By: Parker Stenseth
Shoes squeaked down the long academic hallways of the university as students flowed every which way between classes. I’d become exceptionally talented at deciphering a brand of shoe based solely off its squeak. Nike cried out all around but Adidas begged to be heard. Occasionally I’d hear the call of Under Armour or Converse, but never Vans; they were largely silent. I’d fallen into a habit of honing this skill whenever I walked around campus in a trance of capitalistic mindfulness.
I was heading to the back of the business school, the older portion, which had a broom closet they’d shoved a desk in when it didn’t fit in a classroom. I needed to study for my Money and Banking exam later, and the open spaces universities like to promote leave too much space for my mind to wander.
Fantasizing about the closet’s narrow confines, I walked past hordes of business students, legions of the lost. Somehow that’d become the degree to get when you didn’t know what degree to get. Of course, I was a business major as well, but couldn’t quite think of myself as one. It was so easy to sneer at them and I hadn’t yet learned how to sneer at myself, perhaps with a mirror.
Slowly the hallway drained to a trickle of students—several Adidas and only a single Nike. While slipping over to the doorway leading to my haven, I glanced around to make sure I wasn’t the direct focus of anyone’s attention. Part of the inherent pleasure of being in a small, enclosed space is knowing no one else knows you’re there. I cracked the door open and sank back into the abyss.
“Ow!”
“What the hell?”
“Lights, find the lights!”
Limbs flailed in darkness until the switch was found. A grotesque yellow glow smothered the closet. Rolls of Bounty paper towels we’d sent flying were strewn across the space and a knocked-over mop bucket leaked grisly water. Across from me, in my desk, sat another student with a feral look in his eyes. He gave off a strong impression of neatness, his white shirt crisp and his face freshly shaven, but his hair stuck out at all angles as if he’d been running his hands through it in the dark. My shoes were getting damp.
“I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized anyone else frequented this closet,” I said.
He sniffled and wiped a trail of mucus under his nose with the back of his hand. I put my hand on the door to leave. “No!” Desperation wavered in his voice. He reached out and clung to my shirt until I turned back from the door. The close quarters kept me within grabbing range, but at least there was the desk to slow him.
“I didn’t mean to intrude. I don’t want to interrupt your… meditation was it?” I asked, hopefully. I consider it a basic social nicety to always offer a mutual omission of any uncomfortable scenario.
“I don’t want to be alone.”
“You certainly picked a strange place to not be alone.”
His head sunk to his chest. Tears began to glide down his face. They gathered in little puddles on the desk. Combined with the mop water, the closet was getting a bit too wet for my liking, however another social rule of sorts I’ve uncovered dictates you mustn’t leave a person alone while they cry. The potential backlash for breaking this rule can be rather traumatic so one ought to stick to it when able.
“Was it a tough day? Did you have to take a statistics exam? You know, I’ve seen these symptoms in people suffering from statistics before.” He shook his head and mumbled through the tears.
“Not a statistics exam. Much worse. A macroeconomics lecture.”
“I’m failing to see how that’s worse. I’m Cody by the way.” I offered my hand, desperately hoping his wasn’t covered in snot. To my relief, he only batted it away.
“No names! Just call me Anti-C… no connection to the C in Cody.”
“May I ask why no names? And what is Anti-C connected to? And why would a macroeconomics lecture be worse than a statistics exam? That’s the one I’m still having the hardest time with.” He adjusted his posture in the chair, sitting up straight, preparing to talk.
“One at a time, although they’re fairly interconnected. First, no names because they make things much more real and I’d prefer not to exist in the real right now.”
“Names aren’t what make things real.”
“Name one thing that exists without a name.”
“Nothing exists without a name.”
“Exactly… I think. Until you can do that, no names.”
His tears were starting to dry up. I considered making a break for the door again, but my shoes were already thoroughly soaked so there didn’t seem to be a point. Plus, I suppose I was marginally intrigued. We continued talking in hushed tones like co-conspirators.
“Then about the lecture?” I asked.
“Don’t worry, I’m still tracking. My grief hasn’t rendered me incompetent. This lecture we had today covered the basics of the Solow-Swan model. Are you familiar?”
