Eleanor, or, the Rejection of the Progress of Love

by Anna Moschovakis

  She’d read: “The scholar in search of continuing themes in the history of Western civilization is confronted with two quite different types of material: patterns of action, on the one hand, and patterns of thought, on the other.”

  She’d read: “A thought is fully as much an event as a war, and thinking falls into observable patterns which, in turn, have histories of their own, no less a part of the ongoing life of humanity than the more conventional subject matter of historical research.”

  As she was flushing the toilet and washing her hands with the last drops of glycerin soap and examining her reflection in the dust-covered mirror, she had considered the difference between thinking and doing and the relation of that difference to the concept of progression. She’d considered how the thing that had happened had in a sense led her here, how it was in a sense the cause of her new circumstance; and how it was equally true that her new circumstance—this stack of books by the toilet, this drop of soap—was the cause of the thing, since the thinking about the thing from her current position and the thing itself were (also in a sense) the same. She had then returned to the morning, to Abraham and the grapefruit, and to a story on the radio about how laboratory scientists in Russia had succeeded in reproducing life derived from plant matter trapped in the Siberian permafrost for thirty thousand years. Since she’d tuned in midway through the story, she did not know what the scientists had expected to happen or the degree of their surprise, which made the discovery seem less eventful in both the thought-event way and the war-event way.

  What is really beyond our control, she thought now, as she finished her breakfast (a banana this morning, cut up and topped with yogurt and granola) and got in the shower, and then as she washed her hair and decided not to shave her armpits and leaned around the plastic curtain to kiss Abraham, on his way to the studio in work pants with goggles on his head, good-bye—what is really beyond our, beyond anyone’s, control is—and then she revised her thought out of existence, emerged from the shower, applied her usual oils and lotions, and stepped into her clothes and boots, pausing automatically at Abraham’s computer to check email before walking out the door.

  FROM: Danny K.M. <@gmail.com>

  TO: eleanornoteleanor@gmail.com

  Hi there. I was just wondering if you have lost a macbook laptop recently. The reason why I am asking is that I am visiting a friend and he has this laptop full of your information, documents, photos, etc. It is very weird to me and I know how it feels when something of value gets stolen, especially the data. So please confirm if you have indeed lost a laptop or not or maybe you might have given it to my friend for keeps. he is not here right now and he wont for the next few days so I wanted to help you get your data back at least. I am a computer guy and know what i am doing and also I had my own mac. Please understand that I most likely wont be able to give you your laptop back because that would destroy the friendship between me and my friend but I could at least sneak you out all the data that you want.

  Please, understand that I am trying to help you ok!

  Respond urgently!

  Eleanor knew that first responses should rarely be trusted. They might be made sense of, especially when they fit into a known taxonomy (outrage self-abnegation, etc., for example), but they should not be treated as maps or as blueprints; they should be treated, at best, as a sketch—a Rorschach test, the interpretation of which is more important than the thing itself.

  This does not stop them from appearing as blueprints, or maps, with the potential to lead one irrevocably astray. Or in a worst-case scenario, to bring the building down.

  It is very weird to me.

  I know how it feels.

  because that would destroy the friendship

  Please, understand

  Respond urgently!

  She read the phrases until they lost their definitions, until they were reduced to strings of phonemes—all but a few of the words, which could not be reduced, which would not relinquish their associative and affective powers. These she studied—“feels,” “friendship,” “respond”—as she tried to construct or identify the appropriate reply to a gesture that seemed so full of ambivalence that even she, an adept, could not instinctually read it.

  She paced the small apartment: ten steps to the front windows, eight steps to the interior sidewall, fifteen steps to the galley kitchen that led back to the minuscule bedroom. She crossed to the window that was farthest from the unnecessarily hot radiator and perched on its sill. She sweated. She thought about dogs, how they can’t sweat, how none of the dogs she had ever known had sweated. She tried panting, having read somewhere that intentional hyperventilation can reset the human nervous system. She set the timer on her phone for one minute, but the panting nauseated her and made her violently thirsty, so after twenty seconds she returned to the kitchen and poured a glass of vodka over ice. She considered removing her boots and socks to cool down. She removed her boots and socks.

  She considered the likelihood that this was a phishing scheme, that Danny K.M. was not a person but a front for an organized laptop-thieving ring. She made a cursory web search and dismissed this hypothesis. Danny K.M. was real, according to the evidence, as real as Eleanor herself. She felt something like relief, then something like annoyance at her relief, and then she let out her breath—she hadn’t realized she was holding it—through flapping lips, in a burst, like a horse.

  She drank, and then she called a friend and hung up on his voicemail. She drank more, then called another friend and hung up on their voicemail. She drank more, and then she decided to read her cards. She opened the dresser drawer that Abraham had cleared for her—not long ago but long enough ago that it had begun to resemble other drawers she’d had in other apartments belonging to other men—and took out her tarot deck, removing the scarf she’d been taught to wrap it in to repel negative energy, in which she didn’t believe. She removed Tarot for Your Self from the drawer and set it beside her, then shuffled the cards and thought about her question.

