Everyone Carries a Room Inside of Them

“Alright, explain this one to me again.” Jack was demanding as I walked into the nearly empty coffee shop.

Jack spoke again, “Nope, that’s it; I’m still totally fucking lost.”

The person Jack was talking to wasn’t a friend. A friendly face, but not a friend. I believe he had told me his name was Daniel one time, or maybe it was Paul. I’m sure it was something simple and catchy.

Daniel, or whoever, quickly rose while I was ordering my third cup of black coffee in just as many hours. He rushed out the door to the clashing of tiny bells above him. Another angel must have just got his wings or Satan bought another soul.

My hands were now being harmed by a tasteless cup of yesterday’s coffee. Recycled and reheated. Jack was busy scratching notes onto the back of this morning’s paper, probably the local section, no one reads that anyway.

“It’s nice to see you again” I announced over a few empty tables with half empty saltshakers and plastic bowls full of empty half and half creamer.

“Yeah, yeah . . . same to you” he said in a hurried manner.

“I overheard you and your company having a discussion, now I don’t mean to butt in to your business, but what were you two talking about?”

He looked up, stared at the wall for a minute, and then started dictating the rough details like he was reading everything off of a cue card. “Pete’s been having a tough time as of late apparently. He didn’t go into any real specifics; he just kept talking about how it was everywhere. How everything he looked at reminded him of what happened or whatever.”

“Is that what you were having a hard time understanding?”

“Yeah, I guess but it was just the way he was explaining it I guess. I don’t know. It all sounded like muddled garbage to me.”

“It sounds like to me like he saw his white room.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, white room? This isn’t a fucking song, dude’s got problems.”

“No, I understand that. His problem might be the white room. Here, I’ll explain it so you can understand.” I take a sip of my coffee as I take a seat. Jack puts his pen down and at least pretends like he is going to pay attention. “Alright, so everyone has a white room. That’s what life is . . . it’s a white room. As long as that room stays white, everything is perfect. There are no doors, no windows, and no secret passages. You just have a white floor, a white ceiling, and four white walls boxing you in.”

“Ok?”

“In your hands, you have a balloon.”

“What color?”

“What?”

“What color is the balloon?” he asked.

“It’s not important to the story, but it was white, whatever. So you’re holding this white balloon and it’s full of the bluest paint you’ve ever seen. Full to the brim, it could pop at any moment, but as long as that balloon is in your hand, it’s safe. The room stays white; your life stays on course for the perfect American dream. Or at least your rendition of it. But if something goes wrong, that balloon pops. Your once perfect white room is now covered with blue paint.”

“Well, couldn’t you just get a hose or a mop or something?”

“No. You’re missing the point again. That balloon popped and now everything in that room is ruined. Everything is tainted and everywhere you look, you’re going to see blue. It’s on the walls, the floor, your clothes, and the bottom of your shoes. There are little spots everywhere from the crash to the floor. One simple thing in you’re life can go wrong, and you’ll see it in everything around you. Like if a friend or girlfriend of yours dies. . . it could end up, that you start noticing things around you that remind you of them, maybe something stupid, it could be anything. Perhaps you overhear people say things in restaurants while you’re waiting on your scotch to get to the table. Somebody says something and you swear for a moment that it was her. You have dreams about her; you do nothing but write about her. Every song you listen to was written in the course of that event. It’s all tainted because that balloon popped, and there’s nothing you can do about it except smile and hope you make it until tomorrow.”

For a few moments he just sits there, staring down at his newspaper. I’m sure a thousand things are running through his head . . . some pertaining to this conversation and others still on his mind from weeks ago. I take a few more sips of my coffee in the meantime and eye a young woman in tight black jeans standing up by the counter.

“So, does everyone supposed have this room? And not just Pete?” he finally asks ever so quietly.

“Yeah, that’s right. Everyone is standing in that room by themselves, holding on to that balloon.”

“Why have I never heard about it before today then?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps you didn’t want to know about it. Perhaps you’ve been denying it without even knowing what you were doing.”

“Is there anyway to get out of that room?”

I sigh briefly, “No, and just forget it. You’re hopeless. Here’s a present. I don’t need it anymore, at least not for the time being. Since I know you can’t see the blue, let alone understand it, go home and see some red.”

I took my hand out of my coat pocket, slammed it down hard on the table, and used it as a level to get myself up. I took one more sip of my coffee before tossing it in the trash can as I went out the door right behind the young woman.