“Used for charting long-term economic growth.”
“Correct, and there’s a series of equations in the Solow-Swan model used to find the ‘golden rule’ values for a particular economy. Their ideal long-term growth and what they need to do to get there.”
“Sure. It all sounds very painless so far.”
“I’m building to my point. Do you know how they determine the ideal long-term growth?”
“My memory fails me.”
“Maximum consumption.” He slapped his hand down onto the desk, a hollow, flat thud that died quickly in the small room, and glared at me when I sat expectantly, waiting for more. The space seemed to have grown bigger, or I’d grown smaller. Both options felt probably but neither possible.
“That doesn’t seem so earth shattering.”
His eyebrows rose and he clutched at the air in front of him. I was worried he might start throwing bottles of cleaning product at me. Windex, Lysol, Clorox, and Pledge spotted the room in various states of disarray, an entire armory of ready ammunition.
“How can you not see it? Such a singular focus to our best possible future, consumption. It’s who we are and the economy knows it! Economics is just observing human behavior and nudging it along when needed. It knows our primary function and wants us to function as much as possible. The more you consume, the more you are, the more you exist.”
“That seems like an oversimplification.”
“There’s no factor of contentedness in economics.”
“The marginal propensity to consume has a negative derivative as disposable income increases.” I countered. He stood up quickly; his chair knocked back against the wall. He was nearly yelling now and I can only imagine what we must have sounded like out in the hall.
“Don’t talk to me like I didn’t consider the marginal propensity to consume! This isn’t some freshman existential crisis. There’s a baseline level of investment needed to promote future consumption and you damn well know it!”
“I’m starting to get the feeling that the C in Anti-C stands for-”
“Consumption. That’s not an identity, I refuse to be what I consume.”
“You are what you eat.”
“That’s not even remotely funny right now.”
Dejected, he sat back down, almost missing his displaced chair. The fluorescent lights flickered, sending angry shadows about the room. In a curious turn of events I noticed the paper towels on the floor were starting to soak up some of the water, becoming bloated and intimidating looking.
“So, say for the sake of your argument that consumption is our purpose. Who cares? What’s the significance? If you were used to feelings of despair you’d be handling this with significantly less closet hiding so I’ll assume you’ve lived a reasonably happy life up to this point. Nothing’s changed since those days of ignorant bliss. If consumption is your purpose now, then it was then too. Just because you’ve realized something doesn’t change the reality of it.”
“But I’ve been able to put a name to it now, which brings us full circle and does in fact make it much more real and, as a result, threatening.”
“Threatening? What’s being threatened?”
“My ability to feel purpose, to feel good about existing.”
“But there’s nothing to do about it! These thoughts are far too large to be worried about. Perhaps late at night in bed, moments before you drift off to sleep, but certainly not in the afternoon at a college of all places. A college! I won’t even mention that we’re in a broom closet for fear that it would steep us in awkwardness again. You brought your muddled thoughts into a room whose function is cleanliness and order.”
“Hoping that it might bring order to my muddled thoughts. And darkness is always best for clarity. Even in this awful light I think I see my path beginning to emerge.”
“Pray tell.”
“I must prove the model right or wrong. Give my life so that we may be certain of an answer.”
His eyes flickered back and forth. He hugged himself and rocked lightly in the chair, what I discerned to be telltale signs of madness, at least they resembled the signs of madness I’d observed in Hollywood films. I was worried I wasn’t doing enough to keep his mind tethered in such a sensitive moment, however I didn’t feel as though I was sharing the room with a madman. To treat him as such would be awfully dismissive of his concerns. Perhaps it’s best to treat everyone with the utmost seriousness until they themselves realize how unserious they are.
“How could you give your life to prove anything?” I asked.
“I will cease to consume immediately. If our function is to consume, and I no longer consume—”
“You will no longer exist in some sense.”
“That’s my guess.”
“How long would that take?”
“Tough to say. After so many years it may take a while to get out of my system.”
“Like a disease?”
“More like weaning off a drug. They’ve opiated the masses. It’s in the water, metaphorically speaking of course. So I stop drinking the water.”
