An Ocean Full of Half Shucks (Excerpt)

“Give me your tired, your poor,
 Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free… but don’t sit next to me. That’s where my handbag goes.” — Thoughts from the N train.

1)

I think I’m going to die. I say think because I know I won’t. Well, it’s statistically improbable at least. I actually have a much higher chance of dying when I step into my shower or when I cross the street without the little neon, white man popping up, but statistics tend to not quell an irrational mind. No, when your mind is distraught, all the facts in the world won’t do. And right now, on this packed 6 train, I definitely felt distraught.

It was hot outside. The days of private car rides were over, so I took the subway to save a couple of bucks. If you’ve ever been in New York City on a hot, humid day in July, then you know the only place that is hotter than the street is underground.

I reach down to grab my phone to check and see how long I must be confined on this helter-skelter ride from hell, but I can’t move. It’s not fear that has gripped me tightly, but rather a senior citizen who has mistaken my slender arm for a subway pole. At this point, I’m just hoping that my newfound companion doesn’t realize this before they hop off the train. Sometimes the only thing worse than a bad situation is an awkward one.

The subway is one of the few places where you can’t upgrade your seat. Billionaires and peasants alike must abide by the same rules. On a plane, if you’re not happy with your coffin-like seating, you can upgrade… might cost you a month’s rent, but it’s still an option. I always hope for an upgrade, but I don’t get it. I wonder how they pick those folks? I’ve been on so many trips, but still, not once? Perhaps, that is a statistical probability worse than crashing. The statistical probability of being content.

And then it hits, the smell… You’ll never forget the first time you smell piss. Not in a public bathroom, not at a dog park, but just heading to work or to get an onion bagel or something mundane. It’s hard to spin the smell of piss, but that’s exactly what you’ll do. That’s what it’s like to be a new New Yorker. They’re the most misunderstood group of optimists you’ve ever met.

But where does it start you say? Well, like all things, it starts with a single seed, which if nurtured right, grows legs and leaps from the folds of your cerebral cortex into whatever mess you perceive to be reality. But even then, you need an unmet need or offense. Something to remind you that things aren’t right.

Perhaps it’s when you go out to dinner with your parents to the local spot in town and you ask what vegetarian options they have and they, as politely as they can, thinking that it’s actually a viable solution, tell you that they can make you a cheeseburger without the burger part. Or maybe it’s when you realize that you’ve actually gone through all your Tinder matches in a ten-mile radius and nobody has read Murakami, let alone even heard of Maira Kalman.

Or better yet, you have Thanksgiving Dinner at your uncle’s house (the one with the same broken Trans Am in front for years), and he goes on about some type of derivative rant about why the green M&Ms being made less sexy is somehow one of many steps leading to the collapse of the ol’ red, white, and blue, and nobody bats an eye, not even your quiet liberal cousin… and that’s when the bullshit hits your nostrils and you can’t stand to spend another second in whatever podunk town you grew up in. Flowers need water to grow and this town is dryer than British humor. And just like that, you’re gone. 

My girlfriend, Evie, was one of those people, and I’m ashamed to admit I still can’t tell if it is jealousy or disdain I feel when she expresses this optimism to me. 

She still saw NYC with rose-colored glasses, a product of her learning about this city from old black and white movies and classic books where the protagonist comes here, a penniless and bright-eyed transient, and becomes a permanent fixture and living embodiment of the old adage that anyone can make it in New York. Yes, as if it was more a choice you make, that if you promised to work hard and pay your dues, you, too, could embody a success story that other fresh, young faces would talk about when they saw you grace their presence at a cocktail party they were fortunate enough to be invited to.

“Who is that?” they would say in hushed whispers.

“She’s the editor for Vanity Fair.”

“Wow, maybe one day I could be the editor of Vanity Fair!”

“Sure, it’s all possible in New York!”

But it wasn’t. This was only a part of the marketing magic that started well before you even decided you wanted to move to The City. The same magic that was spoon-fed to boys and girls as they grow up. The more obscure the location you call home, the more reason to come here. In fact, if you had never been to a major city, even better… but even if you had, no matter… New York was different than the entire bunch.

And if a skeptic, whether it be an aunt, parent, or friend, were to challenge this preconceived notion that New York was anything less than perfect, it would be met with a simple eye roll at best because to even imply such a thing just illustrated the qualities of buffoonery that New York did not tolerate, and you did not have time for that. Besides, you had to figure out which dress to pack so that when you hopped off the plane everybody in the airport would know that you weren’t arriving in New York, but coming back because you always belonged here. I mean, how could she not be a New Yorker? Look at her… she’s beaming from every pore of her body.

