No Solicitors
I’ve spent my entire life expecting Change. They sit outside on my porch, waiting until I’m happy and settled before knocking on my door. No matter what I’m in the middle of doing, I always answer, I have to. Even though I only ever stand directly in front of them, I never seem to remember what they look like, but I’ve never been good at eye contact anyway, so I don’t think they mind. Despite this, I’ll always know its them, and I ask:
“What do I have to know today?”
I can feel their unwavering stare, not filled with contempt or malice, just the uncomfortable warmth of someone who has seen and will continue to see me. Their voice is otherworldly, an operatic choir condensed into a normal voice. Every time they visit, I look different. I’ll do something new with my clothes, hair, or body, and they always point it out.
“The new haircut suits you.”
I politely smile, but that response never feels natural. I’m not good at taking compliments and I don’t think I ever will be. They know this, of course, but they still do it. It’s oddly nice of them. Even with this I can tell they’re avoiding my question, so I stand there in silence until they give in. They’ve said hundreds, thousands of things to me over the years. It’s never anything outright positive. Always announcements of my current karma, or at best, fleeting comments on my psyche. But today they say:
“Things are better now.”
I’m already halfway through closing the door when I stop in my tracks. I open it back up, a long creak cutting through the air. Against my own logic, I look into their eyes, gazing at a kaleidoscope of colours. Their body contorts wildly, unnaturally bending with every ray of sun. Their clothes flip shades, textures, styles, all within milliseconds of each other. It’s overwhelming, my brain failing to place a single identity onto them. As I’m filled with the grief of forgotten names, I accept that I will never know who they are, and this thought seems to calm their movements. Their form still oscillates, but I try not to think too hard about it. And at that moment, as our eye contact becomes passive, I realize that they’ve never seen the inside of my house.
I welcome them in, and they are immediately greeted with my living room. The walls are filled with scattered picture frames, hung up in no specific order. They’re all empty, I took out all the pictures and put them somewhere I forgot a long time ago. The collection of furnishings is eclectic, even though I wish I could have matching wood tones. None of this furniture is mine anyway, all borrowed. An old couch I was never allowed to sit on as a kid, a glass bureau displaying someone else’s achievements, a TV broadcasting the news in a language I can barely understand, all things that I simply use, but never own. I don’t dare pull the couch closer or turn the volume of the TV up.
“These things aren’t yours,” Change points out.
“I know,” I reply.
“Why is that?” they ask.
“I don’t know,” I answer.
We move onto the kitchen, despite the difficulty of leading someone I’m intentionally avoiding eye contact with. I love cooking, but I haven’t used the stove-top or oven in years. The fridge is almost empty, except for some take-out and a few frozen meals I’ve stacked in my freezer. The sink is dry save for some soapy residue splotching the area around the drain. The drying rack holds the same plate and bowl I wash and use every day, and I don’t dare use the collection of large dinnerware sitting in my cupboards collecting dust. The pantry has no shelves or storage structure, just stray cardboard boxes full of canned tuna. There’s one can opener resting on top of one of the boxes, an old claw one my mom left with me awhile ago.
“You never use this kitchen,” Change points out.
“I know,” I reply.
“Why is that?” they ask.
“I don’t know,” I answer.
They ask for the washroom, so I show them the way. I lead them to the guest washroom, pristine and clean as always, but they insist on the one I primarily use. It’s a strange request, but they just seem curious. I guide them up the stairs and around a corner, the wood flooring transitioning to worn carpet. There are only two doors in this narrow hallway, one next to the stairs and one at the end.
I open the first door in the hallway and flick on the light; the bathroom’s messy. Not the semi-regularly cleaned shower and toilet. Not the misted mirror, spotted with grime from the several times I’ve forgotten to turn on the fan during hour-long, thinking showers. Not even the impressionistic, red and blue hair dye splatters on the walls that I have allowed to permanently stain. But the countertop sink, surrounded by a chaotic mess of self-care products I’ve failed to use regularly. Lotions for my eczema that I still haven’t gone to the doctor for, face masks for the blackheads on my nose that I only care about what I’m too close to a mirror, those weird skin-lightening creams your aunts give to you as a “suggestion”, most of them generally unnecessary. Some are full, most of them being basic gifts given to me a long time ago that have accumulated dust in the corner I leave them in. Others are empty containers I can’t seem to throw away, even though the last of its product has been squeezed out with vigour.
“You can’t seem to throw away things you don’t need,” Change points out.
“I know,” I reply.
“Why is that?” they ask.
“I don’t know,” I answer.
We finally reach my bedroom. I briefly look at Change, their form still as unplaceable as before. I figure that whoever they are, it probably won’t matter how they view the state of my room. Most of the people who’ve previously been close to me tend to also have messy rooms. There’s probably something poetic and meaningful in that statement, but since I don’t like how my bedroom looks, I don’t think that’s a good thing.
