An Inhuman Condition

Dearest Amber,

Your minuet breath still lingers resounding through my ears. I long for the tender touch of your legs entwined with mine. I miss feeling the slight rise and fall of your chest in my arms – sliding my fingers across your sound and sleeping stomach hesitating just a moment to circle your belly button. The taste of your skin, the ever-youthful joy of your smile, the life immortalized in your quiet eyes – those soft, hazel prisms – all of you will reside in me ever thus.

I remember the days when we were the world – forsaking sleep to sit together in urgent ambling through our verbal rambling. We lived entire lives inside those moments. Idling with you was my most pressing passion.

You are responsible for the vast expanse of my emotions from blissful happiness to harrowing sadness.

Watching you kill yourself with determination of your life’s work, seeing the way your beauty and tenderness has been overwritten with decay, watching the world rob away your sunshine ounce by ounce with every day – these things I can no longer do. I have held together the past year for you – to try and help you get back that piece, the essence of the thing that is you. But it seems now that it was lost before either of us ever really noticed it was missing. One cannot hold a wilted flower in winter and forever insist it is still the vibrant, myriad effluvia of spring.

And that’s why I’m going, now. I’m leaving to be with the eternal YOU – the one we can never hold or touch or taste again in this life no matter how hard we try or how determined we are to hold on.

Goodbye my love.
Res ipsa loquitur.

Jack read the words from beyond his body – separated. He hovered above his physical form – outside – watching the devastation fill his face. His eyes widened and welled with a soul-wilting sadness as a few errant tears meandered their way to his chin. As he read the final words, his ocular levees broke and the flood of disappointment enveloped him. He clutched the note to his chest there, kneeling on the rough carpeted floor of the cheap apartment while the rest of him fled for safety. The cold march of the coroner’s shoes faded behind the beating of his hollow heart, and in this moment, while he could feel everything, he felt nothing.

The man in the bag was named Walter. Walter was some sort of electronics hobbyist judging from the furnishings of his apartment. There were various wires, circuit boards and techno-widgets scattered among his effects between the books and whiskey bottles. Walter had always told Jack he was a writer, and the two had always talked about the books and authors Walter had been reading. Jack didn’t follow everything the man said, but it was his job to listen and comfort primarily.

They had met on the phone two months prior. Jack was just settling into his shift with a bag of chips and the day’s Sudoku when the phone rang. “Hello, this is Jack with the crisis center. How can I help today?” The voice on the phone was surprisingly calm, “Hello, I’m not really sure how all of this works – by crisis center, you mean suicide prevention, right?” Jack replied, “Yes, that is one of the many things we can help with. Are you thinking about ending your life?” The voice paused for a few seconds before continuing, “Because it seems if your cards all mention preventing suicide and what to do if I, or a friend, are at risk, then you might as well say something about suicide when you answer the phone.”

Jack was beginning to think this was just another prank phone call – he said, “Are you or a friend at risk?” “At risk for what?” the voice inquired with a faint playful tone. Jack’s lips pursed a little as he begrudgingly said, “Suicide. Are you or a friend at risk of committing suicide?”

“Well, maybe, I suppose. But my point is that we could have skipped all this confusion if your introduction speech was a little more overt. A crisis center could mean a number of things, couldn’t it? Surely a robbery or hurricane could be considered a form of crisis. Domestic abuse is a crisis. We could be talking about existential crises as well. Are you here to help me answer questions pertaining to the nature of my existence, Jack? I think not. So then, I feel we could eliminate confusion by stating succinctly that this is a suicide crisis center, don’t you?”

Jack was insulted. He figured another bored, perverted son-of-a-bitch found one of their cards and decided to have a little fun. The center received calls like this every day. Normally they were immature high school or college kids with infantile jokes or Simpson’s references, but this guy wasn’t looking for Seymour Butts. He kept his composure and responded with just the slightest air of exhaustion; “Perhaps it would be more efficient sir, but if you aren’t in any danger, then we should keep the line open for people in real need.”

