Reading is Funny

I enjoy reading. As a child, I would’ve easily finished reading through the pages of my chosen book in one sitting, and now that I look back on it now, it was quite the feat. I may have managed to read all those many books back then because I didn’t have as much responsibility as I do now, and adults can only have so much free time. I sure wish I still do.

When I do get to read as an adult, it can only be a page a day or less since I’ve developed many more hobbies now like reading and playing music, but even that one page that I get to read is enough to satiate my bookworm self. As much as I’d like to read past my daily one-page limit, I can’t. I mean I can, but my circumstances won’t allow it.

I’m reading a light-hearted feel-good kind of novel today, but the words seem to fly past the ages and far beyond my field of comprehension; they can’t seem to register in my head. I’m reading this one sentence over and over again, but I can’t understand the sense of it. What is this scene? What sequence of events is currently taking place? Who’s involved?

Scratching my head in confusion, I suddenly remember this old tip I learned back in school where I should take notes of the thing I’m studying for, so I figure I should do that. I look around my apartment to find a medium on which I can write my notes for this novel on, finally finding a medium nearby that I’m sure I can use like paper. I’m not sure how it got in here, but I should be able to at least use it.

I take the medium to my desk and find a tool to write with, taking my seat with the novel on my left and my tools for note-taking on my right. I find my phone and play a piano piece at a pretty low volume, putting it on silent mode as I place it face-down away from me. Certain that I would understand this book better and maybe actually feel good about it, I start to write.

I understand this part now. It’s supposed to be a funny anecdote, but it’s above my level of understanding to actually be funny to me. Maybe my once younger and more studious student self would’ve gotten this immediately, but I admittedly haven’t delved into as much of the culture this book takes from. I turn on my laptop and start doing a little more research.

“Hello, is anyone home?” Someone knocks loudly upon my front door. “I lost someone dear to me, and I just want to know if you know anything about it. I have a feeling I lost it somewhere around this building.”

I begrudgingly stand from my desk and walk over to my front door, opening it only to be greeted by my neighbor from the other end of the hall. He looks a bit distraught, but I shouldn’t worry so much; I barely see any of my neighbors around anyway, and I don’t intend to. I should at least entertain him though.

“Hey there, what is it?”

“I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you right now, but I just thought you might help me find someone important.”

“‘Someone’? Shouldn’t you report a missing person to the police first instead of asking your neighbors around?”

“Well, it’s not a person, but she has a name, hence my use of ‘someone’.”

“You mean a pet? You lost your pet?”

“Yeah, it must’ve wandered off or something. I don’t know.”

I feel bad for the guy. I understand losing something that holds a lot of value to me, but losing a pet is honestly a whole other feeling of loss. I remember caring for a Samoyed when I was much younger, and I loved it so dearly until her final days. It’s like losing a best friend, and I’m pretty sure this is how he feels too. He probably feels like he lost a huge chunk of his life, and I want to help him in any way I can, if I can.

“Darn it, I’m sorry I came off as a bit harsh there. I didn’t realize you lost a pet.”

“It’s alright, I admit it’s weird for anyone else to call their pet as a ‘someone’ instead of as a ‘something’.”

“It would be if you didn’t say it was your pet. What is she, and how exactly did you lose her?”

“I call her Piper, and she’s a snow-white Chihuahua. I lost her a few days ago when I went downstairs for a bit just to get some food I had delivered over here. She must’ve walked out through that slightly open door. How can I be so careless?”

My neighbor hits his head repeatedly, obviously beating himself over his own clumsy mistake. I grab his wrists to stop him, shaking my head at him to keep him from hurting himself any further. I feel very sorry for his plight and wish I knew where his dog was, but I unfortunately know nothing about it.

“Hey, I’m sorry I don’t know anything about Piper, but I will try to help you in any way I can. Now just stop beating yourself over this, and don’t stop looking.”

“Thanks, even if you didn’t do much. I’ll go next door and see if they know anything. Thank you for your time. Now you should probably go back to your painting.”

“My painting?”

“Yeah, that’s what you’re working on, right? That’s why your hands are red.”

I glance down and find my hands soaked in a deep crimson red. They’re still dripping wet, but I don’t remember how they got wet. Have they been this way this whole time? I can’t show him that I wasn’t aware of it, but I can at least pretend.

“Yeah, I’m working on a painting, but I’m no painter. It’s a stress-reliever of sorts, if you know what I mean.”

“I understand. We all do things that help us forget our troubles, even for a little while. I should get going though, so good luck on your art. Thanks again.”

I close the door as he moves on to the next apartment, asking them the same thing as he asked me. As the doorknob clicks shut, I slump down on the door and look at my smeared hands, blinking repeatedly until I fully recognize my surroundings. I slowly stand again and walk over to my desk, now dripping in the same crimson liquid that has dirtied my hands. I look at my desk and realize that I could’ve easily answered my neighbor earlier, but I must’ve been blinded by my eagerness to read that I failed to see.

I let it pass and resume my reading and note-taking, writing onto Piper’s bloody etched skin with my letter-opener. I think I get this book’s joke now.