INANIMATE
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CHAPTER 1
OBJECT-ING
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Why is it always these places? You know what I mean. Shopping malls, department stores, airports, furniture stores... all of them. An absurdly bright light in the daytime. The way an overhead speaker might lull me into a perfect, dull peace with -- not music exactly -- but the hint of music. Music's idea. It's all an eggshell white. Slightly damp. Cold. A thing so understated that it's impossible to ignore. Something so devoid of meaning that the cycle repeats, the moat churns, and the thing comes back around, finding itself awash in a new, almost suffocating meaning. It overflows with meaning -- a crude, essential meaning. It's falling off the bones.
I have a favorite place. Not a specific place, but a KIND of place: for me, it's hospitals. I feel a stunningly powerful sensation when I'm in a hospital. Something intoxicating, almost inhuman. Maybe even profane, yes, profane. If fresh air is sacred, then that feeling, the way the halogen light bulbs buzz and fizzle over my head, the way I feel so far removed from my humanity in every meaningful way... that must be profane.
And yet, both are equally numinous. The dichotomy of these states of being, juxtaposed, strung together with a thin bit of barbed wire, ripped from an electric fence while it buzzes, fizzles out, and finally fades away.
To most people, I am told, the feeling one gets when gazing out from over a waterfall or perhaps through binoculars toward an eagle's nest, is one of transcendent awe. To most people, I am told, the feeling of, say, staring, half-dazed, at a dull, dry fountain that's long since been shut off, a concrete memory observed from a muggy vantage point on a beige plastic bench in the corner of a partially-carpeted dusty mall lobby -- to most, that feeling ought to ring closer to dread. At best, it's pedantic. Stagnant. Still.
But there is a power in both of these things. There is a power.
The truth is this: to feel so impossibly inhuman is just as much of a gift as it is to bask in the awe of a canyon, a mountain, a wooded lake. To feel so insignificant under the weight of the palpable beauty of GodI's earth, to soak up the majesty of nature, wild and free, to drink until drunk on an incomprehensible amount of sublime green detail -- this is normal. This is seen as perfectly average behavior, a quintessential part of the human experience. How could anyone not understand? There must be something wrong with them.
I can't find these feelings the ways others do. So I do it my own way.
And when I do it? When I find a way to experience that kind of perspective-altering, undeniable spiritual phenomenon? I don't get to write poems about it. I don't get to try and explain to my co-workers what I felt on my hunting trip to Maine and have them sigh those perfectly wistful sighs when I'm at a loss for words. When other people do it, they're praised, asked questions. They're the center of attention. They get to live these ego-shattering moments and everyone applauds them for it, and do you know what happens to me?
I get sent to the Brighton Institute.
I get sent to Tom.
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A harpist, gently scraping along an ordered line of coated nylon, copper and steel, each petite ray strung up through tender mahogany, through metal rods. A single gray chair, comfortable in its line of gray chairs, and across a white room sits an identical line of chairs, itself one part of the million moving parts of a lobby, one of a hundred nearly identical lobbies in a hospital, one of a hundred nearly identical hospitals. Glissandos. Glissandos, all.
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Once again I found myself daydreaming at lunchtime today. The cafeteria on the third floor of the majestic Regional Hospital, in all its beiges, tans, and greens, felt so much quieter than usual, and the whole wide room was coated in a thin, gooey stillness -- the gritty tiles shined as if scrubbed, by hand, with ten thousand tiny alcohol swabs, as if rubbed down with some clear, sticky fluid -- the kind that comes from a little white paper packet. And what a perfect packet it is, all slate blue and matte white, such perfectly plain text on a perfectly plain square. Simply magnificent! I felt myself start to grin involuntarily, as if my cheeks were being ever-so-gently pulled upward toward the halogen lights on the nondescript ceiling.
My goodness - the greatness of the exposed ventilation system! The way the rings of the air conditioning tubes, so perfectly spaced, seem to spiral toward and away with all the grace of the most beautiful of winged creatures. Each vent, perhaps, was part of the system's body -- this one, its left eye; this one here, its heart. Had there been no one around, my jaw would have dropped. Every time, it blows me away. This place, in its simplicity, in its extreme, powerful normalcy.
"What's so funny, Gray?"
As if from thin air, Emma Jay stood in front of my corner table, her face alert and amused as she placed down her lunch tray at the place across from mine. Looked like a bottle of water and a plain hamburger. Instantly, I noticed she was wearing a big black floppy sun hat.
"Emma Jay," I said, slowly coming back to reality.
"Hi, Gray," she said back, standing incredibly still.
I forced myself to look up and away from her exceptionally bright eyes. Drawn to the top of her head, and still dazed, I felt myself speak: "You're wearing a hat."
