Half-Life

The first things you learn about Steve you learn in stories retold by people who know him.

That guy’s crazy.

I heard he collects tumors like Pokémon cards. I mean, he already has multiple in his body, and he doesn’t even care. Have you ever seen him outside without a cigarette in his mouth?

When I lived with him, he stayed awake for nine days straight, listening to war sounds on YouTube the entire time. No, not a band called war sounds, like, the type of thing you’d hear in a movie when a character has a PTSD flashback. He didn’t even have a reason to stay up, he just wanted to see how long he could go without sleep.

He is effortlessly interesting; he grabs attention without having to lift a finger. Nothing he does seems to go against his character, he’s calm, cool, collected, a man of few words. It is unclear when his complete disregard for longevity took root, but one theory holds that it was his field of choice that made him this way. A geologist by trade, he already spends much of his time down in mineshafts, his lungs filled with carcinogens. It is perhaps for this reason that he chain-smokes constantly throughout the day. Alternatively, the smoking could just be because he’s Korean. Either way, that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

Steve dresses like he’s in a rogue paramilitary group. Combat boots, tactical pants, maybe a pair of tasteful aviators. He himself is fascinated by war, and never one to shy away from violence. Despite hardly speaking, he gets into a bar fight almost half the time he goes out. Win or lose, he walks off the injuries he acquires like they’re bug bites. I’ve seen his head get bounced off concrete, and he was drinking a pint and participating in a completely salient conversation (lamenting the state of Canadian cigarettes) not fifteen minutes later, like it was any other day. I seriously don’t think the guy feels pain. I once heard that, when shopping for second hand appliances with an old roommate of mine, he, very calmly and with complete certainty, stuck his hand into a display blender. A couple of his fingers were flayed and bleeding profusely. Steve didn’t even react, he merely removed his hand and, looking at it with low hung eyes, let out a that was stupid and stuck his gushing fingers in his pocket. That was the thing about him, he never made his self destruction anyone else’s issue. The last thing he wanted was to be someone’s problem, to be a burden on another human being. He will be dead by 30, and he’ll walk that path alone. He makes spiralling an art form, and as someone who suffers extremely poorly, who publicizes his supersensitivity (with embarrassing consequences), this is the quality of his I envy most. Once, he sliced his arm so deep while cooking dinner you could see the bone. He finished his meal and went to sleep. He very nearly bled to death; he was so cold from blood loss that he was shivering under 5 blankets. Still, never sought a doctor’s help. I don’t think he’s seen the inside of a medical bay since the day he was born. Maybe not even then. He’s dependable and intelligent with a volatile edge, it was only a matter of time before a quality man like that found a gal to love.

Her name is Gemma. She’s an independent and capable woman, a corporate feminist. She works for a sizable accounting firm, something to do with numbers, my eyes lose focus and my ears ring whenever she speaks of it. Point is her job is boring, and she is more than financially comfortable. She already has a down payment on an apartment, in Toronto, in her mid 20s. That’s a level of success I can only dream of. She’s some middle eastern ethnic cocktail, tall and thin with long black hair, all pencil skirts and skin tight button ups. She has the most beautiful roman nose; it overshadows the rest of her face without competition. It’s big and angular, it sticks out amongst her smaller features and lends her an aristocratic air. When I heard they got together I was shocked this respectable young lady would have ever crossed paths with the adventurous Steven. I had to get the meet-cute info from her; he wouldn’t say a word about it.