The ominous overtones our conversation began to carry were making me uncomfortable. I angled my body toward the door, trying to indicate a desire to leave.
“Well, I certainly wish you the best at that, or, I suppose I should wish for you to not succeed so you could continue to exist which I think in the long run you’d find to be a good thing, but I really better—”
“Wait, no. We’re not done. You came in here for a reason.”
“Yes, to study, which I’d still better do.”
Through the thin door I heard shoes squeak down the hall once again, beckoning to me.
“I didn’t mean a conscious choice, those rarely matter. I meant in a more profound way. What I’m doing is essentially an experiment and every experiment needs a control. I need you to continue to consume a completely typical amount and then when we convene later, if I exist any less than you, we’ll know that it’s working”
“Truly flawless logic.”
We shook hands earnestly. I was eager to leave but Anti-C stayed behind with a sickening smile. My shoes oozed black liquid, leaving imprints on the floor as I slipped back out into the hall. All around students wandered, wearing branded clothing, Nike, Patagonia, Thrasher, and Stussy, which I didn’t recognize. Muffled music snuck out from underneath headphones. It was mostly bass intensive hip-hop or Billboard Top 40 pop songs coming out of Beats or a few Bose, the wireless and noise cancelling variety. Someone had pilfered in sandwich and was eating it down the hall. Heinz Spicy Brown Mustard assaulted my nose as it floated past. Sneakers squeaked, all varieties. It was all so intensely, overwhelmingly real.
The next few days passed painfully slow. Every lecture, every test, every graph seemed to hide a sinister intent, a diabolical deeper meaning meant to enslave the masses. I hated to be affected this way because it seemed childish not to be able to entertain these thoughts without accepting them on some level. Meanwhile, Anti-C vanished from the hallways and broom closets of the university. I kept expecting to see his gaunt face drifting through the classrooms like an apparition. I wasn’t sure exactly how his possible decline in existence would progress, but I imagined becoming a ghost-like figure must be one of the steps.
In the ensuing days time krept by on campus. Anti-C and I made no direct contact although he was constantly flitting around the edge of my consciousness. Once I thought I saw him across the street and made to call out, but a sudden stop light change sent a stampede of Toyotas, Fords, and Subarus thundering between us, obscuring him from view.
Again, I was in line at Subway pondering what constitutes a normal amount of consumption, a six-inch sub or a footlong, when movement outside the windows caught my eye. I saw it for the briefest of moments and while my eyes couldn’t discern what I saw, something deep, something primitive told me it was him.
The entire week every rustle of bushes or shadow flashing across my path was him. He was constantly with me, filling my surroundings with his presence. I could not eat or drink or dress or consume at all without Anti-C invading my thoughts. It pulled at my nerves, yet still, I wasn’t upset. It was thrilling just to be a part of something. Something actually happens so very rarely that it felt good simply to be a part of it, so I accepted my frayed nerves, embraced them, let the anxieties and fear take root. They were a part of this process that could not be ignored. Everywhere I looked I kept expecting to see his gaunt face drifting about as an apparition. I wasn’t sure exactly how his possible decline in existence would progress, but I imagined becoming a ghost-like figure must be one of the steps.
As our experiment neared the end of its first full week I became equal parts confused and frustrated. We had never set up a time and location for our meeting and with no clue how long a person could endure sans consumption, I was worried that we might not meet again before his transition into nothingness. It crossed my mind that in his current state, finding a means to communicate must be difficult.
On the seventh day after our initial encounter I walked stiffly through the student parking lot behind the university. It was late in the day so the lot was nearly cleared out, only a few dented sedans spotted the organized grid. I passed Fusions, Accords, and Camrys. A thin layer of filth hung to the side of my vehicle from not having the time, or ever caring enough to wash it. I stopped in my tracks when I turned to the drivers side. On the door, in small, precise letters, was a message etched out of the dirt. 8th Ave. Cemetery 7:30 PM. It was a stroke of genius from Anti-C, displacing the dirt consumed nothing, my car was a canvas at his disposal. I felt rejuvenated. Now the pieces were in play, actively moving, set to converge at 7:30.
