Touching From a Distance
by Ian Gill
After six minutes of staring into space, I realize that my paper is still blank. I glance outside the window. Overcast. The clock says it’s almost 10 AM. I’ve still got a long time before I can go home. Better get to work.
What I do for a living is not important; the only thing that really matters is that I didn’t choose my profession as much as it was forced upon me. It’s all right with me; I don’t think I could come up with anything more interesting. Hours and hours of monotony gives life a pattern that allows for the least amount of thought possible. That’s the way I like it.
There’s really nothing much to say about myself. I’m 27, I have brown hair, and I don’t talk very often; not because I’m shy or anything, it’s just that I don’t have much to say. Ask me about how I feel about something. Odds are, I don’t have an opinion.
I look at the clock again. 10:04. Is time passing more slowly than usual, or is it just me? Two knocks on my office door. I turn around and a tall, lanky figure trips into the room with two coffees in hand. It’s Paul, a friend of mine from high school who managed to get a job in the same office as me. He sits down, and from the look of it has something to say.
“Stevey! How’s it going?”
“Don’t call me that.” He should know by now that I hate that stupid nickname.
“Alright, alright. Hey man, have I got some news for you!” He offers me one of the steaming beverages. I don’t take it.
“I don’t drink coffee. You know that. What’s so important, anyway?”
“Party tonight. My place. You’ll be there, right? You have to!”
“Maybe. I’ll check my schedule.”
“No, you’ll be there. Besides, there are some people I want you to meet. Anyway, I have to go, so I’ll see you then. 8 o’clock. Bye.” He leaves the room before I can defend myself.
He wants me to go to a party? He’s probably trying to set me up with someone. He always tries to do this. Can’t he figure out by now that I don’t want to “meet some people?”
10:18 AM. Today isn’t very productive. I’m going home. I can’t deal with this right now.
The chill hits me when I leave the building. At least it isn’t raining. Luckily, my apartment isn’t too far from work. I enter the building, walk up the two sets of stairs, and turn the key. I collapse onto the couch and stare blankly at the ceiling.
People. Why does it always have to be people? With each person I meet comes another competition for power. A new person in my life always leads to me wanting something, and each desire leaves me feeling wretched, and Paul wants me to add more of this to my life. Part of my reluctance to attend is due to previous experiences, all of which turned out the same. Miserable. It’s a formula, really; we meet and I feel nauseous, we’re an item and I feel happy yet on the verge of messing everything up, and then I mess everything up. Variation? No. Everything, from movies to romance, is the same story with different faces.
So what do I do? Go to the party and start the cycle anew, or sit here, feeling sorry for myself? I’ll go to Paul’s house. I’m already caught.
* *
By the time 8 o’clock rolls around, I’m in no mood to go out. I’ve spent the last few hours napping and watching taped episodes of 60 Minutes. I should probably take a shower before I head over.
I open the front door to exit the apartment building, and the temperature nearly changes my mind. I go back to my room and grab a heavier jacket before leaving.
Paul’s house is a nice, two-story Victorian. I don’t know how he got the money for it. I know I’m not early because of the loud music and shadows on the curtains. Here comes the moment of truth. Two knocks on the door. No answer. I ring the doorbell. Hmm, I guess nobody’s home. I’m on my way down the steps when an unfamiliar voice greets me.
“Didn’t think you could get away that easily, did you?” I turn, and to my surprise I see a woman; medium height, with dark brown hair and black-rimmed glasses. Wow, she’s…beautiful. Think of something witty!
“Oh, I’m, uh, Stephen.” Yeah, that’s my wit for you. “Is Paul home?”
“Yeah, here, come in. Right this way.” She beckons me into the house. “Oh, by the way, I’m Sophie.”
“Nice to meet you.”
We step inside, and, true to his word, Paul has set up a small get-together. There are about six people inside the room, Paul being the only one I recognize. He spots me and carefully steps over.
“Steve! You doing ok?” His breath reeks of alcohol.
