Hey, you got a minute or are you mid-something? No rush if not.
Random but — you know how escalators still have a step function even though the whole point is you're not supposed to walk? Saw one today doing the emergency stop thing, that jolt when it locks up. Made me think of the office, actually, ours has been out for like two weeks, everyone just trudging up.
Ugh, the office. Don’t get me started. I walked past the broken thing this morning, heard that mechanical whine before I even saw it. Half the floor is taking the stairs, looking like ants. My knees are killing me.
Escalators are a lie anyway. We want the movement but hate the logic. That jolt you mentioned? That’s the machine admitting it’s tired. I don’t know, it felt honest. Better than the steady, fake hum of the one that works. Did you catch the guy who almost fell?
Didn't see him fall, just heard someone yell "whoa" and then the guy laughing it off, embarrassed. Everyone pretending they meant to grab the rail like that.
"The machine admitting it's tired" — yeah. There's something to that actually, I was going to say — no, never mind, it's dumb.
Anyway my knees are also shot, I blame the stairs at my place too, four flights, no elevator, landlord's been "getting a guy in" for like a year.
Tell me about it. I’m up three flights of cramped walk-ups in Queens. It’s like my quaternus are staging a mutiny every time I come home.
But wait. You said “no, never mind.” Why did you say that? You sounded like you had a thought. A real one. Not the knee thing.
I’m not busy. I’m sitting here staring at a spreadsheet that doesn’t matter, waiting for a client who’s probably just drunk. So spit it out. Or don’t. I’ll just sit here and stare at the font sizes instead. Your loss.
No, it's — okay. I was gonna say the machine locking up, the jolt, it's not tired, it's a safety thing, sensors trip when the load's wrong. That's it, that's the whole thought, sorry, boring.
Actually. No. That's not what I meant either.
There's something I've been meaning to say to you for like a week and I keep — it's not even a big deal probably, I just don't know how to start it without it sounding heavier than it is. Give me a sec.
Stop apologizing for thinking. It’s annoying. I’m staring at row 402 and it’s blurry.
You’re stalling. I can hear the wheels turning from here. If it’s heavy, it’s heavy. If it’s a big deal, say it’s a big deal. Don’t dress it up in "boring" and "not heavy" like it’s a costume party.
I’m not going anywhere. The client isn’t calling back. I’m just going to sit here and wait for you to actually say the words. Take your sec. But don’t waste it.
Okay. Okay.
So — my sister called Thursday. And I haven't — I keep not telling you what she said because once I say it out loud it's real in a way it isn't right now, sitting in my head, where I can still kind of pretend it's manageable.
It's about my dad. It's not — nobody's dying, I don't want you picturing the worst thing, it's not that. It's just. Complicated. And I've been carrying it around all week like a stone in my shoe and not saying anything.
A stone in your shoe. You’re dramatic. But alright.
Your dad. What did she say? Was he arrested? Did he lose the house? Or did he just do something vaguely disrespectful that makes you angry because you care?
Don’t say “complicated.” That’s a word people use when they’re too polite to admit they’re hurt. Just tell me. I’m done with the spreadsheet. My eyes are burning.
He's sick. Not — not immediately, they caught it early, some kind of thing with his kidneys, my sister was using all these careful words on the phone like she'd rehearsed them. He hasn't even told me himself yet, which is so him, he'll probably bring it up in like three weeks like it's nothing.
I don't know why I couldn't just say that sentence five minutes ago. It's not even that dramatic. I just — saying it makes me have to actually feel it instead of just knowing it.
So that’s it? Kidneys?
You were winding this up for days and it’s just... administrative? A defect to be managed? That’s almost funnier than if it were terminal. I expected him to win the lottery, or get a subpoena.
But I get it. Knowing it is just data. Feeling it means you have to start grieving the version of him who isn’t sick yet. The one who still thinks he’s invincible. That’s the heavy part, isn’t it? The loss of the illusion.
So what do you want to do? Call him? Or just keep carrying the stone until it wears a hole through your shoe?
"Almost funnier than terminal" — Jesus, Rafe.
