“Hi, I’m Austin. Can I help?”

TW: sexual references, death, language, misogynistic comments

The wall was blank red stone. There was dirt in the cracks, and small pieces of ivy crept up it. But in all major respects it was blank.

The light shifted over the space, and Austin was reminded of rays from heaven as portrayed in old Renaissance paintings. Was this what the masters had seen? Had they felt it?

The cat came from the garden, moving lazily toward Austin's sunny spot. There were two ants alone on a mission, skirting around the patch of light, and moving with purpose back toward the lawn. The sun was warm and bright. It was life-giving. The heat was on his face and shot through his head. It moved down his neck and into his chest. Austin’s breathing stayed low and soft, and slow.

This was it. He was in the moment and meditating. He was doing it.

I can do it.

“Beeeeep beep baaaaagaaa beep beee baaaaaga!”

Fucking car alarm! thought Austin. Probably next door. Always at the worst times.

What is it this time? Did she to get into her car and forgot the key?

From the pot belly, that he somehow always managed to see no matter what shirt she wore, to the sad brown stains on her clothes, to the rag tag group of kids who never look cared for - Austin couldn’t help but despise the woman.

And now these emotions made him feel guilty.

“I don’t despise anyone,” he said out loud. “I don't have to live in negative emotions.”

And yet he did. Despise people. Aggravation was his enemy. Simple aggravation. The light took too long. The cat yowled when he was trying to have an orgasm. The channel wouldn’t change properly. The doctor was too late, and he was stuck waiting in that small, cold room with a paper robe that did nothing for him, and no pants, for what seemed like hours.

Aggravation.

He could deal with the big things. Illnesses. Death. A robbery. A house fire. Those big major scary things that most people would be terrified of, he was able to face with calm grace. But he flat-out failed when it came to the small, daily things. Those things you do without thinking, as habit. As security.

Austin would admit to being a bickerer. His need to comment and critique and micro-manage made him a terrible boyfriend once the daily grind was all there was. He could never let things go. Unresolved issues were like a fly burrowing deeper and deeper into his gray matter, itching, and burning.

If a guy annoyed him, Austin would nitpick and nitpick until he had picked his partner clean off the bone. Eventually there was nothing left but mutual dislike and farewells, with perhaps a hint of anger.

This is what had happened with Luke. At least, this was the reason Luke had chosen to give. The reason that fed Austin’s self-flagellation.

When they first met, Luke had been a desirable ray of sunshine. His "up" attitude had balanced out Austin's dubious talent for finding fault in pretty much anything. But once the mating ritual had ended and they were stuck with each other, Luke had begun a confusing display of opposites.

If Luke was pleased by something, he also felt compelled to share a depressing and detracting detail. If Austin didn’t feel the same giddy excitement over something, Luke would be personally affronted. If Austin was upset, Luke had to say a quote or a song lyric to cheer him up. And then he would harp on and on about how Austin was wrong to feel as he did.

Over time, Austin had ended up hating Luke’s peevish optimism. Luke’s inevitably critical joy. Austin just couldn’t stand the inconsistent dichotomy. And he become constantly aggravated.

Austin knew that there was no aggravation without worry. Worry of the past catching up and haunting. Worry of the future coming too quickly or not fast enough. By the time he and Luke had broken up, Austin had consciously accepted that worrying was a key factor of his personality. And that was okay, really.

***

The break-up had occurred almost two weeks ago. When Luke had left for the last time, Austin had been finally, blissfully alone. By a week later, Austin had catalogued and archived his feelings and believed he could move on.

Austin told himself that he didn’t care anymore. At all. He was fine.

Then Austin had found the book.

It had been the seventh day after the breakup. Austin had found himself in one of the rare Barnes and Nobles still standing, and diabolically followed his urge to veer toward the worst possible corner of the establishment. He physically shrank as he entered the section. He did NOT want to get found there, looking and feeling floppy and deflated. Self-help indeed.

Title after title, each one was worse than the last:

“Grow the Garden of your Mind”

“Loss doesn’t mean the Loss of Self”

“What doesn’t Kill You Makes You a Superhero”

“Embrace your Loneliness”

Title after title.

