The Interview

The interview was not going well. He had been certain that if he asked the right questions, he would get the answers he was expecting, but it was not turning out that way. He fiddled with his pen, he moved his recorder one half inch to the right, he considered where to go next, and across from him she sat, silent but with a faint smile. As if she were enjoying this. As if it were fun.

He considered smacking the smile right off her face and was surprised at himself, for this was not his usual tactic when dealing with interviewees. Not that he had much experience at dealing with them; he was fairly new at this, and had only received this chance because he knew someone who knew someone who was willing to go out on a limb and give him a chance.

It was his first interview, and it was not going as he'd planned. He'd thought they'd have witty repartee, though he can't have said when he last engaged in such a thing, and he thought they'd be in sync.

Instead, the morose yet somewhat smiling woman across from him was an enigma.

"Where do you get your ideas?"

She snorted, not a ladylike sort of snort either, but derisive and penetrating.

"Where do you get your clothes?"

He wasn't sure what the relevance of this question was, and thought he was to be the one asking the questions, but he answered anyway. "From the store."

"There you have it. I get my ideas from the store."

"Ah, the idea store!" He boomed rather loudly, trying to make a joke of it, but her smile, if that's what it had been, only faded.

He decided to try a different tack. "I've read that you write for yourself, that it doesn't really matter what anyone else thinks."

She looked at him in mock horror. "Where did you ever read something like that?"

He tried to remember, and realized he'd made that up, on the spot, hoping to elicit something from her, though he couldn't have said what. "Er, in an interview?"

"I've never said anything like that. If I wanted to write for myself there'd be no need to put it down on paper. I could keep it in my head, couldn't I?"

He thought this was a rhetorical question and did not answer.

"Couldn't I?"

"Erm, yes, I suppose you could. So who do you write for?"

"Them. The people who pay me to write, the people who read what I write. Without an audience, I may as well just talk to myself, and then I'd be known as the crazy lady who talks to herself."

This was the most she'd said in the hour he'd sat there asking innocuous questions that had merited answers of a few syllables at a time. He thought he might be on to something.

"Do you worry about that?"

"Worry about what?"

"Being the crazy lady who talks to herself."

"I don't think you got the point." She looked more than bit annoyed, an indicator of which was one flared nostril and one raised eyebrow. At least that was what he thought he saw, before her face resumed its slightly morose look.

"Ahem. Well, okay then. What do you enjoy about writing for an audience?"

"What makes you think I enjoy it?"

"Don't you?"

"Not usually. It's a lot of work."

"Then why do you do it?"

"It's my job. Why do you go around asking silly questions of people?"

He wasn't sure what the point of this was. This surely wasn't his job, it was in fact the first time he'd been allowed to interview anyone. His job was working behind the meat counter at Safeway and dreaming of the day he could find a real career.

"Because I'm interested in people." There. He thought that was a good answer.

"Then why aren't you out asking them questions?"

"Who?"

"People."

"Okay, then," he murmured, and shifted his recorder a quarter inch to the left. "What do you look for when you write?"

"A response."

"A response?"

"A response."

"What kind of response?"

"Any kind of response. Clapping, derision, disgust, approval. A response."

"And do you get one?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes not. I suppose if I were more offensive I'd get more of a response, or more shocking, or more controversial, but that's not me."

He felt the lightbulb go off over his head, which was a rather odd sensation, but one which he could not ignore.

"What is you?"

"What?"

"What is you? The author? Who are you?"

She snorted again, but he wasn't certain it there was derision in it or just disgust.

"Who are you?"

"We're not talking about me."

She settled back in her chair and lowered her head, and for just a second he thought that perhaps she might be going to sleep.

"I am the ghost of Christmas past," she intoned, mocking him and his foolish questions.

He looked down at his notes. He had nothing. All this time, and he still had nothing he could use. At least nothing of substance. He did have a recipe for kiwi marmalade (she'd insisted it was quite good and he'd have to try it) and he had some pictures he'd scribbled in the border when she'd excused herself to make a few telephone calls. He'd overheard the calls from the other room, and they hadn't been urgent, or even necessary, more of the "Hi, Helen, just calling to see what you're up to," variety, which had made him grow hot and uncomfortable.

