The Unnamed

The bodhisattva had encouraged him to look deeply into his reliance upon technology. Email and PDA, cell phone and voicemail were extensions of the ruinous consuming self. They made thoughts of the self instantaneously and irrepressibly accessible. Who’s calling me, who’s texting me, who wants me, me, me. The ego went along on every walk and ride, replacing the vistas and skylines, scrambling the delicate meditative code. The self was cut off from the hope that the world might reassert itself over the digitized clamour and the ego turn again into the sky, the bird, the tree.

He didn’t touch mouse or keyboard, keypad or scroll button all the months of his previous recurrence, and it had thrived then and now it was back, so so much for the bodhisattva.

She said his name three times into the phone, each time louder than the last. The other brokers in the open plan looked up from their preoccupations. ‘You have to concentrate, Tim,’ she said. She stood up and her chair rolled back to tap the desk behind her. The person sitting there exchanged a look with his colleague across the aisle. ‘What’s the name of the road, can you see a name?’ It was impossible for anyone to ignore her. ‘But what town? What town?’ She seemed to regain some measure of control. She sat back down and issued careful instructions, as specific as they were mysterious. ‘You have to call nine-one-one. Are you listening? If you can call me you can call nine-one-one. But if they can’t locate you –Tim? If they can’t locate you, you have to walk into that subdivision. I know you’re tired but you don’t have a choice if they don’t know where to pick you up. Move away from the main road. Are you listening? Move into the neighbourhood. Go to the first house and ring the doorbell. Stay awake until somebody opens the door. If nobody opens the door, go to the next house. You tell them to call nine-one-one. Then you can fall asleep. Somebody has to call nine-one-one before you fall asleep. I know you’re tired, I know you’re tired, but are you listening?’ She stood again. ‘Tim, are you awake?’ She waited for him to reply. ‘Tim, wake up!’ Everyone was silent. The only sound in the office now was of telephones allowed to ring. ‘Go into the subdivision! I will find you!’

He walked away from the main road to the subdivision. His body trembled with cold. It had let him know, five minutes earlier, that the walk had come to its end. He wore his suit coat backward, the back in front, which did better against the wind, and his hands were wrapped in plastic bags. He had swooped down during the walk and picked them from the icy ground, one hand in a black plastic bag and the other in a white one.

The first house was circumscribed by a chain-link fence. He forced the latch up and stumbled to the door. He tried to think of what he might say. The right idea wasn’t coming. The words behind the idea were out of reach. He was at one remove from the person who knew how to form ideas and say words.

He fell to his knees before he could ring the doorbell. He put his bagged hands on the storm door and rested his head there. The metal was cold against his cheek. He fought with angry determination for two or three seconds. If he could defy the tidal fatigue, his body wouldn’t win, and he might still learn that someone had discovered him and would see him to safety.