The chess player waved her hands at me. I startled, looking up. She was making a writing gesture with her fingers. I checked my pockets, found a pen. She ripped out a piece of paper from her notepad and wrote, am i here?
I stared at her. “Uhh. I…” But she shook her hand and gestured that I write it out for her.
Yes, I wrote.
how can you tell? She had very pretty writing.
Because you are sitting across from me
how do you know im not just part of imagination?
You’re playing chess
touch my face
She grabbed my hand, then directed it to her face. When my palm pressed against her cheek, she closed her eyes and held it.
Abruptly, she let go and wrote furiously on the paper. When she finished, she pushed the paper across to me.
It read, i am disappearing every day. no one wants to talk to me. my parents stopped coming long ago. eventually, i will be gone. i cant speak or hear anything. nothing exists for me, just like this chess game. i play and play every day but no one remembers, no one can tell you who died on the battlefield and who sacrificed their life for victory. i collected feathers to try to see, marbles and crayons from countries you’ve never heard of and colors that no longer exist. but none of them convinced me i was real. even you dont exist. i cant tell that you do. i feel your touch but i could be imagining it. sometimes, i pretend i can hear people but i know i cant. if you cant hear people and they cant hear you, you dont exist.
I don’t exist either, I wrote back. No one hears me and I don’t hear anyone else.
symbolic deafness and muteness dont count.
How do you know I’m not really mute or deaf? I wrote. You can’t hear me and you can never tell if I’ve heard anything you said. I wondered if that last line would provoke her but I decided to give it to her anyway.
She laughed soundlessly. thats true… why are you here?
I thought about it, thought about it for a good long time.
I’m here because I can no longer hear myself. I can’t hear anything. Everything’s so distant and alien… but I’m hoping I can remember my voice by listening to others.
any luck so far?
I sighed and shook my head. All I hear are echoes that faded a long time ago.
She held my hand again. at least you can hear the echoes, she wrote with her other hand.
I gripped her fingers. Then in a moment of inspiration, reached across and kissed her softly. Her lips felt like dead peaches. She was shocked; her eyes dilated wide. She broke out into an awkward smile, her fingers nervously tap-dancing across my face. A few minutes later, her guardian arrived.
Tomorrow? I wrote.
She nodded.
When I returned the next day, she wasn’t there. I searched several more days for her. But she was nowhere in sight.
Maybe, like she said, she’d finally vanished.
IX.
Unfortunately, my essence too was just a shard, a sublimation of everything I’d wanted.
It was evening and I found a hidden area in a park where I could sleep. I guess it was possible for me to find a home again, possible for me to try to get a job—to try and live a ‘worthy’ life. I remembered one night shortly after my wife left me, I was sitting in front of my computer surfing the web. There was a mosquito flying around, which I tried to crush with my hands. I walked to my bathroom, and on the way back, noticed a dead butterfly on the floor. I picked it up and realized it was actually just a leaf cut into pieces. For no explicable reason, I smashed the wall and threw my CDs and DVDs and flung plates at the glass table my ex-wife had purchased. Death was the normal end for everyone: there, and only there, would my search for normalcy end.
The Interview
I.
I didn’t realize you could get fired for mistaking a really masculine female manager for a man. I said, “Mr. Blah and blah, can I possibly blah and blah?”
She replied, “Excuse me, did you just say mister to me?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I’m a woman, that’s why.”
I swear it was a perfectly innocent mistake. But that’s not the way she decided to take it. Two hours later, HR called me in and told me my employment was being terminated. Twelve years of sleepless service, working around the clock to analyze esoteric graphs while kissing ass, and some college grad fresh out of school got me fired
My wife didn’t empathize. She was off sleeping with some guy she’d met at church. My daughter didn’t want to speak to me since she was going through the teenage phase where it wasn’t cool to talk with her parents. All my buddies were on leashes at home, no longer allowed out of the house without advance notice. I popped some popcorn and searched the Internet for job listings. Then thought about how tenuous and flimsy even the closest of relationships could be. One misspoken word, one misplaced gesture, a drunken outburst or a shy quiescence, then the closest bond shattering like a box of broken light bulbs.
I sent my resume to twenty companies. Got calls back from eleven of them.
All the interviews went well. The typical questions revolved around the extent of my experience, what my skills were, what I enjoyed doing, miscellaneous bits of info like whether I played softball. I’d been to a million of these since I’d lost my job and I felt more comfortable there than I did talking to my own wife. The nuances of a game subject to the inquiries of the slave master, a firm, a corporation, a meandering salesmen, trial by majority decision, conviction by a few proper friends, the morning stink of mints several notches too strong.
