed fuck. And I note the legitimate replies from the haters, the random and quite frequent trolls.

Then I post, I am about to livetweet my Sunday bar experience. There is supposedly a very interesting semi-final football game. I should get prepared. This will be fun. Everyone’s going to be there.

Then I add, #footballplayoffs because someone does that for me, commenting with nothing but the hash tag, and I should have added that to begin with.

Below me, they get quiet as one of the guys talks on the phone.

Minutes pass and I look up from my laptop a few times just to see what’s happening on the street below. Lots of people are headed to and from various locations, places that might be worth checking out.

I just don’t know what those places are, or where to go.

Their voices get loud.

Someone says, “We’ll be there at five to pregame!”

I look at the clock on my dashboard. It’s 3:31PM.

They go inside and it’s quiet for good. As quiet as it can be living on a busy city street. I begin typing out the various things I’ll post over the next couple hours. I plan it out based not on the score and really who I’m “rooting” for but more to sound like I’m really enjoying the game.

And the setting, the bar I’d be at.

The only bar I know of, though, is the one on the walk home from work. Hard Times Café. It’s not one-of-a-kind. Their menus have a lot of locations listed. I don’t know how long it’s been around or if it’s really one of those “places to be” but that’s what I use.

A troll tells me that it’s lame.

It’s the same troll that doesn’t like football.

I’m only really going to watch because I want to be involved. I want to be a part of this wonderful event. I want to be positive.

But saying that seemed to get less likes and only more negative comments. I ignore the comments and I keep planning more of the livetweet.

It’s something to do.

It makes me feel engaged, in tune with today’s biggest cultural event.

Then I remember.

And that makes me stop planning.

I breathe in the cool 72 degree air.

I blink. I count how many times I blink in one minute.

I watch people walking. I watch people watching me.

They look away before I do.

I’m good at that game.

I don’t know if it’s really a game or not but I’m pretty good at it.

Since looking up from the laptop, I’ve amassed over three dozen notifications. Compulsively, I post:

Is this happiness?

I still have to call my boss.

This is my day off and all I can think about is yesterday. I determine that it doesn’t matter if I call or not. But then I can’t stop thinking about why it doesn’t matter and why I don’t feel like it doesn’t matter. Why do I feel so bothered by this? Look inside and I kind of like how dark it is in there, almost lightless. It’s predictable. I am 1 person inside, when outside, sitting here, I am one of 63 people on this street. The number changes quickly too—

67

45

10

28

89, which is probably because of the 2 train stopping every 15 to 20 minutes. It just stopped and it won’t stop for another 20 minutes maybe.

It varies and I spend more than a few minutes thinking about the reliability of the 2 train.

I come to the conclusion that its reliability is based on the reliability of the person operating it.

Two considerations: stay outside or go inside.

If I stay outside I have no phone to use and no way to call.

But then there’s always email. I don’t think that matters much though.

I look at the planned tweets.

Sometimes I am better at typing than I am at expressing myself.

What are the repercussions of skipping one day of work … if you work retail? Do I gain or lose points if I’ve worked at the same store for two years?

Does loyalty count for anything?

Does it count against me. I don’t think it will be a big deal because I don’t usually skip work. I am a man of routine.

I think my need to keep a routine prevents me from overstepping my boundaries.

I may be a little strange to people but I get the work done.

My boss probably accepts me at this point.

Please advise.

I look at the time, 3:58PM.

Friends and followers send me links, comment about their experiences, and occasionally tell me that I’m too strange to scare straight.

If I were to call, what do I say? What is considered a good excuse for missing work and not even calling?

I think I don’t care but maybe I’m just scared.

What does that make me?

What about email?

Does email suffice or is there no other way to compensate but via phone call? Email is the preferred means of communication these days. It would be strange, I gather, to call at the end of the day to apologize.

Right?

Sometimes you just have to do things that you don’t want to do. I think we do a lot of things that we don’t want to do but it isn’t until we notice this that it becomes so annoying. And so what if I’m afraid?

It’s tough to keep up sometimes.

So many days and so many possible ways to end up in a social situation that can change everything.

What I’m saying is, I’m worried and I think I’m going to email.

They all seem to empathize. I don’t like that word, empathy. I don’t know why but it makes me think of people going out of their way to inspect you, make you feel like you’re less of a person and more of an object, something being critiqued and judged.

One person says that I’m strange. One other person posts a GIF of someone in a straitjacket dancing to some pop music track flashing the words, YOUR COOL. I don’t know what that is; I just note that it should have been “You’re,” not “your.” Don’t know if that was intentional or not.

I look at the street below, 52 people. 2 dogs. 1 dog barking, 1 dog peeing on a lamppost.

The store closes in three and a half hours. Is that really enough time?

The more I type the more I think I am getting to something.

There’s something to this, and it’s a feeling that isn’t fear but it isn’t not fear. You know? It’s also not really worry but it’s also a little bit of worry.

But then I think and almost believe that I don’t care about my job.

If I didn’t care about my job, I wouldn’t feel this way.

What does this mean?

This part doesn’t get a whole lot of likes.

In fact, I only get three.

One comment. Make that two.

First: It means yous a strange motherfucka.

Second: Please stop whining. We all go through this shit.

I feel sort of angry by this. I guess.

I type out an explanation but then I delete it after I see the word “self conscious.” I look at the building facing me.

Someone opens one of her windows.

Sees me and then closes the window immediately.

I find myself nodding, agreeing to something unsaid.

The email is sent at 4:30PM. Boss replies at 4:45PM. I spend the fifteen minutes reading the various horror stories of work- related emailing on a site linked to me via one of my posts.

In the email, I apologize.

I make it sound honest.

I don’t know why it would be anything but honest.

In the apology, I use the funeral.

I almost forget to name the best friend.

“Andrew.”

I even use a last name but I don’t remember his last name so I use a name I find in my friends list.

“Andrew Brossard.”

It sounds like a real person, right?

It is a real person.

The reply email is eight lines less than mine.

It is one line long. Boss just says—

“We’ll discuss this in the morning. This is unacceptable.”

I reread the email four times.

I should say something. I should email back.

But I don’t.

I feel relieved, to have emailed my boss.

That’s the responsible thing to do.

My boss replied and said it’s unacceptable.

A lot of people comment with their own apologies, saying that they are sorry and that to be careful with what I say and do tomorrow at work.

I make a note of this but I feel relieved.

I feel like the email was positive.

I look at the time. It’s past 5PM now.

Sun is lower, and the colors are more orange than bright yellow. This is the time of day where I usually go outside. Meant to say, this is the time of day where I am outside because I walk home. I walk home all the time. I don’t take the subway. A subway train will almost always have at least 35.5 people. That’s too many people. A sidewalk, on the other hand, has anything from 0 people to more than the subway train.

Most people take the subway train.

I take the sidewalk.

I don’t know how to drive.

I don’t seem to fit in.

If people talk behind my back, maybe they say I’m strange.

My name is like the name on the email I received.

Zachary Weinham.

I’m not strange. I’m Zachary Weinham. If this makes me strange, then I don’t know any different.

I leave the fire escape. I go back inside.

With doors closed, I find that I breathe a little easier. I think about food again, always with food, but I remember that I don’t have anything to microwave.

I think about ordering food. What is needed to order food?

I would have to figure out what to order. I would have to talk to an employee. I would have to talk to the delivery person. I would have to tip that person. I would need money.

I look for my wallet but I give up almost as soon as I start looking.

I open and close the fridge a few times.

I check the freezer.

Options. I look out the window, at the people walking on the street. I go back to the laptop and I reread the email again.

My stomach growls so I check the fridge, the freezer, again. I look in the cupboard. I find some canned tuna. I make some tuna on toast. I eat it using the same plate I washed earlier today.

I watch as some of the tuna juice drips into the sink and down the drain.

Someone knocks on the door.

Who even knocks on the door anymore? What should I do if I’m not expecting someone?

I wait but the person keeps knocking.

Yeah I guess I could at least look and see who it is but I get kind of nervous and anxious when I do that because they can kind of see when you’re looking through the peephole. The narrow bit of light is blocked when you look through, and they can see that. They really can. Warning to everyone that hasn’t figured it out yet:

The peephole on doors is a lie.

I don’t like looking through the peephole.

I crawl toward the door. I listen to the hard knocking.

Didn’t realize I still had food in my mouth.

Hard to swallow, my mouth is dry.

“Hey Zack, it’s Ben!”

My knees hurt due to the hardwood floor.

“Ben — the super …”

I want to know what everyone said but I can’t find my phone.

My laptop is back on the kitchen counter.

More knocking. He’s not going away.

Yeah, I open it.

He talks first.

“Hey Zack, sorry to bother you but something’s come up. Something’s gone missing.”

I look at my hand. Yeah something’s missing.

He does all the talking.

The guy sounds concerned.

Tells me that one of the people in the building was robbed.

Tells me that the person that robbed that person took a lot.

He keeps telling me how valuable the stolen items are, and throws out a few prices. I can see him as a salesperson but he’s wearing the wrong clothes.

Tells me that it’s a problem because crime’s been up in the neighborhood lately and this might be a bad sign.

Then asks me if I know anything.

I say “No” because I think that’s true.

He doesn’t accept it though and keeps going on about the stuff. I really think he is a salesperson.

When asked, I tell him the same thing, this time shaking my head while also trying to look sad, “No.”

“Look, I know you don’t care, but this is important Zack.”

I don’t care?

I tell him, “It’s bad that those, umm, things are gone but I don’t know where they’ve gone.”

I can’t look him in the eye when I talk.

He’s good at it.

I’m usually good at looking at people right in the eye but, you see, something’s missing. Something’s really missing.

My right hand clenched, I can feel something drip down.

My fingernails dug into my palm. Red. It’s blood.

I’ll have to fix that later.

He sighs, “Well, okay, but look can you just …”

“Yes?”

“Just keep a look-out. All right? This is our home. We need to really care about the safety of our home.”

“Yes,” I agree.

He looks at me again, then shakes his head. A sigh, “All right, you take care, Zack. Game’s on in 30.”

I remember the game and I forget how he looked at me weird. I stand there staring into the hallway, looking toward the stairs where he disappeared. Seem to stand there for some time because two sets of people pass by, but only one looks in my direction. I close the door and tend to the dishes. They need to be cleaned or else they will never be clean.

The blood washes away and the cut isn’t very deep.

I listen to the people upstairs. There’s music and there are a lot of voices. I remember my livetweet at the same moment I stop and look around the apartment and feel just how empty it is.

After the dishes are done, there are two considerations:

Laptop or phone.

I choose the laptop.

My eyes skim the titles of the 7 browser tabs I have open.

Eyes skim everything I saved to drafts.

It’s gametime. I hear it all around me.

I hear the quiet of my apartment and something about it pulls me down.

It keeps me from starting my livetweet.

I type the words, Tomorrow, and wait until the feeling passes.

And then I start the livetweet.

It seems to go well. None of my friends/followers notice that what I livetweet is an entirely different kind of event.

I’m not sure what event it is.

I think about this — which means I look up from my screen and skim the place I’ve inhabited. The pull is gone, replaced by the actuality of what I see.

It’s clean and well kept.

I should feel proud.

Instead I have “tomorrow” and how the longer the word stays in mind the more it feels like yesterday and today. I wait for it to be something else.

I do my best to keep up but someone’s already won.

Beaten me to the post. I don’t know what to say or how to explain that we’ve had the same thought, felt what I imagine is something to feel.

It might not matter who said it.

It doesn’t.

This happens, then that happens, and soon “Tomorrow” makes sense.

By the time I fall asleep, I forget if anything became of this. What I am sure of is what is always there. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow meant work.

And work meant nothing had changed.

3

I had already forgotten about the funeral. Today would be long, and even longer would be the week. Workweek hell. Starting the workweek feels like nothing until you realize you have five days and it isn’t your time, they aren’t your days. It’s borrowed time. Time spent in advance. It is time owned by someone else, someone that usually isn’t anyone; it’s an entity.

I am five minutes early. I timed my commute, my walk, so that when I arrived barely anyone would be at the store. Store opens in 2 hours. I have time. Time to get in and get behind the counter. Get situated. And practice the things I’m supposed to say to customers.

Hallway is empty. False reassurance.

Boss is there when I get in. He knows my routine. He knows where I’ll be and when. It has been two years. Two years is enough for people to figure you out. Two years enough time for people to accept you?

There are 3 people in the employee break room. There aren’t usually 3 people in the break room. Someone new?

This is routine — and it doesn’t change, except for small disturbances, like when 2 became 3. A crowd.

I start texting but I won’t save it to drafts.

At work this feels so much like I’m not going to get through it. Feels so much like my last day and the shift ends and I end. Doom, death and all the grim stuff. It feels like I’m not awake. It feels like I’m stuck trying to figure out what this feels like.

The thing about work is that people have to be friendly.

Have to put on a grin, have to get along.

We’re employees.

The voice I hear when I walk in isn’t the boss’s, it’s a voice that I almost recognize. When I see where it came from, I understand why there are 3 people here instead of 2.

She remembers me.

I remember her. I feel a knot forming in my throat. When this happens I can’t talk very well.

Waking up to find that person that makes you so uncomfortable, like that person is you stuck out of time.

This one gets a half-dozen likes before I look away from the screen.

I don’t say hello because I have to put my lunch in the fridge.

This is what I always do. She should know. Why does she insist on making it difficult? Her voice is loud but the other two employees have something to talk about that doesn’t involve me, or her. They continue chatting and, looking at their faces, I think about a comment thread I had between only one other person. That person kept talking, kept commenting. I kept replying.

That person became a follower.

That person and I agreed with everything that was said.

Been a follower ever since.

“Zachary — you’re not going to believe it. It all happened so quickly! I was here early walking the mall before stores were open so I could plan out where to apply but then Jeffrey was sitting on one of the benches near the front of the store and saw me walking. He called me over and talked to me, but, but, but I didn’t even know! It’s crazy. I didn’t even know he was interviewing me for a second chance!”

The differences between rapport and a number of retweets.

I packed a sandwich today. I bought a bag of chips at the bodega on the way to work. They seem to know me at that bodega, which is why I go there. I don’t have to say anything. I don’t have to watch as they question my purchases. I purchase what I purchase, and sometimes they even know what I want.

I agree with her, “Yes.”

“What do you mean ‘yes’?”

“What you said,” I reiterate while gently pushing aside another employee’s lunch. Back corner of the top shelf of the fridge is where my lunch has been stored for over a year. I wonder what the employee meant by using my corner of the fridge.

I think about it while she continues talking.

She starts talking in the third person—

“I’m talking to myself and saying things like, ‘Veronica, why would you go back to places you can’t stand? Veronica, why would you work for Elite Aesthetics again, pushing stupid trendy wares for stupid trendy people? Veronica, you’re better than this.’ Zachary, you have no idea how many times I tried to get myself to believe it. I’m always saying, ‘Veronica, there are better jobs. Veronica, there are better lives with better people.’ They’re all more interesting and this is all so boring. But here I am and I’m so happy but I’m also so bummed out because doesn’t this make me spineless, going back to some job I swore off as career suicide?”

“Yes,” and then I add, “Veronica you’re right.”

“Maybe I should go back to school and get my master’s …”

Veronica holds onto my arm.

I don’t tell her to stop.

I tell her, “Yes,” in response to something else she said.

My stomach tightens, and it makes me lose my voice.

I think she asked me a question. I say the only thing I’ve said and she seems to not like it anymore. She squeezes my bicep.

She says, “What, you want me to leave you behind and become some big fancy business genius, a big-timer CEO?”

I blink twice. Look over at the other two employees.

I think about the food that took up my spot in the employee fridge.

Boss walks in and only has to look at me. I know.

I know that much. He didn’t need to say anything.

He didn’t need to call me over.

“Zachary, may I have a word?”

He can have a word, yes.

Veronica keeps talking but I’m not there to be talked to so that complicates things. I can still hear her voice as boss and I walk down the hall to his office. The room has a desk in it with three chairs and very little space. Space is so limited that he has to walk in first and then me second. We can’t both walk in. He has to squeeze around cabinets and stacks of office supplies and boxes to get to his seat behind the desk.

Then it’s my turn.

He starts talking.

I begin to understand something — he is faulting me for my absence.

I agree with him. I look down at the phone, see that I’m doing really well in terms of number of likes, few comments.

“You’ve been with the company for … twenty six months now …”

Is that a long time?

Should I have been with the company for less time, more time?

I can work on it.

There is a lecture about employee responsibility.

I hear bits and pieces. His voice has that way about it where it can blend so well with everything around me.

Wonder if someone can really memorize an entire ten minute lecture, word for word.

“Zachary, this is unacceptable behavior.”

I agree.

I apologize.

He says he understands, but that it can’t happen again.

I tell him it won’t and that I had to attend a funeral.

He sympathizes. “I understand, but you should have called. We wouldn’t have had to have this talk if you had just told me. You left us hanging here, short on staff on the busiest day of the week.”

I say something.

He accepts it.

“It’s understandable. We don’t need to remember phone numbers anymore …” He makes sure to give his name as he hands me a card, his business card, “and the email was appreciated. If even a little too late.”

Okay.

I take the card.

We sit there.

I think of something to say and I say it.

Then I leave.

I hear him say, “Oh … alright then.”

I go back to the break room to check on my food once before the shift starts. When I return to the counter, where I am tasked to greet customers and provide information about our products, Veronica is standing in the area where I am going to be standing.

She continues where she left off, talking.

I look at the time on my phone.

10 minutes before the store opens.

I set the phone next to the cash register, in the area of space where it is hidden behind pamphlets about Elite-brand e-cigarettes.

I like when I am tasked to stand at the counter. There are outlets, plenty of outlets, to charge phones, laptops, and other devices.

I can work the counter by myself.

I don’t need help. This is routine.

Day has begun by the time Veronica starts talking about yesterday and the days long before it.

Veronica says, “We had some real good times.”

I don’t say anything. I go over what I need to say to customers:

May I help you?

Greetings, welcome to Elite Aesthetics, where trends are born!

Hey, how’s it going?

Looking for something in particular?

Every single query should be met with a genuine grin.

I practice that genuineness like I always do; I visualize the transfer, how I need to be someone else to be genuine. At work I am Zachary the employee, on the street I am Zachary the person on a street, at the apartment I am Zachary. On the computer I am Meurks. I see the relationship clearly, and to be Zachary the employee, I am basically what I know to be, and that’s enough to have worked here successfully for two years.

Two years is a long time.

Two years isn’t that long for a lifetime of work.

There’s more to work, and there will likely be no change. Veronica’s return is a change that is unexpected.

Someone I knew that was fired from her job, someone that I have a past with, has miraculously returned, got her job back, and I’m all knotted stomach and dry mouth, more than usual anyway.

I don’t look for an understanding, but I am given one. I am given over fifteen of them. But she’s still talking and I am still having a hard time listening.

Zachary the employee cannot function well if he has to listen about everything he’s done.

She knows me more than I seem to know myself.

“Zachary, do you remember that one time we got lost in the bad part of town looking for authentic Japanese sushi but we didn’t even know what that meant? Do you remember?”

“I don’t care.”

Two more likes.

“Lay off the act. You do care.”

Someone commented, an understanding.

She keeps talking about the past like it wasn’t ruined at a later date; she thinks we can just pick back up where we left off.

I don’t look at her, I look straight ahead, imagining where the customer will stand. I go over the possibilities once more in my head.

I feel my heart beat faster when I think about the likely average, the amount of customers Zachary the employee will serve over the next eight hours. The number varies but on a Monday it can be:

40.

60.

80.

But not 100. All numbers take on a density that makes me dizzy.

Ever thought about how much of a person is judged in the first encounter, the first ten seconds, maybe twenty seconds? How much of a person is remembered from first encounters even after they become an active part of your lives. How much of this requires our best performance? How much of what we do is an act, and who is really genuine anyway?

I don’t delete that one even though I should.

It isn’t something that can be monitored, not with the few minutes I have that remain.

“You’re so strange,” says Veronica.

I hear that.

I say what I said before.

I don’t care.

“You’ve always cared before — you just don’t like showing any feeling. But you and I are the same. I just know you better.”

I look at her and she looks at me.

The shift begins when the first customer walks in.

The shift ends and with it everything that had happened during those hours seemed to be marked in a logbook, a record, and closed, set aside. I had already removed myself from the store. I had already begun my commute home.

Veronica’s voice over the car parking lot in a shout:

“Call me when you get home!”

It makes me go over whether or not I remembered to take my phone charger with me. I feel around in my pocket. My index finger taps one of the metal prongs. I look down at my phone.

I have gotten used to walking in a straight line.

I no longer need to look when I walk.

A lot of the time my effort is placed on trying not to think about the occurrences. Those thoughts, always seek more thoughts. And it goes nowhere. Thinking such thoughts just makes it so you can’t do anything but think and think some more. Can’t do anything but think, and that’s not a good way to spend an hour or afternoon.

It’s not a good way to spend the time I have left before work in the morning. This is routine.

I stop at the bodega but I only walk in if I need something.

I don’t need anything.