  As she shuffled, she did not think about the thing that had happened before (thing-prime), nor did she think about the other thing that had happened more recently—her lost data, thing #2—nor did she think about the email she had just received from Danny K.M. Her question was of a more general nature: “Who,” she asked the cards, “am I in relation to these things?”

  She turned a card, then opened the book and read.

  17. The Star. Aquarius. Tzaddi.

  Meditation. Inexhaustible inspiration. Spiritual regeneration. Using active imagination and visualization. Artistic and scientific inspiration. Formulating your ideals and goals. Examining your hopes for the future. Using systems of self-insight such as astrology, Tarot, numerology, etc.

  At this point Eleanor paused and smiled. She continued:

  Living by your own truth and values rather than those of the outer world. “Freedom is nothing left to lose.” Altruism. Nonconformity. Doing the unexpected. The calm after the storm; release after imprisonment. Freedom.

  At this point Eleanor’s eyes began to glaze over. She skipped a few sentences.

  Frankness. Disclosure or discovery of something. A desire to participate in the enlightenment and consciousness-raising of all humankind.

  At this point a clammy sensation began to rise from Eleanor’s palms and travel up her wrists and forearms. She considered getting up to take a cold shower, but the sensation passed, or rather merged with her overall feeling of discomfort, which she was by now accustomed to ignoring. She skipped to the end.

  Being the “star,” the center of attention. Public recognition. Being the leader and spokesperson for others. Stubbornly clinging to fixed ideas.

  This time, the sensation would not subside. It moved up through her shoulders and chest and into her neck, where it pulsed near her lower jaw. It was the words fixed ideas that did this to her. She had once seen a documentary about an artist from New York who became a cannibal for a day while living in a quasi participant-observe
r relationship with a Peruvian tribe and had to contend forever after with the consequences of his actions.

  The thing about consequences, Eleanor thought, is that they are a fiction. And fiction is real. And reality is consequential, but only when you let it be. Consequences, she thought, now speaking her thoughts to the room, “are like mud. You get stuck in them, and either you drown and die, or a dry spell comes to return the mud to dust, and you dig your way out.” She looked out the window as she spoke, a little louder now, her speech swallowed by the sirens of a passing ambulance: “You just don’t know. You never really know.”

  The thing that had happened—the first thing, thing-prime—had this kind of consequence, the mud kind. Eleanor began to feel something new take place inside her, the presence of something beneath her skin, at the core of her extension into space, running from top to bottom or from bottom to top—something fibrous, organic like sugarcane, or possibly of some high-tech material that had the quality of moisture and the quality of disintegration in equal measure. This material was pulling apart, or being pulled apart, as if by some weaver separating strands in order to dye them fresh colors and make them into something new. She felt the pulling apart—felt it as a novel but recognizable sensation—but she could not feel the hand of the weaver. It was as if there were no hand. Nothing working on her, nothing looking to improve or profit from her. There was nothing, nothing at all.

  She finished her vodka and stood, inducing a moment of dizziness that somehow reoriented her to the present. She returned to the cards and the book and the section on The Star.

  Sample Affirmation: My inner being shines like a star, guiding my actions, renewing and cleansing me.

  She opened Abraham’s computer, logged back in.

  ABRAHAM PUT ON his goggles and [power saw, exhaust, plywood]

  Eleanor typed.

  Abraham [measuring tape, chop saw, dust]

  Time passed.

  Eleanor waited [window, street, trash, oily slick, tea]

  Abraham broke for lunch [goggles, flirting, cigarette, sandwich, cigarettes, flirting, goggles]

  Time passed.

  Eleanor read:

  Hello Eleanor,

  Ok thanks for coming back so fast! I hope I can find enough DVD’s to burn all your stuff! You have a massive amount of Data on the laptop. I am sorry to hear about your computer getting stolen. I hope that it was not my friend but someone else who may have sold it to him, regardless its a bad thing. I’ll probably drop off the data at your work or send it via mail depending on what is more convenient. I just arrived from my home country and I have to find my way around here. I wish i could just return the computer to you. That would be the best but again as you might imagine thats the least possible option unless, unless . . . I can convince him to give it back to you if you pay him. That is highly unlikely but i can play on his conscious and he might feel guilty and give it back!

  Here is some info regarding your data. Your personal profile is about 42Gb, I am not sure how i can send you all that data unless I burn about 10 DVD, each about 4.3Gb, that might be the best option but like I said I just arrive in the country about two days ago and I have only about $50 on me and thats all I have until I get a job. Another option would be if you have an ftp site where I could download all the info which I bet would take days until is complete but its one way of doing things. Bad thing is that the harddrive is difficult to get too otherwise I would have done something but he will notice. If you have any other suggestion please let me know ok? We need to be done with everything before he comes back on Tuesday from L.A.!

  Eleanor typed, waited. Time passed.

