At home, while catching up, when his complete involvement wasn’t crucial, whenever he was silently, supportively there, whenever moods required a cooling period or healthy distance until they could be their best selves again. He used his mobile device. He perused harmless diversion. He occupied disposable moments. He passed time. He poached inconvenience some usefulness. He executed feats of escape artistry from ire. Plus, he got where he needed to go, imbued his professional persona a facade of constant activity.
She got it for him. She thought it would be nice. Her friends’ husbands had one. Her friends’ husbands thought, “It’s so neat.” They got weird cramps. They got headaches. They went everywhere with them. You had less to worry about.
“Are you ever going to put that down?”
“I figured out how to measure level surfaces.”
Taking a photo of a jacket he wasn’t sure he wanted, shoes he liked but wasn’t courageous enough to buy, words in print pages he wanted to look up, cars on the street to price-compare, styles of roof he couldn’t name.
One rapt occasion: a photo of what looked like a stump but upon closer scrutiny was a root-tangled dirt thing. Block-like, dusty, with members more flagellate than arboreal, protruding to shin height from an unpaved recess, where more cosmetically treated South End corners might house a gingko. Nippers violated the nooks. He snatched a photo but couldn’t deign to caption it, out of confused pity. He asked people what they thought it was anyway, his interest something he had difficulty playing down. Nobody seemed to know.
To get him out, to do something different, she took him to street fairs, seasonal festivals. He snapped photos of the careless, unshaven street performers. She talked to her friends. Took several tries to find a free one.
“Hey,” he said. “I keep finding reasons to waste time on this thing. Let’s not lose each other.”
“That’s so nice.”
They found games to play. They cleared surprise gifts with each other’s preferences before purchase. Neither disappointed the other. She showed him pictures she’d taken of friends’ kids. He stopped finding this cute. She stopped showing them to him. She didn’t take the photos when he was around. She didn’t stop taking them outright.
He became a knowledge base socially. He validated, filled in, corrected.
He asked his godson how his drawing was going, what he was working on. He retrieved photos of years-old drawings. Messaging his godson was a way of fanning what felt like a special affection. The way he cherished the godson’s work made the boy squirm. He himself didn’t mind. He worried, privately, about things getting lost. He worried about getting lost. He worried about drying up.
She found the nicest house on the Cape. She said she was recommitting herself to being more mindful and still. After she left, he said if she were so mindful and still, they’d fix her problems together. She said, “I’ve decided I’m going to be intentionally out of touch.” Which would help how?
At work, one-handed at the urinal, during midday walks on the esplanade, through swirling pollen and concupiscent joggers, through crosswalks, to block out loud and ethnic commuters. A buoyant pride prevailed, the remarkable efficiency of buying things, human element minimized, desire expedient, and every nightly return greeted with the coy delivery of another box.
Overlooking sunsets of combustive duration through the gym window, during workouts via Velcro/plastic sleeve, appraising in envy the glistening undulations of flanks and postures similarly blushed, insistent in pattern. He listened to operas and scholarly lectures. He answered calls through heaves and wheezes. He took photos of himself at his most bulbous, post-burn.
Getting off the stationary bike, greeting a voice in his ear, he tripped on a pedal and hit his head and fell in such a way that he couldn’t stand up again. Eraser ends of light bore into him. He couldn’t will a hand to shade himself with.
He was an inpatient. He made calls and dreaded paralysis in spite of professional assurances to the contrary. One evening, gathering nonauthoritative medical information, he ran out of battery. He was warned if he kept up the fussing, he’d hurt himself a second time.
In the intolerable nighttime quiet, he longed for daylight through the distant window. When day came, he wanted night again. He held his breath on accident. He breathed by force of will. His first request for sedation was denied, but not the second. He asked for a stronger dosage.
When old friends and his godson visited, he forced a carefree air. He corroborated with the adults in making light of the situation. He exhausted his visitors. It was so much work, hiding how he was alone. The godson stood moping at the foot of the bed, as if begrudging a disciplinary measure, waiting to leave.
“Remember the great work you used to make?”
“Yeah. It’s been a while though.”
“How’d you do things like that anyway?”
“Don’t even know.”
