Michael Seidlinger - The Strangest

The man says a lot, “Yeah, isn’t it ‘great’? Ha — forced to eat this slop because nothing’s organic here that isn’t three times as expensive. Look at me, guy who has six figures of debt, makes enough to be deemed financially stable, and yet I can’t even afford anything other than this.”

We both look at his food.

Then at mine.

He looks at the empty chair on the other side of the table.

By listening to what he just said, he took it as an invitation to sit down.

“Thank you. The place is packed today. Not a single table left.”

He takes out a phone, “Can’t live without ’em!”

He eats with one hand and scrolls through pages, texts, and other data while he doesn’t even look down at his food.

We sit like this for quite some time.

I don’t finish the hamburger. I eat half. Some of the fries are left too.

I drink all of the soda but it just makes me thirstier.

He finishes everything, every single speck of food. He licks his finger and uses it to help pick out the tortilla chip crumbs from the fast food wrapper.

The man doesn’t start talking until after everything is eaten.

“They call this slop food?!”

He talks about an animal cruelty case he’s currently working on, he stands up, takes the tray, and says, “We’re all a little strange if we’re somehow surviving in this fucked up world.”

Walks away.

Stands in line at another fast food vendor.

I hadn’t said anything the entire time.

Memory isn’t just how much data you can store on your phone; it’s moments you’re supposed to remember but can’t help but forget.

And back at work the only thing that stays with me is the aftertaste of the hamburger I ate.

I work hard over the rest of my shift. Jeffrey tells me, “Good job. You earned back that day off.” I know I should be proud but all I did was do the job I was supposed to do. Jeffrey chews on his fingernails in between filling out paperwork. I walk back to the break room. I am pleased to see that no one is there. The store is empty and only partially lit, having closed the store for the day. Look at the digital clock on the microwave.

I don’t have a routine set for Saturday.

Today has felt different.

I feel as though things have repeated but I have only lived it once; each repetition takes a piece away from the one experience I had.

The genuine experience is act and nothing more.

I don’t know what I’m saying.

My phone starts acting up. It keeps ringing so I set it on vibrate. The number I don’t recognize.

I can’t get myself to leave the break room, and it’s because this is one of those moments. Genuine. Something that feels like something, different. The break room is normally occupied but for once, it is empty.

Strange to be the last one in the store.

Jeffrey leaves without saying bye.

I’m glad to have been left alone.

I watch the clock while counting the number of times my phone rings.

Then I leave.

And it feels like any other workday except better because no one is around and I don’t find myself counting and considering the possibilities.

I can fit in here.

There’s a shadow sitting on a bench as I walk through the mall after hours. I look for nothing more than for Meurks to catch up after a day of activity, but the shadow calls out to me.

The shadow stands up and turns into Rios.

I can only decipher what happens next as two friends talking.

Again I feel myself more aware of my actions, and I want the actions to fit the situation.

He asks me, “How was work?”

When I consider what to say, I take too long.

“Boss had you stay late huh?”

I nod.

And then I think of something to say, “Yeah, but it’s over now.”

He slaps me on the shoulder, “Right on, right on.”

I slap him on the shoulder but he doesn’t say anything.

A moment passes and I want to type out what this feels like but then he interrupts what would have been, maybe, something to type.

“You ready?”

Ready for what? A text message saved to drafts.

“Yes,” I reply mostly because it is the simplest of replies. It sounds decisive and it seems to satisfy Rios, which, until now, does not feel as anything but two people talking. Now I see that Rios is a lot like me and I want my approval. I want his approval.

I think I can relate to Rios.

He seems to have already made that assumption.

“Yeah they’re all waiting.”

Okay.

I remember to say what I’m thinking:

“Okay.”

Rios has a car. It smells of smoke and something else, the same smell I recognized from earlier today. He says, after taking the third right turn down another desolate, darkened and abandoned city street, “You don’t talk much do you?” I contemplate what might happen based on the nature of my reply.

Settle for, “No.”

And then, “Never have.”

“Cool, cool …” He trails off.

Rios acts more subdued, less trying.

He uses speaker phone to call someone with a very raspy voice.

Rios says, “ETA 10. Get it right the first time, alright?!”

I skim through Meurks’s activity today.

Severely lacking but when I want to type something all that I type out has to do with stuff that no one wants to think about. I type—

Possibility of getting into a car crash or brutally led to a slaughter, hunted for sport, used, abused, become sex slave, sold like cattle, laughed at, considered a loser …

I delete every word before I write the next, creating a slideshow of devastating words. These words do more harm than they should.

My eyes well up.

Rios notices, starts laughing.

I don’t feel good.

“Please man, hold it together. Party hasn’t even started.”

I don’t fit in here. Rios lives in a one story house with chipped paint and frayed fabrics, illuminated in green, air heavy with something pungent.

5 people, all of them slouched in their seats, not talking.

I don’t fit in here.

No one says anything when Rios and I walk in.

Rios tells me, “Sit over there.”

When Rios sits, everyone else sits up.

Someone takes out an object.

It’s a pipe. They take turns smoking from it.

I don’t get a turn and I am relieved.

That moment passes and I start to breathe heavy. I save myself from losing my breath but I still hear the words—

“I love you.”

They hear me and they look at me.

Rios says, “Love ya too, bud.”

I start typing.

I feel like I can’t decipher what’s going on and that what I’m feeling are about as interpretable to me as ancient Egyptian artifacts or a Greek parable about a god or fallen deity that I cannot understand.

But I don’t post it.

I don’t post anything else for the rest of the night.

Meurks disappears for 7 hours.

I take solace in the fact that both friends and followers notice the absence. However, when I begin posting again, it will be a whole lot like what happens next.

They talk like I’m not there.

They don’t offer me the pipe.

Rios starts talking louder.

The others start talking louder to match his tone.

Something is thrown.

Someone is blamed.

I am slowly blotted out of the conversation.

It sounds like I’m far away but I’m sitting right next to Rios.