by Alden, Luke
Pictures only say what you want them to say.
I think back to all of my pictures. Evaline and me, the same pose with the same smiles. The only thing that changes is our clothes.
I put the picture of this family down and keep walking.
More creaking.
A nauseous feeling in my gut.
The draining of blood from my face.
I’m stumbling and stammering with no one to stumble and stammer to.
My knuckles would clench if I had the strength.
Instead I feel like I’ve been hit in the face with a brick.
In front of me.
In the living room.
A dead body.
But that’s not what bothers me the most, what bothers me is the feeling in my gut that says my being here isn’t an accident.
13
You never forget the first time you see a dead body.
Especially if you’re over 2000 years old.
And sure the body was nothing more than a dusty skeleton, collapsed on the floor and gnawed on by the weight of time, but it’s stuck in my head like some sort of disease. Burned into the back of my eyelids. Slowly making an intangible fantasy into a tangible reality.
Death: A symbol for a lesson we keep forgetting to learn.
If only I knew what the lesson was.
Franklin has two black eyes.
We’re sitting in his living room.
I’m describing my adventure. The drunken night that neither of us remember. The field. The walking. The house. The body.
He laughs.
My face is flush. My mouth is shut. I’m waiting for something to happen. I’ve been waiting the last thousand years. Because that’s what life is; going through the motions with the expectation that something will happen.
The expectation that things will move themselves.
We’re way past the point of accountability.
The conversation strays quickly.
To Franklin. To the girl he fucked. To the perfect tits and the perfect lips and the shapely ass. He’s making motions with his hands. He tells the story and grows more and more excited with each sentence he shares.
‘I don’t care.’
I’m an asshole.
Franklin looks at me. It’s my duty to care. As a friend. As a co-worker.
In his eyes there’s a palpable stinging where his ego has just been bruised. He looks like a beaten dog.
I’m usually more affable.
Or maybe we’re all just too sensitive.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know, I just feel like I’ve got bigger things to worry about than whether or not the latest conquest in your ongoing marital infidelity has a bleached asshole.’
A pause, a breath, a nervous twisting of nervous fingers.
‘So what do you worry about?’
‘Death. Evaline.’
‘Eh, things will turn out fine.’
I shrug.
My brow is furrowed as I run my hand along a wooden table in Franklin’s living room. I’m older than the tree this table was made from.
I pull my hand back and lean into Franklin’s leather couch. I look him in the eyes.
I used to have more friends.
I used to have dozens of friends.
People I could count on and laugh with and get drunk with and not care with.
They got lost along the way.
It was a slow drift, just like everything in my life.
Slowly drifting.
And in my stomach, there’s a pit.
I excuse myself to the bathroom. Navigating the hall, I look at pictures along the way. There is one picture of Franklin and his wife in the entire house.
There only needs to be one picture.
They’re not going to age. They’re not going to divorce. No one is going to die and the changing of fashions and trends died with youth. There is no need for anything more.
But when have we ever been satisfied with only having what we need?
And so I go to the bathroom.
When I’m done Franklin asks if I want to go get coffee with him.
I do.
We drive.
We end up at the same coffee shop we always go to. The same coffee shop where we see the same people that we always see.
We’ve been going here for centuries. We still don’t know the names of the other familiar faces.
Across the coffee shop is a new face. He’s staring at me.
I make eye contact. He looks away.
I order my drink, go sit down with Franklin, we start to talk. Out of the corner of my eye I can see this guy listening to us.
The conversation carries on.
About life.
About the past.
‘I’m not too sure where I’m going to work now, I’ve got some money saved up, so I don’t have to work for the next hundred years or so, but I’d like to get back out there sooner than later.’
When death ended, so did retirement.
I’m not even thinking about working. I feel as if I’m in a state of perpetual fog. Something’s missing but I don’t know what.
‘I’ll get a job when I can get myself together.’
Franklin nods. Sips his drink. Looks at the ceiling and the floor.
‘Hey, Franklin,’ I’m whispering, ‘someone’s listening to us.’ I gesture towards the man that had been staring at me. The new face with curly brown hair and a lanky body.
Franklin glances over and looks back at me.
‘I think you’re just seeing things.’
The stranger, the listening man, he starts to shift in his seat.
I get up and walk over to him. This is completely out of character for me, but so is being spied on.
I look down at him.
‘Hi.’
He stands up. Looks me in the eyes for a brief pause, and then walks away. Out the doors and down the street.
14
It’s Monday.
I wake up to the alarm clock. I roll over to put my arm around Evaline.
