Nobodies

by Chris Gilmore

  Over the next 48 hours, you look at her profile 12 times, reread your messages twice, replay Date Number One in your head three times, Date Number Two seven times, check your phone 26 times, start and stop and erase a text message 9 times, and wonder whether you’ll ever see her again on a minute-by-minute basis.

  After three full days of radio silence, you text a simple “Sorry about the other night” and wait eight-and-a-half hours (which feels like eight-and-a-half days) for BlahBlah to reply. When she does, she offers a one-line enigma: “annie hall is still better than manhattan.”

  You don’t know how to respond. Is she joking? Is she trying to piss you off? Is she provoking another argument—this time, via text—or prompting a third date request?

  You don’t reply for 37 minutes, unsure of what to say or how to say it.

  Finally, you pick up your phone and type “You’re entitled to your opinion” but then erase it and write “How about we agree to disagree?” instead. You stare at the glowing letters, double-checking your syntax, spelling, and diction, like a paranoid ESL student. Just press SEND, you tell yourself.

  Against its better judgment, your self obeys.

  While you wait for her to respond, you check out her profile again, searching for clues that you might have missed, but after rereading her self-summary and a solid six pages of personal questions, you’ve learned nothing, and you feel even more helpless than before.

  An hour passes, with no response, and you ask yourself, Why are you doing this?

  The answer arrives like a punch in the chest: Because you like her. For some inexplicable reason, you actually like her. And she likes you. (At least, that’s what you tell yourself.) So you wait. And wait. And wait.

  Will BlahBlah reply?

  Your guess is as good as mine.

  Tune in tomorrow. Maybe we’ll find out.

  THE LIBRARIAN

  “History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.”

  —James Joyce, Ulysses

  A sparsely decorated section of the local library. Across the back wall a long, absurdly tall shelf, half-filled with novels of dubious quality. A short desk with a burnt-out, dusty lamp and a wooden stool underneath. In the corner, an easy-chair surrounded by books and papers.

  Steven, a twenty-something graduate student, is sorting novels from a cart beside the desk, placing them methodically on the shelves. Every few books, he lets out a sigh, then continues with his task.

  Four days of grease have sorted his hair into wavy clumps, extending up, out, and sideways, as though designed by Frank Gehry. Whenever the frontal strands break rank, Steven tucks them to the side, concealing one section of his v-shaped hairline while revealing the other. The left is farther back than the right, but both seem to recede and thin, these days, by the hour.

  His features below the skull are no more impressive. His limbs have stiffened and slimmed from neglect, along with his back, which looks more like a question mark with each passing lecture. The usual five o’clock shadow has crept up his neck and onto his sun-starved face, and his chest hair—which was once as carefully groomed as an 18th century shrub—has crested his collar bone and plunged, without warning, into the valleys of his neck.

  His clothes, on the other hand, are typical of someone in the field. His button-up shirt is wrinkled and coffee-stained, as are his khakis, neither of which seem to fit his lanky frame. His sleeves are rolled; his buttons, half-undone; his pants, upheld by a belt with extra holes. Walking around campus, he assumes people think he is either a hobo or a PhD candidate, and he can never decide which label is more embarrassing.

  Steven slides a final book onto the shelf and checks a list on the table. He stands back and examines his work, arms folded.

  “Done the As . . .” He walks over to the cart. “Now the Bs.”

  A stunning brunette in a cocktail dress appears out of the section of the stacks where people rarely go. Her hair is poised; her skin, spotless. She walks like a runway model returning from a Mensa meeting: confident, elegant, yet sly, as though in on a joke that no one else gets. Both proud of her brain and aware of her beauty, she wears a posture to match her heels and a grin to go with her dress.

  She approaches Steven casually, watching him work.

  He doesn’t seem to notice her presence. Or he notices but doesn’t seem to care. Or he both notices and cares but doesn’t want her to think so.

  She considers each alternative, then sits in the easy-chair beside the pile of books in the corner. She crosses her legs, picks up a dusty, leather-bound tome, flips through it, then tosses it on the ground.

  “Be careful with that,” Steven says, as though for the hundredth time. “It’s very old.”

  She picks it up and reads the cover. “James Joyce: The Definitive Biography.” Doesn’t every biography think it’s “definitive”?

  Before he can answer, Emma approaches, pushing a cart filled with books. Steven forces his lips, muscle by muscle, into an upward curve. With most human beings he can summon a smile with ease, but whenever Emma walks by, wearing her hand-stitched, moth-eaten sweater, his mouth seems to forget how to function.

  “Where do you want these?” Emma asks, gathering her strawberry strands into a ponytail.

  Steven points to the other cart. “Just there is fine.”

  She walks it over, then stands beside him in front of the shelf. They look from the shelf to the new cart, overflowing with books. He turns to her but looks away when she turns to him. He scratches his head. She looks down at her feet.

