INANIMATE
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CHAPTER 3
HUEVOS
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There was a time “before”, wasn’t there?
It wasn’t always like this. I know that. To say “it wasn’t always like this” feels pathetic somehow, degrading. Like I’m acknowledging something that ought to remain unspoken. It doesn’t need to be said. It’s a core truth to my world. “Grass is green”. Try saying that to yourself. Go ahead, say it. I can’t tell you why, but for some reason, you feel like kind of a fucking moron for a second. I don’t know. It just makes you feel sick.
Of course I remember that I used to not feel these compulsions. Logically, I know it, I remember. But when I try to grasp that memory, hold onto it, live it, relive it… something stops me, and it holds my nose down like I’m a housetraining puppy. I can imagine what it must have felt like, but I can’t actually feel it. It’s a memory of a memory, a distant recollection of a past life, through a fog. I used to look at old photos and feel this deep, guttural sadness, this pained wistful longing. Now I look at those same photos and feel... I don’t know. Something uncanny, almost.
“Oh, there he is,” I’d think, “that person.”
Not that he – the old me – is a separate person. Just a version of me that I can’t really understand or relate to. Though, if one were to be uncharitable, you could certainly say the same about my new self, my current self, the self that I am right now. This body – is it mine? I wish I could say it feels like it is, but it never has. Not since it all started. Not since I… I don’t know. Since I caught the fever. This weird little disease they call object-ing.
My reality now is a reality that is deeply and forcefully shaped, dominated, by the ever-growing allure of a beautiful, perfect nonexistence. Not nonexistence exactly – existence without caveats. To be inanimate, to simply be, and be at peace. Existence, perfected. What a beautiful thing to imagine.
I struggle to elucidate the power of those thoughts to those unafflicted. I get it. Emma Jay, Tom, Sylvia, they get it. The others in the group, Garry, that new guy. They all get it.
James never got it. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe he never really got me. Maybe I never got him either.
The moment. All thoughts of time passing, all daydreams of personal history lead to me thinking of it. The moment, two years ago, when something in me clicked, and suddenly and all at once I felt so drawn, so powerfully drawn to these things that I had somehow never noticed before. The sudden, almost violent way that everything else in my life in an instant seemed to sputter and drift away into nothing. The moment I caught it. The moment I felt the need to object for the first time.
The catalyst. What lit that fire? What caused that spark? What birthed this uncontrollable impulse in my brain that binds me to the things which cannot feel? Why have I been saddled with this abstract burden?
The ramifications. Everything changed when James left. I packed up – me, one suitcase, my old wood wardrobe, my pots and pans, and my couch – and moved to Rose Court. He went, well, I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him. I haven’t tried to reach out. I don’t want to. He doesn’t want to hear from me. Why ruin his day? Why bother?
The water temperature. Christ, that’s cold. Really wish the upstairs neighbors would take shorter showers, I run out of hot water completely by, like, minute six. Maybe it’s for the best. I can’t object in the shower if it’s this fucking cold – god! It’s not even nice anymore. It’s making my skin crawl. I’m turning it off.
Dripping wet and freezing cold, I stood there in the bathroom like a kid waiting for a school bus. It’s not coming, is it? The bus, I mean. It’s not coming today. That’s what it feels like. Waiting for something. If I was a kid, I would turn around and go home, ask my parents if today was a snow day. I’d cuddle up in my pajama pants and my dad would fry some eggs and sausage, and I would love it, and I’d be so warm. No. He’d make huevos rancheros. Or whatever approximation of huevos rancheros that a white man from Ohio can make.
But I’m not eating huevos rancheros, and I’m not toasty warm in a blanket watching Gargoyles tapes – I’m thirty, my dad’s dead, I’m freezing cold, and I really don’t know what the hell I’m waiting for. I’m just standing here. Standing// there//.
Standing…
Better dry off.
I check my phone. Two new texts.
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(text-style:"expand")[“Hey gary, are you free after group tonight? I’m working on something cool you might be into since you said you’re into computers. hit me up.”]
I guess this is Garry? Thing is, I absolutely never said that. I’m not into computers. I don’t know //anything// about computers. So not only does this guy not listen, he just makes up his own version of the conversation in his head. Cool. Cool guy.
…I don’t know what to say. I’ll respond to it later.