There is something about this place that could molest twenty-something-year-olds and they’d keep coming back for more and more. It was as if it was some weird sort of Stockholm syndrome. No matter what The City threw at them… rent payments higher than their parents’ mortgage, being forced to take a second job to keep food on the table, dirty crowded subway rides with homeless folks touching themselves, the hot stench of garbage in summer… they saw it differently.

The high rent was simply the cost of admission to an exclusive club, and they walked around as if that stench was jasmine and all those hardships were just some elaborate learning lessons set up by God personally, to see if they really could make it. And if they really struggled and rode it out, once they made it to the other side of the tunnel, well then it would be revealed that all of those random hardships were really just synchronicity leading them to a perfect version of the life they always wanted. Yes, if you played along, all your wildest dreams would come true and you would be the envy of all your friends.

For folks who were born in New York (or in my case moved over from New Jersey at a young age), the City had no glamour. We saw how it spit up and chewed out revolving door youths who once thought that they could make The City a permanent residence because in their small town they were “the pretty one” or “the creative one”, which meant the only logical move was to go to New York and become a model or write a best seller because of course, we had a shortage of wannabe models and blossoming novelists.

No, we didn’t smell jasmine, we smelled shit… just shit. We didn’t have the time to specifically classify it and sure as hell didn’t see it as some sort of symbolism for the struggle to accomplish the American Dream. We hated working 40–60 hours a week and still eating Cup Noodles for dinner, or –GASP– unable to take a proper vacation to somewhere that didn’t involve taking three trains and booking an overpriced Airbnb. We knew that hard work didn’t get you everywhere, especially when everyone else was working their fingers to the bone too. Yes, the same pungent smell you tried to escape was now in your backyard, and once you know it, you can’t shake it. The rose-colored glasses were broken, the illusion, over.

To us, New York City was a well-tuned clock and we were simply interchangeable cogs. When you began to show rust, slow down, or omit any sort of distaste beyond the normal amount that was attributed to the New York “charm”, then you were replaced. Either you left to go find normal rent so you could live a comfortable, average life, or you stayed in The City, changed your attitude, and gave up the dream, but served as a constant reminder of what happens to most folks who move to New York City… you become one of the eight and a half million residents who live here. Just a nameless extra whose only job is to make The City look a bit fuller… as if it really needed help with that in the first place.

I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again… there are only two ways to thrive in New York City… really rich or really naïve.

But it didn’t matter. The rent needed to be paid and as much as I hated paying $2800 for an overpriced studio apartment in Brooklyn, Evie was still chasing her dreams, and to see her smile was akin to seeing a fully lit New York skyline… ineffable.

No, I will continue this routine as long as it takes. Either she’s going to succeed, or give up, but it won’t be my ax that topples the tree. When someone supports you through the hard times, you have to be a real piece of work to not do the same. That being said, I really wish I made my money in a different way, but I guess that’s not a luxury many can afford.

To be blunt, I make a commission off of people dying. Here’s how…

When the average person is in their early years of life, they don’t care about the future beyond the next few paces. However, as the complexities of living begin to spring up, they tend to think about how vulnerable we all really are… how ephemeral life really is. Whether it’s a cancer scare, car crash, or choking on a piece of spaghetti that won’t snap, once the thought is there, it’s hard to purge it from the mind.

At some point, people begin to wonder what happens to them when they are gone. Will there even be enough money to throw a funeral? Nothing is cheap these days, even dying is a chore. If they are really concerned, they’ll get a life insurance policy. When they die, they get paid, or rather their remaining kinfolk do.

But what if they have a change of heart? What if they stop caring about what happens when they die, and rather worry about how to live it up before they do? Can you reverse a life insurance policy? 

Sure you can, but it will cost you.

Companies like mine help refinance and bundle life insurance policies for people who want to be able to feel their greenbacks before they croak. Clients sell us the policy, and we give them 50% of the value upfront. They are happy, we are happy. But how does the company know when they are dead so they can cash these policies in? 

Well, that’s unfortunately where I come in.

