Fiction in The Mad River

What did you find? Nothing, he said

Short story

Photo by Guillermo Álvarez on Unsplash

He lost his job in April on a Monday. He worked there for twelve years. They said his position was being eliminated. He walked out, drove home, ordered a pizza and finished a six pack and a quarter bottle of whiskey. He spent the first week doing nothing, eating and drinking and watching movies and lying in bed.

A deep rest.

The Monday after, he woke up hungover, put his headphones on and walked. To where? He didn’t know. He just found a path near his house and walked five miles and found a stream. The stream meandered at first but sped up to a climax, spilling over a drop, flowing downhill, twisting and turning and rippling under a major street, and he followed it to the other side and stopped and took a video and a few pictures, listening to the gurgling as it poppled through rocks. Something in the stream caught his eye.

Then it whispered to him.

He looked around to see if anyone else heard the whisper.

And he moved closer, down on all fours to hear it.

Nothing.

He stayed for a long time and walked away when he realized the whisper might have been a lie. As he walked away, he changed his mind and refused to believe the whisper was anything else but a lie. It was truth. He heard it, no doubt.

Later that night he began a poem about the stream and his feelings on the stream and its whisper. His first time writing in six years. He struggled to describe the feelings he had, and the feeling of the whisper. He could describe the rippling and the gurgling. But what did it say? He didn’t know. Maybe, that’s the poem, he thought. Maybe, the poem is exactly what I didn’t hear. If there was meaning, then I would have heard it. Right? Right? Is that how that works, I don’t know. But I know I heard a whisper; it wasn’t just the wind. It was trying to talk to me, there’s a message. And I’m going to write this poem. The poem will explain it.

He tried again.

Nothing came to him.

He walked the path every day and stopped beside the stream in the same spot. The stream said nothing to him. Within three months, he lost 25 pounds. He stopped drinking and walked the path and read and pondered life. He continued to write poetry, but he struggled to finish the poem about the stream. He also stopped looking for work. Instead, he took unemployment and calculated his savings to see how long he could live life like this after his benefits end.

One day he left the path early before the drop and walked to a café. Maybe, he thought, by leaving the path, the stream would talk to me again. Maybe I can force its will by avoiding it. How does that make sense? I don’t care. All I know is I will try to hear it’s voice by not being around it. It doesn’t have to make sense. A stream speaking anyways doesn’t make sense.

The café was large. Many people were in line, talking loud and sincerely about nothing in particular. Most of the seats were taken, but there were a couple couches by the fireplace in the corner next to a bookshelf, featuring local authors. He ordered a latte and a chocolate muffin. He walked fast with his coffee and muffin and took the seat that faced the fireplace and bookshelf.

An old coworker, dressed up for work, ordered her coffee and looked over at the back of his head. Her eyes lit up and she walked over.

“Charles?” she said in a quiet voice, but just loud enough for him to hear her and turn.

He turned around.

“Oh my,” she said. “It’s been so long.”

He stood up chewing the muffin and went to shake her hand.

“It has,” he said.

“We’re not strangers,” she said, walking to him and placing her coffee next to his, so she could hug him. “You’ve lost so much weight,” she said. “Oh my gosh, you’re like a different person.”

“Thank you,” he said, with a small smile to himself.

They both sat down.

“Do you mind? I don’t have a meeting until 11,” she said.

“I don’t mind at all.”

“What have you been up to? Where are you working?”

“I’m not,” he said, smiling.

“You’re still unemployed?”

“Yeah.”

He took a bite of his muffin. A video of the stream appeared in his mind — a slow zoom-in focusing on the portion where the stream tapped fast along the rocks, heading to the drop, in the background he could see the bridge and the major street and a woman walking her dog while talking on her phone.

“Are you okay?”

“Never been better,” he said, opening his eyes from the daydream.

“Wow,” she said. “I mean are you doing okay with not working?”

“Well,” he said. “I’m just not ready too, you know? I needed time, and I got it, and I want to use it as much as I can.

“How long is that?”

“Until next April,” he said. “I don’t know if I’ll go to April, but I might.”

“Is that when unemployment ends?”

“That’s when my savings are gone.”

“Wow,” she said, “you’re okay with doing that?”

“Yes.”

“Did you not get unemployment?”

“Yes,” he said, “but it ends let’s see… uhm… next week.”

“Why did you stop looking for work?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just lost all momentum, all energy.”

She said nothing and sipped her coffee.

