A Matter of Life and Death or Something

by Ben Stephenson

  Get up. Get up from the chair and drag yourself to the index catalogue you have written. It hangs from the wall on a bit of white string. When Ralph notices you do this, he will resist the temptation to grin. Don’t let this make you feel like a guinea pig. Don’t resent his goodness. Pick up the little book and browse through the categories:

  Find the section code you need and then consult the yellow numbers and letters stencilled on the polished concrete floor. Walk down the corresponding column until it intersects with the proper row and there you’ll find the square on the floor marking where the correct cabinet will be: look up and find it suspended far above your head.

  (The cabinet structure is growing enormous and sprawling in order to accommodate the exponentially increasing number of categories and subcategories. The wooden boxes, all connected at the sides, form a number of snakey armatures hung from the rafters with cables, filling the entire space just below the warehouse’s ceiling. Like a maze of ventilation ducts, but wooden. And where air ducts would be dustily and unquestionably grey, Ralph has been painting areas of the filing labyrinth primary colours: lemon yellows, cobalt blues, cadmium reds, in accordance to some grouping method you don’t understand, and which Ralph claims doesn’t “really” matter. Sometimes you do like thinking of it as a Personal Ventilation System—admit this. And of letting your head breathe, and all the other pleasant and banal thoughts those of course lead to. Don’t hate yourself for this. Breathe.)

  Raise the ladder and climb to the proper cabinet and file all your bad thoughts away.

  After a while you will get another separate assignment, concerning your journal. This is your first sad attempt at keeping a journal—remember how Ralph loved those two entries you came up with—but you were faking it. You were whining and bitching. Why me why me. You still had no idea what it felt like to be completely irreversibly abandoned. To have no way out. You were writing it for them and it didn’t last. It was embarrassing. Not like you’re doing better now—what are you doing now. You act like you’re writing your fucking memoir, on your deathbed. The epic saga of Phil and his cabinets. Amazing. You’re SITTING HERE. You did NOTHING today. You wandered around hating everything. It takes a lot of energy. Now you’re here, you’ve spent two and a half hours in this place sipping the worst coldest coffee and savouring the most expensive brownie you can remember having. There is nothing to say here. Write your memoir.

  Ralph said it would be a hugely useful practice for you to read over your entries a day or two later and eliminate all “unhelpful” words. To notice them. It would be a simple and effective way of controlling the influx into the DOOMSDAYS and ALL-OR-NOTHINGS cabinets, and maybe even the GUILT. You were to first cross out the bad words, then cut them out of the pages with a utility knife and reveal all the holes in your worldview. So you do this, and you bring the stray words with you to the next session in an envelope. Then he shows you how to use the photocopier to enlarge the troublesome words. Blow them up to one thousand times their original size and print them on chalkboard-sized sheets of poster paper, one word each.

  This is how big those little buggers really are, Ralph says, with your EVERYTHINGs and your NOTHINGs and your ALLs and ALWAYSs tacked up all over the warehouse. Roll them up. File them away.

  And today you didn’t go. They called your name and you ran away. It was supposed to be a way of ridding yourself of things, of storing the weight somewhere, and it worked up to a point, but now it only adds to everything. The cabinets are completely stuffed and barely close, they keep moving on to newer and more convoluted structures: grouped now in secondary and tertiary colour schemes—complete disorder. What was orange last week is now blue-green. Turquoise turned to violet then back to yellow. It’s total mayhem. Obscene records line the walls—graphs and fucking pie charts outlining your progress to date, extrapolating your future improvements—it’s all so calculated and hopeful, you hate it, it scares the shit out of you, you hate yourself for even going. As if you can find yourself by eliminating yourself. Everything that has always been you. This is you, Phil. It’s not going to go away. It’s not like the therapy doesn’t work, it does make you feel better. A bit better. But the fact that you even need to go—you need to go, what are you thinking not going, who are you performing for? But then it’s always when you’re actually there that you feel your worst. You’re always embellishing and inventing things to discuss, to keep momentum. You turn all the small problems of the day-to-day into monstrous problems, cataclysmic, only to keep the system functioning and expanding—you take all your new terrifying ones—the forever ones the cages that never open—you turn them into small musings on the horizon of your meaningless life, you pretend and hope them all away, they don’t go away, you are too good at lying. You only feel good talking to yourself and you will do it forever, write your life down, make it exist, catalogue it distance it, this is the best thing you have learned, most days you can’t even manage this, tell your weak selfish little story to yourself don’t fucking lie, maybe it will be enough help, the drugs will help the old ones were not the right ones. Relax and tell it and never stop writing, you can always go back you can but don’t worry tell it be real—every second hurts more than anything, the reason you ever went in the first place was to STOP putting everything in boxes—it’s FINE it’s all fine just get it down now cross all the bad out and see what’s left.

