Rooms with Character
Joseph Couchet
There we stand, beaming for the camera like we couldn’t be happier together than at this very moment. “Bermuda,” her handwritten caption reads. We got the waiter to take the picture at some tourist trap of a restaurant. And we certainly look the part: peeling skin, loud sunglasses, and sun-lightened hair. Now the photo sits wedged in the corner of a mirror in the bedroom. It was one of the only things she forgot to take when she left, or maybe she didn’t take it on purpose so it could serve as a reminder of what we had. Some people are like that.
“Did it come out all right?” the waiter asked. People always seem to do that after they take your picture because they don’t want you to blame them for a bad photo. The sun felt like a furnace on our faces every day, so how could the photo look good? We checked it out in the little viewer on the back since this was in the days before everyone had a camera on a phone.
“Sure, it looks great,” I declared, and I wasn’t lying, given the circumstances.
“Thanks,” she told him with a grin that said, “Yes, you’ll get a bigger tip for this.” But that wouldn’t be for a while yet. We had to sit and drink our daiquiris and then a round of beers to wash away the sickeningly sweet taste the daiquiris left behind. We’d been there a few days already and were already starting to get bored. Beaches are beautiful, but how long can you live in a postcard and fry your skin? They never show that in the postcards.
The trip hid us, at least temporarily, from the reality that was waiting for us when we got back home. Things hadn’t been going well for months and had only gone well in the first few weeks living together in the apartment. There were a sweaty, impassioned few weeks of escape from reality when we first decided to move in together. Once the routine of bills and laundry and TV set in, we wondered if there was anything. Of course there was, only we hadn’t completely figured out that it wasn’t with each other, or maybe we didn’t want to admit it just yet.
And that’s what brought us down there. While everyone else was shoveling out of the snow, we were shoveling up piles of lies. We both spent the whole trip acting like we didn’t know that this was just an expensive attempt to rekindle the so-called magic in our relationship if there ever was any in the first place. Not that she was my one true love and all this happened because of her. No, this isn’t some sort of sappy, brokenhearted tale of woe. There were others before and after her and before and after me, I’m sure. Live and learn, as they say, and both of us did plenty together. Hopefully, she hasn’t had to post any more reminder photos in the homes of any more exes. Who knows? Maybe she no longer has exes. Maybe she’s settled down and put all that behind her. I’ll never know.
We both sat in silence for a while as we nursed our drinks and watched the sun go from golden to ruby as it sank into the sea. Other tourists frolicked around us with their laughs and shouts. Most of them looked as beet-red from as we did, yet all of them seemed so much happier than we were. But if I looked closely enough, I could see the reality that they, too, were trying to escape. It was following just behind them or lingering just over them. As for us, it seemed to have caught and landed right on us. Not that it felt so bad, though. A little dose or even a heavy one of reality can be a very good thing. The sea lay before us, its lilting waves inviting us to project our imaginations onto its crystal surface. It was like we were on the edge of the earth and facing a challenge to advance into the unknown or retreat into our shells like two little sand creatures. For anyone and anything, leaving the familiar is often a more difficult choice than sticking with it.
“Want another round?” I asked after I downed the last of my beer. Hers looked just about empty, too. “How’re you doing?” I added for what I thought was good measure.
“Fine,” she declared. “Just fine.”
A wave landed on the beach right at that moment as if to underscore the point. About a year later she did a fine job of it herself when she slammed the front door on her way out. My first impulse was to rush after her and make a dashing scene on the sidewalk for the neighbors to see and hear. Instead, I listened to her footsteps walk down the stairs and fade out forever. I did my share of walking soon after, too, right to the furniture store because she had taken all her stuff. Pretty much all that was left were my TV and stereo. A lot of guys can get by on just the two of them, but I knew that I had to hit the ground running after my fall. It was one thing to be surrounded in empty beer cans and pizza boxes on an empty floor. It was another to at least have some furniture to go with it all.
