NaNoWriMo – Day 28 (11/28/2005)

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on a second, Sara—that’s not fair. It’s not my fault that you’re not happy with your life. Until about seven hours ago I didn’t even know you existed … and you didn’t know I did. You can’t put that on me, it’s not fair.”

“Why is it always about fair, Simon? Life isn’t fair. People who don’t deserve the good things in life get them, and people who really deserve a break—who actually need one—don’t get it. They have to slog through life while others are given an easy ride. No, life isn’t fair at all.”

“The fairness comes in the fact that we all have to deal with the unfairness. Sara, just because you look at someone else and think they’ve got it easy, they may not see it the same way. People have all sorts of different problems and they deal with them in all sorts of different ways. Some people drink too much, others work too hard. Some people play aggressive sports and others knit. We all have our ways of dealing with our lives. None of us is exempt even though it may look like they are.”

“That’s a load of bullshit and you know it.”

“I don’t know anything of the sort. Some people would say I know nothing at all …” that small, wry smile again, “… and they may just be right about that. What do any of us actually know that isn’t tainted?”

“Tainted by what?” I ask.

“By the very act of our perceiving it. Did you know that quantum physics asserts that the very act of perceiving something changes it irrevocably? If we hadn’t witnessed it, perceived it, paid attention to it, it might very well be something entirely different.”

“I don’t know about that …”

“Neither do I, to be honest, it’s just something I read in a magazine article. But what if it’s true? The implications are astounding!”

“You’re getting off topic Simon. I’m beginning to think you’re trying to avoid my point.”

“You didn’t have a point, Sara. You wanted to put your dissatisfaction with the way things are, right now, on me. I’m trying to explain that your perception of the way things are is the actual cause of your dissatisfaction; that if you change the way you look at it, how you feel about it will also change. Have you ever considered the possibility that because you expect nothing from other people—which is different than not having expectations, much different—that’s what you end up with?”

“I think I just said that, Simon.”

“Well, have you considered the possibility that if you ceased to expect anything, from anyone, then you might just be pleasantly surprised with whatever you do get?”

My anger has dissipated but my frustration is going through the roof.

“I didn’t come here to be lectured by a total stranger.” He looks at me and there’s a sadness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. I am suddenly sorry that I snapped at him.

“I’m not forcing you to stay here,” he says finally. “In fact, maybe it’s better for both of us if you didn’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you afraid I’m going to offer some irresistible temptation? Are you going to make it my fault when you succumb?” I laugh a terribly scornful laugh and as I hear it I know it’s not him that I’m laughing at. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “That really wasn’t fair. It’s not about you, I mean.”

“I know that Sara. Just like I know that everything I’m saying isn’t about you. Nothing I’ve told you today is directed at you at all. We offer the advice we most need to heed. I don’t always remember that that’s true, but deep down I know that it is. You tell me what you most need to hear and I do the same. The question is will we listen to ourselves and take the actions today that will get us where we want to be tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that?”

“I don’t even know what that action is,” I tell him truthfully.

“I’m not sure that’s entirely true,” he says. “I think that we always know the right next step at least on some level. There is a part of us, no matter how small, that knows where we want to go and can see the way there, however scattered that path may be. But we get so caught up in our expectations of other people—that they will or won’t do this or that; that they should or shouldn’t behave in some way—that we crowd at that small voice until it becomes a tiny squeak. And when we finally do actually hear the squeak we think some part of us is rusty and we try and eradicate it when what we really need to be doing is nurturing it, encouraging it.”

I’m nodding in agreement as he talks because I know exactly how that feels—especially the part about oiling a squeak. It feels like every time I’ve tried to ‘fix’ a part of my life I end up making things worse. It reminds me of that Seinfeld episode where George decides to do the opposite of his instincts and starts getting everything that he wants.

“And when you oil the squeak that little voice becomes mute and we lose a part of ourselves forever.”

He frowns. “I don’t know if we lose it forever. I guess the potential is there, for sure, and maybe the likelihood is higher too. But we can start to listen again too. I’d like to thing of it more like a dog whistle … the sound is simply out of our frequency range. But if we work at it, if we train ourselves, we can find that part of ourselves again. We just have to be willing.”

“Is being willing enough?”

“True willingness? Yes, absolutely. A willingness to do whatever it takes will always end up in the result you’re looking for—every time, guaranteed.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because true willingness means that no obstacle is too tough to work around. It means that you’ll go to any length to accomplish your mission. And, especially if your mission is something that is supportive of the greater environment, quite often sheer willingness to do the hard things that stop most people result in the effortless removal of the obstacle. It’s because the obstacle ceases to be an obstacle once you’re willing to do whatever it takes. It becomes just another part of the process.”