Austin felt his head beginning to swell and his cheeks turn warm. He was sure he was blushing. Nope, nope, nope. That was enough. He all but jogged past the end of the row and into the Spirituality section. And that’s when he saw it, and his gaze skidded to a stop:

“Only the NOW is Real” read the cover. Stark white print on a sea of undulating black waves.

He pulled the volume off the shelf and opened to the chapter page. Then he read the first page of the forward. And then he sat on the floor and continued to read. And then Austin lost track of time.

Austin left the store with the book about a half hour later. Some of the half hour had been spent hastily grabbing copies of “Huck Finn” and “Star Riders” to use as decoys. He didn’t want to look like he had only come for a fucking spirituality book. What a wank.

Wank or not, the minute Austin got home he made a cup of coffee, settled with the book into his worn-in spot on the blue sofa, and devoured it.

The core of the book was about time and how it is an illusion.

“The only thing that exists, EVER,” Austin read silently, “is the moment you are experiencing in the NOW. And now, and now, and now. Nothing that is past, even a second before - nothing that is coming, even a second after - exists anywhere except in your imagination. And nothing can bind a person more tightly than these imaginings - the delusion that the past and the future are real.”

Austin took a chug of his coffee, which was now getting lukewarm, and turned back to the page.

“Once you accept that staying mentally in the present is the only way to health and oneness with the universe, then you will realize the power of instinct and intentionality. This is the only path to true peace. To pure happiness. Pull yourself free from the pain of desire and the excruciating bloodlust of expectations. Then, and only then, can you find true happiness.”

Austin’s breath had begun coming faster. He set the book down on the sofa and lay back, crossing his arms hard against his body. Austin wanted to believe the words in the book so badly. He wanted to believe that he could leave the pain of the worst breakups behind. He wanted to believe that he could move past the pain of his father’s death, a death that had happened so far away.

***

Austin had spoken to his dad less than a week before his death, but he hadn’t been home for a few years. Travel was hard with Covid, and he just kept giving himself excuses to put it off.

It had been a heart attack. No warning. No time to fly to be at his bedside. No time to see his father’s body before it was cremated. Austin was left with only a finite box of memories. It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.

He wanted to live in these memories, but he also feared them. The good memories always led to regret, and the bad ones were worse - always leading to anger at himself, and fear of his grief.

When key memories about his dad were triggered, the emotions from the loss would ricochet back and consume him. His toxic relationship behaviors, the nitpicking being only one, had become worse since that day – the day when the concept of loss had become real. And Austin had done nothing to stem them.

Austin's boyfriend before Luke, Pan, had been with him when he had received the call from his sister. Pan had wanted to be supportive. He had given lots of physical support - good sex, good cuddles - a listening ear. But Austin’s anger and fear had spilled over onto him.

Austin had picked Pan apart, piece by piece, until he was gone.

***

The car alarm stopped. The wall was in shadow now. Austin’s cat, bronze and coffee, rubbed against his knee. Austin stood up, a burning anger in his throat. The meditation was ruined. He wouldn’t be able to get back in the zone now. What was the fucking point of trying to meditate at home anyway? He had to know something would go wrong. What a waste. Why couldn’t he get just one hour of peace?

Austin stood. He had his mug in his hand now. It was cold, but the ground was still warm on his feet.

I am trying so hard, Austin thought. This should be easier.

Austin pushed breath in and out, long and deep, forcing it into slowness. He closed his eyes and thought about what he was trying to do. The book said that there was more to living in the present than learning meditation. There was the introduction of the now into each daily moment. Austin had just assumed that he needed meditation as a springboard to the rest. Everyone talked about meditation like it was a virtue in itself.

The now, the now, the now, he reminded himself. Just the now, the now, the now…

And then, for the first time since finishing the book, something clicked. Austin's internal voice started cataloguing in real time. As it happened, and he sank into the moment, Austin felt a wave of euphoria crest over him.

I am standing. I have to go to the bathroom now. My feet are walking there. I have my hand on the door. I am opening the door. I am opening my pants. I am peeing. The cat is at my leg. I am zipping up. My hand is cramping, likely from too much writing. The water is cold and refreshing. It tastes good too. I am going to walk outside again now. I am doing it.

