A Fascinating Line

by Sam Goldsmith

That morning, Mr. Drummond peacefully eased into consciousness inside his bed. The sun fell through his window at a hypnotic angle, its brisk spring warmth padding his comforter. Birds sang outside, a lovely sound that seemed to fit today perfectly. His feet felt warm without slippers, his arms comfortable without a sweater. Clouds had all but abandoned the brilliant blue sky, leaving a few lonely puffs like stray freckles. Colors shone vibrantly, and the blue sky, green grass and autumn-red tree leaves melded together harmoniously. Mr. Drummond could not think of a more beautiful, perfect day.

He flossed twice and brushed his teeth for five minutes, just to be safe. He ate a full breakfast—a glass of orange juice and a bowl of Corn Flakes with a pinch of sugar—but not so full that his bowels would beckon him to the bathroom too soon. He ran a comb across his scalp and meticulously picked out renegade nose-hairs. He shaved his stubble, even though he never grew much of a thick beard. Everything had to be perfect today, as perfect as the weather outside, as perfect as he had always imagined.

He took his beloved to Wishing Point, a small, level patch of land on a hill overlooking the modest city below. One could see sunlight reflecting off the water and onto the sides of the reassuringly geometric buildings. It was the perfect place, he reasoned. Hand in hand, they sat on a bench and gazed contentedly out over the scenery. They watched a child press his face into a pair of pay-to-use binoculars and complain to his mother that he couldn’t see anything.

“Oh, Harold, it’s beautiful!” his beloved sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. “Thank you so much for bringing me out here.” Her voice sounded like warm milk, and he felt like pouring it into a saucer and lapping it up like a thirsty cat.

The mother soon ushered her child away, leaving the view and the welcome feeling of blissful solitude to the enamored pair. There was no better time in the world, and Mr. Drummond basked in the moment’s perfection. “Angela,” he said, “there’s something I wanted to ask you, something very important.” She looked up at him expectantly, making his heart pound ever-so-pleasantly. “Let me just say it straight out: Will you marry me?”

His beloved, with her long golden hair blowing angelically in the wind, stared at him blankly for a moment, and then turned back to the view. “Hum,” she said flatly.

Mr. Drummond had not anticipated such a lackluster response. He waited for her to elaborate, and when it was clear she wasn’t going to, he said, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” she sighed dully. “It’s just, well, this isn’t all that romantic.”

Mr. Drummond looked out at the city, coated in crisp spring sunlight, the cooperative weather enough to make a landscape photographer salivate. “What do you mean? This is plenty romantic.”

“Sure, if you’re going out for a nice, uneventful stroll,” said his beloved. “But not to propose.” She said the word “propose” with disdain, unmistakably disgusted with Mr. Drummond’s choice of time and place. She lifted her head off his shoulder to look him in the eye. “And you did it all wrong, too.”

“I did?”

“You did,” she confirmed with a nod. “You’re supposed to kneel down in front of me, hand me a diamond ring, and say, ‘I love you more than anything, Angela. Will you marry me?’”

A diamond ring. Mr. Drummond felt his wallet throb in his back pocket. “But I thought we could pick out a ring together so we could find one you’d like,” he said. “And I do love you more than anything, Angela.”

She groaned. “Oh, forget it. We’re not even on the beach in Southern Italy, and I’m not wearing a flowing white gown that dances in the wind like a walking ballet.”

“Like a walking ballet?”

“It’s always been my dream.”

* * *edly biased description of her, but it was certain that she was three years younger than he, saw life through ocean-blue eyes, and brandished long, blond hair. They had met two years ago, both energetic realtors working for the same firm. It was quickly doubtless in Mr. Drummond’s mind that she was the perfect woman for him, and she seemed to feel the same way. So her reaction to his proposal was entirely unpredictable.

“I had no idea I was supposed to take her to the coast of Southern Italy,” said Mr. Drummond dismally.

“She should have been more flexible,” I agreed. “You could have taken her there for the honeymoon.”

