“I was picturing you next to me. Sitting on my right side on the bed which was behind me. I looked up on Google, ‘what do you get for a person whose mom died,’ and one of the first links was a blog post and a comment thread and one of the commenters whose name was praemunire posted a comment which contained the words ‘nice bereavement gift box.’ I clicked the words and knew immediately that I was not going to be buying a bereavement gift box for my boss in spite of some sort of strong feelings slash inspiration occurring moments prior. Thinking is mostly funny, I think. Do you know what I mean?” Alan could feel he was on the verge of breaking into a sweat, pin pricks just under the surface of his skin of the back of his neck.
“Why are you telling me this?” Vanessa’s eyebrows were furrowed. She leaned forward at her waist, her upper body over the table between her and Alan.
“The link was in the same comment thread as someone who described a person coming to their home to share a memory of the person’s dead dad carrying an antelope by himself when the person and another guy couldn’t carry the dead antelope together. The person said they remember this story years later and it brings their dad back when they remember it. This in the same comment thread as the hyperlinked, purchasable, nice bereavement gift box,” Alan’s voice was even though his mind was racing.
Vanessa sat straighter as she said, “you’re a pretty weird guy.”
“The thing is, I don’t remember the name of the commenter who essentially recommended giving a memory as a gift to a person whose mom died. But I remember the name of the commenter who recommended buying a gift box, which was over one hundred dollars, by the way. I’ve been thinking about the juxtaposition of these two commenters for the past week. There were several other comments that I read but I don’t remember any of them. And I imagined you next to me while I read the comments and I imagined the two of us talking about it and you sort of calmed me down but I could tell by your facial expression that you were affected too.”
“We’ve only known each other for two weeks and this is the first time we’ve met in person. I don’t know if I’m comfortable with the thought of you imagining me. Really the thought of you imagining how I would react to something. Or that I would comfort you. Like I would probably have laughed at you and told you to calm down and maybe looked at the individual items offered in the bereavement gift box and considered if any were worth getting for myself. Goddamn you’re weird.” Vanessa’s brows were no longer furrowed and a waiter approached the table and took Alan and Vanessa’s drink orders.
“The comments were from a couple years ago. This contributes to how it affected me, I think. Like when you read comments from several years ago it’s sort of like reading some kind of historical document. Like your cultural landscape is so distinct from the one several years ago that the comment is almost in a different language. But the bereavement comments were only two years old. I could have been on a three way phone call with the commenters. We could have been sitting in the same room, practically.” The waiter brought drinks to the table.
Alan continued, “the commenter whose name I don’t remember who recommended giving a memory as a gift couldn’t have known that they in fact would be creating in someone else a memory which would stick with that person and be recalled years later and take that person to some particular place. I’m talking about myself. Not that years have passed, so I’m making a bit of a prediction here in terms of my memory and my being affected and my being brought back to some particular place, mentally.” Alan smiled.
“I don’t think you’ve ever left that place, mentally.” Vanessa’s arms were now crossed and her lips slightly pursed.
“And even though you weren’t there, you are, in some sense, part of the memory, too. Because we’ve been talking for a couple weeks and it’s been nice to have someone to talk to and imagine sometimes too. I’m sorry if that upset you. The thought of me imagining how you would react to things but I really can’t help it.” Alan’s sweat broke and he could feel tiny beads of perspiration on the back of his neck and his upper lip. He wiped his upper lip with his napkin. His voice remained steady and he had maintained eye contact, in general, longer than Vanessa.
“It’s not unflattering.” Vanessa’s expression was kind and her eyes scanned all around Alan’s face not judgmentally, as if scanning china for cracks.
“I also imagined this right now. Us sitting here across from each other and me telling you about the commenters and about imagining you comforting me. I imagined making you laugh. I imagined I was making jokes. I imagined me recalling the commenters with like a breezy attitude and lightheartedness that we would both laugh about. It’s much easier to imagine making someone laugh than actually doing it. It’s much easier for me to imagine a lackadaisical tone than to actually speak with one. I guess I’m better on paper. Or through a screen. When I have time to think. Maybe. I’m not sure. Because it’s not like that’s much easier. Thinking of things to type and have displayed on your screen. It seems easier in some sense but really it takes me a long time and I’ll write and rewrite entire paragraphs and I really want to make you laugh. I like making anyone laugh. I think making someone laugh and offering someone a memory as a gift are two good things to do. Yeah I can’t think of things to do for a person that are much better than that. I’m pretty lonely.”
“You’re sweating.” Vanessa’s voice was softer.
“I’m glad to be sitting here in front of you right now. Even though I’m sweating and I’m not really doing as well as I hoped in terms of relaying my memory and the future of remembering. Wow it just now struck me how weird I probably seem telling you all this on a first date. I want to do better. Not just here right now. I mean that would be nice, but also in general I wish I did better. Like if you don’t want me imagining you and how you would react I wish I knew that in the first place. And that I didn’t imagine you at all if you would prefer.” Alan’s sweating stopped. The waiter returned to the table and took Alan and Vanessa’s orders.
