I. This is Thomas Scripter, twenty-two years old, lying in bed in his apartment. It is late. And quiet. A single bulb hangs outside his window. Some nights it swings in the wind, and on these nights a glow swells behind his blinds, then fades, again and again, the room brightening and dimming all along. But tonight the air is cool and still, and Thomas lies awake in his tiny bedroom. It is the very beginning of what will be a long spring.
You might wonder, then, what keeps Thomas awake. In part, it is the odd, timeless half-light that invades his bedroom. But also, he is kept awake by the sounds he has heard throughout the night, the rustling of a man (an elderly man?) in his bed on the other side of the thin wall that separates Thomas’s bedroom from the apartment next door.
And now the man’s elbow – tuck! – against the wall starts Thomas up from his bed. (It must be an elderly man, because he stays in his apartment and never talks to anyone else in the building, and who else but an elderly man never goes out and is always alone?) The man must be awake, turning in his bed, and his restlessness, it seems, must be due to some contemplation. But what is he contemplating? In what private cell of memories does he live, what store of mistakes and miscalculations?
Thomas is sitting up in bed, and this is the question that arrives in his mind: What exchanges, what events and blunders would you contemplate if you were that old man, rolling sleeplessly and remembering the past? Thomas’ greatest regret to date is the decision he made to leave college and move into this apartment by himself. He hated his classmates and the routine of walking and eating and sleeping, day after day, by himself. He found his professors slow-witted and dull and ignorant in the areas in which they were supposed to be most informed. But this move to be alone, he sees, was a mistake, a false attempt at intellectual reclusivity.
And in general Thomas condemns his own unnecessary formality, his inability to relate successfully to others. He feels this most intensely in his interactions with Katherine. Thomas believes that as an old man he will still recall each critical moment ending in the inevitable failure, the lost words, yet another missed opportunity. These small embarrassments, he knows, are trivial in the grand scheme of things, but the loss he feels is tremendous.
Now, now, he whispers to himself in the silken light that filters through his blinds, and what he means is that he must do something, must tell her how he feels. He points his finger and shakes it as he says it to himself – now, now – and on the bedroom wall a twilight effigy mimics his motion.
II. It is morning, the day after Thomas shook his finger and resolved to act. He is walking to a diner, up the street from where he lives. He doesn’t have to work until the afternoon. He is crossing the street, and here he is stepping up from the black road to the sidewalk, and now opening the brilliant chrome door of the diner, and now walking inside.
Tuesday morning. Eleven o’clock. She’ll be here soon. Has her late breakfast. The usual routine. How should I begin? Fancy meeting you here. No. Too much. Well, well. No. Sounds phony. How about: Hey (smile, look her in the eyes), what a pleasant surprise. It’s nice to see you here (smile). Would you like to join me (eye contact)?
People chatter in the background. Busy for a Tuesday. Lunch hour? No, too early. What if they hear what I say to her? Be casual. Be confident. In the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter. Thomas looks around the room. She’s not here yet. He walks to a booth and stands in front of it, thinking of which side to sit on. Face the door and she’ll see you. Don’t and she’ll have to say hi first. Thomas slides into the booth (facing away from the door), takes off his jacket, situates, organizes. Read something. She’ll have to interrupt you then. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, you’re not bothering me. I was just reading this silly thing. Please, come and sit down. Would you like to join me? Would you like to go out for dinner sometime?
The waitress approaches Thomas’ booth and stops next to him. She tippytaps her pen on pad, eyes down, then turns them up expectantly at Thomas (at me!). He opens the menu, closes the menu, opens it again. Should have the usual.
“Ham and cheese on wheat toast,” Thomas says.
“Fried or baked.”
Potato, she means. Used to fool me.
“Fried, please. And a cup of coffee.”
“Coffee may be just a minute,” the waitress says with a frush of riendliness. “We’re making it now. There’s some left in the pot, but it might be a little too little.”
And I want alotalotalot.
“That’s fine,” Thomas says. “Could you just bring me what you have?”
She tippytaps it out on her little pad, then leaves.
Thomas notices a strange smell in the air, thick like steam, but also thin like lemon. Might be the diner. Deodorant. Did I? Better check. He holds the V of his arm to his forehead, turning his nose into the split between his arm and body, breathing. Not bad.
He takes out a rolled magazine from his jacket pocket, inserts his forefinger into the pages.
