The Fourth Floor

I

I don’t know what stops me. I can see a girl across the hallway on the third floor through the little window in the door to a room that may or may not be the correct room, standing with what looks like a slice of pizza. Maybe it’s her dinner, maybe her professor is particularly generous, or maybe she’s in my program and this is where I’m supposed to be. She wipes her face—it’s clearly pizza that she’s eating—and I count the number of seconds I’ve been standing and waiting.

Twenty-seven.

While I RSVP’d the night before, the email had been sitting in my inbox for days prior because I didn’t know if I wanted to attend. I changed my outfit twice, once to look professional, pairing a sky blue blazer with beige slacks and dirt brown beige loafers, the ones with tassels. But I would’ve been too hot (and I tend to sweat profusely, particularly when nervous), so then I changed into a T-shirt and jeans. I started getting ready at three, but it took me a while, and now it was closer to five.

Eighty-three. 

The girl takes another bite. She is standing perfectly centered in the little window, so I can only see her face. She has glasses like me, though not like mine, and brown, shoulder-length hair. We’re actually separated by two doors (and a hallway) because I am technically still in the stairwell. Behind her door is a mystery. I don’t know who she is, or if she’s even a graduate student. I’ve been in my master’s program for more than two months and the amount of people I’ve spoken to can be counted on less than two hands, which says more about my social skills than the unfamiliarity of her face. Behind my door is an escape, an opportunity to flee.

One hundred and fifteen. 

The hallway is empty save for two benches and a corkboard with a bunch of flyers and notices, haphazardly placed, covering one another, with no color scheme or subject separation. Ads to “jam” (musically) are next to ads for roommates, next to ads for yoga classes, next to ads from LSAT tutors for prospective tutees, next to ads for an econ study group, next to a notice about a lecture series on international development work. One of the flyers, green with three cut-out tabs ripped off, advertises “Happiness: Are you happy? If not, take one and pass it on.” The tabs have bite-sized, easily digestible, uplifting quotes on them, as if happiness is as simple as a few words on a flyer on a corkboard in a hallway on the third floor.

Two hundred and twenty-one.

The door separating the stairwell from the hallway is easy enough to open. It’s one of those doors with the bar that you push. I start by resting my fingers on the bar, waiting for the opportune moment to open the door, but my palm hovers adjacent to the bar as if paused in the middle of a sentence, searching for the perfect set of words to roll out. I look up and the girl with the pizza is staring back at me. We make the softest eye contact, briefly, as she questions my intentions before she turns away and takes another bite of her pizza. She looks like she’s thinking, “Does he belong here?” I hope not.

Two hundred and thirty-three. 

I instinctively head upward (I tend to avoid backtracking because it’s a sign of error, a blunt correction of your path). But the next flight of steps leads to the emergency rooftop exit on the fourth floor. It’s a closed door with an alarm and big red letters that read, “Do not open door. Alarm will go off.” The other week, I discovered the fourth floor while I was looking for the building’s printer. I walked up, read the sign, turned to make my way back down, and caught the amused face of an undergraduate student as he smirked to himself at my expense. Everyone knows that there’s nothing on the fourth floor. Don’t they?

II

As I leave building, the same crowd of people are in the lounge: the boy with a red hoodie sitting in a booth by himself with his black headphones connected to his MacBook with a peace-sign sticker covering the Apple logo; the three girls sitting at one of the circular tables, alternating between which one looks at her phone and which one talks to the other girl and which one listens; and the girl by the door on her phone talking very animatedly to someone who must be a relative, because it doesn’t sound intimate enough to be a partner and because she looks forgivingly mad.

All of these people are a sea of faceless bodies, making motions that only I recognize.  To keep them at bay, I don my I-Know-What-I’m-Doing Face (“The Face”). It’s sort of a cross between bored and angry, a subtle balance of apathy and fatigue with a hint of disinterest. I’m really good at The Face. In its first iteration—sometime in the ninth grade—I resembled a scared little boy feigning confidence while practicing independence, obscuring his concealed sexuality with indifference. But now I even have the mirror convinced.

The Face is a disguise used to avoid a character that I fail to embody: the archetype of someone who succeeds. I don’t mean that success should be measured by one’s social aptitude, as if fake smiles and happy-to-see-you voices will make you rich one day, but more that we are taught to approach success as being a person who fits a particular mold. We are conditioned to value acting in certain ways—make eye contact, smile, shake hands (with a firm grip), be forward (abrasive, even), go for what you want, take initiative, et cetera. And these are all values that define the model of success. To be counter to that model sets a typical person up for inevitable failure. And so The Face is a method of participation within the confines of the culture of success, as if saying, “I acknowledge the benefits of smiling and saying ‘Heyhowzitgoin,’ even if I don’t really care, but I am actively choosing not to do that.” The Face allows me to look like I’m not begging to belong (even when I am).