And now my handiwork is fully on display in the second part of a “before” and “after” set of photos. No walls are knocked out or anything too drastic, of course. A new coat of paint on a wall combined with a few new pieces of furniture can really set things off, however, not to mention a whole new floor. The old one had too many spots that were too worn to match the rest of it. Polishing can only do so much, and carpets and rugs only cover up the lack of quality underneath. I have never been much of a handyman. I always prefer to let things slide until they are beyond all hope. This time I put a stop to the decline, at least in this one area. With the help of just a few workshops and bits of advice, the sanding, painting, hammering, and a dozen other things are all my work. The soft colors have given way to deep blues and greens, and the newer, bigger TV now sits prominently on the new sleek, black entertainment center along the back wall. My recliner of plush faux leather sits right in front of it, too, and all positioned dead-center in the room. Every time someone comes over, I hear the same refrain: “I can tell this is your place.” Yes, it is.
Nevertheless, one supporting piece of evidence this is the same old home with just one room in newfound improvement is the lack of aromas wafting from the kitchen. We never cooked, and I continue the tradition unless you consider microwaving to be cooking. In fact, I still store my shoes in the oven during the winter. They aren’t even the worst smell coming out of that kitchen, either. Usually, the smell of burning something or other comes rolling out of that little kitchen. I can’t even time microwaving right. I go rushing in to see if I can salvage anything. My shoes stick to the floor as I lumber to the little metal box that hangs over the greasy countertop. Most of the smoke is inside the microwave behind the smudged door while little fumes make their way out as if to dare me to open it. I have to cover my nose and take the dare. The smoke and stench make their way up the walls that started white but are dingy yellow and up the ceiling with its water stains.
In the meantime, I prod around the pile of mess rescued too late from the microwave. The cheap aluminum forks and spoons serve as my surgical tools to see if a little something here or there might still be edible in the pile. I normally resuscitate enough from my culinary autopsy to satisfy myself. Anything can taste just fine if smothered in enough ketchup. That final presentation doesn’t help things in the visual department, but by then my stomach is growling to overrule any objections from my eyes. For some reason, the burned smell always reminds me of being home and smelling my mother’s and grandmother’s cooking. Back then, that usually smelled like standard baked-on grease. In these moments, however, it is whiffs of ambrosia to provide a little relief from the vapors of Hades.
“Hello, I’m not available right now. Please leave a message, and I’ll call you back.” That’s what my outgoing message promises. I should be more careful about what I promise. My phone is somewhere around this place, but I rarely know where at any given moment. Voices just randomly emanate from it, and their vibrations fall into any depression they find.
“Hey, where’ve you been? They say you’ve been out at work, lazy bones. Give me a call, okay? Bye.” All the messages pretty much sound the same: vague inquiries about my location and status. They talk like journalists with a set of standard interview questions, so I’ll answer like an interviewee with a set of answers. More is up than I can explain right here and now. Maybe if people were actually sincere in their interest, they would know more. I would love to call back, but I’m more than a little indisposed at the moment. I am everywhere and right here all along. If I had to put it all into words, I’m not sure how I’d describe it. They certainly seem to have a knack for summarizing me in a few trite sentences.
“We’re missing the life of the party without you,” another familiar voice declares. “Stop trying to hide and rejoin the land of the living. Call me.” That is another perfect example. I’m hiding in plain sight if anyone actually looked instead of relying on technology. My status isn’t exactly one that can be readily explained with an emoticon. No one’s is. People seem to think that they can guess the narrative from the little glimpses they see and hear, as if they can just use a generic template and plug my story into it. As a character, I could just be from a generic template, too, but I’ll let you all decide.
