hi dad!

drgraysonrhoades​:

Relationships. There is a difference between theory and practice. Grayson leans closer to theory. He overanalyzed the one partnership he had during college. He wonders if he had unconsciously thought of it as a project. A double-blind experiment to test the extent of his attachment rate. He has no relationship to speak of currently. The result is enough to share his findings with anyone who asks.

“Do you mean your relationships? The ones that require your… involvement?” How else can he describe a romantic or bonding connection with another? He can pull apart words from a box of data to define it. He relies on no other way. “You notice other relationships, though–with Claudia Marshall and Julian Santiago–you notice her reactions and patterns within their dynamic. Is there a reason why?”

He would have thought relocating to the same setting as the most life-altering moment in Violet’s life would make her connect more so with it. Her answer tells him he’s wrong. His fingers busy themselves back with the dew of condensation against his glass of water. He has the same glassy look in his eyes as a computer being rebooted–reflecting back the one sitting across from him while he processes.

“You… You got a job?” he suddenly retraces the steps. He offers a smile. It’s encouraging. Wondering. Happy for her. “Is it within here? In Prometheus Productions?”

“don’t you notice what you're around?” she’s no expert, but the only people she could talk about with any confidence were the ones damion had introduced her to. claudia’s relationship made the best example because it was the only one she had everyone else never lasted long enough to make as much of an impression. maybe if her parents were still around she would have had them as model, a thought only prompted because grayson had asked about them, something so half formed it didn’t phase her, not when she could talk about what she actually enjoyed.

“yes! i had to shorten my hours at the museum,” an unfortunate loss as she'd viewed it. she loved giving hours and answering questions, walking through rooms to make sure that no one had passed out from ‘ distress’ as her manager put it. “but I'm going to be a consultant, for julian's film.” she notices his smile, nods in the affirmative. “that’s the formal title of it at least,” something else to add to her mental resume, “ pretty cool.” and she means it. she knows everyone is happy with the news and so she’s learned to feel it too. “we work together now technically, right? you could be my guest on set.”

she thought about what she'd read from the script so far, although she also remembered the big red confidential that held been on the first page as well. “it’s pretty psychological, even though he just wants me to make sure he gets the torture right,” her expression is less bright now, more contemplative. “you’d be surprised now many people get the details wrong on electrocution.”

“Because love is good…?” His voice has almost made it a statement, but that’s assumption getting in the way. It’s not forged from his own personal experience–far from it–but it’s assumption that he knows her and what she’d perceive as good and right and nice. He doesn’t know her, but he’d like to.

“Is that… all you remember? About them? At least, when it comes to their relationship?” What does a child ever know about their parents? Their perspective is already narrowed, even without the filters a parent may or may not use to skew the perspective. Age sometimes doesn’t offer clarity. Sometimes it offers more confusion. Sometimes it offers erasure. Some days Grayson’s memory can’t conjure his own father’s face.

“…Do you think about them?”

“love is good.” it sounds just as unsteady coming from her, two people stumbling along an unsteady path. as though love was so foreign a concept to make its way to questioning. she couldn’t think of a time when it was bad, trying to fit some kind of nefarious intent into caring. there’s no point in trying the sentence again, there’s no other sentiment to it between the two of them.

“i was young.” that’s what she was told, after it happened. no one could find the words to try and actually tell her what happened, stumbling around how to say there was no way she was ever going back home. if there was a home in the first place. things were still fuzzy. “i don’t really think about relationships.” one of those sentences that doesn’t feel true until it’s said out loud, the truth against all odds. she was a person alone, most were.

“not really.” she though about her parents only marginally, within the same frame as any other victim she’d researched. “not since i moved to california” the details involved in change were specific, not to mention she’d been told not to discuss most of her adventures with people, at all. something like that. and she’s promised. “i’ve been busy. i got a job!”

You have never been the type to have a calendar. They’re the kind of decoration that is tacked up with a push-pin on the lightly upholstered wall of a cubical, a chair with wheels that faces an outdated monitor and a desk with a stress ball. No one can ever claim to have guessed you working a regular 9-5.

