Jules stared up at the ceiling. The house was dark and quiet. The emptiness seemed to pulse through the walls. Jules kept thinking he was missing something. A few hours earlier, he’d considered taking a bath for the first time in years. A hot soak. Instead, he chose to read a few stories by Adam Haslett. These were stories of disconnection. People that needed help. The characters interacted with rare empathy. The stories mined the psyche and found hope for even the most melancholic. He’d read the collection 20 years earlier, when he was on the cusp of retirement. The characters in Haslett’s stories had remained with Jules for years afterward.
His friend Eugene had given him the book as a birthday gift. It was a slim volume. Less than 200 pages, but those pages contained that ineffable quality, unique to literary fiction. The sense of entering another’s consciousness and confronting the questions of illness and death.
Maybe that’s what kept Jules from sleeping. The stories pushed Jules to acknowledge death wasn’t far away. He didn’t think it was waiting for him around the corner, but how could one ever know? Especially when reminders of mortality were everywhere.
Reading existential literary fiction was best done in the morning hours, with coffee and sunlight. Jules always seemed to forget this fact.
Finally, he got up and shuffled over to the bathroom, flipping the lights on. He sat down to pee and then got up and stood at the sink. He leaned in and saw himself in the mirror.
The crow’s feet around his eyes cawed at him. How had the lines of his face become so deeply grooved? His eyebrows spiked silver and black in all directions. He hadn’t trimmed them in forever. The map of his forehead took him in all directions. All of the years of surprise and consternation, the eyebrows moving up and then down, the skin above stretching and loosening. He traced those lines with his fingertip, moving out from the center toward his temples.
The permanent bags under his still lively hazel eyes told sleepless tales. How many nights had he struggled to rest? Strung together miles of thoughts, one puzzle after the next. Jules yawned with a primordial exhaustion. The unexamined life wasn’t worth living. He lived an examined life and his restless mind never stopped insisting on more examinations. Jules stopped the negative train of thoughts. He splashed cool water on his face, dried off, and looked again, with an intentionally optimistic approach.
His forehead lines showed the decades of curiosity, not overthinking and anxiety. The marks around his eyes showed years of laughter, the tiny muscles crinkling the skin around the edges, not from squinting to see as his vision diminished and the sun’s glare complicated his sight. A slow smile crept across his face. He’d made it this far. Why not enjoy the rest?
Jules ambled back to bed and managed to sleep for a few hours. The alarm clock entered his strange dream at 6:30. During the end of that sleep, Jules was imagining his friend Eugene, living out his retirement with Tony, his partner.
While waiting for the coffee, Jules scooped out some strawberry yogurt and tossed in a few almonds and sunflower seeds. Ruby kept ordering more nuts and seeds. Jules was used to peanuts and cashews. Almonds made him extra thirsty. Sunflower seeds reminded him of baseball players.
Jules shuffled over to the computer. He wondered about his old friend. Eugene had always been a kind soul. A charming man who was attracted to mean, hyper-analytical guys. He was the prototypical “I will save you” partner. When Eugene married Tony, Jules worried about him. Tony was cold and calculating, but also impulsive and erratic. An enigmatic combo. Jules prided himself on reading others instinctually. Tony was as openly guarded as anyone he’d ever met. A closed book.
After meeting Tony, Jules told Eugene to be careful. Tony had convinced Eugene to retire early, though Eugene had been dreaming about it for years.
Jules decided to write Eugene an email.
Subject: Haslett
Hey Eugene,
I’m thinking of you because I picked up that collection of short fiction by Adam Haslett. The one you gave me for a birthday gift back in 2003. It’s a remarkable collection. The stories have a penetrating quality. I read two last night and I couldn’t sleep. I’m not blaming you! It’s as if Haslett’s superpower is his ability to confront the pain most of us try to minimize or ignore. He’s clearly known deep rivers of sadness and come out the other side. And here I am, old Jules at 83, starting to wonder about the other side of this thing we call life. I know it’s probably the deep dark abyss of outer space. Or it’s nothing at all. No heaven or hell. Just the end of our senses. We are sentient beings… at least some of us!
Anyway, I hope your inn is filled with guests and Tony is kind to you. I know you’re using him for his math smarts and accounting and he’s using you for your hosting charm and muscular physique! Joking! I’m a little wired due to the lack of sleep.
If you’re ever coming down to Santa Barbara, let me know.
Your Friend, Jules