Contemporary Caulfield

This is another one of those stories which we’ve all read and I hate. Do you know which ones I’m talking about? The pretentious ones about the middle aged man who hates his life and is divorced or in a failing marriage (or both), and he also hates his job, and he also happens to be either an alcoholic or a junkie (or both), and then one day, he sees this beautiful woman that he met in his youth and who he’s been secretly in love with all his life, and they gaze at each other longingly and kiss and then maybe sleep together but, of course, nothing works out for the main character because life is terrible and will always continue to be terrible. 

You know, those.

Well, this story is like that. Kind of. It doesn’t have any failing marriages (or any marriage at all, in fact), there is no dreadful accounting job, there’s no woman from the past, and the main character (me) happens to be a woman who is only slightly addicted to alcohol.

Also, I doubt the critics are going to like this one. In fact, I think they might hate it.

Just like those asshats in those stories (because that is what they truly are), I am also an aspiring writer. “Aspiring” is the key word here. Every time I try to publish my work, I get the same reply:

“They say the main character is too unlikable,” my agent always reports, then flips open her red folder so she can quote the next part accurately. “They found her to be ‘arrogant, pretentious, and self-righteous, but not in the literary genius kind of way, just the annoying one.’”

So since I’m clearly incompetent at making up characters, and can only channel my negative qualities into them, I’ve decided to write about my own life. This is unfortunate (for you) for mainly two reasons. The first is that my life is not very interesting. In fact, I’m not sure the story I’m leading up to has much of a plot, or can even be called a story at all. The second is that I think I’m even more unlikable than my characters. I am the epitome of the characters in the female equivalent of the “life is terrible” stories: a bitter woman that channels her inner sadness through insults and sarcastic wit. 

I don’t think I’m going to be able to sell this story either.

***

I guess my sad story begins at a happy time. I was young and optimistic when I moved to the Big City (it doesn’t matter which one, but it’s not New York). I had gotten my dream job and was pretty excited about working there. My friends and family were pretty excited too. Not many people from my town got these kinds of opportunities. My parents had thrown me a huge party with waiters, fine champagne, and those small, elegant hors d’oeuvres that rich people eat in movies. We sang and drank and by the end of the party everyone went up to me and wished me luck in the Big City. Cries of ‘I believe in you,” and ‘I’m so proud of you,’ and ‘You’ll be great’ filled the room. Their hope made me dizzier than the champagne. I vowed to myself that I would succeed in the Big City, if not for myself, then for all of my friends and family, placing their faith in my talents. 

I thought of that hope while I walked over to my new job at The Magazine. I had been hired as an assistant copy-editor, in charge of revising texts for grammatical mistakes. Despite the boring nature of my job, I was excited. I still remember what I was wearing: some black pants, a white blouse, and a red blazer. I wanted to make a good first impression. No, more than that: I wanted people to notice me.

I arrived at the office with a huge smile on my face. The building was sleek, modern, and very minimalist. It smelled like a five-star hotel. The lobby had fashionable lamps of all shapes and sizes hanging from the ceiling. Luxurious couches rested in a corner. People came in and out of elevators carrying briefcases and wearing the most beautiful clothes I’d ever seen in my life. They talked with each other and laughed between sips of expensive coffee. I could picture myself in the same scenario, talking with my new colleagues, gaining friends, making fun of the boss, going to bars. My smile grew. 

I made my way up to the third floor to meet with Mr. Anderson, my new boss. Upon meeting him, he was supposed to assign tasks to me and give me a tour around the office. I was nervous. I smiled at everyone I saw as I walked along the aisles of gray cubicles and ran my sweaty palms across my pants. No one looked up from their work.

I took a deep breath and knocked at Mr. Anderson’s door. He grunted and I opened the door. 

Mr. Anderson was a tall, pale, stoic man. His office was large, meticulously clean, and smelled like Windex. I grinned when I came in, but he only stared back with a blank face.

“Are you Diana?” he asked.

“Dara, sir,” I answered cheerfully.

He grunted, then started writing something on a piece of paper. “You’re in the cubicle across from Sharon,” he said. 

Silence. My smile wavered.

“Is...is that all, sir?” I asked.

“Oh, no, I almost forgot,” Mr. Anderson said, looking up. “Take that blazer off. It makes you look unprofessional.”