  BEACH

  Remember? We’re sitting on hot rocks on the beach—it’s hot and humid—you share your water bottle—the walk here was a bit awkward—I was in an ecstatic high mood—so grateful to finally have this day together—you’ve been busy, with the summer class and with seeing summer friends, with summer, and work—you’re working at the shop and the other shop when they need you—if I see you it’s for a maximum of fifteen minutes per day—nowhere near enough of you.

  So I’ve got this high to have this whole morning to walk with you—we slept together at your house, without blankets, it was the heat wave—we ran into each other in the park the evening before—it’s such a small city—we got to your room and had the long talk about how It Can’t Mean Anything—but how it seems bound to happen, unavoidable—we both want to so yeah sure—but how we understand that We’re Not Seeing Each Other—neither are In Any State to be seeing anyone. But then breakfast is cheerful and exciting and decidedly Like Old Times—poached eggs on the grainiest bread, yogurt, coffee, and I convince you that today’s the day for skinny-dipping—it’s going to be another fireball of a day, a mushroom cloud, too hot already at 7:30—we got up early for you to get to work, we forgot it was a holiday. No work today. I convince you to come swimming.

  I’m in a hyper mood, we’re walking, you’re sort of just neutral, laughing at me and rolling your eyes—I’m such a romantic—especially today—not fully letting yourself get sucked into the old dynamic, but you’re warming up, I can tell. I’m thrilled—I can’t be bothered with rules—you have a lot on your mind—You’ve told me at least three times now that we can’t Be Together, if we hang out we have to find a way to Just Be Friends. I’m not paying attention—today it’s all words.

  We get to the beach. We’re sitting there on rocks sharing an orange—two young deer with white spots all over come out from trees on the far side of the beach, walking in their alien way—tails swatting, new strange legs bumping—they stop dead when they see us, their knobby legs quivering—what do they think they see?—they disappear. As far as I can possibly tell you are thinking you do in fact want to go skinny-dipping—you’re just taking your time—I keep going on about how it’s the perfect day, the perfect place—and so on—I’m this giddy little kid.

  I’m wholly focused on the water and getting you in it and the day—the water will feel so cold and good on our skin—just us and our skin—I’m imagining it even now—there’s no one around—does anyone ever come here? Perfect. I grab the bottom of your t-shirt and start to slowly peel it up—you snap
. You can take your own clothes off. Sorry. Silence. Then: We’re not talking about this again.

  (But I don’t want to talk about it either and I just want to be in the water—I don’t know what you mean or why it’s coming up now) You growl. We’re not—You stand up: I think I’m just going to go to school—I’m still sitting there—Here we go—You’re impossible!

  (I don’t know what’s going on, we’ve had the nicest morning, everything’s fine.) Can’t we just—

  No. I’m going to go—DON’T go. Listen—What do you even want from me?—I just don’t understand why we’re fighting!—This is what we DO. This is exactly why—No it’s ­different. This is different, and you’re just looking for it and so now it’s happening. We’re friends. We don’t hate each other!

  I’m going to school.

  (You don’t have to fight with me anymore. I can’t believe it. I’m going crazy—Don’t go, we don’t have to swim—

  Why do you even want me to stay? Is this actually fun, to you?

  I don’t say anything—I’m crushed into a ball, frustrated mindless—grinding my teeth—the distance between what I wanted and what the day is—I always had to imagine you—how could I become such an expert at fooling myself—a con artist out of work bored—I gave it endless chances—I am raving and pouncing at everything, I am nothing, I’m in a thousand places—

  I want to die.

  What the fuck—that’s it—What?—You can’t just SAY something like that!

  What?

  You’re insane. I should have—I’m going. Don’t come find me.

  —

  Goodbye Phil.

  You pick up your bag and hurry so fast through the tall grass—I wonder if you’re crying—do I want that?—you look back—I can’t tell—you see me still here hunched over in a wretched pile of me—I knew this but never felt it so powerfully completely—I can’t tell you anything about this even if I tried—it’s coming back so sure and one directional, I am a mass of dark energy hunched with the surest goal—I am horrified—I can’t remember if you really came or not or was it possible I even made it up—I wish I made you up, I could forget, I have never been so completely nothing so alone, it never goes away, you went away.

  ACCIDENTALLY TELEPORTED

  THE DAY after Maple Day I was on my way to investigate the second house. When I was halfway there I saw Victoria Brown, the girl that lives up the street who Finch is always trying to french, walking on the other side.

  “Hey Arthur!” She crossed the street.

  “Yo.”

  “How are you today?”

  “Good.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Secret. I’m investigating. Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to play at Simon’s.”

  “Finch’s?”

  “Yeah, Finch’s.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying!”

  “You already passed his house. It’s right over there.”

  “I wanted to see if you wanted to come too. I was going to your house.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m really busy.”

  “Maybe later?”

  “Maybe. No.”

  She played with her white barrette, to make sure it was still holding her hair together. I was kicking rocks around. My thermos was already in my hand so I opened it and took a drink of cold milk and then shaved my moustache. I wanted to get going.

  “That shirt is very handsome,” she said.

  “I always wear this.”

