BECOMING INVISIBLE

By
Roger C. Simmons
rcsesq@att.net (954)728-0216

I can still recall a time when light did not shine through me; when I was not in danger of
becoming invisible. A time when I was a solid person, when the rays of the sun washed over my skin, but
did not pass through it.
How and why did you start becoming invisible? you could well ask.
Im not sure, would be my best answer. But I do have a notion. Let me explain . . .
I was raised by a Mother who was too frightened to leave the house. She did not function well,
meaning at all, in the outside world; strange places and strange people simply overwhelmed her. They
were either too unfriendly, too inquisitive, too noisy, too obnoxious, too etcetera . . . all excuses she used
at various times, depending upon her whim. Although she divorced herself from the rest of the world,
relatives included, she did have a distinct fondness for collecting things, or Knick knacks, as she
referred to them.

She purchased her Knick knacks online from QVC, Amazon.com, and from local

stores such as Walmart, Target, Walgreens, CVS, The Dollar Store - the only destinations she worked up
enough courage to leave the virtual prison of her home. She visited them often enough that the cashiers
came to know her by name. They were the closest thing she ever had to friends, as far as I know.
Throughout the years, countless packages from QVC and Amazon.com were delivered to our
doorstep, either by regular post or Fed-Ex. Most of them remaining unopened. Plastic bags bearing the
names of the stores she visited multiplied faster then rats. There was a large, overstuffed couch in our
living room, which I loved. Every time I fell upon it, I sank so deeply into its well-worn foam and
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woolen cloth recesses that it felt like a welcome hug. One day, to my horror, Mother turned my couch
into a Knick knacks storage station, having run out of other areas to place her acquisitions. I would
have continued to lie down on the couch out of an act of defiance, but, truth is, pillows and a blanket on
the floor turned out to be a far more comfortable option.
Over time, it became more and more difficult to walk through the living room. The kitchen
became a room filled with Knick knacks, a stove and refrigerator. The bathrooms, Knick knacks, a
toilet, and a sink. Good luck finding the toilet paper. Apparently growing tired of the chaotic scene
Mother created inside the house coupled with her agoraphobia, one Friday morning Father left for his job
as a life insurance salesman, and never returned. Just like that he disappeared, became completely
invisible. The sad reality was that he did not have to move very far away to free himself from her
infirmities, as he knew his wife would never leave her sanctuary to go after him. If she missed Father at
all, she never mentioned it, and, as a matter of fact, never spoke his name again in my presence. It was as
if Father had never existed.
After Father left, grandfather was forced to pay Mothers bills, which pissed him off to no end.
He knew full well his daughter was incapable of working and that she would never find another man to
replace Father. To mitigate his losses, he applied for Supplemental Security Income and Food Stamp
benefits for her, even though the mere thought made him sick to his stomach. His daughter was the first
person in the family to ever go on welfare, or so he said, ad nauseam. Whenever he tried to convince his
daughter to sell or give away her junk, [Knick knacks she immediately corrected him] she became
angry, called him hateful names, and became even more withdrawn - if such a thing were possible - inside
the tiny universe she created for herself.
A few weeks after she started receiving welfare, I decided to abandon the house I was raised in,
by withdrawing to my grandparents home, which was both clutter- and dust-free. As my grandfather
used to brag, you could eat off the floors they were so goddamn clean. If you ate off Mothers floors,
they would taste of spoiled, rotten food combined with dust and dirt. Immediately following my move, I
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visited my Mother on a regular basis. As those visits were unfulfilling and totally awkward, they became
more and more irregular, until I stopped visiting her at all. It impossible for me to ignore the fact that she
genuinely despised people, even someone who had been an intimate part of her body for nine-odd
months.
Almost a year to the day after I moved out, my grandfather made his monthly visit to his
daughters house only to find her lying on what used to be my favorite couch with a plastic bag covering
her head, securely tied with a string around her neck. Inside that bag, Grandfather said, her face was
purple and her features badly distorted. Grandfather told me he did not know whether to cry or feel
happy for her, as she had finally managed to escape from the private hell that had become her life. I am
convinced that there was at least a part of him that was relieved because he no longer had to pay his
daughters bills. Retreating to my designated bedroom - my Mothers room when she was younger - after
hearing the news, I buried my face in my pillow and cried until my chest ached, all the while not knowing
whether I was crying for my Mother, myself, or both of us.
As expected, Mothers funeral service was quite small. It consisted of my grandparents minister,
myself, my grandparents, and two of the cashiers who sold Mother large numbers of her Knick knacks