I open the door and have the sudden thought of how empty yet full my bedroom feels. The eggshell walls are bare, save for a few old post-it notes pasted on the wall behind my desk. Scribbled on them are reminders, their context forgotten. There’s a bundle of old posters I say I haven’t had the time to put up, but I’m just embarrassed by my past interests and haven’t replaced them. My desk holds old things, my half-filled sketchbook from when I still thought I could draw, a scattering of guitar picks saved from my dryer, plastic straws from God knows when they still gave those out. The ground isn’t free either, as the few clothes I forgot to scoop up are pushed to the side, giving some walking room. Leaning against a wall are several guitar cases, holding my most valuable possessions, though I haven’t really been practicing or writing lately. My closet is full of clothes I never wear, the chair next to it holding the 3 rotating outfits that I wear consistently.
I wait for Change’s question. They take longer this time, the silence trying to entice me to look at them. I stare at the ground instead.
“Is this really what you are?” they finally ask.
The question throws off our rhythm. I resist the urge to physically react, still looking away from them.
“What do you mean by that?” I question back.
“Surely this can’t be what you actually want your bedroom, your house, to look like, right?” they elaborate.
“Oh, God no,” I quickly answer.
There’s another silence, both of us scanning the bedroom again. I try not to think too hard about how embarrassing it feels to be seen.
“Then why does it look like this?” They then ask.
“I don’t know. Never had the time, life gets in the way.” I explain half-heartedly.
“Why does your life get in the way?” They ask, prodding further.
I look at them, wondering if they don’t understand the shit they’ve put me through. They look at me back, their face pulling and squishing like clay with every blink, but every set of eyes that stares back at me only brings more questions. I concede.
“Bad news about things I can’t control, usually. Done by people, places, things, nouns, proper nouns. Your basic nightmare. Sometimes I don’t need to do much, but other times I have to completely wrap myself around it so it doesn’t explode back and hurt me or worse, other people. Usually it happens so quickly that I can only react, you know? Then another thing happens, then another, and next thing you know it’s been a year and you’re in the same place you started in. So you know, life.” I monologue to them.
“I see.” They breathe out as a sigh. I can feel their inquisitive attitude shrink.
“What? Were you expecting something more profound?” I ask them.
“Maybe.” They say.
“Maybe?” I repeat back.
“Do you not remember the last time I came?” They question me.
Honestly, I can’t even remember what I did yesterday, let alone the last time they knocked on my door. They take my silence as a hesitant but real no.
“I told you the same thing I said today almost 8 months ago, remember?” They tell me.
“Oh.” Is all I’m able to let out. Pitiful, even if undeserving.
“I just came around again to remind you. I had a feeling you’d still be on edge. I assumed you were inviting me in to show the changes you’ve made.” They admit, a new sadness coating their voice. Disappointment, even if mild.
“What is this, a test?” I chide.
“No, I just thought you were proud of yourself.” Their words ring. Shame, just shame. Shameful warts and all. I walk over and sit on my office chair, leaning back to rub off the grief painted on my face.
“Well I’m not, okay? You got me! When my life isn’t actively trying to kill me, I don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t sleep, but I hate being awake. My body finds being alone at home all week unbearable, but my mind can’t stand going outside. There’s no normal for me to go back to, this is it! This messy room, the empty fridge, my goddamn sink that’s so full of clutter I can’t put anything down on it, that’s what I’ve done for myself since things got better. The exact same things I did before, and the exact same things I will do later. So yeah, I’ve spent the last 8 months living like nothing fucking matters because I don’t know what else to do! Is that the answer you want? That I know it’s pathetic to live like this?” My words come out louder and angrier than I intended; it’s a bad habit. I’m not looking, but I can tell that Change is staring at me, thinking.
“Why would it be pathetic to live?” They finally ask. I start crying into my hands, it feels violent, unnatural. I feel like I can’t breathe, my lungs suffocating myself. Change wraps their arms around me, it’s awful, but I melt into them because no one’s held me in so long. At some point, I fall onto the floor but I don’t seem to care. It’s a blur, but I can still feel them around me. My mind goes blank.
When I wake up, Change is nowhere to be found. I feel different. The sun’s going down by the time I stand up, dizziness setting in as I catch myself on the wall. It’s from hunger. I slowly walk towards the kitchen, the sunlight cascading through a window and painting the room orange. I don’t dare turn on the overhead light, I stand and watch the dust particles reflect like stars in the air. My subconscious moves my feet, my body, to stand in front of the oven, basking in the warm light. I’m still thinking about their embrace when I turn the stove-top on.