"I wasn’t meant to become something more glamorous and popular like lead singer or drummer. Since my early childhood, I’ve always been opting for the emptiest room at the few parties that I’ve attended while sometimes, I took out my notebook and began to scribble my stream of thoughts, oblivious to the social interplay that took place around me." |
René Magritte, Golconda, 1953
As I press the button to call the elevator down, I mentally recite the words I need to tell my prospective employer who resides in his fifth-floor office presumably having better things to do than listening to my spiel that I presume smells so strongly of incompleteness and desperation. I’ve been in between jobs for the last two years, occasionally doing an odd job for a magazine or a newspaper as a freelance journalist. The man I’m about to see is the chief editor of an esteemed cultural journal and since entertainment is my beat, I thought that it wouldn’t hurt to reach out to him even though the odds of hiring me were definitely against me.
As I’m slowly lifted upwards, I notice a faint soundtrack whose aura—Ι find myself wondering if it is one of the ethereal compositions by Brian Eno--is supposed to function as a tranquilizer to settle the strung nerves of the individuals who visit the building. Its soothing effect has an impact on me and as I gradually begin to relax, I am transported back in time to my years in college as a bachelor's student of Sociology. I remember a conversation I had with one of my few friends who told me that he could envision me playing the bass in a rock band, meaning that I was the type of guy who preferred to lurk in the background and despised the limelight in any form or fashion. I wasn’t meant to become something more glamorous and popular like lead singer or drummer. Since my early childhood, I’ve always been opting for the emptiest room at the few parties that I’ve attended while sometimes, I took out my notebook and began to scribble my stream of thoughts, oblivious to the social interplay that took place around me.
My solitary predisposition became apparent each time I came closer to somebody and the vast majority of the people whose company I’ve entertained throughout my lifetime considered me a voluntary loner. Of course, my reclusive character also affected my love life, rendering me overly shy with the girls and women I fancied and largely reducing my success rate with the members of the opposite sex. The friend who made the bass comment later tagged me with a nickname that encapsulated the essence of my social awkwardness and introversion: “Jim the ambient.” I suspect that my past social circles flew around more monikers of mine, much less kind and well-meaning than the one coined by my buddy, but I wouldn’t want to delve into traumas of the past right now.
Nevertheless, there has been an upside to my social diffidence. Even though I rarely opened up to them, other people tended to trust me with their secrets and innermost thoughts. There was a time when I enjoyed thinking of myself as a little redeemer for my (hoped-for) buddies, the person who knows how to listen and digest their problems and dilemmas, then providing his well-considered take on their struggles. On the rare occasions when I talked, I was heard. It was that particular trait that made me see writing as the most reasonable choice for me to let out in the open the musings, feelings, and concerns that tormented me since time immemorial. I’m today inclined to believe that in my life, I have never trusted another human being so much as I did the blank page.
As I’m pondering all the above in a matter of seconds, I realize that I’ve forgotten about the background elevator music. I guess that’s the point. Listen only when you want to, the external stimuli never getting the chance to invade your privacy and solitude. This, otherwise trivial, incident which would have gone unnoticed if my stress levels had been higher, impels me to change my plans regarding the upcoming discussion with the chief editor who is rumored to be ill-mannered, borderline rude, especially towards new journalists with zero experience in the field.
As I reach the fifth floor and exit the elevator, I walk with small steps toward the chief editor’s office. I knock at the door with the name T. Thompson on it two times and wait. A few seconds pass and then I hear a hoarse voice calling me in. I should feel nervous, but I don’t. I pass him over my thin resume, and he sets it aside without even looking at it. He looks me straight in the eye and asks me what I aspire to contribute in today’s ever-shifting landscape of journalistic writing. I retort:
“Mr. Thompson, I’m 36 years old and throughout my life I’ve been nothing more than a listener, an absorber. An absorber of ideas, characters and distinctive temperaments, intense emotions that lurk behind calm facades, everyday torments and faltered relationship dynamics. What I crave most is the chance to finally externalize, and make my own mark through writing, Don de Lillo has said ‘We’re all one beat away from becoming elevator music.’, meaning that writing, regardless of its massive potential, tends to be incorporated into the background, the white noise. The neutralized written word, that’s our era in a nutshell. If you are willing to give me a chance, I will do what I never did until today. Oppose, expose, and reproach those for whom this white noise is an indispensable tool. I will say no more. I hope that my message is clear in all its fervor.”
He says nothing and stares at me for what seems like a long time. Then, he sits up from his chair and comes closer. He says:
“You’re in kiddo. Make the most of the opportunity I give you. I like you.”