I receive a list every Monday morning, hot and fresh off the copier (most prefer digital copies, but a little desk clutter makes you look busy). It is comprised of names and numbers. Alphabetically ordered, no more than 800, no less than 400. This puts me on pace to make 10–20 calls an hour. If the person picks up, I’ll ask to speak to the name I’m assigned. If they confirm they are said person, I inform them that I am from Lexisure Insurance and that I just wanted to see if they had any questions about their reverse life insurance policy.

Some tell me to metaphorically eat a dick (I think), but most sound a bit melancholy as if I’m reminding them that their time on earth is limited. I prefer the ones that tell me to eat a dick. It’s easier to sleep at night when that happens. Either way, we go through these motions at least once a month, until the day that they don’t respond.

If they don’t respond multiple times, then I write their name on a death list to have one of our claims specialists investigate further. If they confirm they are dead, then a bit more is added to my yearly bonus. And if they confirm they are still alive, well then the waiting game continues.

I try not to think about the finer details too much, otherwise, it does get kind of depressing. I really do hope the people that I call understand where I’m coming from. It’s a job… no different than fixing computers or picking up trash.

I still hear Evie’s friends call me the grim reaper from time to time. Not directly to my face though. I did say these people were her friends… they do have the courtesy to whisper it behind my back.

2

My phone was smooth. The cream matte finish that once felt great to the touch was worn down from my static decisions in life. What once was supposed to be a transition had now become a permanent residence.

“Hello Mr. Avery, it’s Sam Ar…”

“I’m not dead. Stop calling me!”

Most don’t even let me get through the first sentence anymore. Like I said, best not to take things personally. Besides, briefer was better. I made the mistake of fostering a connection with a client before. Judith Applebaum. Wife to Everett, mother to three loving kids that she liked to talk about profusely, a retired science teacher with students who regularly reached out to her. And more recently, a friend to me. It broke my heart when a claims specialist confirmed her passing. Until that moment, I held on hope that she was just taking a long vacation or simply got tired of the phone calls. I almost quit that day, but as I said, the rent needs to be paid, and as a disgraced financier, options can be quite limited.

Another e-mail popped up on my screen. 

Deceased: Maryanne Thornwood.

I removed the pencil from the back of my ear, flipped through the pages, and coated her name in graphite. 

Against my better judgment, I wonder if Maryanne Thornwood had kids and if those kids visited her. Perhaps she was a grandmother. Was she a kindhearted one? Did she live a life without regret? Was she surrounded by her loved ones when she checked out of this world? Why was I wondering all of this stuff? I callously pushed the papers to the side in an effort to quell the voices in my head. I didn’t have time to worry about Maryanne Thornwood, I had to worry about me.

Evie was performing off-Broadway at the Atlantic. Some sort of modernized version of Cats but with dogs in it. The plot seemed a little crummy but it had a lot of dance numbers and paid, so when her booking company told her about the audition she jumped at the chance to be dog #3. These days, I never missed a performance she was in. That was one of the few benefits of this job, the hours were mostly 9–5, which allowed me to finally be the boyfriend Evie deserved.

With a few whirls of the hand, it was quitting time and I hopped back on the subway to make sure I got to the Atlantic in time. There is nothing worse than showing up late to a play. Everywhere else where you are paying money you get a few minutes of wiggle room. Show up a little tardy for dinner? No problem sir, we’ll get you some bread. Running late to a movie? Don’t worry, you still have at least three more previews to go buy popcorn. Heck, most rock shows start an hour late anyway. But the theater? Well, that’s a different story altogether.

I remember when we first started dating, I showed up to one of Evie’s performances late and even her gentle nature couldn’t hold her back from giving me a verbal tongue lashing on the importance of being on time to the theater.

“If you’re going to be late, please don’t show up at all.”

It doesn’t matter if you’re stuck in Manhattan traffic or overslept from a mid-day nap. Reason be damned. No sympathy is given for latecomers, just furrowed brows and judging eyes. And if you have to pee during the show? Hold it, until intermission. It’s your fault, not mine that you decided to have coffee before the show. Also, don’t get me started on leaving earlier. If there is anything I’ve learned is that the only thing worse than arriving late is leaving early (unless it’s at intermission).

Fortunately for me, I got there with plenty of time to spare and the play went off without a hitch. Evie, as always looked stellar, but I couldn’t help but wonder if the grind was wearing her out. These days I look more thrilled than her after a show, which made me wonder if she was having second doubts about it all. Perhaps she was beginning to realize that New York didn’t always deliver on its promises.