“You’re saying that the means justifies the end?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying!” he laughs. “I don’t mean to say that, but I can see how you got there. I don’t like the idea of the means justifies the ends because it opens the door for trickery. If the end is meaningful enough it will come about without trickery, without resorting to questionable methods.”

“But if perception is everything, as you suggest, doesn’t that mean that one person’s trickery is another’s ethic?”

“I suppose it does.”

“So how do you reconcile the two? How do you decide when something is trickery or not? Even if you believe that the end is worth it?”

“I’m not sure I have the answer to that. It’s a good question though; and one I hadn’t thought of until now.”

“You know Simon,” I say, “ten minutes ago I was ready to storm out of here. Now I can’t imagine not sitting here and having this conversation. I don’t know what it is, or why it is, but there’s a reason we met each other today. There’s a reason we ran into each other I was coming and you were going.”

“What is that reason?”

“I have no idea,” I say truthfully, “but I believe that there is one.”

“Are you talking about God? A preordained encounter that changes lives?”

“Not God, no. But … something. I guess in the ‘new age’ you’d call it synchronicity. I know that my life is changed at any rate. I already see the world in a different way than I did before.”

“How long will that last, do you think?”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “And why does it matter?”

“I mean just that: how long with this feeling of being different last? Will you be any different than you are now come tomorrow, or next month or next year? Or will the feeling of being different gradually wear off and fade into memory? And why does it matter? It matters because this, what you’re experiencing right now, what you call feeling different, is actually living. This is what it feels like to be alive.”

“As opposed to … ?”

“As opposed to when you’re fighting the crowds on your way to work in the morning; as opposed to when you’re worrying about what’s going to happen tomorrow at the office or when you get home after work; as opposed to wishing something in the past had been different, that you’d done something another way. All of those things are illusions anyway. What we’re doing right now is being totally engaged in what we’re doing right now.”

“I’m not sure I follow you,” I say. “Are you saying the past isn’t real?”

“Of course it’s not! It’s no longer. It lives as a figment of your imagination; and as a figment of mine and of everyone else’s. It exists only as a fragmented story to which there are six billion sides. It’s impossible to know the entire truth. And when we spend time worrying about something that’s already happened—something we have no hope of ever changing—we live outside of reality.”

“Okay, that makes a strange sort of sense to me, but what about the future? Surely that’s real.”

“How can something that has yet to happen be real? It is an impossibility. From one moment to the next we can’t be entirely sure that tomorrow will actually happen. Of course there’s a very high percentage that it will, but there is certainly no certainty. Everything we think and hope is going to happen is a projection of our current fears. That’s all.”

“So you’re saying we shouldn’t plan for the future at all? That we should simply live for the moment, as the saying goes? Carpe diem?”

“Yes, and no. I certainly think that we need to acknowledge the likelihood of tomorrow and future tomorrows and we need to plan accordingly. But not so much that we forget about today. All my life I’ve spent working hard so that I could have a decent retirement, when all it takes is one little misstep and I get hit by a bus or something.”

“Simon, that’s disgusting!”

“Well, it could happen. See? I need to listen to myself more than I need to tell this stuff to you. I want you to understand that. Everything I’m telling you I’m actually telling myself … you just get to be my witness.”

“I’m flattered,” I say with a sarcastic smile.

“You should be,” he smiles back.

“So how did you become so smart, anyway?”

“You call this smart? I’m just fumbling my way through life just like everyone else. Trying to do the best I can with the tools I have available to me right now.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“That I’m doing my best? Yes.”

“No, not that. I’m pretty sure of that too. I mean about everyone else? Do you really think that everyone is doing their best?”

“I like to think that’s true, yes. I certainly hope it is.”

“I hope so too, but my experience doesn’t show me that it is. All the time I see people who don’t seem to give a damn. They don’t care about other people—even something so simple as holding the door for me when I walk into a building. Not because I’m a woman and it’s the chivalrous thing to do, but because I’m another person trying to share the same world and I’m right behind you!”

He laughs. “Okay, okay, calm down. I get your point. Have you considered the possibility that they were never taught to look out for other people? That maybe it’s not something they’re even aware of? If it doesn’t register in their consciousness can we really hold them to blame for it?”

“If not them, then who?” I challenge him.

“Why lay blame at all? Why not simply believe that they are doing the best they can with the tools they have. And know that you are doing the same, even though that may look like it’s worlds apart.”

“But someone has to be responsible.”