“Oh, Jack,” the voice said, “I’m just new to this is all. I never know what to say in social situations, especially on the phone. I do this all the time. As you can imagine, this is a bit of a personal subject, and I’m not all that comfortable discussing it with a complete stranger. You should see the run-around my doctor gets when he asks how often I’m still smoking. He sometimes gets red in the face with frustration.”

“But I digress; I did call this number because I, or a friend, am at risk. It’s me really, but I love how your card adds that prepositional phrase every time it mentions the subject. It is almost as if your organization felt like it would alienate people without that phrase. Do you get a number of calls from people concerned about their friends?”

Jack paused for a second, “Are you thinking of killing yourself right now?”

“Not at this second, no. Right now I am wondering if it’s your job to evade questions. I asked if you get calls from worried friends all day. Because that could really increase the number of calls you folks receive. If every suicidal person and all of his friends each called individually, would you ever leave the phone? But I suppose if the average suicidal person had numerous, concerned friends, they might not be all that suicidal. That is why I presume you don’t receive many of those phone calls. I suspect it is simply a marketing sort of thing – that there may be some psychological reason for adding the friend clause to all the materials. Perhaps it allows people to justify holding onto the card without directly admitting that they are feeling suicidal, no?”

Jack saw that this wasn’t a usual sort of call by any means. He wasn’t quite sure how he should respond to this person, so he opted to change course a bit to see if he could build some rapport. “That’s an interesting theory. But you did say you were at risk, and judging by all the things you’ve said, you don’t seem all that comfortable talking about it. So how about we start with telling me your name and a little bit about yourself.”

“Well,” the voice said, “my name is Walter, but my friends call me Walt. I’m thirty-four with poor health – nothing terminal or terrible, mind you. It’s just the usual aging ailment of men. I smoke too much. I drink too much, and I love greasy food that does a number on me. It’s as if I’m playing a tangible sort of devil’s advocate to my doctor every time I visit him. Most of my friends have moved along in their lives raising children, married or, in some of the lucky cases, both. I never married; I didn’t even date for a long time, and I’m just not sure what else to do with my life. I have no pets, no real familial connections to speak of, I loathe my job, and I just feel this sort of growing itch at the core of me whispering that the best days are behind. It’s as if I made some mistake in the past that has brought me to this point, and I’ll never be happy a day in my life. I don’t have specific regrets, mind you, I just feel like everything people look forward to in life is outside my grasp now.”

Walter paused for a moment, “And that, I suppose, is the core of it. You’re a sly dog, Jack.”

Jack took a second to take it all in. He asked “So you feel like there’s nothing left worth living for?” Walter quickly replied, “Not really.”

“Do you have any hobbies?”

“No.”

“Goals?”

“None I can think of.”

“Are there loved ones or co-workers who would be upset if you killed yourself?”

“No.”

“Nobody at all?”

“Nobody would miss me that I give a damn about. My boss would surely miss the excellent job I do at a wage far below what I’m worth. The old man at the liquor store might miss all the revenue I bring him. The landlord, creditors, utility companies, and mongers of all the useless products I consume might miss me a great deal if I’m not around to buy their shiny crap. But I suspect they might not even notice I’m gone. Capitalism will survive without me, I suppose.”

“That’s a bleak outlook, Walt. Isn’t there anything or anyone that makes you feel good?”

“Jim Beam always brings a smile to my face.”

“Now you’re just deflecting,” Jack said. “Self medicating with alcohol is never healthy. If you start to feel dependent on it, it can do more harm than you realize. Are you drinking to cope with your pain?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m drinking to cope with pain. I drink because it’s the only thing that really entertains and stimulates me. If I spend an evening alone in my head, it can be such a bore. I only think about how crummy and heartless the world has become. In my short lifetime, I have seen all the promise leeched out of the world by corporations, politicians and the average person who just goes along with the flow until they are flushed into the gutter. It’s become a really, rotten place Jack. It makes me glad that I never had kids. I couldn’t imagine trying to prepare a young mind for the world they will inherit after we’re gone. We let it happen, you know. We fooled ourselves with bigger and bigger televisions without seeing the growing debt and toll it was taking around us. Our generation along with our parents’ ruined the dream. We extinguished the spark of fury and became complacent with our things.”