After handing her a carefully crafted bouquet of azure hydrangeas and delphiniums, we made our way to the Dotty’s, a diner a few blocks from where we lived. I always offered to take her somewhere fancy, but she knew money was tight and could be quite insistent. Besides, since she worked there, half the time they never charged.

When we got there we were seated by Mandy, a coworker and friend of Evie’s.

“Congrats again, I’m so proud of you!” Evie said while hugging Mandy.

Mandy blushed. “Thanks, Evie. It’s good to see you too Sam.”

I smiled, a bit confused about the interaction I had just witnessed.

“Shouldn’t she be congratulating you?” I whispered to Evie once Mandy was out of earshot range.

“Mandy landed a role on a new Law and Order spin-off. She’s moving to LA on Thursday. This is her last week.”

“And that’s why she couldn’t congratulate you as well?” I said, a bit perturbed.

“Easy tiger, she didn’t even know I was performing. I didn’t tell anyone.”

I audibly sighed.

“Why not? Isn’t being on Broadway a big deal too?

“Off-Broadway, Sam,” she quickly corrected me.

I wanted to interject but didn’t know what to say. It was hard seeing Evie not acting like Evie and acting like… well, pretty much everyone else. As I slowly built up the courage to say something, the distinct aroma of freshly brewed coffee hit my nostrils.

I complain a lot about the hipsters in Brooklyn, but the one thing I can thank them for is a steady flow of quality coffee. If the coffee at a place wasn’t good, they wouldn’t be going back, so it felt like everyone around the neighborhood was stepping up their game out of necessity.

“How many years has it been Sam?” Evie asked, while slowly stirring her coffee with a spoon.

“Since what Evie? Since we have been dating? Six and a half I think — .”

“No,” she interjected quickly. “Since I moved to New York.”

I did some quick math in my head.

“Well you came here for college and we celebrated your 30th last year, so I’d say 14 give or take a couple of months?”

“Yes. 14 years.”

I didn’t understand where she was getting at, but I did have enough sense to know now wasn’t the right time to talk.

“Isn’t it amazing how fast time flies by?”

I nodded slightly as I went in for another small sip.

“I mean, it almost feels like it was yesterday. Booking a one-way. Backpack filled to the brim, duffel on both arms. Literally, my entire collective possessions draped over my body.”

Mandy came by to take our order. I ordered a Reuben, Evie ordered buttered noodles, her comfort food. Yep, something was definitely wrong.

“I think time is just an illusion. Just a manmade construct to give us a point of reference,” Evie said making a sideways figure eight in the air.

“Don’t believe me? Try grinding coffee beans during the post-church rush on a Sunday. Those few seconds of monotonous grinding can feel like a lifetime in Heaven if you do it right.”

“Church? Does anyone in the city go to church anymore?”

“Yes, they do, but I wasn’t talking about here. Back home, in Iowa. It felt like chaos in that restaurant sometimes, but the rhythmic churning of the grinder combined with the general clammer of the restaurant would turn into one solid sound that no longer had the distractions of its separate parts.

It is in that same bean grinding that I realized time really has no constraints… it is infinite. Seconds feel like minutes if your mind allows it to be so and even when the diner was running at 100 miles per hour, I could fit in a quick mental nap when I was grinding those beans. In fact, if it’s really quiet, I might close my eyes and rest my head in my hands. I still do that here, but it feels different and I definitely don’t see the patterns.”

I quizzically raised an eyebrow. With each passing second, Evie was beginning to lose me. Often Evie had to dumb it down for me.

“Patterns?” I said, taking a bite into my Reuben. It tasted a bit off.

“Oh, you know the patterns. I’m sure you’ve seen them. The first time they appeared, I saw God… or at least I thought I did. It’s still very hazy and probably always will be.

I was seven at the time and I tended to finish things a lot faster than I do today. I was also very diligent back then, a far cry from how I am now.”

“You’re diligent now as well. Sorry, I still don’t get where you’re going with any of this.”

She looked at me but I couldn't read her facial expression. I’m sure it meant something though.

“Anyway, I digress… as I said before, I finished things quicker in those days, and more often than not, my reward was to sit quietly until the rest of the class finished up. I wasn’t big on naps then, also a far cry from how I am today, so it often felt like a chore.

Reading always made the hours fly by, so I would normally bring a spare book, usually Dahl, but that one particular day, I knew I left it behind. I knew I left it behind because I remembered where I put it. It’s as simple as that. Having no book and no one to talk to, since the exam was still going on, I placed my head against the desk and used my arms as makeshift pillows. I wasn’t tired, but I decided to close my eyes since the sun’s glare was a little too much for me that day. 

