I don't want you to think I'm the kind of person who sneaks around and listens to other people's conversations and writes them down; but I do. I've arrived at that age--60--where, man or woman, you're invisible. You're wearing Harry Potter's Invisibility Cloak whenever you go out. You no longer matter to anyone "out there" because of course Americans only have time for pattern-recognition, and your surface no longer has anything to offer. You can feel resentful about this, but that's self-defeating: the truth is, you're going to die sooner than the people who don't see you are. They know that. You're a vague reminder of what's in store for them, too, and they don't like it. They want to go get some coffee. I think we invisible ones appear on the eyescreens of younger people as a set of pixels that immediately flash an alarm to the brain. The brain then takes over, directing further action. For some, this means whisking themselves out of our presence, posthaste. But others just don't see us; we're allowed to hang out in their comfort zones for a while, blessedly invisible again, listening.
I think I'm better than most at this invisibility thing, because I've been invisible most of my life. This isn't self-pity talking; it's true. I'm sure at some point in life I was pissed: I wanted to tell my story, not listen to some buffoon tell his. But the problem is, when I did tell my stories they were pretty boring. I'm not a good storyteller; I'm a listener. Perhaps not even a good listener, but a listener. Even when my friends would generously wait for me to tell my stories, I came to realize they were being polite until the conversation could come around again to their stories. However miffed I might have felt, I had to admit I enjoyed their stories much more than my own. I know this goes back to identity issues I probably should have fixed a long time ago. But I'm sixty; give me a break. You know that Hollywood saying, You've got to own the room? I've never owned a room. Ever. If I were a camera I could photograph an atom, because I wouldn't displace anything. I'm like a light rain.
So I'm standing in a light rain, outside a bookstore, near closing time, looking at possible remaindered mysteries. But they're the guys I don't like: Dean Koontz, a detective whose cat solves crimes. I'm leafing through a paperback of Walter Isaacson's Kissinger when I hear the following. The man's voice moves me with its own outsiderness, I guess; he has his own issues with books. I can understand that: books mock us. But a sweet feeling for Doris overcomes his fear, and he ventures into perhaps alien territory. I copied the conversation down verbatim and put it in my notebook later that night.
"Darletha!"
"Hey! What you doin' here, lookin' at the books?"
"I thought maybe I'd get Doris a book. She always sayin' how she love books. I thought maybe I get her a book."
"You still got that book I gave you?"
"Yeah, I still got it."
-- JC
Great post, Jim. I know exactly what you mean about being invisible, which doesn't stop people from bumping into you. And yes, it's "all about" their story or stories, not yours. (Do you remember the "all about" series of books? I liked "All About the Stars.") But as Robert Mitchum avers in "Out of the Past," "I always say everybody's right." Whenever Robert Mitchum says anything I believe it, and when he avers something, holy smoke. Also, the guests on late night talk shows always say a good listener is an interesting person, so there's that. And then all sorts of workers in the service sector of the economy put on a kindly face at the supermarket or fast-food cash register when you come along. It's as if to say, You're old, you made it, now go home, get drunk, and get thee to bed early. So you say "thank you" and she says "you're welcome" and she's wearing a t-shirt that says, "if you are what you eat, I'm fast, easy, and cheap," in white lettering on a black field.
Posted by: DL | October 30, 2008 at 01:09 AM
Yes, this is a great post. I, too, know the feeling of being invisible. It's an advantage, actually, although it can arouse resentment. Given my Americanized (?) name, I've been an invisible Jew for my entire life, and many have unknowingly revealed their prejudice in my company. I've come to expect it when I travel, though I'm always stunned by the "you know how the Jews are" asides.
Posted by: Stacey | October 30, 2008 at 08:32 AM
One's invisibility is magnified when you have iPod earbuds in/on. If you listen at a low enough volume, your music becomes a soundtrack for someone else's drama. It's fascinating.
Posted by: Bill Cohen | October 30, 2008 at 01:01 PM
David: Where can I get one of them t-shirts?
Stacey: Do you really get those asides? ack. that's horrible.
Bill: I'm sorry, could you speak up? My Ipod's on.
Jim: You're owning the room of the page, right here, brother.
Posted by: Jill Essbaum | October 30, 2008 at 10:04 PM
David: Where can I get one of them t-shirts?
Stacey: Do you really get those asides? ack. that's horrible.
Bill: I'm sorry, could you speak up? My Ipod's on.
Jim: You're owning the room of the page, right here, brother.
Posted by: Jill Essbaum | October 30, 2008 at 10:18 PM
Jill, you say it all. I want Bill's i-pod and David's t-shirt, and then I will not be invisible, but arrested. Stacey, let those bastards say those things in front of me and Jill: they're toast.
Posted by: jim cummins | October 31, 2008 at 02:15 PM