“Good morning! How are you?” Carla walked in, the door slamming behind her, catching my keys awkwardly between the door and the frame as they dangled in the inside lock. “Oops! Do you want these?”
“Please, thank you! And how are you doing on this fine morning?”
I was in a chipper mood this morning, having just liberated myself from the final $900 of my car loan. All in one fell swoop, thanks to the luxury of rent-free living. I was a free man and I was sharing my happiness with the world.
“Oh, I’m wonderful, thank you,” she said, emphasizing the ‘thank you’ with a bow as the she passed in front of me, turning the corner to her desk. The sun shone brightly in through the upper reaches of the window, courtesy of the upwards-rolling shade. Since moving in again, I had repositioned the shade higher so as to maintain optimum off-hours privacy.
“Are you so excited about San Francisco this weekend?”
That was about as personal as we got at the office, paraphrasing our vacation plans and sharing excitement about little details in my life. Being a slightly more open person, I’d have preferred to exalt freely about my excitement for sleeping in a bed, but I held my tongue. One of the most challenging consequences of living in the office was keeping myself so distant from my coworkers. They were good people.
My Mission District weekend was upon us and I was thrilled. I was considering it a destination celebration weekend with friends, convincing a few folks to converge on the Golden Gate City to commemorate my 30th birthday. James would make the trip for the weekend and we’d alternate nights staying with Mitchell in Oakland and keeping a dual-bunk hostel room downtown. Escaping to my favorite urban paradise seemed like a fine way to spend the milestone day of aging. While relatively cheap for a vacation, it was my idea of splurging.
And frankly, there was an admitted motivation to escaping the office on what was supposed to be an important occasion for me. I didn’t care too much for assigning significance to age. The constant reminders I’d be getting from others, though, would make it hard to escape the reality that my life’s ambitions hadn’t led me to a more financially lucrative position. As independent as you become in your beliefs, the reminder that most people around you think differently is tough to ignore. Questioning those around you inherently leads to questioning yourself. No matter how staunchly you believe in what you’re doing.
The freedom that accompanied paying off my final sum of car loan, however, had me riding high. I’d started work early, making notes in my yellow Office Hobo legal pad before cracking through a series of work emails. As I was answering the last of them, my phone vibrated with a message.
It was face down. When I flipped it over and saw the name on the screen, my stomach dropped.
It was Shani.
I hadn’t spoken with her in months. My thoughts spiraled into a frenzy of counterclockwise questioning, retracing memories to a time when this arrangement of letters on my screen was considered routine. The power of the image transcends time; the lure of association its guilty accomplice. Seeing Shani’s name flanked by that green-boxed thought bubble on that shaded black bar background in the middle of my phone’s screen, even after all this time, that symbolized something profound, desirous. For one year that image accompanied me through my daily routine. This Pavlovian suggestion represented more than love, it represented the attention of someone you loved. When that person disappears, all that is left is a blank screen. This is when you realize the power of that image.
I opened the message.
“Hello. How are you?”
I read it over and over, searching for some clues of intention, examining what she was saying, the way she was saying it. The things she was not saying. Much was to be inferred by these four words and the punctuation therein. “Hello.” Not “hi” or “hey” or nothing at all. Hello. Period. A neutral greeting. But a greeting. And within the significance of the gesture to extend that greeting. There is effort here.
Part of the reason Shani and I got along (and much of the reason we didn’t) was because of our propensity for analysis. Few conversations existed free of evaluating some manner of speech or non-verbal suggestion. When shared enthusiastically this is a huge opportunity for bond. Analysis of details feels a lot like loving attention to those familiar with it, a lot like intimacy. But when turned on its head, open analysis leads to criticism and anxiety. If not treated carefully, the results can be toxic.
The memories, at the moment, at any moment, were too cruel for sitting still. I placed my phone in my pocket and headed towards the door.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
– TOH