I make a second stop — Hard Times Café.

Like the fridge at work, the booth in the far corner of the café is where I walk, and it is where I sit. And it is where the café is emptiest, all 37 customers congregating in booths closer to the bar or the bar itself.

I set my phone down in front of me.

Meurks must catch up.

Someone sets a beer in front of me.

They know what I like and that I don’t talk to them.

If I am paying for the beer, for the food, for the time spent at this booth, much like when I use a taxicab, I get to choose the configuration.

I get to set how we socialize, or not.

As frequent customer, I know Hard Times and Hard Times knows me.

We occupy the hour and that is all that is needed.

The bar on Mondays feels so much like the bars on Sundays; there’s this sense that people are trying to buy back some of the hours they lost. They are looking for a second wind. They want to find something new, a change; or some look for everything that used to be. They look for the same.

They look to enjoy something for even one moment before it resets and starts again. And I guess the feeling I’m trying to type out here, the seemingly obvious of any post-workday bar setting, or social setting, is that everyone seeks some way to relax, some way to hush the worries, the stress, the anguish that proliferates rampantly around the work week, making the weekend that much more a pressure to do something opportune, something to make up for all that was sacrificed to make a living.

Social creatures are people sipping lagers.

Today I can type well using the phone.

Some days, I have noticed, are more troublesome.

I can feel the effects of the alcohol after my second beer.

I have 2.5 beers left before I will leave.

Mondays are beer days. Tuesdays are sober days. Wednesdays are liquor days. Thursdays are caffeine days. Fridays are days without Hard Times, where I make a trip around the next corner and see glimpses of the end of the week.

Expecting my third beer, I find something new.

I wasn’t expecting this.

A man sits down across from me. I don’t look up from the phone.

I clear my throat but I don’t speak.

He doesn’t say anything until I glance up at him. He nods, that’s a grin I think. Is it genuine?

Without looking I type but delete what comes to mind but doesn’t register because now we are both looking at each other and if I look away that might imply that I’m lesser, that I am not the one that occupies this booth—personal space is something to be valued; why would a person sit where you don’t want them to sit? Why do I feel this way? I shouldn’t be nervous. It’s in my right to say, without any hesitation, “Excuse me, but I was here first.” From work, use what Zachary the employee said 14 times: “Excuse me, may I help you?” to every loiterer, everyone that really wasn’t a customer and I should be able to say that but I don’t say that … I don’t say that because this has never happened before. When you fail to manage the social situation, what do you do? Starting to get worried because he isn’t saying anything and—delete.

His name is Christopher. Christopher Rios. He says that he just wanted to say “hi” since he always sees me sitting in the booth alone.

“Yeah man, I’m just another regular. Feeling good due to some damn good bourbon.” He adds, “Special on shots of brown liquor — whiskey, scotch, bourbon — tonight, if that’s your thing.”

He breaks eye contact and looks at my empty glass.

“Beer man I see. I respect that.”

He likes to talk but his talking doesn’t fade. I hear every word.

More he talks the more I forget about my phone. Screen goes black, standby, and I don’t like it when I can’t see the screen lit up.

But Christopher is talking.

“Call me Rios. Everyone does.”

I must have called him Christopher.

This is where I would type something. But I don’t.

“So what’s your name, bro?”

That’s a grin. I think it’s genuine.

“Zachary.”

“Right on, right on.” He looks at the bar, at all the activity. I continue to look at him.

He leans back in the booth, slouching a little; he has one arm stretched across the top of the booth, other resting on the table, an inch or two away from my glass.

I look at the phone. Dark screen.

“Yo Zack, this place is a real dump huh? You agree?”

I am put on the spot.

I think about what to say and whether or not I should agree.

I agree.

He approves.

I feel the tension in my shoulders releasing. I exhale, having failed to notice that I held my breath.

I say, “Cool.”

“Yeah, it’s ‘cool.’”

This is where I would type something. I don’t.

Two more lines and this becomes a conversation.

“So what do you do, Zack my man?”

I tell him, “I work at Elite Aesthetics.”

“The place at the megamall?”

I nod once. Not twice, once.

“Right on, right on — all those crazy gadgets and stuff. You guys actually sell a lot of that stuff?”

This has become a conversation.

I think about what I can say here:

I can say — Yes, we do very well.

I can say — Sometimes, but, then slip in something I remember Jeffrey saying about how “sales could be better.”

I can say — Yeah, I guess.

I choose the last option.

He just looks at me.

I find myself saying, “I’m just an employee.”

That makes him laugh. When he laughs, he throws his hands up in the air and hits his palm once on the table.

“Good shit, haha,” Rios says.

I think I’m smiling. I look down at my phone. I see my reflection on the darkened screen. That is a grin, a smile. It is genuine. When I try to figure out where this fits with everything I’ve done at least once, I come up empty. This is not Zachary the employee. This is not Zachary walking down the street.

This is Zachary. Then I get confused.

“Can I ask you another question?”

All I can think about now is — don’t say anything stupid.

“Yes,” I say.

I say “yes” too much. I add, “sure.”

He waves to someone at the bar.

Asks me, “You ever talked to anyone else here?”

I shake my head, “No.”

“Never?”

Once more, “No.”

“You don’t know any of their names?”

I could say that I know how many people are here and likely why they are here on a Monday night … but I settle for another, “No.”

He grins.

This is where I would type just to type. Yet I don’t.

They bring me over my third beer. They bring him a glass of bourbon.

He says thanks and then I say thanks.

The waitress looks at me strangely.

Looks at Rios. He winks.

I don’t think I wink.

But maybe I do. I may have copied Rios’s actions. I have done this before. I used to copy Veronica’s actions if we spoke for a long enough time; she made a game out of it.

Rios takes a sip of the bourbon, “Times are tough, man. I don’t get this grade of liquor as much as I used to.”

I take a sip of my beer.

He narrows his eyes, “Not gonna ask me?”

I hold my breath. Did I miss something?

Rios laughs, “Be cool, be cool — I’m an asshole. I like talking about myself. Looks like you’re the opposite of me, opposite of any one of these assholes at the bar!” Rios raises his voice when he says “assholes” and people from the bar shout back various profanities.

From this point, I don’t know what to expect.

I start thinking about potential altercations. My fingers tap the edge of the table as I plan out posts about what might happen.

The phone is there, and it remains there. I don’t move from my current position; to get to the phone, I would have to move my beer aside. I would have to reach for the phone which would result in Rios seeing that I’m reaching for the phone. That might send the implication to him that I’m bored, or worse, uncomfortable.

Fingers tapping against the table—I am uncomfortable.

I see that Rios is watching my fingers.

He makes a face, “You should come by my place. We’re having a party, well, I mean, we always have those parties, but you should come.”

He doesn’t look at me directly. He looks at my fingers. Then he looks at the beer. Then he looks over at the bar.

I perceive this to be a sudden lack of interest.

He takes my phone which sends me into a shiver.

I gag and cough.

“Bro, it’s cool, it’s cool … I’m giving you my business number.”

4 people at the bar are looking at me.

They are looking at me. They shouldn’t look at me.

“Like I said, you’re good people. We should hang out. Lots of us hang over at my place. You need a better place to hang other than this dump.”

He hands me back the phone.

“Stop by. If I’m not here or on call I’m at my place.”

I say, “Okay.”

“Got no life,” says Rios as he snaps his fingers.

Rios doesn’t look back at me when he leaves the booth. I watch as he finds a place so effortlessly at the bar. 2 people, male, look over in my direction after Rios says something to them.

I sit there for a long time, not moving.

Then I check my phone. He saved his number as “Your dealer.”

Feeling as though something had changed, I fixate on what’s left. I have 1.5 beers to be ingested.

I drink them quick, and then I leave payment on the table.

15 % tip, as customary.

I am too tired to do anything so I stare at the television screen for a long time before turning it on. I don’t change the channel because every channel is the same. I don’t turn on any of the lights in my apartment.

Meurks needs to catch up but I wait.

On the screen, a man walks a dog. The man reaches the end of a street corner, kicks the dog, and with a whimper the dog starts walking the man. This repeats, perhaps, a number of times. As many times as there can be time in the day to walk the dog and to walk the man, but I don’t know. I don’t watch for long. I can’t be sure if this is the character’s routine or not. I make an assumption, like most. It is on TV so it must be a show. It is on TV and I find it easier to assume, as a result. It could be a situational comedy. No — I think it might be just for me. This may or may not make a lot of sense.

My phone rings, goes to voicemail, and then rings again.

This happens again and again and it works to undo whatever I had thought about without typing and posting.

I keep the television on as I switch on my laptop and begin catching up with everything that had happened since Meurks last posted.

I comment on the comments.

Meurks is “late-night active.”

Monday ends with everyone online playing personalities.

Playing personalities frequently involves postponing tomorrow.

My phone rings.

Goes to voicemail.

People post pictures of what they think Meurks looks like.

I say to myself, “Meurks looks like me.”

Then I think about what I just said and feel something closer to regret.

And I don’t know why.

I forget what I had said, and why I felt what I felt, when the phone rings again. This time I pick up the phone.

It’s her. She doesn’t sound surprised.

She talks like we had already been talking about something, “… so then we’ll wake up early and sample the festival at Pointe, and then …”

I recall what else needs to happen next.

I make it happen. Post, comment, check, double-check key followers’ latest statuses, satisfied: Sign off. Veronica is still talking when I’m done.

Next thing I hear is her asking if I want the red velvet or the dark chocolate cake. “Dark chocolate.”

I brush my teeth, floss, put rewetting drops in my eyes, urinate, and then change into clothes I specifically wear for bed.

I sit up in bed and listen to her voice, phone in my lap, forgetting to put her on speakerphone.

Then she says, “I’m tired. I’m going to go. Love ya.”

She waits. She waits until I say it too.

That satisfies her nightly needs much like double-checking my most active valuable followers’ statuses satisfies my own needs.

Then I feel very little, the heaviness of breath and eyelids closing on their own. I set the phone on my nightstand. Plug it in to charge.

I never turn it off.

The TV is still on—it’s what I think before not thinking anything else.

4

When I wake up the television is off. I consider the fact that I hadn’t turned it on. I look around my apartment for a long time. I expect my phone to be on the nightstand but instead it’s in the bathroom. I expect my laptop to be on the desk in the corner of my bedroom but instead it’s on the kitchen counter.

In the kitchen, at the laptop, I wait for it to reboot.

I look around the apartment.

Items in my life, and not very many — two chairs, table, half a couch (the other half missing, maybe never was found), tube TV (the old kind), a pan, a plate, a fork, a spoon, a few knives, condiments, no real food (just some eggs), bed, laptop, lamp, nightstand, old desk, creaky office chair, phone, phone charger, laptop power cord, largely unused metro card.

I feel pathetic. No, actually I don’t. I feel proud.

What does proud mean?

The laptop finishes updating and soon is at the dashboard.

I post the overview, wait and see.

A few likes. Minute later, more likes.

Sunlight in my face, I walk over to close the blinds.

I hear a knock on the door.

At the same time my phone rings.

Walk over to the phone or walk over to the door. I blink and I’m there. I don’t feel each footfall; I don’t notice that I’m walking in any particular direction. I feel much like I’ve only begun to stand up straight. Then I am staring at the screen, and the screen is bright.

My eyes are tired.

Veronica’s name and number.

The call goes to voicemail.

Phone and knocking. Phone and knocking doesn’t stop. It requires a lot of effort to walk to the door and open it.

I expect Ben but I am not surprised to see Veronica.

She looks happy, don’t know if it’s genuine, but my eyes focus on something else. I look beyond her, but I don’t see Ben. I feel momentarily relieved until Veronica pushes something toward me, holding it up to my face as I pull back.

She shouts something.

What she said doesn’t register until I read what’s written on the thing she hands to me. It says, “Happy Birthday!”

Then she says it again.

“Happy birthday!”

Hand tightens around the doorknob, “Thanks?”

“Don’t tell me. No. no way. Really?!”

Makes a face. I take a step back. I look at the thing she gave me.

I keep looking at it.

“You forgot your birthday! Only you.”

Veronica laughs, and she laughs too loud. It echoes through the hall and I keep looking beyond her to see if Ben is there.

“It’s cake, Zachary,” she giggles.

I almost drop the cake.

“I have work today,” I warn her.

Sometimes work helps avert situations, unpleasant and uncomfortable situations like this.

“It’s Friday,” Veronica tells me, “you’re so strange …”

She pushes past me, walking into my apartment.

“I love that about you. I love every dysfunctional tidbit ’bout you.”

I quickly close the door.

I look around the apartment.

I go to my laptop. Check the date and time.

Friday. 11:41AM.

There are 2 people in this room.

One of them can’t recall what it was like this week, and whether or not Zachary the employee stuck to his routine.

I begin typing.

Confusion can be a good thing, I think. Sometimes the confusion speeds up time and time can really weigh you down. You feel confused when you aren’t able to configure yourself for the situation. You feel confused when you end up talking in the second person. Like me, right now. Confused. But today is Friday and it isn’t Tuesday like I thought it would be. The week breezed by and I don’t remember any of it. This is a good kind of confusion.

I think.

What do you think? Oh, she’s watching me …

When I look up, she is, as expected. She has her head resting in her hands, elbows propped up on the table that I’ve had for as long as I’ve had it. I didn’t have any other sort of table; that table is the only table I’ve ever had.

Meurks gets a lot of comments. People misinterpreted “she’s watching me” for something sinister. I think about that. I stare at her. Stare at her staring at me. I ask, “What are you doing here?”

She shakes her head, “Zachary, you need to stop acting so strange.”

She stands up, walks into my room, and picks out clothes for me to wear. She shouts from the bedroom, “Enough of this same drab shirt, tie, pants combo. I want you to look the part. It’s an important day!”

I wasn’t born literally on this day. I was born on the same date, apparently, many years ago. Based on my age. I have wrinkles on my forehead. I went to school. I had to take a lot of tests. I think my heart sank at one point and my feelings felt a whole lot denser, improbable. I wasn’t born today. I was born more than a decade ago.

“You need more clothes!” She walks out of the room holding some shirt, no tie, some pair of jeans. “This will have to do.”

And then, “ Don’t know how anyone can live this way.”

The last one gets a lot of likes. A few new followers too.

“I have the whole day planned.” It sounds like the opposite of planning, because I wasn’t told beforehand where we would go.

If this is my day off, it should feel like Sunday, which doesn’t really have a feeling. But it should feel like Sunday and it doesn’t.

I have to eat a piece of cake.

“Come on, it’s a dinky-small slice.”

I look at the cake. It’s very dark.

“Don’t make me spoonfeed you like a baby.”

She sighs when I take the smallest bite I can possibly take.

“Things we do for the people we love.”

This is, I think, how she always talks. It sounds like she’s quoting from something, some movie or some book, or maybe a song, but I never know where she gets it. She probably saw it online.

Everything is online.

I delete it before anyone can react.

Veronica takes the cake away, asks me if it’s good but doesn’t give me time to consider what “good” would entail; she hands me the clothes and says, “Come on, come on — whole day planned!”

I walk toward the bathroom but she asks me why.

She winks.

I understand.

I strip naked and put on the fresh set of clothes.

With her watching.

Veronica never leaves my side. Her eyes never avert my gaze. When I look she is already looking, and I am positive that she has accepted me for who I am. She seems to think I’m more than what I see and do, and in a public setting like this park, I can only imagine that it has to do with possibilities. Possibilities: There are 18 people in this park. 3 dogs. 1 cat.

Too many people.

Not enough people.

Two extraneous considerations about the number of people in this park.

The park is more for pets and their owners, but Veronica wanted to go here. I don’t know why we are here.

The bench isn’t very comfortable.

“What a beautiful day,” she announces.

It is a good day. How many good days are there in a given week? What constitutes as “good?” The weather, the mood, the plan, the follow-through, the people that fit into your day, the fact that the day will end? These are considerations that come to mind while sitting in the middle of all this humanity. And the humanity seems to be self-aware, aware of every single component, every single person.

I don’t have time to see if it gets enough likes. I don’t get to correspond with my friends and followers.

Veronica talks to me.

She talks to me the way she always talks to me:

No pause, no beginning and no real end. Ongoing.

And in between what I don’t hear, I am able to decipher what her and I share. There are similarities I think. I can see why she and I keep crossing paths. Veronica is on one end and I am on the other; she acts strange to me and yet she thinks I am strange.

The rules of attraction and what are the rules?

We enjoy telling people the wrong things, giving them the wrong directions, when they interfere, walking up to our bench, up to us, and asking for some street, some number, some store, some restaurant.

There are a lot of possibilities.

A lot of them are looking for the right subway train.

She gives them the wrong directions.

And either I had the exact same thought or I merely heard what she said and it registered moments later. But we think the same thoughts.

Veronica looks at her phone at the same time I look at mine.

She texts me, “We’re going to miss the previews.”

I text back, “Yeah you’re right. I guess we should go, shouldn’t we?”

Her reply, “LOL.”

Mine, “What?”

I look at her.

She looks up from her phone and says, “Oh, nothing — sometimes it’s just like I’m talking to two different people.”

I think about this but nothing comes to mind.

The sun washes out the park, making it difficult to see the 23, 25, now 28 people and their pets, counting 6 dogs. 2 cats. A number of pigeons.

“Ready?”

Her voice rises at the end, making it a question.

The movie. Meaning a movie theater.

Meaning …

“Let’s go, let’s go!”

She grabs my hand, holds it, doesn’t let go.

You aren’t going to lose me. I’m right here, where I’ve always been.

We walk toward the C train.

Veronica wants to take the subway.

No metro card. No metro card.

I tell her, “No metro card.”

She exhales, making an indecipherable sound, “It’s your day, love; I can pay for train-fare.”

I don’t ride the train.

She insists.

Her hand holds mine.

Won’t let go.

The C train is old. Sounds are louder yet muffled inside the train. There are 62 people in this train. I do nothing but check my phone. Time is:

Friday, 5:10PM.

Friday, 5:11PM.

Friday, 5:12PM.

Friday, 5:13PM.

I look around the train once.

Friday, 5:14PM.

“Something wrong?” I hear her say.

If I respond, that means people will hear my voice.

I feel different today.

Eyes on me. There aren’t usually as many eyes on me. I am only accustomed to a few glances, a few grins, a few glares. I have one set that won’t leave, and it takes a lot to make sure.

Make sure what?

I type it out.

The feeling, you know, when you leave your apartment and you are walking down a street and then in line at a store, around people you’ve never seen before. The feeling, you know, when they look at you and there’s nothing but the instant notice, the judgment, and then they look away. Everything in that one look, that one glance: decision, judgment, adjustment. They see you as that, and assume based on what they see, in that one instant. The feeling that it has to be right, that one instance; they need to understand with one glance. Or if they don’t, they need to see that difference.

They need to know that you …

Veronica tugs my sleeve, “Your face is red, oh dear. You okay?”

I don’t value the disruption.

I text her, “I didn’t want to take the train. I don’t like the train.”

Not looking up, I wait for her reply.

“We will be there in two stops.”

“How long do you think that’ll be?”

“A few minutes?”

Not long enough.

She says, “You’re sweating.”

I text back, “Have to be quiet.”

Veronica seems to understand.

I think she understands because instead of holding my hand tighter, she lets it go. She lets my hand drop to my side.

She lets me finish my typing.

I sit there feeling the train violently shaking as I, in turn, begin to shake.

I don’t remember what I had been thinking about.

I didn’t save it.

Have to start from scratch.

Or don’t start at all.

I glance around the train. 62 people.

She said a few minutes. I remember—

Friday, 5:17PM.

Friday, 5:18PM.

Friday, 5:19PM.

Friday …

The movie previews are too long and too loud and there are way too many. It is too dark in the theater and the chairs are too close together.

There are too many people. Sold out showing, Veronica said when we walked right past the ticket line.

She bought tickets already.

That’s what she said about having the day planned.

I type out the name of the movie and how I don’t know if I really want to watch a 2 and a half hour movie about people lost in space.

It gets a lot of likes.

No comments.

One new friend.

There are approximately 150 people in the theater.

I cannot see all the seats; it’s too dark.

I try to focus on the screen, on the movie trailer, but it all looks like images and by the time I focus on one image it’s already gone, replaced by another. The ground shakes, screen goes black.

Then another green screen, another trailer.

I place my arms on the armrests but it doesn’t feel right.

I try folding them but no.

I try letting them rest in my lap.

Still no.

Veronica whispers something in my ear. I don’t hear it.

I don’t bother asking.

Finally the previews are over.

Then it gets really soft, quiet in the theater.

All I can hear is my breath.

Rising and falling. I’m breathing heavily.

I can’t focus on anything but my breathing. It sounds too loud.

I take out my phone, confused for a moment by what I see.

It’s an icon that shows up when the phone is turned to silent.

I want to be as silent as the phone.

People can hear my breathing in this theater. This is troublesome.

Lots of likes.

But monitoring Meurks’s activity doesn’t work for this.

The breaths keep coming, one after the other. I hold my breath but then I choke. The man sitting next to me turns and looks.

I look away.