A new video appeared in his mind. This time it was at the same place he normally stopped at. This time he saw an extreme close-up of the ripples and splashes from the moving water. It zoomed out on a newlywed couple taking pictures beside it, smiling and happy. The sun positioned in the perfect position so you can see the texture and shadow around them; however, the sounds of the major street beside the couple grew louder and louder and disrupted the scene completely, even the couple turned in collective horror to the noise.

And then he was back at the café.

“How’s work?”

“About that,” she said, “they filled your job.”

“That’s weird,” he said, “they said they were getting rid of the position.”

“They tried to,” she said. “They thought this new AI subscription could do all your work and more — and it worked for the first couple of weeks…or so they thought. But the nuances of the position, you know AI is just not there yet. The position is back, and they use both the AI and the person. I told them to call you again, but they refused.”

“That’s okay,” he said.

“I would be pissed,” she said.

“There’s no reason to be,” he said. “I’m gone; I don’t work there.”

She set her coffee back down and, in a light tone said, “I’m confused.”

“Don’t be. Honestly, I would have been pissed if I knew that was their plan the week I lost my job… but what am I going to do? That’s life. People lie. People twist the truth just to fit a narrative. Sometimes people end up just where they started. And in the past three months, I don’t exactly know where I’ve gone — but I know I feel better than what I used to feel. I don’t feel soulless. I still feel confused though, but I don’t think that’ll ever go away. And even though I don’t have a long-term plan, I feel confident that I guess things will be okay. That I’ll be fine. I’ll be okay.”

She raised an eyebrow and set her coffee down.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve only talked to my family on the phone in the past three months, that’s it. This is my first real conversation since working. I’m sorry for over-sharing.”

She sat back in her chair and they both looked at the ceiling and then back down at each other. He picked up his coffee and took a sip. A snapshot of the stream on a cloudy day appeared in his mind.

“To be honest,” she said, “at first, I was confused. A little worried about you. But now I’m kind of jealous. It seems like you’ve found some peace.”

“Yes, peace. I’ve found peace, but I’m going to be broke soon. I wouldn’t be jealous of a poor man, a man heading to nowhere,” he said, “but you know, I’d rather be broke then go back to the corporate world. I’d rather be like this then go to a meeting. No offense. That’s why I can’t go back. I’m here and I can’t go back. I feel sick every time I’m on LinkedIn or when I attempt to work on my resume or apply somewhere or create a cover letter or even think about the world outside. I can’t remember the last time I was on social media. Maybe I’m reading too much, maybe I’m spending too much time by myself. Maybe… I don’t know — I just wouldn’t be jealous of my situation.”

“You see,” she said, “that’s why I’m jealous. I’m too ingrained in it. All I think about is my career, my future, my money — nothing else. Everything revolves around something that I didn’t totally choose — so, I get it. It’s not real.”

“None of it is,” he said. “But please, don’t do what I’m doing. You should still play the game. And I should find a way to get back in.” He ran his hand through his beard and looked down.

“Don’t make a decision until April,” she said. “Don’t give in until you totally have to.”

He smiled.

“I’m serious. This is my first real conversation in a long time and I’m around people all day,” she said, “don’t give in until you totally have to. I promise you I won’t do the same thing as you — but I’ll support it from afar. But don’t give in too fast. Stay here and I’ll continue to work for a company that’ll throw me aside for a machine like they did to you. When that day comes, I’ll do the same as you, but without the beard.”

“If you ever grow one, don’t fight it,” he said.

“I won’t,” she said with a smile. She looked down at her phone. “But with that, I have a meeting to go to. It was nice seeing you.”

“It was nice seeing you as well.”

“Don’t give in.”

She got up and walked out. He stayed in the café for another 30-minutes and then he walked the same path.

“I am so lost,” he said to himself.

I am so lost, and I think that conversation confirms that. I’ve lost connection to the world. But she is right. Isn’t she right? She is right. She is. Continue like this until April. What’s the problem? I’m the problem.

I’m going in circles. I’m 16 again, reading every day and writing poems.

I’m in college again, reading every day and writing poems.

It’s all the same. And that’s who I am. The same. I’m failing myself. Aren’t I? So much self-loathing. So much hatred.

I just needed to disconnect. And now you are totally disconnected? Now what? What does it mean? Just walk along the stream, a path that turns and moves and drops and falls and ends in a park, it acts as a straightforward and easy path, but is it?

You are going in the same direction and always coming back.

“I’ll be 65,” he said aloud, “reading every day and writing poems. Just make it to April. Don’t lose that promise.”

He looked at the stream and heard the whisper clearly, and he finally understood how to end the poem, and he cried and cried and cried.

And he went home and never finished the poem.