"You know, once, I almost lost Hamlet in a department store. We were headed for the cafeteria on the sixth floor. Riding the escalators all the way up, time weakens to a tarrying drag between floors and matter becomes distanced from itself. All things metaphysical cease to exist, the gaze softens into space carrying the soul with it." |
Pyramid of Skulls, Paul Cézanne, 1901
What’s a lone jar of vitamins got to say to existential dread? Here’s what I would say. The sky is also around our feet. We prefer to think of it as above our heads. I wouldn’t get into that sort of stuff with just anyone, of course. These are the sort of things I say to Hamlet, my friend since high school. We’ve been having that sort of conversation since back then, where we reflect on life and try to outwit each other. He’s attention-seeking and anti-social all at the same time, but clever and really funny.
Say, I go to the bathroom at a friend’s housewarming party, Hamlet will ask if I am really about to bring this day on earth to a close in some guy’s living room, mixing my drinks, reaching for notes I have no hope in hell of hitting. I’ll say: That’s the whole point of karaoke, Hamlet. You could have stayed home. You don’t need to keep track of my drinks, thanks. On busy streets, I tell him, you can only walk as fast as the crowd. Over the years, though, I’ve learned to nip these discussions in the bud. After a point, I just stop answering.
So he sits on the bed in the spare room, on top of all the jackets, by way of making his point, while I sing It’s Raining Men with one friend and one person I know, a bit. I don’t mind the song really but I wouldn’t have chosen it. As I sing it, I wonder what they will do with all the extra men that rain down. It must be a lot of men that fall from the sky, no?
When I’m ready to go, I find Hamlet where I left him, talking intimately with some girl on her way home about his ex. He pretends he doesn’t notice me at first. She asks if he wouldn’t mind helping her find her jacket. She means, could he move from the bed. He asks if she’s sure she didn’t hang it in the hall? He turns to me smiling, says: I wasn’t myself earlier. I’ll walk you home.
You know, once, I almost lost Hamlet in a department store. We were headed for the cafeteria on the sixth floor. Riding the escalators all the way up, time weakens to a tarrying drag between floors and matter becomes distanced from itself. All things metaphysical cease to exist, the gaze softens into space carrying the soul with it. When I looked again, Hamlet was nowhere to be seen. I reached my arms out into the space ahead of me, where he had been standing just a moment before, in his black and green adidas samba, one hand holding the rail. It was a small static shock from the sleeve of my nylon cardigan that brought him back! At first he was shaken and tearful, but soon after insolent. He said: There’s more to me than just that one question, you know.
Say, I go to the bathroom at a friend’s housewarming party, Hamlet will ask if I am really about to bring this day on earth to a close in some guy’s living room, mixing my drinks, reaching for notes I have no hope in hell of hitting. I’ll say: That’s the whole point of karaoke, Hamlet. You could have stayed home. You don’t need to keep track of my drinks, thanks. On busy streets, I tell him, you can only walk as fast as the crowd. Over the years, though, I’ve learned to nip these discussions in the bud. After a point, I just stop answering.
So he sits on the bed in the spare room, on top of all the jackets, by way of making his point, while I sing It’s Raining Men with one friend and one person I know, a bit. I don’t mind the song really but I wouldn’t have chosen it. As I sing it, I wonder what they will do with all the extra men that rain down. It must be a lot of men that fall from the sky, no?
When I’m ready to go, I find Hamlet where I left him, talking intimately with some girl on her way home about his ex. He pretends he doesn’t notice me at first. She asks if he wouldn’t mind helping her find her jacket. She means, could he move from the bed. He asks if she’s sure she didn’t hang it in the hall? He turns to me smiling, says: I wasn’t myself earlier. I’ll walk you home.
You know, once, I almost lost Hamlet in a department store. We were headed for the cafeteria on the sixth floor. Riding the escalators all the way up, time weakens to a tarrying drag between floors and matter becomes distanced from itself. All things metaphysical cease to exist, the gaze softens into space carrying the soul with it. When I looked again, Hamlet was nowhere to be seen. I reached my arms out into the space ahead of me, where he had been standing just a moment before, in his black and green adidas samba, one hand holding the rail. It was a small static shock from the sleeve of my nylon cardigan that brought him back! At first he was shaken and tearful, but soon after insolent. He said: There’s more to me than just that one question, you know.
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Jennifer McCormack studied English and Art in Glasgow, Scotland. She lives in Malmo, Sweden now. This story is dedicated to Ronnie Renton, who introduced her to Hamlet.
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