Sisyphean

Reyes Battaglia

Every once in a while I figure things can’t possibly get worse. I regret it every time, of course, because they always do.

Skrrt. Shit. I had my foot slamming the gas pedal to the floorboard like it was some kind of bug I was trying to squash, and yet I could see through the side-view mirror that all I was doing was kicking mud up behind me and digging my rear tires even further into the wet hillside. Although the storm had calmed down and only a few occasional drops of rain were plopping themselves heavily onto my windshield, the dirt road was still more of a mud road.

After a few more useless revs of the engine, I just gave up. I defeatedly twisted the key into the off position and let out an involuntary cry of frustration—something in between a growl and a full-on scream as I white-knuckle gripped the steering wheel and shook it back and forth so hard I started to get worried I’d pull it straight off. Once that energy started to falter I groaned quietly, my forehead falling onto the top of the wheel.

I sat there in silence for a while, just thinking. Don’t ask me what I was thinking about, because I really don’t know. Maybe I was thinking about what my next options were, but honestly, I was probably just cursing everything. Myself, for not preparing for this scenario. The car, for being a shitty old beater. The hill, for being wet. This black hole of a town, for somehow not leaving me alone even after I thought I had finally escaped it.

My frustration was slowly turning back into despondency. It would’ve probably looked like a mood swing from the outside, with how suddenly that energy disappeared, but the truth is it was the same emotion. The adrenaline might’ve faded, but nothing had actually changed.

I reached over and grabbed the small black card I was handed at the wake, twirling it in between my fingers. There were little white flowers printed on the front of it and the text was in the blandest possible serif font. I guess it made sense, given the occasion, but it was depressingly bleak. Our relationship was complicated, to put it mildly—but I couldn’t help but feel that maybe if my mom was still here then there’d at least be someone in this town to keep me company, and I wouldn’t be in such a rush to drive uphill on the only goddamn road out of it. Although maybe if that was the case, I’d just end up trapped in that same cycle again and this time I’d never bring myself to leave. I didn’t want to get too deep in that thought.

I yanked up the parking brake and stepped out of the car, dejectedly slamming the door behind me. I looked down upon the little town at the base of the hill. I think it was a mining town or something, back in the day—tucked away in the middle of a bunch of nothing, with rocky hills on all sides. My mom used to call it an egg in a bird’s nest. To me it looked more like an exhumed grave.

The sun was setting, and I was already exhausted. Cold. Hungry. I looked back at the car. I could’ve slept in there, I guess, but… I just didn’t want to. Would it have been a better idea? Maybe. Cheaper, and it’d keep me focused on the task of getting the hell out of this town as soon as possible. But, Christ. I was already having a bad enough day—a bad enough week, month, year. Right now, all I wanted was a bed, some food, a TV or god forbid some Wi-Fi. Anything at all to distract myself with. I didn’t really think I had earned a break like that, but once the thought entered my head I wasn’t strong enough to resist it.

I locked up the car and pulled my hood over my head, ready to make the trek back to the only motel in town. I considered trying my best to see if it would be able to drive downhill, but I didn’t want to risk digging my car even deeper into the mud if I couldn’t spin around it in time. Plus, I figured if I left the car on the hill it’d be like an anchor tying my mind to it—something to make sure I at least kept trying to leave come morning.

The walk to the motel was boring. The night was boring. I laid there in that 1970’s-era bed, just rotting. It did feel good, kind of. I was doing exactly what I was hoping I’d be doing: distracting myself, until I eventually fell asleep. Watching whatever public access was on the TV, pulling the covers over my jeans because I didn’t plan on needing a change of clothes (and like hell was I going to get in this bed with anything less on), feeling the space heater that made the entire room smell a bit like burnt caramel. Everything was just slightly subpar.

- - -

I think I finally fell asleep a lot later than I had realized, because I didn’t wake up until nearly 3 P.M. the next day, and I couldn’t bring myself to stop marinating in that bed until at least 4:30. And by then, well. It was already starting to get dark, and cold, and the clouds looked kind of dark like maybe it was possible it could start raining again—so I couldn’t just go get my car right now, could I? Well, clearly, I would just have to stay here a while longer. It wasn’t my choice not to try, the circumstances just forced my hand.

That was how the staged conversation I had with myself in my head went, anyways. It was like a play in which I was both actors. Actually, there was one more voice in that conversation—a voice that felt almost silent even though it was trying to shout at the top of its lungs. “Don’t acknowledge him,” the louder voice in my internal conversation said to me. “If you don’t make eye contact, you can keep pretending you didn’t hear him.”

