Twenty-three Likes

Gladys Weatherly had survived many difficult trials throughout the first fifty years of her life. When she was four years old, she broke her arm after falling off a chair. What Gladys remembered most about the incident were the comments she heard afterwards from well-meaning adults: “You’re so lucky you didn’t bump your head.” “You’re so lucky it was your left arm.” “You’re so lucky it will be good as new.” Gladys didn’t feel lucky at all every time the reoccurring throbbing pain plagued her throughout her life.

When Gladys was seven, her parents divorced, and she never saw her beloved father again. Her mother refused to discuss the situation. Gladys felt abandoned and insecure. This was also around that time that she began wetting the bed. After having an accident at a slumber party, she was teased and shunned. From then on, at school she hung back in the shadows, convinced that her horrifying humiliation would never be forgotten.

A few days after Gladys celebrated her tenth birthday, two policemen came to the door and took her sixteen year old brother, Robert, away. At any mention of Robert’s name, Gladys’ mother became stern and stony. Gladys didn’t dare ask her what became of Robert. She just knew there was something dark and disturbing about his leaving.

Gladys grew up, got married, and was once again abandoned—this time by her husband of four months who simply walked out the door one autumn day. Gladys soon began having frequent nightmares in which her husband and/or her father glared disapprovingly at her and said she was a naughty little girl. Or they laughed at her and called her worthless as they walked out the door over and over and over.

Her mother passed away; Gladys was deserted once more. Every night she sat in her tiny, dim studio apartment in New York City. Every night surviving--and only just that.

For nearly thirty years, Gladys had been employed by a small company which contracted to clean various office buildings. She made ends meet. She met a few other nice-enough employees, but every night when she dragged back to her simple refuge, she sat rigid in her only chair for hours She ached to hold a husband, a baby, a friend, but her arms were empty, and her heart was broken.

Two days after Gladys turned fifty, a turn of events made it possible for her to realize a kind of joy. A distant Uncle had died and left her a “tidy sum.” With her propensity for frugality, she realized that the money would likely last her a lifetime. She shared the news with four acquaintances from work and gave her notice. But before her final day, Lydia, the kind one, convinced Gladys that she should get a computer to keep her company and to help her stay in touch with world events. She helped Gladys set it up: showed her the basics of Word, Goggle and Facebook. Lydia invited several women from work to be Gladys’ friends. Four of these women immediately replied and sent brief messages of encouragement. The world began to open up for Gladys. She had friends. She was not alone.

Gladys approached her relationship with these four Facebook friends with both enthusiasm and a kind of reverence. She felt a profound sense of solemn responsibility to be helpful and considerate. She spent over two hours writing lengthy replies and waited eagerly to hear back from them. Gladys soon found the courage to invite four more people. Three confirmed. Gladys felt like a part of a group. She belonged. She was in the loop.

As the weeks went on, Gladys acquired more and more friends. She finally had to keep her replies shorter than at first, but she made certain to respond to everyone. If someone was having a bad day, she would send messages of hope and care. When she saw pictures of babies, pets or vacations, she would promptly reply, telling her friends how cute, how adorable, and how fun. Sometimes she was the only one replying, but often her comments joined with comments from other friends—a real conversation of sorts.

Months passed by. Gladys hardly had time to eat and began going to bed later and later. She had so many friends. So many! By the end of each day, her shoulders ached after being hunched over her keyboard for hours. Some days she felt drained and weak, but she would never dream of letting her friends down. Never.

Hundreds of friends. Hundreds! So many pictures to comment on. So many people to cheer up. So many condolences to write. And congratulations. And words of encouragement. And people were inviting her to be their friends. Inviting her! She confirmed and confirmed.

Gladys continued to faithfully fulfill her commitment to her friends. There she sat everyday: Typing. Composing. Replying. Inviting. Confirming. Caring. Very often, morning light would slip in through the window, leaving her to wonder what had become of the night. There was no one in her apartment to gently rub her shoulders and whisper, “It’s late. Come to bed, my dear.” Nor were there pets to walk. No phone to answer. No dinner engagements. No club meetings. No Church gatherings. And no children to hold or teach or love. Even with all her Facebook friends, Gladys sometimes felt lonely. During these times, she spent even longer hours inviting more friends and working more diligently to write well thought out replies to anyone who sent her a message.

One Tuesday night after hours of reading and replying, Gladys was again physically drained. She put her fingers on the keyboard and for the first time posted a message of her own rather than simply a reply. Sometimes I am so weary, I want to die. POST. There it was, her unexpected cry.