Emma Jay's eyebrows furrowed for a moment, then her gaze averted as she sat down. I looked away and waited for her answer, and when she spoke, it was with her mouth full.
"Mmp... yeah. Hat's new. I just got it yesterday."
"Because Tom told you to?"
Emma swallowed. She looked mad at me. Maybe she was.
"Yeah, because Tom told me to. You should be wearing one too, you know. Dude, can you seriously back up? You're way too close to me."
"Aah." I inhaled sharply and laid my shoulders back. "Sorry."
I guess I'd been leaning in like crazy. I hadn't noticed.
I noticed now the rest of Emma's appearance - bright carnation-pink lipstick, with a white buttoned-up shirt and a pink cardigan. Of course, those same blackout sunglasses as always. She looked exceptionally conspicuous, like a celebrity in a bad disguise, her gregariousness a cheeky invitation to the paparazzi. I'd never seen her like this before.
"What are you all dressed up for, Emma?"
Emma kept eating, no concern of chewing with her mouth full. "Emma JAY. Don't you like it? I think I look hot. Do you think I'm overdoing it?"
"I didn't say that. And no, I don't think so. I mean, I don't know what you're dressing up for, so I don't know. I don't have a frame of reference. Did you apply for a job, or something? Or... where are you going?"
Emma Jay's nose wrinkled and she shuffled in her seat, sitting up a bit straighter. "You realize, Gray, you never said hello to me."
I was pretty sure I did, but I didn't want to argue. "Oh. Sorry."
"I thought you'd be happy to see me outside of group. I was really excited to see YOU," Emma Jay said, but to be honest, she didn't look it. She looked on edge, nervous.
I spoke up. "I mean, sure, I'm happy. But we really shouldn't even be talking to each other outside of group. Not around here."
Emma Jay scoffed. "Everyone does, though. What are you doing til tonight? It's not til 6:00. It's not even 3:00 yet."
"I don't know. I don't really want to hang out with you, if that's what you're asking. I have a bunch of work to do, and I didn't get any sleep last night."
Emma Jay frowned. "Were you object-ing?"
Ugh. Hearing Tom's stupid terms come out of anyone's mouth but his just makes me cringe. "I hate 'object-ing'," I said. "It's such a stupid word.
"You were, though?"
I sighed. "Yeah, I was. It was my comforter. Or, its wrinkles, I guess."
Emma Jay sat down her plain hamburger and leaned in, further now than I had just a moment ago. She took her sunglasses off and stared right at me. Always such vicious eye contact. Eyes so piercing green that they were practically white.
"What were you thinking about before I came over here?"
"Nothing."
Her icy stare loosened slightly and she began to scan the corners of the cafeteria.
"Okay," she began, "what about the halogen lights on the ceiling?"
I stayed stoic. "What about them?"
"You were smiling to yourself when I came over here. You were looking up and smiling."
I struggled to remain stoic. It was an empty threat. Or so I hoped. "So what?" I clapped back. "You're gonna tell Tom I was smiling?"
Emma Jay didn't say anything. She just kept not blinking, and with each passing second, her eyes felt stronger and stronger, sharper, more piercing. I didn't budge, and I didn't dare look up.
Finally, she leaned back and broke the silence. "Why are you even here anyway? Do you have an appointment or something?"
"No, I'm done," I lied. "I had to get a physical. I'm finished now, though.
Of course I didn't have an appointment. I don't come here for appointments. There's nothing wrong with me. My doctor, every time I see him (and I admit, it is often), tells me it's not really diagnosable as a mental illness. And he's right! If anything, it makes me happy. So what if I like to get lost in the lights on the ceiling of the hospital cafeteria. I like the thrill of it. It's exciting. It's fun. I've never seen the problem with it.
But Tom does. Tom says there's a problem. So my doctor tells me to go and see Tom. So I go.
But really, so what if I want to go to the hospital and sit in the lobbies and look at things? So what if I get caught up in thinking about them? I know it's not normal. But it's really not hurting anybody.
I'm not sleeping great. I'm distracted. How many jobs have I lost? My last boss, Sergio from the sports marketing thing, said I was daydreaming all the time. I guess that's what it is, really. Or at least a good way of explaining it to someone who doesn't know. About a week into that job, after my first big verbal warning, I scheduled another meeting so I could give Sergio a note from Tom, explaining it. Explaining my... whatever it is. My stupid obsession. Tom says not to call it that. But that's kind of what it is, though.
It makes a lot of things harder. But I don't need to tell the doctor that. It's not like there's any way he could help, anyway. And I don't want his help. I don't need it. So what if I like the way that the plaster so gently and perfectly ebbs and flows across the cafeteria ceiling? So what if it
"Gray!!"
