The visit

I went to visit him a week later. We weren't exactly friends; I knew him through work and after we'd had a couple of after work beers it turns out we have dating cousins. But I knew him well enough that I felt I should at least check in to see how he was doing. It had been two weeks since he had stop coming to work and there was no answer when we called. I knew if he didn't call in or go back to work in a couple of days he would likely be fired. So I used the work situation as pretext to check in and see how he was doing.

We both live downtown, so I had plenty of time after work to go home and grab some dinner and a change of clothes. It just feels way too impersonal to call on someone in a tie, you know? Like you're delivering bad news?
I nuked a pizza, downed a couple of beers for courage and headed out the door.

It took about 15 minutes to get there. I tried the buzzer first...it just rang endlessly. I tried it a few more times, hanging up after 4 rings (my logic being if he were going to answer, he would do it in about 4 rings) when a resident, sizing me up and deciding I wasn't a threat, let me in with her key.

The short elevator ride was somber and panicky for me, as I desperately tried to figure out what to say to him. What do you say to someone when their significant other commits suicide? I opted for 'how have you been?' and to stick to work matters. I was starting to wish I hadn't come.

As I knocked on his door I heard nothing inside for a good minute and a half, then some rustling followed by a hoarse "Who is it?" loud but raspy.

"It's Jim," I said, feeling more and more like turning and running in the other direction.

"Hol' on," came through the door. A stumble, a crash and a curse later, and the door opened a crack with the chain still on. A half of a face appeared.

"Hey," I said, trying to sound as light as possible, with a fake smile plastered on.

"Whadaya want?" he croaked hoarsely.

"Well, the office sent me. You're not answering the phone."

"Screw the office."

I'm not really expecting this, so I just blurt out, "let me in so we can talk."

He looks and me with his bleary, baggy eye for a moment and then shuts the door. A few seconds pass. Nothing. I turn to walk away, when I hear the chain sliding open on the door and the click of the lock and there's Chuck. He looks terrible in the already unflattering halogen lights. His hair is a mess and hasn't been washed in days. His skin is pale and sallow and his eyes have thick dark circles underneath. The worst is his clothes. They are grubby and his white dress shirt is covered in food stains. Ditto with his dark slacks. It doesn't look as though he changed at all since the funeral. By the smell of him, he certainly hasn't showered.  He notices my stricken look and smiles slightly. It is ghastly.

"Well, come in if you're going to. or go away. I don't really care," he says, and goes back inside. I follow.

Inside, the apartment has the heavy stink of cigarette smoke everywhere, which is odd as Chuck doesn't smoke. It isn't so much messy as it is unkept. There are several pizza boxes and paper takeout bags as well as some of those aluminum pie tins they deliver chinese food in sometimes. In the center of all this is a zombie glass almost full with cigarette butts, ash and a couple of pizza crusts for good measure. Although the couch looks well sat on, the rest of the place has developed a thin layer of dust and clearly has not been used in days. I move forward to take a seat and nearly trip over a knee high tower of empty beer bottles.

"Careful," says Chuck, with another ghoulish grimace. "Housekeeping hasn't been here in awhile."

Not sure how to answer, I just say "ah," and leave it at that, taking a seat.

He sits next to me and lights up a cigarette.

"Since when do you smoke?" I ask.

"Since I stopped caring. I like the rush," he responds.

I feeling uncomfortable, so I figure I'll just get it out and over with. "Why don't you answer the phone? The office has called a few times but you never pick up. They're concerned. If you don't talk to them by Friday they're going to let you go."

"Good. I hate it there. It's time I did some kind of work that actually meant something to me or at least to somebody. All I do there is push useless product on feckless customers by exploiting trust. It's no way to live."

"Be that as it may," I counter, "You still need to do something with yourself in the meantime. It probably isn't healthy to just sit around here rotting your brain on TV and cigarettes. I know you're upset, but-"

"But that's the problem, don't you see? I'm not upset at all. Ever since I got the news that Stacy killed herself, I haven't felt anything at all. Sort of cold, kind of sardonic. But that's it. I'm not bothered by what I feel. I'm bothered by what I don't."

"Well, it's probably just a phase. You're probably still in shock. It'll pass."

"No. I've always been like this. I've tried to hide it by fitting in; move with the crowd so I didn't stand out. But it proved useless. At the funeral, I was stone-faced...no, stone would be cool and smooth. I was like a block of wood, neither warm or cool, moist or dry. Just there."

"So you're trying to say you don't feel anything?"

"Of course I do. I just don't feel the right things. Guilt that I have no emotion over this person I cared so much about. But now she's gone and that's that. What I feel now is the same sadness as when a goldfish dies."

"Look, I-"

"No, don't try and placate me. It isn't necessary. I may seem depressed to you, but really all I can say is I don't care. That's why I'm just holed up in here, doing fuck all and seeing what comes next."

"Well, what about the office?"

"Tell them I quit, if you need to tell them anything." He looked right at me, for the first time in this whole exchange. "Look, Jim, you're a good guy, and thanks for dropping in to check up on me. I'll probably be fine. A little too fine. And do me a favor, will you? Find a new job, one a little less soul-sucking?"

I said I would, and with that he stood and we shook hands. He ushered me out the door and we said goodbye. I told him I would come back on Friday to see hwo he was doing and a slight smile plays on his lips for second, gentler than before. he says "Sure," very softly, almost like a whisper, and shuts the door. As I walk away I suddenly realize he won't be here the next time I drop in and try to puzzle out how I feel about that.