The door to my motel room led right out to the parking lot, so I zipped my hoodie up and I just started walking. I wished there was a bar or something in this town, but it was far too small for that. I mean, we did have one, but that wasn’t the kind of bar I meant. I didn’t really want to open a hookup app or anything either, because at best it’d be nothing but either DL married men’s faceless torsos or awkward reunions with the one or two out boys who I hadn’t seen since high school. That was, assuming they hadn’t hightailed it out of here years ago the same way I did. At the end of the day, I don’t think I even really wanted to hook up with anyone—not right now, of all times. I was just craving something to do.

The parking lot was connected to the main road where the vast majority of the commercial stuff in town was. Right across the street there was a movie theater I recognized, with the bookstore next to it. I knew all these sights fairly intimately. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to watch a movie, or that I didn’t like books. In fact, both would’ve probably been great ways to kill the time. But, it was just…

“...What the hell am I even doing?”

I avoided eye contact with the voice in my head saying that once again.

I kept walking down the main road as the sun set a little bit more. There were very few other people out and about at this time of day. The sky wasn’t dark yet, but the hills surrounding the town always cast the entire thing in shadow by dusk. Eventually I ended up stumbling into that one bar we did have in town, because by now I just needed some alcohol in my system.

“Woah,” is what I swear I saw the bartender mouth to himself the moment I walked in. I guess I couldn’t blame him—I was trying my best to look presentable, but my disposition wasn’t exactly “sunny”, at least not right now. I couldn’t tell if I recognized the bartender—he was definitely a good bit older than me, but not quite my mom’s age either. I had probably seen him around once or twice, but I moved before I was of drinking age, so I never had much of a chance to get familiar.

“Sorry for interrupting your break, man,” I lightly joked as I sat down at the bar. There was almost nobody else around; it was 5 P.M. on a Monday. I just got a rum and coke and paid with cash.

“No worries,” he shot back, somewhere between the practiced friendliness that sells alcohol and a genuine reassurance. He made my simple drink extremely quickly, having it down to a science. “A few of the regulars usually start coming in soon anyways, so I had to get off my ass eventually. Speaking of which… You new in town, or something?”

I shook my head as I was taking the first sip of my drink. “No, I, uh, used to live here. I got stuck because of the rain, but it was supposed to just be a brief visit.”

A small moment of realization made the bartender’s eyes widen. “Wait, were you here for…?”

A pregnant pause followed as the muscles in my throat pushed down the second sip much more forcefully. “...Yeah,” I said, as if I was being forced to respond. “I was her son.”

The bartender’s eyebrows arched upward in empathy. “Oh, man, I’m so sorry.” He briefly shot a poorly-hidden glance at the glass in my hand. “…Go easy on yourself, yeah?”

I nodded while avoiding eye contact. “I’ll be fine, promise.” Christ, this got depressing fast. Didn’t I come here to distract myself?

I heard a sound and looked around to see the first other human beings entering the bar since I had a few minutes earlier. It was a man and a woman about my age, together on what was probably an after-work date given the time of day and the man’s business-casual outfit. A quick glance at their hands revealed matching wedding rings, of course. That type of thing was common here—you play by the rules, you start a little white-picket-fence life by the time you’re 25. If you’re lucky, you’re built for that kind of thing and you enjoy it. If you’re not, you either learn how to settle or you leave, because that’s just about all you’re getting offered.

I spent a few seconds staring unsubtly at the couple, trying to figure out which of those two outcomes they were, and… shit. My eyes went wide and I suddenly had to hide my face with the back of my hand. I was glad the bartender was already occupying the two of them, so my reaction didn’t make me look like even more of a weirdo than I surely already did.

I had suddenly realized that I knew exactly who the man was. I knew him from high school. I don’t know if I would’ve called him a good friend, but he’d probably speak of me as one. He was one of those overly sociable types, like a golden retriever. It was honestly no wonder he already had a wife. Probably kids by now too, I’d imagine. Seriously, of all the things I needed right now, a reunion with Mr. Perfect was the last of them—especially since he was surely well aware of what brought me back to the town in the first place. I did not need his pity.

I turned my body so it was angled away from the three of them. The only reason I didn’t pull my hood up too was because I didn’t want to look like I was about to rob the bar or something. I already looked like I was one bad comment away from a total breakdown, I didn’t need to draw even more attention to myself. I heard the two of them laughing with the bartender; he was clearly very familiar with them both. I was staring down at the ice in my drink, watching it ripple ever so slightly as they gently shook the counter with unintentional movement. Did they even know I was there? It was like they were the only people in the room, and I was just—

I suddenly felt very aware of my face. I was…. scowling. I was scowling. Nobody was looking, but I still shook my head and forced the muscles in my face to relax.