A Thinkers’ Convention………………………………………………………………………………….89
Sounds important. 80. 85. 87. 91. Pages stuck together. Must have spilled. 89. He reads: Most people think… a gathering of sorts… intellectual crème de la crème… a socially responsible group. Phone bill. I left it on the kitchen table. Have to remember. See it there when I get back. First thing. But still, I should make a note. Won’t have to remember if I forget. Thomas takes the steno pad out of his pocket. Phone, he writes, and puts the pad back in his pocket.
The waitress arrives again at his table, this time with a coffee cup and a small pitcher of milk. She sets the cup and pitcher down on the table, and says that she’s sorry, that this was all they had and they are making more. The cup is barely more than half full. But Thomas says it’s fine for now. He thanks her. She leaves. He drinks it black.
He sips a sip through parted lips:
his palate he thrills,
his coffee he spills
a drip a drip a drip.
The stain is near the crotch of his pants. It won’t come out. Don’t try, or it’ll just make it worse. And she might see you rubbing it. How would that be?
The diner clicks with the clatter of knives and forks. There is an old man seated at a table near Thomas. Could that be him? He’s wearing a tan jacket zipped up to the neck, and he is stabbing at his eggs with a fork. This must be his daily outing. All he has left in the world. His wife is gone. Men usually die within six months of the wife. Out of grief, it must be. There’s nothing left after that. But the wife can live on for years. Why is that? Is she glad to finally have some time to herself?
Now Katherine enters. She removes her coat and underneath she is wearing a light sweater that reveals her shoulders and –ooh, ooh, ooh – the shadow of her bra. She is tall, taller than Thomas. By the way the sweater lies on her skin you can detect a thin, supple form, a barely contained electricity in her body. She passes between Thomas and the old man at the next table, without noticing Thomas at all.
Thomas shifts in the booth. I should have faced the door. She would have seen me. He looks down at his hands resting on the table, vibrating with excitement. Now I have to go to her. But will she notice I’m shaking? Put them in your pockets. Look casual. Remember, in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter at all.
Thomas gets up and walks over to the table where Katherine is seated, weaving around the expanse of objects filling the space between them. He taps her on the shoulder. Is that the first touch?
“Oh, Thomas,” Katherine says. “You startled me. Hi, how are you?”
“Good. Hi. How are you going?”
Did she hear that? Sounded close.
“I’m good.”
She didn’t notice. Or else she pretended not to notice: ?!
“What are you up to?” Thomas says. “I mean, are you eating?”
Katherine releases a giggly girl’s giggle. And with great pain, Thomas thinks: she’s too free for me.
“Why yes I am. That’s why I’m here.” (Another giggle.) “Where are you headed?”
Thomas is flooded with anxiety. His hands tremble and sweat in his pockets. I can’t do it.
“Oh, I’m just on my way out,” he says. “I always come here on Tuesdays. I saw you here last week.”
“Really? I don’t remember. I must have been busy. Last week was crazy for me.”
Thomas stands there, smiling. What should I say? Why did I tell her I was leaving? Could have asked her to join me. But what do I say to fill the space? This silence is too long. Why am I standing here?
“So,” Katherine says, drawing out the syllable, “do you want to sit down for a minute?”
This is awkward. She’s just asking because I won’t leave. Better not.
“I would love to –” really really really I would “– but I have to run.”
I can ask her now. Would you like to have dinner sometime? But I won’t. There’s always this pausing, waiting, thinking, pausing, stopping, pausing, smiling, pausing. Why can’t I just say it? Too free for me. A little too little I am.
Now Thomas excuses himself, but after he turns to leave, he looks back again to see what she’s doing. She catches him and gives him the type of smile that looks friendly but is really asking what more he could possibly want. And he doesn’t know, so he moves away from her and finds the waitress and tells her he would like his sandwich wrapped and when she brings it to him pays for it and gives her a small tip and walks out of the diner and the door swings shut behind him, displaying his reflection in the gleaming chrome, and he steps off the sidewalk, back down onto the road, breathing quickly and whispering so so disappointed to himself.
III. Now we are with Thomas in the small kitchen of his tiny apartment. It is Saturday, later that same week we had last visited him, and we will follow him shortly to the bookstore where he works. He has eaten a ham-and-cheese sandwich, and the crumbs are scattered over the wooden breakfast table in the corner of the room. Thomas has made coffee. He sips it, careful not to spill(!), and replaces the mug on the table. Then he notices again the cloudy brown stain on his pants from the coffee he spilled on Tuesday. He cranes his neck, lowering his head nearly to his crotch, examining the stain. He sniffs and thinks he can smell coffee.