“I don’t know … I think we need to be responsible for ourselves, meaning we have to be true to ourselves. And I believe we should be responsible to others, meaning that when we say we’re going to do something we should do it. But of course that’s my opinion about things, which doesn’t necessarily reflect the way they actually are. There are no ‘shoulds’ in this world.”

I look at my watch and it’s pushing four o’clock now. “Shit, I say. Speaking of being responsible, I have to go meet my friend so that we can get an extra set of keys for me to use. I have to meet her in half an hour.”

The waitress comes around just as I’m saying this, asking if we want more coffee.

“No thank you,” Simon tells her. “Just the bill if you could, please.”

“Sure thing, hon. Be right back.”

Hon. I find that so funny and unusual that people would call total strangers, customers; a name that is usually reserved for someone closer. It should be more meaningful. We sit in silence, waiting for her to come back so we can pay the bill and be on our way and as we do I can’t help but wonder if we’ve exhausted ourselves on each other, if we’ll ever see one another again.

The waitress quickly returns with our bill, dropping it on the table in front of Simon automatically. An unconscious gesture by an unconscious woman, I scold her in my mind, and upon hearing myself turn it inward on myself for being so harsh with my criticisms. Of course, I have assumed he’ll be paying too and as I realise the truth of it, I reach instinctively for my wallet only to find there are no bills and only a small handful of change to get myself home on the bus.

“Don’t even think of it,” he says. “This one’s on me.”

“I’m not here looking for charity,” I tell him harshly, mostly because I’m need of a little charity at the moment, but far too proud to admit it.

“I’m not offering charity,” he tells me, looking pointedly at me. “You’ll have to buy next time is all.”

“Next time? I didn’t think there was going to be a next time.”

“Well, maybe we should ensure that there is. I’ve enjoyed our conversation a lot—there’s a lot I can learn from you and I’d like to continue that. I am hoping we can try to be friends.”

“Friends?”

“Yes, friends. You know two people who care about each other, who are interested in how the other is making out with their life, who want to see the best for the other person. And who are there for the other when needed. Friends.”

“I see.” My hopes are dashed again, although this time around I remember what he said earlier about hopes for the future being a reflection of our current fears and I feel a little better. “I’d like to give that a try too,” I tell him honestly, “though it could be hard at times.”

“If it were easy it wouldn’t be worth doing for very long,” he says, tossing some money on the table, along with a few extra coins as a tip.

“I guess not,” I say thinking that sometimes I wouldn’t mind life being easy—or at least easier than it’s been lately. At the same time I know that I wouldn’t be the same person I am today if I hadn’t had to deal with some of the challenges I’ve endured. It occurs to me that an infinite number of unrelated events, in both Simon’s life and my own, had to coincide in exactly the right way—the way they did—in order for both of us to end up on the same bus, at the same time, with minds that were equally open to the chance encounter. It is these kinds of moments that really make me believe in fate.

We stand up and face each other by the side the table, covered as it is in our dirty dishes, sitting as it does in the middle of a simple diner in a part of town I’ve never been before and prepare to say our goodbyes. I can feel my eyes starting to tear up and can’t help but laugh at myself.

“What?” he asks as I turn and we walk through the diner together, old friends who have only just met.

“Just me,” I tell him. “I can’t believe it, but I think I’m going to start crying.”

“There’s nothing wrong with crying,” he says reaching over to rub my back. “It can be one of the healthiest forms of emotional release. Of course, like anything else, it can be abused.”

I let out a barking laugh. “I never cry.”

“That can be abused, too.” We walk outside and the day has shifted from being damp and cool to sunny with a slight hint of warmth. He pulls out his wallet and digs a business card out, which he hands over to me.

“Fat lot of good that’s going to do.” He looks at me, puzzled for a moment, until he realises what I already know—his business card won’t be a very good way of getting in touch with him, as of ten o’clock this morning.

“I don’t have a … hang on,” he says, turning back to the door and going inside the diner again. He’s back in less than a minute and when he hands me the business card this time he does so with the bottom facing up and I can see that he’s written his telephone number there.

“It’s my home number,” he assures me.

“What if I call and Vanessa answers?”

“I don’t know, to tell you the truth. I guess I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it. I’ve sort of been thinking that she and I need to have a pretty honest conversation about our marriage. And I feel like I’m on a roll today, so who knows?”

“So you want me to call then?”

“Yes Sara, I do. Let’s get together next week for lunch again. You can tell me all about the new job you’re going to find. Not to mention the great apartment you’re going to rent.”

“In my dreams,” I say.

“There too.”