Her side of the bed is cold. I let out a sigh. I stand up. Walk to the bathroom. My head is still full of morning fog. I feel like I’m dancing while drunk.
I brush my teeth. I get in the shower. The hot water isn’t waking me up. I put on the cold water and start to shiver. I get out. Dry off. Comb my hair. Put on clothes.
I make breakfast and look out my kitchen window.
Cars are driving past.
The sun is starting to come up.
I put on the television.
Watch the news.
It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.
I sit down to eat.
The food doesn’t quite taste right.
I throw it away without finishing.
I grab my keys, go outside, stand at my car. I have nowhere to go.
I turn around and walk back inside.
The air in my house is still.
I miss the sound of Evaline.
I take off my shoes, socks, pants. Get back into bed. I would watch the sun come up but I’m not in the mood.
I close my eyes.
15
‘How did you know you loved Dad?’
I’m at my parent’s house.
My mom is drinking tea.
She looks the same age as Evaline. She looks the same age as everyone in this country.
Her hair is pulled back as tightly as her face and she’s wearing cherry red lipstick that makes her look paler than she really is.
Her eyes are swimming around, they flick back and forth.
She pauses.
Clicks her nails on the table.
Her mouth opens and shuts.
It’s a fresh coat of lipstick.
Her throat clears.
Eyebrows arch.
A pause. A breath. A nervous twisting of nervous fingers.
We’re outside.
In the backyard gazebo with the wood base that splits at the edges. The two h
undred year old gazebo that looks new because my father paints it every other year.
One hundred coats of paint, but underneath it all, this gazebo, it’s a mess.
The sun shines.
My mom, she finally gets around to answering me with an ‘I don’t know.’
This is the answer I expected. This is the same answer Franklin had when I asked him. This is the same answer I had when I asked myself.
No one seems to remember the reason that they love someone. They just accept it as is. They just take it for granted because they never have to worry about it.
I’m slowly starting to worry.
And who knows, maybe I shouldn’t worry, maybe the answer doesn’t truly matter. Maybe we just have to learn to accept some things in life. Maybe we never truly realize why we love someone.
Silence.
I soak in the sun.
My pale skin feels like it’s on fire. The sun is burrowing into my bones.
And in the house my dad yells something that neither my mom nor I can understand. We ignore it. He yells again. We get up. We go to the living room where he’s sitting. We stare at the television.
We’re entranced by the glow.
We’re stupefied by the images.
My skin is crawling.
On TV there’s a building on fire. In the bottom corner of the screen are two grainy faces captured in a security video.
One is familiar in a distant way.
Curly hair and a skinny frame. The guy from the coffee shop.
The other face…
It’s Evaline.
A pause. A breath. A nervous twisting of nervous fingers.
Part II
1
Someone whispers: ‘Watching you fall apart is like watching a poem write itself.’
And ten years move past me.
It feels like I’m falling.
Then I wake up.
In bed.
The morning sun glows with a golden hue as it filters through the curtains.
I’m sleeping in the middle of the bed now. I no longer wake up at night worrying that I’m crowding her.
The indentation of her body is gone.
The vague smell of her perfume has dissipated.
My loneliness becomes duller with each year and each month and each day.
2
‘Quit trying so hard to find meaning in your life.’ This man in front of me, this stranger that I know so well, he raises his hand up to my shoulder and grips it, I wince. He’s facing me, looking me in the eyes. ‘Instead, why don’t you go give your life meaning?’
2047 years into my life, haven’t I already found a meaning?
Maybe I’ve found more meanings than I can forget.
The truth is that I’ve found nothing but failure and drugs.
2037 years followed by 10 years of falling apart.
I’m a shadow.
And this man, he’s gripping me hard. He wants me to understand. He wants me to move forward.
I smile and nod and don’t bother to take in what he says. I never do.
This man, his name is Jim, he’s my new friend, and by friend I mean that he talks to me.
It’s funny how change happens so quickly when you let your guard down.
There was a day when I knew what tomorrow would hold. Certainty was all I knew.
I live moment by moment, and I hate it. The uncertainty of it all, the lack of a safety net. Everything feels dangerous; each moment exists on shaky ground.
My only escape is in a drug that has no name.
A safe haven from the fear that tomorrow brings.
Jim, he wants me to climb out of this hole. He wants me to live.
It’s a nice thought.
I appreciate that he cares, but every day I swallow a pill and slip away and try to pretend that the mess of my life doesn’t exist; his caring can’t seem to change that.
Jim asks; ‘where do you want to be?’
The answer is automatic as I tell him ‘I want to be back at home.’
‘Where is your home?’
‘It doesn’t exist anymore.’