“That’s what I said, but she didn’t care. She wouldn’t even look at me.” He shook his head, and kept his eyes on his worn-out sneakers. “And I thought it was such a perfect day.”

“So that’s why you’re here at the clinic,” I said. He nodded. Over the abandoned building there was a friendly yellow sign with the words, “Emotional Repairs Clinic,” explaining the clinic as thoroughly as a sign would be expected to.

“There’s something wrong with me, with my emotions,” said Mr. Drummond. “I’m not romantic enough. I should have known the best way to propose to her. I should have known.”

“It doesn’t sound to me like there’s anything wrong with you,” I said.

“Have you ever disappointed a woman, Sam? Have you fallen miserably short of her dreams no matter how desperately you wanted to make them come true?”

I laughed. “That’s a tall order, Mr. Drummond. It’s too much to ask someone to make a dream come true.”

Mr. Drummond shook his head, smiling sadly. “Then you have no idea why I need to be here.” He gave a short chuckle. “You’re probably emotionally impaired yourself, and you don’t even know it.”

“How can I find out?” I said with simple, boyish curiosity.

Mr. Drummond shrugged. “I’d ask inside. I bet they have some way to test you.”

He was called up, and he shook my hand in a short but courteous fare

I met Mr. Drummond in line outside a one-day clinic. I had taken the bus downtown to grab lunch and read a novel in a nearby café, but long lines like the one outside the clinic fascinate me, and I figured I’d wait in it. The line meandered its way to an abandoned retail building that was notorious for rapidly changing hands. It had been a Foot Locker for three months before giving way to an ice cream store, then to a Starbucks. Everyone with sense knew to stay away from a space once Starbucks failed—except, apparently, this clinic, which was somehow drawing an impressive turnout.

The line was long enough for me to tell as interesting a story as Mr. Drummond’s, if only I’d had a story to tell. Mr. Drummond expected that I did. He thought there must have been some epic history that led me to this spot, and he couldn’t understand my simple, boyish fascination. I breathed in the air of the college town, the offshore half-metropolis where I grew up. It smelled like pollen, gasoline, fast food, and familiarity. I explained my original plan for the day, handing Mr. Drummond the book I had hoped to read in the café, Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth. He said he’d never heard of it, and I returned it to my backpack.

“They advertised for the clinic in the movie theater,” explained Mr. Drummond. “They showed the ad before the movies started. You couldn’t have missed it.”

I shook my head. “I don’t watch movies.”

Mr. Drummond was not a young man by marriage standards. His sideburns were starting to show hints of gray, and his pork pie hat undoubtedly covered up more. His face was also starting to age, wrinkling like creased paper along his forehead and the sides of his eyes. He wore a thin mask of stubble, which he said was the result of recent depression-induced apathy toward his appearance. I would have guessed he was in his early thirties, but I’ve never been a great judge of that sort of thing.

I can’t say much about his beloved, Angela, because of his unashamedly biased description of her, but it was certain that she was three years younger than he, saw life through ocean-blue eyes, and brandished long, blond hair. They had met two years ago, both energetic realtors working for the same firm. It was quickly doubtless in Mr. Drummond’s mind that she was the perfect woman for him, and she seemed to feel the same way. So her reaction to his proposal was entirely unpredictable.

“I had no idea I was supposed to take her to the coast of Southern Italy,” said Mr. Drummond dismally.

“She should have been more flexible,” I agreed. “You could have taken her there for the honeymoon.”

“That’s what I said, but she didn’t care. She wouldn’t even look at me.” He shook his head, and kept his eyes on his worn-out sneakers. “And I thought it was such a perfect day.”

“So that’s why you’re here at the clinic,” I said. He nodded. Over the abandoned building there was a friendly yellow sign with the words, “Emotional Repairs Clinic,” explaining the clinic as thoroughly as a sign would be expected to.

“There’s something wrong with me, with my emotions,” said Mr. Drummond. “I’m not romantic enough. I should have known the best way to propose to her. I should have known.”

“It doesn’t sound to me like there’s anything wrong with you,” I said.

