INANIMATE
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CHAPTER 2
GRAY / GRRAY
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God's creations and man's; to both of them I am a stranger, made small by the fruits of labor, by the signposts of architect's dreams, by the totally unremarkable results of months of planning - meticulous, methodical planning - and by places, objects, constructions, and all manner of entirely possible machinations; comfortable, simple machinations, yet even still, so far beyond my understanding.
To shrink under the grand scale of a thousand insignificant details is to truly feel at one with the cosmos. The vastness of an office building – each floor, each wood panel, each steel beam, each chair, desk, stapler, pen, each button on each microwave, each grain in every carpet. To know them all is to know all.
But can one ever really "know" a thing, a place? I ask myself this daily now. A constant thought.
"Like the back of your hand"... this phrase rings in my ears like a dinner bell, like a homing beacon. I know what it means. I know I’m not supposed to take things so literally all the time. Tom tells me that. Incessantly so. But they feel like as good a thing to study as any. The backs of my hands. If I can’t know them, what on earth could I know? As much as I study them (and believe me, I do study them), I have to come to the unfortunate conclusion that if someone were to somehow replace the backs of my hands with the backs of… I don’t know, some other poor sap’s hands… I honestly don’t think I’d notice. Hours and hours of study, and what does it lead to? Why does it feel so limited, so limiting?
Why can’t I simply object into myself? Maybe if I really did have my hands replaced, then I could. Sure, I think. Just strip off the skin, the ligaments, my fingers. Replace the backs of my hands, doc. Go ahead. Just to see if I notice. I wouldn’t. I’d never know.
Imagine: to be so blissfully unaware of the body-horror of it all. To have bits of you taken, replaced. To have the most fundamental truths of your existence swept out from under you. Like a cave-dwelling bear that wakes up in a zoo. Take out my liver and replace it. Would I know? Would my doctor? Would it matter?
I sit in my apartment, night after night, and I take in the details. The austerity. Like… take last night. Six forty-nine, I get home, and what do I do? Not dirty dishes. Not laundry. Not… I don’t know, having a beer and watching the game. No. I picked out an object and thought about it. Just like I do every night.
I used to do it back at the old place too, at Rose Court. I liked that place. The way that the squares of carpets were clearly meant to tile together to form a bigger image – just overlapping white circles on vague strips of beige and burgundy – but were misaligned, so we’re left with obvious edges and circles abruptly cut off – my god, what a thing to behold. To trace over each circle, to be that shape. To truly understand the fine details, the man-made things. To be so acutely aware of humanity. To be human.
But when I think about Rose Court, what am I really remembering? It was six years ago now that I lived there. I studied details of that place over and over and over. I knew that apartment better than most know their own face. And I realized today that I could not remember if the hinge joint – an authentic, beautiful thing, a raw thing – a hard plastic circle that cradled the wonderful beige mechanism which slid the silverware drawer… I couldn’t remember if it had a little metal thing visible in the middle, or if it was totally covered. I know it doesn’t seem like much. But you have to understand, as far as miniscule details go, it was simply massive. It’d be like if you couldn’t remember if your vacation was to Vegas or Reno. No. It’d be like if you couldn’t remember if you LIVED in Vegas or Reno. It’s like you’d lived in Vegas your whole life and you’d never heard of Vegas.
Over the course of the years I spent living there, I must have looked at that mechanism a thousand times. Two thousand. I really don’t know. And still, it eludes me. Even after all of it, it’s all dust in the end. It’s fuzzy, foggy, it drifts away, over time, it drifts. It’s vague - no matter how well I know it, it’s vague. So I ask again: can one ever really "know" a thing, a place?
I’m sure there are other details of that apartment I’d never noticed, either. Somehow, they slipped through, and formed little cracks in my recollection. And those cracks spread out and gleefully join their little hands together, and they form gaps, which concede to chasms, which concede to holes. With time, those holes rot, and before I know it, I’m thinking back to that place, and I’m trying to envision the details, but really I’m remembering a memory of a memory of a memory of something I never really knew at all. I’m diligently bashing my head against the trunk of a tree. Nothing ever happens, but I do it and I do it and I do it.
I’ve studied every inch of the Rose Court apartment. I didn’t just have a deference for that place, I didn’t just study that place; I was that place. Still, even now, I am that place – at least a part of me is. And after all of it, I don’t know myself.