  Abraham packed up [goggles, flirting, cigarette, bike]

  Eleanor [vodka, tarot, tea]

  Eleanor read:

  You are right on the money of not buying back your computer. I was just wondering what your stance was on that considering, as you said, that computers are quite expensive. I’m glad some of the data is backed up at least. I’ll drop the DVD off at your work.

  Again I am sorry for what happened and on another note, the guy is not my friend at all actually. He just let me use “his” computer when he went to L.A. cause I need internet access!

  Have a good day!

  Abraham rode [windlash, tears, breath]

  Eleanor typed, waited.

  Eleanor read:

  I just checked on the computer and I don’t seem to see any software that would allow me to burn DVD’s or CD’s. I am used to Toast, Daemon tools. I’m not aware of any other software that you are using! I am busy trying to download some software!

  Eleanor logged out [pacing, tarot, tea]

  Abraham sat at the bar [flirting, drink, book]

  Time passed.

  Eleanor logged in [password alert, recovery, breach]

  She fumed, typed.

  Abraham leaned and smoked [flirting, book]

  Time passed.

  She read:

  Ohhhh man,

  Well I don’t know what he has been up too but I am sorry to hear that. I haven’t seen the guy or talked to him.

  I will get in contact with him but that’s all I can do. I now regret having involved myself in all of this!

  That’s what you get for trying to help. Anyway, I can understand your motive though.

  Please consider me out of this issue. Like I said that guy is not even my friend.

  Have a blessed day!

  PS I consider this chapter closed

  Eleanor sat, stalled by this turn in the dialogue. The closing had followed so soon upon the opening, it felt almost like they’d happened in reverse.

  She turned her head to the right. The dishtowel had fallen from the handle of the stove to form a maroon amoeba on the parquet floor.

  She thought, Consider the towel an amoeba on the floor, and realized she’d stolen the word “consider” from Danny K.M.

  Time passed. Abraham did not come home. Eleanor texted a friend about the laptop, the emails. Her friend replied: “Ug sorry, u backed up? This is why I’ve caved to the cloud;/”

  She texted another friend about the laptop, the emails, the password-change alerts. He responded: “The cops won’t find it but if you have renters insurance you have to file a report FYI Xx.”

  She didn’t have renters insurance, but Abraham might. She texted him, waited, texted again. She got up.

  HOW OFTEN DO YOU FEEL as if you are essentially undeserving?

  Do you suspect this feeling is universal?

  How often do you punish yourself physically, for instance by hitting yourself, for a sin you believe you have committed but cannot identify?

  How many times, per week, are you able to enjoy sex with yourself or with others?

  How many times, per week, do you berate yourself, out loud or in writing, to others?

  How frequently do you imagine your own funeral?

  How frequently do you think others imagine their own funerals?

  When you imagine your funeral, how many people are in attendance?

  How do you handle the logical contradiction of believing yourself to be essentially less deserving than others while also believing you’re nothing special?

  How do you handle the theoretical contradiction between your atheism and your conviction that you are being punished by some unseen hand?

  How often do you imagine your own death? On a scale of one to ten, how beautiful is it?

  THE AIR OUTSIDE was translucent, as if particles of cold were suspended in it, and when she looked down Flatbush before turning onto Nevins she saw, sliding out from behind the Savings Bank clock tower, the moon—full or nearly full or just over being full—too big, too low, and of an ugly indeterminate color between salmon and puce. She turned. She passed by the slightly drunken couples walking arm-in-arm from dinner to the bar or from the bar to dinner. She passed by the very drunken person singing loudly as he marched up the sidewalk in a t-shirt and shorts. She paused a few blocks from the café to recall the gesture o
f the barista with the poorly disguised heart—around the corner and to the right—and calculated where to turn, and when she did she saw, halfway down the block, a cluster of police cars parked in front of a low brick building. She walked up to the door—to its right, faded white-painted block letters declared 9-1-1 WE WILL NOT FORGET—and pushed it open.

  The desk cop looked like the hero of a romance novel from the ’70s—tanned skin, thick black hair, caterpillar mustache. In the romance novel he would be a lothario, would offer schoolgirls their first lesson in lotharios. It’s possible that Eleanor had read such a novel at one time, had learned something from it. The lothario cop handed her a form to fill out and she sat on a bench, pulled a pen from her bag. Then she was standing at the counter with her completed incident report in one hand and a folder containing the printouts of her email correspondence with Danny K.M. in the other. The cop put on a pair of blue plastic reading glasses and no longer looked like a lothario. He peered at Eleanor over their sparkly rims.

  “You wrote a name under Suspect and then you crossed it out.”

  “I have a . . . witness, I guess, but there’s no place to put down his name. I don’t want him down as a suspect.”

  “You have a witness?”

  “Someone emailed me from the stolen computer.”

  The cop’s eyebrows rose above the rims of his glasses. The left went up higher than the right.

  “The person who stole your computer emailed you, and you don’t want to put him down as a suspect?”