My brother Clay reaches out to me, often, via email and texts. He’d call, too (heck, maybe he does call), but everyone in the family knows I don’t do phones. The ringer is always off and I never check messages. I’m a weirdo. It’s not news.
Clay wants us to be close again, like we were fifty years ago. I’d like that too, but we never quite connect. Almost… but never quite.
For years, we’ve been watching a movie together, once monthly, usually on-line from our respective homes. Since I moved back to Seattle a few years ago, he’s often invited me to his house, where we watch the movie together in the real world. It’s a good time, but it’s a lot of time.
Via text, he’s invited me to come over next Sunday. He’s even offered to give me a ride.
I didn’t immediately accept or decline the invitation. My hesitation is, he lives in Prairie Dog City, which isn’t a city. It’s a suburb that’s so very, very far past the suburbs, there isn’t even transit to his house. I don’t drive, so to get there I need that ride he offered, and it’s a long ride — at least an hour if traffic is smooth, and up to two hours when it isn’t. Each way.
This brings two of my personal quirks into play: ① I’m anti-social, and the more time spent with someone, anyone, the more it drains me. And ② I’m car-phobic, uncomfortable riding in anything smaller than a city bus.
I gotta be sociable while Clay’s driving a long ways in the car, despite hating cars, and gotta be sociable the whole time at his house, and gotta be sociable on the ride home. For a recluse like me, that’s more sociability than I’ve got.
After a movie at Clay’s house, I’m too exhausted to do anything but vegetate, too tuckered even to surf the internet. I’m utterly spent. It’s bedtime, even if the sun is still out.
If you’ve been reading this zine for more than a few weeks, all the above is a rerun. Feels like I’m always explaining it. I’ve been explaining it to family, and specifically to Clay, for a long, long time. The first time, circa 1985, was in a letter photocopied and mailed to everyone in the extended Holland family. I’ve re-explained it in person, lots of times. I’ve explained it in person to Clay, half a dozen times at least.
I remember all the times explaining it, because even explaining it is exhausting. Introverts understand introversion, but ‘normals’ never do, and in only this one sense, everyone in my family is ‘normal’. Except me, of course.
We’re all getting old and soon we’ll be dead, so I do visit Clay at his house once in a while. Twice a year, is my standard. I was pondering whether this would be my once in a while to say yes, when Clay sent a follow-up text detailing his plans for our afternoon together.
In addition to the movie, he said, we’d also watch a baseball game — so that’s, what, five hours of socializing, not counting the rides. At this point, I was pretty sure I’d be saying no, or else re-explaining my oddities and limits.
And then, this morning was our family breakfast, attended by me and Mom and my sister Katrina, and whoever else shows up. Clay and his wife Karen showed up, unexpected, and since I hadn’t said yes or no to next Sunday, Clay passed a hand-made invitation to me, across the table. “You are cordially invited,” etc. It was even illustrated by Karen, and she’s a gifted artist — amateur, but better than half of what you’d see hanging in a museum. The small painting on their invitation is now thumb-tacked to my wall, and it’s the most impressive artwork I own.
In the invitation, Clay again detailed his plans for next Sunday, plans which had grown even longer. Dinner at noon. Baseball at 1:00. Movie at 4:00. Pizza at 6:00. Which means at least seven hours of socializing, not counting the rides.
No effin’ way, but even explaining it — again, after I’ve explained it so many times — took more gumption than I could muster at the breakfast table. I said no, said it nicely and with a smile, and then texted him at length from the bus, on my ride home:
Clay,
This is hard to explain again in person, easier by text.
The ride in the car is a phobia for me, and it’s no joke when I say I’m a hermit. For social interaction my max is about four hours. After that it’s really, really hard, with anyone, even with people I love. Counting ride time in your car, your invitation looks like well over twice my maximums. I have to say, no, thanks.
Also have to say, it’s fun whenever I’m at your house. I like the house, love the people who live there, even like the cat, and you’re a fine host. The first few hours are always delightful, but the distance makes it difficult, the ride makes it more difficult, and it’s increasingly difficult the longer the stay.
Love and hugs, but I can’t do what you’ve planned for us on Sunday. —Doug
What I didn’t say, couldn’t bring myself to say, was …
And I’ve said all this before, over and over, for decades. I’m your brother, man. Been your brother all my life, pushing 70 years. How can you not know me by now?
5/16/2025
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