All This Life

by Joshua Mohr

  Everywhere were reminders that Kathleen was no longer a mom, and she dove out of the way while these mothers monopolized the sidewalk with their Cadillacs, casting her out, away from their club. No offspring, no membership. Something—someone—she willingly left behind.

  Currently, Kat and Deb sit in the living room, waiting for Wes Something, who should have arrived exactly one minute ago, and Kathleen points at her phone and says, “This isn’t a great first impression.”

  “What do you know about great first impressions, Caricature?”

  “Ouch.”

  “Give him a few minutes,” says Deb, “and if he doesn’t show, I’ll buy you some sushi.”

  “Don’t you have a date tonight?”

  “Yeah, but she’s low-maintenance. No dinner. Just sex.”

  “Must be nice.”

  “You should consider having sex sometime,” Deb says. “It’s pretty fun.”

  God, Kathleen hopes he shows. This is the last thing she wants, the subletting turning into some time-consuming annoyance. She doesn’t have the bandwidth to deal with that ordeal right now. Too preoccupied with what might be considered a breech in normal mental health, lashing out through the caricature, and how much Rodney’s birthday torments her. She hasn’t even thought about the brass band all afternoon, and not many people can say that: It dominates the Internet, the TV, talk radio, but Kat’s too mired in herself to indulge much thought about anyone else.

  Hopefully, Wes Something walks in the room and proclaims it a perfect spot. Hopefully, he likes it enough to move right in, so she doesn’t have to hassle showing it to multiple people. Basically, if he’s not wearing a grim reaper outfit, wielding a scythe and saying, “Death comes for us all!” she has decided the room will be his.

  “Assuming he does show,” says Kathleen, trying to get away from the topic of sex, “what should I ask him?”

  “Feel him out. Go with your gut.”

  “Maybe I should’ve gotten a cheese plate,” she says. “To distract him. It’s pretty dusty in here.”

  She’s not wrong. Kathleen’s not a horrible housekeeper, but the rooms of the flat wouldn’t hold up under close inspection. Nothing is filthy, but there’s dust on the sills and floorboards, little tumbleweeds of her long brown hair pock the hardwood. There’s one runner going up the hallway through the railroad apartment, and it hasn’t been cleaned since the vacuum broke a year back.

  What is nice, however, is that the apartment gets a lot of natural light. Both bedrooms, the kitchen, the bathroom, and the small living room—where Kat and Deb are—all have big windows and the apartment is always warm with natural light.

  “What, you don’t think he can see dust because of some cheese?” Deb asks, running an index finger on the sill and holding it up, a black inchworm of car exhaust and dead skin and cat dander dangling there.

  Luckily for Kathleen the doorbell rings, and so she walks toward the door, truncating their conversation. The living room is right by the entrance, and she turns the deadbolt, welcoming the stranger into her home.

  He looks to be in his early forties, a couple years older than Kathleen. His hair is short and black, and he has significant stubble, the jet whiskers near his chin mixed with some gray. Right around six feet and doughy, but he’s not unattractive. Kat thinks that last word, unattractive, and scolds herself.

  The detail that truly engrosses her is that Wes wears a lab coat, buttoned up. There are blue jeans sticking out from under it, along with navy Chuck Taylors. And a T-shirt is underneath the lab coat, which seems weird to Kathleen; she would have expected a tie and a pocket protector. Maybe this is called scientist-casual.

  “You must be Wes,” she says, smiling at him.

  “I am here about the room for rent,” he says.

  Wes stares at her. It’s clear that she’s supposed to be in charge of steering the conversation, but what should she ask him first? For references? Should she demand a credit report? Show him some Rorschach inkblots?

  Deb said that this decision is best left to the gut, but Kat doesn’t trust her own judgment. That’s why her sponsor is here in the first place. Yes, she’s unofficial muscle, but Deb is really here to help Kathleen read him and see if this will work. If this will be safe.

  Five seconds go by with the two of them staring at each other in the doorway.

