“It is easy to confuse a lot of activity with a purposeful life.”
The Soft Spot in the Couch
It felt like it had been weeks since she had actually said anything. Of course she had spoken to coworkers and clients, servers and cashiers but never to anyone else. She was no longer speaking with her mother and because of that she wasn’t speaking with her sister. God only knows the last time her dad was around. Her friends were always tied up in work or tied up in the fact that they were not actually her friends but people whose names she knew. Well there was this temp at her office. He seemed so genuine and kind. He had a way of being himself but in a way that felt like he was going out of his way to be himself for you, to make you more comfortable. Which it usually did. She would bring up the thought of thinking about him and then immediately justify somehow why she shouldn’t be thinking about him, or anyone else for that matter. He is busy, different and doesn’t really make that much money. She never wondered why she tried to justify these things, she only knew that she did and did not see a problem with choosing not to trouble other people for company, especially when she seemed just fine on her own.
She stepped off the elevator and began the long walk down the hallway to her apartment. She held her purse and tote bag loose in her hands as she tilted her head back and to the side as she walked. No words but a series of sighs departed from her seeming to communicate with either someone not there or herself. The closed apartment doors showcased intricate engravings each a little different than the last but still complementing the previous door. She remembered the first time she saw the detail of the doors and how excited she was and proud she was when she had first moved into this building. Even when her parents were together they could never have afforded a place like this. Her view of the city was second to none and don’t forget how walkable the neighborhood was. Near limitless options of restaurants and so close to the office as well. She wished there was an elevator attendant though, that way she could talk to them and tell them about her day or ask them about their’s. Another face that she would see on a regular basis.
She flipped the switch for the lights and shut the door with the same sweep as that fluid motion gave way to raising her bags onto the kitchen counter. She thought she should eat something for dinner so she decided to call for delivery. Italian? No, to heavy, suppose that rules out most other ethnic food stereotypes as if each country only ever ate the heaviest meal known to that country for breakfast, lunch and dinner. She settled for some Vietnamese, perhaps the warmth from that pho broth could warm her up from the cold city evening.
She kicked off her shoes and looked around for her laptop, finding it resting on the couch she joined it, only to realize that she left her phone on the kitchen counter. Staring at the counter for a while she let out a sigh that lacked all the profundity of her earlier sighs and raised herself from the couch and retrieved the phone. She searched for a serious movie, not something tragic but something level headed. If it was to funny it would take away her concentration, to tragic and she would be sad, level headed would allow for an evening unchallenged. She settled with some documentary about photographers, as she started into her evening proposal readings for work, interrupted by occasional ten to fifteen minute breaks to check her various social media accounts and drink from her glass of vodka which was retrieved after a sigh on the second time she got up from the couch that evening. The narrator of the documentary was droning on about how each shot was a choice, not necessarily luck, but there were so many other factors that made up the shot and what it took to get the right shot; lighting, angle, the camera itself, the spirit of the photographer. The bullshit caught her attention from her laptop and she looked up to the TV to engage in an argument with the voiceover.
Her phone rang and the abruptness of it startled her. It was a number she didn’t recognize and she wasn’t used to talking outside of work or outside of her normal moments of social interaction, so it took her a few moments to realize she had to pick up the phone to answer it. It was the delivery boy, and he said he was held up at some accident involving a homeless man or something of the sort and he was sorry for the delay but he would be there shortly.
She thought a waterfall of words was pouring out of her mouth, drowning this poor soul and soon the rest of the city, but in fact all she had said was, Hello, I see, that’s fine I will see you soon. Unsettled, she could not return to her work or her euphoria from finding the nonsense in the profession of photography and feeling validated by being deemed better than photographers by herself. She mused through some old photos on her computer, finding a stopping point at some pictures her mom had sent her from a family vacation a few years ago, or was it more than a few years ago? Time seemed to move so fast that it felt like she was sitting still. She was thirty two and she could not remember if she had gone to this family affair ten years ago or eight years ago or any other number of years ago. She puzzled herself for a few moments and then gave into looking at the date stamp in the file. The photos were ten years old. From when she had finished undergrad and was getting ready to go to grad school. She had gone to her mom’s house for the summer in Pennsylvania and she and her sister and mother had decided to take a long weekend to the beach in New Jersey. She remembered the sun shining down and basking everyone with such indiscriminate fervor. It felt good in the sun but she remembered how bad her sister would get burned. God she was so pale, she could have put on sunscreen but no she had to be like her big sister. She laughed to herself looking at the picture of her and her sister.
The knock on the door brought her back into her present, like someone pulling someone up from underwater and they can now hear birds and children yelling, splashing and whistle blowing.
But there was none of that, just a knock on the apartment door with the sound of muffled voices on the other side of the door. For a moment she thought it was her sister only because she had been thinking of her, but she realized she had not spoken to her sister in over five years. So then she was confused at the knock because the delivery boy would have rang and then have to have been buzzed in, so she believed it to be a neighbor but she never smiled at them let alone talk to them, so that seemed unlikely as well. She discarded her phone to the couch and pushed aside her laptop as she took the last pull of the remaining vodka in her glass. Standing up she felt the full weight of the bottle pulling her back to the couch and the phone and the laptop. She jerked forward and made for the door, not even asking who was at the door she opened it up. A woman a little older than her and a young man who’s age she could not figure out immediately, but she was no carnival worker good at guessing perpetrators’ weights and ages.