  Unlike the Mensa model, Emma has looks and talent but lacks the will to use them. She is the kind of girl who still calls her parents, who writes thank you notes, who stares at the sidewalk instead of the sky. She never experiments with drugs or men. She never jaywalks. She obeys the laws of the world and the laws of her mind, even when she disagrees with them. She has worked hard to be humble, to be happy with low expectations, but she secretly longs to be shattered, to be picked up by the winds of fate and carried away, into the unknown. Her mother thinks she’s a lion with the confidence of a cat, a cat with the ambition of a mouse. Her father thinks she’s a mouse with the ambition of a lion. She thinks she’s a mouse with the ambition of a mouse.

  THUMM!

  The Mensa model has dropped another book on the floor. Steven’s head turns instantly, but Emma doesn’t seem to notice the noise. She sees Steven glaring at the empty corner and asks, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he says, pretending to search for a book on the cart.

  Emma looks again at the vacant corner. The Mensa model waves to her, smiling sardonically.

  “Well,” Emma says, “I should get back to it.”

  “Yeah. I should too.”

  “Drop by if you get bored.”

  She smiles and walks away. He watches her leave.

  Once she’s gone, he shakes his head and begins stocking the shelves with books from the new cart.

  Well done, Romeo, says the Mensa model, flipping through another book.

  (Like most people of sanity, Steven has voices in the back of his head, prattling on in times of stress or times of boredom. He doesn’t “hear” voices, in the schizophrenic sense; nevertheless, he has accumulated, over the years, a series of influences, who continue to assault his consciousness, who have left their mark on his soul yet refuse to leave his mind. The Mensa model is one of them. A voice that continues to speak long after its source has been silenced.)

  She wanders over to his desk. So what’s the plan? Seduce her in the stacks? I hear the history section is quite romantic after midnight.

  Steven keeps shelving.

  Or would you rather just grab her and throw her down on the photocopier? I like the simplicity. Just make sure you don’t press “print” this time.

  She turns to gauge his reaction.

 
You could always leave love notes in the overdue books. That seemed to work for the last one.

  Still no reaction.

  I can’t say I blame her for quitting. I’d quit too if I thought you were stalking me.

  “I am working, you know.”

  Oh yes, the big important grad student, making the world a better place, one properly shelved book at a time.

  “It’s just a job.”

  I wonder if I’ll still hear that when you’re thirty.

  “If you’re still around when I’m thirty, I’ll have bigger issues to deal with.”

  That, my friend, is entirely up to you. But between the two of us, I don’t think I’m leaving any time soon.

  Steven examines the list on the table, then folds his arms and inspects the shelves. His counterpart does the same, mockingly.

  “Done the Bs . . .” he mutters.

  Now the Cs.

  Steven starts working again. Emma joins him with another cart full of books.

  “That was fast.”

  “Yeah,” Emma says, “I need to get out of here. I can’t believe he made us do this on a Friday night.”

  “The man’s evil.”

  She laughs. “Yeah. Well, if you need any help, just ask, okay?”

  “Thanks. Will do.”

  She smiles and leaves.

  She’s a cutie. A real sweetie-pie.

  “She has a boyfriend.”

  You’re hopeless either way.

  “Thanks, hun.”

  She approaches him coyly, as if trying to seduce him.

  “What do you want?”

  I’m her. You’re you. Now what?

  “Now nothing. You’re in my way.”

  Yes, I am.

  He glares at her, half-frustrated, half-afraid.

  She disappears into the shadows of the stacks, only to return seconds later, pushing a cart filled with porn magazines and anatomy textbooks. Dildos of various shapes and sizes, colours and patterns, sprout out of the pile like a bouquet of thick rubber flowers.

  “Jesus Christ,” Steven mumbles, massaging his temples. Hi, there, she says, imitating Emma’s voice. Where would you like these?

  “It’s 10:30. I want to go home.”

  She flutters her eyes playfully. Are you doing anything this weekend?

  “Okay, she would never act like that.”

  She picks up one of the anatomy textbooks and strokes the cover seductively.

  Boy, you sure are good with books. She holds the book to her chest. I think people who read are sexy. She tosses the book back on the cart and walks toward him. You know what I think is more sexy? She pulls his collar, as if she were going to kiss him, then whispers in his ear, Librarians.

  Steven rolls his eyes and sighs. She drops the act and releases him.

  Now what’s wrong with that picture?

  “I’m not sure where to begin.”

  Librarians aren’t sexy. People who read books aren’t sexy.

  Therefore . . .

  “I’m not sexy.”

  Bingo.

  “Is that why you dumped me?” he asks, returning to work. “I wasn’t sexy enough for you?”

  You weren’t sexy enough for someone.

  Confused and annoyed, Steven watches her wander back to the easy-chair in the corner and sit down. She picks up a stack of papers lying on top of a book.

  “The Dark Side of Consciousness in Ulysses: Existential Motifs in Molly Bloom’s Monologue.” Where would we be without it . . .

  “I got an A on that, by the way.”

  I’d expect nothing less.

  She flips through it, giggling every few seconds. He tries to ignore her.