Veronica whispers something, rests her hand on my forearm.

I stand up, holding my breath again, and I squeeze my way back into the aisle. I keep thinking about how Veronica should have listened to me and sat on the end of the aisle. I tiptoe out of the dark theater.

I start coughing the moment I get into the men’s room.

Only 1 person in the men’s room and he’s in one of the stalls.

I find the handicapped stall in the very back and it isn’t until I hear the sound of the door lock sliding that I can stop focusing on my breath.

I sit down and begin typing.

I don’t recall what I type but everything that I feel, everything in mind, the weight that I feel on my chest, the pressure on my forehead, the dizzy blur that constitutes for eyesight, all gestates into one long blog rant.

And as Meurks, it makes more sense to everyone else.

It makes very little sense to me.

The man in the stall leaves and for nearly the entire proposed duration of the movie, I am alone in the men’s room.

The handicapped stall is big enough to feel open, different from the rest of the men’s room.

I receive a text.

It’s her.

I don’t read it.

I reply, “Not feeling well is all. Enjoy the film. Space is awesome. So much empty space, it’s like you can breathe, really exhale.”

Then I send another text, “But there’s no oxygen in space so exhaling would mean dying and dying is a thing. I think.”

Approximately a minute passes before she replies, “Okay, I’m worried is all. But I understand. LOL.”

The last part, the “LOL,” I gather is due to my followup text.

I think I hear one of the urinals flushing …

But it’s just my imagination.

I look at my phone. Down to 35 % battery power.

I pocket the phone.

The color of the toilet paper isn’t quite white. Not quite off-white.

The tiles on the floor have small puddles of maybe-water forming.

I take out my phone and type.

Considering livetweeting not watching that space movie. Anyone interested?

There are likes. There are positive comments. I begin, and in brief succession, the endeavor becomes my one and only focus.

By the time the battery drains, I have two dozen tweets about the various notices, nuances, and graffiti of the handicapped stall.

I gain a few followers.

A few friends.

I hear Veronica’s voice.

The movie is over.

We walked home. Veronica understands me. Her words not mine. On the way home we stopped at the bodega. She paid for the wine and the food while I walked to the back, where the freezers full of beer, milk, and other dairy products are stored. I stare at the area of space closest to the front entrance of the bodega. I can’t look at anything else. When I see Veronica pass by, that is my cue to leave. This is the bodega: They know me here. I am Zachary the customer. Everything I have understood about the owners has been true. They are simple people that treat me equally; they treat everyone the same.

A thought, at once clear, blurs as it registers:

I don’t fit in here.

I think this is weird. What I’m doing is weird. How I’m acting has been weird all day. But then I say aloud, “This isn’t routine.”

And it’s true. This is not routine.

I feel … I cannot describe it.

It’s like I can almost interpret what I have been doing and all the different possibilities, variations at which I could complete the action, but I end up choosing the last one. If a multiple choice question, I would be choosing “d” for every action.

My level of comfort, my relative ease, did not wake up with me.

My ability to understand has been fractured, split in half.

Where did my week go? How did I do? Was I a good employee?

Moreover, what am I today?

Zachary the boyfriend?

What is that?

I catch myself tapping my fingers against the side of my belt.

Stop that but then I begin tapping my toes.

When I see Veronica, I pass by.

I hear one of the bodega owners greet me.

I think it was “Hey Zack, happy birthday!”

But something about right now is beyond my control. I move and act in the only way I am used to … which isn’t enough.

There is a part of what happens that functions as resistance while another part functions as a problem.

Veronica tells me I’m strange.

I no longer know what she means by that.

Back at my apartment, Ben, the super, greets me, “Happy B-day Zack!”

Veronica thanks him. I nod, glance down at the ring of keys in his left hand and, without realizing, I begin talking to Ben.

“Any word on the robbery?”

“Naw, unfortunately. It’s been bothering me, bothering everyone in the building.”

“That’s a real shame …”

“Yeah,” Ben raises an eyebrow, “yeah it is.”

Veronica and him exchange a glance.

She says, “Were the tenants insured?”

Ben relays the details, which, for the most part, I am surprised to have already been largely aware.

After we talk, he greets me again.

This time I say thank you.

Veronica tells me again, “You’re strange.”

After dinner we drink the second bottle of wine. The couch isn’t big enough for what we want to do so we move to the bedroom.

I spill wine on the bedsheets.

“I don’t care.”

Veronica laughs.

I feel different.

But that sentence doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.

So I say it aloud, “I feel different.”

She nods, “You’re acting different.”

“How so?”

She shrugs, “Dunno. More … jovial?”

Jovial? What kind of word is that?

Another laugh. “No, not jovial, just more subdued. Not so tense. I was worried about you earlier at the theater. I couldn’t sit still. I don’t think I paid attention to a single frame of the movie I was so nervous.”

“Me too! I kept trying to concentrate on one image but by the time I started the image was replaced with another image.”

Then she leans in and kisses me.

I think I kiss back.

“You’re strange,” Veronica says, “but sometimes that strangeness is good.”

“When is it bad?”

But she kisses me again.

And after the kissing we have sex.

Then we fall asleep.

Then sex again.

I think I fall sleep before she does.

This time we fall asleep for good.

I think I have a dream but I can’t be sure.

What I do know is that at one point during the night, I wake up, see that she has her arms wrapped around me, neither of us wearing any clothes, the sheets half covering us. Not at all concerned about the coldness of the room.

The bottle of wine empty.

My eyes have trouble focusing on any detail.

I attempt to think about the day, and why any of it happened. Laptop and phone cannot be seen in the lightlessness of the bedroom.

But then few details seem to stand out. Except for her. I attempt to stand up from the bed but she moans in her sleep. Holds on to me tighter.

I think up something I would have typed:

Is anything different?

Then I must have fallen back sleep.

In the morning she is gone.

5

There were words in my head, words that couldn’t have been mine. They exist in three phases and culminate with me saying them. When I say them, I am the one that hears them. Nobody else. There is nobody in my bedroom. I thought she would have been here. Her. I don’t know why.

The words I don’t type, leaving only one phrase, the worst one.

The hardest to grasp.

“I love you.”

The words that sound final yet don’t mean anything.

They don’t mean anything unless there’s someone to hear it.

I get out of bed before the words pin me down.

I see the note taped to my laptop screen. The words return, this time in her handwriting. She was here but now she is not and the latter quickly becomes most important. She’s not.

I turn on the laptop. I turn on the faucet.

I listen to the water running down the drain as the day catches up with me. Her letter is marked with the word and every time I read it, the word doesn’t register. And there are reasons why she isn’t here.

Work.

Wanted to wait for me to wake up.

But couldn’t.

How early is a morning shift?

I find my phone on the floor. Battery drained. I plug it in and listen to the water while it charges. I type and then erase.

I type number strings and then erase them.

Breakfast is leftovers of a meal that no longer has any lasting taste.

I eat the noodles cold, let the rest ride the water down the drain. I flip the switch and listen as the food is ground into a paste.

I am wearing clothes that don’t feel comfortable. They feel old, sweat through, smelling of something indecipherable. I go back into the bedroom and change into new clothes. The routine, as it were, there is only one thing left to do. I check the phone. It has enough to go on until I get to the store. I turn off the faucet. I go to turn off the light but it’s off.

I did this all in the dark.

Try to type something but instead I close the laptop.

Today the typing feels as distant as anything else.

What is genuine is how I can almost predict what happens next.

Someone is at the front door. Different kind of knock. It goes back to the same considerations: Look through the peephole and the person sees you too. Don’t look and don’t open the door. Person might not go away.

It isn’t Ben the super.

It isn’t him. Rios, who I recognized from the bar, stands at the door, bringing back elements of a previous day. Familiar, I can feel my heart beat faster, palms clammy. I want to type it out but I start with direct eye contact.

Rios doesn’t skip a single step, picks up back where we maybe left off.

Open the door and I should have asked but I didn’t.

Rios has a different sort of knock. Heavier, with more implication.

When I open the door, he greets me and says, “Super guy’s cool.”

I take a step back, not wanting Ben to see.

“I have work today.”

“Yeah, bummer. But hey bud, there’s something happening and it might be cool of you to join in.”

Something happening.

What is it like to work on a Saturday, everyone asks.

Each like makes me more confident of this conversation.

I make eye contact; I believe that there’s not a whole lot that is bothering me. Rios crosses his arms and can’t stand still. He looks like he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes. When he leans in to tell me more about what’s happening later today, I catch a single trace of something. Not quite body odor.

I’m too busy thinking about what to say.

I tell them it feels like anything else: the same.

“What’s going to happen?”

“Lots of people worked up about this ridiculous snafu that fell through. We’re all getting together to talk ‘damage control’ over some beers.” Points at me, “We could use another mind on this. Someone that’s not already got his fucking mind in the clouds.” Shakes his head, “Everyone’s falling apart. Fucking too deep into things.”

Rios turns away from me, looks down the hall, “Don’t know who to trust.” Looks back at me, “But I can trust you, bud.”

I tell him that I have to be going.

Though I do my best to listen to his problem, he is intruding upon my routine. I should already be out on the streets.

I step outside and lock the door. Rios walks with me.

Ben the super waves to me as I walk by. He mumbles, “O-okay … you have a good day.”

I focus instead on what Rios says. I made a decision and I stick with it.

Out on the street, there are already too many people. 48—how many of these people are watching?

Rios and I walk, and this takes on a different sort of importance. I am not alone and being in the company of others means bearing the burden of more peoples’ thoughts.

I look down at my phone. I begin counting and recounting the number of likes and comments Meurks received so far.

You live through it and look forward to the day(s) off.

Rios keeps talking.

Words take on some sort of meaning as the conversation elapses over the course of my entire walk to work.

I listen intently, but nothing he says comes through.

I hear the voice, the voice that is his, but my heart racing, sound of blood thudding through veins loud and clear, I never look at him again, keeping my gaze to the phone, at least one item of my commute remains in place. He keeps slapping me on the shoulder.

Rios acts genuine.

Anticipation is often more than the actual; the day off is really just another day, another day without a routine.

We part ways a block away from the mall.

I tell him, “I’m going to be late.”

Rios chuckles, grins and I worry that it isn’t genuine.

“Yeah boy — I’ll catch ya later!”

And he walks away.

Just like that.

As he disappears I think back to how he appeared at my door.

I think about people and how they are lost and found. I think about the capacity of a single person on a single day, what they are able to accomplish, what kind of routine a single person adheres to in order to have some sort of hope. And then I think about hope as time seems to pass.

When I look back down at my phone, I see that time had been waiting for me. Only five minutes passed.

I wasn’t late for work.

Veronica walked out as I walked into Elite Aesthetics. She said the words again and when I didn’t say them back she wouldn’t leave.

“Stop acting that way, I know who you really are, Zachary.”

The name sounds unfamiliar.

I don’t feel like myself.

That previous sentence also doesn’t sound like me.

I tell her, “I have to work.”

She says, “You already clocked in.”

Veronica looks genuinely worried but I feel really lethargic, like my actions are twelve steps behind and there are no thoughts registering to help bring me out of this situation.

We stand in front of the store.

There are 4 people watching us talk.

13 people brush past us as they make their way to another store in the mall. Veronica has my hand in hers and she squeezes it hard.

I tell her that it’s getting dark outside, and then look back down at my phone. It is going to run out of battery soon. I need to post more.

Meurks isn’t active enough today. He doesn’t feel right either.

That sentence sounds wrong.

Something about this all is wrong.

Veronica goes in for a kiss. Okay.

She is worried.

A thought: I don’t fit in here.

She reads what I’m thinking, “You try too hard, Zachary. If you were who you really were, you wouldn’t feel so much like an outsider.”

It’s the first time I feel like I’m really awake. Not just today but for a long time. I hear my voice clearer, when I deny it, telling her that she’s too attached to me and that something about this whole thing is really wrong.

She tells me to stop shouting.

No amount of resistance pushes her away. I may have realized it more than once and most certainly said it many times:

If I am strange, so is Veronica.

If she calls me strange, I’d say she’s exactly the same.

Then I kiss her. Feel genuine as I hear the words slip back out.

I love you.

She takes them despite there being nothing with the words.

Feels like nothing, but she’ll take it.

No sighs, no releases, she looks at my hand in hers and at the fact that my gaze almost always goes to the phone before it goes to her.

The strangest part of this is how I think, later, Zachary the employee in effect helping a customer—may I help you? — I think I have imagined so much of it. The most bothersome part, the encounter with Rios, is the only part that stays. It’s the only part that I never question.

It’s the only part that I think about at lunch break.

It’s the only part that doesn’t feel strange.

And I don’t know why.

I don’t fit in here. But I haven’t purchased food beforehand — Rios altered my routine this morning — and so I go to the food court, where many different fast food chains are well-represented.

Bright, lit up signs, long lines, over 100 people.

This is a mall made for this. This isn’t a mall made to accommodate people like me. My phone in my hand, I read what I want from the menu I searched for online. The employee points to the menu behind her but that means having to look up. I’m already looking down.

I order and I move to the side, finding the perfect place to wait for the food, a place wedged between counter and trash can.

Nobody is standing close enough.

There are more than 100 people in this wide open public area.

There are 8 employees at this fast food chain.

They are, on average, selling more hamburgers sold than can be eaten.

Where do all the uneaten hamburgers go?

Lots of comments, average likes.

Meurks is found to be funny. I contemplate what brand of humor this might be. I take the tray of food to an empty table farthest away from the noise of families and couples and assorted people occupying the tables closer together. I take a bite and already know that the food will get cold quicker than I can stomach eating this.

I place the phone next to the food and I begin.

Do my best to eat the food without coughing, without choking, without dribbling anything on my shirt or eating in a manner that might cause disgust in others. I eat calmly. I look up once and observe a man and woman speaking to each other in a way that feels right, feels as though they are supposed to be here, on a Saturday, and they are talking about something that they both genuinely care about; they laugh sometimes and then they also listen, intently listening to the other’s voice. Thoughts are relayed in perfect lines that I think could be rehearsed but aren’t.

I have been staring for too long.

I return to the phone. I get three likes before I hear a voice.

A man with his own tray of food stands at my table.

He is wearing a suit.

“Excuse me, mind if I sit here?”

I look at him and then at his food.

The man says a lot, “Yeah, isn’t it ‘great’? Ha — forced to eat this slop because nothing’s organic here that isn’t three times as expensive. Look at me, guy who has six figures of debt, makes enough to be deemed financially stable, and yet I can’t even afford anything other than this.”

We both look at his food.

Then at mine.

He looks at the empty chair on the other side of the table.

By listening to what he just said, he took it as an invitation to sit down.

“Thank you. The place is packed today. Not a single table left.”

He takes out a phone, “Can’t live without ’em!”

He eats with one hand and scrolls through pages, texts, and other data while he doesn’t even look down at his food.

We sit like this for quite some time.

I don’t finish the hamburger. I eat half. Some of the fries are left too.

I drink all of the soda but it just makes me thirstier.

He finishes everything, every single speck of food. He licks his finger and uses it to help pick out the tortilla chip crumbs from the fast food wrapper.

The man doesn’t start talking until after everything is eaten.

“They call this slop food?!”

He talks about an animal cruelty case he’s currently working on, he stands up, takes the tray, and says, “We’re all a little strange if we’re somehow surviving in this fucked up world.”

Walks away.

Stands in line at another fast food vendor.

I hadn’t said anything the entire time.

Memory isn’t just how much data you can store on your phone; it’s moments you’re supposed to remember but can’t help but forget.

And back at work the only thing that stays with me is the aftertaste of the hamburger I ate.

I work hard over the rest of my shift. Jeffrey tells me, “Good job. You earned back that day off.” I know I should be proud but all I did was do the job I was supposed to do. Jeffrey chews on his fingernails in between filling out paperwork. I walk back to the break room. I am pleased to see that no one is there. The store is empty and only partially lit, having closed the store for the day. Look at the digital clock on the microwave.

I don’t have a routine set for Saturday.

Today has felt different.

I feel as though things have repeated but I have only lived it once; each repetition takes a piece away from the one experience I had.

The genuine experience is act and nothing more.

I don’t know what I’m saying.

My phone starts acting up. It keeps ringing so I set it on vibrate. The number I don’t recognize.

I can’t get myself to leave the break room, and it’s because this is one of those moments. Genuine. Something that feels like something, different. The break room is normally occupied but for once, it is empty.

Strange to be the last one in the store.

Jeffrey leaves without saying bye.

I’m glad to have been left alone.

I watch the clock while counting the number of times my phone rings.

Then I leave.

And it feels like any other workday except better because no one is around and I don’t find myself counting and considering the possibilities.

I can fit in here.

There’s a shadow sitting on a bench as I walk through the mall after hours. I look for nothing more than for Meurks to catch up after a day of activity, but the shadow calls out to me.

The shadow stands up and turns into Rios.

I can only decipher what happens next as two friends talking.

Again I feel myself more aware of my actions, and I want the actions to fit the situation.

He asks me, “How was work?”

When I consider what to say, I take too long.

“Boss had you stay late huh?”

I nod.

And then I think of something to say, “Yeah, but it’s over now.”

He slaps me on the shoulder, “Right on, right on.”

I slap him on the shoulder but he doesn’t say anything.

A moment passes and I want to type out what this feels like but then he interrupts what would have been, maybe, something to type.

“You ready?”

Ready for what? A text message saved to drafts.

“Yes,” I reply mostly because it is the simplest of replies. It sounds decisive and it seems to satisfy Rios, which, until now, does not feel as anything but two people talking. Now I see that Rios is a lot like me and I want my approval. I want his approval.

I think I can relate to Rios.

He seems to have already made that assumption.

“Yeah they’re all waiting.”

Okay.

I remember to say what I’m thinking:

“Okay.”

Rios has a car. It smells of smoke and something else, the same smell I recognized from earlier today. He says, after taking the third right turn down another desolate, darkened and abandoned city street, “You don’t talk much do you?” I contemplate what might happen based on the nature of my reply.

Settle for, “No.”

And then, “Never have.”

“Cool, cool …” He trails off.

Rios acts more subdued, less trying.

He uses speaker phone to call someone with a very raspy voice.

Rios says, “ETA 10. Get it right the first time, alright?!”

I skim through Meurks’s activity today.

Severely lacking but when I want to type something all that I type out has to do with stuff that no one wants to think about. I type—

Possibility of getting into a car crash or brutally led to a slaughter, hunted for sport, used, abused, become sex slave, sold like cattle, laughed at, considered a loser …

I delete every word before I write the next, creating a slideshow of devastating words. These words do more harm than they should.

My eyes well up.

Rios notices, starts laughing.

I don’t feel good.

“Please man, hold it together. Party hasn’t even started.”

I don’t fit in here. Rios lives in a one story house with chipped paint and frayed fabrics, illuminated in green, air heavy with something pungent.

5 people, all of them slouched in their seats, not talking.

I don’t fit in here.

No one says anything when Rios and I walk in.

Rios tells me, “Sit over there.”

When Rios sits, everyone else sits up.

Someone takes out an object.

It’s a pipe. They take turns smoking from it.

I don’t get a turn and I am relieved.

That moment passes and I start to breathe heavy. I save myself from losing my breath but I still hear the words—

“I love you.”

They hear me and they look at me.

Rios says, “Love ya too, bud.”

I start typing.

I feel like I can’t decipher what’s going on and that what I’m feeling are about as interpretable to me as ancient Egyptian artifacts or a Greek parable about a god or fallen deity that I cannot understand.

But I don’t post it.

I don’t post anything else for the rest of the night.

Meurks disappears for 7 hours.

I take solace in the fact that both friends and followers notice the absence. However, when I begin posting again, it will be a whole lot like what happens next.

They talk like I’m not there.

They don’t offer me the pipe.

Rios starts talking louder.

The others start talking louder to match his tone.

Something is thrown.

Someone is blamed.

I am slowly blotted out of the conversation.

It sounds like I’m far away but I’m sitting right next to Rios.

They all agree with Rios, and then they turn against him. I type nonsensical words just to type them.

When I try to post them I see that I have no signal.

There’s no signal at Rios’s place.

Maybe I start to doze off, or maybe things progress rapidly; I feel dizzy at first and then a series of actions bring together the difference, subtract what I see and feel versus what I don’t and the difference is quite great.

It’s a number that could fill the food court.

Rios asks me something.

I hear myself saying, “Yes.”

The others mumble and shout profanities.

Rios slaps me on the shoulder.

One of the others punches Rios in the face.

The liquid dripping from his eyebrow aren’t tears. I am the one with tears streaming down my face. I try to stop them by closing my eyes.

I hear myself saying, “I don’t fit in here,” repeatedly.

Rios is shouting.

Open my eyes to see two of them trying to pin down Rios.

Rios looks at me and that’s all it takes. I do what I do because it all seemed to fit into place. It was what was “supposed” to happen next. Like drawing a line, to keep it linear, it must be straight. And the next action was for me to become Zachary the friend.

Rios and I leave the place.

I leave behind what happened.

I keep thinking that I’m blinking too much as Rios pulls the car out of the driveway and speeds down a lightless street.

