Taken from the diary of Malcolm Steadman. Doodles edited out for clarity and decency:

Wednesday.

I don’t want to talk about it.

Thursday.

Being accepted is different from just fitting in. Fitting in is not being noticed. Fitting in is being invisible. To be accepted you have to be seen. You have to be vulnerable.

Friday.

No signs of Garry. No signs of Hope. The very real possibility of doing it alone has to be considered. I do not think I am strong enough. After eating a buttered croissant for breakfast while walking to work I passed by a hardware store. Thought about buying a power drill instead. The croissant was too flaky.

Saturday.

Spent the first half of the day in the McDonald’s. Ate two breakfast burritos and a cup of coffee. Now that I am clean and my clothes are washed I wanted to see how long it would take before they kicked me out. Sat at the same table I always did, saw the same homeless people I always did, except for one less. I ate everything quickly, and watched as my old compatriots sipped on their coffees slowly, doing their best to make the moment last. Doing their best to stay inside. It was a very cold day outside. I used to do the same.

Two of them were kicked out once they were there for a half hour. One of them was still working on her coffee. My table was clear. No wrappers. No food. One left on his own, and the other, the old one, hid in the bathroom before the manager called the cops. They took him away in an ambulance, though he could still walk. They took a marker away from him. I left on my own volition at noon.

I fit in again.

Sunday.

I bought the power drill. I am genuinely not sure if I bought it because I decided in that moment to go it alone, or because after spending thirty minutes in the hardware store I felt like not buying anything was being rude. The first time someone asked me if I needed any help I wanted to scream, I wanted to yell “Yes, please, somebody help me dear god! What does it all mean?!” I wanted to shake the poor clerk, wanted to beg him to intervene in my life, to tell me that there was truth in things and to tell me that I was doing it right, that life would get better. I wanted to tell him that I was sorry. The second time someone asked me if I needed any help I felt guilty for not buying anything. So I did.

The power drill is heavy in my hands, I have no idea how much pressure I would have to apply. After holding it back at the motel I decided that it was a bad purchase, which means that for the moment, I still need to find Garry.

I could never ask Karen.

Monday.

Looking back at previous diary entries was like rereading the stolen notes of a stranger. I am familiar with it, but I have changed. Every day I change. Tomorrow I will be different. Iteration by small iteration I, like the ship of Theseus are replaced, yet the name “Malcolm” stays.

I have had time to consider. I feel more grounded. I have a friend who might be vaguely afraid of me, but who accepts me. I am no longer homeless. I could, conceivably get another apartment. I could try. Maybe Garry’s disappearance is a blessing?

What duty do I have to the plans of my past self? If I am a different person today, and will be different again tomorrow, is making such a plan a disservice? Or is it the other way around? Don’t we observe the wishes of those who die? Wouldn’t moving forward be kind of like that? Do I have a duty to my past self, a duty to his wishes, wishes that he was so committed to? Hasn’t today’s Malcolm not inherited the iterations of yesterday’s? Do I owe it to him?

I have changed. Not by much, but I have changed. Yet this I know to be true: there are also things about me which will stay the same. I will still over analyze things, I will still experience dread from my bored mind. I will always find some reason to not enjoy toast. Is it a disservice to the potential of my tomorrow’s selves, or is it mercy?

There was no sign of Garry today.

Tuesday.

Went back to McDonald’s. An experiment always needs retesting. Bought the same breakfast as last time, sat at the same table. There were less of my compatriots today. The old one went straight to the bathroom, but he was noticed. The manager called the cops, and once more he was taken away by ambulance. They took a permanent marker away from him, one of those big ones that you have to shake before you use.

I decided then that I was not going to be kicked out, and needed to head out to work. But I was too curious. Why am I always so curious?! I never learn. So I checked the bathroom, tried to piece together what he might be doing in there. I only found graffiti. Scrawled out on the only stall’s inner door was Macbeth’s scorn.

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.”

I will not be returning to that McDonald’s. I need to find Garry. I have decided.

You are caught up. There is no more to read. Don’t panic! Because I lied there is more…

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