“Have you ever disappointed a woman, Sam? Have you fallen miserably short of her dreams no matter how desperately you wanted to make them come true?”

I laughed. “That’s a tall order, Mr. Drummond. It’s too much to ask someone to make a dream come true.”

Mr. Drummond shook his head, smiling sadly. “Then you have no idea why I need to be here.” He gave a short chuckle. “You’re probably emotionally impaired yourself, and you don’t even know it.”

“How can I find out?” I said with simple, boyish curiosity.

Mr. Drummond shrugged. “I’d ask inside. I bet they have some way to test you.”

He was called up, and he shook my hand in a short but courteous farewell. Once he slipped into the clinic, I had nothing to do but study the other people in line. The woman directly behind me was tall and elegant, her hair tied hastily in a bun, her makeup running in streaks down her face. I asked her what she was here for.

“My husband left me. He felt I didn’t love him during intercourse,” she squeaked.

“Why would he think that?”

“Because I never moaned enough.”

I scoffed. “And you think that means there’s something wrong with you?” She nodded slowly and rubbed her eye with a shaking hand.

That’s when they called me up to the front desk, and I had no chance to respond further. It was odd to see a desk in the old, abandoned building, though it shouldn’t have been. The place had been so many things before, so why not an office? I could still smell ice cream through the plaster, but it was probably just a piece of my imagination. Strong memories tend to have strong scents. Small desks lined the walls of the narrow room and were marked by signs with bold numbers—cold, undistinguished semblances of names. At each desk, a person in a gray suit sat across from a former member of the fascinating line. Mr. Drummond sat at Desk Nine, which was near the opposite end of the room. I figured my coincidental meeting with him was over.

“Desk Five,” said the man at the front, not looking up.

I said, “Excuse me, how do I find out whether I’m emotionally impaired?”

“Oh, that’s Desks One and Two,” he pointed, his eyes still down. “Please wait over there for one of them to open up. Next!”

I walked to the cramped waiting area, sat between a nursing mother and a wall, and was left to watch the motley interactions around me. It was a bizarre sight, like a zoo of emotions, caged and furious. At one desk a relaxed woman was holding a photograph that I couldn’t make out from a distance, and a soundtrack played to her through a pair of giant headphones. She leaned back in her metal folding chair and sighed, contentedly smiling at the ceiling. Another woman sobbed uncontrollably, while the man who was helping her demanded she cry louder, cry like she meant it. A teenaged boy laughed at a television screen, pointing with one hand and slapping his knee with the other as the Three Stooges happily clubbed one another. A man with a bloody nose lifted his helper by the collar and yelled profanities in his face, spit flying this way and that. I couldn’t tell for certain, but I thought I could see a woman masturbating through her clothes over by the far corner, her free hand holding an indistinguishable piece of paper.

Well, I thought.

“Next!” called the man behind Desk Two. I sat down at the desk and tried to ignore the hyperventilating woman at Desk Three. It was simply impossible. “You have two minutes to save your sons, and you can’t open the door because of your broken wrists,” said her helper calmly. The woman screamed.

I turned to the man in the gray suit in front of me, who, seeing that he had my attention, asked, “How may I help you today, sir?” He smiled blankly.

“Hi,” I said. “I’d like to know whether I’m emotionally impaired.”

“Very good,” said the man, pulling out a notepad and a laminated slip of paper with “Emotional Deficiency Chart” written on the top in big block letters. “That is something everyone should know about themselves, don’t you think?” I nodded absently, my attention back on Desk Three. The woman had stopped screaming, and her helper was patting her on the back, confirming that her emotions had been successfully repaired. She was a mess—red-eyed, red-nosed and red-cheeked—but she wore the biggest smile I’d seen on a human being since graduation.

“Now, I want you to imagine some situations, please,” said my helper, bringing my focus back. “Remember, this is just a test, so please relax and allow yourself to be as emotional as you possibly can.”

I nodded and closed my eyes, preparing to visualize.

