Beginners Guide to Loneliness

Kurt sat alone on their brown leather couch, worn and splotched with tan cracks from whomever the previous owner was, the middle lower than the sides from the lack of other asses to fill the seats. They held a bottle of over-the-counter sleeping pills, wishing they had the forethought to procure any kind of alcohol to wash down the hasty gas station purchase. They poured a fist full of little blue pills, and swallowed them one by one. Each time making a conscious decision to go through with it.

Kurt, a mid twenties underachiever, had felt empty for quite some time. They had finally reached a point where he had stopped wanting. Their decision had been solidified after a late night Sunday screening of a sequel to a classic sci-fi film; they had chosen the time as it would have been the least likely to be crowded, and they could feel as if they had the theater to their self. What they found when he arrived was disconcerting; as it was them and ten loving couples, all of whom were exploring their exhibitionist sides.

They awoke hours later with a wretch. Unbeknownst to Kurt, over-the-counter sleep aids are coated with a chemical to induce vomiting in case of overdoses. They tried to sit up with a jolt, but plummeted the foot from the couch onto their imitation hard wood vinyl flooring. Their limbs were in a state of paralysis. They struggled into an army crawl, stomach dragging on the coarse ridges curling up from the faux wood paneling that laid throughout his dark one-bedroom. They managed to trek the insurmountable fifteen feet to their bathroom, used their semi-functioning arms like a crane to hoist their still limp leg, and then tossed the leg upward to flip the light switch. They were able to put their head into the toilet bowl as a suicide swirl of yellow and blue poured out onto the porcelain. They passed out again as they thought of how atheistically pleasing a painting of their view would have been.

They awoke in the morning, feeling as if they had time-traveled to a distant future, naked and in their bed. They had no recollection of the events from the bathroom until then, and didn’t care to. The only thing that mattered was that it hadn’t worked, and they would have to continue with their existence. They decided to call in at work on that Monday, as they felt attempted suicide justified a little PTO. Kurt worked at a tech start up in Austin. Their main function was account management, which for a small company with few clients, left them with too much downtime.

They dressed to the bare minimum, wearing the same black track pants they had worn all weekend, with two formerly white stripes now browned with inconsistent washes down either side. They put on a t-shirt with a logo of a band they hadn’t enjoyed since they were seventeen, and stepped out onto their porch to smoke a cigarette. The porch had a wooden fence panel, chest high to protect them from the dangers of the world, with layers of colors slowly chipping away from the mild Austin weather. The apartment faced interstate 183, which was less than a stone’s throw away. This was beneficial only to those that enjoyed hearing a never ending cavalcade of traffic, spiced with the odd screeching crunch of a rear-end collision. The highway ran over a small creek, a bridge covering a world not seen by residents since the 1970’s. It was not uncommon for Kurt to see unfortunate souls trying to survive under the constantly busy road, but this morning even Kurt was shocked to see a man, nude, bathing in the creek. The man was tall, and surprisingly muscular. Kurt could not help but think to themself, “Damn, I wish I was that in shape.”

Kurt was of average build, and average height. They were of average, or even slightly below average in any conventional sense, attractiveness. They had black horn-rimmed glasses that made their larger than average nose seem even more so. Their natural brown hair was bleached blonde, and reached just past their shoulders. They had a beard that they managed to trim once a week, hoping that they didn’t look like a character in an 18th Century Russian novel. It would have been safe to assume, as most people did, that they had been single for quite some time. In fact, later that month would mark their three year anniversary without a significant other. Over that time they had several dating-app-recommended one night stands, each one less fulfilling than the last. Their last attempt at a steady thing ended a few months earlier with a text that said, “I’ve just lost interest.” He didn’t know how to respond at the time.

Having finished their cigarette, and having seen more male genitalia than they had anticipated for the day, Kurt walked back into his apartment. Pea soup green paint covered the walls, furnished with second hand furniture or what was available in the “As-Is” department of Ikea. They owned one lamp in the far corner, and figured that since it had an LED lightbulb they could leave it on all the time, so no one would be able to tell when someone was there or not. Even during the summer their apartment was dark and cold. For months after moving in they kept to a diligent schedule of cleaning, but over the last few weeks they had let the apartment fend for itself. Empty bottles of citrus green tea, plastic dinner trays from microwavable dinners, and cans of diet soda littered the apartment. Their bedroom consisted only of a bed, dresser, and a nightstand. It was a place they seldom visited, opting instead to fall asleep on their couch, which the large padding for the back almost made it feel like they were sleeping next to someone. Many times they couldn’t help but think that squatters lived with more dignity. At least they were fighting a system.