“That’s the truth of it, Jack. None of us really has anyone any more. We’ve all been lost to our stuff. We’re all so busy rationalizing all of the ugly compromises we make every day that at the end of it, we don’t have time for anyone else. I could buy another bottle or get a faster, sleeker cell phone, but none of these things really makes me happy. It’s like I woke up in a room of sleeping people desperate for some sort of companionship with no way to wake anyone else. There’s not one person I can connect with anymore – now that she’s gone.” Walter’s fierce diatribe collapsed on his last sentence, and he began to weep heavily into the phone.

Jack was astonished by everything Walt said. He sat silent for what seemed like forever listening to the gentle crying, that need for help hidden in the caller’s composure and intellect. He wasn’t sure what to say or do next. Nothing in his training prepared him to be berated and toyed with by someone with this level of desperation. It was clear the man was hurting and feeling alone in a very encompassing way, but this “she,” the catalyst of his tears, Jack wondered if asking about her would only worsen the situation. When the time between sniffles reached three to five seconds – like a cooked bag of microwave popcorn – he sprung the question. “Who was she?”

With a long inward sniffle and a short clearing of his throat, Walter began to explain. “She was everything to me. She was that last little glimmer of hope. We had been together for years, and we were madly in love for most of them. I could hear excited, glowing love in her every word. Her eyes would illuminate when we entered the same room. I could feel our love in every touch, even the accidental ones – bumping elbows at a dinner table or something – she would get this little knowing smile that could melt away any stress or tension I might be feeling. Her mere presence washed over me and cleansed away the rotten residue of the world. I could have survived arctic winters with her warmth.”

“She sounds very special,” Jack noted. Carefully, he prodded a little more. “What happened, Walt?”

“The world happened,” he replied. “She was always my cure for it, and she seemed immune herself. There were days I didn’t think anything could scuff her smile. She beamed forward with the brightness and spirit of a determined child while everything wilted around her. I was protected from it all living in the strength of her spirit.”

Walter stopped for a moment and cleared his throat once more. He continued, “But all of that began to change. I’m not sure where or when it happened, but it did. She was trying to hold on to her dreams – juggling everything to make it all work. I don’t know how long it took for me to finally become aware, but I started seeing the wear on her face. She was juggling the world after all, and even Atlas longed for someone to relieve his weary shoulders. I tried to support her as much as I could, but she was too independent or stubborn to let me help most times. I think toward the end she grew to resent me. It was during all of this that I realized, while she was the world to me; I was just a small piece of all the grand things she wanted. I think I expected too much at times, and it caused a schism to creep in between us. She began a transformation into someone else.”

“This new person was jaded, mean at times, still fiercely intent on reaching those grand aspirations and unwilling to accept a modicum of compromise. Her joy burned into a rage that she tried desperately to hide. It was only when we argued that it would come out. I became well acquainted with this new sting of hers. She always knew the best way to rip into me and tear out something. I was always trying to mend us, trying to take us back to that wonderful past of bliss and whispers.”

“It didn’t do us any good,” Walt said. “We would exist for a few weeks in shaky truce, but things were never the same. Any intimacy that existed between us ceased, and my discontent drove me to drinking. When things were at their worst, I would pour three or so shots into a glass and say a toast to myself: ‘To all of our wonderful memories, the end of us, and the death of the most beautiful thing in this world.’ It was my way of pre-mourning her. I knew we couldn’t last like this, but I kept hoping she might come around. If I was religious in the slightest, I would have prayed for it.”

Walter let out a sad laugh – the kind that slows right at the end feeling forced. He continued, “If I had my own best interests in mind, I would have detached. I would have let go completely and tried not to care, but as fatalistic about our relationship as I was, I couldn’t stop loving her. It’s always difficult, I think, being in a relationship that’s lost its entire glimmer. But how does one determine when to call finis on another person? After caring about someone for so long and feeling the things we had felt together, it would be like tearing off a limb.”

