The Basement of My Past

What? My heart raced. This isn’t my phone! I had pawed at my bed and eventually found the thing – but it wasn’t my phone. This phone was old – an iPhone 5. My current phone was an android. And “Gymnopédie No.1” hadn’t been my alarm in years, yet Erik Satie’s melancholic composition now blared in my hand. My groggy brain finally realized: This was my old phone. I looked around the room. I was in the cramped basement of 803 Winona Drive – the place that had been my prison for two years, and nearly my tomb.

The phone slid out of my hands, still blaring “Gymnopédie No.1”. It was a song I didn’t listen to anymore – it reminded me of rushed mornings and turbulent times. I stared around the room, recognizing the black Ikea furniture. The dim, orange lighting. The exposed copper pipes. The drab wallpaper and dirty carpet. I climbed out of the warm blankets. The air felt crisp on my skin.

Next to the bed was this ridiculous mirror that covered the entire North wall of the unit, reflecting and multiplying the melancholy of the room. I touched the mirror softly, looking at myself. I was so thin and frail back then. And younger. More boyish. I hadn’t yet learned that women liked me more when my hair was grown long. My hard eyes were the only sign I wasn’t the same sad, weak young man I had been.

I looked past my reflection at the room behind me. My crumpled, slightly bloodstained sheets were hanging off the bed, nearly covering the kitchen knife, bandages, and tube of Polysporin that lived on the floor beside the bed. On the other side of the bed, near my desk, lay a scattered stack of homework, untouched in days, with a sock lying on top. My messy Ikea desk held my desktop computer, and beyond it were the two small stairs leading to my grungy kitchen, where I would sit – hands shaking – drinking milk when I hadn’t eaten in days. Every inch of this place was haunted by my past suffering.

Even the good memories were bittersweet. I remembered one late, candlelit night, lying on the bed and looking – upside down – into this same mirror while my girlfriend slowly rode me, thinking how lucky I was. Evelyn. She would leave me, of course. But I had not yet learned how fickle women could be. How you had to hide your misery from them and project an air of security and confidence to keep them around.

I stared at my old place for a while, just gazing into the mirror. So, I had a second chance at life, huh? My first attempt hadn’t gone great. But it had made me stronger, and with a second chance… I realized “Gymnopédie No.1” was still playing. The sound, while grating, had blended into the ennui of the room. I silenced the alarm and, in doing so, noticed I had a notification on my phone. From her.

Hi Sean, are you feeling better today?

I remember receiving this text the first time ten years ago. Back then, I missed the implied, I hope you are, because if not, well, you’re a real bummer to be around, so I’m gonna break up with you!

I considered replying the same way I had ten years ago. No, I’m still feeling depressed and unmotivated. The new meds aren’t working. I remember that after sending that text, she asked if she could come over. I pictured her cradling a bowl of chicken noodle soup on the subway just to bring me some warmth. I imagined her coming over and holding me until the ice melted, so I could awaken from my years-long hibernation and finally live again.

I thought about sending something different this time. I’m feeling fantastic, darling! I feel like a new man! How about I take you out for dinner tonight? With everything I had learned in the last ten years, I could easily impress this college-age coquette. But would I really want to be the powerful, masculine counterpart to a shallow and capricious young woman? Did I really want to let any one woman tie me down again?

I remembered how embarrassed I felt when my pleading failed to sway her decision. I flirted with the idea of sending something nasty. Fuck you, you bitch! What kind of animal just abandons someone the second they’re not fun anymore? But that would be stooping to her level. Only weak men let women have that level of control over them. I was above that kind of histrionics.

I hatched a different kind of plan. I sent her the same text I sent ten years prior, as best as I could remember. Her response came quickly. That sucks. Can I come over? Ten years ago, her message was hope. I remember racing around my place, decluttering, throwing laundry in the hamper, and making my bed. And actually doing the dishes – something I’d neglected for weeks. This time, I knew she wasn’t coming over to envelop me in her warmth. She was coming over to end it. Well, I certainly wouldn’t be cleaning. Once this was over, I had no intention of staying in a gloomy place like this. Let the landlord deal with the mess.

Yes, I sent plainly. Soon, she responded, saying she was on her way and would be there in half an hour. I should have lived closer to the University. Maybe then it could have worked.

Damnit! I needed to stop thinking that way. I didn’t want it to have worked! She was a vapid, hard-hearted bitch. Why would I want to be with her when there were a thousand other women at the University of Toronto just like her?

Not that I would be staying at the University, either. I hated it, too. I hated that I had to wait months to see a psychologist about my depression. In my third year, student suicides spiked, and they finally decided to make an increased investment in student mental healthcare. A noble undertaking; however, I couldn’t help but feel the money could have been spent more effectively: They erected glass suicide barriers in the upper floors of the Bahen Center for Information Technology, where the computer science and engineering students had been killing themselves. Equally effective would have been a sign that read, Do it somewhere else! The heartless administrators viewed depression as an inconvenience – an attitude shared by faithless Evelyn. My depression was ruining her university dating experience, and now she was coming to break up with me. It had to be done.