“A weekend has two days,” you tell her. This is your only counterpoint. Mayan calendars might be different. You have no thoughts on the matter. You’re still walking towards the exit. When you finally get to it, one push makes you able to breathe in the late night air of Los Angeles. It smells like cigarettes and trash. It might be because your victim rolled himself in it while you were busy. Duct tape can only do so much, especially for a guy whose arm is barely in one piece, tethered together at the elbow because your last knife was just too dull. That’s poor maintenance on your part.

“not on some holidays.” as if they’re bound by the rules of the government calendar, days progressing in relation to memorial day, labor day, the fourth of july. weekends can even be taken in the middle of the week if the schedule works out, she’s learned that one recently from watching struggling film crews and tired production assistants. but the semantics of a weekend take a backseat to the exit that’s been opened. 

His head rises. It stays there with the pin removed from the hinge of his mouth before it’s found again. He understands. His mistake. Claudia /Marshall/ is who he believes she’s referring to. The name has floated around the office thanks to Marc. His exposure to her ends there. There is no bias he can find that will detract from objective thinking in this instance. Even the one she is marrying gives little sway to his processing. Grayson remains a man of literature over film. It prevails underneath the brightest lights of Hollywood. It extends to the fluorescent bulbs of fast food.

“Could it be that she… likes the flavor?” he offers. “This doesn’t necessarily have to link directly to her relationship status unless there’s another attribute that is missing from the observation to add credence.” The claim is subjective. It is based on Wynn’s personal preference. That’s not the exact matter of interest to him. “You uhm…” He shakes his head slightly after a moment. Not the right start. Try again. “Why love?” he asks and realizes he is mirroring her. He is only giving her the surface-level of his thoughts. “If the context wasn’t known–the context of an engagement–would you still have theorized the reason being love for the behavior? You mentioned–something to the effect–that there was no other reason for a marriage besides it. Is that… what you personally refer back to?” He has it on the tip of his tongue. It hangs there before it tumbles out. “Do you remember that about your parents?”

his first suggestion is thought over, after all what had she just said. individuality, in coffee taste and all things. but that didn’t change the taste of the coffee that no one else would touch, or was it that no one else was offered. his first suggestion is over-thought, and moved on to with the singular verb they’ve plucked out. 

“it’s the only good reason.” he was right, people got married for all sorts of reasons. they could get all turned around and confused, backwards of love and logic as it were. if l.a. was good for one thing, it was all the newspapers that stacked cash register checkouts and gave a different view of every person. “why would you want to spend so much time with a person otherwise. think about it.” as though there were no better reason to wake up to the same face every morning, to see the same one when you finally went to bed at night. maybe it’s love, maybe it isn’t. but there something to it.  

if there was, the thought is derailed by the casual mention of her parents. not that the topic was taboo, but she’d thought better to mention it. everyone was so careful when they knew, and besides no one liked to think about the dead unless they were in a nicely packaged scene. she had not yet found the bow on top. “sure i remember them.” slightly, in a hazy way that she couldn’t admit to, couldn’t see as the truth of their existence. there were real people all around her, and her parents had been two of them— despite the quiet reverence that seems to be demanded of their immediate invocation. remembering them was not remembering what they did. “they were together, that counts right.”

Her laugh gives him pause. Has he missed the trigger that’s otherwise known as the punchline? Is this meant to be funny at all? He splits the difference by offering a small smile. It’s only convincing in the sense that it’s polite. It’s formed as gracefully as it can be from the help of awkward muscles. Slowly, it dissolves as her question takes a welcome precedent in comparison. “In a healthy dynamic, it’s not expected for you to sacrifice your own belief system in favor of your partner or your counterpart in the instance of storge–familial love. You should still be able to maintain individuality when it comes to your personal boundaries. To be clear, it’s not in the same vain as asking you to… take out the trash when you don’t feel like it, but more so if I was a vegetarian and you asked me to take a bite of your burger and I did with the goal to make you happy. Does that make sense?”