I can feel the tears again, so instead of doing what I normally do, which would be to turn and run away, I decide to pull a Costanza and do the exact opposite of what my instincts are telling me to do. I stand there, looking him square in the eye as tears roll down my cheeks. After a couple of moments where I don’t die like I always thought I would in a situation like this, I put my arms around him and give him a great big hug.

“Thank you, Simon. Thanks for being a friend when I need one, even when that’s not what I think I want.”

“You’re welcome, Sara. Than—”

“Don’t,” I tell him, stopping him in mid-sentence. “Don’t compliment me back, or say thank you or whatever. I hate that. Just accept my gratitude for what it is, and don’t cheapen in by shrugging it off or trying to deflect it back on me. Just accept it.”

“You’re right. Okay. You’re welcome, then.”

“That’s better,” I say sternly, smiling as I do.

“Good.”

“I am going to call you Simon. I owe you lunch and there’s nothing you can do to stop me from paying my debt.”

“Haha. I’d be a fool to even try.”

This time he reaches over and gives me a hug. “Talk to you soon,” I tell him, trying to keep my eyes dry this time and succeeding, but only barely.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“But then you’ll be ignoring reality!” I tell him, glad to have caught him in his own web of words at least this once. “Isn’t that what you said?”

Laughing he says, “You’re absolutely right. One hundred percent. I’ll have to keep my eye on you … you’re too smart.”

“Too smart for my own good, my mother used to say.”

“Well don’t you listen to me or her. You’re just smart enough for your own good and that’s all you’ll ever need to know.

I smile at him feeling truly happy for the first time in ages. I feel alive and it’s thanks in part to him but it’s also thanks to me and it’s this realisation more than anything else that widens my smile until I feel like my face is going to split wide open.

“Take care, Simon.”

“You too, Sara. Remember, lunch next week on you.”

“I’ll remember,” I say turning to leave. I look back and throw a wink at him but I’m not sure if it comes off properly. I may have blinked instead. Laughing I walk down the street, the sun warming my face and a gentle breeze quickening my step. I don’t have to look back to know that he’s watching me as I go.

Stan

“Tha’s a fine lookin woman there. I don’t know much, but I know that, tha’s for sure.”

He looks at me like he’s just realised I’m there, but I’ve been watching him an his girl for the last five minutes. Standing all lovey in the middle of the sidewalk, don’ got a care in the world these two, middle of the afternoon an’ all.

“Yes,” he nods. “Yes, she is.” He turns to start walking up the street in the other direction but I ain’t finished with him yet. I walk after him tugging on his sleeve once I’ve got him in reach an’ he stops and turns around to look at me.

“She good in bed?”

“Excuse me?”

“Is … she … good … in … bed …?” I’ll be damned if half the people with the good jobs and all the money in the world ain’t some of the dumbest too. It’s no wonder the world’s gone to hell in a handcart, guys like this runnin’ around.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “but do I know you?” I shake my head. “Because the last time I checked my sex life was not open season for discussion any and all. In fact, even if I did know you it wouldn’t be an appropriate question to ask.

“Playin’ hard to get is she?” I know these guys, they’re all alike. They can’t give a straight answer to save their life. Prolly a politician or something like that.

“Playing? What?”

“Hard to get … you know?” I do a little dance and shake my butt for him, tryin to show him a tease an’ he can’t help but laugh.

“Haha. No, she’s not a tease,” he says. “Well, actually I shouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t know if she’s a tease or not because we only just met today.”

“Jus’ met today my ass. I saw the two a you go in here hours ago. You tryin’ to tell me you jus’ met and you been sitting in there talking all this time? I saw you two come out an’ say goodbye too … you remember that before you answer me. I saw the hugs an’ all the rest of it.”

“You got me,” he says, throwing up his hands and starting to walk again. I follow him to make sure he’s not lyin’ still. “The truth his, she and I are secret government spies—but I can’t tell you which government we work for—and even though we’re not supposed to, we’re having a secret affair and plan to run away together.”

I knew it. “Where ya goin’ to?”

“There’s a little island off the coast of Mexico. It’s currently inhabited only by monkeys, but I have it from a very good source that the monkeys are about to be removed by a secret task force made up entirely of golden retrievers and rottweilers, specially trained by the US government.”

“You shittin’ me?”

“Why would I do that?” he asks and I don’t right have an answer to that.

“So you and the little lady there are gonna go and live on the island?”

“That’s the plan, Stan.”

Holy shit he knows who I am. How’d he do that?

“How do you know my name? You been spyin on me? I knew it. What does the government want from me? I’ve given everything I have—I don’t have anything left to give. Why can’t you people just leave me alone?”

