About “The Keys”

“The Keys” is a much more autobiographical story compared to “A Crazy World”. The protagonist and I share many similarities, both in personality and circumstance. For example, both of us are sentimental people. That’s about all that I will confirm publicly though.

There is a link between “The Keys” and “A Crazy World”, as they both deal with a disappointment in my life. “The Keys”, however, deals directly with my sense of loss, instead of skirting the issue. At the time I wrote the story in early 2002, I was acutely aware that some part of me still felt a longing for the way things were in the past. Writing the story let me express that feeling.

It should be noted that though there are many parallels to real life, this is still a piece of fiction. Events and circumstances described are not exact parallels of what happened to me, but instead are meant to capture the essence of what transpired in real life. Similarly, there are embellishments to characterizations, meant only to make “The Keys” work as a better story.

Having said that, I do believe that one should write about what one knows. There must be something in the story that you can relate to closely, so that the writing is sincere. That’s what I did with “The Keys”; I wrote to capture my sense of loss and longing.

I’ve made one edit to the original version. In the third paragraph, I replaced “sad” with “cheerless”, since the original was redundant. It now reads:

… I’ve never seen my own sad smile. I can’t bear to look in a mirror when I think of her for fear I might see her standing next to me. A friend of mine described it for me: cheerless, nostalgic. I guess I’m a sentimental kind of guy.

I think it reads better with this slight edit.

To the person this story is about, you may have read the story now. It is history now, and I’m glad we can move past it.

About “A Crazy World”

I wrote this story in late 2001, after a long hiatus from writing of any kind. Not just creative writing, but any sort of writing. Of course, there was a catalyst that pushed me to write again. I was going through an emotional crisis due to changes in my personal situation. I sought some sort of catharsis in writing. It was a way to make some sense of how I was feeling. Writing it down allowed me to step back from myself.

“A Crazy World” is about disillusionment, mainly about “doing the right thing” or “being good”. I’ve had an atypical childhood, having experienced many different surroundings and mixed with a good range of people. I’ve had many kinds of influences, with few constants. One thing that stuck with me throughout, however, was a desire to “be a good person”. That was the only unvarying standard that I held myself to, while everything shifted around me.

Sometimes, I admit, it can become “tiring”. “Nice guys finish last” didn’t enter the lexicon for no reason; there is some truth to it. Still, I would not like to live my life to that maxim alone.

I wrote “A Crazy World” just to put down that sense of frustration and confusion. Sometimes you want to shout out loud; give in to baser instincts; look out for your own interests only, the rest of the world be damned. Sometimes you want to cry in frustration.

The story reads as quite a disjointed piece. It is frustrating, and not altogether captivating, but it was never meant to be anything other than the ramblings of an inner voice. The protagonist fills in for an aspect of me, a facet of me that was reeling from the “unfairness of life”.

I did not find positive affirmation for my beliefs. I did not heal easily. But I did learn to recognize that frustration in me. And I could look at it with some detachment, without letting it consume me, as it had begun to.

The Keys

The key goes in the hole, turns easily, unlocks the door. I know of four keys that would fit this keyhole. I’ve just used one of them. The landlord's got one. She's got one. And he's got one.

I push the door open, stamp my feet, and step inside. My hand finds the light switch in one move. I hesitate a moment, as I have every time for the past seven months. Then the hall light comes on.

I move into the apartment, holding the door open for her. Her ghost follows me in. A sad smile on my face as I close and lock the door, kick my shoes off, and hang my jacket. I've never seen my own sad smile. I can't bear to look in a mirror when I think of her for fear I might see her standing next to me. A friend of mine described it for me: cheerless, nostalgic. I guess I'm a sentimental kind of guy.

I go around the apartment turning lights on and opening windows. The air is quite stale in here; I only come around once a week. It doesn't take me long to go around the apartment. It's only got the one bedroom; living area and dining area are not separated by any walls. In the kitchen I set about cleaning a kettle and a mug; almost the only two items left in the kitchen. There's the old toaster that we bought on our first shopping trip together, sitting on the counter; now broken. And in one of the cabinets, two wine glasses sit. I'm pretty sure they're the ones we drank from on our last night together.

As the water boils in the newly cleaned kettle, I open the fridge door. There's nothing inside of course. It hasn't been turned on in months, so I have to air it out as well. Taking the mug in hand, I withdraw a tea-bag from the box on the counter. There's only two bags left. I remind myself to get another box on my next trip.

Waiting for the water, I turn to the phone table. I'm tempted to go pick it up. Old habit. We used to check the phone for voicemail when we entered. It's still plugged into the wall, but I cancelled the service long ago. It's been five visits since I trained myself to not pick it up to listen to dead silence for a few seconds.

