The Secret Lives of Emails.docx (2 page)

Our naked man turned a sharp corner, quickly getting back up to full speed as his current road straightened out for a long stretch.

Then.

He ran face first into a brick wall.

Barriers

~

“Owww . . .”

Those were the first noises and thoughts of the naked man.
Yep
, he thought to himself,
that sound is just about perfect to describe the feelings I have. Both inside and outside my head
. He felt how he imagined lightning strike victims might feel—suddenly very aware of their surroundings. And in pain.

“Owww . . .”

He began to assess himself for the first time in his short life as he sat on his butt, hands on his head. He tried to think of what had led to this moment of pain. He remembered darkness.

More darkness.

Slightly darker darkness with just a hint of purple around the edges. Then pain.

He had a feeling in his chest that made him instinctively think of heartburn. He wasn’t entirely sure what heartburn was, and he didn’t know why he should have it, but it was there nonetheless. The naked man decided the feeling meant he was supposed to be doing something—something besides sitting on his butt holding his head.

Am I meant to be skipping down the middle of the street, in the rain, to inspirational music? Or should I be saving a cat from a tree for a tearful young child? Perhaps, I am supposed to be leaving my job in the middle of the day and going to a park. A park where dogs, instead of their owners, run after tennis balls. A park where the homeless don’t ask for change. There, I could have a chance encounter with the woman of my dreams when her dog comes running over to me instead of fetching her tennis ball. I would fall in love with this clothed woman, partly over our mutual love of Roxy. Roxy is the dog. Then, one of us, most likely me, would do something stupid, and we would have a PG-13 fight. The woman of my dreams would try to get on a flight to leave the city and start a new life in California, leaving Roxy at the pound to be put down. I would then violate airport security to convince her, forcefully if necessary, that I really did love her and that she should stay. We would retrieve Roxy, have a tearful reunion, and live happily ever after. Is this my life’s purpose?

No, that might seem like a good life to some, but it doesn’t seem quite right to me. I’m sure my purpose is much more grand.
I feel special. I feel different. Surely there is some reason for why I am here, in this moment in time, in front of this brick wall, and with this pain in my head. I just need to gather my thoughts so I can figure out what that purpose or reason is.

He didn’t know that thinking you are special is simply a symptom of being alive and aware of your surroundings. It doesn’t actually mean anything.

Despite not being conscious prior to the pain in his head, he did seem to understand some things instinctively. For example, never eat yellow snow; an apple a day keeps the doctor away, but not the dentist; and unless you’re an animal, the salad fork always goes on the far left when setting the table for a dinner party. He was also sure he wasn’t meant to have run into a brick wall.

He pulled his hands away from his face and glanced up at the impediment. It didn’t seem like much. Just a standard brownish brick wall as far as he could tell. It appeared to be well-grouted. Truly good workmanship. It went from floor to ceiling, wall to wall and left no gaps anywhere. Well, no gap except the one about two feet by two feet—with two feet sticking out of it.

Feet.

The feet looked standard as well; though unlike his, they wore a pair of sneakers and some black socks. The socks went to the knees, and everything above was left to the imagination as the remainder of the person disappeared into the wall. Surrounding the legs were other body parts that didn’t seem to belong to the feet. He stood up, walked over, and leaned down for a better look. He poked the back of a calf with his finger.

Hmmm . . . yes just standard feet, legs, and calves.

Standardly stuck in a wall with other bodies crammed around it.

Then, all at once, the feet kicked him in the nose. He fell back onto his butt again, uttering his favorite sound.

“Owww . . . ”

“ummghhth garunual miskowpo,” the feet said to him.

“I didn’t quite catch that. This sudden pain in my face is quite deafening,” mumbled the naked man from between his hands where he held his now bloody, throbbing nose.

“UMMGHHTH GARUNUAL MISKOWPO,” the feet said.

“Fine, but keep still.”

He walked back up to the hole; this time keeping his face well clear as he gripped the legs at the ankles. He pulled. Nothing happened.

“Iklsa edlse!”

“Well, I was trying. You seem to be in there pretty good. Is there a particular reason you are stuck like this?”

“GOSJDLEJF!”

“No need to talk like that. You don’t even know my mother. Just give me a second.”

He braced his feet against the bottom of the wall and leaning back pulled with all his weight at the kicking feet. With noise like the button flying off ill-fitting trousers, the legs came free, along with the individual attached to them. The person crashed into the naked man, and they both went tumbling across the ground. Clothed limbs tangled with naked ones as they both grunted and groaned to extricate themselves from what was fast becoming an awkward way to meet. The woman popped up first with an “umpfh.” She brushed herself off before deciding to lend a hand to the man, helping him onto his feet.

They stood across from each other silently.

The woman was dressed in tennis shoes, knee-high black socks, and a black skirt with a button-up white shirt, only half buttoned. She was an inch or two shorter than the man but seemed to stand taller as she looked the man up and down.

The man, as I may have mentioned, wore nothing.

“You’re naked,” the newly-pulled-from-a-hole-in-a-wall-woman nonchalantly said to the naked man.

“You’re welcome,” said the naked man with an air of satisfaction.

“Excuse me?” said the woman with unmistakable anger quickly coming into her voice. Unmistakable, that is, to anyone but someone who had literally just been born.

“I said you’re welcome. Who knows how long it’s been for you.”

“How long what’s been?”

“You know, how long before I came along.” He shook his head at the seeming strangeness of this conversation. “Seems to me like you’re awfully lucky I found you.”