Feeling hungry from a stomach that had been completely voided hours earlier, and not having gone grocery shopping in weeks, Kurt decided to go out. They left the apartment and walked down the cracked sidewalk to their ten year old Lexus. It was a white base model IS 250. Kurt had a proclivity for liking luxury vehicles, the one thing they owned that they felt had value. They also really liked the leather seats. They pushed the engine start button, and the lights on his dashboard flickered on. “Oil Maintenance Required” flashed; by this point Kurt had just accepted this was a part of their car. They engaged the reverse and set off on his conquest for nourishment. They exited the complex and pulled into the street. They had been driving for a few minutes when they noticed the undeniable smell of marijuana. For a moment they were concerned that it was them; smelling their clothes to detect the source. They then noticed a late 60’s Buick sedan in front of them, struggling to keep up with the 40 mph speed limit. Smoke was billowing out the barely opened windows. The car had a vanity license plate that read SZTHDY. Kurt read the advice and said audibly, “Szzzthdee? What the fuck is a szzzthdee?” They continued to say “szzzthdee” again and again until they reached the drive thru.

They returned home with a cheap steak quesadilla and a soft taco. They sat down on their couch with the food on the coffee table, and looked in the cardboard-colored paper bag. They pulled out a packet of hot sauce, and noticed on the front that there was a little jokey saying. They then noticed it said “You should at least try…” They decided to post a photo of the hot sauce packet on social media with the caption, “Well fuck you too”. It received sixteen likes from people who would have no other reason to interact with Kurt, and generally speaking, didn’t.

Kurt arrived at work the next day, trudging slowly through the breezeway that connected the main building to the parking garage. The building was a four story marble structure, specifically designed to house businesses that wished to appear more successful, or legitimate, than they were. The building was in the upscale part of Austin, near Lake Travis, situated next to a river. The backside of the building looked out onto the river, the other side of which had cascading cliffs that housed several mansions atop of it. The room that Kurt worked in had floor to ceiling windows facing the scenic view, which at first was a marvel to stare at each day; but overtime became a constant reminder that they weren't where they wanted to be.

Kurt shared the room with a cowoker. Terence, a slender white male with similar glasses, didn’t look away from his computer when Kurt walked in.

“Hey,” Terence greeted Kurt.

“Hey,” Kurt replied as they sat down at their desk, “by the way I talked to your mom last night. She said that she tried to give you up for adoption, but no one wanted you.”

Terence stated dryly, “That’s weird, I just spoke to her yesterday, I don’t know why she wouldn’t have just told me then.”

“It’s probably because she thinks your voice is grating and awful. Her words, not mine.”

Terence laughed, “So why were you out yesterday man?”

For a moment Kurt had forgotten what they'd done. “Oh, I just had a stomach thing. I’m good now.”

This wasn’t their first suicide attempt. Years prior they had tried to in a similar fashion, which was discovered by Kurt’s former roommate, after which they spent the mandatory 96 hours in a mental health facility. The time they spent there was anything but helpful. Most of the day they sat on a chair watching the Lifetime Channel, which they found odd since the dormitories where divided by gender, and that TV room was occupied exclusively by men.

The circumstances on the first attempt would be considered quite different to those unfamiliar with suicidal ideation. Kurt was living in Oklahoma City, which is best described as a black hole of decency. They were living with a close friend as they worked technical support for a major cell phone provider, which earned them almost half what their current salary pays. The day in day out of calls from people that easily could have fixed their own issues if they had just known how to do a cursory internet search slowly ate away at Kurt. They began to have panic attacks as they drove to work, several times having to pull over to avoid causing a major incident.

The last straw came during a training session with their area manager, Gary; a hairy homunculus in his mid thirties with a ponytail that screamed “I go out of my way to speak with teenage girls”. The company had recently changed its service package pricing, and wanted the employees to actively switch to the new services rather than continuing with their grandfathered phone plans. The training was to go over how the pricing works, and how to present it to the customers.