  “Are you a doctor?” she asks.

  “A scientist.”

  “What field?”

  “I work down at Fresno State and am up here doing a couple months of research at UCSF.”

  “That’s such a relief,” she says.

  “May I see the room?”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, inviting him in with a wave. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “You’ve never invited someone inside your house before?” he asks.

  This makes Kathleen laugh, which makes her relax some. Good, he’s got a sense of humor.

  “I’ve never invited a stranger into my house,” she says, “to live for a couple months.”

  Deb is up off the couch and standing behind Kathleen, introducing herself as the “brash best friend,” brandishing the title like permission to butt in and be in charge whenever she feels like it. Deb extends her hand past Kathleen, who regrets not shaking Wes’s hand herself, and he grabs Deb’s hand. Up and down their palms go.

  “Solid grip,” he says.

  “I’m a badass,” says Deb.

  “Come in,” Kathleen says, ushering him by Deb before the talk gets any more uncomfortable.

  Once inside the door, Wes surveys the hallway. He looks up at the ceiling, down at the floor. Kathleen hopes that his scrutiny won’t turn him off. She really should have purchased some cheese.

  “What are the pounds per square inch of oxygen in here?” he says.

  “Is that a serious question?” Deb says.

  Kathleen says, “I have no idea how much oxygen is in here. How would I tell?”

  “It’s not a big deal,” he says. “I like to know what I’m getting myself into.”

  “I haven’t had any trouble breathing in here,” Kat says.

  “Good to know,” he says.

  “Let me give you a tour,” she says.

  They walk down the apartment’s main hall, stopping first in the living room, then the kitchen and bathroom, which should have gotten a thorough cleaning earlier before the girl with the black eye, her baby, and Tyler distracted Kat from getting the house in order.

  The two bedrooms are in the back and Kathleen decides not to show him hers, goes into the place where he’ll be laying down his head, assuming the pounds per square inch of oxygen pass his inspection.

  They arrive at the room. The door is closed. She should have opened it, made the room more inviting. Maybe some flowers. Daisies. Yeah, a vase of daisies to bring some cheer. No one wants to live in a hovel. It feels like the whole city has a pall over it because of the brass band. She could have thrown open the blinds and cranked up the window, even if she has to hear all the kids from the playground. Even if that makes her think of Rodney. Even if she’s one of the worst people alive.

  It’s a small room. Ten by twelve. Walls painted maroon, except for the closet door, which is white. There’s a futon in the far corner and an armoire next to it. A poster of Bob Marley smoking a joint. The roommate’s stuff is pretty nice, or so Kat thinks. She wonders how it must look to a scientist.

  “How’s the oxygen level?” Deb asks from the doorway.

  Wes takes a deep breath, says, “Optimal.”

  Kathleen laughs again, harder this time.

  “Do you have any questions for us?” Deb says.

  “Not at this time. The room will do nicely. I have several garbage bags and small boxes filled with supplies out in the car,” he says.

  “Hold your horses, cowboy,” says Deb.

  “I can do this,” Kathleen says to her.

  Deb waves her away. “Did your other plans fall through?” Deb asks Wes.
/>   “Other plans?”

  “You must have had a place lined up before you got here.”

  “This opportunity came together at the last minute,” he says, walking over and touching the mirror on the armoire’s door.

  “What are you doing at UCSF?” asks Deb.

  “We’re founding a new kind of mathematics. It mixes principles of thermodynamics and physics, even some psychology. It’s a theoretical discipline called existential mathematics.”

  “Never heard of it,” Deb says.

  “It’s new,” he says.

  “Sounds very interesting,” Kathleen says, shooting her sponsor a look.

  “It’s a blossoming way of thinking about time travel,” Wes says, stops and licks his lips, makes eye contact with both Kathleen and Deb. “Assuming we know what we’re talking about.”

  “We?” Kathleen says.

  “Me and my partner, Albert.”

  “Do you know what you’re talking about?” Deb asks.

  “We’ll see,” he says.

