Folding Bedsheets

When I was younger, my father would always tell me that, if someone shows you who they are, believe them. As I grew older, I never much liked that train of thought. I had this sneaking suspicion that there were whole worlds hiding behind his veneer of austerity. Maybe it was his working-class background that didn’t give him the time or energy to explore the depth and breadth of life, or maybe it was his lack of education that inhibited his imagination. Either way, he just had this very straightforward way of looking at the world. “Call a spade a spade,” he’d tell me over my mom’s famous pot roast and mashed potatoes while he sipped cheap red wine. I’d listen to this with some amusement, but as I grew up, I started to think how similar a spade looked to a club.

In my college years, I developed a knack for reading people, or so I thought. I majored in English, so it was natural for me to imbue upon complete strangers entire life stories, character arcs, and personal triumphs after just looking at them for a few moments. I’d sit in parks reading?Dostoevsky?or?Chomsky?— or whatever littérature?du jour?crossed my path – while I watched people. I’d watch them pass by, doing what was probably something completely banal, and turn it into something grandiose and sublime. I loved living in these worlds because they gave me comfort. They allowed me to be in control. They let me be in control, and in a world so often run by madness, it was satisfying to give it parameters. Maybe that’s what?Shakespeare?meant by “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” Even after I graduated and got a job, I continued this little tradition. In fact, as my life got more chaotic, my fascination with other people increased.

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Author - Devin Loree