Eavesdropping
He sat at a keyboard, typing ferociously. There was no music, there
were no distractions. Behind him, his roommate tiptoed through the
hallway, careful not to make a sound. She had gotten her head bitten
off once before and, although he apologized profusely afterward for his
inconsiderateness, it was an ordeal she’d just as soon not have to deal
with. She paused at the door, chancing a peak into the room.
He sat silently, typing at his keyboard, filling page after page
with writingsand words and thoughts. Then he’d stop, re-read what he had
written,sigh deeply, and begin deleting things. First a word here and
there,then a sentence, then a paragraph. How many times had she told him
not to partake in such indiscriminate censorship…sometimes he ended up
deleting his best work. But he wouldn’t listen. At least he was already
typing, again.
She knew him too well, and he wasn’t a mystery at all to
her. What may have appeared to an outsider as a crazy, possessed man
typing gibberish wasn’t what she saw. Instead, she saw a man determined
to prove himself…to himself. And if that meant proving himself to the
rest of the world, then so be it. He wanted to shake hands with
impressed big wigs, hearing the congratulations tumbling out of their
mouths like presents at Christmas. He wanted to hold himself high,
showing off his physical stature and impressing people around him.
“That looks like a strong man,” they’d say. And then they would be
taken aback as he spoke with a gentle voice of calm, intelligent
reason. “So sensitive too.”
But right now he wasn’t talking. He wasn’t shaking hands,
and he wasn’t standing up straight. He was slouching over the desk that
was too small for him, his shoulders hunched like a wild animal
celebrating over a fresh kill. His eyes looked wild and thoughtful,
darting back and forth over the page as he typed. She wanted to reach
out and tell him to calm down-to tell him to slow down
and savor the small joys of life. He had plenty of time. But she dare
not. This was his place of business and of creativity. While the
untrained eye saw a man typing, she knew what was going on in his
brain. She knew he had retreated into a workshop as real as any
carpenter would use, full of saws and flying sawdust and hammers and
loud noises going off at the same time. It was chaos and he didn’t know
how to use all the machinery. But he’d pull in the scent of his work
and scream out that he was going to make something, God damnit!
He was in his own little world right now. She could see that. And how she
wanted to gently nudge him out of it. She wanted to pull him into her
arms and say “you’re good enough.” She wanted to take him outside and
dance in the rain as they both lifted their heads up and drank. She
wanted for that one part of him she didn’t totally understand to be
free and uninhibited, his soul spread out like an open book for her to
read. Then, maybe, he’d be able to see his own worth. And it wouldn’t
come from the workshop in his mind at all, but through the formless
shape of his heart.
But he didn’t even know if he believed in a soul.
Or if he did he ignored it in favor of focusing on the more intuitive
aspects of human consciousness. The truth is he didn’t know what to
believe, and neither did she. She acted so much on feeling and he
relied so much on logic. But somewhere in the middle they understood
each other...somehow. She turned her back with a weak smile on her face
and retreated into her room, hearing his frantic typing grow louder and
louder. She stopped as she heard him mutter something.
“Shit, it’s all shit.”
She smiled. She knew it wasn’t shit. Not entirely, anyway. He
started typing again as she retreated into her room and closed the
door, letting the sound of typing echo throughout the apartment. Maybe
one day he’d understand why he insisted on doing this constantly and
why he was never happy with the results. Maybe one day he’d be happy.
Or maybe he already was.