I eventually realize that the voices are originating from the dining room, which explains why I couldn’t find the phone. Dining rooms are probably the least-used part of any home, or at least any normal home. People have so little time for a sit-down, how-was-your-day meal, and I am no exception. And the chairs are too uncomfortable for work, making them linger in the unused room day after day, year after year. Nonetheless, their emptiness says a lot about a home’s occupants. Mine has a black table too large for it in the middle and expanding out until it encroaches into the corner spaces. The matching chairs sit pressed up against the walls like the table is threatening to push them up against the wall and make them submit to its dominance of the room. This table could serve a feast or serve as a temporary resting place. As old and lumpy as my mattress is, that’s actually a pretty good idea. The white tablecloth draped over it could serve as a sheet to cover me. I’ll take what I can get at this point.
That has always been the case with the rest of this space, too. With all of the nick-knacks gone because she didn’t want to lug it with her when she left, and I am too lazy to get rid of the china closet, I couldn’t let it sit there empty and forgotten. Something has to fill it while it tries to hide in the corner, just out of reach of the table. I have managed to find enough old trophies on the top shelves. Even with occasional polishing, their faux gold and silver are permanently dingy and their words of praise unreadable in the dark recesses of the room. Under them sit a few nick-knacks of my own. One is a brass figurine of a bull with a missing tail. I don’t remember why the tail is missing, being solid metal, but it must have been quite a blow. Despite this undignified status, the bull wears a proud sneer, and his eyes focus straight ahead as if daring anyone to enter the room and challenge his virility. He could use more polishing, just like the trophies, but he maintains enough luster for now.
If he could turn his head, he would see the glass figurine of mermaid just to his left. She raises the tip of her tail within a couple of inches from his face, unfazed by his menacing posture and unseen by his menacing gaze. “Look in my direction,” she seems to say in an enticing dare of her own while wearing a beguiling smile on her chipped, painted face. Her charms go unnoticed, though, just as his machismo does as the pair spends day after day without in isolation despite their proximity. The ironic pair also has a companion in the form of a dog sculpture. He’s a little grey bulldog, hand-painted, I thin. He’s too big in scale alongside to the other two. If he were, the shelf would look like a poster from a bizarre sci-fi flick, Attack of the 50-Foot Dog on Planet Bull and Mermaid. As if aware of how much his presence affects the scale of the little closeted tableau, the poor guy faces a corner like he’s being punished for being a bad dog. All three of them have a coating of thin yet slowly thickening layer of dust. I always mean to clean up the dining room but never get around to it. No one is ever in it, and if dust accumulates behind a closed door anyway, I wonder if it is even worth the effort.
And that is hardly the only uncertainty surrounding me, yet I can visualize the impending scenario. One, maybe two figures, comes for me, my would-be caretakers or guardians. Maybe they are recently assigned, or they have been here all along. Either way, I will have my answers. They come right up to the front door with heavy steps like a pounding drum roll. From the outside, the place seems just like any other. A lick of paint here and there, maybe a new knocker, and it would be as good as new. At least it might be good enough to swindle the next potential occupant.
“Is this the place?” one asks even though he knows the answer.
“That’s what it says,” the other perfunctorily replies.
At first, I think the voices are another message on my phone, but unless two people are on the same call, that can’t be the case. They must be out front. The thin glass in the windows bleeds everything in and out. I have the electric bills to prove it. They can do their own guesswork to figure out who’s here or not. If they want to see me badly enough, they can find a way. Wading in the shadows suits me just fine.
“Did you bring the key?” one double-checks.
“Don’t need it,” the other claims. They’re right. The door is unlocked, and anyone can hold the key. When they enter these rooms, the outside light penetrates the shadows that confine me. Entering its warmth is tempting, but I prefer to let it find me. It moves through the rooms and absorbs their elements one by one, eventually finding me. As the illuminated pair enters, I welcome the light’s embrace. A flash combines with the natural light to help record the moment for posterity. Otherwise, all of the contents will only exist in our memories once my story ends. Perhaps it will fill up space in a notebook or a Web page or the corner of someone else’s mirror. You never know how these things will end up.
