A Portrait of Companionship

Two car doors slammed shut in short succession. A jittery gray squirrel scampered across the road and over a bank of charcoal snow freshly scraped to the curb. Sam maneuvered around the low branches of a naked maple tree. Melissa crossed the front of her car and looked towards the building. She noted the pattern of condensation accumulating in an inverted arc on the plate glass windows. Don't sit there. Drafty. Sam grabbed the brass handle. Good thing I have my gloves on. Melissa entered and Sam followed.

A jingle notified the nonchalant staff of arriving customers. A thirty-something woman abandoned her perch atop a stool and sauntered to the counter. Her loose black pony tail hung stiffly, fortified with a day's grease. Melissa let Sam take the lead, giving her more time to digest the menu's options. She paid no mind to the menu titled Coffee Drinks. She was interested in something sweet. Lattes. Candy Cane. Ick. Ginger bread. Egg nog. Hm.

Sam, who frequented such establishments, had no need to be educated about what was available. Instead, he took his surroundings in. He assessed the chalkboard on the wall as though it were a piece of art. He did not care for the swirls of cyan and carrot that formed a whimsical script announcing Specials. A bit much. 

As Sam approached the register, he realized he had not decided between his two usual orders. He felt nervous with the barista's eyes upon him. "I'll have a..." Coffee. Bitter. Americano. More bitter. "...coffee. Black." The woman looked to Melissa with dreary disdain.

"And I'll have an egg nog latte," Melissa added.

"What size?" the woman croaked.

Not too much. "Small or tall... Whatever means not a lot." Sam grinned at his wife's directness. He put his arm around her and drew her closer. She rubbed his back through his wool coat.

The woman spun away and set about making the drinks. Melissa studied her movements and admired the authoritative air with which she meted out the ingredients. Careless, yet precise. She's an old pro. Must have made thousands of drinks.

Sam looked around. Psychedelic posters with curling corners and strings of beads strewn over the light fixtures made him feel out of place. Let it go already. He surveyed the landscape of available seating. The room looked as though everyone had left in a rush. No chairs were pushed under their corresponding tables. Sam disliked the haphazardly appearance. "Where do you want to sit?" 

"Not by the windows."

With drinks in hand, the two departed from the register. They gravitated towards a booth underneath a shelf laden with books, nearly as far away as possible from the storefront. As Sam approached the table, he quickly scanned the spines. Almanac. Patterson. A local something-or-other. Grisham. Nothing. Nothing. How To Succeed Without Even Trying. Kafka. Hey, Kafka! Wait. Kaffa. Sam’s frown was subtle.

Melissa set her drink and book down and slid across the vinyl seat adjacent to the wall. The lunar landscape of tiny bubbles undulated in her mug. She watched the froth slosh around and nearly crest the rim. A candied bouquet was lifted on the steam. Smells good.

Sam took his spot across from Melissa. He unraveled his scarf and draped it on the back of the seat next to him. He took a hesitant sample from the piping coffee. The black liquid streamed across his tongue, conquering all lingering tastes and establishing something new, bitter, and earthy. A fine brew.

The two exchanged smiles. Sam swigged his coffee again; Melissa was afraid to scald her tongue. Both of them peeled open their books.

Melissa was enthralled with her mystery novel and was eager to continue. The main character was in a bind so tight, the author spent the last several pages describing the impossibility of being loosed from it. Melissa found it difficult to hypothesize about the outcome. All the characters seemed shifty and two-faced. She expected the protagonist would barely escape and the antagonist (or antagonists, whoever they were) would be caught after a harrowing pursuit. She suspected one might elude the authorities. Perhaps an evil-doer would be killed, nullifying the chance for justice to be served. Whatever the outcome, it would be a pleasure to find out how it happened. Melissa once explained to Sam, who harbored a pronounced disdain for the formulaic, her interest in mysteries with an analogy to eating. “You know you’re going to be full when it’s over, but that doesn’t discourage you from a meal. The pleasure is more in the chewing and tasting than in the fullness that follows, which is really a lack of pain or annoyance than any outright good feeling.” Sam understood her better afterward but was in no way persuaded to digest such a book.