There was a small park across the street from where Gemma worked. Right in the middle of the business district and a measly one block wide, it was almost never appealing, the sun blocked out by looming towers made of mirrors for most of the day. But, during a brief midday timeslot, in May between noon and four, when the sun was high enough, the park transformed into a sublime oasis amidst a raging river of balding businessmen, of refined women, of capital. It felt, much like how the cover of trees allowed only some photons to pass through to the concrete below, forming beautiful interference patterns for pedestrians to stomp on ignorantly, that the invisible hand of the market was partially obstructed in this park, collapsing the wave function of modernity into its most poetic configurations. Steve was sitting on a wooden bench, eating one of those overpriced café breakfast sandwiches, the kind which are always stale because they prepare them days before, but which have just enough pesto sauce that, if one hasn’t eaten for a while, they can be thoroughly enjoyed. He sat, with a satisfied look generated more from a satiated hunger than from an appealing taste, beside a strange looking package, large and cylindrical and covered with warning labels. It was around two in the afternoon, and Gemma had been let out early since she had finished all her work for the day and had used preparing for a work function that night (which she had no intention of attending) as an excuse to leave. She recognized the geologist instantly; they had often been stuck in the same elevator, the one in her office building, on Tuesdays and Thursdays when she would pop out for her lunch break. It later turned out that one of the floors in her building was being rented out as a science lab, one Steven used to verify his rare rock finds. He had never once acknowledged her existence, nor had he ever uttered a word or glanced in her direction, even when it was just the two of them descending together alone. She noticed him, however; he stood out amongst the grey suits and ties with his military getup, covered in dust from a hard morning of digging. Gemma wasn’t immediately smitten by the Korean’s dashing good looks, or anything so extreme, but their bi-weekly minutes of standing side by side had developed a sort of familiarity between the two of them. The businesswoman would find within herself, on those two special days of the week, as lunch hour approached, a buildup of giddy excitement, the kind of feeling she would get in her schoolgirl years when passing Shawn Brown (then captain of the lacrosse team, now convicted felon) in the hallways. And Steven, without being aware of it, grew used to the smell of her perfume, to the point where he would catch a whiff in public and, without understanding what brought it about, would think of that young lady with the prominent nose.

Gemma sat herself on the other side of the only bench in that small park, as far from him as the wood would allow. She leaned an arm on the metal armrest (which only serves to ensure that no homeless person can receive a decent night’s sleep and has not once ever actually made a human being feel more comfortable) and in doing so, pointed her long olive toned legs ever so slightly in Steven’s direction. When this did not immediately hypnotise the man into striking up a conversation, she pulled out all the stops by tucking her straight, silky black hair behind the ear which was closest to him. Now, for any single adult male who is the least bit concerned about his future, these actions would have been tantamount to a glowing neon sign above this gorgeous woman’s head, spelling out ‘POTENTIAL LIFE PARTNER’. Unfortunately, our strange geologist had a skull completely void of all thoughts which did not relate to the immediate present, so the idea of taking a wife was the furthest thing from his mind, let alone an awareness of one such admirer in his immediate vicinity. They remained seated in silence for fifteen minutes, long after the sandwich was finished. Gemma began to worry that there was an impenetrable wall between them, that they were merely fated to be nothing more than ships passing in the night. She turned towards him, while desperately reaching for something, anything, to say, to combat the prophesied missed connection she had just convinced herself of. His face had tanned, dry and somewhat leathery skin from all his time digging in the sunlight, though he wore it with such energy that it became less of an aesthetic failing and more of a symbol of his lust for life. He bore an expression of minor confusion, as he himself didn’t understand why he was remaining stationary for so long despite only stopping to eat. Gemma’s eyes traced down the geologist’s figure, pausing ever so slightly on his enlarged pectorals, which stood out in the tight green tee he had on, and coming to a halt on the mysterious package he was seated beside. Stuck to the outside of the grey cylinder, in big red letters, was a warning label with the words DANGER: RADIOACTIVE.

Should I be worried, sitting beside that? She said, pointing at the package. In finally breaking down the silence between them, Gemma felt no relief. The tightness in her chest did not subside but instead grew more prominent.

Probably. Replied Steve, in a monotone voice. This unexpected answer threw the businesswoman off, and her body language became more reserved. Noticing this, he continued:

It’s only dangerous with prolonged exposure. It is, (he emphasised the is for dramatic effect) actually, three times the Canadian Nuclear Safety Commission’s recommended activity, but having a pleasant conversation near it shouldn’t be a problem. Plus, the container goes a long way. He had a way of becoming animated, alive, when speaking of things that could shorten his lifespan.

What is it?

It’s a rock.

I figured that much. She looked at him with a condescending do you think I’m stupid expression.

It’s, well, it’s Radium, at least some of it is.

Why the hell do you have Radium?