“Shit man,” I hear him saying.

“What?”

“It wasn’t supposed be this way. Fuck!”

Rios isn’t acting like himself.

Am I acting?

Am I acting … like myself?

I have trouble forming the question and when I reach into my pocket I feel the phone vibrating. Signal is back.

It’s her.

Rios says, “Don’t answer it.”

The blood on his face has dried and it looks fake.

I receive a text from Veronica, “I’m at the door. Let me in. I brought food. Your favorite ”

Rios isn’t driving in the right direction.

Rios asks, “Who is it?”

I tell him.

“Look, we got to get the hell out of here. They’ll be after you as much as they’ll be after me. What you did ain’t gonna be forgotten. They’ll be fresh on our tail.”

To that I say, “Where will we go.” It was supposed to be a question, but it comes off as a statement.

“My sister lives in the middle of nowhere. You’ll like it there. No people for miles.”

I tell him, “Veronica is outside and I need to let her in. She brought me dinner.”

“You’re a strange cat, you know that?”

“Can we let her inside?”

Rios doesn’t say anything.

“She’s at my door.”

Rios turns on some music. He turns it up.

My voice cuts through the music, “Veronica brought me dinner.”

I can hear Rios saying, “Then let her in.”

I look out the passenger side window. I begin to recognize the streets and the stores. When we reach my building, I refuse to leave the car. I text Veronica, telling her to meet us outside.

Somewhere Ben is there and he will wave in the sort of way that isn’t much of a wave but really a way to be suspicious.

I think clearly.

I type—

At the peak of adrenaline I can feel myself falling in line, everything fitting, and I don’t need even a single moment to interpret what each might be.

Veronica walks outside the building. Ben is talking to her.

I slouch in the seat.

Rios says, “He can’t see you.” Taps the glass, “Tinted windows.”

I sit back up. Rios honks the car horn, signaling Veronica to get in.

“Everyone’s got their own demons,” Rios grins.

Genuine and true, he narrows his eyes, “What did you do? A strange cat like you can’t get by without fucking up.”

Before I can respond, Veronica opens the car door.

She looks at me like I’m somebody else.

“It’s the moonlight,” Rios says.

“What … happened?” She sounds concerned.

Rios speaks for me, “Get in, got a long ride. I’ll preach it.”

But he doesn’t. We remain quiet for the entire ride. I ignore the likes and comments on my last post, the beginning of Meurks’s absence.

What did you do?

Rios’s words echo out, having stuck somewhere deep.

It feels wrong — all of it — so I change the nature of the prompt.

What will you do?

And then I am able to set the question aside, unanswered.

The drive seems to last forever.

We get there shortly before dawn. Everything falls into place, like the line continuing its path toward the bullet point at this sentence’s end.

6

Dawn looked like a dull light shining into my eyes, trying for acceptance. It wanted me to blink but I had already blinked too much. This was a time for not blinking. I sit with legs numb from so much sitting. Veronica is asleep in the backseat, the backseat all hers. Rios doesn’t look any different. Not tired from driving through the night. The road starts to narrow.

It’s almost time for Meurks to start posting.

I want to type.

Then I don’t really understand what that means, but the itch, the thought to do so, to type, runs through me. The phone pocketed is a phone with battery drained. Lost it an hour back. The phone doesn’t last long.

It isn’t new except for once.

Yawn, and I imagine something ahead of us.

It is a house that is more a castle, a castle that is more a house.

Finally I blink, and then we are there.

Rios is the first to speak, much like he was the last to have spoken.

“You’ll dig my sister,” he tells me.

I think of Veronica, who is still asleep in the backseat.

“She’s just your type, bud.”

He catches me looking over my shoulder.

Makes a noise, “You don’t fit in.”

He says it again, “You don’t fit in.”

The second time is louder than the first. Like he really meant it.

I have nowhere to look but down at where the phone should be.

He slaps me on the shoulder, “You don’t fit in, so you have nothing to worry about.”

When that actually makes any sense, Veronica is awake and we are already inside the place, which is Rios’s sister’s, her name, Nikki, and all the details blur to the point where there are only two considerations:

Nikki is different.

And:

What exactly is any different?

Nikki tours us around the place as if we can’t figure it out ourselves. Then I begin to see the differences and it’s greatly the opposite of my apartment. Or any apartment for that matter. Nikki doesn’t leave my side.

She asks me about things.

I tell her what she wants to know.

Whether or not it is true doesn’t seem like a problem until later.

Veronica stays behind with my phone and hers, letting them charge; she needs to catch up too. Meurks is too far behind and this information makes concentrating on aspects of the tour quite difficult.

Nikki’s voice carries, and she spends most of the time explaining the dollar value of each item. She would not make for a good Elite Aesthetics employee.

Rios disappeared when we arrived.

When I attempt to figure out where he went, I come up empty.

I don’t ask Nikki.

I don’t ask Nikki anything.

I only answer her questions.

And then she starts telling me about herself and it sounds like she said this all before, many times.

Says that she likes to enjoy life.

Says that she’s tired of how most people live.

Says that people are too judgmental.

Says society is toxic.

Says that society is absurd.

Says that people try to find too much value in society.

Says that doing that makes it difficult to hide from society.

Says that society will destroy a person.

Says that society is tragic.

Says that if you let society do all the talking, you’ll find that everything is a cage and nobody is free.

Then Nikki goes on to talk more about herself.

Her studies, her exhibitionism, her many suitors.

We turn the corner and she pushes me into an alcove.

She kisses me lightly, I don’t kiss back.

“‘Nikki’ isn’t my real name …”

Then we keep walking.

When I look at Nikki, she has a great big grin. When I’m not looking but looking from the side, pretending not to look but I’m really looking, Nikki has the greatest frown. There isn’t anything genuine here.

She’s just giving me a tour.

When we finish we end up back in the bigger room near the front where Veronica stayed. Rios is there too. They’re talking.

The way they talk confuses me.

He sits real close to her, and she isn’t pulling back.

When we arrive, Rios greets me but completely ignores Nikki.

I guess it’s because they are brother and sister.

My guess is as good as any.

Maybe not. There are a lot of maybes traded as everyone in the room, 4 people, exchange considerations for what happens next.

What happens next?

They don’t ask me.

And I don’t say anything. I keep to the phone. Meurks is so behind.

Nikki and Rios take us to the shoreline. There is a rocky pasture where the seawater splashes up and I sit there with my phone for most of the time. Veronica goes with Nikki and Rios. They walk the edge, where their feet sink into the cool sands.

I can hear only Nikki’s voice, like Veronica and Rios are holding theirs close. Nikki shows them around.

Nikki does nothing but show.

Like she is the show.

When is a person acting and when is a person genuine?

I delete it though, since the lack of activity has decreased Meurks’s reach.

Nikki takes center stage.

Where’s the stage and what makes the stage any different?

I get confused and watch videos others have posted about various topics. I laugh when I think I’m supposed to laugh and I am disgusted when I think I am supposed to be disgusted. Then I remember that nobody is watching so I go to where I’m most comfortable. I go into a public chatroom where I originally made Meurks who Meurks became.

I chat with different names. All of them fade.

The talking isn’t what’s important; it’s the typing.

We type to get everything out.

And before I can finish typing, my thoughts and feelings are pushed up, the chatroom a wildfire of bursts and other bombardments.

Everyone is typing.

They are typing to get out.

And almost do. We wait for that one thing that does.

What does?

When they return, Nikki has no clothes on. Neither Rios nor Veronica seems to notice. I notice. It keeps my gaze immediately on my phone.

I have trouble speaking.

So I type.

Feel like there’s this atmosphere of a charade. Like everything is a surprise waiting to unfold and I’m the only one not included.

Maybe I don’t want to be included. I want to be surprised.

I want to surprise them, everyone; and that’s what people really want right? Someone that isn’t like everyone else, someone that will make them feel more like themselves. Everyone is different, or so a lot of people say … and the differences are important and valued.

What does any of this really mean?

The blog post gets a lot of comments but I have trouble focusing on them because they all force me up from the rocks and tell me about things I shouldn’t know. About how there’s going to be a big celebration tonight.

How the celebration will bring together their friends.

And Rios slaps me on the shoulder, “And enemies.”

That’s a joke.

I think it’s a joke.

Neither Nikki nor Veronica laughs.

I ask, “What’s the purpose of the celebration?”

Nikki reaches up to the sky, “To celebrate!”

Veronica looks troubled.

I have seen that look before.

I have seen it in the mirror, when I look.

People start arriving when it gets dark. I am in one of the upstairs rooms using a laptop that might be Nikki’s but it has never been used. I am the first to use it. I maintain a level of activity despite it being the time of day where many only participate in passing.

I type more about what I should be feeling.

I type more about things that have nothing to do with me.

The most important part of this is that I am freely typing and I can feel my body relaxing. I am able to breathe without paying close attention to breathing. I am able to blink naturally. I don’t even notice that I’m blinking.

I am blinking right now.

Veronica isn’t here.

I don’t know where she is.

Yet I keep thinking about where she might be. And why — that becomes something else that I type to get out.

Friends and followers offer their condolences.

I don’t understand why.

Friends and followers offer their advice.

Again, an omission.

They speak of dead relationships, and dead feelings.

I hadn’t thought of Veronica in such terms.

Why would you say that it’s over?

I see the words “denial” and “grief.”

I close the tab.

I reopen the tab.

I delete some comments.

Then I forget why I’m deleting them.

I continue reading what shows up.

They say that they understand.

Thanks.

And I read one comment that says, We offer so much but we don’t have a place of offering.

I hear a knock on the door and everything looks like my apartment.

Everything goes back to that place.

It’s just what I imagine.

I tell them.

They say that it’s a “delusion.”

I begin to sweat and I start rubbing my eyes. My eyes burn.

When the tears start dripping down my face, I feel a weight push down on me. I remember the party. I remember where I really am. I remember Veronica, and then I remember that I missed work again.

I remember the routine.

The knock on the door pushes it all back.

Nikki.

She has the key to every door. And walks in like it’s her room.

She winks, “You too?”

I look down at the computer screen.

“I’m addicted to this stuff. I think my record is 60 likes.”

She asks me how many likes I’ve received.

The number registers over anything else.

“210, approximately.”

She seems impressed, “Oh wow, that’s crazy. You got it all figured out, huh?” From the door to the edge of the bed, she sits and looks over at me hunched over in a chair off to the side, occupying a neglected corner of the room. “How do you know my brother?”

Answering requires little effort.

Answering adds pressure.

I watch as my fingers continue typing.

But I don’t know what I’m typing. I don’t look.

My eyes are on the keyboard.

I think I tell her because she keeps talking.

Then she walks over to me.

It happens in reverse. I ask and she tells.

I ask and she does.

The laptop is taken from me. I close my eyes.

The next thing Nikki says is, “Hope you have enough left for the party.”

She had been accommodating up until this point but in a single blink it all changed. “I expect a performance,” she says.

I feel dizzy from the pressure.

Nothing gives and everything bottles up inside.

Once again, I become conscious of my breath.

But she leaves the room without a bother.

As if to say that I am barely a bother at all.

My interpretations come from odd angles. They are tinged in maybes.

I reopen the laptop to find that I had written nine pages.

When I try to read the text, my eyes cross.

I feel nauseous.

It gets into the keyboard.

I feel my pulse quickening with the activity around me. I worry more about the laptop, and what I did to it, rather than where she is.

I take a second to figure out who “she” is.

I feel the room begin to spin when I realize that I am referring not to Nikki. The differences between her and I outnumber any other two people. It’s the only excuse that works. Rios is incorrect:

We are not similar.

Veronica and I are similar.

Nikki. I can hear her from across the room.

There are currently 22 people in the room, with at least another dozen populating the other rooms on the first floor of this building.

I let Meurks rebuild his activity.

Meurks needs to respond to every comment of the previous blog post; otherwise, it would go against his brand.

It means the party consists of people that search for that one true person.

Meurks comments.

The typing helps tune out the activity around me.

Then I start walking.

From one room to the next, I never stop for any longer than a second. I make sure to always be typing.

There’s always a comment waiting to be considered.

When I look up she is there, Nikki.

I see her laughing.

I see her getting along with everyone.

It wouldn’t feel right if she wasn’t the loudest.

People want to be the life of the party.

Someone hands me something. A drink, and it’s Veronica.

She kisses me on the cheek, “Having fun?”

I think I say something because she nods and says, “I’m meeting so many new people! I’m having a lot of fun.”

I tell her, “Yes” but I’m typing:

That bothers me. I feel some way, like I don’t want her to have as much fun as me. I don’t want her to meet anyone that I haven’t already met. I want to meet people. She isn’t as good of an employee as I am. She’s only here because I let her come here. She wouldn’t be here if I didn’t tell Rios to bring her along. And she’s the one that walks with Nikki and Rios. She’s the one that talks to Rios like they’re real close. Rios is my friend, not yours!

I don’t save it to drafts.

I can’t save it to drafts.

I had been typing it in the wrong app.

Veronica disappears again, becoming the 81st person in the 81-person crowd. I recognize, for one brief moment, on the verge of tears, that I never include myself in that number.

But the idea settles, and I am almost pleased.

Like I have the upper hand.

Back to the phone. Meurks is doing just fine.

People just like to be around other people. We’re social creatures.

Look up and Nikki is skipping over to another side of the room.

If we aren’t surprised, we’re old. It’s a sign that you’re getting older.

I don’t meet anyone that I don’t think I have already met.

Someone refills my drink.

Someone else says hello.

Cannot tell whether or not I am bothering to look, whether or not I return the greeting. I feel the effects of the alcohol. I feel the pressure of the party. I seek some sort of genuine feeling, something or someone that isn’t a maybe, but rather just there to be, as many of my friends and followers have specified, there to be around others. Not alone.

It is loneliest around such a large number.

That one gets a lot of likes and one comment. The comment is a question mark. A follower but not a friend.

I return to the comment thread.

I read the next comment three times, having trouble focusing.

I don’t care what people think so most of the time it’s about the booze.

Nikki walks over to me.

She hugs me and I hug her back.

I don’t get today’s trends.

Gulp from the plastic cup. Things merge and I am the merger. I have trouble speaking but the words still come out. They come out with ease. I feel like I’m letting go of something while I fumble with the phone.

Nikki keeps pulling me aside, bringing me to other people.

Things are said. I drink some more.

People just want to be hip. Element of surprise: being hip to the cause.

Nikki. A kiss.

Somewhere someone wants to hang out with someone like you.

I see Nikki pouring more into my plastic cup.

I’m not saying no.

I think I asked for more.

We’re all just fucked up anyway.

In a room with only … I don’t know. Number.

Not much people.

But Nikki is there. Same way, same thing that happened in the room. But I don’t vomit this time. The distance closes, and she says, “Coming!”

Someone walks into the room.

Nikki says, “He’s ready. He’s there!”

Stranger in a strange land.

Maybe it occurs to me. Maybe I noticed, I can’t tell.

Maybe but Nikki, always Nikki.

She’s there at every glance.

Like she’s standing in place of Rios.

Like they take turns.

This is me.

I don’t know what that means.

Outside where a lot of cars are parked. It is dark. Someone is filming. Rios slaps me on the shoulder, “Right on, right on.”

There are people. A number.

I am talking, not typing.

They are all listening.

There was a noise, maybe not. What I don’t see isn’t there. Maybe they are talking about me; they are most definitely looking in my direction.

And more maybes.

Maybes don’t get you anywhere.

Rios and a few people at my side. People all around us.

I try to count but the number is just that, a number.

Numb.

Rios shouts at one person. The person that looks around like he’s frightened. Someone pushes him at us. The person trips and falls. He was wearing glasses. I hadn’t noticed until he fell and they slid in our direction.

Noises, people reacting.

It seems to be entertaining.

I don’t know what part of it is, but it seems like I’m being entertained too. The person tries to get back up but Rios pins him down.

He steps on the person’s back.

The person screams.

It’s annoying.

They all look at me.

I look at them.

Rios nods at me.

We all look down at the person.

Soon it’s all I see.

The person’s face, red, eyes wide, blind.

Rios tells me what needs to happen next.

It all feels like it’s just everything falling into place, the straight line extending past this night toward a future night, a night that will feel the same as this. But different. Maybe.

I am handed the gun.

It’s a gun, you know. Don’t know if I thought that or heard that, but I say it anyway. I say it because it seems to fit in. I fit in.

“I know.”

The body on the ground was a person. So quickly people become something else. All it takes is a trigger. A single flick or pull, and the pressure mounts. It releases and you can barely tell the difference.

But the person is gone.

Maybe that person is really who they want to be but you can’t recognize them. You can’t recognize them because you only know what you’ve already seen, what you’ve already assumed.

The person looks strange.

But I don’t.

Maybe I just wanted her to be seen. Maybe I just wanted it to be stranger. Maybe I just wanted things to be different.

Rios. Maybe I just wanted him to be pleased.

He looks pleased.

And because he does, I am too.

I feel like I am genuinely pleased.

The body and the gun are just things.

They are all looking at me.

Rios slaps my shoulder.

I hear him say, “Right on, right on.”

And then I hear her voice.

“Great, now you can pay me.”

Nikki. But I don’t look. The whole time my gaze is to the ground. Not hearing the gun, not feeling the recoil.

The line extends, the only thing to be said is what Rios already said:

Right on.

Right on.

But then Rios is paying attention to someone else, and the attention paid to me quickly turns heads toward someone else.

The attention filters back into the house.

Her voice I hear over everyone else. Her. There was only her. Veronica.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

It just took that long for it to be heard.

Rios slaps me on the shoulder, “Why the hell did you do that?”

Something is said.

“Shit man …”

And then another voice, muffled.

I look down at the ground.

I grip onto both objects in my hands.

Rios says, “Did you get it?”

Get what?

“Got it all on film.”

Rios sounds pleased, “Right on right on.”

In my left hand I have the phone, in my right hand, I have a gun.

The smell, it smells familiar. It makes me think back to when Rios showed up at my front door. When he first told me about everything.

When he drove me to his place.

When everyone got high. But did I?

The smell takes me back to the bar.

To when he sat down in the same booth.

It takes me back to the shadow cast over me that night, after work, when I couldn’t get myself to leave the break room. Like something in me wanted to stay there, where there would be no need for numbers.

But now, numbers are all I see.

I feel a rush of lucidity, and I count how many people are here.

4. Make that 3.

I see the body. I don’t know what to feel.

I drop my phone. I drop the gun.

There was a noise.

It was the sound of the screen cracking in three places.

Part Two

1

There is a part of life that isn’t worth talking about. Not because it isn’t entertaining for others but more so because it isn’t pleasing — more so unsettling — for the person to speak of it. I have a habit that I didn’t have before. It takes time to build a habit but, for me, it didn’t take very long. I press the tips of my fingers into my overgrown fingernails. I dig the nails into my palms. I have done this, and I do this often. I do this for a long time, digging and drawing blood, before I realize it’s because I have nothing to occupy my hands. A lot of waiting happens before they put me in the cell. The handcuffs make a sound that’s a lot like a rusted door when I tug with my wrists. The metal digs in but it doesn’t cut.

There are 8 people in this cell.

They put me in a big cell with others that look a lot like me.

I have only the numbers to document the feeling.

8 becomes 16 becomes 24 becomes 32 becomes a cell too small for too many people. They are bringing in more, always bringing in more.

Nobody talks.

When somebody tries, nobody listens.

People talk only to themselves.

I hold onto my shirt collar.

Press my bloody palms all over my shirt, creating a nondescript pattern of brownish blotches. One light source keeps everyone on the edge of consciousness. I stay at the bars, letting the handcuffs hang against the small sliver of space between two bars.

Occasionally a rustling and others cursing each other and themselves, but that’s just because someone uses the toilet and we all have to hear it.

Those sitting close enough have to smell it.

I am at the bars.

I stay there, watching them lead people to and from places.

Without any way to check the date and time, there is just the waiting and after enough waiting there’s the feeling that this is all it is, all it will be.

Forget that I’m still wearing my clothes, I’m still waiting for them to get to me. They have a need for information; they have something in mind that I’ve done, and it means I’m here instead of at my apartment.

Here standing instead of sitting.

Here. There.

In both places, I would still be waiting.

He isn’t the first to question who I was, and what I had done, but he was the first to ask of more. I tell him what he needs to know but he asks me again, and insists that I think before I speak, form sentences, and make sense of the information I am giving to him.

He asks of my name.

“Zachary Weinham.”

He asks of my age.

I think about this. I have to count back. And then when I can’t figure out the number, I have to count forward. I settle for something that feels right. I tell him, “Twenty nine.”

He keeps his gaze on his desk, on the document where he writes in these details, the document that will become the only explanation for what I had done.

He asks for my occupation.

“I am an employee for ‘Elite Aesthetics.’”

He doesn’t seem to be familiar with the place. Asks for more information. I tell him it’s a store.

It sells new innovations in technologies.

“So it’s a trinket shop. You worked in a trinket shop.”

I don’t understand.

I explain that I’ve worked there for two years and that many of the products sold became common pieces of technology.