On his side of the table, Sam was grinding his way through an oft-lauded classic. He was averse to leaving any project undone and, therefore, would not give up on a story. Nonetheless, his reading experience was lifeless. The author’s language was bulky and, in Sam’s opinion, the narrative was excessively tangential. Although he would not consciously admit to as much to himself, Sam was bored. Believing it to be an important book—one that anyone who aspired to being “educated” should read—he persisted.

A nearby conversation poked its way into Sam’s consciousness. Two women, dressed up for each others' benefit, were brazenly discussing recent happenings at the local private school. "I'm not saying Aubrey shouldn't be going to TCS—her father pulls down six figures I bet. Tom said his firm is quite successful, personal injury I think—it's just that kids like her tend to be a... drag on the rest of the students. I’m sorry but she’s not TCS material. Just talk with her once. She’s a perfect dolt. I think I’m going to say something to Dr. Reeves and see if anything can be done. A test or something." People are so unkind. Disappointed in his fellow customers, Sam looked intently at Melissa. He looked at her eyelashes and the sliver of space between each.

She slouched and rested her head on the uncomfortably hard back of the booth. As her eyes shuttled back and forth, she unwittingly wagged her left foot under the table. The protagonist had created a diversion that reduced his mobility handicap. Her countenance wore a placidity Sam admired.

His story had been describing early industrial urban squalor ad nauseum for the last few pages. Sam looked up from the tattered pages of his used copy. Hate to bother. Melissa, absorbed in what she was reading, did not notice his gaze. He tried to continue reading, but could not string together more than a few sentences. Between the nearby conversation and his pressing thoughts, Sam could not concentrate. Caffeine was beginning to accumulate in his brain. He resolved to interrupt.

"Why do writers so often write about the darker side of life? Have you noticed that?"

Melissa lowered her book and looked past Sam. He could tell she was forming a response. "The writers I read don’t do as much of that. Your writers, though, probably do because they are, well,   lonely. I mean, it comes with the territory. Writing and reading are solitary. Being alone long enough will make anyone sad and... prone to talk about sad stuff."

No. "I'm not sure that's why. In writing and reading, there's always the author and the reader. Either side you're on, there's someone else. So you aren’t alone. I don’t think doing either, reading or writing, makes you lonely. And why don’t your authors do as much of that?"

Eh. "It's a different sort of company. Not like real people. Not as lively. It’s a poor substitute. And my authors don’t because it’s not the sort of thing their readers want to think about." She decided not to pursue the point and, instead, let him work through his concerns. "So, why do writers talk about depressing topics so much then?"

Sam clicked the back of his fingernails against the warm ceramic cup and took a sip. He waded through his mood. Don’t want to read about darkness. Too much of it already. Can’t get away from it. Why? See it everywhere. "People are just more attuned to negative facts. They're more obvious to us. They like pop out at us and they hurt us, so we respond like hurt animals do: either moan or growl. That’s justice right?—a taste of your own medicine—to throw something back at what bothers us. It's easier to be critical than… non-critical. Supportive. It gets me down though, because it's usually right. Or true. The critiques, I mean. There's more than enough wrong with them—people generally—or the world or even us—our sort of people—to talk about and write stories or novels about."

"I can see that." But there's more to it. Melissa took her first sip of latte and flushed with heat. It was creamier than she expected and clung to the back of her throat. "I still think loneliness probably has something to do with it. Reading and writing are fine and well, but conversations are better. It's better company... more intimate and back and forth, you know, responsive. Or can be. If you are writing to stave off loneliness, you’re going to fail." She fidgeted.

Sam stuck a napkin in his book to mark his place. "Being lonely makes you write about darker topics?… Well, maybe for someone who isn't used to writing. Like who does it often. Journals are mostly downers, but those are private. To want to make something for others to see and, you know, be driven to publish something, to put it out there for everyone else to interact with, that has a very different motivation... Or it should have. I don’t think the nasty stuff comes from a place of sadness. Maybe it does, but that’s beside the point. Or beside my point. But I’m not making myself clear. Let me try again.” 