And before I knew it, they appeared… the patterns. They were dull and blurry at first, but over time they came in as clear as crystal. It didn’t take me long to realize that the harder I pressed my eyes on my arms, the more the patterns would intensify. And they looked familiar, though I couldn’t quite pinpoint from where.

Oh, yes. They looked like the fractals I had seen in my older brother’s math book. What were they doing in my classroom? Was this all in my head? Was I crazy?

Am I still crazy?

And before I could think about it one more second, they were gone. With a gentle tap on my right shoulder, I awoke, a bit startled and rather confused. It was my teacher; apparently, everyone had finished the exam ten minutes ago and I was still in a world of my own.

One day, when I was a lot older, I read online that what I saw were phosphenes, just a manipulation of the light from inside your eye’s neighboring cells, no different than what makes a firefly glow. A pretty common thing.”

I was worried that the conversation might spiral so I interjected.

“Evie, talk to me. I don’t understand but I want to. A couple of hours ago I’m watching you perform on stage and you look happy and now you’re talking about time being fake and phosphenes and you know I’m not that smart, so please, just spell it out to me because I love you. If something is wrong, just tell me. You’ve supported me through everything I want to be able to do the same because — ”

“Sam, I’m quitting dancing.”

“But you love dancing, why would you do that — ”

She raised her hand up to indicate she wished for my silence. In our six and a half years of dating, I had never seen her do this before. Nothing was set in stone. Not with Evie.

“I’m tired of struggling. If the world were to end tomorrow, I’d feel like I accomplished nothing. I tried Sam. I really did. When all my other friends quit the arts, I kept going. When all my friends left the city, I stayed and made new ones, but I’m tired, just so so fucking tired. What if it never happens? What if the big break never arrives? No, I need to start planning the next steps of my life.”

“If you’re nervous about the money, you know I have you covered.”

“I know you do Sam, and it’s one of the things I love about you. You’re always supportive of my dreams, but, well — I heard what your mother said to you on the phone.

“Huh?”

“She said, ‘Make sure Evie carries her weight, too.’”

Man, I gotta get better earbuds.

“You’re really gonna read into that? That’s just moms, they all just say stuff like that. Besides, when did you get so concerned about what my mom thinks? She voted for Trump.

“It doesn’t matter who she voted for. She’s your mom, so I care what she thinks about me.”

“But Evie, you cook, you clean, you pay for groceries.”

“I’ll give you the cleaning part, but half the time you end up cooking because I’m exhausted. And groceries don’t cover a fraction of our expenses. We may not see eye-to-eye but I get what your mom means.”

“Stop. What about when the SEC was investigating me? And all the stuff that went down with Sterling Group. I lost my job, my career, my name, and you stood by me. Nobody else did. Not family, not friends, nobody. Do you think I forgot about that? They can all go to hell for all I care. Evie all I care about is you.”

“And Sam, I care about you too… and our future. And I want it all with you, the house, the picket fence, kids, a dog, all of it, but I don’t think that’s going to happen if we stay here. You hate the city. In fact, I’m beginning to think the only reason you stayed here was for me and that’s super sweet and all, but I feel like my dream is holding us both back. You even work a job you hate to pay the bills. I’m sure you could get back into finance, maybe not in NYC, but another location. Maybe that’s what we both need, just a fresh start.”

I didn’t know what to say. The logical part of my brain agreed with her statements, but the emotional side was still in shock. I hated so much about this city and the people here in general. 

But Evie’s goodness always carried me through.

“Sam, one of the dancers who is new to the city came up to me today and asked me if I knew a cheaper way to get therapy. You know what I told them?”

I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly.

“I told them to move to another city. The amount you save in rent alone could get you five quality therapists. You should have seen the look that she gave me. Sam, I’m becoming that jaded person I never wanted to be. I want to leave here before every good memory I’ve had in this city is taken from me and replaced with contempt. I can live with failing, but I can’t live with that. Otherwise, what was it all for? When the lease ends, let’s go. I know your brother has offered you a job in Boston before at his investment banking firm. I know you turned it down because you don’t want to jeopardize my career, but I’m ready. I don’t want my dreams leading to contempt between us one day. Are you in?”

Before I could respond, Mandy came in to see if we need anything else.

“Just the check please.”

“Oh, it’s on the house! I’ll see you at work tomorrow Evie?” Mandy said with doe-like eyes.

