A Meaningful Life by L. J. Davis

conjunction, a semicolon, or start a new sentence, not that it mattered much. Every new sentence was as meaningless as the last. He erased holes in his paper, he inserted fresh sheets and began again, but it was as though his mind had gotten itself plugged into some kind of shortwave band where all you could get were interminable propaganda broadcasts in obscure Central European languages, alternately faint and loud, incessant. After a couple of hours of struggle, exhausted, Lowell climbed into bed with his clothes on and fell instantly asleep. He dreamed of rocks and cold oatmeal and woke up far earlier than usual, although without the clean sensation of stepping from sleep into consciousness. It was as though his shortwave had been turned down during the night, drumming away just on the threshold of audibility while he dreamed, and now it had been turned up again. It was a horrible, swarming feeling.
    His wife was in the kitchen, wearing odd bits of clothes and underwear as she went about preparing her breakfast. Lowell tried to remember the last time he’d made love to her. It seemed like months, but it was hard to be sure.
    â€œThe least you could do,” she said, regarding him without pleasure or surprise, “would be to take off your shoes before you come to bed. I’m just about kicked black and blue.”
    Lowell looked down. It was true. He was wearing his shoes in bed. His feet felt enormously heavy as he swung them to the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said, trying to tuck in his shirt while sitting down, not having much luck at it.
    â€œYou should be,” said his wife. “What a stupid thing to do. How did the writing go?”
    â€œIt’s coming along,” said Lowell. He stood up, small change and keys falling to the floor from various folds of his clothing. He felt heavy. “What time is it?” he asked.
    â€œEight o’clock,” said his wife. “You finally kicked me out of bed about a quarter of an hour ago. The one morning I really get to sleep. You want some breakfast?”
    Lowell nodded mutely, rubbing his face with his hands. His skin felt oily and soft, like some kind of substance in a nightmare.
    After breakfast he went down to Broadway and bought the Sunday
Times
. “Jesus,” said the news vendor, “you sure lost weight. You been sick or something?”
    â€œI’m fine,” said Lowell.
    â€œNo offense,” said the news vendor. “You sure you’re strong enough to carry that paper? It’s nothing to be ashamed of, a lot of my customers can’t manage it, it’s a big paper. Maybe you should take out the sections you don’t need. You know, like travel and the want ads. Some of my customers do that. It cuts down, believe me. Here, I’ll do it for you.”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Lowell, snatching up his newspaper and nearly falling over with it. It seemed to weigh as much as a bowling ball. He clutched it to his chest and staggered away, stumbling over his own feet, acutely aware of how wild and feeble he must look. He hadn’t shaved, and his clothes were rumpled from being slept in.
    The walk back to the apartment with the newspaper exhausted him again, and he collapsed into one of the chairs. Not only were his clothes rumpled, but the trip outside under the watchful eyes of passersby had made him conscious of how baggy they were. Even his shoes felt too big. He guessed this must be what it was like to be at the end of your rope, when you went to sleep in your clothes and they were too big for your body, when a newspaper was too heavy to carry and your brain had been taken over by a Bulgarian radio station. It couldn’t go on.
    â€œIt sure can’t,” said his wife, giving Lowell another nasty start. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. “I’m glad you’re finally coming to your senses,” she added, although that