Sam slid his index and middle fingers into the handle of his mug and took another drink. The hot taste of bitterness returned and was followed by one reminiscent of tobacco. “What bothers me is that it just seems like most of the works we consider good literature are depressing. Majorly. Like it's why people stop reading after they're out of school because they don't remember enjoying it or even getting it sometimes... And I love the stuff most of the time. I’m right there with the authors. I mean tell it like it is. If ignorance is bliss, then knowledge is grief. To some extent, at least. Certainly not all knowledge grieves us. But anyway, bliss comes off naïve... childish. Happiness is so done and trite. It's pop music. I recognize that. Most of the people who pay attention to what’s going on, who think about it at length and the like implications of what we see or how we treat each other or step back a bit from the experience of entertainment, don’t like it. Don't like what they see, I mean. I know it's why I can't stomach watching half—more than half—of the movies or TV that are around. It's just not true. It's wish fulfillment dressed up in... I don't know... glitter and Botox. Critics are always going to criticize happy endings. But still, we’re really pushing some very corrosive messages onto people with what we write. ‘We’ being the literary types… the gate keepers of the cannon and its students."

"I suppose that depends upon your definition of literature, which depends upon what you think about a lot of other topics." Melissa took another sip. The remnants were syrupy sweet and thicker than the earlier samples. "I don’t consider myself literary like you do, so, it’s not my battle.” I can’t end it there. “But go on."

“I don't know. It's just that literature is supposed to give you something—an image or story—to think about and then also something to feel simultaneously. Right? It’s heightened life. Rarified or purified or whatever. It cuts out the inessential parts and concentrates on what’s important, whatever that may be. I think people need more than mushy, worn-out plots. Those aren’t going to push anyone onward. Those aren’t going to help anybody. It’s just indulgence—everywhere indulgence. We have to fight this pernicious, abundant—overwhelming, really—invitation to self-gratification everywhere. I totally agree. But at the same time, though, I can’t stand all of the griping that goes on in literature. These authors think they’re so clever for seeing through media, or what’s popular, the stuff that “the people” enjoy, or like social conventions and petty... hobbies? You know what I mean. They wind up being so dark and depressing I don’t want anything to do with them. Usually they do, I mean, wind up being dark. Not all the time. But, it’s like… it’s like no one can be honest. The authors. Am I being clear?” Sam downed what was left of his tepid coffee. He grimaced. He felt the grit of grounds on his tongue and swallowed again. “That’s probably the hardest thing to be. Honest. Honesty involves a sober assessment, ya know? It says: Here’s what’s bad. Here’s what’s good. Here’s how a person should struggle with the one and further the other. Authors are right for poking holes and ripping down and wallowing a bit in the mess of it all, but that’s an easy target. What's it called, a turkey shoot? The upshot of all of it is they—the authors, I'm sorry, I'm doing that thing with my pronouns. The authors erect their own literary, high-minded, sort of worn-out plots, only the formula is like they are depressing and so… insightful.”

You’re all twisted up. “Insightful. Sight. Ironic, since we can’t see in the dark and that's where the plots are located, in the dark.” Melissa tried to court Sam’s gaze, but he looked to be staring into his empty cup. “Anyway, those authors are called insightful by pessimists and cynics. That’s true. But, that’s what I was getting at when I was talking about what you think about other topics. From what I can make of it, literature is a special sort of fiction that certain people get together and set apart from all of the bookcases full of humdrum, claptrap, lowbrow fiction. It gets set apart because it contains the sort of truths those people can agree on and really boost or whatever. You want to read the truth you already suspected—if not knew—and you think the author’s got it right. A lot of academic types, people who fancy themselves intellectual, are a little morose from all of that spirit-breaking they had to do studying and expending hours upon hours learning about people or events they didn’t like or care about or were jealous of. No offense, but it sort of changes you to do all that. So, when you sit down and read someone who says what you wanted to say about how awful life is, how dreadful it is to be average—which is below average to them, really—then you think it’s insightful. Or they. I don’t know where you stand. You’re torn between a couple of camps, I guess. So, I’m with you on honesty and striking a balance between fluff and uh… lead? Whatever's solid. Rock? But that’s hard to do.” She rubbed the side of her face and exhaled loudly.

“Hm.” Sam’s head vibrated with additional input. Where do I stand? What can I do? What’s an author to do? Can’t give them what they want. Can’t get them to read what they don’t want. The abrasive sound of milk being steamed derailed his thought process. Sam turned towards the squeal and saw the woman lackadaisically frothing at the espresso machine.