It makes more sense to him than what she’s said to him. Grayson’s eyes stagnate on her while his mind tries to connect the dots. He was sure that what they were referring to her own connections. Marriage blindsides him. “I’m… I’m sorry,” he begins as his eyes blink rapidly to process. “Are you… were you in the process of getting married?”

she turns over the idea in her mind, that maybe if something was a strong enough belief that it would trump what the other person wants from you. she knows there are certain things that she likes, that she wants, but there is nothing to say that this is more important. that this is what she must have. maybe other people feel differently. it seems like something that will have to be asked over a dinner or two. “gotta maintain individuality.” she nods, sage-like wisdom imparted onto the conversation, although it might just be shy of the point. there is nothing to say that there is a right answer here, healthy could mean all sorts of extra things. 

“me!” she’s given no indication for who she’s talking about, but still the idea that it could be her is a welcome surprise. she should have expected it, she is an individual. capable of making her own relationship choices, what a leap in logic. “claudia!” she doesn’t add a last name, there is no need. there are only a handful of people that rotate in her social circle— and grayson already knows all of them. claudia getting married is obvious, or at least she thought so. “she always drinks the coffee julian makes— even when it’s no good.”

Love. It registers as surprise. It shouldn’t. Yet he feels it rush in. It’s one wave. One wave of pacific blue to crash on a shore outside bay windows. The moment makes him feel like the puzzle instead of the one fiddling with the pieces. His only response to introspection is to wonder if all the pieces are still there to be put together again. What’s outside becomes a twitch to the corner of his lips. It could almost be called a quiver. It doesn’t have the sharpness needed for a smirk nor the intent. It twines around discomfort and hope in a polarizing match.

“It… is,” he answers in strained admission. He feels like he’s exposing fault lines. It’s easier to default to the science. It’s a route that’s more familiar and straight-forward. It’s the path that will always lead to an answer. He takes the word love and reviews it without bias. It needs to travel to something, to somewhere, to someone. It’s the basis for its existence. “Do you think you could love someone enough to do something you would otherwise not do? Or not want to do? What makes you sure that the feeling is love?”

“yes.” her answer is uncomplicated in thought, as though he’s asked something painfully simple rather than an unending secret. it requires little introspection to think of the times she’s been asked to give something up, that she had done it without much bargaining. it was the rule of her place to stay. did that mean she did something she would otherwise do for love, or for a place to stay. there’s no time to analyze the conundrum, she simply says “given up more for less!” 

she laughs, slaps her knee as though she’s said something particularly funny for the moment. it’s the kind of line that deserves such treatment, self-depreciation is the word she would assign to it if they were continuing to play this game. “why wouldn’t you do it for someone you loved?” as though it were a generality rather than a specific, that everyone must feel the same. or at least they should, shouldn’t they?

her mind  leaps, trying to answer every question that’s been put to her. the two don’t necessarily link. universalities applied to specific scenarios. who gets to the heart of free will, who is sure that the feeling is love. “i guess there’s really no other reason to get married.”

His lips part. He’s tempted. There’s no evidence of Newton being hit by an apple. It’s not the point. His mouth molds around a different set of words. Before that, he smiles. It’s small. It’s held awkwardly. It’s a smile all the same. “Yes.–That, too.” It’s too minute to correct. He’s learned. It doesn’t make his case stronger. It only distracts from it. Sometimes he puts this knowledge to use before his mouth needs to be retaught. This is one of those lucky times. He nods for the rest. She understands to agree with things she doesn’t understand. It’s a paradoxical lesson.