It got sent down from the Northwest Territories last week, I figured I’d test it at the lab when I brought over my finds today.

Oh, so it’s for work? She felt some relief, which was immediately cut short by his reply:

Not exactly. This is pleasure, not business.

You’re carrying around Radium, for the fun of it?

I collect.

You collect rocks?

I collect radioactive material.

You collect radioactive material?

Yes.

But…

“But?

But where do you keep it?

In my apartment, in a plastic display.

A plastic… And with that, the businesswoman broke out laughing. Once her giggling subsided, she went on:

You’re fucking with me. Is this some sort of weird pickup line-thing? You get a lot of pretty girls asking about your radioactive package?

You’re the first pretty girl to ask me about it. He blushed a little.

I don’t believe you.

Do you… want to see?

And so, against her best interest, Gemma stood in the threshold of this stranger’s apartment. It was clean, almost too clean, and every surface was either white or black. Steve’s aesthetic sensibilities were utilitarian, at best. Tools hung up on walls, a massive fuck-off high-tech desktop computer. The only decorations to speak of were an assortment of war paraphernalia isolated to one corner of the room. Not too much to be concerning, thankfully. That and, of course, the definitely not CNSC-approved clear plastic display on the wall across from her. It was a one meter by one meter shelf, divided into sixteen smaller squares. Within each square was some unidentified rock, each of which, sure enough, was extremely bad for your health to be around. Gemma felt nauseous just standing in the room, she felt pulsing in her skin, though she was unsure if it was just placebo. She wanted to ask if his neighbors were being given cancer, she wanted to ask what could compel such an obviously intelligent man to sleep in a room so toxic he might one day wake up with his pineal gland poking out of his forehead, she wanted to ask many things, but instead all she said was:

I’m not staying here any longer.

Okay.

When can I see you again?

Some of you, especially those down on their luck when it comes to enticing women, might be punching the air in frustration right now. You may wonder how this maneuver, this obvious admission to insanity could work on such a high value queen, when your advances are met with nothing but scorn. Well, there’s a strange mix of factors at play here. If you’ll allow me, for a brief second, to dive into female psychology, I believe I may be able to explain this. It is not uncommon, especially in the case of women with Gemma’s status and constitution, for a lady such as herself to enjoy a fixer upper. Some women, instead of seeing men as they are, see them as they could be. This is an admirable quality, in a man’s eyes, and an extremely frustrating habit in the eyes of her female friends. What need does a corporate Amazon have for a stable man, when she already has stability in spades in her day-to-day life? All she desired, in that moment, was simply a little excitement, and Steve, with all his faults, was nothing if not interesting.

Here’s an example that transpired not two weeks later: Steve was driving Gemma back from some dull old friend’s dinner party in his beaten down truck. They were in a flirty mood, and they were slightly tipsy from some cheap red wine, so the pair were deep in a hypnotic rhythm of back-and-forth banter. The kind of banter you reflexively engage in, saying exactly what first comes into your head without filter, trusting completely in the other party to catch your sardonic tone and respond in kind. I think this type of conversation is one of the purest forms of communication, speaking through your reptilian brain without any interference from the ego. In these moments, you can very nearly tell what the person you are flirting with is thinking. It is as if you are playing music in a band, your melodies and rhythms all coming together without difficulty, your actions guided less by conscious decisions than by something higher which is utilizing your body as an instrument. I believe the highest form of flirtation is the collective unconscious made manifest in language.

Gemma was in the process of diagnosing Steve with some sort of mania. She had read about suicidal disorders on Wikipedia the night before and was trying to square the geologist’s destructive tendencies with a lack of mood swings so typically characteristic of a manic person.

No, Gemma, I don’t think that I have-

There’s nothing wrong with it! Gemma giggled slightly

I’m not saying there is, but I’m normal.

Oh please, have some self awareness!

I’m plenty self aware, you just don’t know me.

Oh I know you all right. I see right through you, basket case.

Now who’s being ableist? You’ve got problems, lady. Steve couldn’t contain his smile. His crooked teeth were charming.

I am diagnosing you with… let’s see. She paused for a couple seconds, tapping her chin with her forefinger in exaggerated deep thought, before continuing.

