One afternoon in July, Tom called a friend of his to gauge her interest in attending a reading by a new novelist who was visiting the city. To his dismay, he found that she already had plans.
“A baseball game?” Tom asked, recoiling.
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t you rather hear a novel reading? Or anything else at all?”
“Another day, Tom.”
This did nothing but contribute to Tom’s frustration, which had become a theme as of late. Tom Drake loathed sports. But he loathed emptiness more. The void that he felt manifested itself as a consciousness of the absense of so many moments which so easily can be taken for granted. The easy laughter of a wine-infused dinner. The summer breeze caressing one’s cheek like a woman’s soft hand. The rich, full breath when longing lips meet longing lips.
Emptiness and loneliness often came together, but the worst emptiness was that which Tom felt even when surrounded by people. He tried relentlessly to keep smiling, keep moving, keep grinding along. But the mania he maintained during the workday gave way to overwhelming exhaustion when he returned home. Time was not really his own anymore. Practically every minute of his day belong to someone else.
He drank more than usual, a surprising twist since alcohol had never really appealed to Tom since the days in his freshman dorm when he blacked out on a regular basis. Now, it was not unusual for him to take Tylenol immediately upon waking each morning, to attempt to silence the thud of his bloated brain from abusing him.
The baseball game which had trumped Tom’s plans for the afternoon was just the sort of thing that induced some of Tom’s greatest fury, particularly games scheduled for a weekday afternoon or evening. He did not lament missing the novelist, nor his friend’s company. He did lament the clogging of the city’s arteries and subsequent sickening gridlock.
Tom chomped chewing gum and gnashed his teeth and tapped his foot and his heart pounded all the way home as the bus crept its way north. But by the time his few moments of freedom finally arrived, all his strength had left him. He shuffled home. On either side of the path, flowers bloomed in abundance, brilliant colors of crimson and cream, azure and violet and bright gold. The city air even smelled fresh for a change, the flowers’ aromas mingling with the familiar scent of freshly-cut grass. Tom remembered the latter fragrance fondly from childhood.
When he finally arrived at his apartment, he tiredly removed the day’s armor: blue-gray Valentino shirt, navy tie and slacks, brown shoes. Then he stood back, admiring the wardrobe. As debt had accumulated across a swath of credit cards, Tom Drake’s closet finally –fleetingly– satisfied him.
Hanging with appropriate spacing behind two wide bi-fold doors, Tom’s clothes struck awe into his guests when they found themselves privileged enough to see them. A dozen and a half ties hung from a tie rack in the center. Shelves housed his dress blacks and browns, which he had polished weekly.
All the beautiful shirts hung, boasting their fine, woven cloth: brilliant whites and blues and the lavender stripes and the solids and the occasional orange mixed with shiny cream. Suits cut by Boss, Valentino and Zegna in shades of black, navy and gray. As for trousers, his favorite pair had been designed by John Varvatos. Tom wore flat-front, never pleated. The very sight of them was enough to roll his eyes involuntarily.
“Is this what you wanted?” The voice belonged to no one in particular. The sad and present reality Tom had begun to grasp was that his beautiful wardrobe was not infallable. The shirts could stain. The pants could wrinkle. The ties could fray. It seemed to Tom that his life could now be measured entirely by the putting on and taking off of clothes. First thing in the morning. Prior to entering the steam room to sweat away the hangover. Before his workout. And after he arrived home, like now. He thought of all of this as he faced the closet, and a wave of emotion siezed him so hard that he shook. A shudder that ripped through his whole body, like chills and aches bound into one rolling force.
This was one of those times in life in which not a single thing is certain. Each morning brings more questions than answers, and those questions pile up higher and higher until the only emotion truly able to be felt is anxiety. It grows and grows like a tumor, sucking the sustenance from the healthy feelings once known: friendship, empathy, love.
Looking at himself in the mirror had once been the source of some of his greatest joy. Despite the implied vanity or connotation others might ascribe to the practice, Tom did not believe himself to be especially attractive, but he attempted to be at peace with that, for a while. Occasionally he would actually believe he was attractive, and in those moments, when the sun had tanned him just right, or the pupils in his dark eyes dialated, he would gaze into the mirror and smile.
But now.
But now when he looked into the mirror and saw those empty eyes, he wanted to fall, wanted to fail, wanted to weep. Then, he did. And when it was over, he pulled himself up. Through blurry eyes, he caught his reflection in the mirror: red and splotchy, worried and weak.
“Jesus,” he gasped. “What have I done to myself?”