As soon as relative peace returned, Melissa advised, “If you don’t like it and you don’t think it’s good for you, just put it down. I won't tell.” She pointed to the book which Sam was thoughtlessly spinning on the table. “Put it back on the shelf. It’s okay to give up sometimes. You could start and finish something else, something you enjoy and think is honest before you’d even finish that up.”

She waited awhile in silence and then announced, "I’ll be right back." She slid out of the booth and squeezed Sam’s shoulder as she passed him. He put his hand up to greet hers and was surprised by the curtain of brunette hair entering his field of vision. Melissa craned around him to kiss him firmly on the lips. He pushed back with a kiss of his own. Sam smelled Melissa’s latte on her upper lip. She smiled and her head lingered near his while her body leaned away as if drug by inertia. She strode past vacant tables. She spied crumpled napkins and a torn packet of sugar discarded on one of them. Her boots made a dull thumping rhythm on the worn wooden floor.

She entered the restroom and locked the door behind her. Brr. They could use a heater in here. The cobalt blue tile covering the walls embellished the chill in the air. As she emptied her bladder, she stared forward. Melissa traced the residue of yesterday's cleaning on the glossy ceramic squares. Side to side. She recalled the need to perform her own chores as she stood up. She thought of Sam. She wondered what she would say next.

The volume of the jet-like flush frightened her. Melissa recoiled from the sound. Once it abated, she regained her focus and washed her hands. She gripped the doorknob with the paper towel she had used to dry her hands. She clopped back to their table.

Seeing Sam staring off into the corner made Melissa happy to have someone to return to. “So, you were saying...”

Sam stated the observation he had carefully crafted in Melissa's absence. “People are comfortable taking critical positions because there's less risk involved than the alternative. Being positive is risky business. You could end up looking gullible or foolish. Like a child or some doting grandma. Being negative lets you say something intelligent. It insinuates you know what would be better without articulating—let along living—what exactly that is.”  Well put.

Melissa replied, without the confrontational emphasis of eye contact, “I can see your point. But it's paradoxical.”

“How so?” 

"Your observation about the negativity of writers and their preference for—if not preoccupation with—criticism is itself critical. You're the critic there. That makes you belong to the same group you're frustrated with. It’s probably why you’re as bothered as you are. You're a part of what you don’t like.” 

Cornered. “I never said I was frustrated.” Sam tipped his cup back to ensure it was empty. A horseshoe of black dust and brown film lined the bottom. “I'm confused and trying to understand. But, yes. I have a critical slant, too—critiquing the critics and the criticized.”

“Well, it’s a fine position to have. Still, you and I both know you aren’t going to stop reading. Maybe someday you’ll make you own contribution that avoids those mistakes. Maybe you can try your hand at something better.” What am I saying? This didn’t call for advice. “Our lives aren’t as bad as those characters. Life as we know it isn't so bad. Generally, right? So but, yeah, I’m glad you aren’t unreflective about what you’re reading. You’re getting something out of it. But it’s fine to be frustrated and I’m sorry if I suggested otherwise.”

“That’s okay. I was pouring it on a bit heavy. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. You can go ahead finish up the chapter or whatever.”

“Want to go make some lunch?” Melissa wondered.

“Yeah, I’m a little hungry. I think we have some tomato sauce left from the other day.”

“Ooo. And a jar of artichokes. So that's a start. Yeah. I’m almost finished. Just another…” She pulled back the pages of her book. “threeish pages.”

Melissa tilted her head for an awkwardly long time to coax out the last viscous ounce of latte. She returned her mug to its place and returned to reading.

The classic remained unopened. Sam had no immediate interest in it. He shifted his weight, looked out the front window. It was always therapeutic to rearrange the various, confusing, half-formed thought/feeling hybrids he had lately accumulated. He floated through various amorous musings. He felt free to say whatever was coursing through his consciousness around Melissa. He could gripe about trivial matters or inquire about lofty topics. Their dialogues fulfilled for him a latent desire to be known. By putting his thoughts into words, he felt more solid. He often dreamed of a transcript, a thick pile of papers kept in God's mind, of everything he had spoken to Melissa. He pictured an angelic stenographer in the corner, diligently typing up everything he uttered and adding it to the stack. When he thought of the transcript, all of its adorations, propositions, and lamentations, he was comforted. He knew the totality of who he was could be distilled from that volume. Anxiety did not afflict him to the degree that it had before they met. He felt better.