“Yeah, I’ll see you then Mandy. Wouldn’t miss it for the world and thanks again,” Evie said with a genuine smile, though I’m sure it was about as easy as swallowing gravel considering the conversation we just had.

“Let’s give it a week. If you still feel the same way, we’ll talk about it further. Is that fair?

“Yeah, that’s fine Sam.”

As we shuffled out the restaurant door I tried to think of something to say to Evie, but I was frozen. I didn’t know what to say because I wouldn’t have believed any of the made-up words that came out of my mouth. The truth was the city was cold and unforgiving and I didn’t have a success story to make me feel otherwise.

I felt my stomach churn. I really hope it was nerves and not the Reuben.

3

It was the Reuben. After being violently awoken at 2 AM, I proceeded to yak my brains out until not even the ghost of meals past remained in my body. My prayer session to the porcelain god continued on and off for about an hour, until things began to settle a bit. I opted to stay crumpled on the bathroom floor out of fear as I didn’t know when my next bout would hit.

It’s amazing how almost all your other worries in the world melt away when you are in physical pain. I was starting to understand what Evie meant, about getting lost in the moment. It wasn’t coffee, but I, too, was feeling a form of rhythmic churning. That being said, the moment was ephemeral at best. As my body felt better, my mind felt worse.

I thought about how defeated Evie looked at dinner last night. I never realized how important her dreams were to me. I mean I always respected and tried to help nourish them because I liked seeing Evie happy, but it was more than that. I was living vicariously through Evie… too scared to dip my own toes in the ocean, but rooting for her to reach the other shore. I guess we all need something to believe in, even if it isn’t ourselves.

The door cracked open.

“You OK?” she said with sleepy eyes.

“Yeah, I’m OK now. Food poisoning.”

“Yeah, I knew I should have stopped you from ordering the Reuben. Nobody orders the Reuben for a reason.”

I half-heartedly smiled. That’s all the strength I could muster up.

“You didn’t wake me up by the way. I just woke up randomly. I actually just went to pee, but I noticed you weren’t in bed.”

“Seat’s clean, but I can Lysol wipe it if you want it,” I said while moving toward the cleaning products at the bottom of the sink.

She grabbed my wrist. “You’re fine. Just stay where you are.”

She pulled down her panties, sat down, and positioned her legs around me. When she finished, she flushed, washed her hands, and then put the toilet seat down and perched herself on top of it, bringing her knees to her face.

“Do you mind if I just sit with you in here?”

“Free country.”

As I closed my eyes, I could hear the gentle trickling of water. The consistent drip was relaxing, but I knew the bill to fix the radiator would not be.

“Sam, do you think anything we do in life really matters?”

I sighed out loud.

“Wow Evie, you sure know how to make casual conversation,” I said, mostly serious.

“Never mind, just forget I brought it up.”

She went to get up but I grabbed her leg.

“Stop. I’m sorry. Yes, I think what we do in life matters.”

She mimicked my sigh and sat back down.

“Why?” she asked.

“I dunno, Evie, I just do… just like the birds chirp in the morning and the bees make honey.”

“Ah,” she replied. 

I guess my tepid response wasn’t as reassuring as I thought it would be. Evie looked at me as if she was hesitant. She had a way of picking up even the most subtle of voice inflections. I both appreciated and grew to loathe this quality about her. Though it made her a very thoughtful partner, I sometimes just wish I could be alone with my thoughts. Everything was always poked and prodded. A two-second moment of frustration would lead to a two-hour discussion on feelings and expressing myself. As I said, it was hard to be annoyed at someone who was only looking out for my best interests, but I didn’t grow up this way, so it didn’t come as second nature to me. In fact, at times it could be quite laborious.

As the minutes passed by, my prolonged silence only added to the predetermined narrative that Evie had come up with, which was accurate. I was tired of this conversation. It wasn’t that I didn’t like to hear Evie’s thoughts, but her timing could be so off sometimes. Curled up in a fetal position on the floor wasn’t really when I wanted to talk about existential dread. Eventually, I bit the bullet.

“Do you?” 

She studied my face to see if I was genuine or not. I must have passed the test because she proceeded.

“Do you want a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ type answer?” she asked.

“Is that even possible with you Evie?”

“No, I suppose not,” she said with a smirk. I guess she wasn’t too mad at me.