“Your music is really loud; you should probably turn it down before somebody calls the police.”
“No, man, I asked you a question! How are you…doing?”
“I’m fine. Look, the music, it’s too loud. I can’t hear myself think.”
“That’s good, man, you should relax a bit. You think too much anyway. Hold on, I’ll be back…” He stumbles off, nearly falling over.
I watch Paul go into the kitchen and realize that I’ve lost the only person I know. I guess I’ll have to talk to somebody else. I could talk to Sophie, or…I could look at the many curiosities Paul has amassed on his mantelpiece. Or the bookshelf.
“So, what do you do? Like, for a job?” Okay, I guess I’ll talk to her. Should I tell her the truth? No, that’s too boring, maybe something exciting.
“Oh, well, I’m a… hotline operator. I pick up the phone and talk to people.”
“What kind of hotline?”
“I switch topics with some other guys I work with. Usually drugs and alcohol, but If I’m lucky I get suicide. That’s the good one.” Oh dear, I’m headed down a slippery slope. Was that even okay to say?
“Why, because it gives you a power trip? Or do you enjoy ‘saving’ people?”
“A mix of both, really.”
“Well, I can’t say that I’ve ever had that experience. I just write for Time.”
With a start like that, how could I lose? We continue talking, and I cover all the necessary “favorite” bases, ending with a discussion of her political beliefs. I still can’t shake the feeling that it doesn’t matter whether or not I keep talking to her. It’ll end up the same way as all the others, right? I’m not sure if I should even keep playing this game.
Paul comes back into the room with two glasses in hand. I’ve only moved a couple feet since he’s been gone, but he seems to have a difficult time spotting us. He comes over, nearly spilling the drinks onto Sophie.
“Hey! Look who’s talking to Sophie!” He shoots a not-so-subtle wink in my direction. Remind me to kill him next time I see him. “Oh, I brought some drinks for you, Stephen, buddy…” He hands me a glass. There’s a bag of green tea inside a glass of…water? No, something else. Wow, how drunk is this guy? Regardless, I don’t want it. The last thing I need to not have control over is my own actions. Paul shrugs and walks away. I’ve run out of things to say, and I’d prefer to spare myself any unnecessary awkwardness.
“Listen, I’m feeling a bit under the weather, and I don’t think this music is helping me. I’m going to head home.” What a lie.
“Well, if you say so.” Her expression reveals that she can see right through me. “Oh, and here.” She hands me a slip of paper. “Call me sometime, maybe we can get together and talk about your real job.” Hmm, saw through that one, too.
* *
Contrary to what I expect of myself, I take her up on the offer. We meet at a small restaurant around the corner from my apartment. We repeat with variation; sometimes we go to the movies, sometimes we just find somewhere to sit and talk. Hanging around with her is great, yet as the weeks go by I keep having that feeling, the one from the party. You could say it was fear, or something else, but nevertheless; it’s more real to me than any potential future outcome. I’ve never been fond of the future; the past has a way of messing it up.
* *
With this feeling in mind, I decided to leave. It was easy to explain to others (“There’s a family emergency, and they need me there to help out. I’m not sure how long it’ll be.”), but to myself…that’s another story. Why did I need to get away? Things were going fine, great even, but that’s the problem. This is the beginning of how it always happens, the start of the movie. Pretty soon it’ll be the part where the main character suffers some sort of loss and then has to pick his or herself up again. Do I want to keep watching?
It’s funny to think that once upon a time I wasn’t like this, a time when I wasn’t so goddamn serious about everything. I can still remember when it started. Spring of ’96, part of that transitory period where I still didn’t know what I wanted out of life. Her name was April. The exact details of the event aren’t important, only the outcome. It ended. I probably shouldn’t have taken it as hard as I did, but being young and impressionable, I didn’t have enough experience with life to deal with it as I probably should’ve.