Melissa ran her tongue underneath her lip from one canine to the other. Her teeth began to form the textured film which accompanied drinking sugary substances. A sour taste welled in her mouth. “Let’s go.”

The little bell clanged against the glass of the door. Melissa instinctively raised her shoulders against the air. She riffled for her keys. Sam ducked beneath the branches of the maple tree. A branch scratched at his scalp. He awkwardly crouched into the car and, a second later, it rocked as Melissa took her seat. The two shut their doors simultaneously.

A Portrait of Loneliness

An icy wind whistled in Josh’s ears. He pulled his newsboy hat lower and raised his shoulders. The streets through which he roamed looked deserted. Milky steam plumed from a sewer lid and slinked across the road until it gradually dispersed. Josh paused at an intersection to let a car pass. Once it rattled by, Josh resumed his course in defiance of the glowing orange hand that advised him otherwise.

The smell of vegetable oil and rice vinegar reminded Josh of his happier past. Walking among the downtown buildings, he caught a waft of such a scent while passing a bustling buffet. He slid into a stream of wistful recollections. 

Josh became enamored with the scent of Chinese food during his first taste of independence. Bolstered by the new found freedom resultant from passed driving exams and hindered by poorly paying summer jobs, Josh and his friends sought inexpensive means to wade into maturity. The group preferred to leave their respective homes with their ever-cramping restrictions, yet they could not seek admittance in a local tavern. Senior year of high school was a time of conversations fueled by the excitement of youth rather than the intoxicants of adulthood. 

Restaurants were a fitting locale for adolescent escapades. They were the sort of places you could laugh and carry on like adults without the bank accounts that come with careers. The blissfully nondescript Hunan Inn was the sort of place you could order something like the House Special and not think twice about price. Nestled between an anemic insurance office and a vacant store front, the mustard yellow neon sign for the Hunan Inn gleamed with the promise of quantity over quality.

Hunan Inn was unique for its changelessness. Even its marks of dilapidation remained the same. The dining experience was like eating in an abandoned museum. On the table at the booth in the southeast corner rested an archaic, small black-and-white television with an antenna generously wrapped in silver foil. Every surface was frosted with dust. Dust even accumulated on ancient wisps of spider web. Some of these strands formed forlorn bridges from a plastic framed silhouette of the Buddha on the wall to a lonely bouquet of fake flowers or to the pepper shaker near the soy sauce bottle. Rips in the russet vinyl booth cushions were mended with duct tape the color of milk chocolate. The liquids in the rainbow of liquor bottles above the tiny bar never descended. It was as though the restaurant aged to a point and, thereafter, could not be touched by time.

What would have otherwise been a depressing environment was redeemed by the meek elderly couple who were its proprietors. "Grandpa," as Josh’s friends referred to him, cooked exclusively. He never made extended forays into the dining room. Instead, he kept near the back and grinned from a distance whenever he felt eyes upon him. The slight woman and presumed wife of Grandpa was the face of the establishment. She sported a silver ponytail and bright red apron that fell slightly below the knees. She served the meals, cleaned up, and irregularly showered you with stale-but-sweet almond cookies as you paid at the manual register. Although they were a transparent attempt to make use of expired goods, the treats nevertheless were a relished surprise. Departing from the vestibule coincided with the tail of Grandpa’s apron darting back into hiding in the kitchen. 

Most endearing about the locale was the fact that on nearly all visits, the friends were the only customers. This gave the group two obvious benefits: greater license to be boisterous and an illusion of restaurant as their own private dining room, a business executives' prvilege. They were kings of a small hill, but kings all the same.

Opening the door to Hunan Inn jingled a bell on a tattered piece of yarn and roused the staff to attention. The woman greeted the young man by counting them and stating “four” in a declarative rather than inquisitive tone. Although all the tables were available, the woman always sat the group at the same one. It was not near a window or in a corner, yet it seemed to them like the seating for very important persons. They were on center stage. Grandma took everyone’s orders with squinty smiles and nods, bringing the pad of paper close to her face write. 

