by Layne Deemer
There’s no finesse involved. No skill required. My method reads like the instructions on a shampoo bottle.
Step 1: insert hand into sock cavity
Step 2: raise seam up in front of eyes while simultaneously probing internal stitching with fingers
Step 3: determine sock quality based on said stitching
Step 4: lather, rinse, repeat
But today, with only five socks left to inspect, I encounter something for which there is no step in my instruction manual. With my hand thrust deep into the sock, my fingertips graze an object that’s smooth with pointed edges and, when pressed, emits a crinkling sound. It could be a candy wrapper carelessly misplaced by one of my co-inspectors. It wouldn’t be the first time. But something about this feels different.
I carefully pinch the object between my index and middle fingers and pull it out. It’s a small orange scrap of paper that has been carefully folded several times, making it about the size of a dime. It’s clearly not a fragment of someone’s snack, and my curiosity has been peaked. Unfolding the little snippet of paper feels a bit like destroying some kind of intricately crafted origami. Placing it on the desktop, I smooth out the creases and notice words written in looping penmanship.
You are not invisible. I see you.
I stare at the words as though they’re a knife held to my throat. And in many ways, they are.
I moved here to this Minnesota town to get away from the familiar. In the time that I’ve worked here, I’ve managed to blend in the same way a tree frog camouflages its skin to match its surroundings. Sometimes it’s the only way to survive. Now it seems I’m not as inconspicuous as I once thought.
I turn in my seat and begin to scan the cubicle abyss behind me. Nothing but gray fabric walls return my gaze. Everyone is conveniently hiding behind a barrier. It’s easy to be bold when anonymity is on your side.
Gliding back around, I hold the note in my hand and contemplate the meaning behind it. I could try to fool myself into thinking it wasn’t meant for me, but since I’m the last stop for many of my co-inspectors, there’s no one else it could’ve been planned for. I am definitely the intended recipient. But who could’ve written it? The handwriting tells me nothing other than the writer takes great care in forming his/her letters. The letters of each word connect in a kind of hybrid mix of cursive and print. Since only the final QC Inspectors fill out paperwork, I don’t even have the ability to compare this handwriting to an eval form.
My phone buzzes to alert me that it’s lunchtime, and my stomach growls in response. I’ll have to table this curious puzzle for now. Following the pleat marks, I fold the note back up and shove it into the pocket of my khakis.
I push open the double doors and squint up at the mottled sky. The afternoon sun is fighting for a chance to be seen among the ominous gray clouds. Much in the same way that a tulip tries to bloom in a bed of English ivy, it’s fighting a losing battle, but I have to give it credit for trying. Maybe the sun doesn’t want to be invisible. Instinctively, my hand reaches down and carefully pats the pocket containing the note. Clearly, someone wants me to know that they notice me. Considering the fact that I moved here to blend in, this news doesn’t exactly thrill me.
West Apparel is situated in a commercial district where lunchtime is a celebrated hour. There is no shortage of food choices sprinkled throughout the office buildings. A few food trucks line the busy street, and I decide on Sammy’s Samosas.
Taking my fried dough, I make my way over to a park bench beneath a towering maple tree. Between bites of potato and lamb, I think about the word invisible, turning it over in my mind like a Rubik’s Cube. For a person to say that I’m not invisible would suggest that they’ve already figured something out about me. In the two and a half years that I’ve worked at West, I’ve made no friends and almost no acquaintances. The closest thing I have to a confidant is an aging bookstore owner. None of that is by accident. If I wanted to be seen, I would be. But I’ve already lived that life.
Lost in my thoughts, I barely register when someone sits on the opposite end of the bench. I’m shaken out of my reverie when I hear the faintest voice humming Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” followed by the familiar crinkling of wax paper unwrapping a sandwich from Al’s Subs.
I look up and she’s there, Inspector 15—the bewitching girl from yesterday, sitting three feet from me. She has her earbuds in and is immersed in her music. She hasn’t noticed me yet, but we are sitting on the same bench, sharing the same wooden planks. We are connected.