Emma Jay stood over me now, shaking me at the shoulders. I suddenly gasped for air.
And back to reality. "What?"
"Are you serious right now? I asked you a question and you just started staring at the ceiling!"
I didn't think I was, but I didn't want to argue. "What was the question?"
Emma Jay stood up and straightened her clothes. "It doesn't matter. You need to not be here right now. Let's go."
"Where are we going?"
"Outside." Emma Jay hurriedly took off her big black sunhat. "And put this on."
I didn't feel I had any room to say otherwise. "Okay."
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From the office of Thomas Brighton, PhD
RE: EMMA JANOSKY
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
We have been informed that our Client, named above, has chosen to release the following medical information to you. As per our organization's confidentiality and privacy policy, and in accordance with Subsection 28.1 of our Codex, we disclose only that information which the Client named above (hereby referred to as "Client") specifically chooses to disclose. With these policies in mind, we disclose the following information:
PROGNOSIS: We can disclose that Client suffers from a medical condition that may inhibit his ability to pay attention for long periods of time or cause Client to dissociate or otherwise lose touch with physical sensation.
WORKPLACE CONSIDERATIONS: We believe that, as much as is reasonable and possible, Client should receive accommodations so as to minimize the impact of his condition. It is our professional opinion that Client should be kept away from the following:
Items in an evenly spaced line
Items next to many others that are the same color
Symmetrical objects placed near each other
Plain-colored, undecorated walls
Large glass panels
Minimalist furniture (wire racks, metal shelves, etc.)
Any other objects that may trigger or otherwise worsen Client's condition.
TREATMENT: We can confirm that Client is in active treatment for the condition explained above, and that Client is making progress.
We appreciate your attention in this important matter.
With respect,
Thomas Brighton
Founder, Brighton Institute
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"It's weird, right?" Emma Jay asked me as I finished reading the letter she had handed me. We were outside the hospital now, in a patch of grass by the courtyard. By the courtyard not the courtyard itself. Haddersfield Regional has an exceptionally manicured courtyard, and I knew she didn't take me there for a reason. Far too many opportunities to drift off into objects there.
"Seriously," Emma Jay insisted. "Don't you think it's weird?"
I held the letter and felt the texture of its paper between my fingers. It was badly wrinkled, like it had been crumpled up days prior. "Yeah, it is. Tom used the wrong pronouns."
She hunched inward and lightly scoffed. "No. Well, I mean, I don't care about that. Not that. You seriously don't notice it?"
"I mean... he kept using 'WE' instead of 'I', I guess?" I genuinely didn't know what she meant.
The two of us were sitting on the grass, facing away from the hospital towards a small wooded path that led behind it to the chapel, a separate building on the grounds. I rarely went -- the old-world European style architecture was far too elaborate and ornate to scratch my itch, and the hallways had too many curves and far too many windows to feel good. Not to mention, the soft lighting of the pews themselves... it looked almost organic. Warm.
Emma Jay looked downright frustrated. "Oh my god. Look. In the workplace considerations section."
I began to read. "Um... we believe that, as much as reasonable --"
"Glass panels!" Emma Jay snapped, snatching it away from me and stuffing it messily back into her tote bag. "Glass panels."
"What?"
"I don't even... I've never had a problem with glass panels. Never."
"So what? Clearly it's just a template that he adds stuff to. My letter looked pretty much the same. It's probably part of somebody else's thing and it just got left on there by mistake."
"Yeah, I get that, Gray, and first of all, that's a huge confidentiality violation," she started, adjusting her blackout sunglasses, "but the thing is, okay, let's say it's someone else's. Whose?"
"So you DON'T care about violations all of a sudden."
"Shut up. Think about it."
I thought about it for a moment. There were eight people in our group. I'm all about lighting and ceilings. Emma... oh, excuse me, Emma JAY... she does symmetry and empty space. Nick does lighting too, and Hunter's thing is concrete. Sylvia's got it bad -- she zones out and practically starts drooling every time she sees a fan spinning. There's that old guy with the ponytail who goes to barber shops every weekend and pays them just to sit in the chairs, the weirdo. And... hmm.
"You're right," I began, "There's nobody in the group who's into glass panels."
"Right?!" She seemed really excited now, in an almost playful, schoolyard kind of way. Unsettling from a person like her. If you didn't know any better, you might find her charming. "So what's up with that?! There has to be another group!"
"Oh my god, Emma," I began--
"Emma JAY!" She took her sunglasses off and glared at me, her eyebrows thick and furrowed.
"Christ. Okay. Let's say Tom has another group. Cool. Why would he need to keep it a secret?"
