Michael Seidlinger: The Strangest

The movie. Meaning a movie theater.

Meaning …

“Let’s go, let’s go!”

She grabs my hand, holds it, doesn’t let go.

You aren’t going to lose me. I’m right here, where I’ve always been.

We walk toward the C train.

Veronica wants to take the subway.

No metro card. No metro card.

I tell her, “No metro card.”

She exhales, making an indecipherable sound, “It’s your day, love; I can pay for train-fare.”

I don’t ride the train.

She insists.

Her hand holds mine.

Won’t let go.

The C train is old. Sounds are louder yet muffled inside the train. There are 62 people in this train. I do nothing but check my phone. Time is:

Friday, 5:10PM.

Friday, 5:11PM.

Friday, 5:12PM.

Friday, 5:13PM.

I look around the train once.

Friday, 5:14PM.

“Something wrong?” I hear her say.

If I respond, that means people will hear my voice.

I feel different today.

Eyes on me. There aren’t usually as many eyes on me. I am only accustomed to a few glances, a few grins, a few glares. I have one set that won’t leave, and it takes a lot to make sure.

Make sure what?

I type it out.

The feeling, you know, when you leave your apartment and you are walking down a street and then in line at a store, around people you’ve never seen before. The feeling, you know, when they look at you and there’s nothing but the instant notice, the judgment, and then they look away. Everything in that one look, that one glance: decision, judgment, adjustment. They see you as that, and assume based on what they see, in that one instant. The feeling that it has to be right, that one instance; they need to understand with one glance. Or if they don’t, they need to see that difference.

They need to know that you …

Veronica tugs my sleeve, “Your face is red, oh dear. You okay?”

I don’t value the disruption.

I text her, “I didn’t want to take the train. I don’t like the train.”

Not looking up, I wait for her reply.

“We will be there in two stops.”

“How long do you think that’ll be?”

“A few minutes?”

Not long enough.

She says, “You’re sweating.”

I text back, “Have to be quiet.”

Veronica seems to understand.

I think she understands because instead of holding my hand tighter, she lets it go. She lets my hand drop to my side.

She lets me finish my typing.

I sit there feeling the train violently shaking as I, in turn, begin to shake.

I don’t remember what I had been thinking about.

I didn’t save it.

Have to start from scratch.

Or don’t start at all.

I glance around the train. 62 people.

She said a few minutes. I remember—

Friday, 5:17PM.

Friday, 5:18PM.

Friday, 5:19PM.

Friday …

The movie previews are too long and too loud and there are way too many. It is too dark in the theater and the chairs are too close together.

There are too many people. Sold out showing, Veronica said when we walked right past the ticket line.

She bought tickets already.

That’s what she said about having the day planned.

I type out the name of the movie and how I don’t know if I really want to watch a 2 and a half hour movie about people lost in space.

It gets a lot of likes.

No comments.

One new friend.

There are approximately 150 people in the theater.

I cannot see all the seats; it’s too dark.

I try to focus on the screen, on the movie trailer, but it all looks like images and by the time I focus on one image it’s already gone, replaced by another. The ground shakes, screen goes black.

Then another green screen, another trailer.

I place my arms on the armrests but it doesn’t feel right.

I try folding them but no.

I try letting them rest in my lap.

Still no.

Veronica whispers something in my ear. I don’t hear it.

I don’t bother asking.

Finally the previews are over.

Then it gets really soft, quiet in the theater.

All I can hear is my breath.

Rising and falling. I’m breathing heavily.

I can’t focus on anything but my breathing. It sounds too loud.

I take out my phone, confused for a moment by what I see.

It’s an icon that shows up when the phone is turned to silent.

I want to be as silent as the phone.

People can hear my breathing in this theater. This is troublesome.

Lots of likes.

But monitoring Meurks’s activity doesn’t work for this.

The breaths keep coming, one after the other. I hold my breath but then I choke. The man sitting next to me turns and looks.

I look away.

Veronica whispers something, rests her hand on my forearm.

I stand up, holding my breath again, and I squeeze my way back into the aisle. I keep thinking about how Veronica should have listened to me and sat on the end of the aisle. I tiptoe out of the dark theater.

I start coughing the moment I get into the men’s room.

Only 1 person in the men’s room and he’s in one of the stalls.

I find the handicapped stall in the very back and it isn’t until I hear the sound of the door lock sliding that I can stop focusing on my breath.

I sit down and begin typing.

I don’t recall what I type but everything that I feel, everything in mind, the weight that I feel on my chest, the pressure on my forehead, the dizzy blur that constitutes for eyesight, all gestates into one long blog rant.

And as Meurks, it makes more sense to everyone else.

It makes very little sense to me.

The man in the stall leaves and for nearly the entire proposed duration of the movie, I am alone in the men’s room.

The handicapped stall is big enough to feel open, different from the rest of the men’s room.

I receive a text.

It’s her.

I don’t read it.

I reply, “Not feeling well is all. Enjoy the film. Space is awesome. So much empty space, it’s like you can breathe, really exhale.”

Then I send another text, “But there’s no oxygen in space so exhaling would mean dying and dying is a thing. I think.”

Approximately a minute passes before she replies, “Okay, I’m worried is all. But I understand. LOL.”

The last part, the “LOL,” I gather is due to my followup text.

I think I hear one of the urinals flushing …

But it’s just my imagination.

I look at my phone. Down to 35 % battery power.

I pocket the phone.

The color of the toilet paper isn’t quite white. Not quite off-white.

The tiles on the floor have small puddles of maybe-water forming.

I take out my phone and type.

Considering livetweeting not watching that space movie. Anyone interested?

There are likes. There are positive comments. I begin, and in brief succession, the endeavor becomes my one and only focus.

By the time the battery drains, I have two dozen tweets about the various notices, nuances, and graffiti of the handicapped stall.

I gain a few followers.

A few friends.

I hear Veronica’s voice.

The movie is over.

We walked home. Veronica understands me. Her words not mine. On the way home we stopped at the bodega. She paid for the wine and the food while I walked to the back, where the freezers full of beer, milk, and other dairy products are stored. I stare at the area of space closest to the front entrance of the bodega. I can’t look at anything else. When I see Veronica pass by, that is my cue to leave. This is the bodega: They know me here. I am Zachary the customer. Everything I have understood about the owners has been true. They are simple people that treat me equally; they treat everyone the same.