The Metro North train pulled into the station at Stamford, Connecticut. Making my way to through the open doors, I reminded myself that this might be where I get off, but it won’t be where I stop.
Devin pulled up to the curb a few minutes later and popped his trunk before getting out of the car to help load my bags. He was skinny. Not tall, but taller than me. With a full, thick beard that did its best to make him look older than barely 24.
When we were both bucked, Devin shifted into drive and started to introduce himself. “I work with Lauren,” he said, assuming that I knew Lauren. I didn’t. Lauren was a friend of a friend who knew I needed a short-term place to live. But wanting something to be easy for once, I nodded along to his assumptions.
Devin told me that he and Lauren were both teachers at a Connecticut charter/magnet high school for students with discipline issues. Some had learning disabililites, some came from broken or impoverished homes. But all were sent there as a last resort. He taught English and History, and coached the rugby team. His parents were neuroscientists. He was fascinated by the human brain and read extensively to expand his knowledge.
“What do you do?” He said, turning the spotlight back on me.
“I’m a writer.” I said.
“Nice. Who are your favorite authors?” He vollied back.
“Ummm. I don’t really read much. It wasn’t until last year that I finally admitted outloud that I can’t really see straight, and by that point, reading just wasn’t part of my routine.” I explained how I got good at writing so no one would notice that I can’t read. “I mean, I can read. But the words are a little funky on the page. If everyone saw what I saw, reading wouldn’t be so popular.”
“So, what do you write?” He said, accepting my flaws without hesitation.
“Well, my last job was as a copywriter at an ad agency. But I got laid off last year. I want to get a job in California, but I had to finish school at NYU before I could start applying. I just presented my final this week. Do you know what a Capstone is?”
He did. Of course he did.
“Yea, so I just finished that and did the presentation on Wednesday. I find out in two weeks if I passed.”
“Why wouldn’t you pass?”
“Oh Devin, the past six months have been crazy…”
Speaking through my exhaustion, I recapped my life since October, when I got laid off and was forced to move back home with my judgmental parents. I told him how I was so desperate to escape their condescending energy that I squandered my unemployment checks on a Bedstuy bedroom I found on Craigslist. I lived with this guy Kenny and his two cats, suffocating slowly inside his smoke-filled, stale-air apartment. I told him about how a few weeks ago, Kenny went crazy, blocking me from the wifi network and punching in walls.
I told him how I failed to submit my final assigment on time and how I was doxed one letter grade in exchange for an extention.
I told him how my parents continued to be a source of stress and discouragement.
“Your spare bedroom for $650 a month is the next safe haven as I push farther toward my goal,” I said. “I just need to make it to California.”
“Do you like philosophy?” He said in response to my massive confession.
“I love it. I was a philosophy major in college,” (Not true. I was a Philosophy minor. But being a Religion major has rendered itself completely useless in both pleasing my parents and in my career, so I have moved that fact to the back shelf.) “but I hardly read it now.”
“You should read Nietzsche. A lot of what you’re saying reminds me of him. I think you’d like it.”
“Ok. Thanks. I’ll check it out.”
“I have some of his books. You can borrow them if you want.”
“Cool. Thanks.”
“Good they’re still open. I have to stop in here to buy toilet paper.” He put his blinker on and turned right into the convenience store parking lot. While he fetched the toilet paper and had a short, neighborly conversation with the clerk, I skimmed the isles—potato chips, beef jerky, canned goods, and candy.
Back in the car, we drove another quarter mile to the apartment complex. Two identical brick buildings with lobbies that branched into wings; it looked like part of a college campus.
Devin helped me with my bags, gave me a short tour of the apartment, and a simple breakdown of their schedule—Lauren would be home soon and I’d meet her. Tomorrow is a school day so they will be gone by 6:45 a.m. and the place would be mine.
“Do you smoke pot?” He asked.
“I do.”
“Cool. Do you want to hang out a bit? We can keep talking.”
“Sure.”
He came back into the living room a few minutes later with a packed bowl, a lighter and his copy of Human, All Too Human A Book for Free Spirits by Friedrich Nietzsche.
“Here you go.” He said, handing me the book. He took the first hit and continued to talk about his passion for neuroscience and his plans to eventually go back to school to get his doctorate. I listened, fascinated by his intelligence and jealous of his clarity. Soon, Lauren came home and sometime later we decided to call it a night.
I didn’t see Devin much after that. He would still come and go from the apartment, but the nights he spent there became more and more sparse as he and his new girlfriend developed tunnel vision for each other.
The next day, I woke up to an empty apartment. I had already unpacked my fine ground espresso beans before realizing there was no coffee maker. One YouTube video later, I filtered boiling water through a paper towel supported by a rubber band around the mouth of my mug.
Devin’s book was still on the coffee table from the night before. Human, All Too Human A Book for Free Spirits by Friedrich Nietzsche. I picked it up, focused my eyes, and started to read.