Original Your Friends are in The Walls

[Tanuki]

“Your friends are in the walls.”

When I first heard it, I barely paid attention. At this point, conversation’s so saturated with inside jokes, idioms, pop-culture references that it’s easier to laugh along with the joke than admit I have no idea what you’re saying. You get to think you’re funny, I get to avoid the threat of a long-winded explanation of whatever recent trend I don’t care about.

It’s clockwork. Most cooler talk is. I’m here for water, not to play test audience for your stand-up performance that has yet to supplant the day job we’re both trapped in. If we’re friends, I wouldn’t mind more of you in a wall.

I went about my day, alternating between working and looking like I was until the day ran out. That’s when I heard it again.

Elevators are the world’s most fertile incubators of awkwardness. If I’m in the company of decent people, a rarer and rarer occurrence these days, it’s silent. If not, well, Sartre said it best. At least the door to hell’s unlocked in the play. Meanwhile, I’m stuck in the elevator until it finally ticks down or up to my circle of hell, stops along the way to pick up or let off demons.

I didn’t notice them any more than the haze of faces I’m paid to pretend to care about. Their conversation didn’t need my participation to keep going. The loud, obnoxious idiots lived as proof it existed purely to spite me, so I tried to tune it out. Freedom crawled in agony towards me, beaten and battered by the dipshits who shared a stop with me.

Finally, the doors opened. While I considered if this torture incited the invention of stairs, Thing 1 and Thing 2 said their goodbyes.

“Catch your friends in the walls!”

I knew I misheard them. I assured myself of as much to keep at least one rest stop off my highway from hell. What did it matter if they said it? Just the same jabbering gibberish from Captain Comedy at the water-cooler. New town, new culture, what should I care? I’m only here because company A offered me more than company B. Every castle has their princess offering cake; not much else differentiates them. Every once in a while, the princess’s in another castle, but that’s what a resume’s for.

A scream interrupted my walk home. I did my due diligence of rubbernecking for just long enough to look like I have a conscience and walked on. Some homeless chick screaming as a living embodiment of life’s futility. But you have a brain, don’t you? You know what she said. “The walls! The walls! I’m trapped! I’m trapped in the walls just like my friends!”

No one else stopped. No one. No circle of gawkers recording the next viral video, offering help, or even just staring. Everyone walked by without giving her so much as a glance. I had to know. I broke the golden rule, grabbing some stranger’s shoulder to ask, “What the hell are the walls?”

She didn’t appreciate it, as expected. She glared at me with anger that slipped into disgust. “What? Do you have friends in the walls or something?” She jerked her shoulder out of my grip and walked along with everyone else. A few seconds and terse stares later, I did, too. I’d like to have picked up the pace and get out of there as fast as possible, but running in the direction of a woman who’d just told me off had a good chance of giving off the wrong impression.

That gave me just enough time to hear the screams stop. I told myself they didn’t. I wanted to get home. I could google whatever the hell this stupid inside joke cultural phenomenon, whatever and stop leasing out my head space. Really, though, I didn’t want to hear it stop. So, I decided I didn’t. Just walked far enough to get her out of ear-shot. Trick of the mind. Paranoia.

Walk. Bus stop. Bus. Walk. Door. Home. No one talked to me, and I returned the favor. It wasn’t late, but I needed to get home. People have always told me I give off that kind of impression, that I have somewhere else to be, and I’ve never appreciated that more than then. I locked my door in the same breath I took off my tie and booted up my computer. Luxuries of a studio apartment, all I ever need is within paces of my front door, and, of course, all I ever need is my computer. I am IT, after all.

Wasn’t online for a minute before an old buddy messaged me. I played Counter-Strike, he played Counter-Strike, neither of us were awful, it was a match made in heaven.

[6:04 PM] LisReal2401: Fun day at work? [6:04 PM] ITHELL: what the hell is this in the walls bullshit? [6:05 PM] LisReal2401: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA [6:05 PM] ITHELL: Fuck you. [6:05 PM] LisReal2401: wait [6:05 PM] LisReal2401: you’re serious? [6:06 PM] LisReal2401: LOL [6:07 PM] LisReal2401: It’s a meme, dude. [6:08 PM] ITHELL: Great, thanks. That explains everything. [6:08 PM] LisReal2401: Christ, who ate your tortellini? [6:08 PM] ITHELL: Just explain the fucking meme [6:09 PM] LisReal2401: Dude, it’s ironic. [6:11 PM] LisReal2401: ...come on, just think about it. [6:11 PM] ITHELL: Oh, thinking. Can’t believe I never thought of that. [6:11 PM] LisReal2401: >_> [6:12 PM] LisReal2401: Do you have any friends in the walls? [6:15 PM] LisReal2401: Hello? [6:16 PM] ITHELL: What? [6:16 PM] LisReal2401: Just answer. Do you have any friends in the walls? [6:16 PM] ITHELL: What the fuck does that mean? [6:17 PM] LisReal: If you did, then you’d know. So, do you have any friends in the walls? [6:18 PM] ITHELL: No? [6:18 PM] LisReal: Then you’re safe. Now log the fuck on Counter Strike.

I went to bed early that night. Took the same route to work as I always do, to and from. The woman wasn’t there. No screams to be heard. Just a wall. Painted. Recently. It hadn’t dried yet. It needed another layer, too, because you could still make out her face as plain as the words written around it.

