Life, Lies, and the Little Things

by Brandon Mason

The age old predicament began to mock him. Not even Waldin was safe from the torture, the torture of the blank page. From the moment he got home, the thought of writing to her consumed him. He pulled a sheet of paper from the printer he never used, and sat down at the kitchen bar. If there was ever a use for those over-priced fountain pens no one ever did anything with, besides look at and test how smooth they write, he figured this letter was it. How was this writing thing supposed to work anyways? Would a gale of inspiration overcome him and set the words moving straight from his sensory neurons to his spinal cord, bypassing his brain, and back to his hand? Should he simply write whatever came to mind? Would a formal outline or plan yield a better product? What was she even expecting him to say? These questions played on repeat for what seemed like hours. It had been five minutes. He always had a way with words and could talk himself out of or into almost anything, but that was improvisation, that was reactionary. He now had nothing to respond to and all the time in the world to second guess and doubt anything he wrote. In time, everything he wrote was fucking garbage, complete nonsense. Everything was uninspired and uninteresting. When speaking in person, there was an urgency, a pressure that drove him, yet without it he seemed so misguided. It was all so inert. Every word lacked permanence, pleading to be changed, and was doomed to be lost in translation. After twenty minutes he had managed to reach the bottom of the page, and, assuming he was as content as he’d ever be with his words, put down the pen.

  He finally cracked the seal of the vodka bottle that he’d danced around for months, threw on “Creep”, and poured himself a glass.

  Three days went by in what felt like some type of warped time lapse he could only vaguely recall. He went through four bottles and enough paper to form a homeless style blanket over his body. It probably would have been more if his tolerance hadn’t gone down considerably since his livelier days. His environmentalist friends would have torn him a new one if they’d seen his apartment that day. There was paper, folded, torn, crumpled, some written on, some not. He rolled over, pushing off all but one piece of his blanket. Either he was still drunk or what he wrote was completely incomprehensible. Cycling through a few more pieces he found that most of them made little sense, those that appeared to be in English at least. It was like he was lying next to a woman, rambling on about the intricacies of their marriage and children’s futures, who he’d swear on his father’s grave he’d never even seen before. Each word he read spoke undeniable truth that had never left the deepest crevasses of his mind, yet no part of him could recall writing any of it.

  ... I sit in dark, tepid space, alone but not alone. It seems to be an unavoidable human condition. Or maybe a non-existent one. Is it not possible that in one of an infinite number of parallel universes, I exist, exactly as I currently am? Every single moment, every experience, is simultaneously shared with another me. I am never alone in anything. Shut up. This is it. You’re always alone.

  … My heart pumps so slowly. I could stop it if I tried. My fingers, my toes, my face, they scream for blood. The instruments are far more alive than me. How do I miss what I don’t know? My taste buds have slid from my tongue to my throat. Anything is possible besides this. My skull has become the atmosphere of a red giant. It doesn’t make me smarter, only denser.

  Some hangover. He quickly tired of sifting through his ramblings. It was too early to read anyways. He tossed the last paper back on the coffee table, with unnecessary exasperation, and slouched back on the couch, only to notice a neatly raised rectangle on his right pant pocket. He awkwardly slid out a precisely creased piece of paper out of his pocket. Its unfolding revealed that the usual, almost illegible print had been replaced by the pristine cursive of his academic days. An unreasonable anxiety loomed and he began to read.

  “Dear she who has no name,

  He must have fancied the line much cleverer when he was drunk.

  I might logically begin with a declaration of self, a statement of who I am and what my intentions are in attempt to impress you or, better yet, endear you to me. I probably would have done so if I had not come to the awkward realization that I don’t truly know who I am. I ask only that you judge me not on who I have been up to this point in my life, and only who I am in each present moment, as revealed to you, and, quite frankly, to myself. I have spent the majority of my life pretending to be someone or something that I am not. My life, in and of itself, to this point, has been a lie. In all recollection, I have lied every single day of my life and to every single person I have ever known. I hope only to stray from this path, starting with you. I can promise you nothing, but in all likelihood you will be confused, and even tormented by my mind, yet I will do all I can to tell you nothing but what I believe to be the truth. Even so, the slightest chance that we might stumble upon something far more meaningful seems worth it to me. I seek to find whatever is real and genuine in this life, for whatever it’s worth, and am willing put forth everything that I am to do so. I find it unfair to ask the same of you, so I won’t. I only present you with the opportunity to, if you will, show up to a duel, not without a gun, but without armor.