Josh never failed to feel full after a meal at the Hunan Inn. There was plenty of food. Additional helpings of steamed rice and lo mein noodles were provided without charge in the rare instance that a voracious appetite outlasted the dinner portions. More than food, Josh filled with human connection. He and his friends would pile outrageous tale on top of outrageous tale in an impromptu comedic competition. Late-night escapades, close-calls with authority figures, female conquests (or impending conquests), and intricate plans of tomfoolery buttressed the remaining edifice of conversation they built. The friends left listening would chuckle and rattle the teapot with ecstatic slaps of mirth. Cynicism, hypocrisy, and spite sparked many of the jokes and wise-cracks, but the conclusion was always laughter. Whether the humor was good-natured or dark never mattered as much as actively sharing with one another. Rarely did any of the participants feel like they knew the others better for the storytelling, but they were unquestionably closer every time they left.

A raised slab of concrete tripped up Josh's stroll through his memories. He stumbled and felt embarrassed at his excessively awkward corrective motions. He stayed vertical at the cost of snickers from two passing women carrying large soft-drinks. He blushed and cast his eyes in a direction that would have kept him tripping again. He wished he had someone with whom to laugh. 

Josh wondered why it was he always found himself depressed whenever he took the time to wonder. Then he thought of his isolation and how dreadfully unknown he was. It is not good for man to be alone. During the crucible of college, he grew disdainful for the shallow  sorts of interactions he had at Hunan Inn. He did not have the time to engage in conventional dialogues concerning what he was going to “do” with his degree. After college was over and he was fully independent, he found exchanges of shallowness preferable to none at all.

Where did my friends go? Different towns. Different dreams. Everything goes to shit. Entropy. This is not what I expected. What happened? Why don’t we at least write a note to each other every now-and-again? Technology makes us brittle. We're so damned distractable—all these shiny, beeping gadgets shining and beeping every other second. I wish it was quieter. I wish I could go to bed knowing I talked with someone today. My friends never really cared. Or did they just stop? Transitioned to something else. 

Crossing a plate-glass front of a café, Josh eyed the crowd. People were sporadically positioned along the lengthy counter behind the window. A man in a hooded sweatshirt and a denim jacket took a bite of a half-eaten hoagie. The bottom contents fell out onto his  napkin in a slimy plop. The man pinched the fallen ingredients together between his fingers and tilted his head back. Josh looked forward before he could watch the man release them into his full mouth. 

I want to have friends. I don't have friends. I am sad. I used to have friends. I don't have friends. I am sad. Repeat. Refrain. Encore! Encore! Sadness is a rhythm and depression is its waltz. 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, want, 2, 3, miss, 2, 3, sad, 2, 3. We travel the same paths of thought to the beat of the old drum of our hearts. We twist and turn, spin and sway, to the same notes that resonate for the same amounts of time. 

Acrid saliva seeped into the back of Josh’s mouth. He felt ill. He fixed himself the only way he knew how: he gave himself something else to be conscious of. He unbuttoned the front of his jacket and let the air chill he core. His organs shuddered. Humans weren’t supposed to live here. It’s too damn cold.

Functional Definition

Josh and Ryan felt their weight lessen as the elevator they shared descended. Both stared straight ahead at their golden reflections in the elevator doors. A barely audible hiss seeped overhead. Neither man was certain how to initiate conversation. After a final electronic tone, the doors opened onto the lobby. Both exited. Josh gazed at the maroon carpet slightly in front of his feet as he walked; Ryan watched the pedestrians passing beyond the glass front of the downtown building. 

"How can mornings be so long?" Josh asked. 

Ryan put his hand on the revolving door's handrail. It resisted, sending his elbow and shoulder back in succession. Ryan felt weak. He straightened his arm and added force from his legs. The door began to spin. Josh followed behind, awkwardly jumping into the next cross-section at the last possible moment. The cool fall air felt the same but smelled different than the air inside the building. "Didn't you have something to work on?" Ryan inquired in response. 

"You know. Data to enter, as always. Piles and piles. I haven't had to write up a report in a while, so its nothing but data. I'm frankly looking forward to taking the last cup of coffee so that I have to make a new pot." 

The two wove through the median of the foot-traffic, the pedestrian equivalent of a fast lane. Their anemic city provided them ample space to travel. 

"Eesh. Sounds rough." 

"Yeah. Real rough." 

Josh glanced at Ryan, whose stern mien emanated composure. "How do you go on?" 

"What? How do you mean?" 