He doesn’t hear me, and finally looks at me.

“Short black hair. Brown eyes.”

Writes and tells me to stand up.

“6’1”, skinny.”

Writes in and when I go to sit down he tells me to remain standing.

He leads me down the hall to another room.

He stops to talk to one of the officers.

“You still owe me,” he grins.

The other officer rolls his eyes, “Shit — they were a surefire win. You know that.”

“What I do know is that we have unfinished business. You going to parlay the loss with tonight’s game?”

The officer shakes his head, “They’re nothing without their star quarterback. Fucking injuries the moment I decide to take a bet. I tell you it’s—” and he looks at me. Stops talking, takes a step forward and I feel something hard hit the side of my face. I see dots but I feel no pain.

“Don’t you fucking look at me!”

Then I hear the officer that had written in that document say, “Keep your eyes to the ground like you’re supposed to. Don’t try anything strange!”

First cold, then warm, and then nothing — the strike to the head didn’t seem like anything but an assertion. It asserted the fact that they all saw me and had already formed their first impressions.

I was like the rest in that cell.

Waiting.

Waiting to be told why we were here.

What had we done?

What carried such negative meaning?

What kind of meaning could there be?

Maybes and more maybes.

I just want to catch up.

There are already too many questions.

I cannot see why I should be having any of my own.

I am passed around like the file folder, from officer to officer, as they took down more information. One officer wanted to know about my ethnicity, wanted to know about my hometown.

I answered but it didn’t seem to be correct.

None of the officers bothered to tell me anything.

Another officer asks me what it felt like.

I could see my breath in the air. I tell him, “cold.”

That’s also not the sort of answer the officer wanted. The officer starts talking to me about how guns affect the human body. How the bullet lodges in and if the tip of the bullet is filed down and cut before use, it will actually splinter upon impact, causing more harm.

I don’t look at the officer, instead staring down at what he has in hand.

File folder. The document.

He holds on to it like it like it’s useless information.

Passed to another officer, she pushes me to the floor when I don’t understand her instructions. I feel dizzy, I can’t seem to do the “right thing.”

She flips open the file folder, reads the document for a second and then calls me, “One sick and strange motherfucker.”

The way she says it causes me to clam up, a knot in my throat that won’t go down even though I try to clear my throat.

She says, “Don’t make me hit you again.”

She continues reading and then, like I wasn’t there, went back to whatever she was watching on her phone.

I look at the phone.

I look at it like it should have been mine.

Even after she notices and tells me to stop looking at the screen, my eyes fixate on its glow. I think about all of my friends and followers, the comments waiting to be commented on, the likes unnumbered. I think about the brand built and I think about what I would type right now.

I come up empty. Nothing I wouldn’t delete moments later.

The officer places her phone screen-down on the desk and forces me up to my feet. I am returned to the holding cell.

There are 25 people here.

I find my place on the bars.

It’s like I haven’t left this place.

Sometime during the night, we hear someone whistling. The whistling gets closer. It is never worth considering anything more than the whisper. The source could only be someone here to get one of us, and this time, the first in a dozen, the whistling officer is here to get me.

Simple gesture of the hand, jingle of the keys, sliding the door open, officer with one hand on the weapon, just in case anyone still bothered trying to resist, and outside of the cell. Into the hall.

He walks me like the others, cuffed and held by the arm with enough force to tell me that I am not going where I want to go.

I am still back in that holding cell.

I have nowhere to go, but there are more rooms I have yet to enter, and this one looks like it might be the one where I never return. We walk in a straight line and the officer talks to me like he’s talking to someone he’s spoken to before.

Whistle. “So how’s your day?”

I don’t say anything.

“Can’t be that great then.” By the way he whistles, it must be a good day. A good day to be an officer.

“Making sense of any of this?”

When I look, he is looking at me. The officer must be in a good mood. In trying to find some sort of routine, I had thought that we don’t look at officers, especially when they speak to us. We look elsewhere. We stand when we are supposed to stand; we speak when we are supposed to speak.

I don’t speak for anyone. I don’t assume anything that hasn’t already been assumed of me.

“It seems I’m considered bad,” I say, not too loud but he hears me.

Whistle, “It does seem that way. Kind of led us to think that, though.”

I hear myself saying, “I’m behind.”

“Behind, huh?”

“There’s been so much activity and I haven’t posted, I haven’t typed.”

“Not many opportunities for that where you’re going.”

The officer whistles, swings the file folder in his free hand.

Every few steps I glance over in its direction.

I ask, “What’s next?”

Between whistles, the officer says, “Onward and upward.” A whistle, “But first things first.”

I used to be up-to-date and quick with my reply.

I had a routine, a routine that is now splintered, broken.

Now I am led instead of allowed to walk.

I am not treated like an equal. I am barely worth talking to.

Everyone else that’s cuffed looks inward, not outward. They walk with their eyes unfocused, their minds on something a couple steps back. Everything is a mark, a blow dealt long before the feeling is registered. I can understand how I’d say it, but when I get around to saying it, it feels like everything has already been said for me. I have no place to explain myself.

People do all the explaining.

Everything else is a formality.

He stops me at the door, before I am led into the room.

Explanations for the unexplained:

“You won’t fit in here. Not like that.” Whistle. “You’re going to have to be processed. It’s what I call it but everyone’s got their own terms. Same thing, same effect. Your alleged criminal offenses will be put to trial. Same as always. But you’re not going back out there. You’re going in — cell of your own.” I must have done something to make it seem like I didn’t understand.

The officer opens the file folder, looks at the first page.

That’s my photo.

That is my name.

Homicide.

He stops whistling at that point. He reads from the file, never again looking in my direction. “If you are not assigned a lawyer, you will be given a court-appointed attorney …”

More is said, less and less is understood.

He asks me, “How could you do something like that?”

Another officer walks up, there to take me forward. He answers for me, “Society’s a cruel place and we caught ourselves a cruel person.”

I’m led into the room. The officer continues to whistle once I’m gone.

The file is now with another officer. They make me hand over everything in my pockets. I don’t have anything but a wallet. I had my phone but, like a good portion of what I had carried, it had been misplaced. I am in the process of trying to catch up. Don’t know if I can.

It’s not looking good.

Then I am told to hand over my shirt.

My pants are next.

The officer walks over and stops at yet another door, “Inside.”

For them this is routine.

The officer throws a white powder that burns as it settles on my skin. Then water pours down from above. The shower is strong enough that I see whole sheets of dirt and dead skin fall from my body.

An itchy towel is given to me.

“Wipe yourself,” the officer says.

“Over here,” he commands.

I walk back to where I had been told to disrobe.

“Put it on.” The simplicity of each command is enough to blur the reason for my incarceration. I hadn’t thought much of my crimes and I wouldn’t until I had sat in my own cell, waiting for what would not come.

Waiting for the sheer force of hoping that there was something else.

At least at this very moment, there is something. I am not left to my thoughts. I am forced to wear what I am given.

I am given not a name but a number.

I tell the officer that I am good at numbers.

“Shut up.”

He won’t even look in my direction.

There’s a mirror across from me.

What I see doesn’t immediately strike me as alarming but then I see the orange of the garment, feel the heavy fabric on my shoulders. I see the number given to me; I see the way my face looks when I try to make different faces.

None of them look genuine.

I am left to a room that’s just a big table and a few chairs. One light from above, concrete on all sides. I am cuffed in a way that my arms are crossed behind me. There is a crick in my neck that I try, for a while, to get rid of but then let it stay. It gets worse but then other aches start forming.

The human body is a lot like how I feel right now.

But that fails to make any sense.

It is enough for me to think about, but I don’t really get anywhere, the thoughts pulling toward another thought, but mostly it has everything to do with what is immediate and physical. The pain is unpleasant.

It is probably on purpose.

A man in a suit walks in.

He introduces himself as my lawyer, as appointed by the judge for the trial to commence in a handful of days.

Left with little more than my ability to interpret, the lawyer sits down, buries his face in the file folder, and begins lecturing me.

“Human rights. Basic human rights,” clears throat, “food, shelter, family, friends, and employment. They are inherent to society, indeed, but for your alleged criminal behavior, you will be losing these basic human rights. There will be food, you will be given shelter, but you will no longer be able to congregate with society. You are a poor fit, and you shall be wise to understand this. As your lawyer, I am paid by the state to tell you what you need to know. Your case is highly stacked against you. There’s enough here,” he starts repeatedly tapping the file folder with his finger, “there’s enough in here to send you away for good.”

He stops.

Looks at me.

I am looking at him.

I’m supposed to look at him.

I think I am supposed to look at him.

He doesn’t speak, glares at me. It’s like that — and I’m usually good at it as long as I imagine a person’s eyes as something other than someone looking back at me. If it isn’t a person, I am more able to stare.

But I blink and he keeps staring.

Then he says, eyes still on me, “There’s only one shot. One thing that’ll save you.”

And then it’s like I already know.

And he seems to agree, nodding.

He closes the file folder.

In silence, he sits there staring at me, hands folded on top of the file.

Pain rushes up my back, and it’s enough to get me to ask for what I will not receive. I ask if I can see my file.

“Everything in this you already know.”

I tell him it might help me. I tell him there might be a lot in there that I didn’t know about. I tell him it might help me help him.

“If that is correct, you have no chance.”

The lawyer looks down on me, looks at me as yet another fuckup. He has judged me and will continue to judge every little thing I say and do.

I begin to feel sick.

My stomach churns, and I can hear the lawyer telling me that it’s too late to change anything. The damage has already been inflicted.

The video is online, viewed by millions.

Then I throw up. For that I get a different lawyer. The lawyer drops the case, which means he has deemed me unfit for representation.

There’s nothing left to do but bring me to my cell.

It looks like all the other cells: A thin cot that creaks when I sit on it. Walls rough with washed out graffiti. And an old desk and wooden chair. Either left by another prisoner or provided by the prison are a handful of well-worn books and one pad of paper. The only thing that’s different from the others is a toilet chipped on one side so it leaks out puddles of water with every flush.

I look at the pad of paper.

I look at it for a long time. Look at it like I’m waiting for everything to catch up to me.

Everything is already here.

I’m the one that needs to catch up.

But like my incarceration, I am unable to see it in anything but fragments. I sit here, thinking about how I should think. The thoughts do not come; I can feel an aching that does not come from any arm or muscle, it pains me in a way that keeps my stomach loose, ready to do away with the food I have not eaten, the drink I have not drunk.

I stand on the balls of my feet, bothered by the thinness of the prison issue shoes given to me. I feel it all rise up at once.

I throw up phlegm and thin trails of blood.

Then I feel better.

I decide that I am afraid. I am afraid, that’s what I’m feeling. I am feeling the fear; the fear of what part of me is visible to the other prisoners. I am afraid of what the lawyer told me. I am afraid of how much hasn’t yet sunk in, mostly because I feel incapable of facing the information.

I fear what I had done, and why it doesn’t seem to bother me.

I fear walking barefoot in my cell.

I am afraid of what comes next.

I am afraid that nothing is left.

I’m afraid of how good I feel when I accept the fear.

I am afraid of the liberating feeling I get when I welcome the inferiority, what I have failed to do, and what I am, as a result, facing with less than appropriate strength.

Most of all, I fear that I will be unable to sleep. When I look at the notepad, I see that I had created a tally of my fears, one that is incomplete. I tear the piece of paper, crumple it up, and flush it down the toilet.

This isn’t he first time I flush down unwanted thoughts.

I watch as some of it leaks back.

Wipe away the stray tears that have begun to form. I am afraid that I won’t last a week in this prison.

I hear the other prisoners calling to me.

They call to me, treating me like fresh meat.

They call to me throughout the night.

I hold back, but everything had already begun to fall apart.

Everything I had held close, revealed.

There would be nothing left to spare.

I would be judged.

I couldn’t leave my cell without becoming violently ill. The officers would push me around, kicking me and throwing me back into my cell, alternating once with solitary confinement.

I acclimate better in solitary confinement and almost assuredly came up with the tactic of consistently doing just enough to be awarded with more time in seclusion. However, it seemed I wasn’t the first to come up with the idea. They told me, “Smartass,

you’re just another piece of shit; you are no smarter than anyone else in this prison.”

Sometimes they forget to feed me.

I am supposed to be like the other prisoners — following a strict routine — but in these first few days, I prove to be what many of the prisoners consider to be impossible, not worth the effort to socialize, only to ridicule. And maybe not even that.

I am surprised by the development.

Moreover, I am surprised to find it quite easy to understand without first having to wonder why.

Very little else is understandable.

But I understood this.

It is around this time that I began to talk to myself. Meurks still existed, and had a lot to tell me. It instantly felt like hearing from a friend but soon felt like being forced to reflect on everything you had done.

This proved to be the worst part.

I wouldn’t be able to silence what poured from my mouth, words full of worry and weakness, even when other prisoners threatened to take my life.

I keep telling myself that I don’t fit in here.

I don’t fit in here.

I don’t fit in here.

I don’t fit in here.

But if that is true, it would mean that even the cruelest people, the people that society had shunned, deemed unfit for basic human rights, considered me less. I am far less than the least.

I am a fraud.

The feelings associated with being unfit are here, and they keep me bound to a toxic routine of resistance from the officers when asked for the most basic of needs. So they started to ignore me. Example being: They wouldn’t give me food when I needed it. One of the officers said, “It’s slop but it’s still a waste giving it to you. You’ll only throw it up.”

Everything went down that drain. Written or partially eaten.

Everything, even what I wanted to keep.

So much had to do with the time I had been given.

So much had to do with the fact that I couldn’t know how much that would be, or whether or not that would be permanent.

Then Meurks said it in my voice.

I didn’t have to wait long to hear it.

It was my voice. That is my voice: “They’ve made a fan page for me. I’m reaping the reward for what you’ve done.”

Seems I had already done the one thing I might have taken back.

I couldn’t take back any of it. And time, it had a way with making this period the longest. Many of those nights froze in place the moment night fell.

The mornings were even worse.

One morning I find the following sentence written on the notepad. Before reading, I think of the considerations, yet there is only one. Perhaps I had forgotten to flush it down the toilet like the rest.

Maybe I did.

One thing’s for sure.

I had written it.

It read:

There are approximately 570 convicts in this prison.

I am not included in that number.

I didn’t just crumple up and flush the piece of paper. I took the entire notepad and flushed each page. It clogged the toilet.

They forced me out of the cell.

Made me walk the courtyard with the rest of the prisoners.

There were 34 prisoners there, but it might as well have been just me.

It felt like I was in an entirely different yard, separated and enclosed so that the other prisoners could watch if they felt the need.

15 of them did.

When I was back in my cell, the toilet had been fixed and the notepad had been replaced. I broke the pencil so that I wouldn’t be able to write anything else. Nothing would be written that wouldn’t be immediately destroyed.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and waited for sleep to arrive. As always, by the time it arrived, I forgot why I had waited for it so long.

2

One morning was different. It proved to be different enough. I was at the bars, but when one of the officers started getting close, I went to the far end of the cell. There’s a part of the cell that remains shadowed even during what I figure is high noon. It is my idea that they don’t see me there.

If they don’t see me, maybe I don’t exist.

I don’t exist, and they don’t so much as bother me.

They don’t feed my fears.

They had been doing that a lot the past couple days.

Questioning, always questioning. I came to the conclusion that I was guilty. But that wasn’t enough for them. Officers and prisoners and the occasional person that doesn’t look like they belong in a prison, only stopping by, they question. With their gaze, they question.

With their words, they question.

My idea did not work. They saw through shadows.

“You got a call.”

And then, tapping on the bars, “Let’s go. Now.”

I go along, cuffed at the wrists and cuffed at the ankles.

The officer doesn’t want to hold my arm but has to, security reasons; he holds my arm with two fingers, the least amount of holding he can get away with, and we walk quickly.

I almost trip.

If you trip they kick you and force you back up.

Prisoners call out to other prisoners and guards when led down the hall. Seems they keep quiet. They only threaten me at night.

By day they don’t want to see me.

The walk is quiet enough to hear the thin soles of my shoes scraping against the well-worn, stained prison floors.

The phones are old payphones.

I don’t get any privacy. The officer stands there as I pick up the phone.

It’s someone on the line. It’s whoever wanted to call.

“Zachary?”

The voice is familiar, might be my voice if I hadn’t lost it while talking to Meurks.

“Zachary, are you there?”

He hears me breathing. I have seen blood from my throat. It is raw from repetition.

He knows that I’m listening.

“Okay … I refuse to speak of the incident. I will not speak of the incident. You were always fragile. Don’t deal with social anxieties well …”

The officer listens in.

His voice can be heard without pressing the receiver against your ear.

Distantly I should be concerned, but instead I lower the receiver. Stand there listening to his voice. Seems right. The only thing to do.

“I won’t ask. I want to focus on the matters at hand.”

It sounds like he isn’t concerned.

He was always good about acting, hiding his true feelings.

I get it from him.

A father thinks he knows but he doesn’t. How can he know if I am not fully aware?

“First on the agenda: The film footage. It is all over the net, but not for long. My attorney has made sure to contact the appropriate sources. It is obscene for any site or blog to allow for what is bound to be snuff.”

A father judges without sounding like he’s judging.

“I am under the impression that the associated press is going to create a media storm out of your upcoming trial. I have spoken to a number of my confidants and we are within right to assume that it is true.”

A father once said that things could have been so much different if he had never had a son.

“A problem, and I will not fault you for this, but it seems no public defender will touch your case. I have done my research and a few of my contacts know of some trustworthy lawyers that are at the top of their game. They will take on any case, especially one with as much media attention as yours.”

Balance it out with the early thought that maybe for most, it is the same. Never ready, always barely able to keep up.

“It’s okay, Zachary. I know a person.”

He starts to sound like the way he always does, a fast-talker and a business professional.

“The judge appointed to your case just so happens to be an old friend of Haverly’s. He’s already on it, and you should be thankful. I am not blaming you for what you did. You’ve never been the type to lead, much less follow, so Haverly and I both agreed that the truest course of action is to plead guilty to the murder under the cause of insanity.”

He knows a lot of people.

“I am your father. I am not going to talk about the murder. I am not going to talk about what you did. I do believe that perhaps things have gotten the better of you.”

He is valued by others.

“You never did fit in. I guess it was partially my fault. Your mother and I were never around. We thought we were doing our best by sending you to the right schools and urging you to participate in sports. Well, we thought we were providing you with a stable foundation. You are a good son and I know you are a good person, I am not going to say otherwise; however, maybe it’s time to consider our options. It’s the only way you will survive this case.”

He is professional, a degree of popularity among his peers.

“They are going to put you away for good. Or worse: Capital punishment is being put to an open forum but it is still a just cause; but you shouldn’t worry about that. Haverly has it in our best interest: We don’t have to let it get bad.”

His own father was proud of him.

“Understandably there will be a trial. It will be unavoidable. But Haverly is selecting members of the jury as we speak. He is working to side with the judge. And I am willing to do what it takes to save you from that fate.”

The person people recognize has become the person he thinks he is.

“It is a severe financial commitment but one I am willing to make. Haverly is confident enough that, within a few months, you could be out on bail. This is unheard of, but with the right people on our side, you just might get a second chance.”

Never asks whether or not I am listening.

“You understand what I’m saying, Zachary? You get a second

chance. You can be someone else.”

Never asks whether or not I am even here.

“Look, I am not saying you’re a loser. What I am saying is that it’s looking like you will be portrayed as such. You are talented and capable of living a good life. We all make mistakes. You are capable of a second chance.”

He never asks about me.

He never asks his son if he is okay. It never enters his mind.

The work to be done is the “matter at hand.” I hear what he’s saying, but somewhere it starts to blend in with the noise of the room.

The phone call ends.

I am taken back to my cell.

With some certainty, I might have imagined the call.

Just like you forget to turn off the lights before leaving the apartment, it’s not really there until you are forced to return. The same thoughts bring me to a revision; I see and hear bits and pieces of the call and by the time I feel sick again, I will already be at the toilet, on my knees, ready to let it go.

I will have saved myself from having to clean up after my sickness.

Save myself from the small messes.

When there is only you, the cell, and the thoughts that stick around, the simplest changes become the biggest. They become the highlight of a time without beginning or end. They work like a slap on the shoulder, the same slap on the shoulder that should have shaken you free, the gesture that should have made you realize that very little of it was genuine.

Instead it made things blurry.

Guilt is a good cover story. But then someone visits and I don’t have a whole lot to say other than, “Yeah I did it.”

Today she visited me.

I had trouble remembering but the walk to the visitation yard gave me enough time.

Veronica looked like Veronica.

Her enthusiasm was as genuine as ever.

She said, “Hello” like it was a normal occasion. But she never greeted me that way, which made me question whether or not she was only here to see what had happened since the murder.

There were other people, a lot of people, visiting other prisoners, but though I looked and tried to count, I could not settle on a number.

12?

17?

I couldn’t just pick one number.

It might as well have been 100.

A hundred people around me. A hundred people listening, talking about me. My time in the relative isolation of my cell had made me more aware of what I could not be without.

I could not just sit there and listen to Veronica.

I could not listen to her.