‘Why doesn’t it exist?’
‘It disappeared with my wife.’
‘Your wife left you?’
‘I think so.’
‘Can’t you go back?’
‘I’m not sure if she exists anymore.’
Jim gives me a look, one that I can’t define, one that leaves me cold.
‘Well if you can’t go back to the way things were, why don’t you just make something better? Give your life a new meaning.’
I look at Jim. I’m blank.
I keep telling myself that sometimes we don’t bother to realize that there is more to life than what we’ve experienced and what we’ve seen.
I keep telling myself this and I keep forgetting to listen. I’m always forgetting.
Body odor hits my nose.
Stop. Go. Stop.
Jim smiles.
I start to walk away.
Jim says goodbye.
I say goodbye.
I’ll see him again soon. He’ll talk to me and try to be inspirational and I will dodge his questions and not listen to the things he has to say.
Jim, my friend on the city bus, he’s just another stranger.
And then I’m off. I look around. I’m nervous and excited. I rub my hands together.
They say that everyone needs a vice, something to take away the monotony, the routine, the fear. They say that we all fall back on something, and when we can’t find something natural; something like exercise or love, we find something chemical, like booze or pills.
3
In a parking lot.
The city is living and breathing around me. I’m looking shifty and nervous. My hands are anxious. I’m looking like anyone else hoping for another fix.
A fix to cope.
A fix to fill the void.
A fix to create a void.
Ingesting designer drugs that no one ever takes. Recreational drugs that have all been forgotten by the world at large. People don’t do drugs because they don’t realize they have a void. People don’t realize they have a void because they don’t even know it’s possible to have a void.
There is no loss. Only gain, at least for most people.
The ones with steady jobs.
The ones with true love.
The people with routines and comfort and a vague definition of happiness.
They don’t know loss; they don’t know anything other than the feeling of coasting. But, just because you don’t know or perceive something, that doesn’t mean it’s not there.
When I had a job I didn’t know loss.
When I didn’t have loss I didn’t think of anyone but myself.
I still only think about myself.
Mostly because I’m all I have. That and pushers that make me feel like I can escape.
So here I am. Talking to this man I’ve met a hundred times. Talking to the man that sells the drugs that make me think I still have a job and a wife and a reality that doesn’t resemble the guest bedroom in my parent’s home.
One hundred pills.
I stole the money to buy these. Stole it from my parents.
‘So how are you?’ I’m trying to strike up conversation with my dealer.
He laughs.
Shakes his head.
Junkies always try and befriend their dealer, they want a free ride.
Dealers don’t befriend junkies.
I’m a junky.
I’m addicted to a former reality.
Sometimes when you lose a routine, you’ll try anything to hold onto it. Desperately clawing, clinging and screaming.
We’re all addicts in denial.
I just happen to take pills. I just happen to realize that I’m an addict. I just happen to be honest with myself.
I walk away.
The city streets seem darker from the bottom up.
I haven’t had a job since
Evaline disappeared. There’s no work for anyone. At one point there were opportunities, at one point there was room for growth, but then things started to settle, no one died and everyone had a task, eventually it came to the point where everything was set in stone.
Sure, companies occasionally collapsed under the weight of over productivity. That’s what happened to mine. We became too good at our jobs, so we lost them. But, by and large, people produce and consume at a steady rate and therefore everything remains static.
A rat runs past me.
I’m walking home.
My parents don’t worry about me because they don’t think about me. They’re too busy working. I haven’t been assimilated into their lives yet. It’s been 9 years and they still forget I live with them.
Sometimes I forget.
I forget when I wake up in the morning, and the sun shines and my dreams become tangled with reality.
Of course that tangling happens less and less; my dreams continue to seem further and further away.
And right now I’m rattling with a pocket full of pills.
Each rattle makes my heart race.
I want to get home and ingest and forget.
Yesterday can’t get here quick enough.
I pick up the pace and think about swallowing the pills. I think about my yesterdays. I break into a run. Thirteen blocks.
I’m desperate.
Always running.
I get home. No one’s around. Two millennia old and living with my parents. I go to my room with a glass of water and a magazine.
Pop a pill.
Sit on my bed.
Start to read.
The magazine is several years old. It’s about Evaline. It’s about that fire that she lit.
They never figured out that it was her. Every few months another building burns down. Every few months another part of the cities history is destroyed.
I assume that she has at least something to do with the fires.
Mostly I’m hoping.
Since the first fire there’s been no contact from her.
Her number was disconnected.
She stopped calling with silent sobs.
In a way it’s like she never existed. Her parents stopped talking to me. Her friends never talked to me in the first place.