“Imagine your wife is cheating on you,” he said. “She’s been the love of your life since elementary school, and you can’t live without her. Imagine you find out about her unfaithfulness when you walk in on her with two of your basketball buddies. Imagine she is in bondage, tied to the bed.”

“What?” I said, my eyes popping open.

“Please don’t interrupt, sir,” he said. “Imagine they are muscular African-Americans and have much larger penises than you. Imagine your wife spits on you and leaves the men to beat you up and break your nose. They stop only when you pass out on the floor.”

I blinked a few times with a mixture of horror and perplexity.

“Now, sir, how do you feel about those men? Take your time.”

I said, “That’s incredibly racist.”

“Don’t you feel mad at them? Or insecure compared to them?” he asked.

“Um, I don’t really know.”

“Interesting,” said my helper, writing something on his notepad. A man now sat at Desk Three, awkwardly stepping into the wake of the hysterical woman. He was being prompted to laugh at something, his face reddening from the exercise. I rolled my eyes.

“Now,” said my helper, “How do you feel about your wife?”

I shrugged. “I don’t have a wife.”

“Then imagine she’s your girlfriend.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend, either.”

“Boyfriend? Any romantic interest at all?”

I shook my head.

The man looked at me suspiciously and hunched back over his notepad. I gave an uncomfortable sigh and glanced to the back of the room. I couldn’t see Desk Nine from my seat, which was disappointing. I wanted to know if Mr. Drummond was falling for this hoax.

My helper handed me a photograph. “I want you to imagine what life is like for this four-year-old boy,” he said as I plucked the picture from between his fingers. It didn’t look like a boy to me, but I could see the resemblance at my helper’s suggestion. His eyes were swollen unrecognizably, his nose bashed in, his lips puffy, his mouth leaking blood. I winced. “He was a victim of violence in Darfur that destroyed his family and everyone else where he lived,” said my helper smoothly. “He could be saved with proper medical treatment, but since his country is so poor and access to doctors and medicine is impossible, he has exactly zero percent chance of surviving to his fifth birthday. Now, sir, how do you feel?”

I took a deep breath. “Um, wow,” I said, looking into my helper’s eye to avoid the image. “I’m not quite sure. Sad, I guess.”

My helper watched me expectantly, waiting for me to say more. “Is that all?”

I thought to myself for a moment. “I think so.”

My helper closed his notebook with the clapping sound of finality. “Okay. You are definitely emotionally impaired. I am afraid you have a particularly serious case that necessitates immediate attention, and I recommend you see a specialist as soon as possible. That will be thirty dollars, sir.”

“Thirty dollars?” I felt like laughing, but something held me back. “Are you serious?”

My helper gave a curt nod, his expression remaining gravely unchanged. I took another glance around the room and decided that there was no point in getting worked up in a place already saturated with emotion. I handed him two fifteen-dollar bills and left before he realized it.

* * *

I saw Mr. Drummond at the café a few days later, where I was reading my wrinkled Edith Wharton paperback. He was a happier man, I could tell. His stubble was gone, as were the bags under his eyes. All in all, he looked years younger than when I had met him in the fascinating line. He told me he had started drinking more coffee to keep up his energy for romance, just as the clinic had suggested. To see him like this made a little piece of me die inside.

“What kind of coffee do you drink?” he asked. “Decaf?”

“I don’t drink coffee,” I said, taking a sip from my Thai iced tea.

He admitted that his relationship with Angela hadn’t yet returned to its prior blissfulness, but the healing had begun. She insisted that he couldn’t roll back time and pretend he hadn’t fumbled the proposal, but since he’d already bought tickets to the coast of Southern Italy, she figured he deserved another chance.

I shook my head, partly to myself. “Why does it have to be so one-sided?” I said. “What about your own dreams?”

“My dream is to make her dreams real,” he said, smiling like a salesman.

I sank back in my chair. “Don’t give me that romantic bullshit. We both know it’s not true.”

Mr. Drummond rested a compassionate hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure you’re not emotionally impaired?”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “I’m sure.”