“Lucky? Lucky that you found me?”

“Ummm . . . yes. Listen, are you likely to continue like this? With the constant questions I mean. It’s just that our conversation doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, and I actually have questions of my own.”

“See here, you little newb. You don’t know me. You don’t know how many naked men I’ve seen or why. Call me lucky. I didn’t need rescuing from some man, let alone a naked one.”

“I didn’t say anything about rescuing you, and I don’t know what being naked has to do with any of this, or why you feel the need to tell me about how many naked men you’ve seen. However, now that you mention it, I don’t think you can argue the point that you needed rescuing. I’d think you’d be grateful to me, and yet all I’ve gotten out of this encounter so far is a bloody nose. And a headache.”

“I can give you more than a bloody nose if you would like,” she said, clenching her fists. It was the universal sign that she was ready to punch something, and even the naked man should’ve been able to read that signal. “I was talking about the number of naked men I’ve seen because you are now on that list,” she added.

“It’s a list, is it? I wonder how long that list is. Well . . . one second, did you say naked?”

“Yes. You’re naked.”

“Am I?” It now occurred to the man that perhaps the oddness of this conversation was his fault. He was beginning to feel a breeze in places where breezes are reserved for special occasions.

Upon closer examination of himself, he saw that he was, in fact, quite naked. Not just a little naked, like Oscar dresses, but all the way naked, like some Oscar dresses. Our naked man was sure that this was not how someone carried themselves in polite company, and he rushed to cover himself. He found nothing in his immediate vicinity with which to do that, so he settled for an uncomfortable slight twist of the leg and a suddenly inadequate placement of his hands.

“You really didn’t know you were naked?” she asked.

“I guess not. I’m not really sure of much to be honest,” he said, half to himself. He had turned a particular shade of red, which some people might call Lotus Rouge. I would call those people pretentious.

“Well, I have a bag of clothes somewhere around here,” she said as she glanced around them. She went over and grabbed a backpack, which was on the ground next to some dead bodies that lay against the brick wall. She tossed it over to the man. “Here. You should be able to find something in there.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. If there is one thing I am always willing to do, it’s to help naked people find clothes to put on.”

The man quickly rummaged through the bag and pulled out a plaid skirt, slipping it on.

“A skirt? Interesting choice,” she said with a slight grin.

“Why is it interesting? You’re wearing one.”

“Anyways, I’m Brittany,” she said with a shake of her head.

“Uhhh . . .” he said while sliding on a black leather jacket. “I seem to be having difficulty recalling anything prior to running into this wall. I’m not sure what my name is to be honest.”

“It’s Emal. That’s what’s written on your chest.”

Emal opened the jacket again, and sure enough, printed on him were the letters E M A L. There appeared to be space for another letter, and perhaps there had been more writing below that, but everything except EMAL had been covered with blood from his nose. He wiped at it with a different shirt from Brittany’s bag, and whatever else might have been there came off.

“Hmm . . . I suppose that sounds right. Well, nice to meet you, Brittany,” Emal said, reaching out to shake her hand. This was one of those instinctual things he was sure he was supposed to do when meeting new people.

“I think we are a little past formalities, don’t you?” Brittany said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “I make a policy of not shaking hands with people I’ve already seen naked.” She grabbed her bag from Emal, and pulled out a small notepad from one of its pockets. Brittany jotted a few quick notes while glancing back at the brick wall. She stuffed the notepad back in its place, closed the bag up, and slung it on her shoulders. “Well, I’ve had a great time; I think we shall be fast friends, and now I’m going to be off,” Brittany said, while brushing past him.

“Actually, I’m not really—”

“Great, glad that’s settled. We’ll be seeing you,” Brittany said with a little wave over her shoulder as she started moving briskly down the tube. If he really thought about it, Emal might have realized that she was walking away from him as fast as she could, but he didn’t really think about it. About a hundred feet back from the brick wall, the tube came to a four way intersection. She stopped in the middle and briefly looked in all directions.

“Ummm,” Emal said in her direction, as loudly as one can say ummm, which is surprisingly not very loud. Go ahead, try it.

“Yep, no problem. We’ll be . . .” Brittany said, trying to make her voice sound as if it was fading away. She turned right and disappeared.

Emal briefly wondered if perhaps he should chase after her. She hadn’t really seemed to be looking for company now that he thought about it, but he had the rather large problem of not really knowing where the hell he was, what he was doing here, or how to get where he didn’t know he needed to go.

This is actually a major problem everywhere these days. Lots of people tend to sit around wondering what they are doing, what they might be doing instead of what they’re currently doing, and how to get to where they are pretty sure they need to go. They typically wait for something or someone to happen to them rather than decide for themselves. Mostly, they end up dying of boredom or diabetes in front of the television and then are eaten by cats. People being eaten by felines has become such a problem that the government proposed a neighborhood watch program to keep an eye on the number of cats coming and going from people’s homes to determine who has died. The theory, of course, being that the more cats visiting a home, the more likely they were to be eating someone and not there for a pleasant visit. While a well-intended program, it ultimately failed because no one wanted to work the crazy hours of 3rd shift, which is when cats normally perform their eating of diabetic limbs.

Emal waited for something to happen as he stared down the tube. He was no longer that innocent, naked man running through the tubes with reckless abandon. Although, he had never actually known he was that man.

It occurred to Emal now that he was all alone, and he felt the weight of that loneliness pressing down on his brain.