I already felt ill, despite only having downed a third of my drink. I gave one glance at Mr. Perfect and his wife—who had certainly recognized me by that point and were just too put off by my human-repelling aura to say hello—and walked off to the restroom. I left my glass unattended.

I locked myself in the stall, wiping off the toilet seat so my jeans didn’t get even dirtier than they already were before just plopping myself down on it like a lounge chair. All I needed was a moment of silence away from it all, somewhere to just… think.

“The car would’ve been a much better place to do that.”

My face fell into my hands, the full weight of my head pushing down through my elbows into the tops of my thighs. I didn’t even know what I was so jealous of. It’s not like I wanted his wife, obviously. And, honestly, I didn’t exactly want to be him either. Mr. Perfect’s life just felt so… boring. So typical. I could try and achieve something close enough to it if I wanted, probably. But I didn’t want it. In fact, I’d probably hate it. And, yet… I wasn’t enjoying the life I had all that much either, was I? God. Somehow, I managed to both loathe myself and at the same time want to desperately cling on to everything about who I was that was keeping me isolated.

I was feeling my train of thought getting trapped in a spiral again, the type of spiral where eventually the train plows right into an oil tanker. That tended to happen whenever I was alone with my thoughts. …Which was the situation I had just manufactured. Intentionally.

With an annoyed groan, I threw my head back until it rested on the bathroom wall, letting a slow exhale escape my nose. It reset my thoughts like turning a computer off and on again.

“Just… decompress. That’s all I’m here to do. Doesn’t help anything to make myself even more upset.” I spoke quietly to myself, glad I was still alone in the restroom. The thought leaving my mouth made it feel more real.

I closed my eyes. I did still end up thinking about Mr. Perfect, but in a different way this time. He annoyed me, yeah, but he didn’t do anything wrong. I just hated how perfect he was. I hated how he was so sociable and friendly, how he was so good at everything. I hated that he was happy, I hated that he was the type of person built to enjoy the path that life had set up for him. I hated the fact that he’d probably never had a moment like the one I was having right now. I mean, maybe he did, I guess I wouldn’t know—but I bet that if he did, he probably didn’t feel so utterly alone during it.

I hated the way he was so naturally athletic, and clearly still going to the gym. I hated his dorky little smile and I hated his stupid freckles—the ones right under those big, long-lashed doe eyes. I hated the way that when he walked into the bar he was wearing these tight slacks that hugged his perfect ass that I bet he didn’t even know was perfect because—

I felt my heart rate raise and my breathing quicken as my eyes were closed, just… picturing things. Oh, God help me for what I was about to do.

- - -

I left the stall five minutes or so later, probably. I obviously wasn’t keeping track of time. The immediate release of dopamine made me feel ever so slightly better but the clarity settling in on what I had just done—and where I had done it—made me feel even more disgusting than I already did. I groaned as I swung the stall door shut behind me. I couldn’t believe myself. Could I seriously not even be depressed properly, without giving in and doing some stupid shit like that? Instead of just saying hello to him, I… Ugh.

I rigorously scrubbed my hands clean and then immediately splashed my face with the cold tap water. The mirror was placed directly above the sink, dotted and smudged with specks of dust and whatnot, which just made it hard to focus my eyes on my own face.

I don’t know if I actually did look like I was at rock bottom, but I certainly felt like it. Although, I do have a tendency to assume people are better at seeing right through me than they actually are. I was glad I wasn’t an easy cryer, at least, because if my eyes were all puffy and red right now there would definitely be no hiding it.

When I re-entered the bar there were already a good few more people than had been there when I left my seat. I mean, it wasn’t a party or anything, but there were a few more regulars joining in. Service workers, older folks, whoever might not have work on a Tuesday morning. In all honesty, it was probably only five or so people, nothing like the bars I was used to—but given the population of the town as a whole, it still felt lively. Cozy, I guess. Lots of folks who weren’t here for any particular reason. Folks who were just… content.

I was still feeling embarrassed and ashamed over what I just did, so I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. I walked over to where my glass used to be—no doubt taken back under the counter by the bartender for safety reasons—and placed a $20 down for the consideration. I didn’t ask for the rest of my drink back because I didn’t want it.

