An Attempt to Recreate a Day
I wake, as many do, half in dream and to the tiny blare of an alarm. I fumble about to snooze it and fall asleep once more. Then I awake to the din of Emily's phone and I wait for her to move to change it. In this brief moment I always wait to see if she is alive and there is a tension until she moves to turn it off. Some days I nudge her, but this is not one of those days. This routine of call and answer with our alarms goes on for about a half an hour until the pressure of the time makes me throw off the sheets and exit the bed. It is cold in the apartment and this does not make waking any more pleasant.
I walk about the apartment, as I often do, in a constant search, a lost amble. Even after living here for nearly half a year, there is something about the place that makes me feel lost. Perhaps it's the narrow hallway that sets the spine of the space, or the doorways that always seem to be open or closed when I don't need them to be. Regardless, I spend the next five minutes looking for the first thing I should do, parsing over my waking brain for priority. My bladder responds in kind and I head to own cell of a bathroom to relieve myself.
Once in the bathroom, I get a good look at myself and cringe. I need to shower. My hair has formed into greasy tongues that cannot be ignored. I finish my business, set a pot of coffee to brew, strip and enter the standing coffin of our shower.
I shiver instinctively and curse the experience. A sponge drips cold, punctuating drops on me throughout the ordeal and I curse once more. Then I remember to be strong, and that there are far worse things to endure than a change of temperature and I feel courageous. This is a recent habit I've adopted for this space that has proven effective to combat my depression's negative voice. I wash myself thoroughly in the cramped space. I turn off the water and brace for the cold.
Once dry, I putz about our bedroom while Emily sleeps to gather my clothing. We have a moment where she looks at me and asks "Are you ok?" and I smile and say I'm fine and wonder what on earth about my face in that moment prompted her to ask. She returns to sleep and I check back in with her occasionally to see if she is watching me while I dress.
In the kitchen I bumble about, gathering my things for the day: My lunch (leftovers from the previous two nights,) my breakfast (A bagel. The cream cheese is uncharacteristically hard and I end up placing rectangular chunks around the rim half-assedly) and my coffee (In my speed, I nearly pour it in a normal mug. This mistake makes me wish I had the time to sit and read a bit before work, to not feel so rushed these mornings. I'm reminded of the sweet wealth of time on weekends and I mourn a bit.)
Once swaddled and packed, I kiss Emily goodbye from the bed, as is the custom, and wish her a good day. She once more returns to sleep and I head down our narrow staircase. At the bottom, while locking the door, I am surprised by the new supervisor of the Jewish Community center milling about the space. She is grotesquely thin and her hair bursts from her head like an unkempt hedge. She tries to carry on a conversation with me and I mumble something reciprocal back and hurry on my way. I worry about the interaction all the way to the bus stop and hope I have not given the wrong impression. These sort of sudden social interactions always catch me off guard. I find I have to constantly prepare myself to speak with people otherwise I'm caught in a curt panic spiral.
I just barely catch the train and get my regular spot standing against the window between doorways. I immediately set up shop, setting my bag between my legs and positioning my coffee in my right hand and my book in my left. I would prefer to read on my phone because the pages aren't so awkward to turn.
The train fills up around my as I dive into The Selected Stories of Lydia Davis. I read a compelling murder story told as a beginner's lesson in French. I find it hard to read with the distractions of my mind and the train. A woman shoehorns herself next to me and I wonder if I look like someone who can be shoehorned. Instead of shirking myself thinner, I hold my stance and our shoulders press firmly against each other for the rest of the trip.
My train transfers from above ground to below. I hate this part because it means only two more stops unto I have to get off. I wish I could sit and read on the train forever, running back and forth across the same line while people eddy about me in their hurry and discomfort. I long to be in constant motion. Arriving is the worst.
I get off at my stop and already I am irritated with people. I rush and weave and mutter aggressions at folks walking too slow or going through the wrong turnstile. I dislike this person I've become, but in town, it's the only person I can be, thanks to Darwinian forces. If I do not fight, I will be trampled. It is the hard, prickly culture of the cold and the many. I blow by a woman stopping to light a cigarette. I think foul things at a man foolishly running across a busy intersection. What an idiot.
I bustle down the sidewalk, following my back alley route to the Prudential and see the road is littered with all the confections of construction. Overweight dirty men in brilliant tennis ball vests mill about gaping wounds in the streets. One eats spaghetti out of a Tupperware container while standing in the crook of an open truck door. Many watch with their hard, white hats and wait for nothing in particular. I'm reminded of the time I was a painter in Montana and the nature of that waiting, of being this thing that dirtied his hands on his knees and muscled and configured. I think about going to trade school and becoming a plumber. I think about platelets and scabs.
Tiny specks of snow flit about in my vision like errant flies and I cringe. No more please. But then another feeling bubbles out. That pre-storm anticipation of a child. Could this be the big one that blankets everything? Despite all the trouble this past winter has caused, I can't help contain that feeling of excitement. Such are these transition times, when the seasons meld. I remember my comfort in rain and snow and realize it goes back to the movement of the train, of a world in constant motion. That is my home, not the stoic horrible chair I've charging towards across the street.
Once in the Sheridan Hotel entrance, I take the escalator two steps at a time. People are always milling about in this conference space, talking margins and presentation material and gossip. Their smiles make me sour and I think of their comfort, their sense of simply joy. A man limps by with a suitcase. He's black and I recall that most of the time when I see someone limping on the street they are black. Is this a bias from Baltimore? Or something my monkey brain has permanently tied together and can't be unhinged? As if to respond, another black man in a button-up shirt walks by, unhindered. I become embarrassed with my thoughts and begin to take in each person walking by:
A man with a shuffling gait with a coffee in hand. His sandals and socks give me the sense he's as comfortable as if he was in his living room. A woman in a hat thunders by, her attire anachronistic to her face. Another woman hobbles on, bowed legs, as if on stilts or having just sat on a cactus. I assume it's her shoes and laugh privately at the absurdity of heels.
