Page 5 of Somewhere Along The Line
I didn’t know what was bothering her that morning, only that I wanted to help. To comfort her. I wanted to wrap her up, my arms around her shoulders, and pull her body against mine. The thought, flitting across my mind so quickly I couldn’t catch it if I tried, scared the crap out of me.
I’ve been stealing glances ever since.
Adingfrom my email jolts me back to reality. If I’m not careful, I will be the one wearing the stress today. I stuff my feelings into a small room somewhere inside and do my best to board up the door. Successful James is detached James, and that’s who Hunter will get today. Detached James keeps the cogs turning.
I type without thinking, my fingers knowing the answer to the question that popped into my inbox without consulting my brain. It’s nice to work on autopilot.
Kyle is at my office door before I can finish the email, his arms draped over his chest. The stance would threaten to wrinkle his striped button-down shirt had it not been a non-iron—the unofficial official working uniform shirt of bankers nationwide (with a vest, of course, if it’s below sixty degrees).
“Did you get the latest turn from GPC?” Kyle says this as if his definition of “fire drill” doesn’t include urgency.
My chest heaves a sigh, my fingers finding my forehead and stretching the skin to release tension. I do a mental scan of what I’ve seen come through my inbox and what I haven’t.
“Yeah, their analyst sent it over last night, came in about three in the morning.” Without trying, I set myself up for a conversation closer so good my face relaxes into a grin. “I’ll take a look at it. If it’s anything like the last one, I’ll spend all day correcting errors. They don’t make analysts like they used to.”
With that, Kyle gives me a smirk that sneaks out from behind his beard. We were in the same investment banking analyst cohort after college and barely survived those two years of torture.
While he’s only been working at Trion with me for a year, the fraternity born out of months of communal suffering runs deep. It’s nice to know I can trust someone here, even if I’m not willing to share my family history with him.
“I’ll pass it over to you when I’m done reviewing it, hopefully by end of day.”
Kyle offers a sort of salute, signaling his agreement before turning back to the bullpen and making his way to the office on the left.
I release a big exhale, a bit overwhelmed and still distracted, as I stretch my fingers across the keyboard and narrow in on my growing to-do list.
The shriek of the alarm clock rattles my bones, its bright wail in stark contrast to the dark sky. It’s as black now as it was at 2 a.m. when I rolled into bed; morning comes quickly when sleep rarely exceeds five hours.
I check my phone and groan, unsure which is worse: the fluorescent numbers showing 6:30 a.m. or the string of notifications piling up from Hunter. Neither is great.
I stumble to the kitchen to start the kettle before pouring myself into today’s iteration of the work fit: tailored pants, a button-down shirt with a button collar, a leather belt, and a vest or blazer that complements. I keep a few ties at the office in case of emergency—there’s no sense in restricting my ability to breathe any further. The mystery woman on the train does a fine job of that already.
Each day’s outfit selection process—choosing from an equal number of coordinating separates and mixing and matching at will—is a fitting analogy for everything else in my life of late. Plug A and then B into the equation and it’ll spit out C. No thoughts and no feelings are required. Simply feed the algorithm and things run smoothly. The system hasn’t let me down yet.
The kettle whistles on the white granite counter as I head to the hallway to grab a pair of shoes. I run my finger across the scratch that sits atop my favorite loafer, and a twinge of regret shoots through me, as fleeting as it is sharp.
Is it because of the imperfection? Or because of how badly I bungled the conversation that followed its discovery?
Maybe Ishouldlook into the Cole Haan repair program. It would certainly be easier to fix the shoe than replace my broken social skills, the ones that left me unable to talk to the woman on the train yesterday.
Today requires a different pair of shoes. I don’t need a visible reminder of my failure every time I take a step; it’ll taunt me enough without prompting.
My hands and feet take over out of habit as I finish up my morning routine: I pour hot water into my insulated tumbler,grab a sachet of black tea and slip the string through the cup’s notch, and check my teeth for evidence of my ham and spinach omelet. Then Islip my laptop into my messenger bag, turn off the lights, grab my keys, and lock the door.
My phone shows 7:08 a.m. as I begin thewalk to Carmack station. I’ll board the train at 7:15 like I do every day then endure eleven slow minutes of watching familiar landmarks flash by the window. My eyes will stay busy on the interstate split, the jewelry store with a metal door, the bustling elementary school carpool line.
After too long, the train will scream into Roosevelt station and she’ll board.
Those eleven minutes of waiting and the fourteen minutes after, when I share her air, are the best parts of my day. I don’t think about work, about my inbox that becomes more overstuffed minute by minute. I don’t think about Dad, or the house, or the questions he’s asking about the fate of Mom’s things. About whether I want any of it before it gets donated or goes to auction as if they’re items a stranger can appraise for value and not the vestiges of her life.
I try not to think about Mom at all, for that matter, about the hole she left in our family. Most of all, I avoid wondering if she’d be proud of me, and what she’d think about the way my life is turning out.
Instead, for twenty-five minutes, a measly 1.736% of each day, I let myself exist beyond the demands of my life—to wonder about a different existence. I ponder the opportunity cost to give up everything I’ve built, perhaps to become the dad helping his five-year-old son out of the carpool line before waving him off to kindergarten.
To wonder, in this other imaginary life, whether the woman on the train might have packed the lunch he'll take out at a tiny round table circled by even tinier chairs.
It’s a pleasant thought, and I let it waft through my brain as I stride up to the platform. It’s pleasant the way dreaming about becoming a surf instructor while living off backyard fruit trees is pleasant. It’s simple escapism, not a plan.
And that's fine, of course, because I already have a plan. Follow the steps, keep the cogs turning, increase the market value, make the calls (literally and figuratively) that Dad can’t or won’t make, and keep everything else at a distance.