The water's ready.

I make my tea, pouring out the extra water from the kettle. Three visits since I left the extra water to cool in the kettle. I'd justify it to myself saying that I might want a second cup of tea. But I knew I was really just boiling extra water for a cup of tea for her. I still boil enough for two, even though I throw half of it out right after I make my own tea. Have to keep practicing. You never know really...

She said there's a good chance she would come back.

I take my tea to the one chair left in the apartment. This armchair has seen better days, but not while we had it. I'm not surprised she did not take it with her. I didn't bother when I cleaned out after her. Besides, I need something to sit in when I make my visits. And I don't think I could handle sitting on the bed in the bedroom.

I've gotten used to drinking my tea without any sugar.

Just in time for sunset. As usual. I'm facing the window, looking out across the park. The sun's about to go down, and the sky is such a wonderful colour. I'm reminded of her each time I see something beautiful.

There's that sad smile again. I can feel it.

Her ghost settles down in an imaginary chair next to me as I drink my tea. And the memories begin.

Over a year and a half now. Only a year and a half.

I'd graduated and she had just a few more credits to finish. Four years earlier I really had no intention of returning home. But four years can change a person. What changed? I wanted to return home to settle any and all affairs. And to make sure I was doing the right thing. So I arranged to go back and teach English as a second language for a year. I tried to get her to come with me.

Maybe I didn't try hard enough.

So I left and she stayed. We e-mailed almost every day. Talked on the phone a few times. Chatted on the net frequently.

But it was hard on her. And she needed to be independent, like she had never been before. She asked for space. I was accommodating.

Then he came along. And complicated things. She was confused. Unsure. But she needed to know if we were right.

"If you love something, set it free. If it loves you back, it will return."

So I agreed. She did not really ask me. She told me it was what she needed.

Just before I returned, she sent me an e-mail telling me that she was moving out of our place. She would not take everything with her, but she did need some stuff for the place she was moving to. She ended by saying she was sorry, but she still needed time and space. And if I would take her back, she would probably be coming back to me someday. But in the meantime, I should be free too.

So I returned to an apartment I didn't really want to live in. It didn't take long to find a new place and a decent job. The new place is a bachelor pad, with mostly new things. It's a good thing I make enough money and don't really spend too much of it. I'm not saving as much as I wish I could of course.

Six weeks after my return, she e-mailed to tell me they were over and he had moved out. She wasn't ready for me yet, but things were going alright for her. How was I?

Miserable. "Fine."

I miss you. "Job's going ok so far."

I miss us. "Wanna meet for lunch or something?"

I want you back in my life. "Here's my number. Call me if you want, for anything, alright?"

She hasn't called.

Once in a while I bump into a mutual friend. I try not to talk about her.

She's e-mailed a few times. I've written back far more often.

I had a casual affair with a co-worker once. It lasted all of two weeks. I knew that I wanted her. I'd been sure about us even before I left.

Close my eyes for a bit. I remember the good times, the bad times, the sad times, the happy times. I remember our first date. A walk in the park, subs from a small sandwich place, some forgettable movie, holding hands. I remember our first kiss. I remember sitting outside the library teaching her chess. I remember her taking care of me when I fell ill. I remember our first fight – I didn't take her side in a disagreement on an interpretation of something – and how we made up later. I remember our first night together and how it lasted until morning. I remember consoling her when she found out the family cat had passed away. I remember traveling on the train with her when we went to visit family.

It all had meaning for me. It was all special to me.

Open my eyes again.

And the memories stop.

Life has a way of intruding on our dreams. But hope is such a powerful force.

There it is! "First star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might." How does it go again? I can't seem to get it right.

I get up to go wash the mug and kettle. It's time to go.

I know I can make her happy. She only has to give me the chance. So I'll wait.

Only a year and a half now. Over a year and a half.

Before leaving the building I check the mailbox in the front. There's the usual junkmail, and one bill. Nothing from her. Not that I expect her to write me here, even if it is the only mailing address she has for me. If she were by my side, she would chide me once again for not checking the mail on the way in. I'd always forgotten to do that; she always remembered. I've changed since then, but whenever I make this trip, it seems a ritual for me to do it the old way again.

With mail in hand, I leave the building. Heading to my car I think to myself, yesterday was Friday. I haven't gone to Friday prayers in a long time. Maybe I'll go this week.

I think I'll have Chinese for dinner tonight. As usual.

There's four keys that I know of that would open that door. I haven't seen the landlord in person since I left; I deal with her through mail. And I rather doubt I'll be bumping into him anytime. But how I wish I could see that other key again someday.

A Crazy World

I don't see them. I've been waiting here at least half an hour. Been preparing at least two hours.