There was the morning arrival, a woman from HR called to the lobby. She would wear a pristine business suit, smiling with gestures practiced every morning in the mirror, firm handshake, nice to meet you, the smell of dry cleaned carpets pervading. Would you like coffee or an espresso? Do you like it with sugar? The ambassador coaxing through intimated sexuality and a professional servility that wreaked an awakening havoc on an otherwise unsuspecting body. A conference room and an oak table, monitors for teleconferencing on the wall. Streams of managers and directors and supervisors pouring through. Names remembered as quickly as they were forgotten. Assessing who really had authority and who was just a figurehead. A vigorous greeting, a bright expression, avoiding negativity in general while crafting a politically savvy answer to both humor and impress.
When I got a phone call from one of the most prestigious firms in the country, I was thrilled. A buddy of mine had a sister with a friend whose wife had a nephew that worked there. He was the one who’d turned in my resume.
“The job is so yours,” he said. “The guy who has the position is a total freak they’re gonna fire. My boss saw your resume and thought you’d be perfect. The interview is just a formality. Remember to ask for the number you wanted.”
I thanked him profusely.
The next morning, the interview went more smoothly than I could have imagined. The CEO of the company was the first to meet me.
“So what do we need to do to convince you to come?” he asked.
And from there, we talked about everything but work. Thirty minutes later, the lady from HR had to remind him that his allotted time was over. He left five minutes later, at which point another manager entered. The day went seamlessly. They weren’t asking questions about me. They were asking when I could start. After my last scheduled meeting ended at 4:30, the manager said, “I’ll go let Gena in HR know we’re done… I really hope you decide to join us.”
I was grinning. Not only was I getting a pretty big pay spike, but I felt I was going to finally get the respect I deserved. I was so excited, I was even tempted to call my wife. As I flirted with the thought, another manager came in the door.
“Hi,” I said, smiling, putting out my hand to shake his.
He took a seat, ignoring my hand, then said, “My entire family got into a car accident and died this morning. My wife, my two kids, and my brother are dead.”
I stared at him, startled. “I’m so
rry to hear that,” I said.
“No you’re not,” he snapped, then tapped his pen on the desk while looking over my resume. “So I take it you’re the guy they’re hiring to replace me?”
“I hadn’t heard anything about that, but…”
“Spare me the fake sympathy. Two weeks ago, my grandpa got gored to death by a pack of bulls. A week before that, my older sister died of breast cancer. Let me ask you something—what is the meaning of life?”
“Excuse me?”
“What is the meaning of life?”
“I… I don’t know. I haven’t… I haven’t really considered it in a while.”
“Why’s that?”
“Uhh… the question just hasn’t come up.”
“You’re saying you haven’t even thought about the purpose of your existence?”
“Should I have?” I wasn’t sure what his tactic was. Was he trying to see how I handled pressure?
“You don’t think it’s important that you figure out why you’re living and why you do the things you do?”
“It is very important.”
“Are you married?” he asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“Are you happy in your marriage?”
“Wha—I think so,” I replied.
“You think so or you are?”
“I am.”
“Have you ever cheated on your wife?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Just answer the question.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “I might have, once or twice.”
“Why did you do that if you were happy?”
“I… look, I find this question very awkward.”
“Why?” he wanted to know.
“Why what?”
“Why do you find it awkward?”
“I don’t see how it bears on my position,” I responded.
“Okay, I’ll ask you another question then. Why do people have to die?”
I shook my head. “Umm… I don’t know…”
“How many people that you know have died?”
“Several of my friends passed away, my grandparents.”
“Have you ever wanted to kill anyone before?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Never?”
“I don’t remember if I did.”
“What did you want to be as a kid?”
“I… I wanted to be an archaeologist,” I answered.
“Why didn’t you become one?”
“It didn’t pay very well.”
“So you dictated the course of your life based on pay?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then why didn’t you become what you wanted?”
“It was more complicated than that.”
“Was it?”
“Look, where are you taking this?” I asked.
“Is this an interview? Are you the one asking questions or me?”
“You are. But I don’t get the point of the questions.”
“But you would get the point if I asked you questions like, What was your previous job like, how is your day, what’d you do last weekend?”
“Yeah.”
“But not if I ask you anything that’s important or worthwhile?”
“That’s not what I mean,” I replied.
“Then what do you mean?”
“Well how about you? If you’re so intent on finding things out about me, I want to know something important about you.”