  When I was eleven years old I sat motionless, listening through an air conditioning vent, as my best friend was abused by his mother for leaving a glass of milk out overnight, which was, in fact, mine.

  The closest thing to commitment I’ve ever had is when Valerie rather confidently stated, in the kindergarten sandbox, that she was going to marry me.

  My father died when I was seventeen.

  Those are three things I have never told a soul. And with that I conclude, or maybe begin.

  Waldin.

  He gently placed the paper down on the table. Never had he written so clearly and honestly in his life. Despite his fervent efforts, he could not salvage an ounce of memory of writing a single word. The only reason he was sure he wrote it was because those three things were true and he had, in fact, not told them to anyone. It surely sounded like him and they were all thoughts from his own mind, yet it slightly bothered him that he couldn’t remember it, despite how coherent he would have had to have been to do so. He glanced at the empty bottle of vodka and shook his head. Either way there was little doubt he wouldn’t come up with anything better, so he quickly sealed it in an envelope and mailed it out before he could doubt himself again and restart the unending vortex.

  Though he was still as unsure as ever, he hadn’t felt that hopeful since Christmas in ‘96 and it seemed as if things might just turn out all right, until, of course, he met Aiden. Aiden was the boyfriend you just knew a girl as intriguing and attractive as her had to have. He had feared she might be involved with someone, but not Aiden. Aiden made Gandhi look like fucking Charles Manson, so it goes without saying what Aiden made you look like. Aiden almost made you wish he was the type of boyfriend that smacked her around a little bit when he got frustrated, or got her mixed up in hard drugs, or had her caught in some cheating inferiority complex, or even just stood her up because he spent too much time at the office. At least then you could hate him like you were supposed to and try to convince yourself that she’d be better off with you, but not Aiden. Aiden was ultra-friendly and cool with you when you met him, and was way too confident and mature to be threatened by you.

  There were people who spent summers in the Andes looking for environmental solutions to problems you didn’t even know existed, or fasted during Ramadan despite not even being Muslim, or had read every book on the “100 Books to Read Before You Die” list. Aiden did all that shit. Aiden lost his virginity on prom night to a girl he truly felt something special for. When the time came to make the college decision he encouraged his girlfriend to follow her dreams and go to Cornell instead of following him to Brown. Despite how much he cared for her, they managed the ever elusive clean break. He’d been in three serious relationships, all three of which ended mutually, and he was still actually friends with his exes, but only friends. Aiden double majored in creative writing and poli sci and actually managed to g
et a well-playing, stable job. He took the semester studying abroad in Spain you always wanted to, and actually became fluent, and still graduated on time.

  Aiden’s parents split when he was fourteen, but it didn’t fuck him up, it just taught him how to overcome adversity and made him more mature. Every time his parents called, he picked up and still had brunch with both of them every other Sunday. Aiden spent a year after college exploring the world’s major religions, and was a spiritual guy, but didn’t shove it down your throat. He was very conscious of what he put in his body, but didn’t follow any fad diets and never turned down something you offered him. Aiden drank whenever and whatever you were drinking, but never went too far, and was always ever so slightly less drunk than you. Aiden was in great shape, but wasn’t obsessed with his physique and cared more about his health than appearance. He worked hard to maintain his body, but when complimented on it, he always lied and gave the credit to his genetics, which were actually rather mediocre. He was a gentleman and invariable front-runner, everywhere expect in the bedroom of course.

  Waldin tried with every fiber of his being to hate Aiden, but he couldn’t find a single reason to do so. A part of him knew that Aiden was everything he ever strived, but would always fail, to be, and with that hopeless realization, he conceded. Aiden was Tyler Durden’s Tyler Durden and there was no use in trying to compete. Just accept it, Waldin, you’ll never...

  Waldin woke up in a flu-like cold sweat. His heart slowly slid back up from its state of digestion in his stomach. Never had he felt more relieved. Aiden was simply a dream. His thoughts about her had been flooding his mind since they met, and his subconscious was, apparently, no exception.

  Chapter 5