Maybe I'm just not good at this. Haven't really had too much practice. Father was a boozer; used to hit Mom. He finally left; she couldn't take care of us. Got put into foster care. Foster parents were alright. But I never really got over it.

Maybe I'm not doing it right. Tried the harder liquors, but some of them actually taste pretty alright. Can't have that. So I guess I'm stuck with this cheap beer stuff.

Pat my brown paper bag. Yeah, took one for the road.

Ok. The park bench then.

See, I did my research. There's lots of examples scattered around this park.

Maybe I should talk to one of them though.

What in the world would I say? Say, have you seen them? See them now? What's your secret?

Maybe I need to prepare longer. I mean, it's not like I was kicked out of that place across the street. It's just, the bartender was starting to stare at me. No, really, he was.

I think.

Yeah, I think, therefore I am!

Used to go to college. Engineering, would you believe that? Dropped out halfway through the third year. I'm not much of a problem-solver. I'm real good at disguising them though. And hiding from them.

Self-aware, I am.

Should be a real catch for the ladies.

Ok, maybe not now. I need quite a bit of freshening up. I may not be a swooner, but I can smarten up pretty good.

So what am I doing here you ask?

Lost my girlfriend? Nah. That happened after I dropped out of college. Coming to five years now. After her were a few casual and meaningless relationships. But that's ok. I'm not really looking right now.

Lost my job? No. Just on the annual sabbatical of sorts. I'm keeping myself busy with something temporary. At least, I'm trying to. I have good references, but I fear they'll have to let me go soon. My mind is just not into it.

Lost my apartment? No, I'm not homeless. My savings will hold me out for some time to come. I don't really need to work over the summer. Except that it keeps me busy.

Is there anything else one can lose? Anything important enough to drive one out here?

Didn't lose my wallet did I? No, no, it's still here. That's good. Lost it once. Was a pain getting everything straightened out.

Got my keys with me too. Means I don't have to sleep out here like some of these other guys.

Can't remember the last time I went camping. Was it ninth grade? Yeah, I think that was it.

This wouldn't be camping though.

So I haven't really lost anything. I'm not out here because I have nowhere else to go. Or because I'm so depressed with my life. Didn't lose anything so important that it's loss would drive me out here. Not in a desperate situation.

Or am I?

Ok, maybe I am depressed.

Lost my mind? Maybe. Just maybe.

What am I doing out here?

Just having an evening nightcap. Or two. A dozen? No. Surely not that much. To be honest, I wasn't really keeping count. I just kept sending for more. Not like I knew what I was doing.

What do I know?

It's a crazy world.

Has to be. What does being the good guy get you? Just hurt and misery. There's some satisfaction in doing good. But then the world has to slam you with something bad. That's my experience. I'm not being overly pessimistic. I have always tried to look on the bright side of things. Tried to be positive. But this last one...

Just a small piece of metal, moving so fast you see its work before you notice it. Commanding the attention of all spectators, drilling through the air. It flew, and left its mark. Shattering my optimism. And more.

That moment is etched in my consciousness. In the history book of my life, that moment fills a chapter.

It is the knockout blow that floors me, leaving me dazed, unsure about where I am and what I am doing. Every hit before that I could recover from. Every set-back the world dealt me, I could eventually understand. Not this; there is no understanding this.

He was just trying to do the right thing. The tank at the back of the classroom had shattered. She was just standing there, staring into the broken tank, staring at the class' pet lizard. There were small cuts on the backs of her arms; she had been hit by broken glass, but she did not notice. She was fixated on the lizard, not caring about the drama that continued in the rest of the classroom. He saw her standing there, not crouching down like everyone else. Forgotten were the screams of the other children.

She was too far from me. My shouts failed to rouse her. And he noticed that too.

So did the shooter.

So what did he do? He did the good thing. He tried to help. He was a lot closer to her than the teacher, and the teacher looked worried about her just standing there. I don't know how he did it. But he did. He just acted. Ran between the desks. Ran straight for her.

And the shooter did the sanest thing a crazy man would do. He shot at the moving target.

The bullet did its job very well; too well. Two bodies fell to the floor; a boy's and a girl's.

He was being the good guy. I would have done the same. Except she was too far from me, and I was on the wrong side of the teacher's desk.

I should open up to the counselor more. I'm having fantasies about her. That can't be good. Maybe I should tell her that. She's a grief counselor, not a full-fledged shrink! Or are they the same thing? I should probably do some research.

Do I even have her number? I'm sure I could get it off someone.

Do us late-night park visitors use the trash cans? My paper bag is empty now. Better use the trash can.

Still don't see them.

Look to my left. No one there. Look to my right. Nothing. Just me and this bench.

Where are the pink elephants when you need them?