And so, this was the first time that I asserted myself in a sanguine manner. A true manifesto. I step out of the office and walk with confident steps to the elevator. I wonder what tune it will play now.
As I’m slowly lifted upwards, I notice a faint soundtrack whose aura—Ι find myself wondering if it is one of the ethereal compositions by Brian Eno--is supposed to function as a tranquilizer to settle the strung nerves of the individuals who visit the building. Its soothing effect has an impact on me and as I gradually begin to relax, I am transported back in time to my years in college as a bachelor's student of Sociology. I remember a conversation I had with one of my few friends who told me that he could envision me playing the bass in a rock band, meaning that I was the type of guy who preferred to lurk in the background and despised the limelight in any form or fashion. I wasn’t meant to become something more glamorous and popular like lead singer or drummer. Since my early childhood, I’ve always been opting for the emptiest room at the few parties that I’ve attended while sometimes, I took out my notebook and began to scribble my stream of thoughts, oblivious to the social interplay that took place around me.
My solitary predisposition became apparent each time I came closer to somebody and the vast majority of the people whose company I’ve entertained throughout my lifetime considered me a voluntary loner. Of course, my reclusive character also affected my love life, rendering me overly shy with the girls and women I fancied and largely reducing my success rate with the members of the opposite sex. The friend who made the bass comment later tagged me with a nickname that encapsulated the essence of my social awkwardness and introversion: “Jim the ambient.” I suspect that my past social circles flew around more monikers of mine, much less kind and well-meaning than the one coined by my buddy, but I wouldn’t want to delve into traumas of the past right now.
Nevertheless, there has been an upside to my social diffidence. Even though I rarely opened up to them, other people tended to trust me with their secrets and innermost thoughts. There was a time when I enjoyed thinking of myself as a little redeemer for my (hoped-for) buddies, the person who knows how to listen and digest their problems and dilemmas, then providing his well-considered take on their struggles. On the rare occasions when I talked, I was heard. It was that particular trait that made me see writing as the most reasonable choice for me to let out in the open the musings, feelings, and concerns that tormented me since time immemorial. I’m today inclined to believe that in my life, I have never trusted another human being so much as I did the blank page.
As I’m pondering all the above in a matter of seconds, I realize that I’ve forgotten about the background elevator music. I guess that’s the point. Listen only when you want to, the external stimuli never getting the chance to invade your privacy and solitude. This, otherwise trivial, incident which would have gone unnoticed if my stress levels had been higher, impels me to change my plans regarding the upcoming discussion with the chief editor who is rumored to be ill-mannered, borderline rude, especially towards new journalists with zero experience in the field.
As I reach the fifth floor and exit the elevator, I walk with small steps toward the chief editor’s office. I knock at the door with the name T. Thompson on it two times and wait. A few seconds pass and then I hear a hoarse voice calling me in. I should feel nervous, but I don’t. I pass him over my thin resume, and he sets it aside without even looking at it. He looks me straight in the eye and asks me what I aspire to contribute in today’s ever-shifting landscape of journalistic writing. I retort:
“Mr. Thompson, I’m 36 years old and throughout my life I’ve been nothing more than a listener, an absorber. An absorber of ideas, characters and distinctive temperaments, intense emotions that lurk behind calm facades, everyday torments and faltered relationship dynamics. What I crave most is the chance to finally externalize, and make my own mark through writing, Don de Lillo has said ‘We’re all one beat away from becoming elevator music.’, meaning that writing, regardless of its massive potential, tends to be incorporated into the background, the white noise. The neutralized written word, that’s our era in a nutshell. If you are willing to give me a chance, I will do what I never did until today. Oppose, expose, and reproach those for whom this white noise is an indispensable tool. I will say no more. I hope that my message is clear in all its fervor.”
He says nothing and stares at me for what seems like a long time. Then, he sits up from his chair and comes closer. He says:
“You’re in kiddo. Make the most of the opportunity I give you. I like you.”
And so, this was the first time that I asserted myself in a sanguine manner. A true manifesto. I step out of the office and walk with confident steps to the elevator. I wonder what tune it will play now.
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Dimitris Passas is a freelance writer and the editor of the online magazine Tap the Line, in which he reviews books, movies, and TV series while also featuring articles, news, and Q+As with authors and artists. His academic background includes bachelor studies in sociology and a master’s degree in philosophy. His short and flash fiction can be found in various literary magazines such as 34th Parallel, The RavensPerch, Asylum Magazine (UK), A Thin Slice of Anxiety and several others.
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