Michael Seidlinger - The Strangest

“Yes,” I say.

I say “yes” too much. I add, “sure.”

He waves to someone at the bar.

Asks me, “You ever talked to anyone else here?”

I shake my head, “No.”

“Never?”

Once more, “No.”

“You don’t know any of their names?”

I could say that I know how many people are here and likely why they are here on a Monday night … but I settle for another, “No.”

He grins.

This is where I would type just to type. Yet I don’t.

They bring me over my third beer. They bring him a glass of bourbon.

He says thanks and then I say thanks.

The waitress looks at me strangely.

Looks at Rios. He winks.

I don’t think I wink.

But maybe I do. I may have copied Rios’s actions. I have done this before. I used to copy Veronica’s actions if we spoke for a long enough time; she made a game out of it.

Rios takes a sip of the bourbon, “Times are tough, man. I don’t get this grade of liquor as much as I used to.”

I take a sip of my beer.

He narrows his eyes, “Not gonna ask me?”

I hold my breath. Did I miss something?

Rios laughs, “Be cool, be cool — I’m an asshole. I like talking about myself. Looks like you’re the opposite of me, opposite of any one of these assholes at the bar!” Rios raises his voice when he says “assholes” and people from the bar shout back various profanities.

From this point, I don’t know what to expect.

I start thinking about potential altercations. My fingers tap the edge of the table as I plan out posts about what might happen.

The phone is there, and it remains there. I don’t move from my current position; to get to the phone, I would have to move my beer aside. I would have to reach for the phone which would result in Rios seeing that I’m reaching for the phone. That might send the implication to him that I’m bored, or worse, uncomfortable.

Fingers tapping against the table —I am uncomfortable.

I see that Rios is watching my fingers.

He makes a face, “You should come by my place. We’re having a party, well, I mean, we always have those parties, but you should come.”

He doesn’t look at me directly. He looks at my fingers. Then he looks at the beer. Then he looks over at the bar.

I perceive this to be a sudden lack of interest.

He takes my phone which sends me into a shiver.

I gag and cough.

“Bro, it’s cool, it’s cool … I’m giving you my business number.”

4 people at the bar are looking at me.

They are looking at me. They shouldn’t look at me.

“Like I said, you’re good people. We should hang out. Lots of us hang over at my place. You need a better place to hang other than this dump.”

He hands me back the phone.

“Stop by. If I’m not here or on call I’m at my place.”

I say, “Okay.”

“Got no life,” says Rios as he snaps his fingers.

Rios doesn’t look back at me when he leaves the booth. I watch as he finds a place so effortlessly at the bar. 2 people, male, look over in my direction after Rios says something to them.

I sit there for a long time, not moving.

Then I check my phone. He saved his number as “Your dealer.”

Feeling as though something had changed, I fixate on what’s left. I have 1.5 beers to be ingested.

I drink them quick, and then I leave payment on the table.

15 % tip, as customary.

I am too tired to do anything so I stare at the television screen for a long time before turning it on. I don’t change the channel because every channel is the same. I don’t turn on any of the lights in my apartment.

Meurks needs to catch up but I wait.

On the screen, a man walks a dog. The man reaches the end of a street corner, kicks the dog, and with a whimper the dog starts walking the man. This repeats, perhaps, a number of times. As many times as there can be time in the day to walk the dog and to walk the man, but I don’t know. I don’t watch for long. I can’t be sure if this is the character’s routine or not. I make an assumption, like most. It is on TV so it must be a show. It is on TV and I find it easier to assume, as a result. It could be a situational comedy. No — I think it might be just for me. This may or may not make a lot of sense.

My phone rings, goes to voicemail, and then rings again.

This happens again and again and it works to undo whatever I had thought about without typing and posting.

I keep the television on as I switch on my laptop and begin catching up with everything that had happened since Meurks last posted.

I comment on the comments.

Meurks is “late-night active.”

Monday ends with everyone online playing personalities.

Playing personalities frequently involves postponing tomorrow.

My phone rings.

Goes to voicemail.

People post pictures of what they think Meurks looks like.

I say to myself, “Meurks looks like me.”

Then I think about what I just said and feel something closer to regret.

And I don’t know why.

I forget what I had said, and why I felt what I felt, when the phone rings again. This time I pick up the phone.

It’s her. She doesn’t sound surprised.

She talks like we had already been talking about something, “… so then we’ll wake up early and sample the festival at Pointe, and then …”

I recall what else needs to happen next.

I make it happen. Post, comment, check, double-check key followers’ latest statuses, satisfied: Sign off. Veronica is still talking when I’m done.

Next thing I hear is her asking if I want the red velvet or the dark chocolate cake. “Dark chocolate.”

I brush my teeth, floss, put rewetting drops in my eyes, urinate, and then change into clothes I specifically wear for bed.

I sit up in bed and listen to her voice, phone in my lap, forgetting to put her on speakerphone.

Then she says, “I’m tired. I’m going to go. Love ya.”

She waits. She waits until I say it too.

That satisfies her nightly needs much like double-checking my most active valuable followers’ statuses satisfies my own needs.

Then I feel very little, the heaviness of breath and eyelids closing on their own. I set the phone on my nightstand. Plug it in to charge.

I never turn it off.

The TV is still on—it’s what I think before not thinking anything else.

When I wake up the television is off. I consider the fact that I hadn’t turned it on. I look around my apartment for a long time. I expect my phone to be on the nightstand but instead it’s in the bathroom. I expect my laptop to be on the desk in the corner of my bedroom but instead it’s on the kitchen counter.

In the kitchen, at the laptop, I wait for it to reboot.

I look around the apartment.

Items in my life, and not very many — two chairs, table, half a couch (the other half missing, maybe never was found), tube TV (the old kind), a pan, a plate, a fork, a spoon, a few knives, condiments, no real food (just some eggs), bed, laptop, lamp, nightstand, old desk, creaky office chair, phone, phone charger, laptop power cord, largely unused metro card.

I feel pathetic. No, actually I don’t. I feel proud.

What does proud mean?

The laptop finishes updating and soon is at the dashboard.

I post the overview, wait and see.

A few likes. Minute later, more likes.

Sunlight in my face, I walk over to close the blinds.

I hear a knock on the door.

At the same time my phone rings.

Walk over to the phone or walk over to the door. I blink and I’m there. I don’t feel each footfall; I don’t notice that I’m walking in any particular direction. I feel much like I’ve only begun to stand up straight. Then I am staring at the screen, and the screen is bright.