With The Face, I can figure out the world. People are confusing. What are they thinking? Why’d they just do that? What’s their back story? Interacting with people is like a science: you have a hypothesis about someone’s thoughts and behaviors, you test it by observing your subject, you throw in a few more conditions and watch for new reactions, you alter your approach accordingly, you make a conclusion about that person and it remains the truth, at least conditionally, until you test out new hypotheses.

With liberal use of The Face, I leave the building like I mean to leave the building—speed walking, no eye contact, almost slamming into the exit—and not like I just ran away from free pizza because I was scared of opening a door. More like I knew social gatherings were what people did, but chose not to participate anyway.

I walk toward the library. I can’t leave campus because I’ve only been here for two minutes after a forty-minute journey worth about two dollars in metro fare. It’s not cost-effective to return home.

I could find someplace to eat. There is a Chipotle near here. And I like walking. I put in my earphones and play Damien Rice’s cover of U2’s “One.”

“Is it getting better? Do I feel the same? Will it make it easier on me now I’ve got someone to blame?”

Chipotle is easy enough. You just tell the workers: “May I have a burrito. Brown. Pinto. Chicken. Mild, sour cream, cheese, and corn. To go, please. No chips. May I have the pomegranate juice? Thank you.”

We didn’t have Chipotle in Hawaii and there was only one in Portland (far from my college town). The ubiquity of this fast-food joint seems like a DC-specific thing. On my first Chipotle visit, I watched the man in front of me. Then I memorized his script and I repeated his order. I haven’t changed any of his words since then. (How does one even order tacos here?)

But I don’t feel like eating a burrito. Finding a new restaurant would be too hard, though. What if I looked like I didn’t know what I was doing? What if they knew I didn’t belong here? Plus, I’m not hungry.

With dueling senses of distress and dread bubbling (and while simultaneously) dismissing my earlier hesitation, I make a snap decision just to walk home. Three miles of uninterrupted introspection. And I like thinking. My mind talks to itself best when I’m walking. Never boring thoughts like, “How are you?” or “You look nice.” Always dramatic stories like:

I should have stood up straight when I was presenting yesterday. I know, I looked so unprofessional. They already think I’m stupid. I marked my shirt with my pen while slouching over. Twice. Seriously? That, with the coffee stains, must’ve made me look incompetent. And I love this shirt. It’s Dior so everyone thinks it’s a fancy brand-name (AKA expensive), yet otherwise boring, white shirt. Or they don’t actually think that. No one can recognize the brand of my plain, white dress shirt. But it breathes. It’s light and airy, and yes, a bit scandalously transparent. But it feels cool, in both senses of the word. And, you know, I get irritable when I’m hot. I just hate the feeling of sweat. Except when I’m running. Then it’s okay. I’d rather freeze than sweat to death. Can you die from sweating? It probably would have something to do with dehydration. Shit, am I slouching?

By the end of my inner monologue, I’m only a mile away from home.

III

Dusk makes way for the full darkness of night, and I feel hunger creeping up from my lower stomach. When I arrive at my house, I could just order something online. I like ordering food online because you don’t have to talk to anyone. You just click on things and type in your credit card number and hit confirm. Within an hour, your food appears as if by magic, like digital clicking does special alchemy with pixels to spawn physical pizza or Chinese food.

Sometimes the delivery man looks a bit creepy. Maybe he was only creepy because I didn’t look him in the eyes, but he took forever and I focused on the pizza box in starvation. Did he think I was rude? I hope not. I said, “Thank you.”

Sometimes you get a nice man who hands you Thai food with a certain jolliness or you get a man who says, “No problem, it’s okay” when you think you imagine the doorbell ringing until he knocks and you realize it is the doorbell ringing, but he’s already been standing outside for like five minutes.

I wish someone would deliver pasta. I’ve been craving pasta, and a local, family-owned Italian restaurant delivers. But they don’t have online ordering. You’d have to call. And I hate talking on the phone.

I don’t go to any of the restaurants in my area to dine-in either. Bethesda is peppered with a number of establishments, all of which offer a variety of cuisines at a range of prices. I try to go to a few places. Sixteen times. And every time, I just walk past the door, circle the block, and go home.

I was successful at the Japanese restaurant. Dad said it was because I subconsciously thought, “These are my people” so I felt safe. But I did think they liked that I avoided looking them in the eyes. Looking in their eyes would be rude, so I aimed my voice downward when they asked questions about my food.

“Yes, everything was great,” I said to the wooden table.

“Oh, I’m fine,” I said to my plate. 