Although the initial shock and the resulting pain and frustration left me, I could still feel the echoes of that rejection. Is it possible for one single event to dominate your life, or your general well being? Every romantic incident since then has been, in my mind, a reiteration of that first time, pushing me further away.
A long time ago I came up with a theory for my life, and I’m still a firm believer. I think about it this way: There’s a line that represents the way I feel. The two poles are the extremes of happy and sad, with the middle being absolute indifference. The farther I allow myself to go on one side is mirrored on the other side; thus, the happier I am, the sadder I could potentially be. I used to be an extremist in emotion, but time has made me hover around the middle. I’m a victim of circumstance, that’s all. I’m sure Paul has his own emotion spectrum, and as far as I can tell he floats around towards the happy end. Good for him? In a way, I suppose.
So why did I need to get away? Perhaps it’s the fear that it’ll just happen again, and I should avert any foreseeable pain from my life. Honestly, I don’t really know.
* *
When I told my parents that I was going to come visit them for a little while, they told me that I had picked a terrible time; they said they were fairly busy with their respective jobs, but they’d still like it if I came. That was good enough for me; all I needed was a quiet place to think.
I arrived and, after greeting my parents, quickly sought out the solace of my old room. It had changed quite a bit. The many posters that once adorned the walls are gone now, and the mess that I could never manage to clean up has long since vanished. Hell, if you showed me a picture, I wouldn’t even recognize it. I guess a lot has changed since I lived here, room or otherwise.
What did running away accomplish? I’m not any more productive, and I certainly don’t feel better about myself in any way. Maybe it’s a last ditch attempt to stay true to the old ways of thinking. God, I’m tired of this…all of the constant thinking about that one event that I’ve let rule my life. Why can’t I just let go?
I glance around the room. I jump when I see a face staring back at me. Wait…it’s just a mirror. I guess my parents put it here. My reflection seems a bit strange; I guess I haven’t ever really spent that much time dealing with my appearance or anything. Still, that’s no excuse for feeling like a stranger to myself. The figure copies all of my movements, from the frowning of my mouth to the furrowing of my brow. I can see its hands, clenched and sweaty from worry. He looks unhappy.
I slowly rise from my chair, and approach myself. My reflection draws nearer and nearer, and soon I’m close enough to see my breath fogging up the mirror.
Am I really this unhappy? What a silly question…of course I am. Yet, I have nobody to blame but myself. Sure, I could say my condition is the direct effect of all the Aprils of my life, but that would be looking for an excuse. They aren’t the ones keeping me like this; telling me everyday that there’s something wrong, or dwelling on the same subject at all hours. The only question that remains is whether or not it’s too late to fix this.
I turn away with a nauseous feeling in my stomach. Self-reflection is exhausting, so I decide to take a break. I walk outside. The sky is still a bit overcast, but it looks like it could clear up by the afternoon. I check the mailbox. There’s the normal stuff; catalogs, junk mail, etc. However, one thing catches my eye. A letter addressed to “Stephen Morris, 963 Village Blvd, Portland, OR.” The name on the return address surprises me. Sophie Curtis. Did I give her this address? I might’ve, I can’t remember.
I bring it inside and open the envelope.
Dear Stephen,
I know you only left two weeks ago, but I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing. You left in quite a rush, so I assumed that it was fairly serious. How’s the family emergency?
Anyway, I hope everything is going all right. Please let me know if you have any idea when you’ll be getting back. Paul wants to throw you a party.
* *
I’ve been at this for at least twenty minutes, but my paper is still blank. I look out the window. The sky has cleared up. There’s a beam of sunlight shining directly into my eyes. I look back at my paper. Is what I write really that important? I suppose not, because I really don’t know how to answer any of her questions. I could just make up some responses, or I could just use the one that I always use. That’s my problem; I’ve gotten so used to my own way of thinking that I can’t escape it… even now, when I know that I’m tired and I want to move on.
Dear Sophie, that sounds like a good start. As for the rest…I’ll just have to wait and see. I have all the time in the world.