She lifted herself off up from the toilet and lowered herself to the frigid, tiled floor, and curled up next to me. She wrapped herself around me like a warm blanket. I felt safe. I wish I could offer her the same, but I was still wrecked.

“I’m not really sure why I asked that question… OK, OK, I’m rambling. Give me a quick second to compose myself,” she said, clearly thrown off even though she had posed the question in the first place.

“Take your time,” I said. The churning was building up again.

We sat in silence… until we didn’t.

 — — — — — 

“Sam, did you know that the sun is going to explode in five billion years?”

“No, that’s news to me.”

“When I was around seven, I learned this. I forgot about it until today. I was making coffee at the diner and the memory came back. I remember, our first-grade teacher, Miss Looney, told us.”

“Hopefully the last name wasn’t apt.”

“We can’t all win the lottery with last names, babe. I knew a girl who’s last name was Anul. Looney is a huge upgrade from that. 

Anywayyyy, it must have affected me because as soon as I came home, my mother knew something was wrong. She said I had the same look on my face when I found out that my father was Santa Claus.

My mom asked me what was wrong, and I told her that ‘the sun was going to explode in five billion years.’ She snickered at first but quickly stopped when she saw I was on the verge of crying.

She said to me, ‘Honey, five billion years is a very long time from now. Why are you so worried about that?’

‘I’m afraid of the dark’, I told her.

‘Well sweetie, I think that’s the last of our problems.’

I was confused by her response. To me, there was nothing scarier than the dark. So I asked her, ‘What do you mean?’

Now at this point, my mother had probably realized that she was about to open Pandora’s box, and tried to back peddle, but I wouldn’t give it a rest. I needed to know, and eventually, after enough pestering, she gave in. With a sigh, she told me, ‘Because we’ll be long dead before that.’

Sam, at this point, the only time I had even heard of death was when my pet goldfish died from an accidental pH mishap, stemming from a bleach spill while the fish tank was getting cleaned. This was well before my dad died when I hadn’t even realized that humans COULD die, but now I was abruptly getting the full picture. Albeit rudimentary in nature, that was the first time I realized I was going to die… that we were all going to expire. And that night I cried and cried, but that wasn’t the reason I was so low-spirited. No, I sobbed because my night light broke, and I was afraid of the dark. I had just found out that I was going to eventually pass away, but it was the night light not working that caused me to bawl. In fact, when my mother told me I was going to die I smiled, which confused her. She asked me, ‘Why are you smiling Evie dear?’ and I told her it was because I was going to see my fish again.”

“Evie, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m totally confused. Where are you going with this? You know I’m not smart like you are,” I said, thoroughly confused at where things were going.

“I hate when you do that.” She was annoyed. “You always make it sound like I’m some sort of brainiac when I mention these types of topics, but doesn’t everyone think about these things from time to time?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, less genuinely, but just to move the conversation along.

She frowned, but then quickly apologized as well and continued with the story.

“Well, I think people sometimes feel that their actions have no meaning because they see themselves as a single ripple in an ocean. The presence or absence of that single ripple doesn’t really do much to affect the ocean one way or another. But imagine that same ripple in a puddle of some sort. Then the ripple becomes more like a tidal wave. If we only look at our meaning compared to the macrocosm, then sure, it’s easy to feel that our lives are insignificant.

I mean Sam, the earth is but a speck of dust in an ant’s eye in the grand scheme of the universe, which makes you or me probably less than a speck of dust, on a speck of dust, in an ant’s eye. If we view life like that, it’s hard to think our actions hold significance, but to an ant? You might as well be a God! One misplaced step from you is a matter of life and death, hardly what I would describe as insignificant. That night light couldn’t even hold a candle compared to the sun, but to me, its significance was of the utmost importance. To me, it was the difference between a good night’s rest, and one filled with nightmares.”

“Huh. Never thought about it like that,” I said, now fully distracted as the gentle churning had turned to full-blown sloshing.

“I guess what I’m trying to say with all of this is that — ”

Evie stopped mid-sentence… perceptive, as always. She quickly assisted me back into prayer position. Nothing came up, but I proceeded to dry heave for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, when the spasmodic motions stopped, she helped me rinse my mouth out and ushered me back into bed.

“I love you, Evie. Whatever it is, we’ll work through it. I promise.” I said half asleep.

“I hope so Sam. I’m just so tired of feeling defective.”

Before we could talk about it more I was already asleep.

