Short Story / Something Significant (Analysis)

"Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit." **

•••

Sometimes I am so moved by the weight of a period: the finality- the defeat and the triumph- the careless toss of ‘The End’. I can remember the first time I felt an ellipsis as an emotion, and upon learning the proper use of a semi-colon, I found a name for the beauty of not wanting to end an idea, of eloquent pauses in speech. Since then I’ve given myself over entirely to the space at the end of a sentence and the beginning of the next- discovering how to capture the beauty of silence.

How can you capture something so elusive? I wish I could help you see the beauty of communication without words. I read a story when I was little about a mute who kept hundreds of parakeets. When he died they echoed the sounds of his footsteps, the toilet flushing, and his different sighs: frustrated, content, lonely. I was too young to understand the moral of the story, but I remember finding it beautiful. Ever since then, I strive to talk without saying anything. I always wanted Sam to see me say ‘I love you’ when I pull my hair back, or ‘I never regretted the way that we are’ when I put the dishes away. I want him to learn that a shrug of the shoulders can mean ‘I don’t know’ as well as ‘I’m thinking about the day that we met.’
Sam, I wish you had a glimpse of how I see the world. I wish I could give that to you.
•••
*glass breaking*
*muffled voices*
*thump*thump*thump*

I’ve always been such a light sleeper. Sam could snore peacefully though a train thundering through our room. So it will be, when Joanne and Amy’s day starts with a bang, mine does as well.

God, Joanne and Amy are so cute. They always reminded me of Peppermint Pattie and Marcie. Amy always wears socks and flip flops, and I’m almost sure I can hear Joanne call her ‘Sir’ in the quiet of night.
This morning, Sam and I decided to have breakfast on the fire escape, but it isn’t nearly as romantic as it should be because John, who lives downstairs, is taking his trash out in the nude. Ah, and the bag has broken and there he is fumbling to clean everything up. Sam and I will pretend not to notice John’s manhood on display, but really how can you help but stare? Sam, who is embarrassed by these things, becomes awkward, and I laugh and laugh. I mean, my God, John couldn’t have possibly thought that at 9:30 in the morning that no one would be awake to see him. Sam, who is still awkward, nibbles on his strawberries and I smirk and kiss him on the forehead before I go inside to change.

He graduated last year and I two years ago. We are fresh in the real world and lost and broke, but I am happy. It’s been four years and I still swoon when he talks to me and I am happy.
I’ve been interning at a law firm because I thought I wanted to be an artist but it turns out I want to change the world. Why a law firm? I don’t know. I decided to be a politician, influencing and making decisions that matter, but I am highlighting and stapling and making conference calls. So this summer I am joining the Peace Corps. I can see Sam and me in our khakis and bandannas. We are young and heroic, selfless saviors.
Here we are wiping flies from the big eyes of little black children in Africa. Here we are organizing medical centers for single mothers in Mexico. Here we are hiking through the deserts of Darfur, on a mission to bring food to refugees.

Here we are.

Here we are.

But today, today I am still in Boston.

*Ring…*
*Ring…*
*Ring…*
You can see we screen our phone calls on Saturday mornings.
*Ring…*
*Ring…*
*Ring.*

*BEEP* “You’ve been connected to the phone of Avery and Samuel Larson. We did not answer the phone, so you should leave a message after the tone.” *BEEP.*

“Hello,” says the robot voice, “this it an automated message from the Boston Public Library to inform--” I cut the machine.

“I piled them up yesterday by the front door,” Sam calls from the living room.

“I know I just haven’t had time. Mike’s got me running around like crazy and…your blue shirt would look better with those jeans,” I said reaching for the blue one.

“But I really like this one,” he insisted pulling the other one over his head. “It’s really a white shirt--”

“I know,” I smiled, “tiny red fleurs make it look pink. I know.” I walked to the bedroom mirror to pull my hair up. I love you.

“What are your plans?” James says as he follows me and curls up on the unmade bed. I still grin when I see the ridiculous vintage blue and yellow plaid quilt that we bought to throw over our milk-colored bamboo cotton sheets. Lucky for us, when we moved in together we discovered that we both had the same eccentric love of all things whimsy.

