The Invisible Man

The Invisible Man

“Sometimes, I think I’m invisible, you know,” explained Thom, over the table, to Sandy and O’Connor.
“Invisible? What, like a super-power?” Sandy replied through a mouthful of steak. O’Connor, beside him, chortled and shook his head - a common action on his part.
“No,” Thom sighed, exasperated. “Not like that. That would be good. It’s like I’m not there to people. Like I’m a no-one.”
Around them, fellow diners and drinkers dined and drank and paid no attention.
“As in, they just don’t pay attention?” Wondered O’Connor, almost to the table at large as much as in direct response to Thom. He had a hint of the sceptic about him, sounding disdainful whenever he entered conversation.
“No! Won’t you listen?” Thom implored them. He wondered whether, really, they were actually just in conversation with each other. He often did this; he began to question his own presence at the table. He stuttered.
“You have to say something for us to listen, buddy,” said Sandy after a briefish pause.
“As in they can’t even see me! It happens to me all the time. I’ll walk down the street, through town you know, and people will walk towards me and not even move, or else walk out of shops into my path, like there’s no hazard to that.”
He breathed hard, as though this had taken some considerable effort to explain.
They grinned at each other, meaty grins, full of chips and t-bone.
“Oh, don’t be absurd,” chuckled Sandy. “They probably just didn’t see you before they stepped out or whatever.”
“That’s what I mean. No-one ever sees me.”
O’Connor began to explain, airily, that actually people not seeing you was not the same as being invisible and that perhaps he should stop being so sensitive, but up came the waitress to ask them how their food was.
“Oh yes, just fine.” Sandy assured her.
“Wonderful,” extolled O’Connor.
“Great!” She smiled, not waiting for Thom’s opinion before flouncing off to the next table, doubtless on the prowl for more invaluable opinion, never to be taken on board regardless of slant.
“You see?!” he groaned. “You see what I mean?”
“Hmmm, you might be right. Maybe you are invisible after all,” said Sandy.
“Wait, Sandy, who are you talking to, mate?” countered O’Connor with mock-confusion.
“My imaginary friend, Thom. You never met him?”
“Can’t say I have, you know.”
“He’s a riot.”
“I’m being serious,” Thom interjected, solemnity heavy on his voice. He was sulking over his steak.
“Stop sulking,” Sandy advised him. “You’re not invisible.”
“I’m telling you…” he began to reply, before dropping it, and sinking back into his own thoughts on the matter.

Later that night, Thom arrived home to the sound of bustling in the kitchen. He downed his things in the living room and headed through to greet his girlfriend, Elle.
“Hi, honey,” he cooed.
She was putting away the dishes.
“How’s your day been?” He enquired. She continued to put the dishes away. “I had this really weird discussion with Sandy and O’Connor at the pub.” He told her.
“What are you doing tonight?” She asked him abruptly, choosing not to take him up on his subtle prod towards debate.
“Me? I’m just…just home, I suppose. Why?”
“Me and the girls are having some food, a few drinks. Here.”
“Okay, that’s cool. Who’s coming over?”
“Will you put these away for me?” She thrust a pair of pans into his hands. “Second cupboard from the left, at the bottom.”
Thom put the pans away as he was told and waited for more information, maybe some instructions, from Elle. Air out the bathroom, neaten the living room, perhaps. None were forthcoming, so he excused himself to the bedroom and opened up his laptop, slumped back on the bed. The bed of many pillows, he called it. He checked his blog for comments and likes. Nothing. But that wasn’t unusual, he reasoned, opening the new post screen. He hadn’t posted for a while now. He punched in a title: ‘The Invisible Man’. Then he paused, feeling a familiar sense of futility rise over him. Writing these stories was like screaming into the wind.  Pissing into the wind, more like, he mused inwardly, smirking at himself.
He was getting the meat sweats from that steak earlier. He thought about that. He musn’t be invisible if he could eat a steak, actually order it, pay for it and eat it. But then again, if words of his simply flailed mutely around in a void – as they tended to do – and his presence was more often than not unacknowledged by fellow sentient beings – as it tended to be – wasn’t he on just the wrong side of visible?
He thought about what O’Connor had started to say, before the waitress had ignored Thom. About how people not seeing you wasn’t exactly the same as being invisible. As good as, he grumbled to himself. Invisibility is in the eye of the receiver, he mused philosophically. Then he questioned whether this actually made sense at all and dismissed the thought.
He began to type.
He could hear Elle moving around the house, moving things from one place to another. No doubt preparing for her guests. She didn’t come into the bedroom.
After some time rapping away at the keyboard, he had something he thought he could call a well-contained short story. He gave it a once over with the spellchecker, then again without the spellchecker – you never could trust a spellchecker to pick up repeat words and dodgy grammar. Satisfied, he clicked submit.
He CTRL+V’d the link onto various social network sites, under various titles and hash-tags and sat back.
He waited for five minutes, possibly more. No notifications. He heard a knock at the door. Some of Elle’s friends had arrived. He heard their happy-pitch voices and high-heels on the lino.
“THOM,” Elle called out. He sat up from the bed, went to the bedroom door. She met him there, almost knocked him down with the door, as she shoved it open. She thrust more objects into his grasp. His things from the living room
“Here. We need the laptop, for music.”