Joseph Couchet
There we stand, beaming for the camera like we couldn’t be happier together than at this very moment. “Bermuda,” her handwritten caption reads. We got the waiter to take the picture at some tourist trap of a restaurant. And we certainly look the part: peeling skin, loud sunglasses, and sun-lightened hair. Now the photo sits wedged in the corner of a mirror in the bedroom. It was one of the only things she forgot to take when she left, or maybe she didn’t take it on purpose so it could serve as a reminder of what we had. Some people are like that.
“Did it come out all right?” the waiter asked. People always seem to do that after they take your picture because they don’t want you to blame them for a bad photo. The sun felt like a furnace on our faces every day, so how could the photo look good? We checked it out in the little viewer on the back since this was in the days before everyone had a camera on a phone.
“Sure, it looks great,” I declared, and I wasn’t lying, given the circumstances.
“Thanks,” she told him with a grin that said, “Yes, you’ll get a bigger tip for this.” But that wouldn’t be for a while yet. We had to sit and drink our daiquiris and then a round of beers to wash away the sickeningly sweet taste the daiquiris left behind. We’d been there a few days already and were already starting to get bored. Beaches are beautiful, but how long can you live in a postcard and fry your skin? They never show that in the postcards.
The trip hid us, at least temporarily, from the reality that was waiting for us when we got back home. Things hadn’t been going well for months and had only gone well in the first few weeks living together in the apartment. There were a sweaty, impassioned few weeks of escape from reality when we first decided to move in together. Once the routine of bills and laundry and TV set in, we wondered if there was anything. Of course there was, only we hadn’t completely figured out that it wasn’t with each other, or maybe we didn’t want to admit it just yet.
And that’s what brought us down there. While everyone else was shoveling out of the snow, we were shoveling up piles of lies. We both spent the whole trip acting like we didn’t know that this was just an expensive attempt to rekindle the so-called magic in our relationship if there ever was any in the first place. Not that she was my one true love and all this happened because of her. No, this isn’t some sort of sappy, brokenhearted tale of woe. There were others before and after her and before and after me, I’m sure. Live and learn, as they say, and both of us did plenty together. Hopefully, she hasn’t had to post any more reminder photos in the homes of any more exes. Who knows? Maybe she no longer has exes. Maybe she’s settled down and put all that behind her. I’ll never know.
We both sat in silence for a while as we nursed our drinks and watched the sun go from golden to ruby as it sank into the sea. Other tourists frolicked around us with their laughs and shouts. Most of them looked as beet-red from as we did, yet all of them seemed so much happier than we were. But if I looked closely enough, I could see the reality that they, too, were trying to escape. It was following just behind them or lingering just over them. As for us, it seemed to have caught and landed right on us. Not that it felt so bad, though. A little dose or even a heavy one of reality can be a very good thing. The sea lay before us, its lilting waves inviting us to project our imaginations onto its crystal surface. It was like we were on the edge of the earth and facing a challenge to advance into the unknown or retreat into our shells like two little sand creatures. For anyone and anything, leaving the familiar is often a more difficult choice than sticking with it.
“Want another round?” I asked after I downed the last of my beer. Hers looked just about empty, too. “How’re you doing?” I added for what I thought was good measure.
“Fine,” she declared. “Just fine.”
A wave landed on the beach right at that moment as if to underscore the point. About a year later she did a fine job of it herself when she slammed the front door on her way out. My first impulse was to rush after her and make a dashing scene on the sidewalk for the neighbors to see and hear. Instead, I listened to her footsteps walk down the stairs and fade out forever. I did my share of walking soon after, too, right to the furniture store because she had taken all her stuff. Pretty much all that was left were my TV and stereo. A lot of guys can get by on just the two of them, but I knew that I had to hit the ground running after my fall. It was one thing to be surrounded in empty beer cans and pizza boxes on an empty floor. It was another to at least have some furniture to go with it all.