This wasn’t a conversation.

I instantly became aware of so many voices, and every voice was an opportunity to look and react before I had a chance to explain myself.

Give me a chance to make a first impression.

Give me a chance to be myself.

But then, all I could think was: if given that chance, what would I say?

Veronica spoke with confidence.

She had been doing better since returning to Elite Aesthetics.

I lowered my head so that others couldn’t see me, only her.

“Are you okay?”

She seemed concerned, but I couldn’t tell if that was genuine or more so just because she was talking to me. She chose to visit me; she has some stake in this conversation. The attention drawn to us is shared. She is as receptive to their looks as I am to my guilt.

When I did speak, she criticized me for sounding different.

“You aren’t making any sense.”

I would repeat myself a number of times but it only made it worse.

Veronica changed the subject.

One of the officers told me I had fifteen minutes left.

It didn’t make a difference.

She continued talking.

I didn’t listen.

They were maybe talking about me.

What could they really say?

The considerations were many but difficult to categorize. Every possibility was as bothersome as the past.

Instantly I became angry at the thought.

They felt that they were allowed to think of me in those terms. It was rash to believe that people had the right to label you as something you weren’t.

No matter if they are right, they could only be wrong.

It wasn’t in their right to make someone out to be something without hearing first what they had to say.

No one is sold based solely on the way they act and look.

But almost as instantly I understood that I was wrong.

It made me feel sick again.

I hoped our time had nearly elapsed.

I heard her grin, as genuine as can be. I could not bear to see their glances, hear them maybe speak about me to each other, so I did my best to focus on her, the only person that may have seen me for who I really am.

Someone that didn’t judge me based on my errors.

Someone that said those words to me and meant it.

She loved me. It could only be the kind of love that exists in the past tense. For her to be genuine, she couldn’t love me now.

Veronica moved on.

I could tell that her visit was her way of making sure she had moved on. By the look of it, it’s simple enough to say she was sure.

There was no talk of the party.

There was no mention of Rios, who, when I tried, could no longer be anything but a name I had heard numerous times. No mention of the past, only the present, and how Veronica had been doing well.

“I got a small promotion! It isn’t much, just a half-dollar, but I’ve never gotten a promotion before. It’s, I don’t know, like Jeffrey’s way of telling me that I’m not going to be fired again. That, I don’t know, I am there to stay. Part of the team. Accepted. You know?”

I’d imagine that I understood, or might have understood.

“It makes me happy.”

She reapplied lipstick. I watched.

I had nowhere else to look.

If I dared look elsewhere, I might actually settle on a number.

If I settled on a number, I had this idea that it might imply that I wanted them to look at me. I refuse to believe this.

She puckered her lips, saw that I had been watching, giggled, and said, “I feel good. I’ve been hanging with some of the other employees. They have this circle of friends that’s just full of creativity. They always have some amazing idea; every night is something new. Like, James, he just, I don’t know, always knows of the latest trends. Everything: New places to eat, new hangouts, concerts. Since being around them, I’ve spent almost every paycheck.”

I thought about the likes.

How many likes she would have attained by being friends with this group.

“But I’ve never been happier!”

I thought about friends and followers I had but couldn’t remember any of their names. I tried but came up with nothing.

It used to be an admirable number.

Every once in a while, Veronica looked down at her phone. She texted and she skimmed messages, catching up, staying caught up.

I watched.

Thought for a second about what I may have been missing.

Without being able to type or talk, all I had now were my thoughts.

All I had now was Meurks.

Meurks was in the forefront of my mind, forming thoughts and memories I had thought were stolen, things I would never do, things I would never say, but sure enough, they were items that belonged to me. Meurks had been holding on to them for me. Archived, tagged, complete with data on number of likes and comments.

I was momentarily pleased by the amount of activity surrounding Meurks. It was enough to change the way I looked.

“Aww, yeah, that’s the smile I like to see!”

I seldom let it show.

I asked her, “Are you online right now?”

Tilt of the head, “What a silly question.”

“You are?”

“I’m always online.”

I needed to know, “What are they saying?”

“Oh, there’s been a lot going around. Umm …”

Veronica didn’t want to talk about it; maybe she didn’t even know. Didn’t bother to look.

I persisted, “Look up ‘Meurks.’”

Sure enough.

She was quick about it. Clear that Veronica had checked before.

Didn’t want to look at me afterwards.

“Tell me.”

She typed something.

“How many followers do I have?”

Veronica wouldn’t tell me right away.

“It’s like this …”

She told me without looking up from the phone.

It was insulting; she couldn’t stand the sight of me. She only cared to look when she talked about herself.

“Like a day after the party, all of your accounts went inactive.” She read what had been posted to replace my accounts. Federal government intervening.

They had seized all accounts as probable evidence.

Maybe my dad’s sources had done it.

Maybe Veronica did it.

Maybe Meurks was covering his ass.

I felt sick again.

They had all moved on, just like Veronica.

Stomach had been rumbling for sometime. Guess I wasn’t paying attention to me.

Seems everyone else had that under control.

Afterward, I felt better. I usually felt better, but even more ashamed.

Fact that she saw, and what she said next, made it true.

Some of it got on her. A lot of it got on her.

Maybe she deserved it.

“You sick fuck! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Of course she moved on.

It didn’t matter who I was talking to, they were all doing the same thing. They were all thinking the same thing.

Time had a way with jumbling everything.

It seemed I was the only one standing still.

Everyone else made progress.

Everyone else knew who they were.

I saw it all like it already happened, we already spoke, and she had already visited, long ago.

It is only now that I understand that it was the first time.

She is the only person to visit me.

Veronica wouldn’t visit me again.

Back in my cell, night fell before I could fathom what it all meant.

It still didn’t make any sense.

Meurks wasn’t talking.

I feel different. I don’t think I feel different. I think about what would be the normal route, normal reaction.

It hurt to speak but I spoke anyway.

“I am in prison.

“I killed a man.

“The reason was …” but I couldn’t say it. There was nothing to say. Voice wasn’t there.

But I kept talking.

I am talking.

Still talking.

Though I can’t even hear myself speak.

I can hear the thoughts and feel my lips form the words.

I can count to ten and back but none of that matters.

Each line feels like I’m wafting toward something I should have mentioned a long time ago.

I think about Veronica.

She’s doing so well.

She’s an accepted member of society.

I think about Dad.

He has always done well. He built himself up as a businessman.

He is a businessman.

The support network is strong. I think about the crew back at Elite Aesthetics. I think about all the Employee of the Month plaques I never noticed, and the accolades they tried to give me but I refused, mostly because that meant having to give a speech in front of all the investors.

That meant being seen for what they wanted me to be.

I think about Rios.

I hadn’t thought about Rios.

I think about him but the only thing that comes to mind is the way he used to slap me on the shoulder.

Whenever he did that I didn’t wince. In fact, I felt pleased.

I think about today’s visit.

Veronica telling me about everything.

Veronica telling me off. Telling me that I’m sick.

That I’m strange.

That she’s glad I’m in here.

Locked away.

“I should be angry.”

But I’m not.

“I should be humiliated.”

But I’m not.

“I should feel miserable.”

But I don’t.

Veronica said things that maybe she meant. But I believe she was just angry. If someone threw up on me, I would be angry too. I mean I think so.

I think back to beyond the past tense, to those times where I should have been counting on someone rather than counting how many people were in the room and possible considerations.

Then I said, “I don’t fit in here.”

It didn’t give me the grace, the pardon that it used to give. Admitting that I wasn’t used to let me free.

But I’m not.

I’m not free.

I am conscious of that.

I read the titles of the books on my shelf.

In each and every one of them are proposed answers: self-help, religion, politics, and philosophy. But I have no reason to crack open the spines.

I have too much to consider as it is.

The phrase wasn’t letting me free.

It weighs me down.

“I don’t fit in here.”

Everything I was, and may have been, whatever I felt, it settled to the bottom of my stomach. I didn’t feel sick anymore.

I sit here for a long time before lying back in bed. I feel the weight on my forehead. And then I started talking again. This time I won’t stop.

I speak for myself.

Meurks remained quiet.

By morning, I figured something out.

“I am different.”

I don’t feel anything.

Dad called. He didn’t even have it in him to visit.

When did Veronica visit me?

Time had a way with toying with me. Without my phone, time took on its own shape. I can’t be sure when it was, or when I was first brought here.

Things are added or subtracted.

But the number is never the same except for in this cell.

1 and sometimes 0.

All this time spent in my cell, I found out later, when one of the officers told me that they set a date for my trial, I had only been in here for four days.

Four days.

I had little control over what happened next.

And for that reason, I saw most everything as something that already happened; it only took this long to finally hit me.

My incarceration would be my becoming.

3

Eventually I had to leave my cell. I had to shower where prisoners shower. I had to eat where prisoners eat. I had to work like prisoners worked.

Actually no.

“You don’t.”

I choose not to — and though recently the officers tried again, I still resisted. They are beginning to understand that no amount of punishment can provoke me into doing what they expect all prisoners to do. I don’t do what the other prisoners do. I don’t have to. I don’t want to.

“You’re afraid.”

Meurks has a way about not letting things go.

He’s right.

I am afraid.

I am different.

“You say you’re different but it’s really just something to say.”

There is a possibility that I am not sincere.

He’s right.

I am different.

“You say you’re different like you’re not the only one.”

Everyone in prison is different from everyone not in prison.

He’s right.

I am different.

Other people are different.

I don’t care.

“You don’t want to admit it.”

He’s right.

I am different.

“You don’t want to admit that you’re talking to yourself. You can’t get me to stop talking. I won’t stop talking until you start speaking for yourself.”

I talk in the guise of what I’m not. I talk in the guise of a person wronged, a person blamed for something he didn’t do. Well I did — I have agreed to it. But I did not want to do it. It just happened.

And the happening part is the most bothersome.

Nothing is there, to be drawn from; I see only spots, scarred sight like the kind of vision you see when you look around in the dark after not having been in the dark for so long.

He’s right.

I am different.

“You are denying the fact that you think you’re different to spite the fact that they do not care to listen.”

I get like this, sometimes, because I have only the four walls. Three if you don’t count the bars. I have these walls and the few items they gave me.

But I already said that.

I think I have said that.

I have a bed that’s not really a bed, a desk that’s not really a desk, a chair that is not really a chair, and a toilet that’s not really a toilet.

What else must I admit?

Huh?

“You’re afraid.”

I admit that.

“Admit it.”

I … admitted it.

Admit that this bed is really just boards and a thin mat, used pillow, and a bedsheet that smells like somebody else’s body odor?

Admit that the desk and chair creaks with every sitting?

Admit that the toilet won’t stop leaking so I use notepads to soak up the odorous water?

Admit that the cell itself is in position to be the one cell that every prisoner is forced to walk by to and from work detail, cafeteria, and visitations?

Admit that I cannot rest for any longer than two hours before waking up to threats, verbal threats from other prisoners?

Admit that they won’t stop looking, even when they are looking somewhere else?

Admit that I can’t stop hearing you, winding and winded thoughts creating this pain?

This isn’t living. This isn’t even waiting. Not anymore. I feel a lot of the pressure that I had felt before loosen, the sickness no longer really a problem. Stomach settled, the pressure becomes more of a persistent headache dead center on my forehead.

Admit that I feel like someone is always reading my thoughts, even when I am not thinking about anything … always reading … always reading, someone knows, someone has said this before, someone reading and judging and comparing and contrasting and marking up and marking down every little flicker that happens. Every single thing.

Is this a question?

What am I admitting?

And I have to say it again, why do I not feel anything?

I am different.

He’s right.

But admit it?

Admit what?

Someone is reading my thoughts?

Someone is.

Someone.

But it isn’t enough to just listen to Meurks: He must be heard. If I don’t shout these thoughts, they keep going. I keep hearing something. I keep hearing what I don’t want to hear, and often stuff that does not interest me.

They pick at the facts of my arrest.

Murder, that I am most definitely guilty. And that it seems that I am different. The latter of the facts is understandable, but Meurks is not amused. I keep thinking about it. I keep thinking about the admission, “I am different.”

I keep thinking about it and why nothing else happens.

Nothing else has happened since admitting this. Meurks churns different flashes of memory, situations where I was in attendance but did not say hello, did not talk when spoken to, did not react the way I was supposed to. I buckled, winced, my nerves tensing, breath quickening.

I felt about as much as I said.

A single line at best.

Meurks shouts, which means I shout, until raw and then reverts to whispers. The whispers are the worst.

Throughout every single one of these proclamations, I am unsure of how to feel because I don’t feel anything.

It doesn’t sound like me.

I don’t know what I sound like. I hear a voice that seems to be what I want to say, but I don’t know; I don’t know if there has been a time when I said what I wanted to say. What is with wanting to say something? People say things to get a reaction. People say things to get something. People say things to be right there, in the heat of the action. People don’t say anything for much else. I hear my thoughts in Meurks’s words. His voice is shared.

He’s right, every single time.

I don’t know what else he wants from me.

This is my cell and I am guilty of murder. What else?

What you are not is, quite frankly, the entirety of your online accounts. They prove a number of things selected to be misunderstood, or not even experienced. Barred from memory.

It was simpler to agree. It is simpler to agree. Agree?

I agree.

You are unknown.

And I hear him. I hear him, yes.

They do not know you. They see you down the street, walking.

They are people talking to other people. You are barely talking to yourself.

They walk the streets to get somewhere; you walk the streets looking for anonymity. And yet, you walk the streets looking for a destination too. You do not want to ask for the address, but you want to be invited.

You do not want to look for a ride; you would rather walk the entire commute so that you might not have to stand too close to another human being. If this is what it feels like to be alive, what does it feel like to be dead?

Yes. I agree.

I agree.

You are not secure.

At every street corner, in front or somewhere near the back of a bodega, there are machines, machines for dispensing currency. The currency is earned, and in order to live in this city, to socialize and be a part of the community, you must earn a certain amount.

You sit next to someone in a suit riding the subway; you didn’t notice him but deep down you were aware of the suit, the demeanor, the fact that the man was off to fulfill the duties of a salaried position.

He works at a company that pays him in salary, bonuses, and makes sure to let it be known, commonly, that he is valued.

You are valued, but you are not rich.

I agree.

You are poor. You claim to have no need for riches but you will sometimes count someone that looks like they are financially secure as two. You will give them a +1 for the sake of being so confident and accepted.

You are asked every time you meet someone new, which in your case is not often enough, about what you do.

You never answer. You looked down at the screen. You became me and searched for lines to be commented on and liked, posts to be poked through for fun (and short-lived fame).

You never answer and you don’t remember.

You don’t see it in their faces, how they roll their eyes, how awkward you make them feel, how you come off equally as socially deficient as well as egotistical.

He’s right.

I agree.

You are loved. You were loved. You had a mom. You had a dad. They never showed their appreciation but they were proud. They cared.

You quickly assumed the lack of consistent affection for a complete lack of love. You think, They didn’t want me.

You think that they are ashamed.

You think nonsensical things until you are no longer thinking about your past. You are living plain and in the present. Nervous and self-aware.

But no, you are not self-aware.

You meet people.

You meet people all the time.

You have met someone. She kept coming back. She returned to you even after you took a man’s life.

She was there on principle.

She did not want to be there. She couldn’t stand to be there.

So she did what she could do, which is far more than you would have done. She talked about herself. She thought about recent events, ones you hadn’t been around. She thought about whatever would keep her calm.

She did not want to cry in front of you.

It was all because of those words.

Three words. You would have fixated on the screen.

You would have cradled the phone in your hands.

You wouldn’t have budged from scrolling, and whatever had been said was borderline impossible to possess.

You are too possessed with yourself. Anxious, you are anxious.

She was there to support you.

I agree.

You “agree.”

I agree.

You are not a member of society. You are not a functional member of society. Say it! Say it: You are not a functional member of society!

I am not a functional member of society.

A prison is no place for someone that has found their place in society. This is no condition for someone that believes in humanity, believes in what it means to work, and play, and live. You see them make plans, go out for dinner, camping, a football game, a simple but somehow meaningful stroll in the park, friends together, friends in need. You watch people be people in a city that is a part of a society made up of other social circles.

You watch their ups and downs.

You buy, and take, and use, but you do not remember the moments when what was taken happened to be given to you. They are called gifts.

There is so much more than what is recorded.

There is so much more to explain, and feel, than these whispers.

You watch it all but where are you in all this?

They’ve deleted me.

There is no record.

So it all comes blurring back to you.

I agree.

I am different. I agree. My words, these words, every single one, mean nothing. Because what are they worth to me once they have left my tongue?

But I take it from here. He is talking, still a voice in my ear. I can’t stop it, but it’s my turn. I take my time. Nothing is changing. Log the arrangement of this cell. Nothing is changing. Bed from toilet from desk, books about society for society, principles, religion, and ethics, unread … until now.

I take each book and open them.

Read the first lines, and then the second ones.

By the start of the second paragraph, Meurks is silent.

By the fourth, Meurks starts up again. I move to the next book.

For a time the prose blurs all thoughts.

Nothing registers. I see the words but they read as well as they leave, barely more than a sentence, a paragraph, something to quiet my thoughts.

Eventually it clicks, and I start to hear it. The command: Agree.

This is what I am led to believe; I need to give in, I need to agree. Here where everything, all basic rights, are forfeit, I am Zachary Weinham.

I am Zachary Weinham, but that’s just a name, a name I bet they all use quite a bit now, always with exclamation points and underlines.

I can’t get past it. The simplest question, the one Meurks makes me admit, again and again, until I get it right. Admit it, admit it …

I am different.

More.

I am beyond different.

More.

I am a failure.

More!

I am …

A criminal. I have stolen life and I have stolen material possessions. I have stolen peoples’ feelings. I’ve broken hearts. I may have broken mine; I can’t be sure about that. I ruined more than I gave. I ignored more than I ever cared to notice. I don’t know anything about the man I killed, and I have no interested in learning any more.

Anomic. One of the books had the word and I have it here to repeat it. Distant though I am, I am aware of picking and choosing my words. I know what sounds right versus what is incorrect. If I am anomic, it’s because I am different. It’s because I decide as it happens, rather than decide beforehand, the situation:

I decide by number — how many people.

I decide by considerations — what could go right, what could go wrong, what is expected of me, of anyone.

I make those kinds of decisions. I have difficulty if I don’t.

But this is all just stuff to ruminate about.

It’s easy to admit my inefficiencies. It’s more difficult figuring out how I am supposed to feel about this.

About everything.

Loner. Which is probably a variation of the word, “alone.” I am alone. I was often alone. I am often alone. Here, and back where I was, when I was free to leave as I please, I was alone.

When I was with people, I was alone.

When I was with her, I was alone.

When I was Zachary the employee, I was alone.

Zachary is alone.

I have a number printed to my chest.

That is who they expect me to become. Number #56901.

Loner. When I remember, I feel more like what this is supposed to feel like. I feel something like what a loner must feel. I have more thoughts than there are actions in the day; I have more lapses in feeling, I have more lapses in cognizance than most people have free time to let flared thoughts happen.

I turn everything into a routine.

Everything becomes routine. Number of steps, number of blinks, number of breaths. It used to be number of people, now it’s merely number of possible deaths. If I leave this cell, death will be right there.

Everything becomes routine. Number of words, number of sentences, number of paragraphs, number of pages: The pages of these books I turned to routinely reading to help silence these thoughts.

Silence him.

If I don’t speak, he speaks.

If he speaks, I can’t speak.

The routine makes this somehow different when I understand. I understand. There’s no difference.

We are speaking.

I am stuck in a cell with nothing more to occupy me other than my thoughts and the distant idea that someone is reading them.

Someone is listening.

And I slowly degrade the fears that populate the edge of this cell, my boundaries. Fears keep me here. But I can stomach sticking my arm out, through the bars. I can do this, see? There is nothing, no feeling.

Not even a wince.

I let both arms hang out in the open.

Prisoners walk by and they look right at me.

They look into my eyes and I look back.

I imagine they are labeling me as different. They are free to do so.

I know. I know this. Believe me I know.

An infinite number of times, I know.

I know.

“You will split down the middle if you keep like this.”

I mumble, “Did you hear something?”

Did you hear something?

“Down the middle. Two halves are still halves. Can’t walk. Can’t stand up straight.”

“Where’s that coming from?”

Where’s that coming from?

“Did I just imagine it?”

Did I just imagine it?

“This headache …”

This headache …

The pressure has become pain. Everything I say is echoed.

I have to hear it twice.

“You are on your way.”

I’m not just hearing that. I turn around twice, standing in place, looking for the source. I look up at the sky barely seen through the barred single window. I am surprised to see it’s night.

This happens a lot.

The headache has gotten worse: It blurs across everything, and it becomes all there is to do. One time I forgot a guard was talking, asking me if I wanted food today. I meant to say something but instead I thought about whether or not it was a question or a command.

Food? Or Food.

Guard took the tray.

It was food.

“Strange.”

Once more I look for the source. I have trouble understanding that it is coming from outside my cell. Have trouble including anything outside the cell.

“Maybe the strangest.”