It’s a birthmark that moves a few millimeters every day. If I stare at it hard enough, and if I, to the best of my ability, be it, exist as it, I can feel the movement. Like a carnival ride. Spinning faster and faster. So fast I get motion sick. So fast that the view from the little car, all red and yellow and hot metal, becomes a blur, a swirl of exploding color.
In that silence, there is immense movement. In that movement, in that silence, there is so much noise. Wind flows from pole to pole, and lights pulse out of each lightbulb, impossibly fast and impossibly small, beaming hard across an infinite number of rooms in an infinite number of buildings, blocks, cities, continents, worlds. Light pulses, light bounces, and light pulses again.
Glissandos. Glissandos, all.
—---------------
"We talk a lot about stillness," Tom began. The overworked and short-statured doctor was staring into the center of the room, speaking to no one and everyone. The room was warm, as it always was. Very, very warm. I guess a lot of us tend to get worse in the cold. Still, I was sweating.
"Stillness," he repeated, and then he paused, in his perfect, almost ghostly way. Tom was a master of this, these pregnant pauses, and the air in the familiar small basement room seemed to waft even slower, to circulate even less. No fans in here, on account of Sylvia. No air conditioning either – too artificial, I suppose. Tom doesn’t want to risk it. So it’s just damp, hot air, and a bunch of uncomfortable folding chairs – all different colors and different shapes.
"Stillness."
I looked over at Emma Jay on the other side of the circle. Her legs and arms both crossed, bouncing slightly. She looked even more anxious than I was. Tom hadn’t let us out of his sight since we got here.
"Stillness…"
Setting up was all small talk. Waiting for him to bring up what happened this afternoon was like waiting for a boiled egg to hatch. I needed him to say something to cut the tension. He never did.
"Stillness is… something that's very much at the core of what we're doing."
I waited again, my breath tense and fast. My foot began to tap.
"Many of us, most of us, are here because of that: stillness."
The taps grew to envelop the space around my chair.
"Or the lack of it."
Like a heartbeat through a megaphone.
"But what do we mean by stillness?"
Like a building being ripped to shreds.
"Gray, what do you think?"
Like a gunshot through a fingernail.
"Gray?"
I felt something graze my shoulder and I must have flinched. Somebody's hand flung away from me in surprise, and my heart began to beat again.
"Oh, uh…"
And just like that, Tom commanded the room again. "Gray, what does stillness mean to you?"
Is he fucking with me?
"So, um… Stillness is… Stillness is, well… I don’t know. I don’t know, Tom."
"What does it mean to you?"
"To me…?" I felt myself sweat, and I felt the pressure of the rest of the group staring at me. "Well, stillness is like, when nothing is moving."
"But it’s more than that, too, isn’t it?" Tom prodded.
A woman’s voice from across the room. "Mr. Tom?"
It was Sylvia. A short, scrawny woman with so-blonde-it’s-nearly-white hair and huge, almost disconcertingly large eyes. She hardly said a word in group.
Tom turned his head away from me and toward her, and I felt an immediate and thorough sigh of relief. For a moment, I believed in God, and she looked exactly like Sylvia.
"Yes, Sylvia?"
"I can answer." She didn’t so much as blink as she declared this.
Tom grew a look – I could never read his looks. Somewhere between amused and frustrated. Or maybe neither.
He waited a moment before speaking, as he always did. "Okay. Sylvia then. Why don’t you tell us what stillness means to you."
I tried to get a read on Sylvia, but she wouldn’t look at me. Was she avoiding eye contact? She’s sweating. It is hot in here. But was she sweating before?
"For me, it’s like… it’s not just things not moving," she said. "It’s things not… living or breathing, really. Like, if there was a way to stop your blood from pumping. Or to stop your heart from beating. That’s stillness."
For a split second, Sylvia met my glance, and her big round eyes got even bigger before she quickly looked away. I did the same.
It was then that I noticed Emma Jay. She just sat there, eyes half open, staring straight ahead. Oh, shit.
Tom took another one of his infamous pauses as he thought about what Sylvia said.
Was Emma Jay okay? I really couldn’t tell. She didn’t seem to be object-ing, there’s really nothing in here to do it with, and besides, she was still wearing those ridiculous sunglasses. But come to think of it, she never told me what she was up to this morning. Why was she out and about, anyway – why was she at the hospital, anyway?
"That’s interesting," Tom said, in his slow, measured way, and started to write something down.
The other group members were utterly silent. They could tell something was off. Maybe they could somehow sense the tension between Emma Jay and I and Tom. Even still, somehow, we were all acutely aware of the power Tom had, the uncanny ability of this small man to command the room, to maintain an absolutely dominating presence. I never understood how.