Gladys was quickly embarrassed that she had posted something personal and depressing, but within minutes, up popped three replies. Three friends wrote words of comfort and support. After that, she began to notice the likes: two, now seven, now fifteen. With each like, Gladys sank in despair. She froze in place as she saw the likes growing. Every tortuous event in her life burned through her mind: pain, abandonment, disappointment, grief and loneliness--above all, loneliness.

At her final count, twenty-three of her friends had responded with like to her desperate post. For Gladys, this implied that twenty-three friends were happy that she wanted to die. Twenty-three liked that she was depressed. Twenty-three friends. Twenty-three.  She was betrayed and abandoned again. Again.

As new comments and likes continued to trickle in, unread, Gladys slipped awkwardly from her chair, her breathing becoming tortured and ragged. As she hit the floor, her eyes shot open wide with surprise at the irony that her defeat finally came about by something so benign. After years of battling demons, a simple Facebook post was her undoing.

Our Huddled Masses

 

Our Huddled Masses

a prologue by Pat Condie Bak

By the time the general population became aware of the new super bacteria, the reactionary responses of prominent medical doctors and renowned scientists from all over the world had already escalated from curiosity to concern, to worry, to fear, and finally, to panic. Inevitable leaks of the frightening new discovery first trickled out, then flowed in torrents from the countless fissures in top secret documents. As soon as the inevitable consequences of the new Bacillus fasilmeria became clear, Earth’s inhabitants collectively wailed and plunged headlong into a universal hell.

Because of the unprecedented robust nature of this proficient killer, familiar apocalyptic scenes of B grade movies were replicated throughout the real world in frenzied, fast-forward time. First came the inevitable looting: electronics, then food and finally, any type of protective paraphernalia imaginable: from useless face masks, to surplus World War II parts and pieces and on to government issued state-of-the-art Ebola gear stockpiled in inefficiently secured facilities. What quickly followed those days of mayhem and ruthless anarchy was a quiet settling-of-the-dust atmosphere in which most hapless citizens of every country merely walked, trance-like, over decaying bodies in search of a crust of bread.

In just five weeks after Dr. Kumar Banerjee’s first wide-eyed, jaw-dropping scrutiny of the extraordinary bacteria, over seventy million people had succumbed to the terror, and the daily death count grew exponentially. A small number of intellectuals who had stayed one step ahead of the ever-growing carnage labored on several continents in a desperate attempt to understand this destroying angel. Their determination paid off as these exhausted men and women uncovered the one vulnerability of the bacteria: persistent, torturous cold.

 And thus it is that our determination to insure the survival of the human race has led us to seek sanctuary at the frozen poles or atop towering, ice-crusted mountains. In diverse locations throughout the world, small clusters of huddled masses have been brought together by fear and grief.  It is in this bitter frozen stillness that we few survivors are finding salvation. The forced abandonment of all mankind’s superfluous trappings has compelled us to rediscover our humanity

Casualties

Alyssa stood quietly beside her father in the bustling Minneapolis airport watching her mother in the distance as she prepared to run the security gauntlet. “Bye-bye, Laura,” six year old Alyssa called to her mother as loudly as she dared. Her mother paused for a moment and blew her daughter a kiss before continuing to remove her red Giuseppe Zanotti heels for the conveyor bin. The airport monitor indicated that her flight would depart right on schedule, and Laura’s racing thoughts were already transporting her ahead in time to her dream-come-true arrival in Paris.

David and Laura’s divorce wrapped up three weeks earlier. It had not been a messy divorce, the kind where the injured parties ensnare friends and strangers and hold them captive while they catalog their grievances over and over. The couple was too civilized for tasteless revelations of their private life. Nor was their divorce a particularly friendly one, the kind where the couple remains so amiable that everyone wonders just what had gone wrong. David and Laura had never even really been friends and shared the notion that friendships are for school children.

Their parting had been more of a drifting away from one another, and neither David nor Laura had even considered reaching for a lifeline; instead, they were buoyed along as the current of discontent gently took them toward different shores. David was searching for a wife who would compliment and complement him. He longed for a woman who would idolize him and make him her top priority, while at the same time maintaining her charm and intelligence. When she entered a social gathering, there would be a break in the conversational din. And everyone would know that she was his.

Laura’s dreams were of becoming a shrewd and impressive business woman in the world of fashion. Shortly before the divorce was final, she was offered a position with Adeline Andre’ Haute Couture. She accepted the offer with no consideration of family ties or responsibilities.

Now, as David and Alyssa reached the car in the airport parking garage, Alyssa was squeezing back the tears that had started as she first watched her mother disappear in the lines of fellow travelers. Her Father noticed her contorted face and patted her arm with a dismissive, “There, there,” and ushered her into the car.

Alyssa Monique Burke had come to her parents unexpectedly; but they liked her. She was beautiful and intelligent and gave them credibility as a family: “And do you have any children?”