4

I awoke in a puddle of my own drool. My feet omitted a terrible stench and my breath smelled like death. I could have slept for another eight hours, but the blinds were open and the hot sun pierced through the open cracks making me feel more dehydrated than an astronaut’s dinner. God, I fucking hate east-facing windows.

I groaned and reached over to the other side of the bed. Still warm.

“Evie? Are you there?” I croaked.

No response.

I took a look at my phone: 10:37.

Shit. I was late for work. Evie must have let me sleep in thinking I could just take a sick day. Unfortunately, I had taken the rest of the week quite lightly so I was very behind on my calls. In addition, I had already promised to cover someone’s Friday shift. At this pace, I wouldn’t be home ‘til God knows when.

I felt hot and flustered. The AC must have been off again. Evie must have turned it off last night before we went back to bed. She was always looking for ways to save a buck, a sharp contrast to my previous romantic partners, who typically didn’t care about how much they spent (especially when it was my money). Nine out of ten times I appreciated when Evie did this, but with my balls sticking to my leg, this was the exception.

I flipped the thermostat down and grabbed some cold brew coffee from the fridge. Evie had left an extra breakfast sandwich for me in the fridge. She even made it with real bacon, even though she never ate pork these days. Sometimes I wondered what I did to deserve such a wonderful human being, especially considering my marred past.

I met Evie shortly after Cara had dumped me, but we didn’t start dating until a year after. She didn’t think I was ready for proper intimacy and like usual, she was right. In fact, Evie made me sign up for therapy before she even considered the possibility of romance blooming between us. She knew I needed to heal properly from Cara or I was doomed to destroy any relationship I was in from all the bad habits I had picked up along the way.

Cara and I were engaged at one point in my life, and if you had asked me then if I was happy, I would have told you yes. But it was far from the truth, albeit I didn’t know at the time. 

Our relationship was Pavlovian in nature, both of us constantly conditioning the other to fit into whatever our perception was of a perfect life. She wanted a doting boyfriend, which I was happy to oblige to, but it came with a high price… loyalty. Or at the time what I thought was loyalty, when in actuality it was total control… hoping that if I served as someone’s everything, they, in turn, would serve as mine. A poor attempt at trying to control the world around me, knowing full well that you can only go with the ebbs and flows of life, no different than the ocean currents. I really did worry about how we would even make a marriage work at this pace, but the fear of being alone successfully stifled those incessant thoughts.

After the breakup, I had nothing but rage toward Cara, but it was undeserved. For months, I told myself that Anna was the puppeteer, pulling on all my strings, and then discarding me when I didn’t serve a purpose anymore. However, most things in life are never that black and white.

While I faulted Cara for her excessive spending and addiction to uppers, I smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish. I guess we were both slaves to our vices and in turn chained to one another, feeding our misery like a nonstop playlist of infinite sorrow. Nobody held either of us at gunpoint to be in this relationship and the psychological damage she inflicted on me was equally returned. There can be a comfort in familiarity, even if what was comfortable wasn’t healthy.

Shortly after my fall from grace, I tried to tell myself that Cara left me because I had lost my promising career, and perhaps that was the final straw, but the SEC investigation didn’t end our relationship, it was simply the last domino to fall in a large chain of disfunction. Between the fights, the periods of no communication, days and days of groveling, and eventual makeup sex, was some resemblance of a healthy relationship, but the moments were fleeting at best. Just like lab rats being conditioned, we sent each other electrical shocks, one at a time until our actions felt less like free will and more the correct order of steps to get a reward.

No, this wasn’t love but a fucked up version of mental survival, both of us drawn to the person that hurts us the most, a relationship of mutual pain, some real, some perceived, with both of us just too scared, or stubborn, to find true happiness. There can be a scary danger present in comfort.

In those beautiful shades of grey, I saw myself for who I really was… a monster, seeking the company of other monsters, underneath the cover of darkness. However, it wasn’t until the numerous curtains of lies and false perceptions were pulled apart and the light began to pour through the cracks that I could come to that realization. For that, I have to thank therapy, abstinence from hard drugs, and the tender love of Evie. A love that had no strings.

I never talk to Cara anymore, but I heard she’s doing well from a mutual friend. Apparently, she left the city and moved to Seattle… new job, new man, and apparently a kid on the way. I thought about texting her congrats, but every time I start formulating a text, I delete it. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t really want to send it or if she really wouldn’t appreciate it. Perhaps a bit of both. It’s definitely an odd feeling to truly wish someone the best but to never want to see their face ever again.