You are not me.
I am not you.
I am not He.
You are not He.
We are not He.
If not for He,
We would be free.
Dare I ask you
Who made this true?

—Your Friend in the Walls​

 

[Rainfall]

Hey Choshi, here for Blitz!

I have to say, I usually tend to find some of your writing and thoughts very interesting! I don't have the terms to characterize some of your writings, and certainly there's different meanings and purposes for different works that I'm certainly missing.
As a tangent, on my side, I've done a very small amount of "greyposting", a word I totally made up now, to tentatively describe some a kind of writing that visits different philosophical or other concepts and styles, without necessarily being germane to the original context and purpose of those matters, but visiting in a for-fun, somewhat-meta structuring handling. Anyway. : ) : )

As for this story, I'm probably not aware of all the references and origin material. Maybe there's a song in the middle of it all. I wouldn't know. So I'm just going to do some light reactions in blitz.

At this point, conversation’s so saturated with inside jokes, idioms, pop-culture references that it’s easier to laugh along with the joke than admit I have no idea what you’re saying.

Ahh, maybe a common feeling. Different but related to this is the case where you haven't processed what the other person has said, or you literally already asked them to repeat it and still couldn't hear the words clearly. Oop. I suppose there's also the value of those, by inverse. When it's rare, it's harder to connect with someone on a particular bit of cultural reference, but when it's understood, the connection is nice. A similar situation but different meaning when it happens with shared inside jokes.

It’s clockwork. Most cooler talk is. I’m here for water, not to play test audience for your stand-up performance that has yet to supplant the day job we’re both trapped in. If we’re friends, I wouldn’t mind more of you in a wall.

I went about my day, alternating between working and looking like I was until the day ran out. That’s when I heard it again.

Fun linguistic style here. Narrator voice seems quite clear. How ominous there, at the end.

Elevators are the world’s most fertile incubators of awkwardness. If I’m in the company of decent people, a rarer and rarer occurrence these days, it’s silent. If not, well, Sartre said it best. At least the door to hell’s unlocked in the play. Meanwhile, I’m stuck in the elevator until it finally ticks down or up to my circle of hell, stops along the way to pick up or let off demons.

Our narrator's quite a typical misanthrope. Fun weighting comparison with the play. Maybe some coffee would help! Maybe not, depending on these friends.

The loud, obnoxious idiots lived as proof it existed purely to spite me, so I tried to tune it out. Freedom crawled in agony towards me, beaten and battered by the dipshits who shared a stop with me.

I'm struggling to parse that first line there! Is there another punctuation somewhere, or maybe a "that"? Other than the insult, I really like the imagery of the second line there!

Finally, the doors opened. While I considered if this torture incited the invention of stairs, Thing 1 and Thing 2 said their goodbyes.

I feel like this line might read well with "While I considered whether or not this torture had incited the invention of stairs".

New town, new culture, what should I care? I’m only here because company A offered me more than company B. Every castle has their princess offering cake; not much else differentiates them. Every once in a while, the princess’s in another castle, but that’s what a resume’s for.

Nice description from the narrator on a more fungible view of businesses and members of workforces.

I broke the golden rule, grabbing some stranger’s shoulder to ask, “What the hell are the walls?”

She didn’t appreciate it, as expected. She glared at me with anger that slipped into disgust. “What? Do you have friends in the walls or something?” She jerked her shoulder out of my grip and walked along with everyone else. A few seconds and terse stares later, I did, too.

Okay, this story is neat, and I'm sure I'm missing something very simple, so I'll need to revisit sometime, outside of Blitz. I picked a good day to not feel well.

Walk. Bus stop. Bus. Walk. Door. Home. No one talked to me, and I returned the favor. It wasn’t late, but I needed to get home.

Sometimes I feel like scene transitions are too abrupt. This one works quite well, though, intentionally so.

Wasn’t online for a minute before an old buddy messaged me. I played Counter-Strike, he played Counter-Strike, neither of us were awful, it was a match made in heaven.

Haha, great. Sometimes mediocrity is a boon. Lopsided matchups aren't always easy to work with. And once you go past a certain level, it could be harder to find others who interact at that level, making for a lonelier experience, sure.

[6:16 PM] LisReal2401: Just answer. Do you have any friends in the walls?
[6:16 PM] ITHELL: What the fuck does that mean?
[6:17 PM] LisReal: If you did, then you’d know. So, do you have any friends in the walls?
[6:18 PM] ITHELL: No?
[6:18 PM] LisReal: Then you’re safe. Now log the fuck on Counter Strike.

Well, to get out from the specific situation, I suppose situations in general have one or more of these traits:
- Whether or not you're aware of it at all.
- Whether or not you should be aware of it (brings in normative or other values).
- Whether or not it directly and/or indirectly affects you.

I went to bed early that night. Took the same route to work as I always do, to and from. The woman wasn’t there. No screams to be heard. Just a wall. Painted. Recently. It hadn’t dried yet. It needed another layer, too, because you could still make out her face as plain as the words written around it.

This bit is some wonderful prose. Very well put together.

Overall, a very nice short story, Choshi. It stands on its own. Things don't seem out of place for the piece. Certainly a sense of an accepted ominous meta-reality of a fashion.