"What do you do for a living?" He was surprised when she asked this, and felt his hands tremble.

"Well, like you, I'm a writer."

"Maybe you are, maybe you aren't. But what do you do for a living? How do you make money?"

"I cut meat at Safeway."

"Aha! At last, an honest answer from the reporter!" She was obviously delighted at this turn in the conversation, and he was afraid she would start squealing. "And what do you enjoy about it?"

"Nothing."

"Then why do you do it?"

He was at a loss. Obviously he did it to pay his rent, and buy his food, and things of that nature, but that should be self-evident. He wondered what she wanted to hear before he admitted, "I don't know."

She smiled at him, "And that is why I write. I don't know why. But it pays the bills."

And he knew that was the most information he would ever get from her on the subject of writing.

Numbers

She sees the signposts and thinks of rain. The wires overhead remind her of dead birds. And she counts. Each car has its own numerical value assigned to it, each vehicle has its own deeper meaning. She could never stop counting. Each license plate with numbers had to be calculated. License plates with words, and no numbers, were a nuisance because they did not say anything. Only numbers spoke.

When she was seven, she found a spider on her bed. She was in the bed at the time, the covers drawn up tightly around her because she felt safe that way, when she saw it. Right on her belly, a spider as big as her thumb. In later years she would remember it being as big as her hand. She pulled the pink floral bedspread up around her even more, as if this would make her safe. She considered trying to scare the spider off, or somehow getting it to fly off the bed by moving her belly, but thought she'd be just as lucky to have it come flying at her face. She thought of inching up, from underneath it, but when she started to, the spider moved forward also.

She couldn't call for help. She never called for help, no matter the circumstances. It wasn't allowed.

Instead, she fell asleep, as if she could just take a break from spider watching and when she woke up it'd be right there, waiting for her to take action. But when she woke up it was gone. She looked around the bed, thinking it had come up closer to her face. When she saw nothing, she jumped up quickly, certain it was in an even worse place. She tossed the blankets aside and saw no sign of it. She looked on the floor, and still no spider. She ran her hands through her hair, certain it had gotten in there somehow. There was nothing.

For days afterward she would look for that spider, certain it had not left her alone. She could not be that lucky. No, the spider was still there, somewhere, hiding, waiting, and at night she would lie awake and wonder if this time, this night, the spider would come back and watch her sleep.

Years later she would recall the spider and think of it in the present tense, as something that was always with her, though it had no doubt died long ago. She knew it was still there, somewhere, waiting for her, and so it never left her.

She sees numbers in people. There, that person over there? With the baseball cap and the cigarette? That's a 7. The short woman with the heavy makeup and the orthopedic shoes? A 4. The little boy with half his ice cream cone on his shorts, the other half melting on his hand? A 12.

The numbers don't mean anything, at least nothing she's aware of. It's not as if she's grading them on appearance, intelligence, age, wit, or vitality. She's not even assigning the numbers herself. The numbers are just there for her to see. When she first realized that no one else could see these numbers she was astonished, perplexed, and more than a little frightened. Her mother had always said she was odd, and wasn't this the proof of it?

"The proof was in the pudding," her mother had always said, which meant nothing to her at the time and even less so now, and seemed to have nothing to do with anything at all, but it came back to her anyway. The mournfulness of her mother's tone, the heaviness that seeped through the air, the displeasure on her mother's face whenever she looked at her. It was not a pleasant memory, nor was it painful. If anything, she found it a comfort. Things were what they were, and she had reality to hang onto when there was nothing else but numbers to keep her mind occupied.