“Mhhmm…dry cleaning, library books, corn dog, ice cream? And some papers to edit for Mike’s case on Monday, which might take a while,” I said while curling up next to him and burying my nose in his neck.

“Wanna skip everything and nap all day?”

“Yes, please.”

So I waited until he fell asleep. Which took all of two minutes and I tiptoed out leaving him a little note.

I believe that I am nothing more than the relationships I am composed of. I was born clay and shaped by the life of those around me. I am the fingerprints of you and my teachers, dead writers and that man across the street with that wonderful handlebar mustache and what appears to be pink bubble gum ice cream.

I was 16 when I realized this and 19 when I found my calling in life- to leave my fingerprints on as many people as possible. This isn’t about fame, in no way about recognition, but about making a difference.
I like to think Sam had everything to do with this.

“Hi how are you?” says the frail looking teenager behind the drycleaners desk.

“Good. Here to pick up for Larson,” I reply.

But in actuality, Sam probably had nothing to do with this. He just happened to be eating dinner with me when I talked myself into this notion. I will continue to credit him with changing my world, consequently changing the world.

I don’t remember dropping off this green dress.

“$57.60,” says the frail looking boy whose name tag read Fred.

“Thank you.”

The streets are filled with people. And those people are filled with thoughts and ideas and heartaches and the impressions of other people that make them up. I sometimes get overwhelmed to think that every person around me right now has their own life. And in the same way that my life is the whole world, their life means just as much to them.

This planet would be a much better place if everyone could understand that. How many fingerprints must cover the world? How could any one person think that they don’t matter? Even then, the weight of—

*tires*
*shouts*
*dropping*
*pain*
*pain*
*black*
*black*
•••

*breathing*
“Sam…shou-…?”
“… … … where…*sniff*…to…?”
Sam?
“…come…stay…”
Sam?
*beep*beep*bee…*
*black*
*black*
•••
*beep*beep*beep*beep*
“Cat scan… … …”
“…does that mean?”
Sam.
“… … … … …”
“I’m… … … …can’t even… … … not going to leave.”
Good. Don’t leave Sam.
“We can’t say…coma… … seem to… about…”
Coma? It’s so dark. Why are random 80’s songs playing in my head?
*black*
•••
I had a dream once that there was a gray shape of a man following behind me. When I tried to scream nothing would come out. I could feel it building up inside of me, bubbling to get free. It was exploding in my throat, but I couldn’t move it to my mouth-through my teeth.

Or, my senior year in high school, Jacob would come over after school. We had to be quiet because my sister was in the next room with the television on.

I am feeling that frustration now.

*black*

I’ve never felt that as an emotion before. Blackness. Is this what being in a coma is like? Just black? I can still hear things. There are the click of heals on linoleum, the shuffle of papers, small talk between a man and a woman.

“How are things going between you Tom?” says one woman voice.

“Great, thanks for asking. He’s taking me out tonight. Oh my god, I meant to tell you this yesterday, did you see…” says the other.

They are talking about nothing. Where is Sam?

*black*
•••
Once when I went to Wal-Mart, I saw an old man ride his buggy like a scooter in the parking lot. I was sitting in my black Sudan. It was December and this man was frail
and wearing a Hawaiian print button down shirt, and I like to think that he was suddenly inspired to feel like he was flying.
•••
It smells like bad food, peppermints, baby milk and…urine. It reeks of hospital here. There’s a TV playing somewhere. Am I alone? Who’s here to watch TV? Oh, there are Sam’s footsteps now. It’s painful. I can’t turn to him. I can’t open my eyes. I can’t make words form in my head. There’s a door opening.

A timid ‘hi’ is uttered. Is that my sister?

“How are you doing?”

It is Tevy. Did you fly down to be here?

Silence.

“I know this has been rough…”Tevy fades off. Please comfort Sam for me.
More silence.

I can hear the setting of glass on wood.

“I just feel so helpless, so useless. There’s nothing I can do but sit here and watch her,” Sam choked out. God, I think I fell in love with his voice before anything else.

“Maybe you should go home for the night,” Tevy says. She’s right you know, Sam, it’s not doing you any good to sit here.

