Luke Alden: Happy Birthday Eternity

I’ve got my tie on. I’ve got my freshly shaved face and cologne. I’ve got my hair gelled and I’m flashing my white teeth every time I speak.

I’ve had this job for longer than I can remember.

1000 years.

Maybe more.

When something becomes easy I tend to stick with it.

With simplicity comes complacency comes the comfort of routine.

I keep thinking of Evaline.

She is the love of my life.

She’s going to die.

The words still have no meaning to me.

Franklin, my co-worker, my pal, the person that I talk about sports with, he comes up to me.

‘You look lost.’

‘I am.’

‘Why?’

‘Evaline is going to die.’

‘Is she going to kill herself?’

‘No.’

‘Huh. Weird.’

And he’s not meaning to sound cold or callous or anything at all. He simply doesn’t understand what it means.

Death.

It’s like trying to comprehend God when all you’ve got is a bible.

So I reply: ‘Yeah, I know.’

I keep typing on my computer. Writing memo’s. Preparing time sensitive documents. Doing all the things that are now second nature to me.

‘Did you want to go get something to drink after work today?’

‘Nah, I’m good. Thanks though.’

‘You sure?’

‘I should probably spend some time with my wife.’

‘Whatever you gotta do.’

And of course I agree to go to the bar. Because it’s Tuesday and that’s what we do on Tuesday. Me and Franklin and Doug from the copy room. We all go to the bar. We all drink. We all drive home drunk. We all try and fuck our wives. We all get shot down. We all jerk off into our respective toilets. We all go to bed smelling like booze and sweat.

It’s nice in a way.

And so after work I call my wife.

‘I’m going to the bar with Franklin.’

‘Can’t you spend the evening with me?’

‘I already said that I’d go.’

‘Ellis…’

‘We’ll hang out tomorrow.’

And this is how it is.

Everything gets put off. Everything gets put off because we have forever to get things done.

‘Did you hear!?!’ This is Franklin. ‘Ellis’s wife is gonna die!’

There’s a broken moment of confusion where everyone at the table seems puzzled. We’ve all got beers in our hands; we’ve all got red eyes.

Me.

Franklin.

Doug (who we don’t really care about, but we allow him to join us on occasion).

Kevin the bartender.

‘Is she joining one of those death cults down south?’ This is Kevin.

‘Death cult?’

‘Yeah, you know, I hear that they have them down in Mexico and stuff. People who kill themselves just because they want to try something new.’

‘No.’

‘So she’s not killing herself?’

‘Not killing herself.’

‘Then how’s she gonna die?’

This is a question I hadn’t thought to ask. Maybe I didn’t care, maybe I didn’t think to care. How is she going to die? Why is she going to die?

When life is endless, the bigger questions seem that much smaller.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Huh, weird.’

We all down a shot. We all cheer. We’re all like rowdy frat guys that just burst into our friends room with a video camera while he was having anal sex with a virgin.

It’s a good time. I think.

By the end of the night I’m feeling dizzy. Drunker than usual. My head’s buzzing. My eyes are half shot. The world around me is fading in and out. I know that I’m holding conversations. Trying to articulate myself like most drunk people do. Trying to sound smarter than I really am.

I start talking about death with Franklin. The words are strange. Odd. I’ve rarely ever spoken about death.

And so we ramble on.

The conversation comes out in pieces.

‘I had a dog that got hit by a car once.’

‘Nothing lasts forever.’

‘I heard a rumor about people dying on the East coast.’

‘It could be worse.’

‘Fifty years is nothing.’

‘It could be you.’

‘Coughing up blood…’

‘Is she still putting out?’

Fragments. Non-linear, nonsensical. A mish mash of drunken philosophizing.

And then I’m home. I don’t know how. There’s no recollection of driving. I stumble up the stairs. To my bedroom. To our bedroom.

My body hits the bed.

My arm reaches for Evaline.

She’s not there.

‘She left me a note.’

I’m talking to Franklin. We’re at work. I’m tapping my foot on the ground in a 5/4 rhythm and I’m wearing a suit jacket that doesn’t quite fit my depressed frame.

Franklin looks distant.

Non-plussed.

Dead (assuming death were possible).

‘What did it say?’

‘Don’t worry about it. It didn’t say much.’

This is a lie.

I’m biting my lips because I want them to bleed. I’m chewing on my skin because it’s ready to break.

And Evaline is gone.

And Evaline is going to die.

I’m still talking but the words are dreamlike. They keep slipping out of my mouth like water from a faucet, like candy from a vending machine. They keep pouring from me in a cheap and easy fashion.

Franklin stops me.

‘Oh yeah.’

‘Oh yeah what? ‘

‘I forgot that she was going to die.’

‘I know. It seems weird.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘Because I work here.’

‘But shouldn’t you be spending time with her?’

‘…’

I look around. The electric lights hum. Office papers shuffle. You can hear the boredom and repetition in the air.

‘I mean, she’s going to die soon, right?’

‘Within the next 50 years.’

‘That just seems weird to me.’

There’s a pause.

My eyes squint. It looks like I’m thinking. It’s more like I’m dreaming.

Franklin is looking around. Searching. He seems nervous. He looks like he needs to be somewhere. He looks as if he wants to get back to work.

I already miss my routine.

‘So yeah. She left a note. She’s gone. I’m sure she’ll be back soon though. It’s not like her to just leave.’

‘Are you sure she didn’t join one of those southern death cults?’

There’s a pause. Because I don’t know anymore. Because when you live this long there are certain things that inevitably feel concrete.

We all breathe.

We don’t die.

Routines stay in place.

When the things that seemed concrete start to fall away…

‘No she didn’t join one of those.’

‘Where would she go then?’

And the air around us. It tastes stale. It’s been processed and filtered and it feels fake.

It feels bitter.

It feels vile and reprehensible and all I really want is to go outside and breathe in something fresh. Even for a second.

‘Where would she go?’

My forehead goes flush.

And the answer is that I don’t know.

Just like I don’t know what Evaline’s favorite food is.

Just like I don’t know who her best friend is.

Just like I don’t know the reason that I started loving her in the first place.

Some things just get lost in the routine.

Some things just take a back seat to the flow of time.

What does she do during the day? Who are her friends? Does she do anything? Does she have a certain place that she likes to shop? Does she make a certain noise after she kisses me?

I’m blank.

The obvious answers.

They should be spilling from the tip of my tongue.

Evaline.

My wife.

She used to be something I knew. She used to be familiar to me. The verse to my chorus. The thing that made me worth singing.

Did I ever even know the answers to these questions?

It seems so long ago.