The sun was setting behind sparse trees as I made my way through the cemetery, being extremely careful not to step on the ground directly above any caskets for fear of the eternal curse that might bring me. I hadn’t been given any directions more specific than ‘cemetery’, so I was forced to drift among the gravestones, hoping to wander into my acquaintance. I was pulled toward a section near the center, zoned to accommodate four ornate mausoleums topped with gorgeous domes. They were arranged in a square, which housed a small garden still lush with life despite how late it was in the year. My eyes caught the detail of design etched in their walls, biblical scenes I believe. The one closest to me depicted an angry man shaking his fists in a courtyard of sorts. Doves flew overhead. So rich with texture, such extravagance, even in death. I slipped down the path into the garden and sat on a bench at its center. Trees loomed over me, blocking most of the fading light. The mausoleums’ mouths growled from every angle. My heart began to race.
“Thank you for coming.” It was Anti-C. He was nowhere in sight and his voice seemed to resonate from everywhere at once. I jerked my head around trying to find him.
“Where are you?”
“I am with you, but I can’t reveal myself to you at this time.”
“Why? You were the one who asked meet?” A pit of vulnerability sat in my chest and began to swell.
“We are meeting. We must converse. To follow my creed I’ve had to abandon my material garments so I’ve chosen to conceal my form.” His voice thundered from every direction as if coming from deep within the mausoleums’ throats.
“How will we know if you still exist as much as before then? Are you transparent yet? Can you fly?” He chuckled softly.
“Of course not. I’m still of the flesh, but we had it wrong. I’m not going to exist any less. My borders have been pushed outward. I feel infinite. My consciousness completely surrounds itself, expanding outward and inward concurrently.” His voice boomed. For a strange second I felt as though it were coming from my own head. It encompassed me.
Even from within the shelter of the garden, I could tell the sun had fully set beneath the horizon. Deep purple shadows cascaded about.
“Then you’ve disproved the consumption identity.”
“Disproved? I’ve revealed their golden-values of consumption to be golden shackles!”
“So we’ve won? Who do we bring this to? How do we quantify or publish your discovery?”
“There’s no room in academia for this. I need to make my final ascent. That’s why I’ve asked you here specifically, the graveyard, a materialized antithesis of consumption. I’ve been making incremental changes this last week, cutting out things one at a time, media, textiles, food, just recently water, and now I’m down to my final object of consumption, oxygen. I need you with me, my faithful control, as I take the last step from an entity of consumption to an entity of pure existence. Be with me, witness my ascent! Appreciate my sacrifice! There’s no telling what will happen, only that it will be glorious.”
Words flashed through my head, different remarks, possible responses, but they all seemed inappropriate given the context, so I said nothing at all. Instead we basked in the uncertainty of the night. Small white lights lined the path through the garden and kept me company in the dark. They lit up the underside of the trees, illuminating leaves bouncing in the breeze, trying hopelessly to jump off their branch and freely float away. Eventually I closed my eyes and focused my attention to the sounds of the night. Rustling grass whispered, insects joined in chorus, and off in the distance an owl cries a predatory screech. Through it all, I could hear the softness of Anti-C carefully inhaling and exhaling. His breath came at an even cadence, from all around me, slowing incrementally like a wounded metronome.
In and out.
In and out.
I strained with incredible effort to stay alert, but the repetition lulled me deeper and deeper…
In and out.
In and out.
Evening breeze gently brushed up against me. The world around me was so cold, yet inside my jacket I was perfectly warm. Everything seemed to get further away until I snapped back with the sound of his breathing.
In and out.
In and out.
I wanted to stay awake, I needed to, but my eyelids were becoming impossibly heavy. I thought I smelled a lavender incense diffusing from the garden. It made me so, so…
In and out.
In and out.
In and out.
In and out.
I awoke in the morning and Anti-C was gone.
So was my wallet.
The malevolent mausoleums surrounded me with their sinister smiles. They towered over as I thrashed about in anguish, my vision blurred from malice. As it cleared and their haughty forms came into focus, I noticed an inscription they all shared:
Everyone comes naked from their mother’s womb, and as everyone comes, so they depart. They take nothing from their toil that they can carry in their hands.
-Ecclesiastes 5:15