I went back once, but the food wasn’t as good the second time so I stopped.

Still, I really want Italian food. I’ve been in the vicinity of an Italian restaurant a couple of times (instead of going in, I walked past the door twice from opposite directions, circled the block in a zigzag, and almost sprinted home). I spent hours on Google Maps searching for places to eat. I studied precisely where they were located, plotting the most efficient route. I researched their menus. I practiced how I would enter the door, say “For one, please,” and sit down. If they provided an online menu, I practiced pronouncing all the items that I might possibly order so I could say them correctly. I planned a day in advance to go. I got ready. I shaved, matched an outfit, fixed my hair, applied toner and moisturizer. I put on my shoes and walked out the door.

I estimated my time of arrival. What if it’s busy? I didn’t think about that. What if they asked me to wait? What if they asked for my name?

I would say, “Uh, Trelaine.”

Then they would ask, “I’m sorry, can you say that again? How do you spell that?”

What if I had to sit at the bar? What if I was seated next to a stranger? What if he talked to me? I could ignore him. Would that be rude? What if I looked stupid saying “puttanesca” or “arrabbiata”? What if they thought “Oh, he doesn’t belong here”?

I walked past the door, continued around the block, circled back, and returned to the safety of my house.

IV

I’ve been walking for what seems like (and possibly has been) hours. Damien Rice on repeat accompanies me as I finally approach home.

“It’s too late, tonight, to drag the past out into the light.”

I’m not lonely, at least not right now. But is this the rest of my life? Tomorrow, my master’s program is having a movie night. The department and the university have done everything in their power to make us students feel included, to give us opportunities to be both successful and social. There are always things to do—emails sent out daily listing events, talks, presentations, seminars, clubs, sporting events, and on, and on. I’m overwhelmed with choices. Everything in which anyone could ever be interested and I haven’t been to any of them.

I wish they’d make these events mandatory. Then I’d be forced to go. Two months and three days, and I haven’t made a single friend. I received one Facebook friend request, which I accepted. And I liked every page and joined every group related to my program, department, and university. All online.

But, I don’t think they like me. They must think I’m stupid (I hope not, though).

I try not to talk during class. I like to make only positive contributions. And I’m a notorious word-vomiter. I spew out a jumbled mess of words, and then I self-edit, trying to clean up my answer from its mess. There are a lot of clauses in my sentences. I often go back and redo a predicate to fit a subject better. I speak breathlessly. Slowly, I narrow to a point, but not until all eyes gloss over and I am confronted with a room full of bored and lost faces. So I like to be sure that I know exactly what to say, how to say it, and why it’s important enough to say. It’s rude to waste the professor’s time with pointless ramblings.

I measure progress by talking to the other students in my classes. I’m polite. I say “Thank you” when they say nice things to me. But sometimes, when they say “Hi guys” or “What’s up,” the words form in my throat, but I can’t cough them up. So I stare at the table.

Do they think I’m rude? Again, I hope not.

I thought that I made the best progress yesterday after my presentation. I did slouch, but I was funny. And according to my professor, I asked “great questions.”

When I present, it’s like a different person stands up. I speak with confidence. I sometimes talk too quickly, but always feel like I know exactly what I’m saying.

“Excellent point,” my professor says, “So class, do you agree?”

I tell Supreme Court jokes. My professor asks, “Class, how would you rule? Trelaine?”

Me: “I agree with everything said. I’m just Clarence Thomas-ing it up over here.” Then I smile and they all laugh. They love me. 

“Give me thirty pages and I’ll write you a concurrence,” I conclude. 

My presentation is a success. “Good job,” one girl says, “You were so funny.”

“Great job,” another girl says, turning around (while the professor is talking) to compliment my performance.

I smile and say “Thank you.” It’s the best I can do.

But I’m not always Presenter-Trelaine, mostly just Normal-Trelaine. Still, I make progress. I think I’ll try going to that restaurant again. I really want Italian food. I’ll replace The Face with Scalia jokes and I’ll spell my name out if I have to and I’ll finally eat that pasta. Then I’ll ace my next presentation. And when the emails invite me, I’ll walk through those doors and ask the girl through the window with a slice of pizza if she knows about the fourth floor.

But today I ran away. Did they see me? I hope not. A few seconds and a pivot and an exit and the library and hunger, again and again. I’ve been walking home for two months and three days now.

“I gave you nothing, now it’s all I’ve got.” Damien Rice recounts the seconds on the stairs. 

I know what stops me.

Trelaine is originally from Hawaii. But, true to form, he saw the line where the sky meets the sea, and it called him, so he currently lives and works in Washington, D.C. He enjoys origami and washing dishes and taking pictures of clouds and sunsets. But never sunrises (he’s not a morning person).