  “It’s nice. I like the stripes.” She straightened her dress a bit.

  “Why are you going to Finch’s?” I asked.

  “’Cause he phoned me and said to come play.”

  “He just wants to try and french you.”

  Her face blushed and she tugged at the sides of her dress.

  “Do you let him?”

  “No!”

  “Good.”

  “He doesn’t even try.”

  “I knew it,” I said. “He told me he asked you to be his girlfriend, for crying outside.”

  “He did.”

  “What?”

  “He did.”

  “What did you say?”

  She was getting redder.

  “You said no.”

  “No... maybe. What’s in your knapsack?”

  “Did you say yes?”

  “Fine, maybe I did.”

  “You’re weird.”

  She looked at me and smiled. Her eyes were brown but I imagined them as blue for fun, and then I thought I probably liked brown better anyway.

  “Simon is a really nice boy,” she said.

  “Mmm-hmm.” I rolled my eyes so far that they ached.

  “You should come play.”

  “He’s just so annoying. What am I supposed to do, come over and watch him try to make dominoes fall over? And listen to him tell me how he’s the king of dominoes or whatever? I can’t think of anyone who gets farther on top of my nerves. He’s the king of my nerves.”

  “He’s nice.”

  “Well anyway, I’ve got people to see.” I took a step forward to leave. She laughed at me.

  “Okay. Well you look handsome today.”

  “You already said that. Why do you keep saying it like that?”

  She looked at her feet. They were zig-zagging as she kind of danced them around. I looked at my watch and just as I saw the 2:26, she attacked me. She kissed me, kind of like how Simon would on my cheek, but she was doing it on my mouth and she was sort of not stopping. Also, it’s gross, but her lips were all wet and small. I think I stepped on her foot or something, and she hopped off of me. By that time it was probably 2:27.

  Then it was stupid because we were both just standing there, and what are you supposed to say when someone just slobbers your face up? And it was even stupider because we both had to walk the same way up the street. But luckily she yelled “Bye Arthur!” and started running to Finch’s, and I waited for her to disappear and then I walked and took my time. What the heck. Girls are the one thing I’ll never understand.

  At probably 2:28, Simon drove up in our little red car while I secretly wiped my lips off on the back of my hand. He pulled over and rolled the window down, which took a long time, because our car is awfully stupid and old and rusty.

  “Hey chief. I’m just going to pick up a few things for bridge, you coming?”

  “Nah, I don’t really like playing bridge.”

  “No, are you coming to the grocery store, smart-guy.”

  “Nah,” I said. I had forgot it was bridge night. Simon and Uncle Max had this bridge club that happened on Sunday nights, which was just a thing where Max and Simon and their guy friends would go to one of their houses and play a card game called bridge, which is a game that’s not even worth talking about. Once one guy had to leave early so I tried to play for five minutes and then I woke up in bed the next morning. Simon said I fell asleep so hard there was drool on my cards, and I asked him if I at least had good cards and he said not really. That’s bridge club. Anyway it was going to be at our house that night.

  Simon asked me if I was sure I didn’t want to come to the grocery store.

  I said, “I’m really busy.”

  “Alright, just be home before dark, and be careful, alright?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Actually, be home for supper, okay?”

  “Ohh-kay.”

  “C’mere.”

  He messed up my hair a bunch and said “I love you.”

  I looked in the mirror on the side of the car and tried to straighten my hair a bit.

  “Yep.”

  “See you at supper then. You still haven’t ch
anged those sheets.”

  “I will. See ya.”

  “See ya.” He pushed up his glasses and drove away.

  I stood and drank milk from my thermos and made sure to watch our car until it was all the way around the turn in the road and there was no way he could see me, then I started walking again. I unscrewed the lid of my thermos and looked under it, and carefully poked my messy haircut to check for tiny microphones and spy cameras you can barely see with a naked eye. I was clean.

  The second house I had to investigate was the house right after Finch’s house, on the same side of the street. It was technically Finch’s next-door neighbour, but you could have fit four houses in the woods between them. From where I was standing at the end of the driveway, the whole place looked grey. It wasn’t, of course: the house was pale blue with white shutters, the small car parked out front was something in between gold and green, and the grass and hedge and trees were green, obviously. But the day itself was another grey one, where the sky was bright but who knows where the sun was, and I didn’t have a shadow, and it was making the whole house and yard and everything look grey.

  I didn’t even know who lived there. I guessed it was someone I’d never thought about in my life, and someone I’d never heard anyone talk about. I figured that this meant they must not be a dangerous person, or else they’d be famous like the hermit. I also figured this meant they must be a not-very-interesting person. Then I thought, maybe I was being too mean.

  The mailbox right beside me actually was grey, and said “PETERSON.” I thought, “Oh yeah, I guess I’ve seen that name before.”

  Just like when I went to the Beckhams’ house, I got super nervous. Walking down the street to someone’s house was simple. But going inside was completely another thing. I stood there literally shaking in my boots just like last time.