  Kat is getting impressed at how he’s handling Deb as she water-boards him with questions. Maybe she’s doing it on purpose, being annoying, trying to get under his skin to see how he responds. If that’s the case, it’s a brilliant plan. If it isn’t, Deb’s simply being an asshole.

  “You know,” Kathleen says to her sponsor, “if you need to head back to the shop, Wes and I can take it from here.”

  “You can?”

  “I’m prepared to pay both months’ rent up front,” Wes says, “and I’ll be working excessive hours so you’ll barely see me. Is cash okay?”

  “There’s one thing you need to know about this house,” Deb says.

  “What?” he says.

  “This is a sober house,” says Deb.

  “I listed that in the ad,” Kathleen says.

  “I won’t give any alcohol to the house,” he says.

  “This isn’t a joke,” Deb says.

  “I understand,” Wes says. “I’ll be working the whole time. Your sober house is safe with me.”

  “Thank you,” Kathleen says.

  “Not a problem,” he says.

  “Would you like to go into the kitchen and have some coffee?” Kathleen says. “We can talk and make sure this is a good fit.”

  “We are talking now,” he says.

  “Right, but let’s continue to talk in the kitchen. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Sure,” he says, “but can I use the bathroom first?”

  “Of course.”

  He leaves, and Kathleen hits Deb on the arm. “What are you trying to do?”

  “I gave him a test and he passed,” Deb says. “My gut’s telling me that he’s the one.”

  “Assuming he’s not shimmying out the window because you scared him.”

  “Please.”

  “I can take it from here,” Kathleen says. “We’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t come home after curfew,” says Deb, kissing her friend and walking out the front door.

  Kathleen goes into the kitchen, puts a kettle on, and gets out her French press. She should have watered the two plants on the counter. They’re not dead, but the leaves are droopy. She fills one of the coffee mugs up with water and soaks both plants, hoping for some immediate improvement.

  Wes walks in and says, “The bathroom is optimal, as well.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. What do you take in your coffee?”

  “Black.”

  “You’re hardcore.”

  “All the long hours in the lab,” he says. “Coffee is a man’s best friend.”

  “I agree,” she says. “I think we’ll be a good fit. The room is yours if you want it.”

  “I want it,” he says. “Do you mind if I hang something on the wall in the room?”

  “What is it?”

  “Just a poster of Einstein. His equation is the basis of my research.”

  “Sure, you can take down Bob Marley and hang yours right there. I think he’ll understand.”

  The kettle lets go of its whistle, and Kathleen turns the burner’s knob. The whistle slows, stops, and that’s what she feels like herself. Meeting Wes had been fraught with so much danger for her, so much faith. It felt so intimate, so unnatural letting someone you don’t know stay at your apartment for a couple months, but she likes how the facts have lined up. One, he’s here for work and will be in the lab a lot, which means he won’t be sitting in the living room, making her feel uncomfortable. Two, he’s nice. That’s huge. When their paths do cross, she can imagine having a casual conversation with him, maybe a meal or two. It’s a temporary situation and Kathleen feels relaxed about the decision.

  The plants haven’t miraculously perked up. But it doesn’t matter. Wes seems lost in his own world. He didn’t even take off his lab coat before coming over here.

  “You said you take it black, right?” she says, pouring the water in the French press.

  “Black, yes. Do you like it here?”

  “In this apartment?”

  “In general.”

  “In San Francisco?” Kathleen says. “Yes, I do. It’s changing a lot. It has a lot of history and each year it evolves.”

  “We are our history,” says Wes. “That’s what makes us.”

  Kathleen thinks about the crinkled caricature she drew this morning, thinks about Rodney. She pushes these things from her mind and thinks about the cancer survivor at Deb’s shop. Life doesn’t always have to end in disaster. Sometimes, there are disasters, sure, and afterward, those scars are turned into something else.

  “History is important,” she says, “but so is tomorrow.”

  Wes nods his head. “Tomorrow. Indeed. Yes, there is tomorrow to consider.”