I try not to stare at her. This pull I feel when I’m near her is so foreign to me. I find my sunglasses in my pocket and put them on to hide my eyes so I can steal more glances.
She’s multitasking. Scrolling away on her phone while simultaneously listening to music and eating her sandwich. I watch the way her long fingers curl around her phone, her nails making soft clicks on the screen. I wonder how deep the marks on my back would be from those nails. I give my head a swift shake. I have no idea what’s gotten into me.
She looks up. For a second, I worry that I might have spoken my thoughts out loud. But just as quickly, I squelch those fears—I never speak without conscious effort.
She sets her phone in her lap and raises her hand in a small wave, the right corner of her mouth turning up in a half smile. I mirror her wave and return my own smile. And we stay like that for what feels like hours, but is really more like seconds, when her phone buzzes rudely, breaking our connection. She glances down at the screen, and I see it immediately. The way her face falls, the faint lines on her forehead becoming more severe. The lightness she held so beautifully just a moment ago has vanished. She types out a quick response, and I am overwhelmed with an urge to intervene. I have to sit on my hands to keep myself from grabbing the phone from her and telling whoever is responsible for the frown on her face to fuck right the hell off.
She tucks away her phone and abruptly stands. She wraps up her sandwich, having only eaten a quarter of it, and drops it into a nearby garbage can. She slips away, and just when I think I may have imagined our silent exchange, she turns her head and glances back at me over her shoulder, obliterating me with her eyes. I’m unable to move. Cemented in place.
6
Standing in front of the mailboxes in my apartment building, I notice a new nametag for apartment 309, the apartment directly above mine. L. March has replaced F. Kohler. Aside from a few hellos and head nods in passing, I never formally met the previous inhabitant of 309, but I appreciated the quiet nature in which he conducted his life. I can only hope that L. March enjoys the same level of silence.
My box, as always, contains mostly credit card approval junk mail with the occasional electric bill sprinkled in for good measure. Flipping through the pile, I come across yet another Medicare statement for Mr. James. Looks like today’s my lucky day. Terrific.
Mr. James is in his early eighties and, apart from his declining hearing, he’s in relatively good health for his age. He rarely leaves his apartment, choosing instead to spend his days watching Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy reruns on the Game Show Network. Standing outside of 208, I can hear Alex Trebek admonishing a poor contestant for not posing her answer in the form of a question.
I’ve knocked on the door no less than twelve times, but this is typical seeing as how Mr. James keeps his hearing aid turned down low and his television volume set at concert level. I could just slide the envelope under his door, but I know how important these statements are since I’ve been subjected to multiple in-depth explanations. Long story short, Mr. James needs to check and recheck his insurance statements each month because “those bastards are tricky,” and he needs to make sure they’re paying for his medicine and doctor visits.
There’s a lull as Jeopardy breaks for a commercial, and I decide to try knocking one more time. Banging with the side of my fist, I call out, “Mr. James? I have something for you!” I normally wouldn’t engage in such a disturbance of the peace, but de
sperate times and all. Just then, the TV sound mutes and I hear Mr. James amble from his easy chair over to the door. His eyes adjust to the brightness of the hallway and he peers up at me from behind thick bifocals. “Oh, Orville, it’s you. Did that nitwit screw up the mail again?”
“Looks that way, Mr. James. Here’s your Medicare statement. I know how important those are.” Why I added that last part, I’ll never know. It’s exactly the sort of lead the old man was looking for, and he pounces on it.
“Did I tell you what those tricky bastards tried to pull on me last month?” he grumbles.
All I can do is shake my head no. He’ll tell me the story whether I’ve heard it or not, so there’s no use in lying to him.