throughout the years. She was buried along with a few of her favorite things Grandfather asked me to
choose from her house. His assignment stumped me at first, seeing as she rarely opened any of the
packages she bought, and, on those rare occasions when she did, never used or looked at them again. I
ended up picking them out randomly.
Fathers non-attendance at the service did not surprise me at all. Grandfather cursed him under
his breath, while Grandmother just cried. Father did send carnations, which he indicated on the attached
card were his wifes favorite flower. Grandfather told me he tore Fathers card up and dropped it into a
wastebasket and that, although carnations are known as the flowers of God, he never knew his daughter to
be particularly fond of them. In all honesty, I cannot recall ever seeing flowers of any type inside
Mothers house. We presumed that Father sent the carnations out of a sense of guilt and not out of love. I
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presumed that carnations just happened to be the first bunch of flowers he picked out of the bucket of
flowers located along the gift aisle of the Winn Dixie store he used to frequent.
Rather than having a funeral service, to me, it would have been more fitting to lay Mothers body
out on the Knick knacks covered couch and then set the house on fire. I did not verbalize that feeling to
either of my grandparents. During the funeral service, instead of listening to the preacher, my mind
focused upon the overwhelming task of cleaning Mothers house. I presumed grandfather would ask me
to assist in that task. The mere thought made me sick to my stomach. Thankfully, a few days after the
funeral, Grandfather allayed my fears by hiring a company to go in and do the dirty deed. It required
three large trucks to accomplish that task. The workers reminded me of space men in their white
uniforms, masks, caps, and slip-ons covering their shoes. What they did with the shit as they referred to
it, I havent a clue. I presume they dumped it all at the local land fill. In hindsight, it seemed sad that
none of us thought to give any of her Knick and knacks away to charity, where they could have at long
last served some type of purpose.
Almost a year after Mothers passing, I became invisible to my grandparents, by taking the
new Honda Civic they bought me and heading off to Gainesville to attend Santa Fe Community College.
Unfortunately, my high school grades were not good enough for me to be accepted by the University of
Florida. My plan, therefore, was to attend Santa Fe College for two years, while working on improving
my grades, and then to reapply as a Gator. My Father is a Gator and looking back, I guess that is what
motivated me to apply there, even though it shouldnt have mattered to me, as he was never much of a
role model.
Leaving the sanctuary of my Grandparents home to attend college frightened me. I never had
any true friends when I was an undergraduate student. I am extremely shy, which per Google, is a genetic
trait. To overcome my shyness, I began drinking way too much. Vodka, rum, tequila, beer . . . it did not
matter. The positive effect was that I did make some friends, who, unfortunately, turned out to be the
wrong type. The negative effect of my excessive drinking was that I continued to receive bad grades and
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was also hit with a DUI. Since Mother had no life insurance and Father was still invisible, other than a
small scholarship, my Grandparents were my main source of income. When he heard about my DUI,
Grandfather threatened to completely cut me off, which helped sober me up. Sadly, my Grandparents
passed away unexpectedly a few months later, ironically, due to an accident caused by a drunk driver who
was driving the wrong way on I-95. They died instantly, which, I suppose, was a blessing. Like Mother,
they became permanently invisible.
As it turned out, they left everything they owned to me which, including life insurance,
investments, and savings, ended up coming to a little over $250,000.00 This sum did not include their
home, which I also owned. While Grandfather had always been frugal, I was shocked at the amount of
money he had stashed away. A short time after my grandparents died, Father called and, because I did not
recognize his telephone number, did not answer the call. Not that I would have answered it even if I had
known it was him. He left a voice mail message on my iPhone. The gist of that message being that he
was sorry for abandoning me the way that he did, but that he had a good reason [hint . . . hint]. He said he
missed me and had been thinking about me a lot. Please . . . please . . . be sure to give him a call . . . he
wanted to talk . . . to try and catch up.
After listening to the message, I surmised that Fathers telephone call was not a coincidence but
an attempt to wheedle me out of a portion of my inheritance. Without giving it a second thought, I
permanently deleted the message, along with Fathers telephone number, from my iPhone. I decided I
would be much better off if he remained invisible.
Perhaps it was my lack of discipline or my short attention span, but I found school to be totally
ponderous. The money I inherited made things worse. With that kind of money, I asked myself, why
waste my time in school? I seriously considered taking a year or so off just to reflect, do a little traveling,
and try to decide what it was I wanted to do with the rest of my life, while keeping in mind that the
money would not last forever.

