Diary of a Discontent

Diary of a Discontent

Alexander Lurikov

~

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 by Alexander Lurikov

~

I’ve developed
a rather curious habit: when I pass people on the street I envision
what it would be like if they were to attack me. Yesterday, as I
was walking home at dusk, I saw a man approaching me on the
sidewalk. He was a bulky, shadowy fellow, with an umbrella held
firmly in both hands. As we passed each other, nearly brushing
shoulders, I had the sudden premonition that he was preparing an
assault. I imagined him halting his heavy steps, pivoting to face
me, and swinging his umbrella with alarming force to strike me on
my backside. This imaginary sequence played out with such clarity
in my mind that it was not until I had turned around and watched
the man recede into the gathering gloom that I felt safe.

The recollection of this episode reminds me
of another. It was dusk again, that hazy time of day when every
sort of mischief seems permissible. I was walking home, and as I
crossed 15th Street and continued westward I noticed a hunched old
woman ahead of me on the sidewalk. She was slow, frail, and
probably half-blind. She took such tiny steps that for a moment I
was not certain if she was even moving. When I drew nearer and saw
her withered features hidden and exaggerated by the darkness, I was
filled with apprehension.

“Just what is this old crone doing out on the
streets at such a late hour?” I wondered. There was only one answer
to this question: she was up to something wicked.

I thought of all the ways in which an elderly
woman could inflict harm on a man like myself. They were few, but
particularly vile. Most likely she had a weapon concealed beneath
her billowy rags—a rusty blade or an ancient revolver. Of all the
ways to leave this world, being murdered by a rickety old trout
would certainly be the most humiliating. I couldn’t allow for this
possibility, so after passing her I swung around, half-crouched,
poised to defend myself in any way necessary. I must have looked
rather foolish, for the old woman was hobbling away, an inch at a
time, neither wielding a weapon nor initiating an assault of any
other kind.

~

The extroverts of this world insist on
treating the introverts as though we have some pitiable disease
that can and must be cured. Why is it that they are considered the
normal ones and we the sick? Apparently it has been decided that a
good human is a gregarious one, and to keep to oneself is to commit
a sin of deplorable perversion.

How rare it is that a man speaks because he
actually has something to say; more often he opens his mouth only
to distract himself from the empty silence in his head. And, not
content with his own distraction, he finds it necessary to include
everyone else. Can’t I have my solitude, my peace? Absolutely not!
I must be a responsible citizen and revel in the clamor of
humanity.

But of course I cannot. Their language is
babble; their peals of laughter and wails of sorrow are no more
meaningful to me than the howlings of a wild animal. I hear, but I
cannot comprehend. But there is one thing that the extroverts, the
masses, should know: unlike them, I do not so insultingly insist on
“curing” their ways. No, my request is simple: I ask for nothing
more than to be left alone.

When a particularly wise thought surfaces in
my mind, it is not uncommon for it to be accompanied, or followed
shortly thereafter, by a thought of that wisest of all men, that
sage among simpletons, Arthur Schopenhauer. And here I am reminded
of these words of his:
A poet or philosopher
should have no fault to find with his age if it only permits him to
do his work undisturbed in his own corner, nor with his fate if the
corner granted him allows of his following his vocation without
having to think about other people
.

Well! What, then, am I to think of
my
age?

~

A new tenant has moved into the building.
Whoever it is has taken the basement apartment that had been vacant
for several months. It must be a man. Someone devious, no doubt.
Someone comfortable among cobwebs and accustomed to dank and dirty
air.

~

I went to the park by the lake today. It was
truly a summer scene. I almost felt happy to be human.

~

It is a young woman, not a man, who lives in
the basement. This is improper, to say the least. I have not yet
seen this woman, but I peered through the windows that stand just
above the ground and allow a little light into the subterranean
lair, and I glimpsed a sandal. It was small and pink, so I am
assuming that the owner is young and female. What is a girl doing
in such a place? I can’t imagine. Every time I enter the
building—through the back door, of course—I pass by the basement
apartment. I have to look down to fish the keys from my pocket, and
I am always watching my step, so I inevitably and accidentally see
into her room. I can only see two little rectangles of carpet and a
corner of her bed…two windows, quite literally, into her world.

~

I can hardly enjoy what I have because I am
perpetually tormented by the awareness of its inevitable
destruction. I fear the end of all things. If I find a good book
and manage to lose myself in its pages, it is only a matter of
minutes before I propel my thoughts forward in time to the day when
books cease to exist. I imagine the closure of all bookstores, the
death of all writers. If I am traveling and happen to stay at a
particularly hospitable and lovely hotel, I soon find myself
thinking about the demise of the hotel industry. There will be a
day, no doubt, when one cannot simply walk into a charming building
and reserve a room; when the simple pleasure of sitting on a
balcony and staring out over an enchanting city is no longer
possible; when riding an elevator down to a bustling lobby to sit
in an armchair and read the newspaper is forbidden. There will be a
day when leisure itself can no longer be afforded, when the human
race reverts back to an existence of survival. I know this to be
true, and though it may be waiting at some great distance in the
future, though it may be entirely irrational to think it will
affect me, I am consumed by anxiety at the mere thought of it. It
brings me disillusion and despair. I look upon the smiling face of
a child and see instead a grimacing old man.

~

I saw her on the stairs today. Older than I
thought; a full woman, she looked me right in the eye and smiled.
What is she doing in the basement? The whole time we were speaking
to each other (which wasn’t long, just hello, etc., goodbye) I was
asking myself this question. I wanted to ask her, but refrained out
of politeness. A gentleman, always.