On my way to the exit, I saw Mr. Perfect’s wife shooting a concerned glance at me from the corner of her eye, which she quickly retracted when we made the briefest of eye contact. I couldn’t tell if I knew who she was. I’d assume she went to the same high school, considering there was only one of them, unless she moved here as an adult (which almost nobody ever did). But I had blocked most of high school out of my memory, so if she wasn’t in my immediate friend group she’d have been lost in the blur.

I took another step towards the door, but then I suddenly stopped myself. I couldn’t…. Could I seriously keep this up? My legs were moving before my mind could stop them. I didn’t really know what I was doing, or if I was doing it the correct way, or even just a smart way. I didn’t know if I would actually gain anything from it—if either of us would, for that matter. But I had to do something, right? 

I put a hand on Mr. Perfect’s shoulder. “Hey, Dylan,” I said nervously, the moment he turned around. “I, uh, I really can’t stick around, but I wanted to say hi. You look great.”

Both Dylan and his wife looked at me a bit dumbfounded, silent for a second. Honestly, the silence was good, because that much was all I could offer. A more well-adjusted person might’ve stayed to chat, or even just extended an offer to “shoot me a text whenever”, but for me just getting this far was already miraculous enough as it is.

“Yeah man, of course,” he said after a second with a smile, in a way that if nothing else assured me he definitely remembered who I was, lest this interaction become even more excruciating. “I’m so sorry about—”

“It’s okay,” I said, cutting him off. “I’m dealing with it.”

Dylan’s wife excused herself quietly and politely, realizing this conversation was one she had no part in. I felt kind of bad, but… I mean, I couldn’t pretend I didn’t feel some kind of bitterness towards her, despite not even knowing her name. I knew she didn’t do anything to deserve that, but it was just human nature, I guess.

“Don’t mind her,” Dylan said, glancing over for a second to silently reassure her before looking back at me. “Are you sure you can’t stay?”

“No, no,” I said, shaking my head. “My car’s stuck on the hill, and I’ve really gotta be back home by morning.”

“Whaaat? Come on, you know my dad owns that tow truck, you saw it all the time. Why didn’t you just come ask me to help you out?”

My eyes widened involuntarily in sheepish realization for a second. Of course, I did know that. I just… didn’t even think of it. I realized suddenly as those memories came flooding back that I might’ve been underselling to myself on how close of friends we had actually been. But then I closed my eyes again and shook my head. “Oh, I mean, I appreciate it, really, but—”

I paused as he shot me a confused and slightly concerned look.

“You’re here with your wife, man. Enjoy your night out, I don’t want you worrying yourself with me. I’m sure I can figure it out.”

“Are you sure?” He had that sad puppy-dog look of concern in his eyes again. I wish he wasn’t so damn genuine. At least if I wasn’t able to read him like an open book then that way I’d be able to tell myself that he was just saving face.

“Yeah,” I said, feigning the best smile I could manage. “Go on, man, enjoy your night.”

Dylan nodded. “Alright, but… here,” he said, taking a pen out of his shirt pocket and scribbling a number down on a napkin. “Call me any time, okay?” He put his large hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze, and boy was I glad the bar was too dark for him to see the way my face involuntarily went red. Ugh… this was exactly like when we were teenagers, all over again. I thought I had grown out of this nonsense, but I guess some things never change. 

I nodded and took the napkin, thanking him and then quickly turning away to leave. I was there far longer than I ever should have been.

“I missed you, bro!” he called out loudly and cheerfully as I left, with a wave goodbye. I froze in my tracks but then quickly kept walking without a response. I genuinely could not tell you if I was glad to have heard that or if it was just rubbing salt in an already bone-deep wound.

The sun was at the last legs of setting for real by the time I left, which I could tell by the burning orange hue of the cloud cover. It was a bit far away, but I could make out my car still sitting there halfway up the hill, like a little ant all alone on the side of its mound. I’m sure everyone else in town had probably noticed it by that point, too. 

There was a large part of me—almost all of me, even—that just wanted to turn back to the motel for yet another night. But doing that would be like crossing the event horizon. A sign that I had truly, finally given up. 

Nightfall finally settled while I was walking back to the car. You could always see so many stars in this part of the state. It was maybe the only thing I might miss about the town. 

Once I had made it to the car, I sat down and put the key in the ignition, not quite as fully motivated as I had hoped I’d be by this point. The dirt was still moist, but it was the best it was going to get. Before I actually turned the engine on, I let my head fall back onto the headrest and closed my eyes, just breathing deeply for a moment to mentally prepare myself.