I left his office in a daze, and after asking around (‘Where’s Sharon’s cubicle?’ ‘Next to Brad’s.’ ‘And where is Brad’s cubicle?’ ‘Next to Matthew’s.’) finally got to my designated work space. 

I put my briefcase down on the table and sat down in my chair, exhausted. The girl across from me (Sharon, I presumed) whipped around. Her hair was as red as her face.

“Are you the new girl?” she asked.

I smiled eagerly. “Yes, I’m—”

“You’re late.”

My face reddened. “I—”

“Be happy that you have to deal with me and not that idiot Mr. Anderson. Your assignments were emailed to you an hour ago. Now get back to work,” she snapped.

After a couple of hours, it was finally time for my lunch break. Despite the rough day I had had, I still felt optimistic: now was the time to make friends, gain connections. I made my way to the break room, thinking about what I was going to say, reminding myself to smile. 

The break room was small, and less than a dozen people were there, either chatting or drinking coffee. Standing next to the coffee machine stood a young man that looked about my age. He was alone and looking at his phone. I took a deep breath and decided to approach him.

“Hi! What’s your name?”

“Adam,” he replied monotonously, not looking up. 

“Oh, cool!” I said, grinning. “I’m Dara, I’m new here. I just got hired as an assistant copy-editor. What department do you work in?”

Silence. I repeated the question.

“What, are you an intern or something? I don’t need anything right now,” he scowled, then left.

I sighed, but decided to try again with someone else: this time a dark-haired woman drinking coffee.

“Hi, I’m Dara,” I said cheerfully.

“So?” she replied, then left, leaving me alone.

This continued to be my daily life for six months. Every morning, Mr. Anderson would call me a different name (“Danielle!” “Delilah!” “Deborah!”). It truly impressed me that he could think of 183 different names that started with a “d” and never get my own. Sharon continued to ignore me whenever she wasn’t insulting me. During the first four months, she would fight with her boyfriend, Ethan, loudly over the phone. The calls stopped when she let out the most creative string of curse words I’d ever heard and then hung up the phone, shaking.

I couldn’t make any friends either. I tried talking to other people around the office, but all of them seemed to brush me off. I tried being nice, I tried being friendly, I tried joining yoga, and inviting people out for lunch, but nothing seemed to work. I went to bars and tried to find someone to talk to, to flirt with. But mostly I drank. 

I began to feel terribly lonely. The words of hope that my loved ones had given to me seemed like mockery. I began to turn away people that I knew back home. I refused to talk and for them to see me tired, friendless, defeated. I began to wonder if I had peaked during college, which made me feel terrible because I’d been an idiot in college. I stared up at my ceiling at night, simply feeling the hot tears stream down my face. I was convinced that there was something wrong with me. I was certain that I did not have the ability to thrive in the adult world. I was weak. I was pathetic. I began to dread being awake. I felt miserable when I drank but did it anyway because why the hell not. I turned away everyone and everything, furious at myself. I closed away all my emotions. I replied only with wit. I began reading those stories I hate so much and would throw the books at my wall in rage, yelling at people that weren’t real for being horrible and at literary critics that were real but were either dead or not present for being so pretentious and liking that terrible shit. I would go into the bathroom and sob for hours. I would stay silent for days and wonder if anyone would notice (they didn’t). Then I would drink some more.

By the time my birthday rolled around, I felt empty. Everyday had become a monotonous responsibility that I just had to get through with. But because it was my birthday, I decided to reward myself with a piece of cake. 

I went up to my cubicle and plopped my cake on the table. Sharon turned around and glared at me. I raised a single eyebrow, annoyed.

“Why do you have cake?” Sharon asked.

“I’m taking Marie Antoinette’s advice,” I replied smoothly. Sharon simply stared at me, unmoved by my humor, so I sighed. “It’s my birthday.”

Sharon blinked, then reached for one of the books in her cubicle, thrust it into my hand, said “Happy birthday,” and whipped back around. I was surprised, but stuffed the book in my bag without looking at it.