And now my handiwork is fully on display in the second part of a “before” and “after” set of photos. No walls are knocked out or anything too drastic, of course. A new coat of paint on a wall combined with a few new pieces of furniture can really set things off, however, not to mention a whole new floor. The old one had too many spots that were too worn to match the rest of it. Polishing can only do so much, and carpets and rugs only cover up the lack of quality underneath. I have never been much of a handyman. I always prefer to let things slide until they are beyond all hope. This time I put a stop to the decline, at least in this one area. With the help of just a few workshops and bits of advice, the sanding, painting, hammering, and a dozen other things are all my work. The soft colors have given way to deep blues and greens, and the newer, bigger TV now sits prominently on the new sleek, black entertainment center along the back wall. My recliner of plush faux leather sits right in front of it, too, and all positioned dead-center in the room. Every time someone comes over, I hear the same refrain: “I can tell this is your place.” Yes, it is.
Nevertheless, one supporting piece of evidence this is the same old home with just one room in newfound improvement is the lack of aromas wafting from the kitchen. We never cooked, and I continue the tradition unless you consider microwaving to be cooking. In fact, I still store my shoes in the oven during the winter. They aren’t even the worst smell coming out of that kitchen, either. Usually, the smell of burning something or other comes rolling out of that little kitchen. I can’t even time microwaving right. I go rushing in to see if I can salvage anything. My shoes stick to the floor as I lumber to the little metal box that hangs over the greasy countertop. Most of the smoke is inside the microwave behind the smudged door while little fumes make their way out as if to dare me to open it. I have to cover my nose and take the dare. The smoke and stench make their way up the walls that started white but are dingy yellow and up the ceiling with its water stains.
In the meantime, I prod around the pile of mess rescued too late from the microwave. The cheap aluminum forks and spoons serve as my surgical tools to see if a little something here or there might still be edible in the pile. I normally resuscitate enough from my culinary autopsy to satisfy myself. Anything can taste just fine if smothered in enough ketchup. That final presentation doesn’t help things in the visual department, but by then my stomach is growling to overrule any objections from my eyes. For some reason, the burned smell always reminds me of being home and smelling my mother’s and grandmother’s cooking. Back then, that usually smelled like standard baked-on grease. In these moments, however, it is whiffs of ambrosia to provide a little relief from the vapors of Hades.
“Hello, I’m not available right now. Please leave a message, and I’ll call you back.” That’s what my outgoing message promises. I should be more careful about what I promise. My phone is somewhere around this place, but I rarely know where at any given moment. Voices just randomly emanate from it, and their vibrations fall into any depression they find.
“Hey, where’ve you been? They say you’ve been out at work, lazy bones. Give me a call, okay? Bye.” All the messages pretty much sound the same: vague inquiries about my location and status. They talk like journalists with a set of standard interview questions, so I’ll answer like an interviewee with a set of answers. More is up than I can explain right here and now. Maybe if people were actually sincere in their interest, they would know more. I would love to call back, but I’m more than a little indisposed at the moment. I am everywhere and right here all along. If I had to put it all into words, I’m not sure how I’d describe it. They certainly seem to have a knack for summarizing me in a few trite sentences.
“We’re missing the life of the party without you,” another familiar voice declares. “Stop trying to hide and rejoin the land of the living. Call me.” That is another perfect example. I’m hiding in plain sight if anyone actually looked instead of relying on technology. My status isn’t exactly one that can be readily explained with an emoticon. No one’s is. People seem to think that they can guess the narrative from the little glimpses they see and hear, as if they can just use a generic template and plug my story into it. As a character, I could just be from a generic template, too, but I’ll let you all decide.