Emma was suddenly full of energy -- thrilled, even. She's lucky she didn't fall into a conspiracy rabbit hole -- she seems just the type for it. "You know: confidentiality! He's not allowed to talk about it. But what if..."
"He's not allowed to talk about what HAPPENS in it. Why would its EXISTENCE be secret?" I don't know why I was getting so mad.
"What if, okay... listen. What if there' s famous guys in it. Like, the mayor or something is in it, and they have to be really careful." She was smiling like crazy now. Her teeth are the straightest teeth I've ever seen in my life. It's terrible for her -- she can't smile in the mirror. She gets caught up in the symmetry.
"You think the MAYOR does object-ing?"
Emma Jay laughed. She was smiling like crazy now. "So, what, now you call it 'object-ing' too?"
Damn. She got me.
"It works," I admitted. I don't exactly have anything else to call it. "...Do we even HAVE a mayor in this town?"
Emma Jay looked really proud of herself for some reason. She didn't say anything, though -- she just looked on past me, gazing down the path to the chapel for a moment. I wondered what was going on in her head.
"You okay?" I asked.
She shook herself to attention for a second. "Oh... yeah. I'm good." Her attention didn't quite break away from the path, and she seemed to drift off a bit more. Maybe she didn't shake herself quite hard enough. I thought I ought to say something.
"Hey, what were you thinking about?"
"I was just... I don't know," she said, slowly. "I never really looked at this path before."
I didn't want to risk looking over there. Stuff outside rarely made me start object-ing, but it had been a weird day.
"Put the sunglasses on, Emma."
"No, it's okay."
She was fading fast. Her mouth slacked open a little.
Wait, did she not correct me?
"Hey. Emma."
"That's not... um... what?" Her voice trailed.
Okay. Don't freak out. She'll be fine. It's just a path. It's not even one of her big triggers. I tried to calm down. What did Tom tell me?
I'm supposed to focus on the organic details. Things that aren't artificial. Cracks in the ceiling. Stains. Dust. Cobwebs. Slight differences in the coat of the paint or the texture of the concrete. Or my other senses. Sensations. That's right. Sounds.
I watched Emma fade for just a second more and then closed my eyes. As I inhaled, the world got smaller. And as I exhaled, the world got bigger. The sounds around me. Distant shuffling and cars. People's voices from the courtyard. One particularly loud voice. A thin, sharp, woody voice.
A familiar voice.
A voice I knew well. A voice I heard every Tuesday and Thursday night for three hours and 20 minutes. His voice.
Tom's voice.
My eyes sprung open and I practically jumped up from the grass, standing up straight and out of place, like a rusted coat rack. I don't know why I did. I was surprised. Maybe even a little scared. I didn't know what to do. I stood there like a deer in shock and Tom's eyes, like headlights, were magnetic, fluorescent and piercing. Of course he'd notice me right away. Of course he would.
Mine and Tom's eyes met. Tom was here. He had just seen Emma and I sitting motionless on the ground. Oh, Jesus Christ. I'm fucked. I wasn't even object-ing! It doesn't matter. He' d never believe me. I'm here with Emma Jay, after all.
"Excuse me a moment." Tom told his companion across the picnic table, "There's something I must attend to immediately."
He looked over at me again, and his gaze sharpened, like a harsh ray of sunlight through a windshield, and whoever he was sitting with left without a word.
Somehow, incredibly, Tom's voice was enough to break through Emma Jay's attention. Her head rocked once, hard, like a passenger's in a crash.
"Shit,"she said, "was that fucking Tom?"
Of course, he came running over, sloppy and hunched. A short man with a bad hairline and a scraggly beard, he looked like a wild animal in a bad lab coat. His voice was formal -- maybe overly so -- but it was also youthful, unrefined.
"Hi, you two," Tom asked, sharply and fast, attention darting between the two of us. "What are we up to on a Thursday morning?"
Emma pushed her hair out of her face. "We were just--"
Tom interrupted her almost instantaneously, abrupt and painful. Car crashes. Car crashes, all. "Before you speak! I feel I have to..."
A pause.
He exhaled and reached out his cold hands out to each of us. "Okay, okay. Okay." Tom' s speech gradually slowed. "I'm just about to start setting up for group. How about you two come and help me?"
He knows. I tried to casually wipe the sweat off my brow. Emma just looked at me, expectantly and nervous.
Finally, I spoke. "Help... help you set up?"
Tom responded immediately, confidently, and grew an odd, sideways smile. "I think that's a great idea, Gray."
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I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of Inanimate! If you're left wondering what happens next, make sure to let me know and check @sherrycdrom for updates.
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