“And do what?” he snapped. He must be a mess.

“Sleep, eat, bathe. I’ll stay here with Avery for you and I’ll call you if anything happens. Dr. Jason said that it might be a while. There’s no use for you to just sit cooped
up here in this awful room,” It seemed the cause was lost though, for she stopped trying and I could hear her muttering under her breath.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sam said with finality. There was the sound of settling.

“Join me?” Tevy asked after the muttering stopped. Sam gave a sad sigh in defeat. “Father,” Tevy proclaims, “we are gathered here in Your ever so holy, ever so awesome presence in hopes that today we can be reminded of your ultimate judgment upon our souls,”
How is this suppose to make any of us feel better Tevy? Ultimate judgment upon our souls? Is that what they’re teaching you at that awful church you’ve been going to?
“It is Your healing grace that we need today Father, upon our minds and upon the body of your child, Avery Larson,”
She means well, Sam, sweetie.
“So often we are burdened by the weight of this world and need an escape from reality. Help us to find peace for the state Avery has found herself in, and Lord, by Your grace, lead her back home to us. Lead her to her family, friends and to the world that needs her presence. Amen.”
If I could sigh loudly I would, Tevy.
•••
I feel like I’m in a rowboat with no water. I have the paddle; I just don’t have any water.
•••
Is that Beethoven playing?
You know how when you’re sick and sleep all day? And odd dreams float around for hours? That’s what this is like. I’m conscious every now and then. Sam’s here a lot.
He never really says anything, but just sits and breathes. That’s strange that I know that. I don’t remember any of that. It would make sense though.
Most of the time I’m living in a house full of mirrors and all that remains of me is a black balloon. Or here, I am in a movie theatre with Sam that looked more like a barn. Hay covers the floor. The seats are made of rotting wood. I ask him if he’s been here before. ‘Just once,’ he replies and I wonder with whom, but I don’t ask. It’s one of those questions that I’d rather not know the answer to.
•••
I often find myself wondering what makes other couples special. How can you count yourself to be any different than anyone else? With the same words, the same motions, the same glances- why are you meant to be?
I can hear him breathing next to me. I miss you, Sam.

We met my sophomore year while I still believed in art. I used to think that I could find happiness in spite of mediocrity. Sam proved to me otherwise and for the first time, I wanted something more for myself. I saw him across the isle at the stationary store. He was studying the pens with a serious ferocity I had not seen before, and I laughed.

“No…no, I’m sorry,” I fumbled, mortified. That’s not what I meant at all. It seemed I did this so often, just laughed at things no one else would find funny. There was so much humor in everything: the fat dog that looked at her owner stupidly when he threw the ball, the way some people pick their nose in their car like no on can see; I found humor in the ferocity with which that apprehensive looking man studied those pens.

He believed in…what? What did he have to call his passion? His muse? I’ll never be able to understand that about him, he was always so quick to accept things the way they were and still…

We were special, from the very beginning. I gave him something to believe in. I like to think that. He believed in me.

He wrote me later, “You were humiliating and ridiculous in your blue fish net stockings, but even in that moment, you saw beauty in situations that I never could.”

I wonder what he’s doing now. What he’s feeling, what are you thinking, sweetie? Does he have my hand in his? Does he pray for me?

We became each other’s religion, each other’s comfort. I wanted to do so many things for you, Sam. Can you hear me tell you that now?

You are my religion.

Even now, I’m uncomfortable admitting that. I never had a religion to call my own until you. I never believed in Jesus or God.

I believe in humanity.

And goddamnit, I believe in art.

•••
I had a dream about playing a game of chase, but the stakes were higher than being ‘it’. Death was the penalty for being caught by whatever it was that was chasing us. I ran through a maze of a red house that was draped in heavy velvety carpet, and everyone ran with me; my mom, Tevy, Joanne and Amy, the dry-cleaning teenager.
•••

“Avery?” Sam sounds desperate. Vulnerable.

Yes sweetie?

“I need you to be okay,”

I’m right here. It’s okay. I’m right here.

“I miss you,”

I know sweetie.