“So if you see here, with the new plans, they actually save money as they have a bucket of data for $40, $60, or $80 dollars a month, with unlimited texting. Which is a lot less than $120 a month they have with their current all unlimited family plans,” Gary explained.

As Kurt reviewed the new plans with initial thoughts of who fucking gives a shit going through their head, they noticed an egregious oversight. “Wait, these plans aren’t including the per line cost. In order to have those prices they still have to pay the initial $40 per line, so on a family plan of three sharing the $80 data bucket, they’d actually end up paying $200 a month.”

“Well, we’re not talking about the per line cost, just the data cost,” Gary stated sternly.

“But, here you’re saying that the total cost is $80, which isn’t true,” Kurt stated, hoping that this was just an innocent error made by the manager.

“Look, we’re just focusing on the data costs, not the per line. The data costs are less,” Gary stated while reaching a tonality that sang “fucking drop it”.

Kurt looked at the numbers again, and looked up at Gary, “I’m not selling these. I’ll do my job, but I won’t push plans people don’t want or need.”

Gary smiled at Kurt, “You have to sell at least 40 of these a month, or you might seriously want to reconsider where you’re going work.”

Kurt didn’t return to that job the next day. Unfortunately, this was at the beginning of an exceedingly bad economic downturn for Oklahoma City, and Kurt could not find work for months, even at connivence stores and fast food restaurants. It came to a point that they had not paid rent in quite some time, and faced homelessness. During that time they had a couple of failed relationships, as it is difficult to keep a significant other when one does not have the ability to really take care of themselves.

Kurt thought about this as they started the work day. They thought about how that was different from their current position. The company Kurt worked for at the time treated them well, they thought, but the tasks were something any slightly trained monkey could do at a much lower salary. Bananas, probably, they imagined. This line of thought then reached its apex as they wondered how a banana centric economy would function, as currency was both consumed and replenished at alarming rates. It would be impossible to have much wealth disparity, as bananas expire within days, so they would have to be spent or consumed. That would keep inflation down as well, Kurt surmised. They gave up this line of thought when realizing that they didn’t understand how even personal finance worked, much less some kind of banana economy.

Kurt then received a message from Shaniqua, his only marijuana connection, stating that her roommate had recently replenished his supply, and was available for purchase. They messaged her back asking if they could swing by after work, and she had agreed that would be a good time. As they left the office they messaged her again to ensure that this was in fact a good time, and she said it was. They reached her apartment complex in about a half an hour. As they walked up to her building they could see that the lights were on in her apartment. They knocked on her door and waited for an answer. And waited. And yet waited some more. After a couple of minutes they sent her a message to alert her that they were there, to no response. They knocked again, and started to wonder if she had left for a moment. They walked to the front of the building to see if the lights had actually been on, or if they had just imagined so. The lights were indeed on, and the blinds were askew enough that they could see no one was in the living room. They decided to knock one last time, and if there was no response they would leave.

They walked up to the door, and had knocked once when the door opened. Shaniqua stood in front of them, she was wearing a low cut crop-top, the kind that have the arm holes stretched down to just before the bottom of the shirt. Her grey sweatpants hung loose on her slender frame, to the point that Kurt could tell she was not wearing underwear. At first Kurt thought to them self. Well, she’s just kickin’ it comfortable at home, and tried not to seem like they noticed much. She invited them into the one bedroom apartment she shared with a friend and her friend’s boyfriend. Shaniqua had been evicted from her own apartment months earlier, as she had very poor luck with finding reliable roommates to split the impossible-to-afford-while-in-college rent. The city of Austin had come accustomed to that in recent years. Her clothes, intimate personal belongings, and trash were strung all over the living room. Shaniqua slept on an air mattress that occupied the entire space between the couch and the tv. The couch, which looked as if someone had dumped every piece of luggage in the world on top of it, took up nearly 33 percent of the tiny living room.

She stood in the middle of the living room and yelled in an unnecessarily loud voice, “Juan, Kurt is here to get some bud.” A faint “OK” could be heard from the open door of the impossibly small bedroom. Shaniqua stood smiling at Kurt, to which they responded by asking, “So, how have you been dude?”