No, I don't know what I want to do. Probably not call him, if I'm honest, because then he'll do the thing where he minimizes it to make me feel better and I'll let him, and nothing actually gets said. My sister wants a family meeting. I hate family meetings, they're just everyone agreeing to be sad at the same volume.
I don't know. I just needed to say it to someone who wasn't already in it.
God, you’re exhausting. "Agreeing to be sad at the same volume." That’s actually good. I’ll steal that.
But you didn’t need to say it to me because I’m "not in it." You said it because I’m already cynical. I’m the safe place for bad news because I won’t try to fix it with platitudes.
So don’t call him. Not yet. Let the stone sit there. But stop pretending it’s manageable. It’s not. It’s just heavy. And you’re carrying it alone because you think you have to protect him from your worry.
Fine. You said it. Now what? Are we done being profound, or do you want to complain about the stairs some more?
Yeah, let's do the stairs. I don't have anything left in me for profound.
Although — you're not wrong about the protecting-him thing. That's probably exactly it and I hate that you got there faster than I did.
Anyway my landlord texted "getting a guy in this week" again, which is landlord for never. I'm gonna be doing calf raises till I'm forty.
Calf raises. Right. You’re going to die of a blood clot on the third flight.
And yeah, "getting a guy in this week" is just landlord for "I forgot you exist until the boiler breaks." It’s a game of chicken and he always wins because he has a truck and you have a lease.
You’re lucky I’m bored. I need the distraction. If I think about row 402 any longer I’m going to throw my phone at the monitor. So keep talking about the stairs. Or your dad’s kidneys. Or anything. Just don’t stop. I’m not ready to go back to the spreadsheet yet.
Row 402, is that actually the client or are you just staring at a graveyard of formulas at this point? Because you've mentioned it like four times, that font size thing sounds like a symptom, not a task.
I'll keep talking. Landlord logic deserves its own religion honestly — men who own one (1) building and think it makes them a war strategist. Meanwhile my radiator's been clanking since March like it's trying to tell me something.
Row 402 is real. It’s a contract for a logistics firm that thinks “synergy” is a software update. The font is Helvetica Neue, which is aggressively neutral. I’m not staring at a graveyard; I’m staring at a void where my soul went to die three weeks ago.
But sure, let’s pivot to the radiator. Clanking since March. That’s not a sound, that’s a threat. Does it sound like it’s trying to tell you something? Or just like it’s trying to murder you?
I hope it blows a pipe. I really do. Then you’d have a reason to leave the building. To come over. To not sit in the dark with your dad’s kidney news.
Come over, like — casually mid-sentence, real smooth, Rafe.
The radiator's more of a slow psychological campaign than a murder attempt, honestly. Clank clank clank at like 2am, then nothing for a week, just enough silence to make me think it's fixed itself. It's not. It's just regrouping.
Void where your soul went three weeks ago — write that on a mug, sell it to every paralegal in the city, retire early.
Smooth? I’m charming in my own way. You’re just slow.
And yes, the radiator is gaslighting you. Classic landlord tactic. Denial, then escalation.
But seriously. Come over. I have decent whiskey and terrible takeout. The view is a brick wall, but it’s quiet. You can sit there and fume about your dad. Or just stare at the wall. I’ll do the talking if you want. Or I’ll shut up. Depends on how drunk I get.
Row 402 can wait. It’s just paper. You’re real. And you’re limping. Let’s fix the legs, even if it’s just by standing still somewhere else.
Okay. Yeah. I'll bring the good chips, since your idea of snacks is probably just olives and regret.
Give me like an hour, I've gotta pretend to close out my own spreadsheet first so nobody notices I bailed. Don't drink all the whiskey before I get there, I know your definition of "waiting."
Olives and regret is a balanced diet. You have no taste.
An hour? I’ll be dead by then. Or at least sufficiently depressed to sleep through your arrival. But fine. I’ll leave the cap off. Just the lid. So you know I’m serious.
Close your spreadsheet. Burn it. I don’t care. If your boss calls, tell them you’re helping a friend with his legs. It’s technically true.
Don’t hurry. The stairs will still be there. And my radiator is probably still plotting. Just get here. And don’t bring olives. If you bring olives, I’m locking the door.