Living a Life Unnoticed

I wake up alone, in a house that is not my own. As always. It’s a big house, of course, so I doubt anyone will mind. Walking down the hall a few doors, I enter the bathroom and turn on the water to the shower. I keep it low pressure, in case the owners of the place come home while I’m showering. Less likely they’d notice the sounds. They don’t come home while I’m showering. Climbing out of the shower, I take a towel and dry myself off best I can. I don’t need to get myself fully dry, just dry enough to put on my clothes. Because while I expect that a few extra dollars in their already massive water bill, a bill which they probably have set up to pay automatically, would go unnoticed by this rich family, finding strange clothes in their home would bring up questions with no good answers. And while I doubt the questions could point towards me, I’d rather not leave any questions at all.

Pulling on my clothes, I hurried over to the master bedroom. The family had left some laundry in the hamper. Perhaps simply because they have some kind of washing schedule. Perhaps because they have a cleaning service that does their laundering for them. Whatever the reason, it serves to my benefit as I lift the top layers of dirty items and carefully place the towel I used this week in the middle, before returning the laundry to the hamper. Unless they’re the sort who pay careful attention to every detail of their life, nothing will seem amiss. And I do try my best to avoid that sort of folks’ abodes. I go for houses that have more than enough of everything, but not so much that they seem the collector or hoarder types. Those types remember more than most how precisely they left their collections and their hoards. Most will just explain away any discrepancies between memory and reality as faulty recall.

Putting all my stuff back into my backpack, I go to head out. I’d normally make myself a quick breakfast, but I know the owners are coming back in the morning and I don’t want to be standing in their kitchen when they do. I don’t want to test any limits of justification, not while I’m trespassing in the home of someone with enough money to potentially do something about it. All my things gathered back up, I walk towards the front of the house. Towards the door. I hear the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. I stand in the doorway to the side of the front door and take a moment to pause and center myself. I hear the not-so-pleasant chatter of a pair of parents bickering their way up the front walk. Layered under it, I hear the jovial argument between their three kids. Arguing about some nonsense related to their trip. I could probably understand if I were eavesdropping, but I’m not. I’m just listening. A key enters the front door. The lock clicks. And the door opens.

The Walshes enter their abode, continuing their petty discussions. I give them each a polite nod as they enter, a nod I know they don’t notice. Can’t notice. It doesn’t matter, it’s always good to exercise proper etiquette. I wait for the family to be nearly finished entering. As The youngest passes through the door, I stick out my hand, holding it open just a little longer than normally it would linger open. Then, sliding past the family, I slip out the front door and let it shut behind me. Waving goodbye to the family who did not know I existed, I said quietly, “Thank you for your hospitality.” My voice disappeared into the wind. But, that’s just how my life is nowadays. Or whatever you want to call this.

People don’t know how good they’ve got it. Even the most unimportant cog in the most pointless machine has it amazing. Because they exist. They’ve got a life, they’ve got a future. Potential. They may dream of the ability to abandon it all, become a nameless wanderer. But it’s only a dream, a subconscious urge to be other than what they are. The only people who earnestly want that are people who don’t understand what being a nameless wanderer does to someone. With my authority as the most definitively nameless wanderer, by necessity and circumstance, it is not a good way to live.

I make my way down the road, walking towards the closest diner. I choose to live mostly in the suburbs, because the families in suburbs take lots of vacations and tend to be the sort of people who lose track of the details in their lives. Problem with suburban living is everything around a suburb is designed for cars, making things just slightly irritating distances to walk. Not so bad a downside as other places I’ve lived these past four years, but a tiring downside for when I’m between houses. As I walk, I try my best to avoid touching any other people out on the sidewalks this morning. I don’t need to have another ghost story drive me away from a location I’ve taken the time to get familiar with. It may sound innocuous, but even though I can’t be noticed, a haunting inspires people to look for a ghost. And while I’m no ghost, technically, I don’t know the extent of what happened to me. Whether any of the dumb pseudoscience kids use to hunt for spirits can find me. And again, I’d rather not risk it.