"You do the same stuff as me, more or less. You've been at it for a few months longer than I have. It doesn't seem to phase you." 

"Oh. Like how do I keep from getting all depressed? I don't think about the alternatives. These are the jobs we could get. What other options are there?" 

Josh considered the question briefly. "None. That's part of the problem." 

"That you have to work?" 

"No, that you have to do crap monkey-work like what we were just doing ten minutes ago. I know. I know. We're both lucky to have jobs, but they could be done by computers... should be done by computers, really. It's completely mindless. Bodiless, too, for that matter. Just the fingers, wrists, and a little eye ball movement. It is a miserable existence and as far as I can see, I am pretty much stuck with it." 

"Exactly right. If you think about it, it's miserable." Ryan scanned the street for approaching cars and promptly jaywalked. He drew slight satisfaction from breaking the law. Josh intentionally stomped on a cigarette butt that leaked a ribbon of smoke. "What can you do?" Ryan added. 

"Didn't you hear me? There's nothing I can do. I said that was part of the problem." 

"Part of the solution, too." 

"What? How?" Josh squinted and shielded his eyes from a blade of sunlight that stabbed between the high-rises. 

"Well if there's nothing to do, don't give it another thought." 

"It's not like I'm trying to. I don't court these feelings. They just come. If you take a moment to consider what you've been up to for hours upon hours... the feelings come on their own. Type, type, type. Click, click, click. It wears on you. The clock moves so so slow and when the whistle blows, you feel like you haven't done a single significant thing all damn day." 

Ryan shrugged. "That's work for you." 

"Shit, Ryan. Some help you are." 

Ryan glanced over the light blue fabric covering his shoulder at Josh. "Who said I was your helper? We're co-workers, not soul mates. You've gotta stiffen your lip sometimes." 

Josh looked up to accuse Ryan with a stare. Ryan was eyeing the placard in front of their destination. He surveyed the happy-hour prices and thought he should return one evening. Josh was surprised by Ryan's response. He decided not to speak any further. Having reached the cafe, they entered and fell into line. The din from the lunch crowd careened off the walls. 

After deciding what he would order, Ryan thought he would put an end to Josh's complaints. He pointed to the menu. "You see that? There before you is approximately one quarter of the purpose of life. One part eating, one part sleeping, one part copulation, and one part... tending to miscellaneous necessities—shelter, clothes, and the like. In twenty minutes, you can check one of those boxes off your list. That's what we get up to do everyday, check off boxes. Doesn't that make you feel better?" 

"Are you serious?" 

"Yes. Of course. That's how I get by. I have a simple understanding of my life and what I am here for. Jobs don't matter, so long as they let you keep checking off those boxes everyday. Anyone who's looking for more than that is looking for trouble." 

Josh's mind hopped from objection to objection against Ryan's position. He was hesitant to respond and realized he had confided the wrong person. The two shuffled forward as the line advanced. Josh flinched at the sound of a plate dropping to his right. He turned towards the source of the noise. No one else paid attention to the accident besides another woman at the nearby table who was trying to console her clumsy companion. Josh resumed the discussion, unable to bear the offense of Ryan's version of simplicity. "Well, that's a bleak outlook." 

"Mine? Bleak? I'm as happy as a clam. I eat, punch in, punch out, eat, punch in, punch out, eat, if I'm lucky...copulate a little later, and sleep. So what if there's some typing in there. How I make my money doesn't matter. Nearly every day of the week for... twenty good years years... I have the opportunity to be complete. And, you know as luck would have it, the things we need to do are delightful. I enjoy all of them. I look forward to them everyday. So I've got to spend a few hours toiling to get there. That's a small price to pay for so much satisfaction." Ryan interrupted his speech to scratch behind his ear. "Have you tried the pad thai here? It's some of the best I've had." 

Josh thought he was living through his reason for not socializing with anyone else at his office. He resigned to silence and felt wholly alien. Now even the lunch hour, the solitary bastion of work-week relief, had been spoiled. 

Ryan spied a young woman in a pencil skirt getting up to discard her trash. They connected gazes while she tipped her tray. He smiled the half-smile he presumed women found charming. She blinked and Ryan faced forward in disgust. 