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As things turned out, however, the U.S. History course I was required to take as part of my
college prerequisites made me completely change my mind. I met a girl! Or rather she met me. I was
seated in the back row of the class at the time, half-heartedly listening to Professor Smiths lecture about
the Reconstruction, when I started daydreaming. Looking to my left, I noticed that the pretty brunette
who was the object of multiple of my fantasies appeared to be staring back at me. I immediately
convinced myself, that she was not looking at me, but that she too was in the middle of a daydream. Her
smile was not for me, but for the object of her own fantasies. I was convinced that, to her, I was invisible.
Turning my head, I focused my attention back on the teacher again. After a few moments,
however, my head started nodding up and down and I had to blink my eyes repeatedly to stay awake. I
kept checking my watch; fifteen minutes to go, then ten, and then five. After Professor Smith gave us our
assignments for the next class, we were officially dismissed. Slipping my text book, notebook, and pen
into my backpack, I buckled it up, stood and had headed out the classroom when I felt a finger tapping
against my right shoulder. Confused, I turned around. The finger belonged to the brunette. She was so
pretty and petite, and had mesmerizing, dark brown eyes. This time, there was no question, she was
smiling up at me. My initial impulse was to turn around and run away. This time, I refused to give in to
that obnoxious inner voice. Instead, I stood my ground and faced my fear, suddenly feeling emboldened
and brave.
In facing my insecurities, I was more than amply rewarded, since the brown eyed girl, Rachel,
became my girlfriend. I was walking on clouds. I pinched myself to make sure I was awake and my
feelings real. Everything proceeded smoothly at first, but the entire time fear and insecurity continued to
shadow me. Every time I turned around, it was there . . .not in plain sight, but hiding in the shadows. I
began to doubt if I was up to the task of being involved in a long-term relationship with another person.
Although Rachel tells me she loves me, a phrase I cant get enough of, she constantly pressures me to
change, to become more outgoing. She does not believe that there is such a thing as a comfort zone.
She asks me about my Mother, my Father, and my grandparents. How can I explain to her about my
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Mother? What do I tell her about my Father or my grandparents? How do I share with her that although
my Father is alive, I am still an orphan?
And yet, I love her. At least I think that is what I feel for her. But I am still confused how
someone who can make me feel so good can at the same time make me so frightened. She wants answers
to her questions, when I do not even have answers to my own. Staring into the bathroom mirror in the
uncluttered, spotless one-bedroom apartment we share, conscious that Rachel is standing outside, refusing
to budge, my skin becomes more and more translucent. My heart beats rapidly against my chest.
Perspiration drips down my underarms, soaking my shirt. My ghost-like reflection in the mirror makes
me think I am in danger of becoming invisible. NO! I do not want to become completely invisible! My
clenched right fist smashes into the mirror and I watch as the glass shatters and falls, along with the blood
that drips down my knuckles. Rachel screams my name - her voice sounding so distant. Blood continues
to drip down my forearm into the bathroom sink. I feel sick to my stomach. She demands that I open the
door. But, how do I go about doing that? I cant move. My body is paralyzed. I stare into a shard of
glass lying in the sink and hold my breath as I watch my body slowly dissolves until it becomes
completely invisible.

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