It’s his turn to think. It’s vague. He’s given bare essentials to dissect. The variables accumulate. They weigh on his pursed mouth. “Peer pressure. Addiction. Compulsion. Religious reasons. Medicinal…” A thousand routes unravel. The fork in the road has many prongs, most of which makes his head shake. What has been voiced seems unlikely based on her profile. He offers one more. “Mimicry is another possibility. It depends on the context to discover what the underlying trigger might be.” Is the tap water that he tastes any different? The glass of it that is held like a pacifier? Wet fingertips slip away to escape beneath the table. “What do you think the reason is?”

he runs through a list, she crosses them out as possibilities as they’re spoken, puzzle pieces that aren’t fitting together neatly. sometimes the answer is to cut them into the right shape, sometimes they are simply to try to the next piece. it depends how many options there are, how much time is left. mimicry fits like a shoe that’s half a size too small, as if it’s almost there, could be settled on. it’s not impossible, but it is uncomfortable, she thinks over what makes it better than the others. what could the underlying trigger really be in such an action. what if it was just habit instead. she thinks, eyes towards the sky as though she might be able to put everything together with a particularly well designed ceiling tile. 

“love.” she settles on the word, no qualification. as though it were possible that something so vague could account for so much. she’d certainly seen people do worse, or better, in the name of it. “they love it. so you do.” the terms of these condition seem strange, but there’s something to be untangled there. and if she could get to the heart of it, there would certainly be something about people’s motivations there. “it’s nicer than all your ideas too.”

His eyebrows scrunch together. He’s processing what she’s asked back. It’s a two-prong attack. He processes the question in general, and he processes who is asking the question. The latter colors the meaning, but the former finds its ground in the garden of philosophy. “Do you… do you understand the mechanics of gravitation? There’s a relatively–very surprisingly–simple equation that makes up Newton’s law of universal gravitation, but typically we don’t take the time to uhm… calculate the force when there’s… a pen dropped, for example.” He pauses. Reflects. “My point being is that you may not–or we may not–fully understand it, but we accept it. You know that when we trip–you trip–that you fall. There are concepts we accept when they don’t make sense to us.” What doesn’t make sense to her? What in particular? He wants to ask. He doesn’t. He listens. The mental notes accumulate.

“Logic is only as convincing as our minds will allow. A paranoid schizophrenic’s logic is different from a person who is quote-on-quote normal, at least based on the majority rule of western societal norms.” This is not covering everything she has spoken about. He knows it. He rectifies it. Pushes himself to. “Understanding and agreeing are two separate concepts. Both do have roots in perception, but understanding has potential to transcend bias. Agreement evokes personal feeling towards the circumstances, which may either cause future bias or emphasize per-existing bias.” A sip of water is almost taken before he refocuses on her. “Can you provide a specific scenario? One where you found it difficult to understand?”

“or an apple lands on your head.” her own example mirrors the story that they were told in school for as long as she went. at least it addresses the first part of his statement, she knows newton and understands gravity. sit under a tree and wait for something to dawn on you, or drop on you. some people were trusting like that. she tries to synthesize what he’s telling her, taking the concepts rooted in big scientific explanations. sort them out, see what makes a difference. sometimes it feels like the words themselves are supposed to be part of a bigger game that she’s not quite getting yet. but she doesn’t mind playing. “you have to agree with gravity, even if you don’t understand why it exists.” otherwise you would just get hurt. 

she thinks hard about his question, conjuring up the different parts of her daily life that still didn’t make complete sense to her. there were some things that she just accepted, having to announce when she was home from work. but no rule that damion made was an imposition, she just accepted them. maybe it was as simple as that. or could it be more difficult, “what if you drink something even though you know it tastes bad,” she conjures an on set cup of coffee, bitter and burnt. she drank it, they all did, but she didn’t like it. “but you keep drinking it anyways." 

He shrugs. At first. Grayson’s words have always been on a delay to his body, as if someone else pulls the strings to a limb before his mind can conjure the voice to support it. His body the extrovert, his mind the introvert. It’s not the perfect partnership. “It’s hard to accept things that don’t make sense.” He knows. He has spent his whole life knowing. “It’s in our nature–as humans–to find answers we can understand.” The water in his hands isn’t going to turn into a wishing well. He’s stared at it long enough. He’ll stare at it a little longer before he flickers back to her eyes.

Funny. He nods slowly. He doesn’t agree or disagree. Humor is subjective. There are plenty of jokes that people laugh to that he doesn’t. It doesn’t mean the audience doesn’t exist. He tries to picture the kind of person that would laugh about eating five guys before taking a bite of their burger. He knows that she isn’t one of them. Not today. She told her joke with a straight face. Her food is still sitting on the table with his.