He gave a heavy sigh burdened with the weight of a hundred broken hearts. “But it’s what I had to do,” he said. “I couldn’t keep going on that way. I would have felt guilty if she wanted to have sex, which was never an issue at the end. I had a hard time kissing her even when things were going well. I felt like I was lying when I told her I loved her. I did love her though; it just didn’t feel right to say it without expressing all the caveats that should have come along with it. I didn’t try to fix things anymore because I knew it would just end in argument. I was so tired of our arguments. When we would have a good day, I would just try to enjoy it like I did in the past. There was always this little flinch in my smile though, and it was with me perpetually.”

“The time finally came,” Walt said in a tone one might use to convey that a loved one is dead, “that I could not bear with it any longer. I was crying to myself nearly every day, and I hated what she was doing to me. I finally sat her down to have the chat. We argued for hours. She was at her most vicious. During the whole discourse, I think I was the only one who cried. I think that speaks volumes about how things had become. She seemed intent to leave me with as much hurt as possible, and I finally had to leave before it became any worse. It was clear as I drove away that this was not the woman I had loved; all of my suspicions were true. She was long gone and never to return.”

“I checked myself into a motel and stayed for days. I told my boss that I was sick and stayed in my room alternating between sleeping and crying. When I came home, she was gone. Her things had all disappeared, and my heart sunk even lower. She left a note calling me a coward, claiming that I had wasted her time and given up on our relationship. Each word stung my already sore wound.”

“And that is where I now find myself,” he said. “I am going through a sort of physical therapy for her.”

Jack and Walter continued to talk for another hour. Jack did his best to console Walt, to convince him that life was worth living. He went through all the proper steps, ensuring at every point that Walter was not a risk to himself. Jack suggested that he should try to make plans for the future, find some goal he can work toward, seek out some new source of happiness. Jack assured him that it was perfectly normal to feel helpless and alone at times. He guided Walt through outlining the things Walt was good at and the reasons he might have for living. It was all done with the skill and excellence of a professional.

All of this was leading up to Jack’s plan of intervention for Walt. He kept insisting that there had to be someone in Walter’s life that could help him through this grief and keep him safe. Walt kept exclaiming that there really wasn’t anyone like that for him. After searching in vain, Jack finally suggested that he could be Walt’s lifeline. He gave Walter his personal telephone number and insisted that Walter could call at any time.

Walt asked if Jack would meet him for coffee the following evening, and that is where their friendship began. The first meeting started with the usual crisis center jargon, but the pair’s rapport quickly expanded. The conversation altered to flow both ways with Jack telling Walt more and more about his personal life. They talked into the night about sports, books, politics, technology and philosophy. They shared stories from their younger days and truly bonded. Jack suggested that the two should meet again in a few days, and they did just that.

This pattern went on through several meetings each becoming more casual than the last. Walter brought a few stories and articles he had written for Jack to read. The articles were political discourse outside of Jack’s understanding, but Walter explained the concepts and basic theory behind them. Walt’s stories seemed to all contain a sense of hopeless romance either for a woman or a better future. Jack remarked that Walt really had more soul and feeling than most of the people he knew. Walter took this as a compliment and smiled intently.

Jack noticed a major demeanor shift in Walt over there first conversations. He felt like Walter had been successfully shown how much life was worth living, and it no longer seemed like he was at any risk. Jack was delighted to have helped this man in a very real and personal way. He woke up feeling good every morning, and took on a new seriousness and sense of purpose at work.

After a couple weeks of meeting every few days, Walter failed to return Jakc’s calls. Jack began to fear the worst, and it was with great relief when he finally heard from Walt. Walter seemed distracted and distant on the phone. He insisted that he was alright, and expressed regret that it had taken him so long to respond. The two had a short conversation about this and that, but Walter insisted he was too busy to meet for coffee. Jack left the call thinking that there must be something Walt was hiding from him.