She responded, “I’ve been good, school is on track, and I got a new job at Chik Fila for like $11 bucks an hour. Finally making some real money, and…”

It was at this point Kurt stopped listening as they became distracted by Juan, who emerged from the bedroom wearing only boxers, and a visible erection trying to escape the thin polyester prison. Juan reached out a hand to greet Kurt, but being so taken aback Kurt couldn’t tell what kind of mutual hand gestures the two were about to engage in, so it turned into an amalgamation of every one Kurt knew. Unperturbed, Juan walked the three feet to the kitchen, and began the transaction. “How much do you want?” Kurt, now running on autopilot, said, “Um, an eighth would be good.” During this interaction Shaniqua had not stopped talking, and Kurt could not piece together what she had just said.

As Juan got the order ready, Kurt noticed he could partially see into the bedroom. All that could be seen was pair of women’s feet poking out from under a white duvet. It was then that he noticed Shaniqua’s clothing, or lack thereof, and started to wonder what exactly was happening there. Kurt, completely unsure of what Shaniqua was going on about, inquired the price, “So, how much is it?” Juan mumbled, “fmmmty”. Forty? Fifty? Kurt figured it was worth ten dollars to not hold this deal up any longer than they absolutely had to. Juan handed them a globule of potent marijuana, tenuously wrapped in tin foil. Kurt asked, “Hey, I don’t have any cash, is it cool if I Venmo it to you?” Shaniqua responded, “Yeah that’s fine,” and then continued on saying whatever she had been saying before. Kurt pulled out his phone, and transferred the money over with a note that said “For: Drugs”. Juan shuffled back into the bedroom, and Shaniqua undeterred, continued to speak.

“Wow, your hair is getting long, I like it,” She said as she took two awkward steps closer to Kurt, and reached out to grab handful of their moderately maintained mane.

“Thanks,” Kurt said, starting to wonder if they should really find a new dealer, “The roots are showing a bit too much though. I need to figure out what I want to do with it.”

Shaniqua let go of their hair and took two steps back to her original position. “Are you thinking of bleaching it again?”

“Yeah maybe, kinda considering cutting it short,” they said, now only focusing on them self.

“If you do, I want some of it,” as she said this she took the same two steps forward and grab the same fistful of hair, “like a perfect lock of it.” Before Kurt could respond, a moan came from the bedroom, the unmistakable sound when one person enters another. Maybe because she could sense their tension, or maybe because she wanted to normalize the situation, Shaniqua said, “Yeah, that’s been happening. Hey, do you want to see some stuff I made for my drawing and design class?” Kurt, too confused to say no, agreed to see her drawings.

Shaniqua was in college to become a web designer, and considered herself something of an artist. On previous procurement missions she had shown them some of her work, much to Kurt’s dismay. They on occasion compared her art to that of someone in middle school. Not in the sense that one would look at abstract art and say to themselves, “My kid could do this!” while missing the point that their child would never think to do it. No, Shaniqua’s art was more along the quality that lacked a discernible style, perspective, or direction. If one had seen the scribblings without context, and to find out that an adult had created them, would naturally cause one to wonder, “Do they not have use of their arms? Is this like a foot drawing therapy?”

She walked over to her air mattress, and flipped open her sketchbook. She showed them many drawings that did not disappoint in how disappointing they were. Kurt, not wanting to have to be the person to burst her untalented bubble, told her that her drawings were “cool” while trying to feign enthusiasm. Once Kurt had taken all they could, which was but a moment, they stammered out that they had to get going, or else they would be late. Late for what exactly, they did not mention.

Kurt’s autopilot was in full gear as they drove, continuously asking them self what the actual fuck had just happened. They couldn’t help but wonder if they had been engaging in a threesome, and if so, whether or not they had been invited over to join. They thought to them self that if the three had just come out and asked, they may have had been interested. Or was it just the drugs in an odd situation that made them think that something was happening? They hardly even noticed when they pulled into the apartment complex that there were several police cars parked throughout the parking lot.