The woman informed her that she was indeed her neighbor and had met the delivery boy outside and took the liberty of bringing him up after talking to him. The woman made a quip about how it was nice to talk to someone outside of her normal routine and insinuated that she was lonely with her awkward laugh and tug behind her hair. This neighbor woman wants some pho, but she isn’t getting this pho, she thought to herself. I will defend this pho like it is my child.
The delivery boy was calm but yet still seemed uneasy about the whole situation. It was like he wanted to leave but also wanted to see if this drunk woman and this awkward lonely woman were going to fight or become best friends. She turned her head towards him and then back to the woman in a way that showed she was drunk, but not on purpose. The woman seemed to back away, at either the smell of the vodka or the seeming involuntary nature of the motion, which seemed both natural and non human. She asked the delivery boy if she knew him from somewhere because his face seemed so familiar. He said yes, he had gone to NYU as well for undergrad and had taken a few classes with her. Startled that a delivery boy had had an education and somehow chose to be a delivery boy she could not help but laugh, and then realized it was out loud. The neighbor woman drew her own assumptions to why this drunk woman was laughing and preceded to take another step back from the situation hoping to be strategically removed from a participant to an observer. The delivery boy asked what was so funny so calm, as if this interaction happened all the time and was apart of his sales pitch to get her to become a mormon.
“I’m sorry. I, I didn’t mean to laugh out loud. I suppose I…”
“You know because you didn’t mean to laugh out loud doesn’t make it better. You do realize that right?”
“I… I’m sorry, I don’t understand your choice that’s all. Like why would you choose to be a delivery guy? Didn’t you have a counselor or mentor to tell you to make something of yourself? Like I would be ashamed of myself if I was you. How do you even afford rent off of what you make?”
“OK OK I think my neighbor has had a bit too much to drink and I think we should all go about our way!”
“Yeah. I think she has had too much to drink but somehow I get the idea that whatever amount she drank wouldn’t have mattered.”
“Look I’m sorry I shouldn’t have laughed I..”
“Well you probably shouldn’t think that you are better than other people based on what their job is, like your job is the pinnacle of life to look down from.”
“Wow, who do you think you are that you can say that to someone?”
“Who do you think you are that you can laugh at me and then tell me to be ashamed of myself because I am delivering you food?Why am I being attacked for helping you?”
“I. Look I’m sorry I shouldn’t have laughed or said that…”
“No you shouldn’t have, but you did and that’s fine. Especially since it shows that you are the one to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Excuse me?”
“OK OK I think I am going to go get someone from the front desk.”
“Yeah. You laughed at me because it makes you feel better about your shitty life.”
“Really? My life is shitty? My apartment costs more than what you make in a month, you are the one serving me with some education that you wasted money on and aren’t even using!”
“Jesus lady. I mean I just saw a guy with nothing but a shopping cart of trash get hit by car, and here I am getting attacked by you about how much money I don’t make.”
“I’m attacking you? Are you serious right now?”
“That’s your takeaway? How self centered are you?”
“I’m hungry.”
“So was that homeless guy.”
“Fuck you, give me my food and get the fuck out of here.”
She slammed the door shut and swung the bag of food up onto the counter in one familiar fluid motion. She fumed over to the couch and poured another vodka and walked to the window clutching at her drink. She wanted to want to cry but she could not seem to make it happen and so she starred instead at the city below hoping to be distracted by the dance of light in the streets. The want was gone, it had left like the laughter from her lips towards the delivery boy. Mindlessly. She wanted to retrace her steps and find it, how did she lose it? It must’ve been taken from her she thought. She didn’t know who are what took her want but she did not give it up, it was taken. The delivery boy had given up his want, why else would he be delivering food? She didn’t even need a car and she had one, and a two bedroom apartment in case someone showed up. She took a long pull on her glass and held the burn before letting go. Setting down the glass she walked to the counter and opened the bag up. The container her soup was in was still hot. She stared through the see through top into the broth underneath for a while. It absorbed her gaze until she picked up the container and put in the fridge. She felt a wave of emotion crash upon her as she closed the fridge. The words of the delivery boy had been waiting to pounce again. Self Centered? She had made every choice about herself, crafted herself, she had chosen to be the way she was, successful. Fuck that guy for thinking he knows anything. She shook the emotion off and thought about putting her shoes on and getting some air on the roof. Then she thought of her neighbor, she did not want to see her again.
It felt like her neighbor knew her now and would try to talk to her about the encounter or worse relate to her about it. She let out a puff of air in disagreement with the thought as she settled back onto the couch which had not moved or hidden what she had left. The phone and laptop lay where they had been pushed to, the documentary only a few minutes further into its discussion on capturing the perfect shot. She picked up her laptop and realized her glass was on another table. She sighed and got up to bring it to the couch.
Welcome back to this forgotten domain of empty words and broken musings. The dust has filtered down onto the surfaces of serifs and the valleys of u’s and v’s and y’s. It feels like a lifetime has passed when you look at the past. Wasn’t it yesterday I was sitting on a high school bus waiting to be dropped off at my stop. Blow off the dust. Last week it was summertime and I was nine at the community pool, jumping off the diving board. Running to the ice cream man. Blow off the dust. Hours ago I was holding a face in the palm of my hand that was not my own. It stared at me beautifully. Blow off the dust.
When I Have Fears That I May Cease 