  She pushes the plunger down on the French press and pours coffee into both their cups. It’s a dark roast and she inhales the rich, pungent scent. Kathleen hands the mug to her new roommate, looking at his lab coat, feeling gratitude at her luck.

  10.

  Since the morning of the mass suicide, since Paul and his son saw the band members jump, since Jake posted the clip online, since he saw his boy tearing up his room with a baseball bat, Paul hasn’t had a bowel movement. It’s like everything is dammed up behind a wall of worry. Fear, concern for his son. For his whole generation, really. Their crass way of publicizing everything. Paul didn’t even know how to play fantasy football, so he doesn’t know the first thing about Twitter or Instagram and the like, these technologies that make it seem like a good idea to share shrapnel from your life, meaningless slivers of each day: Here is the frittata I had for breakfast and check out this cloud pattern in the sky and here is a pic of me laughing with old friends having the greatest time ever and isn’t this a clever way to decorate cappuccino foam?

  None of it made any sense. The whole thing has been easy for Paul to dismiss. They’re kids. And kids are stupid. If these inane devices were around when Paul had a full head of hair, he’d probably have pecked his days away, too, mark his every thought with photos or emoticons. Which, if he’s being honest, is his least favorite thing about texting with his son. He’s accepted that he has to do it. A phone call is like a unicorn. So he texts like all parents clumsily do, but it would make it so much more digestible if his boy didn’t include an infantry of emoticons with every communication.

  And what’s the deal with all the exclamation points? Why is that the preferred way to punctuate each prosaic phrase? From downstairs, he’s texted his son if he’d like a bagel for breakfast, and from upstairs, the boy texts back, “Sesame!”

  It all makes Paul feel so old. So irrelevant. He’s sexually irrelevant and emotionally irrelevant and socially irrelevant, and if he keeps pretending that certain advancements in the workplace don’t exist he’ll soon be occupationally irrelevant, and in a few years Jake will go off to college and his wife’s already gone, so Paul will be left familially irrelevant, and that will be the end result of his life.

  It’s not just kids, though
. That really bugs him. Paul has to basically police his coworkers, or they’ll fiddle around on Facebook all day. He might not have his own account, but he gets the gist of how it works. What’s so satisfying about liking something? How could that ever fulfill you? Why scroll through posts and pictures and links? Why comment on other human beings’ updates when you’ve walked by twenty people on the street and didn’t take the time to talk to any of them?

  If he tried to pinpoint his disdain, that would be the bull’s-eye—the isolation. He wants to tell his son, Don’t rush to spend time by yourself. Don’t hurry to alienation. It’s an inevitable destination. Time will eventually shroud you like velvet curtains, blacking out everything.

  You’d think Paul would be a perfect candidate for social media, someone jettisoned from his family, his real-world community, somebody without any outlet, no way to express his feelings except one sour thought at a time, but this loneliness has the opposite effect. It’s made him irate at smartphones and computers, and he’s convinced that Jake wouldn’t be in this current mess if it weren’t for the Internet. If it weren’t so easy to share things online. Paul protests its existence by staying as offline as much as he can without getting fired. He pickets each technological advancement by pretending it doesn’t exist.

  What does exist, and what is currently being digested by Paul, is a laxative. He and Jake stopped by the pharmacy on their way to Jake’s therapy. The boy waited in the car, and Paul ran in and asked for “the strongest laxative alive.”

  The young lady working the register made a food-poisoning face, shook her head, then said, “Try aisle eight.”

  He bought the one with the best copy on the box, and he tore into it in the parking lot.

  With the laxative in his system, Paul climbed into the driver’s seat with renewed faith that things were about to get better—if not better, at least he’d drop this extra freight—and this assured feeling lasted until he realized that Jake was in the back seat now. He had been up front during the drive over. Paul had squawked about breaking that habit of sitting back there, get up front, act like an adult, etc., and Jake had caved and sat sullenly next to him, listening to music on his iPhone while they drove to the pharmacy.