Michael Seidlinger: The Strangest

The cabbie replies, “No problem.”

For him, this is a job.

For me, this is exactly what it is.

By the time I arrive back home only two things stick: I didn’t have to work today and I don’t have to work tomorrow.

I am going to sleep for fourteen hours.

I forgot to call. That’s what I remember first. What I remember next is that I still need to call, or at least contact, my boss about my absence. Then I thought about what that entailed; before I could get out of bed, I fell back asleep. I had been awake enough to open my laptop and begin catching up with everything that I missed overnight. When I woke up again, the sun was high up, and my laptop was on the floor.

What got me out of bed so quick this time was that I needed to check and see that the laptop was okay. Now that I was up, the reality of what I needed to do today hit me hard.

I have to call my boss.

It’s my day off and still my job demands something of me.

For a moment I stand at my nightstand, staring down at a pile of unread books, wishing that I had a better job. Wanting a better job. Deserving a better job. This is something Meurks would say. I type out a paragraph long post about the ironies of education and how the more educated are likely to be poorer than the marginally educated because, mainly, I am worried about having to call my boss. I don’t like talking on the phone. The senselessness of my post gains a lot of replies. That’s good enough for me. Letting it all out.

And then I start to lose interest when I notice that I’m hungry.

It takes a lot of effort to cook up anything but I’m out of microwavable meals so I make some toast and scramble some eggs.

I stand and eat the food at the sink.

I look out the window nearest to the kitchen.

For a moment I think about going for a walk. The next question is, Where would I go? When it’s such a nice day don’t you feel guilty if you don’t go outside and make the most of the sunlight, the day?

I field the newsfeed for answers.

Walking in the park. Playing football.

Going to a field to pick fruit.

Sitting outside and talking.

The list goes on. I tell myself to make a note of it but I don’t. I’ve finished with my food. Now I have to wash the dishes. If I don’t wash the dishes when they first need washing, I will never wash the dishes. There needs to be a sort of order to things or else I lose track of everything.

I wash the dishes, running water over the plate and fork and pan, to rinse the soap off, while I reply to various comments on my phone.

It used to be difficult typing something out on my phone one-handed but I’ve gotten good at it.

Practice a lot and anything can be mastered.

No longer hungry, I can see and think clearly.

I stand at the front door, looking at the doorknob.

I should go outside.

But I don’t turn the doorknob. I don’t take any of my friends/followers’ advice. I listen to the central air and I observe the way the sunlight hits the chipped paint of the door.

My day has already been planned for me.

I stay inside the whole day.

Mid-afternoon I start to feel guilty. There is only 1 person here and it’s me but it feels like I have someone watching, someone waiting for my call. I still need to call. I get frustrated and settle for the lesser of two worries. I stand outside on my fire escape. People are outside. People are having a lot of fun by the looks of it. I go back inside a moment later when someone waves to me.

I forgot my laptop.

I get it and go back outside only to go back in a minute later.

I forgot my charger.

Plugging in the laptop, I hear people talking a floor down.

They talk about all kinds of things, and soon I understand that they are planning out their night.

I listen, making sure they don’t notice that I’m listening. To do that, I type and then I start posting some more. Meurks is active today. Meurks is active on most days.

It sounds like a whole lot of fun. People doing far more interesting things than me. Whatever I come up with feels tired, old. I don’t know how to have fun.

One of them mentions calling someone and then I remember.

I write it down as a draft, Call boss and explain funeral.

Funeral. There must be something of a valid excuse in that, right?

I also write, “Andrew” was my best friend.

I listen to the people laughing, and then I add, This is sad.

Because I want to mostly think of something else, and also because I want to appear busy, I write out a post that outlines a series of other posts, the entirely of my Sunday.

The comments range from supportive, If people say they are having fun it’s probably a lie, to You’re just a depressed fuck. And I note the legitimate replies from the haters, the random and quite frequent trolls.

Then I post, I am about to livetweet my Sunday bar experience. There is supposedly a very interesting semi-final football game. I should get prepared. This will be fun. Everyone’s going to be there.

Then I add , #footballplayoffs because someone does that for me, commenting with nothing but the hash tag, and I should have added that to begin with.

Below me, they get quiet as one of the guys talks on the phone.

Minutes pass and I look up from my laptop a few times just to see what’s happening on the street below. Lots of people are headed to and from various locations, places that might be worth checking out.

I just don’t know what those places are, or where to go.

Their voices get loud.

Someone says, “We’ll be there at five to pregame!”

I look at the clock on my dashboard. It’s 3:31PM.

They go inside and it’s quiet for good. As quiet as it can be living on a busy city street. I begin typing out the various things I’ll post over the next couple hours. I plan it out based not on the score and really who I’m “rooting” for but more to sound like I’m really enjoying the game.

And the setting, the bar I’d be at.

The only bar I know of, though, is the one on the walk home from work. Hard Times Café. It’s not one-of-a-kind. Their menus have a lot of locations listed. I don’t know how long it’s been around or if it’s really one of those “places to be” but that’s what I use.

A troll tells me that it’s lame.

It’s the same troll that doesn’t like football.

I’m only really going to watch because I want to be involved. I want to be a part of this wonderful event. I want to be positive.

But saying that seemed to get less likes and only more negative comments. I ignore the comments and I keep planning more of the livetweet.

It’s something to do.

It makes me feel engaged, in tune with today’s biggest cultural event.

Then I remember.

And that makes me stop planning.

I breathe in the cool 72 degree air.

I blink. I count how many times I blink in one minute.

I watch people walking. I watch people watching me.

They look away before I do.

I’m good at that game.

I don’t know if it’s really a game or not but I’m pretty good at it.

Since looking up from the laptop, I’ve amassed over three dozen notifications. Compulsively, I post:

Is this happiness?

I still have to call my boss.

This is my day off and all I can think about is yesterday. I determine that it doesn’t matter if I call or not. But then I can’t stop thinking about why it doesn’t matter and why I don’t feel like it doesn’t matter. Why do I feel so bothered by this? Look inside and I kind of like how dark it is in there, almost lightless. It’s predictable. I am 1 person inside, when outside, sitting here, I am one of 63 people on this street. The number changes quickly too—