Oh, this one came in just a minute ago. Emma Jay.
(text-style:"expand")[“I literally have no idea where I am right now lol”]
Reading it sent a really strange, almost uncanny feeling through my shivering body. She doesn’t know where she is? What, did she wake up drunk somewhere? Is she like, lost?
Why text me?
I respond: (text-style:"expand")[“Ok uhh where do you think you are?”]
Emma Jay: (text-style:"expand")[“Literally no clue lmao”]
I respond without blinking. (text-style:"expand")[“??? where are you”]
Emma Jay: (text-style:"expand")[“I don’t knowwww”]
I take a deep breath and put my phone back on the edge of the sink. I have no idea what to do. This towel kind of smells. When was the last time I washed it?
I hear a thump. Oh, good. The condensation on the sink was too much for my slippery phone and it dropped from the edge of the sink right onto the wet tile. I swear this thing is magnetized to the floor. Any cracks? No fresh ones. Oh, wait, actually, maybe that IS a new one. It's going to be a great day. Just great.
Okay, let’s try this again. It's Emma Jay I'm talking to, after all. I’m going to word this as clearly as possible:
(text-style:"expand")[“I need more information, EJ. Let’s start with this, are you outside or inside?”]
(text-style:"expand")[“Definitely inside”]
(text-style:"expand")[“Are you in your apartment?”]
(text-style:"expand")[“No but it’s definitely somebody’s apartment.”]
(text-style:"expand")[“Were you drinking last night or anything? Where did you go to sleep?”]
(text-style:"expand")[“No and up until 5 minutes ago I was at home.”]
What the fuck is she talking about? What is happening right now? At least it feels like we’re getting somewhere. I text back again:
(text-style:"expand")[“???? Did you get up and go anywhere??”]
(text-style:"expand")[“No”]
(text-style:"expand")[“Are you like okay? Like do you feel safe or”]
(text-style:"expand")[“I mean yea”]
(text-style:"expand")[“Ok just take a deep breath”]
I said that to her, but I feel like it was really directed at myself. I was getting, I don’t know. Worried? Scared? Pissed? Either she’s lying about drinking, or lying about going out, or the obvious answer that I don’t want to grace with a thought.
Then again, she did it yesterday, so you know what, no, fuck it. She object-ed too hard and lost her sense of self a bit. She has to just be at home. And I’ve been there. I’ve been there a lot. I know exactly what that’s like. But it’s… It’s just uncomfortable for me, you know? I don’t like being around somebody who’s object-ing. I don’t want to see it.
Not that it’s going to set me off; it’s not like my grip on reality is so tenuous that I’ll be thrown out of my senses at just the sight of someone else doing it. I’m tougher than that. I shouldn’t say that -- it’s not about toughness. It’s about personal progress. My progress. I’m doing good. Right now, I'm doing good. I take a moment to feel myself existing in my body. Such an odd feeling. So out of place.
Emma Jay's doing good, too. Good is relative. She’s just… going through a more challenging period right now. She’s struggling.
But I’m not doing that good, am I? I’m kind of a fuck-up. We’re both fuck-ups.
…No. I shouldn’t say that about somebody. I shouldn't say it about myself, either, and yet I do. They say one ought to treat others the way they'd like to be treated -- if I did that, I wouldn't have a single friend. Certainly not one like Emma Jay.
Better text her back. I have an idea.
(text-style:"expand")[“EJ, can you take a screenshot of your GPS?”]
(text-style:"expand")[“idk how lol”]
(text-style:"expand")[“Open up maps and hit volume + lock”]
(text-style:"expand")[“Ok i’m on maps what do i click on”]
(text-style:"expand")[“Don’t click on anything, just take a screenshot”]
(text-style:"expand")[“Wait screenshot of what”]
Oh my god. Emma Jay. Seriously. I may be technologically inept but at least I know how to have a conversation.
(text-style:"expand")[“Here. Like this”]
I sent her a quick screenshot of mine. Looking at it now, there’s really not much else around here, is there? A winding, one-way road with only five buildings on it. Lots of abandoned lots. My building’s got four units in it; most of the ones around here are like that – the ones that survived, anyway – huge old turn-of-the-century buildings that’ve been split into multi-units over the years. I like it out here. I’m close enough to the city that the drive doesn’t kill me, and not far enough out of it that people are gonna run me out of town for… I don’t know, existing, I guess. So I like the place. It’s the best of both worlds.