She texted me when she arrived. I let her in, and she skillfully avoided my direct eye contact until we were both seated on the couch. “Hey,” she said.

“Hi, Evelyn,” I said in a firm and confident voice.

“I’m sorry for coming over on such short notice, but I wanted to do this in person…” she trailed off. A strand of hair hung in front of her face. I wanted to move it out of the way, but I didn’t.

“Do what in person?” I played along.

She sighed, and fiddled with her skirt. “I don’t know how to say this, Sean, but I think we should break up.” There was a hitch in her voice. I hadn’t noticed the first time she broke up with me that she was on the verge of tears. I was too busy being blindsided by an ice-cold sledgehammer.

“Okay,” I said matter-of-factly. This was my plan. To not give a shit and to let her know I didn’t give a shit.

“I’m so, so sorry, Sean. I know you have depression and everything. You probably think I’m horrible. But I just can’t do it anymore. I never get to see you, and you never come to class. I feel like I’m by myself already. I’m sorry.”

“Okay, is that all?” I asked. She went to hug me – to tend the injury she had just inflicted – but I pulled away.

“Are you okay? You’re not upset?” she asked. She was still thinking I would melt down at any moment.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I don’t want to be in a relationship with you either.”

“Oh, Sean!” she said, leaning forward and wrapping her arms around me. She started to cry. “I’m sorry, Sean! I just can’t do it anymore! I can’t watch you be so miserable when I don’t know how to help you! I can’t be in a relationship with someone who is so far away! Please, don’t be mad, okay?”

“I’m not mad,” I said calmly.

“I’m sorry, Sean. I’m sure you’ll get better and find someone who can love you better than I could. But I can’t do it anymore. I need to focus on my studies. I can’t keep stressing about you.”

“Okay,” I said.

She continued to cry. “You probably hate me. I know those videos you keep watching. All that stuff about women being manipulative and shallow. You don’t see me like that, do you?”

What do you care? I wondered. “No, I don’t,” I lied. Just go, I thought.

She cried for a few more minutes, but there was nothing left to be said. She climbed the stairs to the door and went home. I was left standing alone in the basement – that dingy cocoon – with painful memories standing all around me, mocking me. I needed to get out. But first, there was one thing I needed to do.

Thankfully, I remembered the password to my old computer. My browser was open to a YouTube video on how to seduce women. Negging 101: A Player’s Guide. I didn’t remember the video, but I remembered the concept. You subtly insult a woman’s appearance to lower her confidence, to get her to come to you. It was manipulative, sure, but dating was all about manipulation, on both sides. True love was just a fantasy women used to control men.

I closed that window and opened Mt. Gox – a Bitcoin exchange. Bitcoin was at $15.70. In ten years, it would be over $20,000. Shuffling some money around, I dumped thousands of dollars into Bitcoin. Mostly, I used student loan money and money I had set aside for University. I would borrow more from family, and use it to buy Bitcoin. The student loan office would be mad, and so would my family, but it wouldn’t matter. I could pay them back a hundredfold later and still have tens of millions of dollars.

Once the transaction went through, I leaned back in my stiff Ikea office chair. Now, to kill a few years while I waited to get rich. Was Tinder a thing yet?

⁂

You’re reading this in 2023. You probably think this is the first time 2023 has happened, but for me, it’s the second. Am I 39, then? Or 29? Depends on whether you’re counting birthdays or measuring my telomeres. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I’m now filthy rich.

Some people say being rich doesn’t make you happy. Those people have never had a glass of Château Margaux while overlooking the city from their penthouse apartment. The evening I opened the bottle, I sipped it slowly as I looked over the edge of the balcony. Toronto was an ugly, lonely city, and I was glad to see it obscured by a blanket of white. At night, beneath the glittering snow, it almost looked peaceful.

I stepped back into my grand penthouse apartment. A wall of warm air greeted me as I stepped out of my Tom Ford velvet loafers. She would be here soon, and I needed to get dressed. I trotted up the spiral staircase to the master bedroom, slipping off my Loro Piana robe and stepping into my walk-in. What to wear? I had all manner of designer clothes. I wanted something to make me seem impressive without seeming like I was trying too hard. No Gucci, then. I assembled my outfit and paired it with a Rolex Submariner watch for a hint of luxury.

The doorbell chimed throughout the house. I flew down the spiral staircase and ran to the door, my socks sliding on the marble. For ten years, I had dreamed of this moment. I took a deep breath and then opened the doors.

