The doors to the subway slide open. A horde of nameless, faceless, people makes their way to their predestined seats. I’m the only one not in a hurry. By chance, I find myself sitting alone in the furthest corner from the entrance. This has to be the first time in my life I’ve ever not been in a hurry, who cares? I’m not going anywhere. I pull my headphones out of my pocket and start my least favorite playlist. The cold glass feels like an electric current as I rest my forehead on the window nearest me. I check my watch, and it’s later than I hoped. It’ll be at least an hour ride back to my house, including the walk up West 32nd street. My eyes drift from my watch to the spot at the base of my wrist. The numbers “7665” are marked in a color just a shade lighter than the rest of my skin. For about 7635 days it was easy to ignore. Right now, those numbers might as well be on fire.
When your number is about to be up, it puts a lot of things in perspective.
I always assumed that my parents cried when they found out. What did the Doctor say? “Your son has exactly 20 years of life in him, and then, who knows?” It’s hard not to be bitter towards all these people around me that have twice the amount of time I do. It’s so unfair it makes me sick. Right in front of me on this very train, there’s a drunk couple. They’re having the time of their lives. There’s an old woman sitting alone to my right, it’s kind of funny: the word old will never apply to me. I won’t be around long enough.
I look down at my phone and there’s no notifications. I pull my headphones out of my ears and can’t help but laugh. They seemed like a good idea. I thought I would put them in and drown my thoughts out with loud angry music. Right now it seems like a waste of time. I start listening to ambient noise aboard the train. It appears that the drunk couple has just left their coworkers wake. The soon to be deceased host of the party got so drunk he couldn’t finish his speech. One of his friends had to pry the note cards out of his hands. All the cards said were “Lying fart, recycled hardon, and free drinks.” They’ve been laughing about this for the past ten minutes.
Coincidentally I also just left my own wake. This is the first and last I have ever attended one. From what I have heard the average attendance is about seventy people. Ranging from family, coworkers, neighbors, and friends. This number shrinks and grows depending on how long your number happens to be. I didn’t get drunk, or pass out. I told everyone thanks for coming and just ended up hiding in my parents bathroom. I couldn’t even look at half the people. They would come up so oblivious and congratulate me. That’s sadistic. I notice a few people that couldn’t look me in the eye. I always wondered what a wake would be like, it seems natural that the day before a person dies that a celebration would be held in their honor. Now that I’ve just attended my own, it seems extremely unnatural.
No one with as little time as I do really likes to talk about it. Least of all people was me. This is the first time I’ve even really allowed myself to think about it. Death has always been at my fingertips, so to speak. It could be much worse. I once heard that in China if you’re going to die before you’re 21 they put you in a work camp until the day you die. In Sweden it’s the opposite, everyone with a high number of their wrist works until they’re past 8000 days, then the government gives everyone whatever they want until their last meal. I guess that’s a good reimbursement for forced labor.
I never really questioned America’s structure; it seemed fair, for the most part. Everyone privileged enough to live past 21 is required to go to school, get a job, and suffer in the “real world”. Any number lower than that and it’s up to whomever it may concern. Some people say I wasted my time going to school and having a job. I fought tooth and nail with my parents to be educated. This is something that I’ve actually thought about that a lot. Would I have been better off coasting? Drifting along aimlessly, collecting wellness of life checks until my wake. No is the poetic answer. I may have done the same monotonous work as people that will live twice and three times my age, but at least I can read.
But, then again how much of a difference did it make? An education, a job, late nights and early mornings are hardly a participation prize. Through all of that suffering, my life has amounted to an hourlong wake. Inside of a depressing room of about nine people that were either too nice to say no to an invitation from my persistent parents. The alternative being a group of people too oblivious to understand that these sort of things shouldn’t be celebrated.
At the time, it made sense. I don’t have an eternity to live life. I wanted to be as normal and carefree as everyone else appeared. Now I could careless about if I wasted my time, instead I wonder how much of my time I’ve wasted. It’s funny all the small things I’ve come to regret. All I wanted to do was fit in and be treated normally, but feeling human has always been a struggle. I’ve spent my whole life walking a trail that leads straight to the edge of a cliff, with everyone pretending I’m never going to arrive and the seconds before I get there, they celebrate my short life with a boring wake.
It is at this moment my mind looks back. I can’t help but remember the most irrelevant things. My first and only guitar. The sound it has made in my closet for the past three years is better than anything I ever produced with it. My neighbor’s annoying orange cat. It would always scratch on my window in the middle of the night. I never knew what it was looking for but I guess it thought I had it. Amidst all the random memories my train of thought derails. It’s her.
It’s always been her. My heart was ignited in my chest the first time I saw her. Her image branded in my mind, the sight of her standing there was breathtaking. We were young, I saw her from a car I wasn’t driving. Through the rain I saw her figure, and it was swaying like a defiant candle in the pouring rain. She was so alive, and at the time I couldn’t begin to understand the correlation. She stood five feet or less away from the dry and covered bus stop. From where she danced she was five feet away from having dry socks, a place to sit, and worst of all, being safe. To her, it’s the small battles that changed the war. She inspired me. Right now, more than ever.
The things that have made me feel the most alive, they weren’t monotonous or safe. They were the things I knew the least about, or maybe even feared. At first, anyways. In all my life I have never felt more alive than being with her. That made me feel human and like I was a part of something. The fear, excitement, anticipation, and eventually the familiarity. It all came from a place of mystery that grew into intimacy.
Before now, maybe even right before this very second, I would have regretted meeting her. I used to look back on having my heartbroken and wallow in self pity. Now that I’m at the end of my rope it seems like having a broken heart is the only thing that makes me feel human. Like I accomplished something in the real world. I guess that’s what pain is for, it’s a reminder to keep fighting. Few things hurt more than being told you won’t live long enough to be worth falling in love with.
Somewhere there might be a place where the grand mystery is when and how a person dies. I’m finally realizing that my entire life is the mystery. Just because I’ve known when my time is coming, doesn’t mean my life was predetermined. I don’t know what is going to happen after tomorrow. That’s terrifying but also oddly comforting. My whole life I’ve been defined by knowing when I was going to die. Society focuses so closely on when it’s going to happen, that I don’t think many people focus on what they’re doing, or how they’re living their life until that day comes. I may only have a few hours left until my time comes, but I think that’s enough to make a difference.
The train makes its way to my stop. I pick up my things and head to the doors. The old lady sitting to my right tells me I’ve left something in my seat. It’s a Hallmark card one of my coworkers gave me at my wake earlier tonight. I can’t help but laugh at the idea of a card with kittens on it that is so specifically tailored to my situation. I leave the train stop and look Westward towards my home. Folding the card away in my pocket, I head East.