Uselessness

by Helen Beer

 

Sylvia found herself of late searching for words, names, objects, meaning; it all felt so futile. She’d thrown herself into decluttering and cleaning at first, to burn excess energy. It had only driven her to frustration, as the tasks provided little challenge. And while she managed to adhere to a steady schedule—wake, eat, dress, exercise, eat again, walk, read, eat again, disrobe, shower, sleep—nothing felt obligatory or necessary, even simple sustenance. Her calendar was empty, save for the dental appointment six months off, and the hair cut six weeks out.

The colleagues she’d met with virtually, daily for the last few years, were in her rearview mirror now. She hadn’t yet decided whether she missed them or felt relieved they were no longer staring at her through a screen—and her, them. She knew there was no longer a reason to look presentable from the waist up, though, and this simple detail also left her ambivalent; she found she missed the planning of it, if not the execution. Her desk was far less cluttered, which left her feeling lost. Gone were the multiple monitors, open to Excel, Teams, Outlook, Salesforce, ZoomInfo, LinkedIn, and multiple search engines. Gone also were expectations, goals, commitments, basic interactions.

Was it enough to simply wave at neighbors while out on one of her daily walks? Was this enough socialization to forestall the inevitable impacts of aging—memory loss and depression among them? She knew marriage was an advantage, if the studies were to be believed; in her case, she wondered if it really was.

She couldn’t forget the pleading demands for “anniversary sex,” and the reminder of how many months had passed since they’d last engaged in anything remotely intimate. He’d been very accurate in his recordkeeping, which both saddened and angered her. She was left feeling coerced into something for which she had absolutely no desire. She gave into the guilt, faked the orgasm, and paid for the dry humping with days of stinging pain every time she peed. The consolation prize was less sullenness and muttered commentary from him, though that proved temporary. His birthday was coming up.

She arrived at the notion that longevity itself would be a curse—unless she made significant changes to her life. What was missing in her long-awaited retirement, in her stale marriage, was desire, and a sense of belonging to anyone or anything. Her own retirement income was anemic, owing to part-time wages during childrearing years. Her worth, her pragmatic usefulness, was greater if she died—a fact he’d stated to her more than once.

The one thing she’d counted on to retain some semblance of control in her life was her right to vote; fascist gerrymandering state legislators robbed her of that.

She felt hidden away in a box—a very small, dark box—though she knew she could escape at any time, in theory. It was finding a reason to do so that eluded her. Her thoughts played out like a bad movie with even worse subtitles, with horrific scenarios driving the plot. Walking down the stairs, she imagined a fall, with a compound fracture of her leg or a broken neck. Driving to the store, she imagined a head-on collision, decapitation, crowds of gawking onlookers. Climbing out of the tub, she imagined a slip, a cracked skull, copious amounts of blood. She found herself, as the gory scenes unfolded in her head, wondering if he’d take care of her or, if she were gone, if he’d miss her—or if anyone would.

The box, she concluded, was at least familiar territory.

 

Helen Beer is the author of numerous short stories, poems, essays, and feature screenplays, some of which have actually seen the light of day—through print and online publication, as well as contest honors—while some remain hidden under a rock somewhere. She shares her life with a husband, three cats, a horse, and an adventurous human son. She admits to deriving an inordinate amount of therapeutic benefit from mucking horse poop.

 

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