I pull my ID badge from my wallet with my teeth because my hands are full and present it to the security guard before heading to my elevator. I enter with another person who just missed an elevator. I stand with them and silence and stare at the glowing red circle that marks my floor. I exit when it turns off the elevator stops. I contemplate the floor of our hallway. It resembles a poorly formatted Excel spreadsheet. I punch in the code for our suite and breath in the sterile familiarity. The office is quiet at this time. I settle in and begin to write...as soon as I get through plugging in my ancient computer with its 2003 OS, Windows XP. Ugh.
I am interrupted in my writing by my supervisor Robin. I fumble about as I always do around her, trying to stutter out an excuse is to what I am up to. I prattle off a list of things I'm working on. As usual, I over explain and she walks off satisfied. I often am left standing at the end of these encounters, ready for action, as if a tiger could pounce into the office at any moment. Still standing, I check my e-mail and get overwhelmed with the horrible tedium of my work life. I worry I'll forget my morning in this pedantry.and redouble my efforts to write and do my job simultaneously.
This only lasts about 15 minutes before work takes precedent. I start to lose the day and my recollection gets fuzzy. I listen to podcasts while replying to e-mails and keying the payrolls in the system. This is my typical Monday. I listen to the Dead Author's podcast, something my brother recommended me, where Paul F. Tompkins pretends to be H. G. Wells interviewing other actors playing dead authors. I listen to Walt Whitman and Tennessee Williams. Both actors lean heavy into the gay aspects of their authors. The gentlemen who played Walt Whitman did a wonderful job of portraying the grand rambling aspects of Whitman's poetry. Tennessee Williams was played by Kristen Schaal and was a mess. In a good way.
At lunch I get a haircut. The last before I get married. I've never been a fan of the process, with the small talk and the tipping and the asking of "how do you do your hair?" I also can't see what's happening with my glasses off so it's often an unpleasant surprise at the end. I think about how itchy I'll be for the rest of day while the hairdresser ogles at the weather and vaults the razor cord over me once more.
She does a good job and I spend the trip back to the office seeking out reflective surfaces to look at myself and ruffling as many trimmings as possible out. I get back to the office and dive back into work, grateful my supervisor decided to take a long lunch again.
I eat my kale salad and a couple donuts from the break room (after some deliberation) and eat while I work, casually. I have a conversation with the company's CFO about Scientology on my way to make a chai tea. I drift off while I work, considering all the names attached to the numbers I'm looking at and think of their lives and what that do with their money. I consider why they ended up in the restaurant business. It's a weird relationship I have with all these people, where I know and have access to all their personal information but have only space to speculate about who they really are. I had a quick temp job a year ago where my primary duty was to digitally update all the important information for folks enlisted in an unemployment program. Too many of them got listed as deceased or lost. I got sad pretty quickly and was glad they didn't ask me back after a week's work.
Closing out the work day listening to a TED Radio Hour about Play. I feel refreshed and dive back into the writing above before it's time to go. I leave on my own, making the my path out the same way I came in. I get to the T station and stare at the crumbling architecture of the roof. I think about the city falling apart and about how I don't look up as much as I should. Three trains go by before I can get on one. Once on the line, I learn it only goes to Coolidge Corner, a good half mile from my place. I concede to this fact and squeeze between two folks in seats and start reading.
I don't get far because of a loud group of girls talking about shopping or something. I struggle with this up until the stop and slowly exit the train. Once out, I feel an ease come over me. I decided to walk home. I stop at a game store and pick something up while listening to the shop workers give advice. One guy comes out with a box on his head for some reason and he and his coworker have a laugh.
I walk home and talk to Emily on the way. Once home I get into the zen of dishes and relish in the feeling of peace. Once Emily gets home we decide to go out to eat to talk wedding stuff and enjoy some junk food. We go to Applebee's because we had a gift card.
The walk is brisk and we talk feverishly back and forth about all sorts of topics. Emily makes a comment that it feels like "the old times," like when it was just us without any friends in Montana. It's a nice moment.
We arrive at the Applebee's and are immediately seated. Not many people are out on a Monday night. A few loners at the bar. There are TV's everywhere and the news is on. It's continual coverage of the pilot that flew the plane into the side of the Alps. It's very distracting and a blaring reminder of my own issues with mental illness. I try to ignore it as we talk and eat and try to figure out what accent our waiter has. The food isn't great, this is no surprise, but I'm floored at how poisonous the TV's are. It's almost insulting. I take note of this in my mind and make a half-promise to myself that I'll try to avoid TV's whenever I'm eating out.
I help Emily finish her beer and we walk back home. It's already gotten colder and we bundle up tight. Once home, we get ready for bed as we're both exhausted and spend time sitting and staring at our computers. Emily works diligently on wedding things. We talk about vows and try to figure out where people are staying. Emily continues to work while I read the rules to my new game and put on a familiar show. Looking back, I feel ashamed and childish that I wasn't helping out more...and I don't know what keeps me from it. Perhaps turning on the TV was the issue...I can't concentrate on more than one thing at a time.
We go to bed around midnight. I realize I didn't complete some things for my project and try not to let it get to me before drifting off to sleep.
Haiku of the Day:
The daily deluge
spews forth from the sacred top:
a prattle of nil
Today's Drawing and Today's "365" Project (Make something with or inspired by toothpaste. To avoid making a mess and to kill birds with stones, I'm using it as my word for today.)
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