The Gray Elephant

I used to like the color gray. It was the color of the stormclouds that floated over our home in Vermont, the color of the rabbits that hopped around in our backyard and of the worn-out couch that now sat lonely in our living room. Gray was the color of comfort, of warmth and soft love. 

Now I dread the color gray. It’s everywhere, it’s all I see. It haunts me in my sleep. It isn’t the beautiful grays of Southern Vermont, it’s dull, flat, and soul-crushing. It fills the walls of my high-rise Financial District cubicle, splatters across the concrete floor of Boston, and wraps around me as an ill-fitting blazer. It mocks me every time I hear the tick, tock of the office clock, and the click, click of the desktop mouse. It infiltrates my brain in the clacking of the keyboard and the smell of cigarette smoke in the courtyard. It whispers in my ear, you are pathetic. You have failed. You are everything that you never wanted to be. 

And then I go home. I walk into my crappy apartment building with my head down and my shoulders slouched. I wave tiredly at the security guard and reach out to grab the day’s newspaper. Nothing out of the ordinary. Crashes, murders, kidnappings. Same as yesterday.

“You actually read that thing?” I stop. I’ve been so wrapped up in my thoughts that the new voice was startling. I tend to assume that my unhappiness and dissatisfaction with the world radiates enough that no one will want to talk to me, let alone go out of their way to try.

“Yes sir, sit on my balcony looking out on the beautiful Boston skyline with a glass of chardonnay and pick out my favorite murder.”

“Don’t you live in the basement? I’ve seen you walk that way.”

“There’s your answer.”

“You’ve got that cool-girl attitude huh. What’s your name?”

“I’m Josie.” He smiles and bows his head to me. He has dark-brown, almost black hair and dimples. I’m surprised I haven’t noticed him before. “Not so much a cool-girl attitude as a tired of today one.”

“I’m George, and I can sure as Hell can relate to you on that one. Never a change of scenery around here.”

“Not where I work, either. I’m making spreadsheets all day as a data analyst. I wanted to be a writer.”

“I wanted to be a painter. The artists always get stuck in the corporate wheel, huh.”

“You can say that again.” He chuckles and looks down at his daily crossword. 

“All I do is watch you all go in and out all day, and read the newspapers over and over again. It can be pretty agonizing.” Monotonous, I think. This guy’s life might be even more monotonous than mine. 

“Well, I’ll be sure to entertain you when I can.”

“Maybe we can have a drink together sometime.”

“Maybe.” I smile and excuse myself. A small sparkle was just added to the day. My spirits are boosted just a bit, and I was thankful for the few minutes that George gave to me.

I wasn’t lying about the chardonnay. Two minutes after the conversation ended I’m downstairs in 3B opening a bottle. I pour myself a glass —  to the brim — and toss the newspaper onto the oak brown mail table by the front door. I’ve carefully avoided having anything gray in my apartment. If someone was to judge me based on my apartment, they might think I enjoy life and find it fruitful. Green velvet couch, funky furniture and psychedelic paintings on the walls, a full map above the oak brown desk with pins of everywhere I wanted to go when I still thought I had my whole life ahead of me. When my dreams still seemed attainable. A hammock hangs in the corner above a small garden of potted plants. I like to lie in it and pretend I’m in Hawaii looking out at the lush green landscape and roaring waves. This at least makes my dull, gray life a bit more bearable.

On a typical night, Friends is playing on the small TV and pasta is cooking in the kitchen. I am wearing cream-colored fuzzy slippers with pink mushrooms and green frogs. I’m in pink sweatpants and a tie-dyed Grateful Dead t-shirt. My hair is probably pulled back into a messy low bun and on a good day, maybe I’m dancing a bit as I eat what’s still cooking on the stove. It seems like a classic late 20s scene. The unfortunate part is that it is, and in college I wanted nothing more than to live a life that strayed far from a classic nine to five. 