“Do you think you tell it to see who else thinks it’s funny?”

“what if it doesn’t make sense to you?” there’s something to the grand overarching sense of human nature that has not yet fully resonated with her experience. it seems unlikely that everyone feels a particular way, if that were true then she wouldn’t exactly be the person that she was. “that could be something too.” there were different words for those kinds of people. they were generally considered moral and upstanding. they had day jobs and sometimes weddings on black sand beaches. 

“it’s just got to have logic.” the through line, the trackable thing. why might you make a cannibalism joke, well that’s because there are cannibals in the world. she can name one or two without trying too hard. “is it still understanding even if you don’t agree?” she’s not sure the question that he’s trying to ask, or if her own lines up with the thought. but she’s trying, and the conversation is continuing slowly but surely. it’s something to be proud of. “or should we find a different word for it then.” 

Calm. Is it calm? Detachment? She’s not evasive. She started the conversation. This is her way of connecting. Does the method favor humor or morbidity? Which is the deciding factor in her litmus test? What defines connection?

Grayson’s cup is clear plastic. It proves that when he goes for a refill he isn’t rigging the system to get a free coke when he only ordered for a water. It remains clear and a few sips away from being empty. Still, he has more comfort in taking another sip before thinking over what she’s already told him, how she’s told him, the question that’s waiting for a confirmation or rejection.

It’s his head that begins to shake an answer before his mouth is able to catch up. “No.” He clears his throat once, his arms coiling around his sides before spacing out, spreading themselves atop their table, hands fastening to the central point of the cup. “It’s not practical enough to cause a visceral reaction. The logistics of a company maintaining their supply flow with only five guys to eat, or alternatively, having a standard of strictly five different guys being consumed in every meal doesn’t… make sense…”

A finger taps against the plastic. It’s not nerves. Maybe energy that has no other means to be disposed of. Restlessness. It finally stops. He offers a small smile. Unsure but curious. “Why do you tell a joke that usually makes people feel that way?”

she particularly likes how grayson answers questions. full complete reasoning with multiple sentences. of course logically the company couldn’t always feed you five guys when they sat down at the table, but people said it anyways. “i guess some people are still uncomfortable.” subjects that were never to be broached again in company, polite or otherwise. did something have to be factual to register, did it have to have completed pattern. was every thought point a to point b— she was beginning not to think so. “even when it doesn’t make sense.”

his next hits the point b: if you tell a joke that still might be bad, why bother. “because i think it’s funny.” absurd or not, squeamish, uncomfortable, or painless. it was still funny, after all who just named their restaurant five guys. she thinks of an answer that could be given to his question, the kind of nice answer over meals. what was she supposed to say, oh—! “you can’t please everyone.”

“it’s called five guys because it was created by five guys.” the names of these guys have been lost to popular knowledge, but her point makes its way to the light. “not because you are eating five guys.” cannibalism does not make for good branding she’s learned. people prefer to think of their burgers as burgers, and to know that their fries were once potatoes. “people get squeamish when you make that joke.” 

she’s learned a lot more about the tolerance of others in her time here, especially people who walk into the museum and cannot make it past the first few rooms. as though prison drawing and plaques of photos were too much of a reminder of the human condition. eating five guys would really be drawing the line. “do you?”

You neither like nor dislike Chinese food. You get it frequently enough to make others say you like it. Maybe they’re right. At the bottom of the take-out bag is a handful of pre-packaged cookies. Tiny messages printed out by a factory far away are supposed to tell you your future. You will meet a new friend today. On the back is the Chinese word for pain. These two sides have something in common: neither of them pertain meanings you will ever grasp.

“That’s what walls are for.” You do not comprehend her logic. It escapes you, unlike how you are escaping this museum. She is not holding you hostage, but you have become the rat in the maze, if that rat was over six feet tall and wielding a former murder weapon. This maze has its own peculiarities. TV noise. Blanketed dummies in beds. Namebrand shoes. You captured her directions, and you captured the word Nikes. In Mandarin, Nike is Nike.

