✦
A VISITOR
“I’ve been noticing recently that, more and more, I find it difficult to distinguish between memories of my dreams and those of my waking life. I attribute this not to some break with reality but, rather, to the extraordinary banality of my dreams. So you’ll forgive me for asking: Did we have a conversation, some time in the last few days, about your cat’s recently developed penchant for nibbling at your toe anytime you lay on the couch and watch network TV?”
“Uh…”
“And that you were starting to think that this was, somehow, a deliberate commentary…That he never did it when you watched a movie, for example…”
“I don’t have a cat. I…”
“Oh. Yeah. Okay, I do apologize. Please don’t be insulted.”
“Not at…”
“You can sit over there. I’m sorry…”
“Okay, sure.”
“…about the mess.”
“Should I…Oh, I see.”
“Daniel. I have no idea how long it’s been since I’ve last seen you.”
“It’s…About six months. Then I got that email…Ellie says she’s tried calling you a bunch of times. She’s worried.”
“Oh…Sure. God, the phone is such a horrible, pernicious invention. Here’s this device that sits there just waiting to direct its obnoxious wail at you until you give it your attention. And ever since they’ve become portable, there’s nowhere to escape! I much prefer letters. Email was a beautiful innovation.”
“Well. She was really happy when I told her I’d heard from y—”
“There’s that line, ‘so out of nothing did it come, the instrument one second inert, the next screaming…’”
“Hm, ‘Clear cardiac terror,’ right?”
“Yes! ‘Clear cardiac terror’! Mmmm…”
“Or, uh…What is it: ‘…a little tense like everyone waiting within reach of a telephone, for it to ring.’”
“Right! ‘Even in sleep’! ‘He was waiting.’ Hmm…It’s good to see you, Daniel.”
“Yeah, it’s—”
“I’ve really…Ellie, jeez, I miss her so much. God…”
“Well…Give her a call, then. Or, yeah, just hop on BART and go see her for god’s sake.”
“Ehhh…”
“I can’t tell you how much she’s been wanting to see you ever since she moved in with Laura but she feels like it would be an invasion to…What?”
“Secretly. Confidentially. I think that money may have been the worst thing that ever happened to me.”
“Joe. What are you—”
“I never should have taken the advance. And I knew it. I said so.”
“But…”
“And I was right. I…I don’t know what to do with myself. I sit here. That’s what I do.”
“Joe…”
“I never go any further than three blocks from this building. I mean that literally. And I’m petrified because the money is absolutely going to run out—at this rate I mean—it will absolutely, positively run out in eight months. At most.”
“Joe, that’s not exactly—”
“And, sure. That sounds like a while, but I have to tell you that the last nine have gone by like you wouldn’t believe. I mean, I yell at my calendar. You know. Make accusations.”
“Joe. Seriously.”
“And I hate myself for pissing it away like this. The money. This time it bought me. I know. I know. This was supposed to be my big opportunity! I’m such a shit.”
“Joe. Listen. I…”
“So, do you think it’s irreversibly over for the original definition of ‘literally’?”
“…I…I don’t know, Joe.”
“I mean, I’m no prescriptivist by nature, but it’s just so damn useful. And there isn’t really an alternative—at least nothing at all elegant. And all we’re getting in exchange is a general intensifier—a sort of lexical italics. It doesn’t seem like a fair trade. I realize that complaining about the misuse of ‘literally’ has become rather clichéd, but it really does bother me. I know language is a living organism and, in the abstract, I find that to be a beautiful thought, but then the reality of people’s ignorance and stupidity interfere and I end up feeling like a crotchety old man complaining about whippersnappers taking my language away from me…Jeez, that sounded really condescending. I didn’t mean it that way. Oh, god, if I were a real writer the words would sound like how I feel.”
“You know, Joe, self-pity isn’t very interesting.”
“True. Nor is it conducive to interesting work. And yet I wallow in it continuously. Day after day of boring, indefensible self-pity.”
“What possible reason do you have to feel sorry for yourself?”
“Please…”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t phrase a statement in the form of a question.”
“I know.”
“It’s a form of violence.”
“I know. You’re right. Okay. Yeah. I’ll just…say what I mean.”
“Thank you. And, of course, you’re right. I have absolutely no reason to feel sorry for myself. I’m completely aware that I’m in quite an enviable position.”
“So, what’s—So, there’s no real problem here!”
“I know. And I’m pretty near certain there isn’t an argument you can think up that I haven’t repeatedly assaulted myself with as the months go by and the money wastes away. Then it’ll be gone and I’ll be right where I was a year ago, having accomplished nothing.”
“Hey. You know what, though? It’s not too late. Huh? Not even close.”
“I know! That makes it even worse. The prospect of watching myself over the next eight or so months, knowing exactly what I’m doing, knowing that I absolutely have the power to stop myself, to take this amazing opportunity and use it, this gift, to use it as it was intended to be used and to know, as easy—really, easier than doing what I’ve been doing if I take the incredible emotional dread into account—as easy as it would be to do so, that I absolutely, positively will not…Well, it’s almost too much to bear.”
“Well. God damn it, Joe, you’re not that powerless!”
“That’s a very reasonable hypothesis.”
“Oh, fuck you! The I’m-so-honest-about-myself, woe-is-me, self-deprecating-artist bit has worn off, okay, get over yourself. You know what. I tried. I fucking tried, what more—”
<END>