The next day was filled again with unreturned calls, and Jack was scared that Walt might have done something terrible. He looked up Walter’s address and left work early to check on him. As he approached the apartment complex, he saw Walt sitting on a sidewalk bench with his arm around a girl. She was small and grinning. Her eyes were wide with a bright hazel tint. The look on Walter’s face was that of delighted ecstasy. It was almost as if Jack was looking at a completely different man on that bench. This one looked like Walt, lived in Walt’s apartment and wore his clothing, but he had a different air about him.

Jack stared for a few moments in disbelief, and he was angry that Walter had let him worry. It was apparent that they had reconciled and Walt no longer needed his friendship with Jack. He walked back to his car unnoticed and sat sullen for a few moments before finally driving off. Jack spent the night drinking at home feeling used. He felt stupid for thinking there was a friendship to be had from one of his callers, and he went to bed feeling vacant.

The next day was empty. Jack went through the motions and routine with the lifeless efficiency of an assembly line. His answers to calls were textbook and distant. He relayed the story to co-workers only to receive the same pat-on-the-back reaction. They congratulated him for going “above and beyond” and “really helping someone through a crisis.” It was all hollow fluff to Jack and stung with betrayal. He began to examine his own life, how he was nearly thirty and single with no real friends. He no longer took pleasure in any of his old rituals – winning the whole pot at the crisis center worker’s weekly poker game with empty silence. The other people at work tried to console him over the following weeks, but none of them could figure out what was wrong.

They set him up with the new hotline gal who was more than pretty enough. Their date was flat, and she could sense that Jack wasn’t in the mood or trying in the slightest. She made fruitless attempts at casual conversation only to be rebuffed by his staccato responses. He felt bored by her the entire time and couldn’t help thinking that his whole world was flooded with sleeping people. He kept recalling his first conversation with Walt; the part about how everyone “goes along with the flow until they are flushed into the gutter” resonated in him.

Jack suggested they take her home after dinner, and she agreed. Neither made any plans for a future encounter, and their goodbye exchange was wooden and succinct.

Jack stopped at the liquor store on the way to his apartment. He cracked the seal on his pint of scotch and poured a tall highball of the light amber fluid. He sat on the couch sipping his drink and watching a television movie on mute. It was another formulaic romantic comedy, and Jack didn’t want to hear the lifeless words. His phone buzzed in his pocket and Walter’s name was written on the display. He silenced the phone with a bitter press of the button and took a gulp from his glass. The phone buzzed again, and Jack repeated the same action. He was angry with the audacity of Walter calling him now after more than a month without as much as a word.

He silenced the phone a few more times before it went silent and finished his pint. The couple in the movie had just overcome their conflict and was ready to live together happily ever-after when his phone buzzed again. He furrowed his brow and glanced at the annoying electronic gadget one more time, but he did not recognize the number calling him. He silenced the ring for a second before answering.

“Hello?” he said unsure what to expect.

“Is this Jack?” an unfamiliar voice said in a very stern, serious tone.

“Yes it is. Is something wrong?” Jack said. His alcohol-dulled mind was confused at this late-night disturbance.

“Do you know a Walter Meyers? It looks like he tried to call you several times tonight.” the voice said.

The next twenty minutes blurred by in disbelief. Jack grabbed his keys and rushed to Walt’s apartment. The flashing lights of emergency vehicles illuminated the complex from blocks away. A crowd had gathered behind the police tape, and the smiling, hazel-eyed woman sat sobbing on the same bench she had shared with Walt a month before. She was covered in a blanket answering a detective’s questions in choking, sniffling responses. Jack rushed up to the scene and found the coroners zipping Walter up. He read the man’s last words and drifted away.

An hour later he found himself sitting sullen once again in his car. He picked up his phone and cycled through his call list. He saw Walter’s name illuminated in front of him and began crying tears of desperation. He dialed the phone with slow purpose and waited through the rings.

The voice on the line said the all-too-familiar words, “Hello, this is Sara with the crisis center. How can I help today?”