The phone bill also lies on the table, still unpaid. It keeps getting lower. Hardly talk to anyone. Is that my choice? Not really my choice, so much as my way of life. I am really a kind of hermit. What’s that line? When in disgrace. Remember that. With fortune and men’s eyes. Then what’s next? Something about a woman. Someone to whisper to. Is that it? Someone to whisper to in the dark. No, not that. But it’s kind of pretty. Could be part of a story.
“Someone to Whisper to in the Dark.” A seminal work of the late great Thomas Scripter. Thomas grew up in a New Jersey suburb just outside of Manhattan. He was the only son of Robert and Jane Scripter. Robert, an academic, was already in his fifties when he had Thomas, and Jane, a painter, was nearly forty. They traveled often, to conferences and art festivals, leaving Thomas by himself with a series of disinterested au pairs, who told Thomas to go to bed before it was dark outside and snuck their boyfriends into the house to have sex at night. Thomas, solitary by nature, spent many evenings as a child alone in his bedroom, listening to the moaning and sighing and throbbing of the bodies in the next room, and thinking deeply about the question of evil. After briefly attending Amherst College, Thomas quit his studies to move into a cramped apartment in western Long Island where he began work on his first novel while holding a day job in a bookstore where he met Katherine Freeley the love of his life and constant source of disappointment for the young writer who couldn’t bring himself to express his feelings to her outside of his work which was beautiful but troubling in its treatment of longing and unfulfilled romantic intentions a dazzling display of potential coming into its own.
Thomas swallows another mouthful of coffee. He hears the old man scuttling around his apartment next door, placing objects on shelves. It’s interesting to think of his life going on at the same time as mine. How does he pass the time? What does he do all day? It’s a sad life, by himself. No family. I should visit sometime. Would be a nice gesture. It’s one of those things I could easily but people usually don’t. Maybe we’ll strike something up. Who knows.
But what was it I was about to? Phone bill. That’s right. And something else. What was it? One more thing. Oh, yes. The note. Thomas takes the steno pad (maroon) from his pants (stained) with his hand (perspiring), opening it to the pages (once blank, now filled) on which he has scrawled a draft (pretty good) of the note (what else?) to Katherine (ah, good plan).
Dear Katherine,
You probably realize that it is difficult for me to act casual around you. I have tried for a long time, but I consider your every response, and, as usual, I lose the words when they are most important. I want you to know that I love you. I don’t have any illusions about winning you over: the thought is heroic and I have none of the confidence of a hero. I just think it’s better that you know how I feel. I hope this isn’t too much of an annoyance for you.
Sincerely,
Thomas
Is this too ridiculous? What about the winning her over part? Why would I write if I didn’t think? But it’s such a good line. Maybe she won’t think about that.
I should take the risk. Never do. Remember that it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Imagine myself in sixty years. 22 + 60 = 82. What will I care, then, about some stupid note I sent to a girl when I was twenty-two? These are the regrets the man next door contemplates at night, the words he never said, the notes he was too afraid to send. Both of us lie there at night, practically next to each other, thinking about all those missed opportunities. How are you going? Goddamn it, why did I say that? I’m going right out the fucking door, thank you.
And does he hear me, the old man on the other side of the wall? Does he listen to me and imagine the life I lead? Could he know how stale and exhausting it is? This is it, then. I’ll deliver the letter for him.
IV. “Pillars of the human heart. The phrase says so much.”
We are in the bookstore, later on that same Saturday afternoon, watching Thomas talk to an adolescent boy about the great authors.
“He’s saying the drama is in ourselves,” Thomas continues. “Internal, not external. It’s really a beautiful idea, I think. Also, recall what was going on in the world at the time. The Great War has been won. The war to end all wars. That was really the feeling then. So Faulkner is saying it’s time to stop fighting those around us, and take the time to look inside ourselves. He’s saying that there are no wars left to fight but in ourselves.”
The boy is wearing glasses and holds his face in a tight expression, his eyes narrowed, lips pressed together, as Thomas speaks. His expression is an imitation of the kind of intellectually critical look that Thomas saw many times when his father would host his “round-table gatherings” in their living room and he and his academic friends with their tweed and leather would sip brandy and discuss Plato and Bertrand Russell and Rollo May. It is an expression that seems to say that the listener is gathering every word, but holding them at a distance to examine. The boy also has a paperback in his hand, and he rides his thumb across the pages, playing a fwa fwa fwup melody, like some futuristic parlor music, as they speak, these two thinkers alone in the world.