Josh had watched the scene play out. It occurred to him there was nothing keeping him tethered to this oaf. He could leave without any foreseeable negative consequences. Ryan likely would refrain from mentioning it later so as to retain his pride. In the short-run, interactions may be cold. In the long run, they probably would diminish. "I'm going to go," Josh muttered. Ryan turned to see him depart, said nothing, and began counting the money in his wallet. 

As Josh was exiting, a group of men in suits were entering. He slid past them and merged onto the familiar sidewalk. Instinctively he headed towards his office building and began to consider his options. 

Where to now? Not hungry. Still have...fourteen minutes. The bank's courtyard again? Might as well. 

The courtyard was one of the city's secrets. Josh inadvertently discovered it on one of his early expeditionary missions. Heading north on Broadway from his office, the pattern was: building, street, building, alley, building, building, trees and fountain, street, etc. Dropped in the midst of aging steel and glass structures was a dollop of soil and greenery. Presumably designed for the bank's employees, the public was granted access during normal lunch hours. 

To whittle the meaning of life down to four basic actions... that was tempting. But there's more than that. Ryan was way off. Simplifying is good. Reducing isn't. Simplifying leaves what matters. Life cannot be reduced to a few physical requirements because those don't matter enough. I'd trade a full stomach for a full heart. And still, I feel empty all over. I am empty.

Upon arrival, Josh fumbled with the latch on the wrought-iron gate. As he had the previous two times he stopped by, he hesitated for a moment. Push or pull? Josh wanted to pull, but felt anxious about making the same mistake for the third time. He bucked his intuition and opted to push. The gate did not move. Josh looked up to see if the woman on a bench eating a sandwich noticed his fumbling. Thankfully, she had not. He pulled and the gate squeaked. The woman continued chewing, unabated. He estimated he could sit for five minutes before needing to return. Josh selected the same molded concrete chair in the shade he had on his first visit.

I have always done what I was supposed to do—leapt through every hoop raised near me—and this is what I wound up with! My job is dehumanizing. It is a worthless way to pass my time. I am swapping half of my waking life for a paltry hourly wage. I'm practically getting paid to waste away.

The maintenance of the courtyard had been neglected. The bleached mulch was speckled with weeds. The tan husks of last year's annuals hunched in evenly-spaced piles along the building's facade. Rusty water gathered in a puddle at the bottom of the fountain. Only the garden's ginko trees retained their vitality. They undulated with the breeze. Josh looked through the branches as he pondered.

Why am I so upset? I shouldn't be. Ryan was partially right. What can I do? Nearly everybody has a less-than-grand job. That's the breaks. You can't hire yourself. Employers aren't concerned with the satisfaction possible within positions they create. They want efficiency and efficiency goes up as thinking goes down. Thinking takes time and time is money. That invisible hand punches most of us in the gut. Has it always been that way? What did people used to do? Most of them farmed. What if I were a farmer a few generations back? I bet an old farmer never despaired. All that sweat and toil and so little control over the end result—that required resilience. Maybe your fields produce so much it rots. Maybe it doesn't rain and all that work goes for nothing. They were kept from daydreaming by their dependence upon nature. They knew their vulnerability from the start. I spent an awful lot of my days dreaming of an important career. That's the culprit for all of this disappointment: the proposition that one's worth comes from what one does. One's subsistence, sure. But worth? Couldn't be. 

Josh interrupted himself to consult his watch. It was time to go. He stood up, tucked in his shirt, and went to the gate. He felt relieved as it swung open with the push of his hand. The one o'clock sun soaked the back of his navy blazer and for a moment Josh was happy. It may not be clean air, but it's moving. That's good enough. Soon, he was covered by the shadow of his building.

Josh tried to reassure himself once his feet were on the maroon carpet again. I need to stop expecting too much from my job. This is something I just have to endure. The Up arrow flashed by one elevator. He waited in front of it. The doors slid open and an empty space invited Josh to join. Moments later, his shoulders drooped from the ascent. 

The office receptionist did not raise her head when Josh came through the doors. He turned and traveled down a bank of cubicles and through a cloud of hushed rhythmic tapping until he reached his own pocket of space. 

Josh's desk was distinguished by its unusually tidy appearance. There were no personal accoutrements save for the stark-white coffee mug with a brown stain from where he drank. He spun his chair around and slunk into his seat. He flexed his fingers, stretched his wrists, and blinked his eyes. He was ready to work.