My hair’s about dry. Oh, she texted back. She – God damn it.
(text-style:"expand")[“Emma Jay you ditz, you just sent back the screenshot I sent. Take your OWN screenshot”]
(text-style:"expand")[“That IS my screenshot dickhead”]
She seriously sent me back my own screenshot of my apartment on the map. She — wait a damn second.
I swung open the door of the bathroom and –
“Gray!!” exclaimed Emma Jay, laying inverted on my cracked leather couch. “How did you get here?”
I clutched my towel around my chest and stared at her in disbelief. “What the fuck are you doing here? How did //you// get here?”
“I don’t know. I was just //here//. Is this your new apartment?”
“Yeah, this is my apartment. The door is locked. Also you don’t even… you don't have a car. Did you walk here? It’s like an hour walk.”
“No, I didn’t. I love this couch, dude. I missed this couch. It's amazing.”
I slammed the bathroom door behind me. The noise sent waves through the high ceilings of the beige studio apartment, and ripples through the empty space between me and her. “Seriously! Emma!”
“Do //not// call me that!” She clapped back, sitting up straight as an arrow.
“How the fuck did you get in my apartment?” I yelled, not a single other thought in my head.
“I’m telling you I don’t know!”
“How do you //think// you got in?”
“I. Don’t. Know! //Okay//!?”
We just stared at each other for a moment. I felt like I was on the verge of losing it. She’s always so bad at explaining things, like everything she says always makes perfect sense to her, so it should to everyone else, too. I swear to god, It’s like pulling teeth trying to make sense of her. Still, I didn’t know what to think. Was she really just that bored that she had to come over here and, what, climb through the window? And lie about it? Every time I feel like we get a little closer, she pulls some new stunt and I realize that even after… what, two years? After all this time I really don’t get her at all.
The colors in my face shifted subtly, and I felt a dull, metallic sting wash over me. I was calming down. Now would be a great time to use the meditative techniques Tom taught me. Now would also be a great time for Tom to shut up and get out of my head.
Emma Jay broke the silence. “I like your new place. It feels really, like, art-studio-y. The exposed beams in the ceiling are cool. My cat would love this place. He’d be up there, like, prowling around. Did you eat breakfast already?”
“No.”
“I’ll make you something," she said, and she got up and started meandering toward the kitchen counter.
“Emma Jay, be real with me for a second. Seriously. Did you climb through a window?”
“Shut up. I don’t wanna talk about it anymore. Get dressed. I’ll make food.”
“Get dressed where? Look around. I don’t have people over here for a reason.”
“Because it’s tiny?”
“It’s a studio,” I said flatly.
“So, who cares? It’s nice. You should bring everybody over here. We can squeeze in.” She looked back over at the couch wistfully. "That's a comfy couch for //real// though. I’m so jealous of that thing. So glad James didn’t get to keep it.”
I felt something sting in the back of my throat. “Can you not? It's 9:00 in the morning. I feel good. I don't want to start my day by talking about James."
“Oh. Sorry," she said without looking at me.
“It’s fine. I’m gonna grab some clothes and I’ll just… change in the bathroom.”
Emma Jay started rooting around in my fridge. “Okay, I’m gonna make… man, you have like, nothing in here. Do you just eat out all the time?”
“Yeah, kind of,” I said earnestly while rooting through some clean clothes – not put away, of course, just chilling in the basket. It helps to not keep things too orderly, too organized. The last thing I need is a bunch of symmetry surrounding me. That’s part of the reason I like this place as much as I do, honestly – it’s uneven, unusually shaped. It’s not just a box, or a box with a hallway. You can really tell it used to be part of a house, that it wasn’t meant to be an apartment.
“Ooh, can I use these leftovers?” she asked. “You have like, half a burrito in here or something. I wanna like, deconstruct it.”
I couldn’t have cared less. “Go nuts.”
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It //wasn’t// always like this, was it?