“Hi, Sean!” beamed Evelyn. She gave me a quick hug. Time had not been kind to her. Her hair was already graying, and her eyes were starting to wrinkle in the corners. And her outfit was cheap – almost like she bought it at a thrift store. Nothing designer – not unless the designer was employed by Wal-Mart.

“Come on in,” I said. “Would you like a drink? I just opened a bottle of Château Margaux.”

“Oh, no thanks, that’s alright,” she said, staring up at the vaulted ceiling like a tourist staring up at the CN Tower.

“Kitchen’s this way. Are you sure? It’s over a thousand dollars a bottle.”

“Sorry, but Alivia’s at daycare, and I have to drive. I’ll have some water, though?” she asked, sitting at the polished granite island.

“Sure, Fiji or Perrier?” I asked, opening the built-in refrigerator.

“Uhh, Fiji? Thanks,” she said as I slid her the water, which she cracked open and sipped. “Nice place,” she said.

“Yeah, it’s over ten thousand a month,” I said, grinning.

“Huh. Well, I’m happy you’re doing well. Sorry I don’t have much time to catch up, but Alivia’s caught a cold, and they don’t want her at the daycare. Still, I thought I could swing by for a bit and say hi.”

“So, what do you do for work now?” I asked. “Are you successful?” I poured myself another glass of wine.

“Oh, nothing like you, I’m sure. I do a bit of consulting work. Nothing fancy. Part-time, so I can look after Alivia. I’ve had my hands pretty full since Kevin passed. What about you? Do you have a special someone?”

“No,” I admitted. I had been married briefly a few years ago. She killed me in the divorce. I felt so stupid for allowing myself to be suckered into marriage after everything I knew about women. “No, I’m single. Working on myself. Living the bachelor life, you know?”

Evelyn sipped her Fiji. “Sounds nice. You must get a lot of attention from the ladies these days, huh?”

“Yes,” I said. “I have a few women over each week, usually. I don’t like to date the same person more than once. I’m a man who appreciates variety in life. And there’s not many people who wouldn’t want to come to a place like this, huh?” I said, gesturing to the grandiosity around me.

Evelyn paused and looked around at my apartment. She took a deep breath before responding. “It seems so lonely in here. So... cold.”

“What?” I asked. Lonely? I had women over every week. Sometimes every night. I was never alone. It was a far cry from that burrow on Winona Drive I once lay torpid in. The chandeliers were so bright!

“You need some Christmas decorations or something. So the place feels more homey. Ah, shit,” she said as her phone chimed. “They’re calling me again. Sorry, I have to go, but it’s been really nice seeing you. I’m really glad you’re doing well.”

Yeah, sure you are. Underneath your fake smile, I’m sure you’re seething with jealousy. You wish you could have a life like mine. But you left me, and now you missed out. But… maybe you’d like a little taste? “Hey, don’t go so soon. You know, I’d have no problem getting you a last-minute babysitter for Alivia.” I used her daughter’s name to show I had been listening to her. “That way, you and I could spend the night together?”

Evelyn’s mouth hung open. “Oh, I-” She blinked. “I don’t think so, sorry. Sorry, Sean. I didn’t think this was going to be like that. I just thought you wanted to catch up.”

I came closer to her. “Oh, come on. I think you’re beautiful, darling. Even with that haircut. You’re almost as beautiful as when we used to date. Why don’t you stay awhile?” My cool fingers brushed the warm skin of her cheek. Breaking the touch barrier, they called it. A key element of seduction.

“I really can’t. Sorry,” she said, standing up, leaving her Fiji water mostly full on the island. She headed for the door. I was shocked. I had never had someone turn me down before. Not since becoming rich.

She put her boots on. They looked cheap. Some kind of knock-off red Prada boots. “I could buy you real Prada,” I said dejectedly.

“Oh, I’m happy with these,” she said, patting the shiny boots with her hand. “There’s more to life than money, right?”

“Right.”

She finished putting her boots on and smiled at me. “Take care of yourself, Sean.”

“Wait!” I said. She couldn’t leave yet; There was still so much I wanted to say that I hadn’t said. “I forgive you,” I blurted out.

“You forgive me?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

“For abandoning me when I had depression. I forgive you. I mean, I don’t blame you.”

She looked at me with bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

I froze. She stared at me for a few seconds before realizing I wasn’t going to say anything. I couldn’t. Eventually, her expression softened, and she sighed a long sigh. “I forgive you, too, Sean,” she said. She stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her and leaving me alone. She forgives me? I thought. What for?

Looking around my empty apartment, I saw something I hadn’t noticed before. Painful memories, hiding in every shadow. Under the sectional couch. Behind the heavy silk drapes. Sneering at me. I fiddled with my Rolex. I needed to install more lighting. Maybe another chandelier.