As they opened the door, a light shined in their face, and for a moment they couldn’t tell what was happening, until they could just make out the tale-tell shape of a police cruiser just behind the figure holding the light. It was at that moment that Kurt could smell just how pungent the poorly wrapped tin foil ball of marijuana was in their pocket. It was at this moment they thought, Well that’s it, I’m going to jail.

The officer and Kurt were motionless for 30 seconds, looking at one another, until Kurt aggressively shrugged at the officer as if to say, “Fucking what?” The officer spoke first.

“Were you the one that called us?” The cop said in a tired, dry tone.

“Definitely not,” Kurt said, making an inside joke to them self.

“Have you seen a guy chasing a woman with a hammer somewhere around the complex?” At this question Kurt thought to them self, Thank God for that.

“No, I literally just pulled in.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” the cop then turned around without another word, and began shining a light in some nearby bushes. Kurt tried to get out of the car but stopped to think I am fucking dreaming? They decided that since they couldn’t conjure Tiffany Haddish, the day must be real. They got out of the car as naturally as they could, and walked briskly, but not too briskly, back to their apartment. They instinctively double locked the door upon entering, and walked into the seldom used bedroom to the nightstand. They opened the drawer which contained only two items: a small glass pipe specifically made for inhaling illicit substances, and a roll of condoms that had been in the drawer since they moved into the apartment nearly a year ago. They took out the pipe, and walked back into the living room, sat down, and loaded the bowl. As they inhaled, their phone lit with a buzz on the coffee table. They had received a message from Kari. She lived not far from where Kurt had grown up on the East Coast, and they had kept in-touch since high school.

“Did I tell you my most recent ‘beacon of the insane’ story? Why do all the weirdos love me so much? I am their lighthouse,” Her message read. Kari had an animal magnetism for the desperate and deranged. Sharing odd life stories quickly became a staple in their friendship, and a compelling reason for it to keep going. Her life had become even more aberrant having recently ended a years-long relationship with her partner Chad. They had been living together in a house with several friends; and continued to share a living space due to economic factors.

“Lol, nah dude, what happened?” They responded.

“Tell me how you would feel about this hypothetical situation. Which is very real.” Kurt did not want to point out the paradoxical statement as they were curious to what would unfold, “Chad’s been casually dating since we broke up, nothing more than a couple dates until this girl Monica. I’ve met her like twice, and she’s told him that she doesn’t want anything serious, just some fun. So, get this, she tells him that she’s really into me after he sends her my Instagram. He explained to her that we still live together and all that, but that we aren’t dating anymore. She asked him to ask me if I’d be into a threesome, which he did last night, and for several reasons I said no. She’s cute, but not my type, and honestly kinda rough. But she started following me on Insta, and apparently wants to peg me, and I’m just like, wtf? Like, who wants to deal with the mental gymnastics involved with an ex-sex-triangle? Wanna see her pic?”

Kurt sat there for a moment, unable to fathom the odds of what was transpiring for their friend, and what had happen to them not an hour earlier. “Jesus dude, and yeah link it,” they sent. The woman in the photo was indeed rough. She had many of the signs of extreme drug use, with a face that quietly murmured, “I will fucking cut you without provocation.”

Kari messaged again, “I feel like such a snob, but the whole situation is like WOW”

“Don’t. There’s a difference between being a snob and having standards,” they replied.

“It’s just this has never happened to me, so I’m thoroughly shocked and confused. I’ve also never been seriously hit up for sex by an actual stranger (catcalls and rando tinder dudes not withstanding). And get this, she just posted a video of herself sobbing and hitting a bong, like what is going on with her? Like, gurl, go see a therapist, I’ll even recommend mine. Self care is important.” Kurt thought about that for a moment. Not so much the sobbing woman struggling to put together an awkward threesome, but that maybe they should seek counseling as well.

They didn’t want to start a discussion about treatment, or what they had done just two days prior, so they responded, “I know right. I mean if you’re going to sob on video at least do something weird along with it, like eating a bowl of soup.”

“LMAO or like meeting Chuck-E-Cheese, or lamenting the death of your pet tarantula,” she continued.

“Lol, also good options. Or smearing something on your face like peanut butter or nutella,” they knew jokes work best in threes.

“I think we may be on to something here.”

“Too bad Valentine’s Day has passed.”