The Times In Between

I wake up and slide out of bed. I’m careful not to wake her as I tiptoe out of the room. I shut the door behind me.

I’ve been doing this for years. She tells all of her friends how considerate I am. I smile and say something like, “I’ll try not to hurt my arm patting myself on the back.” 

Everyone laughs; they always laugh. Humor has become my job, my responsibility. 

I wonder what she would think if she knew that I sneak out of our bedroom so I can be by myself. Would she brag to her friends if she knew the truth? In my defense, it's not just her—it's everybody. Interaction is a chore, engagement is a duty, human contact is oppressive.

Safe in the solitude of my favorite wingback chair, I read. I read the newspaper, or a book, or anything else that takes me away.

I read what I want.

This is my time, my favorite part of the day. No one is awake to entertain—no one is interrupting me with questions or problems or demands.

The phone rings. It always rings exactly seven times. I know this because I never answer. I don’t even look at the Caller ID. I don’t want to feel obligated. If I do, I’ll have to put on my mask—the mask everyone knows. He’s so funny, so interesting, so smart.

My daughter comes down the stairs. I love her more than life itself. Still, I hope she doesn’t stay long. She thinks I’m perfect. I have her fooled. She tells me she wants me to meet her new friend. I told her all about you! She says with a smile. She thinks it's a compliment. It feels like another obligation. Yet another person I have to deceive.

When she leaves, I'm relieved. I'm ashamed.

Now I’m in my car, the second favorite part of my day. I am an aggressive driver. I cut people off. I don’t let people in. “Fuck you!” I yell because no one can hear me. I say the things I dare not utter in public. If people heard me then they might know who I really am.

I can’t stand the idea of anyone knowing me. 

I’m not a bad person. 

I’m not an angry person.

I just need a way to let off steam. 

The car acts like the release valve on a pressure cooker. I need the time alone. I need it to get through the day. I wish the drive were longer.

It’s not.

All too soon, I’m at work.

It’s time to do my morning dance. I scan the parking lot. Is anyone getting out of their car? Is anyone pulling in? On good days, I can time it exactly right so I’m too late to ride the elevator with the people in front of me while being far enough ahead of the next group to avoid them as well. 

But not this morning. 

Today I’m forced to ride up in the elevator with Barry and Heather.

Barry asks me about my weekend. Heather turns to listen. 

“Same as always—too short.” 

They both laugh. Heather says I crack her up. Three floors up with them seems an eternity to me. I smile, praying no one else gets on.

I work in a call center, an ironic job for someone who hates talking to people. I am pleasant. I ask my customers questions about their lives. I empathize with their struggles. I tell jokes. They like that, they chuckle.

I tell them I’ll call back with an answer, but I never do. Once they are off my phone, they are dead to me. They only get to see the mask I am paid to wear.

I have to stop on the way home. I need a new shirt for a party tonight. 

I dread the store. A salesperson will talk to me. I don my mask once again. The conversation is endless, Jehovah’s Witness meets Amway rep endless. I hate every second. Finally, another customer comes in, relieving me of my obligation. When I buy my shirt, I say, “I hope that card works—I found it in the parking lot.” The salesperson laughs. 

I’ve done my job. I've been entertaining—now I can leave.

Back in my car for the ride home, I savor my freedom from others. 

I eat in the car. 

I sing in the car.

I cry in the car.

I am myself in the car. 

More than once I contemplate driving right by my exit and never turning back, only I know my curse will follow me wherever I go. In a new town with a new name, I’ll still be me.

I’m home again; she’s working. I’m happy. She’s otherwise occupied. I don’t have to tell jokes or be interesting or interested.

I go back to my chair and enjoy the few quiet moments before the party.

I made plans with three different friends. I’ll disappoint two because saying yes is easier than saying no.

I’m always overbooked with events I don’t want to attend, so I try to settle for the least offensive.

At the party with my wife, I talk and I listen. When the conversation starts to lag, everyone looks to me to liven it up. So, I tell a joke—I always have a joke. They laugh—they always do.

Tonight, there is karaoke—I love to sing karaoke. People think it’s because I love the attention. It isn’t. On the stage, I get to be alone. I’m willing to sing poorly just for a moment of respite. 

I want to be the first to leave the party, but I’m always the last.

Now I’m back home. She tells me what a great time she had. My wife has made plans to do it all again. I tell her I’m tired, but I’m not. Not really. I just want to go to sleep so I can be alone once again. Such is my curse. I do need to sleep because tomorrow it will start all over again.

There are no support groups for extroverted introverts. Everyone would RSVP but no one would attend.