“Is ‘dire’ an appropriate word to describe how I’m currently talking? I just saw the word in my mind’s eye. Like neon and flashing white in front of an endless black background. I didn’t mean to come across that way. Like I said, I imagined this being lighthearted and the two of us laughing and maybe you tell me to stop being so serious while you’re laughing and smiling and looking at me. And anyway I’ve been calming down. My heartbeat has been kinda racing this whole time but I think it’s going back to normal. Imagine the ‘dire’ question was a joke. A really funny joke and you laughed and thought I was funny and lighthearted.” Alan was grinning.
“Your behavior is borderline endearing only because you’re cute.” Vanessa’s expression was relaxed and her posture straight.
“My boss sings ‘I Wanna Be a Toys R Us Kid’ in his office. His office door is always open so everyone can hear him when he sings it. That’s why I wanted to buy him something when his mom died. Because he sings ‘I Wanna Be a Toys R Us Kid’ and it brings up a lot of feelings in me. The first time I heard it I actually started crying at my desk. But every other time it made me smile. So that’s why I wanted to get him something when his mom died. Because of all the times he inadvertently made me smile. But now I know I’m not going to be buying a bereavement gift box and I didn’t know his mom so I can’t give him like a nice memory either. A hug is out of the question too, not that I was seriously considering that.” Alan hoped his last comment would actually make Vanessa laugh. It did not.
“Some context might have been better at the beginning, but you can go ahead and keep doing whatever it is that you’re doing right now.” Vanessa was leaning back in her seat, smiling.
“I’m not very good at talking. At organizing my thoughts. There are a lot of them sometimes and I think it would be fun to share them with someone and maybe laugh about it and that person maybe thinks things that we can laugh about too. It’s nice not to think too. Like looking at the same thing with another person and we don’t even have to think about it, just look at the same thing at the same time. I think that would be nice. Things don’t always have to be fun. Not that I would prefer things being ‘not fun.’ But things can’t be fun all the time and it’s probably a bad idea to want every single thing to be fun.” Alan stopped abruptly and sat up in his seat.
“How is this date going so far? Can you give me like a number on a scale that you define or something?” Alan asked with the same even, sincere tone he had been using the entire time. His brow scrunched with concentration.
“Dude.” As Vanessa said this her head cocked slightly to the right.
“Am I not allowed to ask that? Or not supposed to I guess? We’ve been talking for a couple weeks so I know that you know my conversational habits aren’t exactly normal. I hope it’s endearing instead of, say, creepy and totally unbearable.” Alan took a sip of water.
“Are you predicting my feelings right now? Even though I didn’t answer your question, are you already anticipating a response? Are you responding to what you’d imagine I might say?” Vanessa’s arms were crossed, her head still cocked.
“Your face gives some clues. I can see a hint of sympathy in your eyes. Sympathy is nice but it’s a similar look that you might give passing a panhandler in your car. Yeah I can imagine myself on the side of the road holding up a cardboard sign that says ‘anything helps’ and when you drive past me it appears in slow motion and you have the look on your face that you have right now, head tilted and everything. And then I never see you again and I spend most of my time standing on that corner.” Alan’s expression fell downward but he maintained eye contact.
“You’re kind of an asshole.” Vanessa nodded as she said this.
Alan started sweating again. “Honestly it’s not on purpose. Like I’m not trying to be an asshole. Really I’m trying just to speak honestly. And you aren’t the first person to say that so maybe I am an asshole. Like deep in my marrow. I try to be honest and multiple people have told me that I am an asshole. It makes me sad to think about. It would be nice to share things with a person sometimes but I guess I might just be irredeemably an asshole who people don’t want to share things with and who people prefer not to talk to, in general. Does an asshole imagine making people laugh? I guess no one is a villain in his own head. I dated a girl for a while, if you can imagine it, and our relationship sort of fell apart in the end and I remember I told her that I hoped I could at least be a side character in someone’s life and sort of show them not to do something by example. Most people imagine themselves as like the hero of a movie and I admit I do it too. But I remember while we were breaking up one of the things I said was that maybe I’m a side character and I can teach the hero something valuable or help them by just doing whatever it is that I do. And I really felt it while I was saying it. The feeling of being the main character dissolved and I thought about everyone else in my life, for probably the first time. Like really thought about my impact on the people closest to me in my life and really really hoped that I made them feel good sometimes. I don’t know if there could be anything better than making someone feel good.” Tears were in the corners of Alan’s eyes.
“Dude you are a fucking lunatic.” Vanessa stood up and removed her coat from the back of her chair. She exited the restaurant.
Alan remained seated. He wiped his face and ate two meals when the waiter brought them to the table even though he didn’t like what Vanessa ordered.