By the time I eat the chicken and broccoli alfredo pasta that has been stewing for what seems like ages now, its 10 o’clock. Two years ago, I was making fun of my mom for having a 10 o’clock bedtime, but now I happily bury myself in the mess of pillows and blankets that lay on my full-sized bed. I open up the newspaper to get a quick laugh from the cartoons. PSYCHIC READINGS — BACK BAY — COME TODAY AND GET YOUR FUTURE READ

This ad is blocking the cartoons. I would consider Tarot cards, maybe, but a psychic seems to far-fetched. Maybe it’s just jealousy talking, if I could predict the future I might save myself a lot of pain. I fold the newspaper shut and place it on the nightstand, that thought still in mind. My heavy eyelids slowly shut and the day is over.

 . . .

I jolt awake. The clock reads 3:23 a.m. It takes about ten minutes to figure out that the room I’m sitting in is not the same one in the nightmare that just sent an electric shock shivering down my spine. The clock hits 4 o’clock, and I still feel just as panicked as I did half an hour ago. I grab a notebook and write down everything that I can remember.

It was in my room here. I was sitting at my desk, watching my mom who was laying to the bed, chained. There were electrodes attached to her and the shackles banged against the bed with every shock. She kept saying “you did this to me! You did this to me!” When I asked her why, she said “they kill those who are disappointed by their children, and they kill those who disappoint themselves. You’re next.” A man walked towards me with rope and a taser. Then I woke up.

I finish writing, but I’m still feeling uneasy. I figure it’s best if I don’t sleep in my bed again tonight, so I bring out three big blankets and burrow myself into the couch. Friends is playing as I drift off. Now to deal with the horrors of life tomorrow.

. . . 

The day goes by the same way it did yesterday. Gray, cold, lonely. I again watch the hands on the clock inch their way around the circle, eight times. I listen to the rhythmic tapping of the keys and the clicks and the coughs from the man four cubicles over with a nasty cold. I’m entering numbers into boxes over and over again, unsure what some of them are even for. Taxes maybe? Something about imports and exports? Everything around me is the same, as it is in this cookie-cutter life of mine, but I feel different today. I am still bored with the flow of life and disgusted by the corporate machine I’ve injected myself into, but today I feel somehow emptier than usual. Hollow, almost, and foggy. 

“Josephina, we need the weekly report done by 4:30.” That was my boss, Steve. He’s the most cliché office boss you could think of — blue suit and tie, clean shaven face, and wrinkle lines above his eyebrows. He speaks with a booming voice and professional language. He acts like he is “one of the boys” with every male employee in the office — everyone but myself and Tonya.

“It’ll be there by then.”

“Make sure it’s well done.”

“It always is.”

“Well, I can never fully trust you and Tonya like I can with everyone else.” I should be shocked but this is classic Steve.

“As you’ve said before, Steve. The report will be done well and by 4:30.”

“Okay. I hope you’re right.” He turns and strides away, head up and shoulders back. I cannot stand him. I need a smoke.

The Marlboro Reds come out today. I drag myself to the courtyard on lunch break, where all the employees who also can’t stand their lives are lighting up under the pale blue sky and towering glass walls of the building. It is a sea of black, gray, and blue blazers and frowning faces. When I listen closely, I can make out the same few words being iterated from the smoke-filled lips of my coworkers. Annual Report. Steve. Friday night. I need a drink. I take a cigarette out of the pack, holding it lightly in my fingertips as I fumble to get my year-old BIC lighter to give me something more than a spark. Inhale. Ahhhhhhh. Exhale. Just what I needed — a pick-me-up to make me feel something again. 

“How are you holding up, Josie?” It’s Tonya. She gives me a soft-smile and pulls her cigarette.

“Same as always. Making it through.”

“Sometimes that’s all you can do.”

“Steve made one of those comments again today.”

“I heard, that’s why I came over. Come find me if you need anything.” She waves with her cigarette between her fore-finger and middle finger, walking back towards the door. I wish that the conversation would make me feel comforted, but this conversation has taken place so many times that I am left feeling blank. Four more hours until I can go home.

. . . 

I stare blankly out the train window, avoiding eye contact with anyone who looks in my direction. I just want to be under the blankets again, hidden from the world. The train ride and the walk from the station are a blur of high heels hitting the pavement and the stench of the underground subway. 

“Hey, Josie. Saved you a newspaper today,” George says, his fingertips brushing mine as he hands me the crinkled paper. His thoughtfulness is challenging my pessimism.