“An adorable little girl,” they would reply proudly.

As they begin driving, Alyssa looked at her Father and asked hesitantly, “David, can I go to a pet store to buy something nice for Treater?”

“May I, Alyssa. May I.”

“Yes, Sir. May I go to the pet store to buy a toy for Treater?”

David scoffed, “A toy for a dog? Nonsense. You know I have to drop you off at home with Mrs. Robinson and get back to the office. I’ll be working long hours to get ready for the New Your conference. Don’t you remember?”

“Maybe Mrs. Robinson could take me tomorrow when she picks me up after school.”

“I don’t pay Mrs. Robinson to chauffer you around.

“Yes, Sir,” Alyssa whispered. Then silence prevailed.

As soon as the divorce had been finalized, it occurred to them that a decision must be made as to where Alyssa would grow up: Paris or Minneapolis? They had delayed this decision because it seemed inconsequential at the time. They concluded that Alyssa should make the decision as to which parent she would live with. “Either way is fine,” they told her magnanimously. After two weeks of Alyssa’s “fretting,” their patience wore thin. “We really must have a decision,” they insisted. Laura would be leaving in a week

Alyssa had finally decided she would go with her mother. Sometimes her mother brushed her hair for her and read a bedtime story now and then. And sometimes her mother smiled at her and held her hand for a moment. However, the day before she announced her decision, her father brought a petite, quiet dog to his house. Alyssa immediately named him Treater, and there was love at first sight between the two. And thus, the week before her mother was to leave, Alyssa was the happiest she had ever been. Treater nestled with her, welcomed her home, played with her and lavished appreciation and affection. They both thrived. Alyssa could not bear to leave Treater and told her parents she would be staying with her father.

When Alyssa and her Father got home from the airport, she immediately ran for Treater before Mrs. Robinson even had time to remind her to take off her shoes. Her heartache at losing her mother was tempered with knowing she finally had an affectionate ally.

David looked down at the cheerful little dog. My allergies have flared up again the past few days, he thought. It must be that mutt. Obviously it would have to be returned tomorrow.

Success!

*Note: Here is a tongue-in-cheek micro story that jumped into my mind when I first read this ending. I will try to come up with something more substantial.

Because the patient lived for 72 hours after his ground-breaking, multi-organ transplant surgery, the procedure was deemed a success. Congratulatory handshakes were lavished on the young surgeon; however, he hoped that next time there wouldn't be any parts left over.

Her Countenance

Mme. Beaulieu glides around her students as they stand at uneasy attention beside their easels. The airy French art studio is silent as each aspiring artist waits in anxious anticipation for their venerated mentor to pause before each painting to give her valued appraisal.

For young Mlle. Antoine, this day held such great promise. Her spirit had soared when she heard Mme. Beaulieu’s inspiring words as she informed her eager students of her expectations for this latest challenge. The venerable teacher had directed their attention to the new model: a radiant and genteel young woman who wore a sparkling, but tasteful, tiara and a flowing white evening gown. She held a single rose and gazed into the distance with an expression both poignant and mysterious. Mme. Beaulieu had even provided a gossamer backdrop, making the subject ethereal, almost reverential.

“Look at her face,” Mme. Beaulieu said, her normally soft voice rising with excitement. “You will capture this woman’s countenance,” she instructed. “I want to sense a touching story reflected in her eyes when I look at her face. If you are successful, I will feel a stirring within my soul.” Mme. Beaulieu’s tone became insistent and urgent. “Now begin. You have only today to prove yourselves to be inspired artists.”

Mlle. Antoine had thought for several minutes before putting brush to canvass, then, with taut concentration, she began her creative labor to etch out her masterpiece.

And now the moment had arrived. Would Mme. Beaulieu appreciate the expressive visage? Would the eyes on the canvass confirm the despair that Mlle. Antoine had worked so hard to capture?

Mme Beaulieu finally makes her way to Mlle. Antoine. She studies the portrait, leaning in close as if scrutinizing each pixel of a photograph. She then calls the other students over and, as they gather around, she instructs them to offer up a collective assessment of the portrait. The students clear their throats and shuffle from one foot to the other, knowing that they will be evaluated on their critique as much as Mlle. Antoine’s work will be judged.

The students quickly and discreetly confer. The senior student, Mlle. Roseau, speaks for the group. As Mlle. Antoine listens for key words to tell her that she has, indeed, captured the sophisticated emotion of her subject, she can scarcely hear the hesitant evaluation of her peers.

Mme. Beaulieu’s face is contorted, hard and grim, as she nods her head in agreement as Mlle. Roseau shares the students’ appraisal: The rose was the loveliest shade of pink they'd ever seen.