He didn’t scare me. He bothered me, sure. I didn’t like him. But I wasn’t scared.
I had to get Emma Jay’s attention. If she gets caught object-ing during group again, especially today, I don’t know what would happen.
I looked straight at her eyes, coughed, and adjusted my chair. It only got Sylvia’s attention, who looked just as on-edge as ever. Emma didn’t notice.
Tom was still taking a note. I gestured lightly yet sternly to Sylvia toward Emma Jay. She got it. Sylvia reached over to Emma Jay while watching Tom, and–
"Okay," Tom suddenly said, and looked up. Sylvia played it off like a stretch. Tom knew, right? He had to know.
Tom breathed in, and seemed to think for a moment about the perfect thing to say – but I knew it was all calculated, an act. "So… what do we think about what Sylvia said?"
Finally, I relaxed for a moment. Maybe he wasn’t going to bring it up. Maybe he’s willing to let it pass. It’ll just be a normal group, I told myself. I can get through this. I’ve done it dozens of times before.
"How about you, Emma?"
She snapped right to attention. "It’s Emma Jay."
Of course she’s fine. Jesus, that scared the shit out of me.
"I apologize," Tom said, and it seemed oddly genuine. "Emma Jay." And like nothing had happened, Tom was immediately focused again. "What did you think of what Sylvia said? Did it perhaps resonate with you at all?"
"Yeah, I get it," she said. "I think it has something to do with its relationship of like, life and death."
Tom was quick this time. "Tell us more."
"Well… blood stopping and hearts stopping, what she said, it sounds like death. So death is a way of having stillness."
"That’s good, Emma. Sorry, Emma Jay." Tom stayed very still. "That’s really interesting. But can we please take the sunglasses off? I don’t want to have to ask you every time."
"No, I don’t want to," she snapped back.
Tom’s face didn’t change even a bit. "Okay. Let’s talk after group, but we’ll go ahead and move on."
Sylvia looked relieved – wait, no she didn’t. She still looked nervous. More so than before. Was she okay?
Tom scanned the room, and found someone to call on. "Ah, our new friend. What about you?"
New guy?
"...I don’t know."
He was a huge, hairy, barrel of a man. How in the world did I not notice him before? Scraggly beard and a hi-viz vest. He must’ve just come off a job site. He couldn’t have been more visible if he tried. Was I that focused on everything else? God, my head is in the clouds lately.
I rarely saw my condition as a problem. But in that moment, I admit, I felt… I don’t know. A bit uncomfortable. A bit too seen.
Tom spoke up. "Garry just switched from another group," he said, and from across the room, Emma Jay made a sudden, exaggerated ‘ooh!’ face at me. I smiled a bit. She’s gonna be soaking that up for weeks.
"You didn’t have the chance to introduce yourself at the beginning, since you arrived late – totally understandable in your case, of course – so why don’t you go ahead now?"
Wait, he came in late? Like, during group and I didn’t notice him?
"Okay… hmm. What do I say?" Such a soft voice for a guy like that.
"How about," Tom offered, "your name, your hobbies, and share a bit of your experience with object-ing."
"Hmm. Okay…" He was a slow-talker, too. "I’m Garry Tershak. I–"
"No full names, please, Garry," Tom interrupted.
"No full–... how come Emma Jane gets to have her full name?"
She spoke up. "That’s just my first name! My first name is Emma Jay."
Garry looked genuinely a bit mad about that, somehow. "What’s your middle name?"
"I don’t have one."
"Okay, guys," Tom interjected again, "Let’s focus."
Garry sternly started over. "Hi. I’m Garry. With two ‘r’s. My hobbies are… I don’t know. Building things."
Sylvia now interjected. "What kind of things?"
"Uh… like machines and things."
"Like a gaming computer?"
"I... yeah. Sort of. Like a gaming computer."
"What games do you play?"
"I don’t really play any games."
Tom reigned us in again. "Guys, focus." He was losing his grip on the group somehow. Something about the new guy’s energy was like a Tom antidote.
I kind of like him already.
"Sorry, Tom," Sylvia said.
Garry continued. "My experience with… object-ing. Well, I had it bad. I didn’t think I could ever work a normal job. But I’m starting to see the other side of it, if you can believe that."
"I can believe it," said Tom, and he shifted to address the group. "Garry has made remarkable progress and has made very impressive steps toward recovery. I think he’ll be a great addition to this group."