“Okay. I didn’t love my wife. I married her only because I was afraid of being alone. But when she was gone, I realized that I actually liked her a lot. I probably loved her more than any other person I could have loved.” I was surprised by the tone of his voice—candid, sincere, hurt. He noticed my reaction, smiled, and asked, “Do you have any regrets?”
“About me and my wife?”
“Or anything.”
“Who doesn’t have regrets?”
“What are some of yours?”
“I—I…” I thought about it. “I like to live my life in a way so that I don’t have regrets. But of course I have a ton. I wish I’d left my old company earlier. I was there for 12 years and I don’t even know why. I think getting fired was the best thing that could have happened. Otherwise, I would have just sat there, waiting for my 401k to accumulate.”
“Do you want more in life?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Why?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you want more in life than what you already have? Why not less?”
“What would be the benefit of less?” I asked.
“What would be the benefit of more?”
“Happiness?”
“What is happiness?”
“It’s a state of being content,” I said.
“So if you had more, you’d be content?”
“Probably.”
“Do you think you’re a good person?”
“I—I think so… I try to be nice to people. I give to charity every once in a while.”
“I didn’t ask if you were nice or charitable. I asked if you really think you’re a good person.”
“How do you define good?”
He grinned. “Good question.”
I laughed. “What about you? Do you think you’re a good person?”
“No. I haven’t done a single thing for anyone in the world. What difference have I made? I’ve just wanted more money for myself and patted myself on the back by giving money here and there to various charities. When you were young, did you want to be great?”
“Of course I did.”
“Do you think you’re going to be great?”
“Unless something changes in the next thirty years, probably not,” I jested. Then realized how terribly depressing my admission was.
“Do you think you’ve made a difference for the good in the lives of the people around you?”
“I’d hope so.”
“Do you think the people around you have felt their lives were enriched by your existence?”
“I can’t think of anything, but you saw It’s a Wonderful Life. Maybe if I died, people would notice.”
“If you found out you were going to die tomorrow, would you change the way you live your life?” he inquired.
“Absolutely. There’s a million things I’d go do.”
“Do any of them involve your wife and kids?”
“…No.”
“What’s the most cowardly thing you’ve done?”
“…I’m going to opt not to answer.”
“What’s the most hateful thing you’ve done?”
“…I don’t want to answer that.”
“What is the most important thing in the world to you?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Is truth important to you?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it since… since college. There was a time when all I cared about was truth. I didn’t even go to my classes, because I’d be reading books all day.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“…I’m married, aren’t I?”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“…Yes.”
“Does love always have to be painful?”
“…I think so.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you think is the worst feeling in the world?”
“When… when you know something good is going to end.”
“Have you ever lied to someone because you were jealous of them?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever pretended to be drunk so you could fit in with a group?”
“…Yes.”
“Have you ever betrayed a friend to protect yourself?”
“…Yes.”
“Did you ever try to commit suicide?”
“…No.”
“Why not?”
“Because… because I was too afraid to try.”
“Did you ever want to die?”
“…Yeah.”
“When?”
“There wasn’t a specific time. I think it was just a general state. Sometimes, I just get tired of life.”
“When was the proudest moment of your life?”
“…I don’t know if I have one.”
“What’s you’re most prized possession?”
“…My car.” I felt empty as the words came out.
“Do you believe in God?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think there’s a Heaven or Hell?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Would you still believe in God if you knew for a fact there was no Heaven or Hell?”
“…I don’t know.”
“Why do you believe in God?”
“Because… I don’t know why,” I said.
“Why do you work every day?”
“So I can make money.”
“For your happiness?”
“No, to pay the bills.”
“Does paying the bills make you happy?”
“No,” I answered.
“If you could escape from this life, would you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Would that make you happy?”
“Yep.”
“Then why don’t you leave right now?”
“Because… because I can’t. I have family. I have obligations.”
“Then you’re being denied your happiness by your family?”
“It’s not just my family. It’s… it’s me… I don’t get it.”
“Do you really believe in anything?”
“…Probably not.”
He jumped up and started screaming and pounding the table. Then he climbed on top of it. “You’re just like me: it doesn’t matter whether we live or die; we just drift without any purpose except to make someone somewhere more money. You really want my job? You really want to be the arbiter of nothing?”
“…”
“I’m going to commit suicide tomorrow. I’m going to die. And do you know what?”
“What?”
“I’m not going to do anything different. I’m going to come into work. I’m going to surf the net and send out some emails. I’m gonna go home at six and grab myself some cheap sushi on the way home. I’m gonna watch television for a few hours. Then I’m going to go to sleep. In the morning, I’m going to get a shotgun and blow my head off. It was nice meeting you. Good luck with the job.”
Watering Heaven Page 11