I think it’s clear that you exist in some constant state of mania-

Mania!

Mania. But your emotionless robot attitude is unusual. Gemma poked his cheek while she said this. I think it’s fused with your obvious autism-

I do NOT have autism.

Get fuckin’ real. I’ve seen your room, rock boy.

A nice friendly bout of amorous psychoanalysis, similar to that which I, myself, have been happily the subject of, on more than one occasion (though women are never correct in my diagnosis because, despite my rash decision making and ever-present self-loathing, I am completely of sound mind). She used his driving as evidence: he was going much too fast for someone who was already slightly inebriated. They were on the highway, late at night, and there were no other cars in sight. Steven took this criticism as a challenge, and, turning to look his admirer in the eyes, removed his hand from the steering wheel. They veered left, slowly at first, but soon they were crossing lanes. They maintained tense eye contact for an agonizing twenty seconds, until the car was pointing, at a forty-five-degree angle, towards the median. With a scream Gemma threw her body over the driver’s seat and grabbed the wheel, swerving them back on track. She tried to accost the Korean for his recklessness, tried to angrily lecture him about his dangerous actions, but his laughter was too contagious, and soon both of their diaphragms were strained with guffawing. Steven laid his brittle hand on her thigh for the rest of the ride home. What is it that makes self destruction and libido so correlated? What is the cause of the linear relationship between proximity to death, and an increase in desire? I believe it is the death drive rearing its ugly head. That night, the couple made love for the first time. In the morning, Gemma had one thought running through her mind:

I can fix him.

And by God, by some miracle, she managed to accomplish this herculean task.

***

It was a couple months in when she began complaining about his lack of longevity. Can you blame her? She had fallen for this man. She wished to spend her life with him; she suffered from the oxymoronic short sightedness of thinking too far into the future. At first, Steven resisted her wishes. What right had she, to change him so drastically? But soon, his most admirable character trait of not imposing his problems on others kicked in. He realised, by the nature of their soul bond, that when he harmed himself, he was also damaging her, and her future with him. And so, with a sigh of resignation but without one word of complaint, he allowed her to mould him. Firstly, it was the cigarettes. He quit them, cold turkey, without issue, definitive proof that he was never chemically dependent but instead just enjoyed nicotine, and did not care about the drawbacks. He even continued to keep a pack on him, to reap the social benefits of smoking he had grown so accustomed to, without suffering a hint of temptation. Then, it was his rocks, placed in a storage unit to irradiate nothing but a few gang-related kidnapping victims in a neighboring container. He used to wake up early, to smoke a cigarette while watching the sun rise. Now, he was greeted in the early hours of the morning by one of Gemma’s vile kale smoothies, followed by some cardio in their apartment unit built in gymnasium. He began taking more of an administrative role at work, one that was always available to him, that came with better pay and far fewer expeditions into carcinogenic mine shafts, but one he had never been interested in. All in all, he was leading a lifestyle healthier than he had ever led before. He began sublimating his death drive by working on his truck. It was a 2011 Toyota Hilux, and Steve liked it because it was the same model of truck certain rebel groups in the middle east would put dinky makeshift turrets in the bed of, to combat the scourge of the western empire. It all started when the pickup’s brakes went out. Instead of bringing it into a mechanic, he thought it wouldn’t be too hard to do by himself. This transformed into an obsession, and within some short few weeks the car looked good as new. He even took preventative measures for potential issues that might crop up in the future, for the first time in his life. He kept some tools, a spare tire and extra gasoline in the back, on top of basic survival supplies like rope and matches.

I think I noticed it before Gemma did. We were at their new shared place, having a small housewarming dinner party. Steve was cooking, he made a mean Buchimgae, a kind of savoury vegetable pancake. He cut his finger slightly, while chopping ingredients, not deep but it bled a little. He immediately stopped what he was doing and left to put a band-aid on the wound. I, for one, was glad he wasn’t bleeding all over the meal, until I looked at Gemma. She wore this icy, uncaring expression, with a pungent undertone of melancholy. She was bored.