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The sound of the grinding bathroom fan drowned out any and all other noise of the building, and all the condensation helped give it a peaceful, otherworldly atmosphere. It’s a surprisingly large room, about half as big as the rest of the place. I came in here a lot, just to lay around and read. I’ve fallen asleep on the floor in here when it’s really hot out, too. It’s surprisingly nice, and it too isn’t a perfect box, having instead a partial wall that juts out to section off the red and green tiled shower. It’s yet another reason I like this place. ACtually, maybe I shouldn't say "like". It appreciate that it's //good for me//. Would I like to just sit here and //object// into something magnificent, to let my physical body dissolve into noise, static? Of course I fucking would. But I shouldn't. And I can't.
So... Emma Jay can teleport. Or… climb up fucking walls, I guess. Whatever. I don’t really care at this point. I get a free lunch.
My work shirt and some old jeans. That’s fine. I don’t really care what I wear, even on off days. I feel like I’ve just been wearing the same stuff I’ve had for years. Unlike Emma Jay. I swear I’ve never seen her in the same outfit twice.
I used to be like that. I used to give a shit how I looked. I used to give a shit about a lot of things: gardening, building a life with somebody, working toward a career. Then James left. I shouldn’t really blame him. But at the same time, I can’t imagine it’s just a coincidence that I stopped caring right after we split up.
…I wish I could say, “I wonder what he’s doing now.” I wish I could say I wonder if he’s okay. But the truth is, I don’t. I don’t wonder anything. I don’t //want// anything. I do what I’m supposed to do. I chisel away little pieces of the life I’ve got left. I’m an ice sculptor with too much time on his hands, carving little swirls into the leftover chunks, too small to stay whole, too cracked not to melt.
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“Huevos rancheros?” I asked.
“What?”
I looked down at the plate Emma Jay presented to me. A surprisingly cohesive presentation of rice, beans, potatoes, tomatoes, and eggs. I had sat down at the kitchen table, a //very// tall high-top with stools, which I always found kind of odd, but it’s what the place came with. Emma stood leaning across from me. The food was – I didn’t care how it looked or smelled, actually. It was warm, that’s all I needed.
I took a bite. “Yeah. You know. //Huevos rancheros.//”
“On what planet is this huevos rancheros?”
“I know, but it’s like, my, uh, my dad used to make it.”
“This literally doesn’t even resemble huevos rancheros.”
“...Never mind. It’s good.”
“I just made you a whole lunch for no reason. Are you not even gonna say thank you?”
“I did say thank you," I said, and immediately realized I had not, in fact, said thank you.
“Say it again then.”
“Hey. Hey.” I waited until she looked at me. “Thank you. Seriously. This is really nice.”
“Yeah, well, I like cooking," she said, and looked a bit proud of herself. She deserved to.
“I like cooking too. It doesn’t mean I do it for my friends all the time for no reason.”
“Oh, you like cooking? Then why do you have an empty fridge?"
It tastes really good. How did she make hash browns so fast? And this good?
I swallowed, and thought a moment before responding. For as strange as she is, she really does see through me. Or maybe she’s not perceptive at all –- maybe I’m just //see-through//. “You’re right, you know. I don’t do it as much as I should.”
“Cook for me tonight," she responded immediately, with an sharp, unneccesary intensity.
“Ah, I… can’t. I think I’m supposed to hang out with, um, Garry," I muttered.
“The new guy?”
“Yeah, he texted me wanting to hang out, I guess.”
“Like, as a hookup?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. He said he wants to show me his gaming computer or something.”
“Yeah, it’s a hookup.”
“No it’s not, Emma.”
“Emma //Jay//. Let me see the text.”
“Fine.” I slid my phone over.
She studied it, very intensely, for a bit too long. “You told him you’re into computers?”
“No, I didn’t. He just like, I don't know. He made it up.”
She stared at me incredulously. “Gray, what are you hiding?”
I didn’t expect that. “Hiding?”
“I don’t know, dude. I just feel like you’re not telling me something.”
“You’re the one being suspicious – did you forget you literally snuck into my apartment like, ten minutes ago?”
“Shut up, okay? I didn’t sneak into your apartment. Just leave it alone.”
Suddenly, she looked upset. It seemed like I actually hurt her. Whatever happened, she’s sensitive about it. Maybe it really was a weird ploy for attention. She has BPD, I think. No shade or anything. But sometimes her behavior is just… beyond my understanding. Maybe I should try to //be// more understanding.