“They tried to say I filled my prescription for Quinapril too soon, so they weren’t paying for it! Load of bullshit if I ever heard it. That medicine is supposed to help lower my blood pressure and let me tell you, those bastards had it working overtime! Got it all sorted out, but what a God damn hassle.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it worked out.” I give him a short wave and turn to head to face my apartment. I’m almost at my door when he calls out.
“New neighbor upstairs.” It’s more of a statement, but there’s a question hidden in there. He’s feeling me out to see if I’ve met this person, or better yet—if I’ve formed any opinions on said neighbor. Mr. James lives for gossip. Aside from his game shows, it’s his most active hobby.
“I noticed the name change on the mailboxes downstairs. I didn’t realize the last guy moved out.”
The old man sighs deeply. He knows he won’t get anything out of me, but it doesn’t stop him from trying. “Well, let’s hope she’s as quiet as the last one.” And with that, he raises his Medicare envelope in the air in a kind of salute and closes himself back into his apartment.
She? Interesting. It looks like Mr. James may have already met this new neighbor. If I were the sort of person who liked being “in the know,” I would’ve pressed him for more details. But in the end, I don’t care if the person upstairs is a man, a woman, or a raccoon. All I care about is peace and quiet. If she can follow those rules, then it’s a nonissue.
Uncle George always greets me at the door when I get home. As soon as I’m inside, he’s at my feet weaving between my legs. His thick gray tail draws slow S’s in the air. He lets out a soft “meow” and peers up at me with an expectant look. More than likely, he’s just hungry and wants me to fill his bowl, but I like to think that the best parts of his day are when I’m giving him a play-by-play of mine. It’s as if he lives all nine of his lives vicariously through me.
I reach down to scratch him in that spot behind his left ear. His eyes close in response. “Hey there, Uncle G. It’s been a bit of a day.”
Making my way over to the kitchen, I open the cabinet and reach for a can of Fancy Feast. Once George is happily dining away on Salmon and Shrimp Pâté, I fill up my teakettle and begin to heat the water on the stove.
Leaning against the counter, I reach into my pocket and remove the folded orange note. Something about the paper feels strangely familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. I stare at the letters written inside and notice the loop of the l and how it curves up to form the e in invisible. The handwriting is careful and clean and also—distinctively feminine. Inhaling deeply, I think of soft waves of blond hair and a flowing skirt that glides across the floor.
The kettle begins to howl, startling me from my daydream. I blink away my thoughts and make quick work of brewing my rooibos tea. I warm my hands on the cup and notice George perched on the counter, eyeing me curiously. My uncle was always adept at reading me like a book. He may have a tail and fur all over his body now, but he can tell when something is off.
This girl is in my bloodstream. I feel her in there like a pulse. This isn’t love at first sight. I’m not that foolish. But it’s an infatuation, for sure. A curiosity. I’ve never felt anything like this before, and it’s completely throwing me off course.
And then there’s the note.
You are not invisible. I see you.
Another inspector must have written it. It’s the only logical explanation. But why me and why now? And is it a coincidence that I found it after I met my new coworker? My insides flutter at the thought of her hiding a note for me to find.
The person who wrote it wants me to know that they notice me. Maybe it was her or maybe it’s someone else just trying to fuck with me. Maybe it was just a onetime thing—someone was bored and decided to play a little joke on me. I’m going to ignore it for now. I can only handle so many complications at once.
7
On Saturdays, I visit the farmer’s market in town. I could lie and say that I go for the produce. And it’s not a total lie since I do pick up fruit when I’m there, but the real reason for my weekly visits is Bea’s Bakery.
I’m guessing here, but Bea is probably somewhere close to 115 years old. She’s a tiny, frail, yet mighty lady, and she’s been running this stand for the past forty-five years. Her cinnamon buns are world famous, and local legend has it that a certain prince of pop music always made a point to stop here for one whenever his tour bus rolled through.
With a bag full of gooey goodness, I move over to the produce stand and start scanning the apples for bruises. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m a bit of an apple connoisseur. Red Delicious is the obvious favorite for most people, but not for me. I’m more of a Granny Smith guy who sometimes dabbles in Gala or the elusive Honey Crisp.