  She reads a passage aloud: “Joyce had a bookcase full of people—friends and family, rivals and enemies—whom he tried to impress. Those who believed he was destined for greatness, he tried to prove right; those who did not, he tried to prove wrong. Each day, he gazed up at his bookcase to remind himself where he came from and where he still had to go. Anyone who offered encouragement shined a warm, gentle light on his spirit, which the darkness of discouragement could never fully absorb. As his vision failed and his need for illumination increased, he placed his supporters on the top shelves and his detractors on the bottom, hoping the light of the former would wash away the dark of the latter. But over the years, as the bookcase grew both in volume and size, the ratio of supporters to detractors shrunk, forcing the light higher and higher until it was out of sight, and he was left blind and alone, battling ghosts in the darkness.”

  She examines the paper, grinning enigmatically. Why didn’t he just light a candle?

  Steven doesn’t respond.

  And how do books shine a warm and gentle light? Did they have mushrooms in the 30s?

  Steven keeps working.

  Or are the books just supposed to be people? In which case, I think you’re mixing your metaphors. People don’t shine unless they’re on fire.

  Steven allows himself to smile, but doesn’t let her see it.

  She looks up from the essay. Did you read the new Francis Duvall novel?

  His smile fades and his eyes close. “No.”

  It’s really good. Won all the big awards.

  “That’s nice.”

  The Anderson Award, The Morrison Medal, The Pynchon Prize. The North-East 72nd Street Chinatown Grant—

  “Good for him.”

  He’s the next Joyce, a lot of people say. Except he can write poetry as well as fiction.

  Steven takes a deep breath, trying to remain calm.

  Twenty-six and already a prize-winning author. A prize-winning, bestselling, critically acclaimed—

  “Do you mind?”

  Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot to ask. How’s your novel coming?

  “I’ve been busy.”

  Ah, yes. Full of ideas and things to say, and not enough time to say them. She waits a moment to let the insult sink in, then lets loose the next arrow in her quiver: Have you read Walter Bishop’s new book?

  “Nope.”

  Emily Jordan’s?

  “Nein.”

  What about Joyce?

  He turns to her, confused but intrigued.

  Didn’t you hear? They just published a new collection of his letters.

  “I know,” he says, turning back to the shelves. “It’s over there.”

  She spots the book on the edge of the desk and reads the cover. “The Letters of James Joyce: 1916-1923, Volume One.” Compelling stuff, I’m sure.

  He opens his mouth to reply but stops himself.

  It’s funny, isn’t it? He’s been dead almost eighty years, and he’s still publishing more than you.

  Steven marches over, as if to attack her, then picks up one of the books on the desk and starts flipping through it. After a few seconds of searching, he stops, circles something and makes a note in the margin.

  Should I even ask?

  “An idea for my thesis.”

  Oh, yes.Your magnum opus. How’s that coming?

  “It’s what I’ve been ‘busy’ with.”

  What’s it on again?

  “Haven’t decided exactly.”

  What’s it called?

  “So far? ‘Post-structural Linguistics in Finnegans Wake: A Psychoanalytic Perspective.’”

  A bit vague, don’t you think?

  Steven ignores her.

  Just what the world needs. Another book on Joyce.

  She picks up a thick, hardcover copy of Ulysses from the pile in the corner, and, watching Steven, drops it on the floor. He doesn’t flinch.

  How many do you think are published every year? And how many do you think are actually read? By more than six people, I mean.

  Steven keeps shelving, book aft
er book.

  Yours will be different though.You’re doing a Freudian analysis of a book no one can understand. Why shouldn’t you be optimistic?

  Steven shelves a book with his left hand and gives her the finger with his right.

  By the way, if you’re worried about getting your novel out there, you might want to consider self-publishing. Of course, you probably won’t have any more readers than you do now, but at least it’ll be in print. Two or three copies, sitting on shelves.Waiting for someone like you to sort them out. Dust them off.

  Steven stands in front of the shelves and examines the list.

  Done the Cs?

  “Now the Ds.”

  He starts working again. She grabs an old copy of Finnegans Wake from the pile, opens it and starts reading in a cartoonish Irish accent. “O tell me all about Anna Livia.”

  Steven sighs.

  “I want to hear all about Anna Livia. Well, you know Anna Livia?”

  “Yes, of course,” Steven says, completely deadpan, “we all know Anna Livia. Tell me all. Tell me now.”

  “You’ll die when you hear.”

  “I doubt it.”

  She closes the book and tosses it on the pile. You’re no fun today.

  “Am I fun any other day?”

  She puts her hands on her hips and sizes him up. Why are you doing this?

  He turns to her, surprised by her directness, her apparent sincerity. “Why am I doing what?”

  Before she can answer, they hear Emma’s approaching footsteps and the squeaky wheels of a cart.

  “Don’t worry,” Emma says, as she moves into view. “Only one more after this.” She parks the book-filled cart beside the others. “How’s it coming?”

  “Slowly.”

  “You want some help?”

  “Uh . . .”

  Yes.

  “Sure,” Steven says, looking from the Mensa model to Emma.

  “Okay,” Emma says, as she leaves, “I only have one more cart to catalogue and—”

  Stop her.

  “Wait,” Steven says, extending an arm towards Emma.