Page 1 of Caution Tape

Chapter One

Nolan

Iam vaguely aware that there is something wrong with me. Something off-kilter and misshapen that defines who I am on a deep level. It projects a barrier between myself and the world. It is invisible to everyone, including me, but I can feel it. A certain hollowness. Like the world is a bunch of dry tinder and I’m waiting for it to burn.

Thoughts and feelings occur to me that I know are not the symptoms of a well-adjusted individual, that are not society approved ideations. Everyone has that odd thought when walking on a bridge, right? That flickering, lizard-cold flash of,“what if I jumped? What if I oopsie-daisied myself into oblivion without a second of introspection? What if I simply gave in to the cold part of my mind?”

And for a lot of you, it’s just that.

A flashing thought.

An odd mood that dissipates the moment your friend starts their next sentence as they walk alongside you. Or the music plays in your headphones. A slight wobble on the big train track of your psyche.

That is where I live. That’s my default setting.

For instance, today I am in the community college library, editing a paper for English class. I am twenty-one years old, and I feel lethal. I’m sitting at the computer, changing commas and misspelled words with mechanical efficiency. I’m neither bored nor interested; I am simply there. It feels like a rehearsal. A book I read once described a depressive episode as “it feels like practice.” And it does. Everything feels like it doesn’t matter very much. Like this brown mahogany desk is secretly made of paper-mâché and can collapse at any moment. As if the skylights of the library complex—all white steel and blue glass—can be swept away in a horrific gust of wind, and me and all the little people will tumble away like leaves.

To my left is a girl from my English class. She keeps glancing at me. I’m used to this. I used to think it was because women could sense the cold lurking inside of me, and then I learned that they liked my confidence, my looks, and the fact that I was nice. I am nice to everyone. It’s very easy. My phone regularly buzzes with messages from friends and acquaintances, and I make a mental note to remember something specific about each of them. Jay, for example, likes the Atlanta Hawks. I don’t care about basketball, but if I want to deepen my friendship with Jay, I can simply send an Atlanta Hawks joke and he is thrilled.

People just want attention. They want someone to tell them all their little idiosyncrasies are genius. That they are adorable, understood, and appreciated. They want to know that no matter how secretly awful they are, someone will accept them. And if it is handsome, jovial, confident me? Sweet, funny, clever Nolan? Well, that’s everything. Who doesn’t want pretty people to notice them?

The girl next to me is named Natalie, and three weeks ago she mentioned in class that she had a short story coming out in the student literary magazine.

I turn to her. “Hey, did your story come out yet?”

She blinks twice. She has long, frizzy hair that spills down the sides of her face and bright, heartbreakingly hopeful eyes. She bites her thumbnail, then says rapidly, “Oh, yes. Yes, it did. Do you want to read it? It’s on the website.”

I know the website. I make a show of typing it into the browser, muttering loudly, “Eerie Community College… slash… what was it? Patterns? Patterns Student Magazine?”

She smiles. “Almost. Rhythms Magazine.”

“Ah. Rhythms.” I snap my fingers and shimmy my shoulders a little bit, and her smile grows wider. Everyone loves a guy with a sense of humor. I pull up her story and start reading it in front of her. She makes a show of packing up, pretending she didn’t know I was going to read it now.

“Wait, God no, please don’t—"

I hold up one finger. “Shh, I’m reading.”

Is she blushing? Probably.

I read the story quickly. It’s a rambling literary piece about summer dying and leaves descending on a young woman as she contemplates the future. I actually sort of like it. It’s earnest and very, very college literature. I wonder vaguely if I’ve ever felt that strongly about anything, to compare it to the collapse of a season.

I turn to Natalie. “I liked it. This spot, right here.” I point to the screen. “‘Leaves hellbent on hitting the earth, beautiful and suicidal, their destination resolute. I hope I find that. I hope I have the guidance of my individual gravity.’”

Natalie puts down her bag and pulls her chair closer to me. She smells like raspberry hairspray. There’s a small mole on her right cheek, just above the corner of her mouth.

I’ve got her. It was that simple. People are that simple. Give them attention, notice something specific. Remember it. Spit it back at them. Jay and his Hawks. Natalie and her leaves.

All just another rehearsal.

I speak to Natalie for a long time. We go and get coffee. She tells me about her writing struggles. About her ex, the weight of the creative world on her shoulders. I ask questions like, what are you working on now? What do you plan on doing? Do you see anything coming of it?

She gives detailed answers and returns offhand questions to me, which I answer quickly with little detail. She doesn’t actually care about my answers, which is fine. People like to have an animated wall to bounce themselves off of, but not something that demands anything of them.

I get Natalie’s number. We go separate our ways on the walk from campus. I cross the bridge where I think more of those cold, lizard thoughts. My cell phone vibrates. Natalie is texting me already.

God, it feels thin.

Chapter Two

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