Michael Seidlinger - The Strangest

Michael Seidlinger dares tackle one of the literary classics of the 20th century literature and reimagine it for the 21st: and in Albert Camus anti-hero Meursault, at once apathetic and violent, unable to connect with his fellow humans, Seidlinger exhumes a perfect metaphor for the Internet Generation. Zachary Weinham, anchorless in terms of morals and committed to nothing except commenting on comments and their comments etc., finds himself involved in the sinister machinations of Rios, someone he meets in a bar, and allows himself to be set up whether out of apathy or a desire for self-destruction its hard to tell. A murder ensues. Shunned by his friends and associates, not sure of what he has gotten into, Zachary heads for confrontation with society and his own moral values.

For a line to exist, it would first have to be crossed.

Someone died, I dont know. Its pretty obvious that someone died. People die every minute. When it hits home, its plain and clear. Someone died. You cant just say its a coincidence.

I got the phone call. I made sure to make a note of it.

Someone called. Apparently someone died.

Based on the number of likes and comments, it looks like its a big deal. But then again, tonight is like most nights: Not worth remembering. I dont believe much of anything if it isnt there in the morning.

I tell myself, its real if its still there. I remind myself. I think its something worth considering.

It sounds bad.

Get there in the morning skip the hospital, the person on the phone said the funeral is tomorrow. Halfway across the city.

I never travel that far, not for anything.

Wish I could just build a big pillow fort and live there for the rest of my life. Thats a good one. Statuses like that get at least a couple dozen likes. People feel the same way. They see what its like when people die. It feels, well it feels like being forced to do something. I shouldnt talk. Im not like this. This isnt me.

This isnt me.

They dont like it so I delete it. I post it again, this time with a picture of someone I dont know. That one catches on.

The phone call, though the voice was so unfamiliar, it probably was someone I knew.

Hes dead, the voice said.

Dead. I dont pick up the phone. I dont know why I picked up the phone. I never pick up the phone. I dont like talking on the phone. I have to be eating something in order to talk on the phone, so I started on the only food near me, day-old pizza or something. You are crying.

Andrew, oh my god

Oh my god, I say it because I have nothing else to say.

He I knew he was having trouble, but I didnt think

Didnt think. What am I thinking right now?

Death and coping with death: The Downer Story of the Year. In twelve steps you find out who you really are. A few people seem to agree. One reply, Fuck you Meurks. I have a lot of haters. Everyone says to ignore the trolls but the trolls know how to really get to you. The good ones, anyway. This is not a good one.

I have nothing to say so I dont say anything. She keeps talking, sobs at one point and then, clearing her throat, she tells me about the funeral. Details.

Were all getting together after the funeral. Like old times. Then she starts sobbing again. Tears, I imagine.

This is where I say something.

And then she says something.

And then I say something back, but its not what she expected. She kind of laughs, and expects it. Says, Zachary, always the one that makes it awkward. If I didnt already know you, Id hang up.

Is this a compliment?

I dont know.

I dont say anything else because I dont have to say anything else. I dont have to say anything. I just listen to her breathing and then I listen to her telling me again, one last time, about the funeral. I think this is where the call ends but I stay on the line until the dial tone stops.

Because I was on the phone, I have to play catch up. A lot has happened since the call. Likes, retweets, blogs, reblogs: I think about the person that died. Theres nothing there. Andrew. Who is this Andrew?

And then I open a new tab and start writing out a blog post:

That feeling that you get when you know you should be doing something but you dont know what it is youre supposed to be doing and the feeling thats missing when something bad happens and everyone but you feels it: This is now. This is where I am, currently. Whats your current mood? Meurks is asking, you might as well respond.

They respond.

People go on and on about their problems.

When they have an open forum, they go on forever.

Its a lot easier to not listen when you dont have to stare at a person face-to-face.

Then I remember:

Funeral tomorrow. I could probably not go, but my name is in the program.

Should I go to a funeral if Im expected to be there?

Followers respond like a guilty conscience. Mostly yes with a but that has to do with if anyone else is expecting me. I think for a moment. Nothing comes to mind.

I look up from the screen; I look at the laptop set in front of me. I look around my apartment. It must have gotten dark since I sat down. The sun was up before I got the call, long before any of this began.

I think about turning on a light. The thought passes.

Then I remember, my name in the program.

If my name is in the program?

This time they answer, yes with no buts and then I stand up, pacing the entire length of my bedroom until I stop at the one lamp I own. I turn on the light. I turn it off. I look outside, seeing that the streets have a busy night ahead.

Must be Friday.

Or Saturday. Or Sunday.

Not Sunday. I had work today.

I wont have work tomorrow.

I quickly blame this Andrew for the fact that I will have to travel tomorrow. But at least I get off from work.

I should probably call my boss.

Phone drains before I can get to his number.

Tomorrow feels a whole lot like today except I am outside with a bunch of people, 31 people to be exact. 31 people sounds like a lot. Its a lot for a funeral. How many people do you want at your funeral, and how many do you think will cry? I hold onto my phone, making sure to monitor how much battery is left. Theres no outlet here. There should be, but then there wouldnt be any trees. Or grass. There wouldnt be any graves. We wouldnt be outside if there were outlets. We shouldnt be outside.

2 of the 31 people in attendance keep talking to me. One walks over and makes me feel like Im supposed to say something profound. He puts his arm around me, brings me close, and says, Andrew was great, just know that. It isnt your fault.

Why would it be my fault? I shouldnt have said that but I shouldnt have to talk to someone I dont want to talk to.

Its not, man, its not! Dont get me wrong. Its just

The guy trails off and then walks away with his head down. I dont watch because hes walking in the direction of the coffin and all the people standing around it.

I like this tree. It has enough shade.

Almost like Im not even outside since theres a breeze today. Only 4 of the 31 people are crying, and they arent crying in the way where you make a sound. They are sort of sobbing. I dont know why. The other friend doesnt leave when he walks up. He keeps talking.

My condolences. I know he was a close friend of yours your best friend.