I took out the book when I got home. It was The Catcher in the Rye. At first, I was unsure why she had given it to me. Then I understood when I saw the inscription on the first page:

SHARON, I HOPE YOU LOVE THIS BOOK AS MUCH AS I LOVE YOU. ETHAN

I was very tempted to throw away the book Sharon’s ex-boyfriend had given her — she had certainly tried to by giving it to me — but something persuaded me not to. Instead, I decided to begin reading it.

The only thing I remembered from reading the novel in high school was my impression that Holden was a prick. When I reread it, I reached the same conclusion but somehow loved him for it. I became fascinated by his character. I began to feel a connection with him. I carried my book everywhere and read it anytime I had the chance, including at work, which clearly annoyed Sharon. I pinned Holden Caulfield quotes around my cubicle and wore my red blazer to work. I started to accuse people I didn’t like of being phonies. I bought a hunting hat which I would wear at home. I read every single article analyzing The Catcher in the Rye. I found out that the guy who had killed John Lennon was obsessed with the novel. I wondered if I would go crazy and kill someone too.

  In order to get more in touch with Holden’s character, I began to take long walks through the city. I would gaze up at the big buildings, imagining the Empire State standing among them, and feel how truly small I was. I went to the most crowded areas of the city and felt strange as I stood still upon the moving crowd: I was anonymous, I was unimportant, I was letting time flow through me. I felt truly lost. What I liked the most, however, was going to the park and sitting on the bench in front of the lake, remembering the times when I used to feed the ducks as a child. I even began to sneak out to the park during my lunch break, if only to feel the fresh air on my face.

I was sitting at one of these park benches reading when an old man sat next to me. He greeted me cheerfully, to which I responded by nodding politely, not even looking up. After a while of silence and a couple of far-away quacks, the old man spoke again.

“What are you reading there?” he asked.

I looked up from my book. The old man was short and stout, and he had a huge smile on his face. He was wearing a blue jacket, some light gray trousers, and a matching flat cap. In his hand he held a bag of the duck treats they sold in the park. His green eyes sparkled as he looked at me earnestly, just wanting to go back to the good old times when strangers talked to other strangers nonchalantly. 

I gave a small smile to the old man in return. I decided I was going to chat with him for his sake. Besides, I hadn’t spoken a word in four days: I craved conversation. 

I showed him the cover of my book, and he grinned. “Oh ho! Catcher! I used to love that book when I was a teenager,” he chuckled. “I used to think I was just like the main character. I even intended to write a letter to old Salinger himself (he was still alive at that time, of course, I’m truly an old geezer) telling him that I was exactly like Holden. Can you imagine that? What kind of letter would that be? It all made sense to my seventeen year old self, of course…I still remember everything I was going to write in that letter…” he chuckled again and looked away, as in some sort of trance.

  I was tempted to tell him that I also identified with Holden, that I too was like him. However, the words got stuck in my throat. Instead, I said:

“Did you ever send the letter?”

The old man snapped out of his thoughts, then gave me a small grin. “No. I found out Salinger had become a recluse and wanted nothing to do with the world. I supposed that included me, too. I was so disappointed! I honestly think that was one of the first big disappointments in my life…”

The old man trailed off, searching for words or a lost memory. I sat still, holding my breath, for once cherishing the silence I had recently become so accustomed to. 

“I think what made me so sad was realizing that I was not special. I was like Holden, but so was old Salinger. We were both angry and lonely… we wanted to be something in a world so full of nothing… things used to be different back then, you know. We had nothing but each other, no phones or anything to distract us from our anger… from our helplessness…” the man became serious for a moment, then laughed. “Oh, the ramblings of an old man. How I wish my seventeen year old self would see me now! He would see that things get better. It all gets better over time.”

There was a cry from the distance. We turned to see a small girl running towards us, waving frantically. “Grandpa, grandpa!” she yelled. 

The old man grinned at her, then stood up, tipped his hat at me, and walked away.  

I sat on the bench for a couple of seconds, inexplicably rattled. I felt as if the air had been knocked out of me all of once. I stared ahead at nothing, feeling overwhelmed by a loud silence. I then checked my watch and realized my lunch break was almost over.

The conversation with the old man lingered in my mind as I stood up and walked back to work. I left my book on that park bench, but didn’t notice. I was so absorbed in my thoughts I even bumped into Mr. Anderson when I got back to the office.

“Careful, Dara,” he said to me, then walked away.