It was right then when I felt my phone vibrating. I pulled it out, and it was—shit. It was my roommate, my friend, who was still waiting for me to get home.

“Hey,” I said as I picked up, trying to sound as normal as possible.

“Hey, is everything okay, man? I thought you were supposed to be back by now.” I cleared my throat. “Sorry. I’m fine, it’s just—it was raining, so I got stuck on the hill.”

“Oh, shit,” he said. “How long ago did it stop?”  

“Just a few hours ago,” I lied, through my teeth. “It’s dried up a bit, but not all the way.”

“Do you think you can get your car out?”

“I dunno,” I said. “You know I’m not really a car guy.” “Try,” he said.

I started the engine. I gave it a second or two to warm up, and started flooring the gas pedal. I was releasing all my pent-up anger and desperation directly into the accelerator.

Skrrt. It was different from before, but I was still stuck. It was like it was taunting me with the slightest bit more movement, while the end result remained the same.

“Shit,” I said, a slight panic in my voice.

“Nothing?”

“Hold on….” I said, trying again. Skrrt. Again. Skrrt. I didn’t realize until much later that flooring it was only making the situation worse.

“Oh, come on!” I shouted as I smacked the dashboard so hard that my hand stung, forgetting I had the phone on speaker. My voice was shaky and I was on the verge of tears. 

“Dude, are you… okay?” my roommate asked.

I shut the engine back off and placed my forehead on the steering wheel. Physically, emotionally, mentally, I was right back at the exact same place I had been 24 hours ago.

“What… what do you do…” I tried to choke out, almost imperceptibly quiet. I swallowed before trying again. “...What do you do when you want to give up?”

“Oh, come on,” he said. “I’m sure there’s someone in that town that can help—”

“I’m not talking about the fucking car!”

I immediately felt guilty for shouting. There were several deafening seconds of silence that each felt like they were stabbing me in the stomach before I could manage to continue.

“I mean…” My bottom lip was quivering and I could feel my eyes starting to sting. “What do you do, when… When you don’t know why you keep going, you just do. You just keep going, even when you can’t point to anything you really care about enough to stick around for. Even when you’re not even bringing much to the table, because at the end of the day you’re just not really that good of a person, either. You’re selfish, you’re jealous, you’re bitter, you’re lonely by your own design. You’re aware of this, but you don’t know how to even begin changing it—or maybe you just can’t be bothered. You’re too selfish to even care all that much about people hypothetically grieving you, because at the end of the day you care more about stopping your own pain than you really care about the consequences for them. But then you can’t even bring yourself to stop that pain, or maybe you’re too scared to, or maybe there’s just something evolutionarily hard-wired into your DNA that makes you want to keep living despite being entirely unable to point to a single actual good reason to stay. And so every part of you, your mind, your body, your soul, is telling you how much it wants to quit—and you just keep distracting yourself from it. Because nothing stops coming at you, nothing changes, you never get the storybook ending you’re always hoping is right around the corner because you’re still stupid enough to think that somehow everything just has to work out on its own eventually.”

I paused, and took a breath. I was spiraling again, but I didn’t care anymore. “…And still, for some reason, you just keep going. You keep trying, you keep waking up every morning. You keep finding new distractions, new trivial goals to chase. You keep pushing through all of it, not knowing why, because I guess that’s just what we’re meant to do. You have no choice. No choice but to just… live. I mean… what do you do, when you have no choice but to just live?”

There were several more seconds of silence. The buzzing in my ears deafened out the sound of my own gentle crying. Eventually, I got a response.

“I guess… I guess you just live.”

That was what that voice said. 

What I said.

“...I guess you just live,” I repeated, softly, as my breathing finally began to steady.

I wiped a heavy tear off of my cheek and it fell onto my phone’s screen. The screen was black—of course it was. I had hung up on my roommate out of guilt and embarrassment right after I yelled at him. I was just lost in my daydreams, talking to myself, yet again. This time, though, I quietly asked my reflection in the rearview mirror to start listening to myself instead.

I quietly texted my roommate to apologize. I promised him that I’d be fine, that I had it handled and I’d explain it all openly once I got back. I sat back, taking a few minutes to compose myself with nothing but the sound of my own heartbeat to listen to—nothing but the dancing sea of stars above me to watch. Yeah. I would miss those.

Eventually, I took a deep breath, fishing something out of my pocket and dialing a number into my phone. After a few seconds of ringing, someone picked up.

“Hey, Dylan. It’s me.”