I eventually realize that the voices are originating from the dining room, which explains why I couldn’t find the phone. Dining rooms are probably the least-used part of any home, or at least any normal home. People have so little time for a sit-down, how-was-your-day meal, and I am no exception. And the chairs are too uncomfortable for work, making them linger in the unused room day after day, year after year. Nonetheless, their emptiness says a lot about a home’s occupants. Mine has a black table too large for it in the middle and expanding out until it encroaches into the corner spaces. The matching chairs sit pressed up against the walls like the table is threatening to push them up against the wall and make them submit to its dominance of the room. This table could serve a feast or serve as a temporary resting place. As old and lumpy as my mattress is, that’s actually a pretty good idea. The white tablecloth draped over it could serve as a sheet to cover me. I’ll take what I can get at this point.
That has always been the case with the rest of this space, too. With all of the nick-knacks gone because she didn’t want to lug it with her when she left, and I am too lazy to get rid of the china closet, I couldn’t let it sit there empty and forgotten. Something has to fill it while it tries to hide in the corner, just out of reach of the table. I have managed to find enough old trophies on the top shelves. Even with occasional polishing, their faux gold and silver are permanently dingy and their words of praise unreadable in the dark recesses of the room. Under them sit a few nick-knacks of my own. One is a brass figurine of a bull with a missing tail. I don’t remember why the tail is missing, being solid metal, but it must have been quite a blow. Despite this undignified status, the bull wears a proud sneer, and his eyes focus straight ahead as if daring anyone to enter the room and challenge his virility. He could use more polishing, just like the trophies, but he maintains enough luster for now.
If he could turn his head, he would see the glass figurine of mermaid just to his left. She raises the tip of her tail within a couple of inches from his face, unfazed by his menacing posture and unseen by his menacing gaze. “Look in my direction,” she seems to say in an enticing dare of her own while wearing a beguiling smile on her chipped, painted face. Her charms go unnoticed, though, just as his machismo does as the pair spends day after day without in isolation despite their proximity. The ironic pair also has a companion in the form of a dog sculpture. He’s a little grey bulldog, hand-painted, I thin. He’s too big in scale alongside to the other two. If he were, the shelf would look like a poster from a bizarre sci-fi flick, Attack of the 50-Foot Dog on Planet Bull and Mermaid. As if aware of how much his presence affects the scale of the little closeted tableau, the poor guy faces a corner like he’s being punished for being a bad dog. All three of them have a coating of thin yet slowly thickening layer of dust. I always mean to clean up the dining room but never get around to it. No one is ever in it, and if dust accumulates behind a closed door anyway, I wonder if it is even worth the effort.
And that is hardly the only uncertainty surrounding me, yet I can visualize the impending scenario. One, maybe two figures, comes for me, my would-be caretakers or guardians. Maybe they are recently assigned, or they have been here all along. Either way, I will have my answers. They come right up to the front door with heavy steps like a pounding drum roll. From the outside, the place seems just like any other. A lick of paint here and there, maybe a new knocker, and it would be as good as new. At least it might be good enough to swindle the next potential occupant.
“Is this the place?” one asks even though he knows the answer.
“That’s what it says,” the other perfunctorily replies.
At first, I think the voices are another message on my phone, but unless two people are on the same call, that can’t be the case. They must be out front. The thin glass in the windows bleeds everything in and out. I have the electric bills to prove it. They can do their own guesswork to figure out who’s here or not. If they want to see me badly enough, they can find a way. Wading in the shadows suits me just fine.
“Did you bring the key?” one double-checks.
“Don’t need it,” the other claims. They’re right. The door is unlocked, and anyone can hold the key. When they enter these rooms, the outside light penetrates the shadows that confine me. Entering its warmth is tempting, but I prefer to let it find me. It moves through the rooms and absorbs their elements one by one, eventually finding me. As the illuminated pair enters, I welcome the light’s embrace. A flash combines with the natural light to help record the moment for posterity. Otherwise, all of the contents will only exist in our memories once my story ends. Perhaps it will fill up space in a notebook or a Web page or the corner of someone else’s mirror. You never know how these things will end up.