Austin’s thoughts became louder and more strident, focused on each second as it unfolded.

I step. I walk to the door. I am going out. I am putting on shoes.

Austin walked out of his front door and straight to the to the neighbor’s house.

The one with the car alarm, he thought. The one with the ugly, dirty, children, and their skanky mother. And as he said these rancid thoughts to himself, Austin shriveled a bit inside. A fringe of shame peeked out around the words, even though they stayed in his head.

A girl approached him. She was perhaps 10 or 11, blond hair, not well brushed. Skinny legs covered in bug bites. A red tank top. Freckles. Austin vaguely recognized her.

“You’re the neighbor,” she said. “You mad at my mom again?" When he didn't respond, she continued, "The car’s broken, you know. Not like she wants the alarm to go off. We just can’t afford to fix it.”

The girl’s eyes were a dark brown. Her face and her manner haughty. A queen of England couldn’t have produced a better look of disdain. She was talking about her family’s financial troubles to a stranger in order to defend her mother.

And she was a person, not a caricature. She existed, right in front of him. What did she see in him? What did she know him to be?

“Is your mom around? May I speak to her?” Austin asked.

The girl cocked her head to the side, considering whether to respond.

“Sure, okay,” she said.

They walked silently together down the path to her house. The front porch was covered with boxes and trash bags. Some of the bags looked like they had been there for a while. The porch was rotting in places, the boards soft, giving way beneath his feet.

The girl stopped at the front door and paused, as if wary. Then she knocked.

It was only as she knocked that Austin finally knew why he was there.

“Mamma?” she called. Austin heard a shuffling behind the door. Then the mother opened it.

Blond hair, short and spiky, a sour expression. Bright blue eyes.

“What do you want?” she asked Austin.

Austin swallowed, then said, “Your kid tells me that your car alarm is broken. That that’s why it goes off so much?”

“What are you talking to Amber for?” the woman asked, not responding to his query, and shooting a look at the girl. Only the woman's head was visible, sticking out of the top half of the door.

She looked Austin up and down as she spoke. He knew what she would see – a brown, skinny boy in acid washed jeans and an orange polo shirt. He was non-threatening, if nothing else.

“I would like to pay for you to fix it,” Austin heard himself say. “Choose a mechanic and give me the info and I'll take care of it.”

There was the briefest moment of silence. The woman stepped forward slightly, letting the door open wider. She had nice, muscular legs ending at flip flops. She wore a red halter top and black jean shorts. Her arms were crossed on her chest.

Then she said, “Okay”, and that was it. She silently motioned to her daughter, all the time looking at Austin the way he imagined someone would look at an exotic, yet disgusting insect. The girl gave Austin a half smile and a shrug and pushed past her mother to go inside.

Austin waited until the woman turned back to him and locked eyes with her.

“Okay,” he said. He turned and walked back across the lawn to his house, a smile stretching his mouth.

Austin felt invincible, warm, and tingly. The joy it had given him to offer help to this woman was beyond anything he had felt meditating. Austin had managed to stay in the moment through the entire encounter, and had merely ridden instinct, doing what he felt he should do. With no second guesses.

And he felt like he was flying.

***

The next Friday, Austin stood at the front desk of the Chevy dealership and looked at the bill for the woman’s car. The woman, his neighbor, whose name he now knew was Becca. The bill was composed mainly of electrical work and labor. They had also fixed a brake light free of charge.

The air smells of oil. This man is tired and is yawning. My legs are sore from walking a lot this last week. The bill is a good deal. I am putting down my card. There is a noise coming from the front door. A man is walking in. Portly, beard, flushed, sweating while wearing sweats. He is oozing anxiety. The card machine beeps, and I take out my card. I thank the man behind the counter and walk toward the door. I cannot hear what the man is saying, but he sounds unhappy. I think he needs help.

And then: I may need to help him.

As the person behind the desk got up to look for backup, Austin walked over to the man and put a hand on his arm. The arm was thick and fatty. The man’s glare at being touched could have melted skin from the bone.

Austin backed up and held out his hand.

“Hi, I’m Austin. Can I help?”