sign on the door iii

You’re, alone, I tell myself.

The objective is to seek out the familiar.  Avoid the awkward. The ideal would be to find another observer. Someone who refuses to buy into the madness of these social activities, instead floating, orbiting the perimeter as a witness. An uninvolved participant.

Frivolous.

Watchers are too busy always watching.  They don’t notice others watching.  Someone always watches.  Someone's always watching. 

Panopticon. Big Brother. Little Brother. Reality TV.

We look but never see each other, watching for the watchers. 

“You’d be amazed what you can google these days,” someone says somewhere. I hear it, but can’t pair voice with face.

This kid I roomed with during Orientation comes out of the kitchen, a fresh Sam Adams in his hand. 

Eye contact. 

Hear the slam of the fridge door.

“Hey!”  The feigned excitement masks courtesy.  “What’s up man?”

Gesture with my Budweiser, “Not much dude. Looking for the action.”

“Well, you’ve found it.” Suddenly, uninterested. 

He looks around the kitchen and finds a bottle opener nailed to the wall, over the garbage pail. The beer pops and fizzes as he opens it.

He sees something in the living room. It catches his attention, drawing him like a magnet.  Back, he flows from the conversation.

I ask if he's seen someone.

“Someone,” I repeat.

“Bedroom, I think,” he says and he’s gone.

                                    or

“Bedroom,” I think he says and he’s gone.

                                    or

“Bedroom,” I think, “he says and he’s gone”.

Nameless characters are the worst.  The ones that don't matter.  Obvious distractions, I’m sure.  Refuse to offer course-changing opportunities.  Orientation guy rejoins the princes of popped collars.

James? Jeff?