You Don't Know Me

Now that I've been in my new job for a month, I've had a bit of time to get to know my new co-workers. We spend 10 hours a day in the same office. You'd think that would allow us all to be fast friends in no time. But really I'm still a bit isolated. Partially because of where my desk is, down the hall from the room where most of my fellow writers sit. And also because it's one of those open receptionist-type desks, so people are walking by me all day, and to avoid being constantly distracted I sit with my earphones in for hours at a time.

Proximity aside, do we ever really know our co-workers? Or anyone for that matter. Or even ourselves? These are not new questions of course. But aside from starting a new job, I'm reminded often of how little I do know the people around me. Even ones I've felt so close to at times. My friend Keir, who I met at one of my previous jobs and saw almost every day for about 2 years, was the closest I had to a best friend since I moved here to Vegas. We did a lot of stuff outside work, spend many hours, even whole nights, talking after a night out. He told me stuff, I told him stuff. I heard his favourite stories so many times that when he'd be telling one to someone else, at lunch for instance, I could've picked it up and finished it for him word for word. I practically knew all his old friends who I'd never met because he'd told me so much about them.

Then that one night, he was lying next to me here, the one time he was here, and he said, "So, what do you really know about me?" I stammered ..."Well, I know that you're a good person, that you're just very frustrated with your situation right now, and you feel some anger about things, but ..."
He stopped me there. We were both silent. What did I really know about him? And what did he know about me other than that we'd just been out for my birthday and now we were in my bed. And in the morning he would be gone.

Then a few months later, I did meet those old friends of his and there was that light of recognition, "Oh, you're the one who..." and "He's the one who..." and I was just there, "the one he's been hanging out with all this time," since they'd last seen him.

And I still see them, his friends that is (I haven't seen him in a while, and I suppose neither have they). And I'm just sort of floating awkwardly, isolated. Do I belong now? Can I belong? Will they ever know me? Do they care to? I mean, he had the chance, and he didn't stick around. So why would they?

Then there is Skip. My dear lovely delightful Skip, who I've never met, but I thought I knew so well. As well as possible, when he keeps one at arms length, I suppose. Yes, he's never really let any of us in. All those details that anyone who lives on his street might know, like his name, what he looks like; those aren't the really important things anyway. It's what's inside. His good heart. His funny, clever, and frustratingly mysterious Maskipper-ness. He was as much of a best friend to me as I had for many years. He was the one I wanted to tell everything to. And did. And still do, though I don't hear back from him nearly as often. Hmm. Maybe no one ever really wants to know anyone too well. Maybe the bits we hold back are what keep us close.

It can be an advantage to be the new guy or gal. The one from whom no one quite knows what to expect. And then there's the truth, which usually isn't amazing or mysterious. So we hold on to it, keep it even from those closest to us, our family. Because once someone knows all, there's no going back is there? That's why we each need to have our own space. For me, it's so I can just be, without having someone looking at me trying to see what they know or think they know.

And yet, it's still there, that need to know and be known. The comfort of not having to explain yourself all the time remains appealing. Instead, in nearly any situation, you can just shrug your shoulders as if to say, "well, you know me ..."