I want to understand the other side of loneliness without any of the feelings that I just named. Is that possible? I don’t know. I am not afraid to try it, but it seems that others are afraid to try it with me. Is it my red hair? Do people wonder how an African-American can have red hair and freckles? I have not seen anyone that looks like me in a long time. There was this boy once. Brian Greene was his name. He had red hair and freckles, but people seemed to think he was cute. Was it because he had green eyes? I have brown eyes that get darker in the winter and lighter in the summer. I don’t think that anyone ever notices though. I take that back. One of my foster mothers noticed it and she called me a freak and hit me in the back of the head. Those were hard years, but they taught me to be able to not feel and to not commit myself to other people. Some people may think that I am a freak and that I am weird, but I think sometimes that I am better off then they are. I am my own person and I have no commitment to other people’s feelings or expectations. I am good at my job, so again no one really ever has to talk to me. I am on time all the time, except that one day with the lady and the train, so again conversation is at a minimum. What would it be like to laugh with friends, to have friends or to be in love? I do wonder, but I am pretty sure that I will never know.
The revolving door of the building I work in greets me with a swarm of people going in and coming out all at the same time. I stand back and wait my turn. I am not aggressive in anything that I do, so it takes a few minutes for me to occupy the small space in the door that will transport me from the world outside to the one on the inside. How different they are. The lobby is crowded with people talking and laughing going in and coming out of the little bistro that servers bagels and muffins. I ask myself if I want either and then decide that I want neither and head to the elevator.
I get on the elevator to ride it up to the thirty-third floor with strangers that seem to be unaware of each other, but me I pay attention to everything, every aspect of other people. There is a man reading the Wall Street Journal and holding an expensive briefcase. He wants people to think that he is more important then he is. There is a young white woman standing to my left with ear plugs in her ears. She is listening to some reggae song, but she really doesn’t like reggae. This is an act for those around her to make them think that she is diverse in her ways, but everything else about her tells me that she is not. There is a young black man standing in front of me. He looks as though he is going to an interview. He is nervous and even though it was freezing cold outside he is sweating up a storm. He looks nice, but he will not get the job here today. I know this because he exits on the twentieth floor. There are no African-Americans who work at that company and I don’t believe that will change today. There is an older white woman standing to my right. She is the “realest” person on the elevator. Her hair is dyed a beautiful soft brown and her makeup is meticulous. She spends time getting prepared for her day. Her face is relaxed, probably the result of an early morning workout or yoga. This woman is someone that I might be interested in talking too. It seems that she might have some insight on life. The older black man in the back of the elevator watches her and thinks that no one notices, but I notice and it is funny to me. Finally I am at my floor and I exit the elevator.
I walk to my cube that sits in an inconspicuous place and I am pealing off layers as I approach. I hang up my coat and my hat and put the sweater on the back of my chair for easy access. I put my laptop into the docking station and turn it on. I enter the code for my phone and I have a voice message. That is strange to me and it catches me off guard. I have not had a voice message in months. I look at my calendar to see if I have missed anything, knowing that I have not, but checking just to be sure. I then open my email to see if there are any messages awaiting my reply and there are not. I look at the red light on the phone and I rub it with a tissue to make sure that it is actually lit up. I then look at the walls of the cubical to be sure that I am sitting in the right spot. The Wesley Snipes picture is hanging where it usually is, so I know that I am in the right place. I take the keys from my coat pocket and stick the small one in the desk drawer and it opens, yet another sign that I am at the right desk. I look at the light again and I decide that it must be a mistake. I put the wireless headset on and I hit the voicemail button on the phone. I hear a familiar but strange voice. It is Tahj, the director of our department. He has never called me let alone requested that I come to his office. I am sure that I am going to be fired. Why wouldn’t he have his receptionist Jackie call me? It was weird and it made me edgy. I don’t know what I could have done to make that happen, but his tone lets me know that there is something up. I lock my computer and phone and head to the elevator again to go up two floors to his office with the fabulous view. Tahj Henry is the epitome of fine. All of the women, no matter what race, age or even sexual preference drool over him, throw themselves at him and make themselves look like total idiots over him. Me? I don’t bother. My only concern is that my work is done to the best of my ability, so that I will never have to do what I am doing now, which is go to his office. I exit the elevator and take the long walk down the hall noticing that there are two more empty cubicles then there were last week when I came up for our weekly staff meeting.
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