“Anyway,” Thomas says when he has finished his monologue, “I probably should get back to work. But it was nice talking with you, and if you need any help, just, you know.”
“Thanks,” the boy says. “Nice to talk to you, too.”
Thomas nods and turns away after the boy says this. There’s really no good way to get out of a discussion like that. And why am I even talking to a boy about that stuff? It’s a bad example to set. I’ve been talking like that since I was ten years old and look where it’s gotten me. But how could I warn him about that? What could I say? You’re the way I was. You’re me.
And where is she? Saturday. Babysits today. Should be coming in with the little kiddies, run, scream, and hee hee. But please leave us alone today, children, because Katherine and I must talk. I have it all planned out, you see. Here’s how it will go:
Thomas: (looks up, pleasantly surprised.) Hey, Katherine, how are you doing?
Katherine: I’m good, how are you, Thomas?
Thomas: I’m all right. So what’s been going on with you? Tell me something interesting.
Katherine: (Relates anecdote. Thomas laughs in appropriate places, smiling and maintaining eye contact during the whole speech without letting on that he has prepared a response to the question that he knows she is about to ask, wait, wait, now.) And what have you been up to?
Thomas: I had a pretty crazy experience today. (Possibly Katherine will interject some expression of curiosity at this juncture, but it is a moot point, for Thomas will continue as planned in either of the two following cases: a) Katherine utters some expression in the form: “for all a, if {[a is an event and a happened to Thomas today and a is crazy] and [if for all b, if b is an event and b happened to Thomas today and b is crazy, then b=a]}, then k would love to hear a, where k is used to denote Katherine;” b) Katherine says nothing.) So this guy walks in earlier and he asks me if I have a book of Shakespearean sonnets. I say that we do, and I point to where it is, but he starts telling me how he’s buying it because he’s in love and he wants to court this woman. He says he wants to learn how to love from the master. (Now, after assessing Katherine’s perceived receptivity, the activity of the bookstore, and his own ability to recall lines under pressure, rendering them sincerely and without pretension, Thomas may take the liberty of reciting his favorite Shakespearean sonnet, number 29, which he has memorized again this week, and which begins: “When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,/I all alone beweep my outcast state…” And there will be a moment when he reaches the part that says, “Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,/Haply I think on thee…” when he pauses briefly and looks Katherine in the eyes and they share a meteoric understanding. Then Thomas continues with his story.) You should have seen this guy who asked for the sonnets, though. He wasn’t exactly going to play Romeo. (aside, but loud enough for her to hear) Maybe Falstaff, but not Romeo. (continues) He was wearing shorts and duck boots. Do you believe that? Duck boots. I didn’t know what to say, so I wished him good luck and told him to be careful. He bought five books of love poems.
Katherine: (laughing hysterically) That’s hysterical!
Thomas: So anyway, I have something for you. (He checks her expression.) I’ve been meaning to tell you some things for a long time, but I didn’t know exactly how to say them. I guess I thought a letter would be the best way. (He hands her the envelope with her name, “Katherine,” printed on the front. He smiles. She smiles. They both smile. There is more understanding.)
(Exit Katherine and children gleefully)
-end of scene-
Now Thomas pats his pocket to make sure the letter is still there. Ah, yes, there it is.
The tweekle tweekle bell on the door of the shop jingles and we can see Katherine entering the store, leading the children, both among them and above, motherly, earthlyspiritual guardian. The girls are wearing puffy pink coats, and they attend Katherine like maids-in-waiting. Thomas looks at them from behind the counter, smiling.
“Hey, Katherine,” he says, “how are you?”
“I’m good.” She pauses in front of the counter, exhales dramatically. “A little worn out. These girls are quite the energetic ones today.”
Thomas laughs. What do I say now? That wasn’t at all what I expected. The girls are giggling and pulling on Katherine’s arms.
“Sorry,” she says to Thomas, then looks at the girls. “You two go and pick out a story, and we’ll take it back home to read, okay?”
She kneels in front of the girls, giving each an impish pinch on the knee. They giggle again, then run to the children’s books in the back of the store. Katherine rises.
“So,” Thomas says, “what’s been going on with you? Tell me something interesting.”
“Something interesting. Let’s see. I went shopping yesterday.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I got some bathing suits for summer. I’m a real beach bum.”
Thomas laughs a little. Too free for me. Then how should I begin to spit out what I have to say? The girls will have their book soon. There won’t be time.