“Thanks, George. I appreciate you.” He grins. I am trying my best to preserve it and to not project the weight of my day onto him.

“Everything okay Josie?”

“Yeah, just down today is all. I’ll be fine.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“I don’t really have the words for it, honestly.”

“I’m pretty good at getting the words out of people.”

“Try me.”

“Tell me the feeling in your body.”

“Heavy,” I said. “Like I can’t push past this wall that’s right in front of me, I’m stuck. And I had this horrible nightmare last night…it validated a fear of mine and it has been making me feel disturbed all day.”

“Try something that’ll clear your mind or open your soul. That’s what my grandma used to tell me when I was feeling like that, and she was a very spiritually peaceful woman.” I suddenly remembered. The psychic.

“Like a psychic?”

“Never hurts to try. Did you see the one in the newspaper?”

“Yes I did, actually. I’m gonna go check her out. Thanks George.” I move towards him to gesture for a brief hug and then awkwardly run out the door to catch the next train. I think about him the entire way to the station and daydream on the train. I think about his tall figure and the silver rings on his fingers. I imagine him whisking me off of my feet and pouring me a glass of deep red wine, just like he said he would.

. . .  

The sign above the front door reads MARIA LOUPOS – COME GET YOUR FUTURE READ. The door is an ocean-blue and there is a metal archway wrapped with white roses. There is a window, but sheer white curtains are drawn shielding the room inside. 

“Come in, darling.” Her voice sounds like butter, gliding across the room and beckoning for me to come to her.

Inside, the walls are violet purple and there is a tan shag rug on the floor. It smells strongly of incense and a chamomile candle. Succulent plants lay scattered around the room and evil eyes are placed methodically on the wall. It feels safe in here. There is a beaded curtain that hangs under another doorway that conceals a small, bent-over figure.

“I’m feeling nervous,” I say. This is the place to be honest if any.

“Don’t worry, once we begin you will feel calm.” I push the beaded curtain aside, and a frail, red-haired woman looks back at me with big green eyes. She’s wearing an emerald-colored dress with gold stitching and a gold necklace with a ruby on the end. Her smile is kind. My chest suddenly feels warm and my breathing slows.

“How do we start?”

“Let me see your hands.” She talks both of my palms into hers, massaging my palms and outlining each line and crease on my hand. 

“Are you feeling weak?” She asked.

“Not weak, per se, but I do feel heavy.”

“Are you having trouble knowing who you are?”

“Less about who I am, more about who I will be.”

“Your future is closer than you think it is, my dear.”

“How will I know?”

“The one who you never considered will be the one who shows you the world.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the world.”

“I know. You have a soul full of wanderlust and a love of connection.” My heart skips a beat. It feels good to feel seen, to feel understood by someone.

“It’s everything I’ve dreamed of.”

“You will get what you dream of.”

“What will I get?”

“You like art?”

“I love it.”
“An artist will show you the art you’ve always wanted to see.” I feel like I’m going to fall out of the chair. I came in thinking that the reading would be much more cryptic, but the answer is right in my lap.

“I know what I have to do.”

“You feel calm, dear?”

“Better than ever.” 

I feel like she just saved my life. My heart is leaping out of my chest, and I lunge to embrace her. She pulls me into her arms and I feel tears start to fall.

“Thank you. Thank you.” I pay her and leave, smiling the entire way out.

. . . 

“Good evening, Josie. How was the psychic?”

“It was the best choice I’ve ever made. Thank you, George.”

“For what?”

“For telling me to go.”

“Only you made that decision. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you.”

“You walked in here with your head up and your eyebrows weren’t scrunched. Your arms were at your sides instead of crossed. What happened in there?”

“All you need to know is that I want to have that drink.”

“I would love to, but I have to ask you one last thing.”

“What?”

“I’m taking a European Arts class this semester, and there is an optional trip to Italy at the end of the semester. I watched the way you walked and heard the way you spoke, and I could feel the pain that you were in. When I travelled abroad, it changed my whole life. I know we only just introduced ourselves for the first time, but I know you appreciate the arts as well, so thought I’d ask my professor if you can come with us. We can go to Rome and see all the art I’ve always wanted to see, together.”

Our eyes met. The gray elephant took a foot off of my chest.