Beyond my own stupidity and irritatingly long walks, there really isn’t a downside to the suburbs for me. People are more spread out and generally travel in cars, so I don’t have to worry as much about swarms of pedestrians. Crime is relatively low, which makes the expectation of crime low. And best of all, I have yet to get shot in all two and change years worth of living in different suburbs like this. I lived in the city proper for seven months before I got shot, a stray bullet. Which, to be fair, is better than when I tried living out in a small farm town. Got myself shot in the first four months after I stayed a bit too long at one of the houses and they assumed me a bear or something similarly bestial and threatening then blasted my general direction with a shotgun while I was trying leave quickly. The worst thing about getting shot while being invisible: no one notices me. I just get to sit there, bleeding all over the cornfield or the blacktop, hoping I don’t pass out. Because I can’t be seen while I sleep, so I’m guessing the same is true if I go unconscious. So both times I just lay there, trying my best to stop the bleeding with whatever I had on hand, knowing if I failed and lost consciousness, I’d probably die without anyone even being able to help me. Fortunately, I am fairly hearty and learned how to sew when I was young. And while I’m sure you aren’t supposed to give yourself stitches with the same needle and thread you use to sew patches into your shirts, I found it works well enough. Assuming one doesn’t mind an ugly scar. But I figure, who’s going to see a scar on me anyways?

Eventually making it to the diner, I stand out front, slightly offset from the door. Another problem with living this life: you can only enter and exit most places with people or when absolutely no one is around. Anything in between and you get those rumors starting up. So, starving and needing coffee, I stand there waiting for someone, anyone, to decide now is when they really need some wonderfully greasy diner food. It takes a few minutes of waiting, but eventually a lovely elderly couple, seventies by the looks of them, does show up, parking in the lot and slowly walking to the front doors. As the lovely old gentleman pulls open the door for his partner, I rush inside. The amount of time the door would likely have to linger for me to follow the elderly couple in would be suspect. Besides, I’m feeling impatient. I haven’t had my coffee yet.

I head over to one of the booths no one likes. Back to the mini-wall right by the toilets. Too much bustle and noise for people to use it. Sitting down, I take a moment to breathe. First time all morning I’ve been able to relax. To sit down. But unfortunately, it’s not like I can exactly order my food and coffee. To do that, the wait staff needs to know you’re there. Or at least be able to know you’re present. It’s easier when I’ve had time to make myself breakfast before getting my coffee. Then I can order a coffee using someone’s phone app and pick it up quickly. Baristas don’t expect to have to talk to the mobile orders they fulfill, so long as it isn’t a regular, so explaining away a disappearing mobile order doesn’t even cause a minor disconnect in their minds. But getting a nice plate of eggs is a whole different matter. I am quite particular.

Finishing my breather, I notice the waitress is headed back towards the kitchen. Standing up, I follow her through the swinging door to the back, then quickly get out of her path back. Diners are generally real fast operations, so it’s always better to be safe when dealing with one. I see the pot of coffee sitting there. The waitress pours a pair of cups full of coffee before returning the pot to its home in the maker and rushing back out of the kitchen. As she opens the door once more, I slip into the area by the coffee maker. The cook, looking thoroughly done and overworked, is on the other side, focused on some kind of hashbrown-like meal he’s fixing. I quickly pour a cup of coffee for myself and move to the most unassuming corner of the kitchen to sip my coffee and wait for the overworked cook to take a break.

It takes two full cups of coffee. The waitress returns with a pair of orders, likely for the elderly couple. But no new patrons come in after the old pair, and eventually the cook walks outside for a smoke break. From the restaurant’s layout, he’s probably standing on the corner so he can see anyone new coming in. As soon as he opens the back door of the diner, I’m already at the oily grill, turning it back on. In sum total, my egg plate takes roughly four and a half minutes to make. I just need to hope that no one needs to come in here for those four and a half minutes. I carefully go about making the eggs, keeping a constant eye on the pair of entryways to the kitchen.

My nervousness is unwarranted, as I’m more than able to finish making my eggs, turn off the grill, and settle back into my corner before the waitress returns. Noticing no one is present, the waitress stomps over to the back door and opens it. “Come the hell on, Lou,” she shouts, “You gotta tell me when you go on break. The family sitting at three wants more food.”

“More?” I hear quietly from outside. “They do realize that the three thousand calories are supposed to be spread out over the course of the whole-ass day, right?” The cook, Lou, comes back in, clearly grumpy and also still smoking. At least until the waitress gives him a look. He puts his cigarette out in a small dish by the door. “Happy?” he mutters as he heads over to the grill. Turning it on, he holds his hand over the top of it. “And I was barely out there any time,” he informs his coworker, “The grill’s still hot.” I can’t help but smile as I eat my eggs and sip my coffee, sitting in the corner still unnoticed. Always unnoticed.