“So,” Thomas says, pausing, waiting, thinking, pausing, smiling, pausing, still thinking I should just say it but this is so silly and am I just a little too little but I really have to do it because if I don’t I’ll regret it and in the grand scheme of things it really doesn’t matter but if it doesn’t matter then why am I so damn nervous and why are my hands shaking and why am I sweating and practically shivering I’m so cold is it possible she notices?
He smiles. She smiles. But it’s one of those smiles that’s trying to ask what on earth is going on. Thomas feels his pocket. The envelope is still there. Yes, this is real. It’s going to happen. He reaches his hand in his shirt pocket and issues the envelope slowly, lays it meaningfully on the counter between them.
And now he raises his eyes to meet hers, but just as he does it, the girls come up behind Katherine and hug her around the legs, and she bends down to greet them. But did she see the envelope?!!!
“Excuse me,” a woman says to Thomas. She is examining the wire rack on which are displayed birthday cards, anniversary cards, condolence cards, belated birthday cards, thank you cards, postcards, mother’s day cards, father’s day cards, secretary’s day cards, special birthday cards, congratulations it’s a boy cards (blue), congratulations it’s a girl cards (pink), Valentine’s day cards, and other assorted holiday cards. “Do you have any blank cards?”
Katherine is still talking to the girls, who are showing her the storybook they have picked out. If she didn’t see the envelope I can still take it back. But she might have seen it. And if she did, then I could never take it back. The best thing is to go through with it. But first the card woman.
“I’ll be right back,” Thomas says to Katherine.
He walks over to the wire rack, leaving the envelope on the counter. He points out the blank cards to the woman and she thanks him and he tells her it’s no problem and returns to where Katherine is standing with the girls, waiting, because there is an envelope with her name on it in large, precise print lying on the counter. This is all an enormous mistake. I should never have done it this way.
“What’s this?” Katherine says, picking up the envelope.
“I need to change something,” Thomas says. “It was for you, but I need to fix something.”
“What is it? What does it say?” She begins to open the envelope.
“Don’t. It’s not for you. It was, I mean, but now it’s not.”
Thomas tries to smile, but can’t bring himself to do it.
“Is this a love letter?” Katherine says, giggling as she examines the giant print of her name. And then she looks at Thomas and stops giggling. “Oh,” she says.
“I wanted,” he begins, and after a hundred phrases race through his mind, he loses the words to speak to her.
“Here,” she says, laying the envelope again on the counter. “I’m sorry.”
He can’t look up at her. She’s too free. I failed.
Katherine hands Thomas a twenty-dollar bill.
“For the book,” she says.
He counts her change – one, two is fifteen, and five is twenty – and places it in her palm. She thanks him, and with the girls holding her hands and glancing back at Thomas, Katherine walks out of the store.
“For the book,” he repeats once she’s gone.
V. The following are chores Thomas planned to accomplish in the remainder of that Saturday afternoon, once he had finished work:
● Throw out the note to Katherine
● Pay the phone bill
● Wash his face
● Visit the old man next door
● Finish the coffee that was left from the morning
The following are the activities he completed that afternoon:
● He tore the envelope and letter between the h and the e in Katherine’s name and threw the two halves into the wastebasket in his kitchen.
● He wrote a check for $18.36 payable to Darcom Telecommunications Services, sealed the check in an envelope along with the payment stub, making sure that the address appeared in the plastic window on the front of the envelope, wrote his return address on the lines at the top left-hand corner of the envelope, placed a self-adhesive stamp on the envelope, walked to the mailbox at the corner, and deposited the sealed, addressed and stamped envelope containing his check in the mailbox.
● He picked up the washcloth that hung on the towel rod in his bathroom, turned the faucet on hot, let the water run for two minutes until the steam began to cloud his mirror and felt like gentle breath on his face, held the washcloth underneath the steaming cascade, removed the washcloth from the water, applied it to his face, patting lightly at first so his skin could adjust to the temperature, placed the washcloth on the side of the sink, massaged a bar of soap until it lathered his hands, applied his hands to his face, distributing a portion of the soap from his hands to his face, adjusted the temperature of the water to mitigate the heat, rinsed the remaining soap from his hands, increased the temperature of the water slightly, held the washcloth again under the running water (again hot), applied the cloth to his face, rubbed his face with the wet cloth, wiped the mirror with his shirtsleeve to clear the fogging, looked at his face in the mirror to note any remaining soap, noted remaining soap in the area around his eyebrows and in front of his left ear, held the washcloth again under the water (still hot), applied the cloth to the areas noted in the mirror, accidentally rubbed the cloth in the wrong direction when attempting to rinse the soap in front of his left ear as a result of a misinterpretation of his reflection, adjusted his perception of his own image, applied the washcloth to the remaining square of soap in front of his left ear, rinsed the washcloth again, turned off the faucet, wrung the washcloth in the basin of the sink, hung the washcloth again on the towel rod, and dried his hands on the towel which hung next to the washcloth on the towel rod.
