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INVISIBLE
In
my freshman
year of college I live on the third floor of the dorms, and though
there’s an
elevator, it’s always quicker to sprint up the two flights of stairs.
The only
time the elevator’s useful is when I need to haul my laundry down to
the
basement. Every
other week that’s my
routine. The short trip so familiar I can count my breaths to it. That is how I know I’ve
descended too far
down, that the elevator has plummeted past the basement, which I never
knew was
possible. The small
light goes out and
I’m stuck there, in the near-dark, dirty clothes in my arms, a handful
of
quarters heavy in my pocket.
I
press the
emergency button and nothing happens. I press every other button
repeatedly,
refusing to have this small space get smaller still by letting the
panic set
in. I even giggle
at my bad luck but
imagine the story I will have to tell later at the cafeteria while my
dorm
mates align the orange trays of food on the tables. It will finally be
my
chance to say something interesting since all this time I’ve had
nothing much
to contribute to the daily dose of jokes, anecdotes, complaints and
witty
observations flung from one side to the other. All this time I’ve been
simply
the listener, adding the sound of my laugh to the all-consuming din. I
have yet
to provoke such a communal response. I have yet to demand the
attention, yet to
be visible.
But
then I’m
struck with the paralyzing fear: What if no one notices I’m missing? It will be business as usual
in the cafeteria,
with silverware clanging and drinks spilling without me because I’m the
most
insignificant of witnesses. And
all the
while me inside that coffin buried in an unmarked grave, weeping at the
memory
of them.
MARTINI
The more he drank, the more his
handsome face disappeared into the darkness of his disorientation. And
I pitied
him—widower, farm worker, drunk. How different I felt—college graduate,
professor, social drinker—toasting my successes in the trendy city
lounges
where the literati converged, all of us deceiving ourselves with
accomplishment
that we claimed resonated beyond our insular circles.
My educated friends, I conclude
as I stumble into a cab to flirt with the driver, must have learned
from their
fathers as well. I
imagine each of them
observing quietly in the yards of their childhoods, as the men joke and
slur
and spit and congratulate themselves for how far they have come, what
better
lives they have in