Or maybe... maybe she’s not okay. Maybe she actually zoned out and walked here without realizing it. God, I’m being a jerk, aren’t I? This is what happens. I don't think before I speak and I end up hurting people. Every time.
“Hey, Emma Jay.” She wouldn’t look at me. The mood shifted. The light shining through the window behind her grew ever so slightly dimmer. “You really don’t know how you got here, do you?”
She shook her head.
God damn it. What’s wrong with me? She had a fucking mental health episode and here I am yelling at her about it. Now I’m worried. Really worried.
Hey... wait a minute. What about the other day?
“Can I ask you something?” I began. “You don’t have to answer. But I’m like… I’m worried about you, I guess.”
“Yeah.”
“This is me, as your friend. You don’t have to-”
“Just say it.”
I steadied myself. “Why were you at the hospital the other day?”
She took a deep breath and looked up at me, mouth pursed. I don't know what I expected to hear.
Finally, she said, “I’m not dying or anything,” and it seemed clear she wanted to leave it there.
“Okay. I mean, good. I’m glad.”
“I’m just really… I don’t know. You’re right, I don't want to talk about it.”
“Okay. That’s okay.”
She started to walk around the apartment aimlessly. “Do you have to go to work soon?”
“Yeah,” I responded.
“Can you give me a ride?”
“Yeah,” I said again.
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As we drove, we said almost nothing. I couldn’t shake my head of the thought of Emma Jay, fully object-ing, walking over an hour from her mom’s house to my apartment without even realizing it.
“You sure you want me to just drop you off downtown?” I asked. “What do you have going on today?”
“I’m just gonna walk around and get some coffee or something.”
“How will you get home after that?”
“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out. Thanks for the ride.” She stepped out without looking back.
“Hey, Emma Jay,” I called out, and she didn’t look back. “Are you gonna be okay? Like, honestly.”
A pause in her movement, a pause in time. “Yeah, I’m good.”
And as I watched her go, I pictured what I’d been seeing in my mind’s eye this whole time. Her wandering all that way. It’s sad. It’s terrifying. Was she half in a daze the whole time, dodging traffic? Or maybe was she speed-walking, focused and determined?
But wait.
Wait a damn second.
She’s never been to my apartment before.
I’m very private. I’ve never had guests over. No one has my address. No one.
How the fuck did she know where my apartment is?
“Hey, Emma Jay!” I yelled out towards the passenger side window.
It was too late. She was gone.
My phone buzzed again. Sylvia. Wait – //Sylvia//?
(text-style:"expand")[“Hi Gray, this is Sylvia. I sit across from you in Tom’s classes. I’m so sorry to text you out of the blue like this. I got your number from Emma Jay. Are you with her by any chance?”]
I didn’t even realize those two knew each other. Also, wow, //formal// text.
(text-style:"expand")[“I actually was with her this morning, but I just dropped her off. Why, what’s up?”]
(text-style:"expand")[“Did she seem like she was stable? Did you find her behavior erratic at all?”]
I really don’t know how to respond. How much should I divulge? Should I divulge anything at all? I probably shouldn’t overshare. Better to keep it surface-level.
(text-style:"expand")[“She seemed okay. Why do you ask?”]
I waited and waited for a response. I felt the minutes tick by. I paused my music. I unpaused my music. I reached for a drink from the empty cup next to me. Finally, her response.
(text-style:"expand")[“She actually stayed over at my house last night, and when I woke up, she was gone. I was very worried about her. Thank you so much for confirming she’s safe.”]
Emma Jay and //Sylvia//? Never would have guessed. And - wait a minute - I asked her if she went anywhere, and she said, what did she say… I scrolled back through the conversation we had earlier.
I had asked:
(text-style:"expand")[“Were you drinking last night or anything? Where did you go to sleep?”]
And Emma Jay replied:
(text-style:"expand")[“No and up until 5 minutes ago I was at home.”]
So, what, she made the whole thing up? I don’t fucking know. My head’s killing me. I’ve gotta get to work.
Emma Jay.
//Emma Jay.//
Leaving a mysterious trail everywhere she goes, giving out half-truths and half-lies, planting a million questions in the heads of everyone who comes in contact with her.
The way the lines of cars collapse in at the stoplights and spool out again when they turn green.
The webs we weave, strung carelessly, all tangled among the people we care about.
Glissandos. Glissandos, all.
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