“No.” Your honest answer is sometimes not your best answer. Propriety doesn’t matter when you’re already walking down the hall she pointed towards. There is a lot of talk of people for a place that has only two in it. A phrase comes to mind that sounds right to you. “This is a dead day.”

“that’s what walls are for.” she repeats with an emphatic nod, trying to align the two thoughts. so all doors could be opened, it just mattered if you cared enough to break through the locked ones. she wondered if the locks were there to be polite. privacy was just an illusion— if it wasn’t then there would be walls in the way. maybe that’s not what he meant, but in the void of elaboration, she decides that is indeed what she was supposed to take away. 

and more importantly, he’s not drawn to the matching nikes that adorn each dummy. if the shoes are not why people care about this room so much, then that means that there’s something else that she’s missed. “you think it was the day? like a mayan calendar thing?” but how many people would have known the date that heaven’s gate chose to ascend, it wasn’t really popular trivia. unless she was dealing with a real fanatic. “i mean it technically happened over three days, so more like a dead weekend. does that still count?”

Donate/Trash. The marker squeaked over cardboard, thick black letters over a folded up box. Some of Bonnie’s old stuff that he had been left with that had stayed in the same box as when he had been the first one to pack it up in. Old vanity set and curlers. Not a lot for him to do with that. Maybe Kit would have gotten a kick out of it if she had grown up, coming down the stairs with half-curled-half-fried hair.

He moves to the next one in the garage, door wide open to let in the air and light, an eye on the street every so often. Who knows? Maybe the Zodiac was still out on the prowl somewhere. In the meantime, the two open boxes awaited in front of him. Kid.  Kiddo. Smart move to put those names in different colors. Now, which one was the food processor going to go to… The one who doesn’t cook but is married to one who does? Or the girl who is probably going to use it for anything but food?

“…Sorry, Fred. I’ll make it up to you with the pasta maker.”

“pasta maker?” her voice rings out a room away, where she’d been setting bags of groceries on the counter. it was ind of fun, walking around the aisles of a grocery store and trying to built all the different recipes. you could buy potatoes, but then you had to make sure there was sour cream and butter. and salt and pepper, and it could go on. she’d never thought of it before, but now she had time since she had a strict schedule. “do you want to make pasta?”

she looked at the ingredients that she hadn’t put away yet, trying to think of what could be added together in order to accomplish this task. “wait—” manners, she was supposed to use the front door and she was supposed to say, “hi! i’m home from the store!”

She’s talking to you. You did not suddenly go deaf. You hear her loud and clear, as they say. Crystal. What you hear, though, gives you no motivation to answer or even turn around in her direction. You are convinced your transaction is complete. This impromptu meeting between the two of you is over. There is no further interaction required. Except there is.

“Your door is useless,” you inform her like you’ve appointed yourself fire marshal. Indeed this door is useless to you. There is no handle to pull. No handle to pull means no exit to take. Not here. Your eyes are drawn back to her. She must know how to leave. You doubt she lives here. You have not seen one fridge or microwave to hold a pot pie in.

“Is there a working door in the Heaven’s Gate room?” You did listen. Some of that talk did sink in after all. Good for you. “That could be why people like it.”

there are lots of false doors and windows in the building, rooms that you can’t escape, and staircases that lead up and up to nowhere. “not all doors are meant to be opened.” she says as though she’s read the answer off of a fortune cookie, the kind of sage knowledge that can only become clear when it is truly needed. maybe now it isn’t needed. the lights in the room are dim, a flickering tv screen plays the same video of an old man talking. he stares almost without blinking, discussing the importance of their world, of the message he is bringing. around them there are bunk beds filled with mannequins. they are all covered in sheets, some labelled the heaven’s gate away team.

“it just has the one exit.” she points further down the rows of bunks to where the hallway resumes. this is just a brief interlude. and yet everyone asks about it, lingers, watches the video clips. “you think it’s the nikes?”