The List

THE LIST

Thank you! I do not usually accept drinks from strangers, but I must confess, it’s been quite a day. A glass of scotch is hardly a celebratory drink, don’t you think? Blunt to a fault. Every day should be celebrated as if they are our last, true. The miracle of life and all that.

I must admit I have been watching you watching me. Every Thursday, scribbling in your little black book. It got me curious. Probably why I accepted the drink. I guess after seeing someone at the same bar for a while, you are not entirely strangers.

What are you writing? Sure, I would love to see. Nice leather by the way, looks expensive. One of those Hemingwayesque notebooks, huh? The real deal. Wow...that is a lot of names. Are you writing a phone book or something? Page 49? Is this a joke? Why is my name in your book? Who are you? How do you know me? I am not sure if I am fascinated or terrified by you, but this whole thing is making me uneasy.

What do I think? That you are either insane or potentially a serial killer, and either way I should leave.

Me?! I am anything but... Every day, I wake up, brush my hair to look like I tried, eat a banana (potassium you know), take the same bus to work, and sit at my desk answering phones until my brain hurts. I am as ordinary as they come.

The bus? Because I do not like driving, that is why. Plus, I find it fascinating. Have you ever paid attention to the amount of noise that engulfs you while you are bouncing up and down on the seat at the back of the bus? Like this noise is sucking out the sound of your life and only quiet observation is left. The poignant smell of gas, human stench, the caked mud on the floor, the stickiness of chewing gum you accidentally touched, all make you nauseated yet sharpen your senses.

I sometimes look at the back of the bus seats, covered with offensive graffiti and ripped cheap fabric, resembling an open wound. The foam shows through the ripped pieces, the scars someone’s fingers left in them, pulling, poking, ripping, scratching, clawing the soul of the seat out, and I cannot help but feel the pain, the humiliation, and the unbearable sadness of the sight of it all. A sad, ordinary bus with a sad ordinary person in it. Me.

Perspective? Well, I guess everyone has something that can be counted as extraordinary in their life. I mean, you wake up one day feeling ordinary, going about your ordinary business and then something extraordinary happens to you. Would it be good? Would it be bad? You do not know. It just happens. Sometimes it’s something you really, really wanted. Something you dreamed of, like finding love. Sometimes it’s something you dread with every fiber of your body, like falling in love.

Take me and you, sitting here, talking about your weird list with my name on it, and I am touching my pocket to make sure my check is in it. That is why I am here. Celebrating, as you said, $20,000 for 20 years of heartbreak, dedicated to filling an empty bucket.

The lawyer gave me the check today, you know. ”By the power of this court…” and so forth. I don’t want it. Maybe I will do something good with it. Maybe that would make me extraordinary, as you say.

I don’t know why I accepted your drink. I should have left your table already. Yet here I am, talking to the stranger who bought me a drink. A stranger who has my name in his black book and whose eyes I can’t even see under the black cloak. Doing extraordinary things does not make ordinary people feel different than they already are.

True, but we are not an exception— you, being mysterious and inquisitive, me curious, and a bit terrified. Drinking, talking about life and busses, probably mostly because I like dissecting my life in the hopes of making it better.

No, it’s the pain I usually dissect. Not in a wondrous way, but in a more matter of fact way. I know from experience when something bad happens, you always know why. We don’t admit it, probably because it doesn’t change or make anything better.

Me? I dive right in, scratching the scab, sealing my thoughts and faith with the cold reflection of a bystander, while my whole life crumbles into dust at my feet.

Take heartbreak for example. It’s like you can’t breathe, but yet you can’t stop breathing either. It comes with the realization that nothing around you stops on account of your pain. The sun is still shining, the neighbor is mowing his lawn... I mean, really?

And you observe it all, from the corner of My Life in Shambles Street and There Is No End in Sight Lane, biting your lip, while the realization that you don’t matter as much as you think smacks you on the forehead.

Well, first comes the shock. Not that you didn’t know what was going on deep down, but the confirmation that it’s actually true is what brings it on. We are creatures of habit, happy to delude ourselves with whatever lies we need to, just so we can have a reason to wake up again in the morning.

Then comes the crying. You can say that the pain compares to when someone dies, except to your disappointment, nobody dies in this instance, even though you most fervently wish at least a couple of people dead. On most occasions, one of these people is probably you, but that is just the first day.

Now the next days are kind of a blur between not wanting to wake up, actually waking up, crying in public and private, and blowing balloons for your anniversary party.