● He knocked on the old man’s door, received no reply, knocked again, still received no reply, heard a crashing sound inside the apartment, knocked again, louder than before, called out, “Hello. Is anyone there?,” received no reply, banged with his open palm on the door, heard nothing when he stopped pounding, turned the knob of the old man’s door and found that it was unlocked, swung the door open, called again into the apartment, received no reply, walked into the old man’s apartment, saw that there was no furniture inside, saw that there was nothing on the floors or walls, saw that the empty rooms were powdered with white dust, saw that the curtains on the windows were open and that more of the white dust turned and sailed in the bright, late-afternoon sunlight, saw that there was a radiator on the wall adjacent to Thomas’s own apartment, and stood there for a full minute looking at the radiator, listening to it rustle and creak and pop, as if it hadn’t been drained all winter.
● He finished the coffee.
Thomas anticipated that the following would result from the above activities:
● Concerning the throwing out of the letter, Thomas anticipated the sweeping sound of the tear.
● Concerning the paying of the phone bill, Thomas anticipated a sense of accomplishment in that this particular activity could be crossed off the list he kept in the steno pad in his pocket.
● Concerning the washing of the face, Thomas anticipated a feeling of refreshment.
● Concerning the visiting of the old man, Thomas anticipated introducing himself as the tenant next door, and this being followed by an introduction to come in for a minute, to sit down, to have a cup of something or other, and then chat for a little while; the old man would explain his situation to Thomas, why he lived alone, what his life had been like before this, tell him about his family, maybe offer a few anecdotes from his past; and he would ask Thomas what he did for a living, where he grew up, maybe about his plans for the future, and Thomas would tell him all of these things about his life, about his job in the bookstore and the neighborhood where he grew up and possibly some memories from his childhood, such as when his parents had taken him to Nantucket when he was a boy and every morning he would sit on the front steps of the small beach house they had rented and eat a chocolate ice cream cone and watch the other families of tourists wheeling by on bikes and roller skates and strollers and Thomas would smile at them and almost every single one would smile back; and maybe they would talk like this for hours, trading their memories like bottle caps, listening and laughing along with the other, and finally Thomas would be able to speak about Katherine and the love he felt for her and how he dreamed of taking her back to his apartment and holding her in the light that pressed through his blinds and whispering to her in that dusky room words he could never say, and this man would understand him, having lived through it all himself, and he would speak of similar failures in his own life, offering the perspective gleaned from so many years of longing and disappointment and now, he would say, now that I am nearing death, I have realized how little of my life I have actually lived, but with the consolation of having discovered meaning and consequence in a different object, and I’ll tell you what it is, Thomas, I’ll tell you what is.
● Concerning the finishing of the coffee, it would be done.
Thomas experienced the following as a result of the above completed acts:
● With respect to throwing out the letter, Thomas experienced the sweeping sound of the tear, followed by a long silence.
● With respect to paying the phone bill, Thomas experienced a feeling of accomplishment as he crossed that item off his list concomitant with the understanding that this was a meaningless accomplishment, that this one act would soon be replaced by a dozen more in the ever-growing list he always carried with him.
● With respect to washing his face, Thomas experienced an unanticipated sensation of dryness, as well as a peculiar form of refreshment which was something like starting over.
● With respect to visiting the old man, Thomas experienced fear when he heard the crashing sound in the apartment; he experienced a more intense fear when he continued to pound on the door and heard no answer; he experienced confusion when he opened the door of the apartment and found that there was no one inside; he experienced bewilderment when he saw that there was no furniture or other indication of inhabitance in the whole place; he experienced a private understanding as he listened to the radiator rattling and popping against the wall adjacent to his bedroom, and standing there, in the midst of his life which was such a rustlebangpopandfrushofriendlinesshowareyougoing-alittletoolittlewhenindisgracetoofreeforme, he experienced a brief and lonely indifference.
● With respect to finishing the coffee, it was done.