“Uh … I’m sorry?”

“Jus’ tell me how you knew my name. Who told you where I am?”

“What is your name?”

“Stan, dammit, don’ play games with me! Tell me who told you I was here!”

He turns away and starts walking more quickly than before, almos’ runnin. “That’s right!” I tell him. “You better run! Nobody messes with Stan, no sir. You tell ‘em to stay the hell away from me, you hear? Do you hear me?!”

Kimberly

Damn crazy people should be put in a home. Poor guy getting harassed like that as he’s walking up the sidewalk. “Should be criminal,” I say as he walks up to the bus stop and stands beside me. He looks a little scattered and who can blame him after that.

“I’m sorry?”

I jerk my head sideways towards the homeless guy still yelling something about finding out who told everyone where to find him. Like anyone would intentionally want to find him of all people. “The crazies—molesting people on the sidewalk trying to mind their own business. It should be criminal.”

“I think it is criminal, technically,” he says.

“Well the damn police should be out here doing something about it. Accosting an innocent man … how dare he!”

“No offence ma’am, but how do you know I’m innocent. Or for that matter that I was trying to mind my own business?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why, did you fart too?”

“Well I never!”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he damn well better mean it. “I wasn’t trying to offend you. I just find it interesting that we often jump to conclusions about people and that maybe those conclusions are a bit premature.”

“Are you telling me he’s not crazy?” I ask. “Because if you are, then you’re crazier than he is and I really will call the cops in that case.”

“Oh no, not at all. If he isn’t fully crazy he’s well on his way. But I did provoke him a little. Unintentionally, of course.”

“Of course, of course,” I reply, not sure I know what he’s talking about. “So how did you unintentionally provoke him into accosting you on the street?”

“Well, he did open the door for me … he started the conversation I mean. I just sort of took it in a different direction. I also made the unfortunate mistake of guessing his real name.”

“You guessed his name?”

“Well, not really ‘guessed’ I suppose. Stumbled across it, would be more accurate. ‘That’s the plan, Stan,’ I said to him. I guess his name really is Stan. At any rate, it kind of freaked him out a little, which is probably what you saw.”

“Well, it should still be illegal.”

“I suppose you may be right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

“Well that’s good to know. I’m Simon,” he says extending his hand.

“Kimberly,” I tell him, “but I don’t shake hands, I’m sorry. No disrespect intended.”

“None taken,” he answers as he lets his outstretched hand fall back to his side. “Do you mind if I ask why not?”

“I simply don’t know where your hands have been and what kind of germs you are covered in. We’re all covered in germs you know, leeches every one of them, living off our dead skin. You might have a germ I don’t already have and I’ve got quite enough of them thank you very much.”

“I understand completely. But don’t you worry about getting germs when you go on the bus? If you hold the handrail or something like that?”

“I do my very best not to but if I want to remain a productive member of society—unlike that lecher back there—there are certain risks that I have to take. But I am fully prepared to mitigate that risk by being additionally cautious. I avoid contact with others as much as humanly possible.”

“Seems rather counter-productive to me,” he says. The gall of him.

“Is that right?”

“Well, I don’t know if it is or not but it seems to me that if you spend your life trying to avoid contact with other people you may very well live longer but you won’t have a very enjoyable experience of it. Whereas if you spent more time trying to encourage human contact you may well catch a germ that cuts your life short, but at least you’ll have enjoyed the time you had while you had it. You know the old saying, ‘it’s not the quantity it’s the quality that counts’.”

I’ve never been able to understand the nerve of some people’s children. Who is he to tell me what makes a good life? I’m nearly twice his age for crying out loud! I’ve done things, been places he’s never dreamed of. I’ve had to deal with a hell of a lot more in my life than he has in size, that’s for damn sure. How dare he? Doesn’t he know you can’t judge a book by its cover? This is what the world’s come to these days … too much fluff and not enough substance. Not nearly enough.

The bus pulls up beside us just then and the doors slide open in front of us with a whoosh. We wait for several people to get off and when the coast is clear he motions for me to go ahead of him onto the bus.

“This isn’t my bus,” I tell him. “I’m waiting for a different route.”

He looks at the sign and back to me. “There’s only one route that stops here.”

“I’m waiting for a different bus, please and thank you.”

“All right. Good day to you, Kimberly.”

He steps inside and the bus driver looks past him at me. I give a quick shake of my head and the driver gives a shrug. The doors close with another whoosh and the bus pulls away with a roar and an exhaust of diesel fumes.

Today’s word count: 5237
Cumulative word count: 40,013