"An idle mind is the devil's playground," her mother also said, usually when she, the child, was daydreaming, a habit the mother said was good for nothing but trouble. But daydreaming was one place where she felt welcome, so she did not stop, and didn't care whose playground it was. Even now, in her twenties and driving down the highway counting cars, she still daydreamed. She imagined places where there were no numbers, where the sky never had that grayish cast that indicated rain on the way and, even worse, sadness, and where she did not have to get up early every day to drive to work.

She daydreamed about leaving home, though she'd done that years before. She dreamt of not just leaving home, but being free of it, free from the strictures of expectations, free from the knowledge of who she really was. She dreamt of the possibility of change within herself.

And when she arrives at Pt. West, she sighs. She gets out of her car and into the rain, which has begun with a steadiness that defies the randomness of rain, and she goes in to begin another day behind a desk with numbers her one constant friend.

Winding Down

What's it like, when you reach a certain age? An age most people don't reach, an age you never thought you'd reach, and you still just keep going?

You have a minor heart attack. You're in the hospital overnight, then back to your one room again.

You have a small stroke. There's nothing anyone can really do, is there?

Your blood pressure drops, but you refuse to go to the hospital. After all, what's the point anymore?

You begin to sleep a lot. Maybe you're preparing for what comes next, maybe you're just tired.

You read your email but you don't answer it, because what is there to say?

You're 100 years old. There's a fairly good chance you're tired. Perhaps you think with enough rest you can get back to where you were, but there is no cure for old age, is there?

So you sleep, you wake up each day and wait for the next event, minor or major, that will make the difference.

You feel like you're on your own death watch.

When did you realize you wouldn't last forever? When did those around you realize it? You've never had any health problems. You just kept going. Decades passed so swiftly that perhaps you didn't realize you were aging, or perhaps you did and accepted it, or perhaps you did and rejected it. What would any of us do? How can any of us know until it happens to us?

You became slower with time. There was never a catastrophic incident, never a major health issue, you were never hit by a truck and close to death. Time just marched on and took you with it.

And with it you went. Until you find yourself here. You sleep, and you wait. You know it's only a matter of time, but no one knows how much time, do they? Today? Tomorrow? Next week? Next year? Why not next year? No reason not to continue, no reason to continue.

Your wife still knows you, sometimes. She has Alzheimer's and you continue to visit her, on the days you're able to. Your daughters, the two remaining ones out of five children, live far away and can't visit very often. You have other relatives close by, a grandson perhaps. You feel like you're waiting for something, but you're not sure what. Or you know exactly what you're waiting for but not how long you'll be waiting.

No one knows.

And what do you do while you wait? Do you wake up each day and say, "Aha! I made it another day!" Or do you wake up each day and say, "Oh, another day."

This is not a good time to start any projects that may take any amount of time, is it? You like to finish things, you like to live life cleanly and neatly, and if you start something now you may not be able to finish.

You've been to the Great Wall of China. When you were much younger, in your eighties perhaps. You have done most of the things you set out to do. You've accomplished more than most people can imagine. Was it enough? Or do you wonder if there's any time left to do that last little thing?

Is there any time left? No one knows. Maybe you know exactly how much time you have left, maybe it's a secret you keep to yourself.

Everyone waits. If you know, we don't suspect it. We won't be able to say it was a surprise, but that won't lessen the impact. For many of us, you've been the one constant in our lives for . . . well, all our lives. It doesn't bear contemplation.

We are not happy with the situation but there is nothing anyone can do. We wait, and we hope you last just a bit longer because we're not ready yet. But what about you?

This is, after all, about you, not about us. It doesn't matter what we're ready for, or what we're not ready for, and it doesn't matter what plans we've made for you. You hope for 101. That's only 2 months away. It's certainly possible. And then what? 102? 103? How long can we count on you being indestructible?

Forever?

We wish.

In 1904 you were born, and you were born blue. And it never really mattered, did it, except for the naps you had to take every day?

How are you today? Are you awake yet? What will you do with yourself today? Take a nap after breakfast, and one before lunch? Will people keep asking you how you're doing?

Of course they will. And what will you say?

We wait to hear how you are.

That's all that really matters to us: how are you?