Yes, she is older than I had imagined, and
prettier. She shouldn’t be wearing tiny pink sandals at her age,
but I can forgive her that.

In the evening, hours after meeting her, I
passed by her windows, those neat little rectangles barely peeking
above the ground; I looked down into her underground world, her
little box beneath the rest of us, and tried to catch a glimpse of
her. Just more evidence, though: a white blouse tossed carelessly
on the carpet, lying next to a paintbrush. An artist?

~

My neighbors exist merely as noises. I know
them only by their sounds. The alarm clocks buzzing in the morning;
the telephones ringing; the muffled voices reverberating through
the walls; footsteps knocking and creaking on my ceiling; doors
screeching open and slamming shut; windows sliding up and down;
silverware and dishes clanking.

I never see anyone. Since moving in, I have
only met two people, the underground girl and a man down the hall.
The rest of us are content with
assuming
each other’s existences.

~

My desk is in the corner of the room, wedged
between two windows. To my right I see treetops and rooftops, a
distant spire, greens and blues and grays. To my left is a dirty
wall, the side of the adjacent apartment complex.

I sit at my desk for hours and hours, with
paper laid out before me and a pen in my hand. I must write, but I
don’t yet know how. Sometimes I pour myself a glass of whiskey, for
this is what writers do. I’ve tried writing articles for the local
newspapers, but they don’t want my words. I can’t really blame
them: my essays lack conviction. Whatever it is that gives the
journalist his certainty, it is not something I possess. But I
still scribble in my own way…

~

This morning, as I left my apartment, I
passed a young girl sitting in the grass. Her legs were
crisscrossed beneath the billows of her linen skirt, and in her lap
rested a book. She had her head bowed, her eyes fixed fiercely on
the pages, and when I walked by she didn’t even flinch. No doubt
her book was more interesting than my existence. Perhaps she lives
in my building.

~

I underwent the most dreadful experience last
night: I went to a bar by myself. It seems that before setting out
on this little misadventure I failed to anticipate the pathetic
stench that inevitably attaches itself to such solitary pursuits. I
was made perfectly aware of it, however, once I arrived. The
bartender’s face assumed an awkward expression of insincere
empathy. The other people in the bar, all of them comfortable
members of a group, looked at me as one would look upon a man
dressed in women’s clothing. It was a good thing that I arrived
half-drunk, otherwise it would have been unbearable. I hastily
ordered a gin and tonic, then a second and a third. My shirt was
dappled with sweat. My head itched and my pants were too tight.
After the third drink I left the bar. I walked straight home,
wondering all the while what it was that had inspired me to do such
a thing.

~

Thank you, father, for the inheritance you
left me. You must have known that I wouldn’t be able to
earn
a living; you must have taken one look
at my face and said to yourself, “Now, here is an odd one! Surely
this creation of mine will be an incompetent little outcast. I must
provide for him well…”

And indeed you did. For what would I do if
forced to find a job? How could I go on living if I had to do it in
public, on a schedule, for a paycheck? I cringe at such thoughts; I
imagine a thousand different versions of myself—working models, so
to speak—men who function, men unfamiliar with the sweet scent of
obsolescence. My real self, however, is like an artifact uncovered
by an anthropologist. “What purpose could this have served?” he
will ask himself while brushing away the dust. But no matter how
carefully he turns me over in his hand, no matter how keen his eye
or penetrating his mind, he will find no answer to his
question.

~

This morning, through the basement window:
the corner of a rose-patterned blanket, a discarded white blouse, a
ruffled paperback.

I walked to the coffee shop on 12th Street,
next to the university. The woman behind the counter was
elaborately tattooed; to look at her was a challenge. I took my cup
of coffee outside and sat at a table on the sidewalk. There was a
group of students next to me. They had their books spread open
before them, their bags lying limply at their feet. One of them, a
gangly man-child with greasy hair, smoked a cigarette. I detested
every movement and sound he made.

I thought back to my days as a student.
Surely those were exciting times. I still had friends back then,
still had ambitions. I noticed the girls at the adjacent table;
they weren’t pretty, but they were
young
.
They were probably studying sociology or psychology, and in the
evening they would go to an art house to watch an enigmatic foreign
film. It is always difficult to imagine the parents of these
people.

After finishing my coffee I succumbed to that
strange and stultifying self-pity that comes with the realization
that one has absolutely nothing to do. I had no job to rush off to,
no meeting to attend, no friend to visit. There were books I could
read, but the weather was too pleasant and the natural surroundings
too beautiful to settle for a two-dimensional world of black and
white. Eventually, I decided to take a walk.

I strolled through the university, then down
Broadway until I reached Sorenson Park. Children danced in the
fountain while homeless men slept on elm-shaded benches. Two men in
tweed suits walked along a pebbled pathway. They spoke in low
voices and smoked cigars. I thought of Freud and Jung, Einstein and
Gödel. I longed to join them.

I soon grew tired of walking. The sun burned
through the clouds and turned its attention towards me. I was
overdressed and needed water. Instead of going straight home, which
would have taken at least an hour, I decided to sneak into a nearby
hotel. I sat in the lobby for several minutes before realizing that
I had been there before. Yes, as a boy I had stayed in the very
same hotel with my parents. This remembrance caused me to look
around the lobby with greater interest. “Perhaps I’ll stay the
night,” I told myself, but soon I realized the ridiculousness of
this idea. Instead, I walked down the marbled hallway from the
lobby to the bar and spent the rest of the afternoon sipping vodka
and grapefruit juice while listening to the recycled stories of the
sallow bartender.