I see him from the far corner of my cell. I walk toward the bars, look at them a moment, and, very carefully, making sure not to make a sound, no skin touching either of the two vertical bars, I let my arms through. And I lean forward.

He nods once, “The strangest.”

He is a man of average height, average facial features, short hair, the same sort of disheveled look that happens when you live in a cell.

He is already on the bars, watching me. Perhaps he is who has been listening, watching, reading my thoughts.

I look at him and he looks at me.

He doesn’t give me a name and I don’t ask.

He doesn’t ask for mine. This is clearly understood.

We both stay there for a time, not speaking.

“I’m going nowhere,” I say.

And I am surprised to hear no echo.

He doesn’t say anything at first, looking down at a newspaper cutout, reading it solemnly, and then placing it back down on the narrow flatness of the bars, “Already there.”

“Where?”

“Right here.”

His voice is distinct, different. I have to ask.

“Not that different.” But then he adds, “Yes. Different.”

I look at my fingernails, my scabbed palms, “I am different.”

He says, “Yes,” just because it is probably easiest to just say yes. There is nothing else to say.

I let the silence of the block speak.

Looking at the folded newspaper, “What’s that?”

He follows my gaze, and then says, “Like your books, it is an example.”

“An example?”

“Yes.”

It has been a long time since I have spoken to someone. I cannot recall if I had anything to say to anyone, but between this prisoner and I, something empties out and the plainness of the setting can be seen.

Though we aren’t speaking, it is as if we are still in conversation. We hang on the bars, prisoners on the bars. We have nothing but time.

“How long have you been here?” he asks me.

I want to answer but I don’t have anything to say.

He continues, “It has nothing to do with where we are going.”

“Where are we going?”

“The same place as everyone.”

I think about this. “Everyone.”

“But not you,” he tells me. Points his finger from across the hall, “Not you.”

“Huh?”

He seems calm and I know, deep down, that I am speaking to an honest man.

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“Speak for yourself,” he pauses, “or they will speak for you.”

He recedes into the darkness of his cell.

I remain at the bars, waiting for the thoughts to rush back. But they don’t. Admit it. Admit what? I admit it, all of it. There is nothing to consider.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

Nothing at first but soon I see him reappear at the bars.

The Prisoner takes his time, but it is not meekness. It is honest, as I can tell. It is straight, but because it is as straight and without evasion, his voice hangs there heavily, as if they could only mean as much as you want it to mean; he applies no other meaning beyond the definition of each word.

When he tells me, he hasn’t said anything.

But I can, I know as well as anyone might know. The Prisoner on the Bars has fully occupied his cell.

Shortly before dawn, after waking up to discover my mind clear, headache gone, unsure of what I felt, I stood and walked in place, worked up a sweat, and looked up through the bars to the night sky.

I walk up to the bars.

There I wait. I don’t call out.

The Prisoner reappears. We talk, not because we are alone, but because there is nothing but talk — talk and routine — in prison, in our cells. There can be more, if I choose to read, or to do what other prisoners do, but I cannot get myself to agree. I can’t muster up the energy to believe. All there is assured is time (a sentence) and routine. Or else, there is madness.

On the bars, the Prisoner and I speak as often without saying

anything.

But it happens. Exchange the most basic of information.

It is the most important of information.

I find that he is the stranger, a man from another border, and he discovers that I am the strangest, which, in meaning, he leaves to me to decide.

“You can speak,” he tells me, “but you can’t speak expecting them to understand.” It is often like this. The block might go silent and during that moment, I will see the Prisoner appear at the bars, observing but nothing more.

If I join him, standing a hall apart, often we talk.

Every line feeds another.

This too becomes routine.

4

Meurks is right which means I am right. I had a visitor. It could have been her, but it was already set, already mentioned that she would never visit me again. It could have been Rios, but there wasn’t anything in it for him; being seen around me would only increase his odds of becoming a suspect. It could have been a prosecutor, or another member of the media.

But the officers and the guards had already given up on letting them see me. I wasn’t seeing anyone.

If I hadn’t refused the visitor, I would have found out that it was my dad. He had it all figured out. But needed my signature to make it official.

I already figured it out for myself. There would be no signature.

I speak for myself.

5

It was interesting to hear them talk about me. The courtroom looked like any other room. It was packed, full of flashing lights and people that wouldn’t stop talking, not even when court was in session. The moment I walked in, I was the only one really there. Seats filled, jury in attendance, the number of attendees likely high, I worried that I might lose my voice. I might not have a voice left to use. I was the calmest I had been despite what became of me; or, rather, what would become of me.

I am handcuffed the entire time.

No one sits next to me in my corner.

I choose to represent myself. This information created a murmur across the audience. I look over at the jury.

They are all glaring at me.

Not one looks away when I turn to gaze them. A few faces are shaking, not shivering; the jury shakes their head. That means disapproval.

An officer declares everyone to rise.

Judge walks in, robe, stern faced, holding the file folder.

The file folder, me. My eyes gravitate toward the folder. I watch as it leaves my view, the judging sitting at his chair, opening the file, skimming the document, gentle inward sigh. The judge immediately understands the nature of this trial. He looks at that document; when he looks at it, he sees who I am, who I was. He looks up at me. He glares at me. He looks just like the jury.

I have difficulty seeing the difference in others.

They don’t look any different. And, you see, I know.

I say it and I feel the loneliness of it: I don’t fit in here. It is why I am judged. I have been judged. Now, if there were justice, they would finally hear me. They will hear what I have to say.

I won’t hold back.

They have a full case stacked against me. This isn’t surprising, but I do feel the pressure. I don’t feel sick; I am not denying my place in this case. Many more than I can bear to count watch me, and they all have their own opinions. They all know of my guilt. They all know of my crime.

What they don’t know is why.

It begins with a question.

A simple question that begins or ends the entire trial.

If I say anything other than what I end up saying, it might have continued. But it ended. The judge asked, “How do you plead?”

I say what I know I would say. I say the only thing I could say. And it sounded so simple. “Guilty.” It caused the courtroom to blur, erupting in noise that numbed me to the core. I had a thought just then, and it had everything to do with wanting to dismiss myself from this endeavor.

I spoke for myself.

It wouldn’t be the first time I speak.

They present their case — every single one of them. I often debate with myself — perhaps they have forgotten to let me speak — but it’s more a bother, something with which to occupy my time.

The judge listens and keeps looking in my direction. Something about the plaintiff, and what is discussed, causes some worry.

They did not mention anything to do with me. They only mention what I did. Discussion is almost exclusively him, the one I murdered.

This alarmed me. It did.

First to be called to the stand was a man I didn’t recognize at first. Then I couldn’t think about anyone else. Jeffrey had been my boss for two years. It would have been more. They asked him questions. He didn’t mention my loyalty. My many months as employee of the month. He didn’t mention how many customers turned to me with questions.

Instead the prosecutor asked him questions.

He said that I was distant but harmless.

He said that I was always early by a few minutes, but almost never late. He talked about the one time I was late, but I couldn’t recall for what reason. The prosecutor said, “Hmm, we will certainly discuss that matter later.”

Jeffrey has a problem speaking in public. He stutters for a moment and causes a disruption when he chokes, blushes, and apologizes.

They accept his apology.

The prosecutor says, “Take your time, take your time.” Jeffrey is asked for a label, some quick description of me.

“First impression,” he pauses, “he’s probably OCD. I give him the benefit of the doubt, though. I felt sorry for the man. Being around people appeared to be an ordeal.”

Jeffrey’s testimony seems to be adequate. The prosecutor grins like he’s scowling, but he is pleased. The entire room is pleased with what has been said. Jeffrey is allowed to leave the stand.

He wouldn’t look at me, not even once, while he answered questions for the prosecutor.

They call in the super and with him he carries in notice of many of my failures. I wasn’t always at my best. I am nervous and maybe shy by most people’s standards, but I wasn’t always this way. I was worse before I got better. If I didn’t kill the man, I may have been fine. These are things I would tell them later, whenever they let me speak.

Ben is the opposite of Jeffrey. He keeps pointing at me. He’s all too pleased to say whatever he can about me.

The prosecutor doesn’t feel the need to ask; Ben tells all.

“The guy’s always been real strange; man, I sometimes forget that he lives in that apartment. I almost rented out the place. ’Course he still lived in there, if that’s what you can call it.”

And that wasn’t enough, it seemed.

“Stuff went missing.”

The prosecutor asks for more, “Stuff went missing? Care to elaborate?”

Ben nods, looks in my direction, points, “The guy stole shit!”

I have never seen the man this way. The room erupts with chatter. I feel dizzy. The judge doesn’t call for order, not yet. I feel like I am supposed to stand up for myself, but something causes me to hold back. It’s as if it’s not yet time. Not yet, not yet …

Calling for order, the judge does not sound very authoritative.

It is only when the prosecutor asks another question that people calm down. “How certain are you that he stole?”

Ben was never mean, not like this. Ben was the happy guy that always wanted the best from people. I see who he really is. I see that either he had been acting or he was acting now.

The prosecutor is acting too.

“I can’t prove it but I just know. It wasn’t till the guy moved in that bad stuff started to happen. So many tenants have come and gone because word gets around quick. This guy is ruining my life!”

Again there are flashes of light.

Ben, like most of who will testify, might never get a moment like this again. This is their chance to stand on a stage of sorts, a stage that I imagine, in these moments listening to Ben explain to everyone how I was a malicious individual, a person that wanted to harm others and didn’t get along (and therefore seemed to be too antisocial for acceptance), I pictured the stand as the stage, the judge as the director, the witness as an actor, and everyone else watching acting as the audience. They act as the audience in hopes of being able to act too. Belong here, and be a part of things.

There could be humor in this image if viewed by the right person. Not me. Ben describes me as “a humorless and really antisocial guy. You could tell him to his face, ‘have a great day,’ and he’ll ignore you, or just say ‘yes,’ or something. The guy will shit on your day if you let him.”

The prosecutor warns Ben, but not because of his statement; the prosecutor warns Ben about his language. They can’t air profanity.

Like many things, it will be censored.

Ben apologizes.

They accept his apology.

There is more to say but the prosecutor is satisfied with Ben’s testimony. He is allowed to leave the stand. Ben doesn’t want to, though. He walks slowly, stops where I am sitting and shouts, “You don’t even care that you killed a man. You don’t even care! You’re inhuman, inhuman I tell you!”

The judge should stop this. The judge doesn’t. An officer walks over but doesn’t intervene until Ben’s accusations turn physical. He grabs me at the collar and tries to strike me. That’s when it stops. But people heard enough. They heard a lot. Ben claimed that I am completely aware of my actions. I am intelligent but incapable of processing an ounce of feeling.

As I sit here, receptive to behavior that should be considered a crime too, I tell myself — they have to let you speak.

My guilt humbles me.

I killed a man.

I know that. I am seen as a monster, a sociopath.

I want to apologize.

I feel I will get my chance.

The next witness is named Stephanie Riviera. This is her legal name. She operated under a number of other names, and drugs, but she always had it in mind to act like the character she was paid or assigned. She is a performer. She is an actress. She is many things, of that I am sure. But nobody judges her; they want to speak with her. Maybe they want more from her, as many of the men in the audience look at her with clear eyes. I thought her name was Nikki, a sister. Still might be a sister — that part might be true.

Called to the stand, Stephanie is confident. She winks at me, but it’s a wink that says, “Too late, babe.”

She stumbles on her way to the stand.

“Oops, sorry,” she says.

No need for apologies. They’d apologize for her.

Instantly, they are at fault for anything she might do that is incorrect, a straight lie. I listen like they listen, as she isn’t asked a single question. She sits down and starts talking. She talks about me.

Says that I am strange. Big surprise.

Says that I tried to rape her, but she went with it, so it really wasn’t rape; it was sex. She said she let it happen mostly out of pity.

Says that the way I moved, and acted, it was like I hadn’t done it before. Like it was the first time.

Says that I am also kind, which is a surprise.

It’s an act though, because she doesn’t say anything at all. Not really. They are meaningless, every fact she relays.

And then she leaves.

Another wink, her way of making sure none of this leads back to her. She doesn’t even use the same name. Nikki Rios is a fictional character.

There is no apology.

After she leaves, and the room’s suddenly hushed and attentive awe releases, the prosecutor talks some more.

There’s lots of talk. I wish I had the chance to do just that.

Speak. I feel as though it’s still my right to speak for myself.

But when I do, I am shot down by the judge, telling me, “Overruled.”

I hear whispers from the audience.

It’s like I am forced to apologize.

I have no reason to. They are not amused, and the prosecutor uses my supposed error to bring in the next witness.

He made sure to look at me as much as was needed; he made sure to say just enough, exactly as needed. Rios remains calm and collected while being questioned. He must have thought that he was the one being questioned, suspected, but really every single person questioned wasn’t really there.

They aren’t genuine.

They said what needed to be said. They had judged me accordingly, so much that those questions were ones that I should answer. I am the one blamed, marked and made guilty.

Asked about the murder, Rios tells the room calmly that I seemed distressed. He says that I might have been under the influence. He says that I was often troubled. He said it was why he invited me to the party in the first place; he felt that I had no escape. I needed help. I needed to realize that not everything is bad.

Rios is questioned about the gun.

He says that he didn’t know where it came from. Didn’t know I owned a gun. The prosecutor says that the gun had its serial number filed off. Rios remains calm and says, “That makes more sense.”

The prosecutor agrees.

The issue of the gun holds the attention of the room.

Rios fumbles for a better response. I lean forward in my seat, understanding that the guilt wasn’t completely mine without Rios sharing some of it too. The murder involved many hands, not just my own. And that gun, it wasn’t mine. It wasn’t anyone’s gun.

Rios apologizes.

They accept his apology.

Blames it on nerves. Everyone understands.

He is allowed to leave the stand.

The evidence is stacked against me.

I don’t fit in. Never have.

The prosecutor shows the footage of the murder. I watch it like I’ve never viewed it before. It looks foreign, perhaps the wrong footage or doctored footage from some other crime. The footage looks fake. It looks like it has been edited enough to be meaningless.

But the room watches and winces.

They are shocked to see the bullets go in.

1.

2.

3.

Three.

They are shocked to hear the shots.

The shots, what sounded so much like the sound that shattered my perception of what justice can be.

The footage becomes difficult to watch, but the prosecutor uses this particular piece of evidence to raise the stakes. “As you have seen,” I hear the prosecutor shout, “this is not your usual murder, nor is it your usual suspect …”

I think about my turn.

When will I get my turn to speak?

Mustn’t I speak?

I have the right to speak.

But my next attempt results in an “objection” from the judge. I can feel the entire room lean in my direction.

I am not hiding anything.

I am guilty. I do not fit in.

I am everything they say I am, but I can be more. People have the right to live and currently they are taking that away from me. They are going to take that away from me …

The prosecutor hits stop on the footage. He walks over to the jury. He muses about everything currently on the table, every piece of testimony, every piece of evidence, and he speaks about something else.

“Case in point!” he shouts.

And I am reminded of the funeral.

The prosecutor does all the reminding. He speaks of the dead, “Andrew,” and the condition with which I was found. He reads from a document I haven’t seen before. It lists out the written testimony provided by the attendees; they are supposed to be friends of mine but I hadn’t seen them then and I don’t see them now. “Andrew” is claimed to be my best friend and I was, as everyone explained, “Pained to have been present at the funeral.”

The prosecutor reads more, lines like “stood under a tree” and “read wrong eulogy” hung in the air for all to hear.

Then he starts talking about “Andrew” who had committed suicide.

He talks about the normal human reaction to a close friend or loved one’s death, especially when they take their own life. The prosecutor exhibits the various traits of an individual in mourning. Despondent, fragile, depressed … I have trouble listening because the prosecutor lists dozens upon dozens of traits.

He points to me and says, “The defendant exhibited none of these and, what’s more, he acted much like he acts today, in this courtroom …”

The prosecutor takes a step toward the audience, “One could say that he was about as indifferent about his friend’s death as he is about his fate.”

Noise erupts in the courtroom.

The judge does not call for order.

Prosecutor sits back down, speaks with one of his assistants. I have a hard time believing these events to be real. It appears to be all rehearsed. Everything stacked against me so perfectly, it appears that no amount of acting can hide the fact that their anger, their exaggeration, their disgust is true.

I baffle them.

I appear as a contradiction among contradictions.

They have no description to fully describe me, and it would be right now, the perfect time to allow me to give them that description.

Instead, she is called to the stand.

Veronica does nothing but apologize. She sobs, tears running down her face, with every question. She apologizes.

She is given dozens of pardons. She tells them, “I’m probably the only person that stuck around.”

The prosecutor turns it around on me, looking not for evidence of my relationship with Veronica, but for nuggets of information that can better explain my actions, my very being.

She cries.

Apologizes.

They accept her apology.

Veronica cries for over a minute, and they let her sit there, sobbing. Captured on film. They would turn this against me. They would showcase her distress and label me as the cause. Technically I had caused her quite a bit of distress. But we were the same. She simply couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Where I avoided she appealed. We were both obsessed.

She is afraid and her fear ruins her chance to say much of anything.

When she looks at me, on her way out of the room, she can say nothing. I can only think of how our last encounter went.

I threw up on her, and it should have made me feel sick to have treated her that way. But now it didn’t. That was the past. This was all the past being revisited. I did those things. Can’t take any of it back.

Veronica has nothing left to say to me.

She will move on. She has moved on. Today will depress her but in a week’s time it will pass. Mention of this will eventually cause nothing but a minor flare of sadness. She leaves the courtroom.

She doesn’t stay to hear what I have to say.

The only area left worth judging was where I had hidden most of my thoughts, my feelings, where I had gone to seek acceptance when I couldn’t bear to find it in my immediate surrounding. They turned to Meurks.

Meurks’s testimony consisted of over a thousand pages of archival posts, complete with likes and comments.

The prosecutor scrolls down page after page, letting everyone see.

The room is silent, not even the prosecutor speaks.

I watch and become quickly impressed by my activity. It is impressive to think I had developed such a definite and recognizable online presence.

But to the judge and the jury, it was heinous. It was a clear indication of disorder. Meurks is evidence in a case that had been solved long before I ever bothered replying, “Guilty.”

The prosecutor shakes his head.

I hear him say, “Delusions of a madman.”

Keeps scrolling, stopping on some of the longer posts, where I wrapped my mind around the concepts of what I couldn’t outright accept.

The tension in the room increases with every page.

Soon the prosecutor tires of scrolling.

“Secrets of a sociopath.”

And then: “There is nothing to say. ‘Meurks’ is a second forum, a split identity, of a person that lacked one to begin with.”

The prosecutor turns to the judge and begins explaining some of the broad details.

I want to know:

When is it my turn?

The entire room sighs as I stand up, understanding what this means. Their “madman” is about to speak. Unlike what they expect, I can speak well.

I can and will. Just because I mumbled, ate my words, covered my mouth so that none could hear, or, as in most cases, just didn’t express myself, didn’t say much of anything. Didn’t bother to put myself out there, fearing that I would be sent back with the label, “no thanks.”

I fear rejection. Standing here, about to speak, I fear that they will reject me too. But I can only be genuine.

And I want to ask them for forgiveness.

I cannot change what I did. I cannot raise the dead.

I can only explain my actions; I can only be who I have become.

And then I begin speaking.

I wouldn’t have said much of anything, I would have settled on the one sentence and maybe not even that. But I speak.

There is an explanation, I am sure of it.

I tell the room, that I am sorry. I really am. This is sincerity from someone that wasn’t always sincere.

I tell them, once again, that I am sorry.

I explain my past. Or whatever little I have in the way of a past.

I talk about how impossible it can seem, sometimes, to coexist among so many others that evidently do so much better.

I tell them that I’m a fraud. I stand for everything because I don’t settle on one. I don’t believe in any one thing; I don’t even truly believe in myself. I look to you for forgiveness. You see, I have always needed more from people than people need from me.

I don’t know what to say when I’m supposed to say something.

The oddity, my awkwardness, comes from the fact that I fear what might happen if I never again see another human soul.

But at the same time, I look forward to those days when I don’t have to ever leave my room.

I need your kindness, but I also want to take that kindness and flush it down the drain.

That’s what I believe I am: A contradiction among contradictions.

You want an explanation, but just because I don’t fit those descriptions, it doesn’t make me lesser, or somehow a monster. I don’t fit in, but society is big. It is capable of a wide range of diversity.

Look at me and don’t just see a monster, I am also a magician; I want your approval. I want to be with people. I want to fit in but it always felt so intense, the need to do so, so much that I really focused on the “how” instead of the “why.” Perhaps the ‘living’ part is all a person has — their actions, their days. The struggle is the gain; the end is the end. There is no beginning because I can no longer remember it. It’s just a date in the past. Not a very memorable one at that. I did not live well. But I am living. I still want to live.”

I tell them, I never made anything simple.

The room was quiet, but not quite listening.

The room felt empty.

I turn to look at the audience. They hadn’t heard a single word.

No one listens to an outsider. My genuineness sounded like the ravings of their label. A “madman.”

