Walls
by Corinne Hughes
They were looking at him because of the smell. He could smell it too. He was uncomfortable, his muscles stiff. Whispers meandered. There is so much talking in this life.
“Sir? Are you alright sir?” a young woman asked, her blond hair pulled up so tight on her head, she appeared bald.
“Don’t you think we should do something?” the young woman said, joining the group at the other end of the elevator. They murmured, squirming, their eyes sharp and narrow. He carefully pulled up his pants before he stood up.
*
John’s mother believed in perfection. She grew up with strict routines and later, at Vassar, accomplished a major presence at the daily teatime. She was curt, but soft spoken. She laughed when obliged but never told jokes. She had a tendency to walk into a room and turn it to ice. She taught John to be a Christian, a studious scholar, and, above all, a gentleman.
Chin up, shoulders back, and poise, Johnathan! Poise, poise poise! she would yell at him, clapping her hands for emphasis. She had him stand in front of a long mirror to practice his posture and the classic smile of a gentleman like other kids practiced piano or trained to be athletes. She toured with him across the country to universities, where he gave lectures on education, the arts, and sciences. He was almost sure that, at one point, he was driven by a passion for something, but he couldn’t remember what it was. She was his constant shadow, a twin, and, later, a phantom limb. They stayed in beautiful hotels, flew first class, and sipped wine amongst the elite scholars and benefactors and who knows.
He was seventy-two now, his mother dead. Her voice would wake him at night. He no longer lectured. No dining or traveling. No sneaking out to bars tucked away. No hands on him. No averting his mother’s gaze. How so much is hidden, and what it turns into after so long. Petrified. His mother’s echo was visceral. There was television and the internet, but somehow, his mother’s death meant omnipotence. She was God judging his every living hour. Every now and then, he did a Google search of his name that led to a growing Wikipedia page. John never married because of his devotion to scholarship, writing, and lectures. John never married because---
Poise now! Poise, poise, poise!
The community college approached John a week after his birthday. They needed an event. Apparently, it was the thirty-fifth anniversary of one of his lectures, “The Democracy of Education.” Somehow repeating this lecture would re-inspire our youth. He was bored. He took the job and looked through old files, thinking back on those question-and-answer sessions with those for whom the future was alive. You spoke earlier about art being humanity’s salvation. What are we going to do if we are saved?
*
The need was already urgent as he arrived. When he walked into the main building, he ran into one of the event coordinators immediately, a stunning young man in a blue suit.
“John Stomble, it is such a pleasure! I’m so glad you could make it.” His warm hands took John’s arm and led him to the elevator. “The lecture is timed to begin very soon so hurry up to the third floor. It’s okay if we’re a tiny bit off schedule, but the audience will eat me alive if they don’t see you soon! I’ll be up there in just a minute to get you set up with a mic.” The man was high spoken, and John could have sworn he saw a touch of eye make-up above his eyelids. He had a fleeting thought.
The elevator stalled just after the ding signifying the passage of the second floor. His eyebrows tucked into a deep furrow as the tiny room erupted. So much necessity to explain.
Someone suggested jumping up and down. Another suggested using the intercom, but there was no reply. Silence filled the shrinking stall. John’s urge to relieve himself was painful. For a moment, he felt the physical protrusion of soft, acrid heat and yelped. So many words taking the lives of moments.
Chin up! John almost felt himself smirk as he began to undo his belt, a wave of life, insatiable, flowing through him. A young man noticed immediately but said nothing. Johnathan! Once he began to undo the top button and unzip his fly, a few of the others began to back away, not in disgust but in some kind of curiosity. John was curious too. Johnathan, stop it this instant! He took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and, for a blissful moment, embraced absolute silence as he lowered to the floor.
*
Everyone stared in awe of John as he buckled his belt. A moment later, the elevator arrived at the third floor and the door opened. They dispersed quickly, some laughing and others solemn. A scream burst from the elevator just before the doors shut behind him. John walked into the men’s bathroom and approached a mirror. He turned on the sink faucet and splashed water onto his face. So much talking, so many endless words that will lead them nowhere at all.
The door popped open, and the young man in the blue suit entered, smiling with enthusiasm. “There you are! It’s time, it’s time.” He approached John and cupped his arm with an intimacy John savored. They walked down the hall and into the lecture hall. Every seat was filled and some spectators stood in the aisles. His mother would be proud. “You look great! Don’t worry! Now let’s get you on a mic. Just repeat, ‘Testing! 1-2-3!’” One. Two. Three. Poise, poise, poise.
John smiled, classically, lifted his chin, pulled his shoulders back and spoke. The young man in the blue suit, pleased, smiled too. “Wonderful! Just wonderful!”
Corinne Hughes is a queer poet, essayist, and fiction writer. Her work has been supported by a scholarship from Tin House and a fellowship from the National Book Foundation. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Passengers Journal, High Shelf Press, Cathexis Northwest Press, Grim & Gilded, and Warm Milk. Her essays can also be found online at Museum Studies Abroad. Born in the Texas hill country, she now resides in Portland, Oregon with her two blue Finnish gerbils. She can be reached at oleacae@gmail.com.