They began bickering regularly. I suspect that in place of the fire of passionate destruction that once connected them, Gemma was attempting to ignite another spark, one of anger. She would pick fights over little things which did not bother her to any reasonable degree, but which could still be used to justify an argument. She did it in front of us, his friends, even.

Oh, Steven didn’t tell me we were supposed to bring food. She shot him an angry look, which read something along the lines of we will be talking about this later. Or she would insult me, knowing that would get under her partner’s skin. When watching a sexy movie:

You watch this objectifying stuff? No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend.

I don’t blame her for this. No decision she made was unreasonable, she just hoped to make something meant to be brief last, without understanding that this would dilute its potency. Even I had been enjoying myself far less around Steve. His life had become grey and dull, the fire in his eyes had been extinguished. His obsession with war, once a sign of his violent, barbaric bronze age constitution, had become nothing more than autism, and worse yet, the kind of autism many men naturally adopt in their forties anyway, when they were meant to die young, in battle.

***

Imagine my surprise when, last week, upon exiting my flat for my nightly smoke, I ran into Steven, covered in soot and huffing like a chimney on my deck. He knew all the roommates, and we never locked the doors, so it wasn’t unusual for him to pop in for a visit unannounced, but at so late an hour? With black ash on his face? I knew something was wrong. I didn’t say a word, I just sat beside him, on some shitty garden chair we had found at the side of the road, and joined him in silently breathing in some delicious nicotine. I think he was on his fourth cigarette, since I had emerged, when he began to relay what had transpired.

The couple had been driving together on a long, single lane road, flanked on either side by dense woods and just far enough away from town for the asphalt to stretch out, flat and unchanging, over the horizon. They were driving back from a weekend spent in a cabin with a colourful assortment of Gemma’s friends. Around her companions, she was joyful and happy, animated and talkative. However, once the couple retired to their room, she became weepy and depressive, whining and complaining about some inconsequential statements her so-called friends made. Somewhere deep inside, Steven had realised that it was not her attitude, or personality, or some weakness of her character that was making her cry, but instead it was his presence. It had always been him, making her miserable. The drive home was silent, and he clenched his jaw so hard that he started to get a headache. He was desperate for some levity, so he tried to make a quip, some inconsequential jab which would have, in the early stages of their relationship, initiated that fugue-banter state he missed so awfully. But, within the dynamic they had grown into, he worried that his joke might suffice only to create yet another tired argument, and, as the words were leaving his lips, he hesitated, causing him to speak too quietly, almost under his breath.

What? Speak up. You’re mumbling Gemma snapped. The word mumbling left her lips with an acidic undertone, as if she was spitting venom at him, or, as if she was chastising a constantly misbehaving toddler. In Steve’s mind, there was but one sentence, ringing so loud and clear he thought his girlfriend might hear it:

She loathes me.

With this thought came an intense wave of relief in the Korean’s heart. He slammed on the breaks, hard enough that Gemma almost smashed her face into the dashboard, as his precious Toyota came to a screeching stop. Ignoring her angry questioning, he calmly exited the vehicle and, without a word, marched over to the passenger side and opened her door so she would exit as well. Then, when she was a safe distance away from the pickup, Steve, without a hint of emotion, grabbed the gasoline canister from the back and meticulously began covering the truck with oil. He lit a match, and all his hard work, all his sublimation went up in flames. Gemma was screaming in confusion, probably asking him why he would do such a silly thing, but the geologist could no longer hear her through the ringing in his ears. He took a cigarette out of the spare pack in his pocket and placed it between his soft lips. It hung there, limp, his mouth was slightly ajar. His low hung eyes looked as if he were in a trance, hypnotised by the fire. Tingles shot down his spine. He bent over, kept the cigarette still in his mouth by holding it with his left hand, and used the flames to light it. The raging inferno licked at his face, it was so hot he singed his eyelashes off and his hand started to blister. He breathed in, slowly and deeply, and the chemicals and CO2 entering his lungs felt as though he was taking his first breath of fresh air in his entire twenty-seven years on this earth. He exhaled and watched as the white smoke from his lips quickly dissipated into the atmosphere, never making contact with the lingering pitch-black plumes from the car.