I sit down, and in moments, it clicked into place. No one in the room was genuine. It was all routine, a demonstration. If I had been given a hearing, my voice would have been heard. They didn’t hear me. They waited for me to finish speaking so they could speak for me.

They made me into an example.

I became reference to everything they weren’t.

What happened next was of little interest to me. I want to go back to my cell. The prosecutor speaks like I hadn’t said anything. He talks about the victim, the man I murdered; the man I murdered, already the victim, is further victimized. The prosecutor focuses in on the life I stole from the man. The prosecutor focuses in on all the lost opportunities, the man’s grieving family, and beyond that, the prosecutor speaks of the victim as a greater man that I could be. I am spoken about like something less. Not just a loner. Nothing much at all. The talk continues and then it ends.

I asked for forgiveness. The judge’s sole reply:

“Do you have anything to say?”

I had said it all. But they couldn’t see.

Couldn’t hear. And so I said, “No.”

I walk back to the officer that led me into the courtroom, I want to return to my cell. I couldn’t figure it out. Reaching for an explanation, I come up empty. What had been said, what had been done, was absurd. It all fit so perfectly it felt wrong. I am a victim, I thought. And then that brought up a rush of anger. That’s what I feel. The absurdity of it all. Their glares, their assumption and entitlement to label a man without letting the man first label himself. Their demands … it makes me dizzy. It’s enough to sicken me.

I want to be as far away from everything as possible.

Society is absurd and, it seems, I am forced to be a part of it.

Everyone is forced to be a part of it.

No exceptions. All are judged.

6

For perhaps the first time in a long time, I slept. I slept more than two hours or so. I slept without the tossing and turning; I slept and was completely separated from my surrounding. I had a dream. I can’t remember the last dream I had. I never dream. It has been like this for quite some time. Tonight I dreamt, and I felt. And I remembered. The dream started on a deserted path. Batches of trees mixed in with litter and strip malls. The sidewalk appeared, chipped away, and then reappeared before finally disappearing for good.

I walked the path. I walked with my chin up.

I became more conscious of why I was walking based on what I was wearing. Eventually people shared the path and we shared conversation. I spoke up for myself. I didn’t smother my speech. They were happy to have made a new acquaintance, but I was happier: I showed off what I was wearing, what I was holding, and what had just happened to me.

Every encounter seemed to go well. They enjoyed hearing my good news, the news that I couldn’t help but repeating a few times, not once hearing the news myself. But I kept talking.

It seemed I was the one growing tired of hearing myself speak.

I yawned in my sleep, and they all seemed to take it as an insult. My apologies weren’t accepted; they revealed the truth of the situation. They were humoring me, judging my tactlessness. They didn’t like my suit, didn’t quite care about my good news. It did not affect them, and because it didn’t affect them, they didn’t hear any of it.

I asked if it was good news, at one point fearing that it might be bad — everything was turning bad, the dream into nightmare — but they didn’t seem to notice. They had somewhere to go, places to be.

I kept walking but eventually I stopped talking to people. They had their own lives; they weren’t interested in mine.

I walked slower, the suit wore out. I went the other direction, got lost, and stopped. I stopped walking.

And then I woke up.

Nothing had changed.

Routine becomes the most crucial part of adaptation. I adapt to institutionalized life. I keep to the routine, thoughts settled and maybe a little too distant at times. I can go whole days without anything registering. Movement from one action to the next, action so familiar it requires no thought, it makes it so that you don’t have to see; you merely do.

I adapt to who I am.

Who I always was.

I adapt to the role.

It is all I can do to remain genuine in a society that confuses genuineness for ingenuity, the genuine person for a generated brand.

Time indeed passes by without much notice.

Soon it will end. There can be no hope in the matter.

We have both taken lives and are assigned to have our lives taken. This was considered justice. This was considered to be fair. Whenever I approach the bars, he is there, or approaching at the same time.

Our final days match and, the more we talk, the more we recognize that the similarities are just. They extend far beyond the nature of our crime(s) against society.

We both let our arms hang over the edge.

We both speak without needing to speak at all.

I see that my hands are healed. The scabs have healed over.

He scratches the stubble of his face. I can see the outline of his cheekbones; like me, he hasn’t left the cell. He hasn’t been eating. Our fasting is not a result of our reluctance.

It does, he says, it does.

I wrap my hands around the bars. I don’t fit in here.

You don’t fit in anywhere else. Without society we are creatures.

Aren’t we creatures if we aren’t genuine?

He closes his eyes, opens them. They believe it. “Genuineness” is your judgment.

They make me into something I am not.

That is their decision.

They make me seem as though I am far lesser than I am.

They did, didn’t they. That wasn’t a question.

They’re no worse than me! In fact, I’d say that they’re blind. They build it all up only to pretend that it won’t break apart.

Prisoner hangs his head low. You judge them as much as they judge you. You fit in. There is nowhere else to fit.

Something snaps, What are you saying?

He is calm. He leaves me alone at the bars.

When he returns, he is smoking a cigarette.

He says it aloud, “It feeds the need to fit in.”

I blink. What do I need?

Prisoner inhales smoke, “What do you need?”

I thought about this. I thought about all I should be feeling, but found that I felt nothing. I could dig my nails into my palms; I would feel pain. I could think about Veronica. I would feel something. I can feel, that’s not the question, contrary to their judgment of me. The Prisoner smoked three cigarettes calmly waiting for my answer.

I thought, He doesn’t need my reply.

He doesn’t have any reason to assume; he has no reason for this conversation, any conversation, other than for the sake of conversation. We are beings sharing thoughts, sharing life. Whatever it might be.

I let the thought carry me around in circles as I picture the person out of place, fighting to fit in; they are different somehow depending on the social situation; they fit needs, as the Prisoner had said.

They affix to a set of beliefs and actions in order to pass social judgment on both ends — theirs and everyone else.

And yet there could be no symmetry. They were people masquerading as more. The things they affixed to made them appear to be so genuine, so successful, perfect in their place; but what did a person really see beyond a recognizable name, recognizable fashion, and a recognizable type of personality? I thought about what could be genuine and found no room for apology. For them to truly accept an apology, they would have to accept the person and that seldom occurred. Society had its way, and the way was an intricate set of checks and balances, cost benefit analysis.

And I hadn’t cost much.

I look at the Prisoner; he observes. He wears no definite expression.

There needed nothing more to be said.

I reach into my pocket, feeling the unsmoked cigarettes I had been given, but I don’t smoke. I don’t smoke because I currently have no need to do so; I don’t smoke merely because he is smoking, though I am aware that this is often the case. It would be a good enough reason for someone else to light up.

How long have you been here?

A time.

In thought we hope to find some kind of explanation. But the Prisoner soon makes it clear that hope isn’t any sort of salvation. It is just hope. And hope has no place in a society that reaps on reward. Hope made me fear what would happen if my hope proved to be wrong. Thoughts have a way with shedding light on things long after you can do anything about it. Hope dawned, but it had since hit dusk.

Hope turns a social man anxious, self-aware of every numbered consideration, everything that can go wrong.

Hope made me fixate and in turn made me hopeless.

That seems to be what had set me down my path.

More than anything else, I let the hope overpower who I could have been, and, especially now, it is not worth considering what kind of person that could be. I am this person. I am not satisfied.

But I could have lived a different life. I lived it one way and it might have been another way. This alone seems to be enough to settle the matter.

But the matter is never settled.

It exists somewhere in between.

One time he was waiting for me. I walked over and it was clear that he needed to speak. I tend to be the one that needs more, and I am guilty of this. The Prisoner needs just as much; and I listen.

People should take interest in things. Society needs the attention. Maybe I could have found more of an explanation in those books in your cell.

I offer him the books.

“No,” he shakes his head.

But people should take an interest in explanations. There are convenient escapes within them; they will tell with ease what can’t be told anywhere else.

I stare at my palms, unsure of where he is going with this.

But I listen.

I was right. I am still right. I lived my life one way and I could just as well have lived it another way.

I ask, “Was that a quote from a book?”

His arms hang limp over the bars, Maybe. Might as well.

He watches as I trace the lines imbedded into my palm, one of them in specific being from a self-inflicted wound.

“Time walks a straight line,” his accent thick.

“And so?”

But there’s nothing else needed to be said.

Night rolls on toward morning. Morning it will be nothing more than grey. And we will follow our routines. We will speak again.

And again — until one of us makes it to the end.

On the dark days, when the clouds hang low and outside it rains. The Prisoner and I stay at the bars. We don’t leave, even when guards and other prisoners glare, passing by to remind ourselves of our roles.

We don’t speak. We don’t marvel at anything in particular.

There is something gentle about the progression of the day and letting the routine, at least this one time, go to waste. I don’t eat anything. I don’t drink anything. I don’t think anything at all, nothing worth remembering.

I smoke cigarettes, every single one given to me.

He often finishes his long before he finishes mine. I worry that he’ll know that I don’t inhale; I puff the cigarettes but let the smoke leave my mouth before they can enter my lungs. Then I don’t worry because it is what it is.

Nothing else.

The routine keeps us and there is almost no differentiation; it feels like one long day. But on this dark day, as we abandon the routine, we see what we see. And it is tragic.

Prisoner told me that I lived a life of tragedy.

I carried enough along every step that I had no escape; there was no escape. I lived in tragedy so long that everyone around me could sense it. The tragedy so caustic, it was how I examined everything I was in relation to others.

Much like we cannot help but do today, examining the disgust and depressing nature of what we must do to keep from letting ourselves go mad in our seclusion, our aloneness, I considered and I counted and I worried so much that worry became the only feeling I had.

I imagine what Veronica might have thought of me.

I was too busy thinking about what people in passing, people I’ll only see for one moment in my life, think of me.

In this moment, this one dark day, I see that I have lived in darkness my entire life. And in some way, it was only after my incarceration that the darkness cleared. I am not satisfied; I cannot be satisfied. I feel no sorrow for the man I killed. But then I also don’t like that I did what I did. I did what I did for the same reasons I never did anything:

I wanted to fit in.

It could be that simple, but I couldn’t see it beyond the situations weighed down on me.

Everything I say and do fades, and even the murder will fade.

The line draws to a close for me and this is where I must feel shame and fear. But I don’t. I don’t hope that there is any other consideration but the death sentence. When the needle pierces my skin, I will be the same person.

In their eyes, I am frozen.

This was the life I lived and, like the Prisoner said, it might have been anything else, but I lived it. The judgment was more necessary for them in order to maintain what they believed.

I didn’t need to judge.

We are all just in our own ways.

That doesn’t mean much either, but maybe.

I give the Prisoner my last cigarette. But he doesn’t take it. It remains on the floor, to be picked up by one of the other prisoners.

The coffee tasted bland but at least the guards gave us coffee. It was something, and something different, almost like a gesture to break our routines. But we already broke our routines. Given enough, we could incorporate the breaking of our routine into the greater routine.

The weather worsened, and it was what anyone normal would define as cold. But I was always cold. Prisoner talked about this.

There is no warmth to be found in these cells.

Prisoner muses, “This prison will fall.”

I listen.

“It falls and in its remains, grass will grow.”

A prisoner passes by, led somewhere by a guard. He glares at me, kicks at the bars. I don’t wince. I barely notice the event.

“Grass grows quick,” Prisoner continues, “and then the prison is gone.”

I sip the coffee, the coffee already gone cold.

“Won’t even see the rubble. It looks a lot like rock.”

I thought about it, what the Prisoner was trying to say.

But I didn’t agree.

He couldn’t put it into English, and I wouldn’t be able to understand his French, so continue the way we usually spoke.

This isn’t liberation. Liberation is already here. It is because we don’t need to know that the prison will fall and that we don’t need to make any better sense of our roles than already instantly clear, that is liberation.

I wouldn’t agree until I actually agreed.

What category do you seek?

I say, I don’t seek any category.

And do you believe that?

I didn’t understand so I said, “No.”

He looks up and down the hall, You don’t fit any category and neither would they. But they have it, have it so that the books have shelves and the people have careers; society has spectacle, and the moment feels bolder. It feels purposeful. It needs to be more than just a moment passing. It must feel momentous.

I used to agree without listening; I agreed so that they would include me in the conversation.

It doesn’t feel momentous.

The Prisoner looks down at his coffee, They will seek to make your execution momentous. Same as mine. Same as theirs. But maybe more for you.

It didn’t make much sense.

It does not make sense.

I agree with him on that, It doesn’t make sense and doesn’t seem to make a difference. Not in the grand scheme of things.

“Grand scheme,” he says aloud. Out of place.

Then I say, The world is bigger than society.

Society is on the world, the world is not the society.

I agree with this too.

The Prisoner looks at the floor, the faded green of the prison block, There was a time when the world existed without society.

I agree, “It might happen again.”

We both agree, but in that moment that there might be something else, we come up empty. It just is.

There’s nothing to hold onto, not unless we give it the benefit of the doubt, the choice to believe in what isn’t there, but might. I would need to hope for it, and that did not look to be here.

It is irrational.

Checks and balances and roles and the stage, it all seemed rational but beyond the imprint of value, every dollar having symbolic value, every role having symbolic role, every action having a symbolic moral implication, it is just action and inaction. It is people together living until death comes.

The Prisoner lowers his chin. I interpret it as a nod.

Looks at the coffee, almost sips it but doesn’t. But to say that he agrees would be assumption.

I finish mine and soon have to use the toilet.

When I return to the bars, the Prisoner is gone.

The Prisoner does not drink the coffee. He leaves it on the narrow sliver of space between the bars. When it falls, it spills across the hall.

No one cleans it up. Its effects are temporary.

It dries and leaves no trace.

The strangest thing isn’t who I am, it’s that there is any momentum at all. When I sit up in bed, tuning into everything around me, I hear the gentle hum of what feels like time, the earth, the world hovering, feeding the being.

There is no control to this. I cannot stop it and interpret so I listen. I can only listen. The strangest thing of all is that I feel liberated in that moment. I feel everything fall out of place and exist as its own.

I see nothing in the lightless block.

Don’t need to look around to see it all. It is all there. There isn’t much to it. The line is a path that can only be genuine. It extends for however long a being walks. But the line blurs quickly. Like walking in snow, the line doesn’t exist moments after the person passes that point.

The strangest thing is that as I wait for death, there are others waiting for something to happen, believing life hasn’t yet begun. They hope for a good day. They hope that their new promotion will explain everything about their lives. They hope to go back to school so that their education will reveal more. Most of all, beyond it all, they seek the appreciation. They hope to join in on walking the line toward a fruitful life. When it might be that life is all that is assured. They live their lives without their notice.

The strangest thing is to see the line documented across society, used like branding, used and interpreted to be so much more than it really is.

I don’t know what it is. It is, maybe, nothing.

But I know that I am alive. I accept that I am soon to die.

I accept that all people live and die.

I accept that all people hope; it is natural. They hope to find meaning in the society that educates them and demands them to pay for entry.

There is something irrational that leaves something missing.

I hear the silence that isn’t really silence at all. That hum prevents it from being silent. This is the contradiction. This is what makes it all irrational.

For a moment I look at the notepad and consider making sense of it, writing it down. But I don’t.

That would complicate things.

I feel it now and I think enough to understand, though I can’t say that I believe. It is absurd to think anything more than the thought.

Those thoughts nearly drove me mad.

The same way their values, their actions, drove me inward, and caused my denial, my blind actions. I killed a man. I did. But I wasn’t there for the kill. I explained this — but I accept that I killed a man. It is as plain as that.

When I sit up in bed, at the dead end of night, I am the most alone. It is this loneliness that allows every thought only a moment’s stay.

If I sat up in bed late at night as a free man, I wouldn’t be free. I would be commanded to my laptop, my phone. I would look at a screen and I would delve. I delved for pages. The illusion made across likes and comments, constant activity, the thought that it all fits together. Everyone online searches for the very same thing they seek walking the street, working in their offices, on their soul-searching vacations.

They seek, but are willing to take the first thing they find.

It is on these sorts of nights, in a cell that offers no hope, that I can almost see something. I can almost liberate myself from this.

But I don’t. One moment in my cell could feel like forever, and I could easily live the rest of my life here. Nothing is taken that I didn’t give away.

Only tomorrow had any meaning, the routine masking actuality.

Once I lead the conversation — for a brief moment, I thought that perhaps it wasn’t too late to prolong my death.

People never change their lives. They are changed by their lives.

But the Prisoner wasn’t speaking.

After awhile, he left me at the bars for good.

That day I stood at the bars, looking at everyone that passed. I was like the other prisoners. They glared at each other, throwing objects at guards that passed. They were angry. And so was I. The anger blinded me and gave me something to believe in. I believed that having nothing to believe was horrible, was not worth the life to live. I looked and found nothing.

I was angry.

I thought back to the trial as if I hadn’t already given it too much thought; the trial, for it to exist, needed categorical meaning. It had only one consideration in order to make it just under society’s vast standards: I needed to be considered a monster. I needed to be the absolute opposite of humanity, of someone with a heart. Even though my heart still beats, and they will be the one that makes sure it stops, they used who I was and made me who I am.

I became a prisoner like any other prisoner. I fit in how I thought I wanted to fit. I was treated to work detail. I left my cell. I used the showers, I fended off the threats of others.

I walked the prison yard.

I walked the perimeter of the fence, looking for something. I looked for something I couldn’t find. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I believed I would find something. The belief gave me the courage to get there, but when I asked for more, when I hoped and truly believed that there’d be more to be found, my search yielded nothing. I walked the perimeter twice.

I found only what I expected to see.

By the third time I stopped walking and I sat on a bench. I watched the prisoners living. They all fit into society, each with their own groups, acting and building themselves up to fit what they had asserted. They asserted themselves, and various taboos, rituals, and categories intricately divided their society. They believed in these even though many didn’t think much of it. They placed value in both their social group and their performance.

They hoped to survive but in trying to survive, they became deeply invested in something that could show them that it meant nothing.

They ignored me but I couldn’t ignore them.

I watched as the group turned on a prisoner. It wasn’t just anyone; moments before the attack, the prisoner had been treated like a leader. Others followed him. Yet he wanted something else and based on what he believed he could attain, he reached for it. And he collapsed — his role collapsed.

The group cast him as an outsider. Society sees you not as the person you are but as the impression you’ve made. The straight line stitched across our foreheads are instantly seen and assumed; no chance to explain why that line might be there, or what sort of infliction might have occurred. Because of it we are no wiser. No more understanding of who they are and who we are.

We merely move on, seeing with a filter, the people for what they looked once. Not who they really are.

This is me, they might shout.

But people only hear based on memory.

I watched and saw but it was, maybe, like skimming the online feed. There was so much and yet it alluded to nothing.

I found nothing. When I returned to my cell, I had seen that after awhile you can get used to anything.

The Prisoner imagined that there would be people watching as we are led to our deaths. Is that indifference? I retract the question. There is no room for questions. Honesty is what we share. Conversation is our only category.

I ask him about an alternative.

Suicide?

I disagree.

Living and choosing not to live isn’t the question.

We are alive, he said.

I agreed.

I added, We are free.

He agrees.

But the contradiction hangs there, as concrete as can be.

We weren’t discussing our incarceration. I wasn’t discussing my actions. We were discussing our being. The life we lived is back there, the lined blurred; we talk about what else.

We talk about our routines.

We do not talk about our past jobs, our life prior to this. We talk about what else to do with the days we have. We talk about the smallest details.

His plan is like my plan: There is really no plan.

The genuineness of it had to do with the feeling and actions that would occupy these last days.

We speak about the most we can do. It isn’t much, but it will have to do.

I am no more conscious of the tragedy than when I want more from these last moments. I will not describe those desires here, because they go against what I feel, which can be assumed by you, if you desire.

We have both acknowledged this, the Prisoner and I.

The only genuine thing that can be assumed is that death will come.

In the calmness of our respective cells, we work on our routines, waiting. We wait for our turn. We wait for the same end that everyone must face.

Him, the stranger.

And I, the strangest.

Society held and society sought an act.

I don’t look for any genuine answer; I have found mine.

For all I have known, and will know, this is adaptation.

Nothing more.

These are facts. I spell out the words, my actions, my hesitation, everything that makes me who I am. I might have wanted so much more.

I shouldn’t feel anything. I am a man. I am a man that walks a line.

I shouldn’t be happy. I shouldn’t be sad.

It just so happens that my line crosses theirs. My line needs to cross theirs in order for theirs to be believable. This is what I tell myself.

This is what is said. This is, perhaps, what I’m supposed to say. But there is nothing to forgive because I cannot believe in my apology.

If the Prisoner said, You can be saved.

I would say, “From what?”

~ ~ ~

For a line to exist, it would first have to be crossed.

About the Author

MICHAEL J. SEIDLINGER is the author of a number of novels including The Laughter of Strangers, The Fun We’ve Had, and The Face of Any Other. He serves as Electric Literature’s Book Reviews Editor as well as publisher-in-chief of Civil Coping Mechanisms, an indie press specializing in unclassifiable/innovative fiction and poetry.

Content

Michael J. Seidlinger
The Strangest

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The Strangest

Part One

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2

3

4

5

6

Part Two

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2

3

4

5

6

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About the Author