Sifting through the sea of green, I begin making my selections when the energy around me shifts. I feel her before I see her. Glancing up, I find golden eyes watching me curiously from the other side of the stand.
In that moment, it’s as though time has paused just for us. We’re frozen while the rest of the world continues to move all around us. The market is crowded and loud, but I can’t hear a sound and I see no one else but her. We stare at each other for seconds that feel like hours.
She’s the first to break the current, blinking and turning to look to her left. There’s an impatient man waiting for her to move so he can continue fondling the peppers. She looks back at me and lifts her shoulder in a subtle shrug, and it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. Smiling, she raises her right hand to wave at me and then she’s gone. Swallowed up whole by the produce-hungry crowd. Before she’s completely out of sight, I catch a glimpse of her leg. She’s wearing white low-top Converse, and on the inside of her ankle I spot a small tattoo in the shape of a key.
Standing among the chaos of the market, I feel nothing but calm. She’s never uttered a single word to me and yet, just knowing we’re in the same room, breathing the same air, brings me total peace. It’s a kind of tranquility I haven’t felt in nearly three years. It’s as if all is right in my world as long as she’s in it. It makes no sense. I don’t even know her.
But if I’m being honest with myself, we do know each other. We’re just on a different level than most people. My soul knows her soul. I felt it the moment I first laid eyes on her. And it’s there, in that crowded market, that I make a promise to myself. I will get to know her on every level that she’ll allow.
As I leave the market, I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. Dr. Jamie’s name flashes on the screen. I feel the serenity drain out of me. It’s immediately replaced with my standard feel—nothing, blankness. I tap the “ignore” button. Sorry, Mom, but the good doctor has nothing to say that I want to hear right now. I’ve survived this long by shutting out any and all emotion. I can press the pause button on my thoughts, my past, why I’m here; all of those things that have the power to force my current reality off of its axis. I suppose Number 15 has that power as well, but she’s different. She makes me feel things about who I am now, not who I was. I can still forget when I’m with her, but even more importantly, I can dream.
My earbuds are waiting for me in the pocket of my jeans. I find them in a tangled mess and get to work untwisting the wires. On
ce I have them settled in my ears, I search through the playlists on my phone and choose Big Red Machine. Justin Vernon’s voice filters into my ears, and the song “I Won’t Run From It” feels like an anthem for the morning. I have a pretty clear vision of my mission, and I won’t let anything stand in my way.
I punch my code into the keypad outside my apartment and wait for the acceptance beeps before pulling open the heavy glass door. Inside, I scan the mailboxes and decide to hold off on checking mine for now. I’m fairly certain I won’t find any mail meant for Mr. James, but even the slight possibility is cause enough for me to wait.
The elevator chimes and I look up to see a few of my neighbors making their way inside. What happens next feels like slow motion, and it causes my breathing to hitch and my heart to beat in my throat. Just as the last few people make their way onto the elevator, I see it. A white low-top Converse attached to an ankle with a key tattoo.
Well, this is an interesting development.
8
There’s a small spidered crack in the left corner of my living room ceiling. I’ve been staring up at it for the past twenty-five minutes trying to decide if fate exists. For the life of me, I cannot come up with any other reason for why I keep encountering this girl. If our interactions were limited to work, it would seem unremarkable, but it’s gone so far beyond that. I only just met her, and I’ve seen her more in the past two days than I’ve seen my own mother this whole year.
She’s the new neighbor in the apartment above mine. This latest twist in the plot is something I’m having a hard time chalking up to as just a coincidence.
I’m watching the break in the plaster above me, wondering what she’s doing at this very moment. Did she see me enter the apartment building and rush inside the elevator to avoid me? Somehow I doubt that. There’s a clear connection between us, and I don’t think she could escape it even if she tried. I know I sure as hell can’t.