"Ah… thanks, Mr. Tom."
Tom looked at his watch. "It’s about that time," he said. "Why don’t we close out for the night? You can all go home and get some rest."
A sigh of relief from the group.
"It’s been a long week, yeah?" he asked, and the group muttered in agreement.
"Emma Jay, you’re with me," he added. She looked over to me. I signaled that I’d be waiting outside.
Tom saw me. "I know you’re her ride home, Gray. It doesn’t have to be a secret."
"Oh… sorry." Jesus. Nothing slips by him.
—------------------------------------------------
"You smoke?" Garry Tershak stood outside the clinic with me, light gray rain drizzling on the awning overhead. It hadn’t quite gotten dark yet, and the fog was hitting me just right. I felt relaxed, safe, cool.
"Uh, yeah. Thanks." I really didn’t. I didn’t really drink either, but whenever I was offered a drink, I always took it. Same with cigarettes. I guess I like to think I’m polite. I perish the thought of rejecting a gift.
A menthol. Gross. He leaned down and stuck it right in my mouth and lit it. It was really weird. It was kind of hot.
"So…" I began, "did you just come from work?"
"Yup. Moritz."
"Moritz… I don’t know what that is."
"Glass manufacturing plant. The BIG glass manufacturing plant."
"Sorry, I’m not... I don’t know that kind of stuff."
"What do you do?"
"Nothing really. I mean, I’m just a cashier. I work at a gas station."
"You like it?"
"I mean… no. It keeps me busy. It pays my rent. It keeps me from object-ing."
"Does it?" he asked, and suddenly his eyes seemed very intense.
"Well… no. Not really. It doesn’t."
"So you still do it." Garry stared back off into the rain.
"Are you… yeah, I mean, I’m not as far along in the whole… group process. Recovery steps or whatever."
"What would Tom say if I told him that?" He kept staring off.
"Are… are you serious, man? What the hell is your problem? Like, Tom already knows that I–"
Garry laughed. Loud. "I’m just messing with you, dude. I don’t give a shit what Tom thinks," he said, and he gracelessly stepped out his cigarette. "You want my number?"
"Do I want your-... I mean, sure."
He straight up took my phone out of my hand and started putting him number in. You know what? I changed my mind. He’s not hot, he’s just a narcissist.
"See you next time, Other Garry. God, it’s terrible out here. It’s depressing."
"Other Garry…? Uh, it’s Gray."
"Yeah, it is fucking gray. Look at all this. Like the sky’s fallen," he said as he walked away without a second glance.
"Um, bye," I said, and Garry Tershak disappeared into the fog.
"Woah, you smoke now?" A voice from behind me shocked me into a gasp.
"Fuck! — oh, it’s you. What did Tom say to you?"
"Nothing, really," Emma Jay explained, "just that I have to take off my sunglasses because it’s disrespectful, and it’s ‘undermining the authority of the group’ or something like that."
"Undermining?"
"Yeah, I don’t get it either. New guy’s hot, right?"
I was taken aback. "New– what?"
"The new guy. Other Gray. He’s hot."
"His name’s Garry. And he thinks my name is Garry, too. And, wait, you don’t even like guys."
Emma Jay just laughed.
"Wait, wait, wait" I said, "did you seriously think his name was ‘Grray’ with two ‘r’s? He specifically said ‘Garry with two ‘r’s’."
"Gray, oh my god," she said, "you have to learn how to chill out."
—----------------------------
"So?" Emma Jay asked, as we parked in front of her mom’s place. "New guy?"
"Yeah, he’s pretty hot," I said, and I hoped it would get her to stop asking me that.
"Hell yeah." She got her stuff together and hopped out. Just before she closed the door–
"Hey, Emma Jay?"
"What’s up?"
I took a moment to find the right words to say. I was worried about her. I saw her drift into object-ing at almost nothing today. Not that I have any right to be concerned, it’s not like I’ve exactly been a paragon of object-free behavior.
But she was at the hospital today. She must have been there for a reason. And she was dressed up for… something, and she wouldn’t tell me what it was. I don’t know.
"Well?" She stood there in the drizzle, impatient and ready to go in.
"Ah… it’s nothing. Go home."
"Okay, I will. Weirdo."
I smiled. I watched and waited until she got inside before I started off home.
The light had all but faded now. Every traffic light a spotlight. Every line on the road a ley line. Every car its own world. Every drop of rain on every crumb of concrete magnificent, a perfect piece of the ultimate puzzle.
Glissandos. Glissandos, all.
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