“I know that it’s selfish, and I know that I’m being selfish. Please be okay. I need you to wake up,”

I’ve never wanted anything more. I’m trying. My eyes won’t open. I can’t feel anything.

Sam sweetie, stop crying. You’ll just make yourself more upset.

“I know some part of you can hear me right now. I know that. I love you. I can’t say that enough to you right now: I love you,” he laughed nervously, “Mike’s completely incompetent without you. He keeps calling and--” he stopped short. “I keep trying to have faith. So many people have come to see you. Your mom is here all the time,”

My mom? Tell her I miss her. Tell her I love her please, Sam.

“She’s so pathetic. Just like the rest of us right now. She brings your baby albums and your books from when you were little. ‘Avery had this one memorized when she was only three!’ she tells the doctors,”

I wanted to smile at that.

“I haven’t been able to sleep. You’ve been sleeping enough for the both of us,” he gave a hard laugh. “And the food here makes me nauseas,” he laughed that hysterical snicker again, “so for that reason alone you should wake up and--”

“Excuse me Mr. Larson,” says a soft woman voice. It’s the same one from before. There is the sound of shuffling. Sam’s footsteps leaving.

But things don’t go black. I can hear papers, beeping, sighing. I can almost see a short woman with her hair in a ponytail checking charts. She is going to clock out soon. She is going to go home.

This is stupid; this whole ordeal is fucking retarded. Why the hell am I still here? What can I do?

I try to scream. It’s stuck. There’s nothing coming out.
How long will they leave me here like this? There is so much I have to do. How long have I been here? Have I wasted days, a month? Is this even living? Have they discussed my will with Sam? How long will they just let me sit, running up hospital bills?
•••
I had a dream that I forgot who I was in love with. I began to search. I went to a concert where I found Jacob standing. Was it him? I kissed him, but his lips were Sam’s, and I remembered. So I stood behind Sam with my head between his shoulder blades and we watched his mom play guitar. We were in this futuristic glass house that was dark and lit only by a fire-like glow from the horizon.
•••
What would I say if I could? I know it’s a little sick, but I sometimes make myself cry by picturing the death of the ones I love. What would I do without them? What if it
were me? I liked to think that I would write letters, long and beautiful. I would reminisce, but mostly I would help them find comfort for the future.

Dear Tevy, I’m sorry I tricked you into cleaning my messes as well as yours.

Dear Mom, Everyday, I wish I was more like you.

I’d make myself cry.
I can’t imagine missing so many things.
I’ve always been a big believer in the idea that you shouldn’t worry about things until they come, but I’m really very hypocritical; I often daydream myself into hysteria.

Sam, for every minute you called me later that you said you would, I came up with a new theory of where you were.
Oh, he got held up.
His mom must have finally called him back.
I bet you Gabriella cornered him in the elevator and forced him to succumb to her love.

Dear Sam, For some reason it feels some important to tell you that the night we saw that falling star, I wished the things we believed in each other would never fail us.

I regret that we didn’t share that secret with each other. It’s silly, telling our wishes won’t make them unable to come true. Who ever dreamed up that notion, I believe, was scared of possibility.
•••
I wonder how many minutes of my life have been spent watching the ‘I Will Possess Your Heart’ music video.
How many minutes have I spent wondering if I look pretty?
How many notes have I ever sung?
How many things have I never said?
How many hours have I spent living completely uninspired to change the world around me or do something productive?
How many plans have I bailed on?
How many nights wasted into paranoia and jumping to conclusions?
How often have words not been able to come out of my mouth?
How many sexual fantasies have played themselves in my head?
How many people have I let down?
How many phone calls have I never made?
If the weight of these things makes a life, how heavy am I?
How often have I fallen in love?
How many days did I waste in school learning things that don’t matter instead of daydreaming and passing notes?
How often do I blame myself?
How often have I not been good enough?
How many teacups have gone unfinished?
How many opportunities have passed me by?
Sam, I can feel you now. I thought that would mean that I was better. I’m sorry sweetie, but I can feel your hand on mine. I want that to be what you remember.
What is the weight of the fingerprints I left behind?
Are they enough to make a difference?
Would it have been worth it after all?
Am I significant?

•••

"No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool."**

•••

**From T. S Elliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
 

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