After the first week the pain is sneaky. Sometimes you even start to believe your fake normalcy. You know, making kids’ breakfast, talking to your mom on the phone about her osteoporosis meds and how cold the weather is. The ordinary stuff.

Then an occasional flashback brandishes your mind with a fresh sore. In your mind’s eye, you not only see it all, you live it. You are there. What he said, what she did, what they made happen, it’s all in front of you.

This is painful and hard, but it doesn’t compare to when you actually hear it said out loud. Then, it is confirmed. There is no level of interpretation and ambiguity. You hear it and it becomes a living, breathing thing on its own, choking you with its ugly hands, fighting for your last breath of hope, and making you vomit on the bathroom floor.

No, I don’t really think it matters. Is there an expiration date after which it hurts less? Maybe there is. I should have read the fine print I guess, but nobody tells you this stuff beforehand. You are this wide-eyed idealistic buffoon who believes in everything special— people, relationships of all kinds, love. Ashamed? No. It is more about moving on.

One morning you realize that you simply must get a grip or go completely insane. Either is fine, as long as you commit to it, fully. Because even if you think you got a grip on reality, periods of insanity will follow all along, and you can’t half-ass emotional heartbreak or healing.

I mean, if there is anything movies and books help us build, it’s these beautiful stereotypes about your options after betrayal, don’t you agree? It’s like the people who rip your heart out have done you a favor.

You can get “rich”! Take my windfall, $20,000 is a lot of money. Or a little, depending on who you ask but what difference does it make in my life? Am I happier than yesterday when I didn’t have it? I don’t even know what to do with them.

You can also get unexpected success. You sit down and wallow in your heartbreak. You write a book about your wallowing, then other wallowing people buy and read your book. They talk to other wallowing people about your wallowing book and poof...you are famous! Large mansions, fast cars, a vineyard in Italy and a new lover, what is there not to like?!

Don't forget about world travel, the most “effective” way to recover from heartbreak. Blowing through your alimony, attracting all kinds of (un)savory situations and characters in your life, think of the adventure of it all!

Yeah.

Then there is the crime spree. I had to mention this one for objectivity’s sake. Every sane person has considered it at some point and then dismissed it for one reason or another. Desperate people tend to make fearless and insane decisions, yet everyone would like to believe that is not them. What they fail to recognize is sometimes that someone is “me”.

Suicide? A valid option but is it really worth it? I mean the whole point you would like to make with an act like that is to make people, especially the ones responsible for your pain, suffer. You want them to feel your loss and the weight of their transgression.

Well, there is a teeny-tiny flaw in this plan. First, you won’t be alive to enjoy the “fruits of your labor”. I mean, you will be dead. Second, seems like a flawed plan to me, considering that the people you want to hurt the most have already shown they don’t give a damn about you anyway.

Of course, it’s not all black and white. Take the infallible “live alone and miserable for the rest of your life” option. Effort—minimum to none. Cons? High level of pointlessness.

Being a closet masochist, I must admit I don’t care too much about options that require no effort. If it doesn’t result in broken nails and bloody knuckles, it’s not worth my time.

Moving on? It’s never simple. Sometimes you shatter another person’s heart to heal your own. Yes, I did, and I admit it. However, when I evaluate my miserable life under the microscope of heartbreak, I know that suffering is inevitable in life—giving and receiving.

No! Because I am also sure that every sane human being would do anything to avoid suffering at all cost. And that’s just it, isn’t it? The suffering must be “inflicted” on us, because if it were up to us to decide, we wouldn't learn those lessons. Pretty twisted, huh?

Humility? Well, we all need to accept we are not as extraordinary or as exceptional. “Sorry, mate! The world doesn’t revolve around you” kind of situation.

Temperance. Hm, I’ve got a temper, all right. It’s the “-ance” that’s missing from the picture. Quite frankly I’m kind or rusty on the trust too. The only person I’ve ever put my trust in, betrayed me just as I have betrayed others.

It’s not just that, though. Living with guilt of the pain you inflicted on somebody you deeply care about is not for the weak. You can run from a person that hurt you, but you can’t run from yourself and the hurt that you have caused others. That stays with you and haunts you forever and there is no greater punishment in a way.

That is why patience is so important for moving on and probably why I could never get it right. You can't just sit next to a burning house and patiently wait to fill a bucket with a dropper but sometimes, you have to, and I did. I watched that sucker burn, and it was cathartic. Pointless, but cathartic.

Are you crying?

Wait, why are you scratching my name off in your book? What do you mean not my time?

Are you…?