Maggie Lawson

UNSEEN/SEEN/UNSEEN

Seen? Who even knew it was a thing, “being seen”?

An introvert, I’ve always enjoyed not being seen at all while happily existing as a nobody, unrecognizable, unmemorable, my energy not even missed. I love lurking. That’s when I’m happiest, just observing. I can do that—be invisible even when I have shown them my passport and been checked off the list of passengers. Even if folks had been shown my photo on a WANTED poster, no one would remember me. Slate wiped clean. It’s how I prefer existing. Yes, I eat, but neither burp, nor fart. Those bodily functions would startle folks unaware of my being there, albeit unnoticed. They’d blame it on the innocent dog, again, though olfactory memory is stronger than you might think. Might people recall a whiff of my expensive perfume, but who fingerprints odors?

Desire disappearance? Try this: It’s like how I use meditation to lower my blood pressure especially when the cuff is at its worse pythonic grip. Just shut your eyes, inhale deeply, then exhale slowly a few times, letting go of your bodily presence, and its busy pumping schedule. Then in the next exhale, release your visible ego, the one who wears a touch of makeup or shaves, the one who smiles and is acknowledged. Let them go. Let the light in your expression fade, no eye-contact allowed. Ahhhh… This letting go exercise reminds me of the near-death experience I had as a youngster. As my body was grounding lightning there was no time; there were no choices. My “I” was intact, but my body, now a mere shell, was left behind, evacuated in that instant. My self, though, intact, somehow encapsulated, blindly followed that entrancing addictively leading light. Then, too soon after, I experienced my first rage while being shoved back into my electrocuted remains, to live. Whoopee.

Oh, the attention I got. The nerve healing was sporadic, seemingly endless, the imperfect result, profound deafness in one ear. A new me raggedly emerged, not enjoying the well-meant “poor yous”.

Some thirty years later I intuitively purchased the very last round-trip ticket, a one-time promotion by Northwest Airlines from Boston to Australia and back.

I’d met this swanky woman in a local restaurant, and, oddly,  we’d become friends. You couldn’t imagine more opposites, but it worked, because she drew attention away from me, and I ignored her flashiness, getting to know her more interesting core. I felt privileged she trusted me. Her public persona was built on her life being spread over the society pages, home in Melbourne, and she was seeking refuge in Easthampton to be herself. Alas, she still stood out like a sore thumb. She’d become her reputation. I got it.

When I told her I was taking this trip, she insisted I be shown around by her friends, and that her husband would be glad to host me, thank you very much. Um, did I already mention I be in jeans and a turtleneck, with a backpack, and was booked into hostels?

There, longer story short; after having had a few adventures at Bondi Beach, Sydney, I shyly called her husband, because she’d insisted. “Yes! Yes! Our girls will pick you up at the airport!” Like Alice in Wonderland, I tumbled into a scenario way beyond my country-bumpkin reality, one of uber-wealthy and ostentatious folks I could have never ever foreseen, for me, always so low-key and usually blending into the scenery. But there I was, suddenly being shown the high life of Brighton Beach, the posh side of life in Melbourne. She neglected to tell me her husband was a billionaire, and I was to going to sink or swim in her circle, once ensconced. The girls were imprints of Paris Hilton, though I think she might be kinder.

Yes, my friend the wife, who I shan’t name to protect the innocent, who was escaping the very lifestyle I’d fallen into, didn’t warn me, but I should have surmised, but who could? Her husband billeted me in her closet, replete with a daybed, reading light, and three inner closets—one for her shoes, one for her fur coats, and one for her gowns, not that I looked. Her everyday clothes were in yet another closet within a closet within another closet, or so it seemed. Her jewels in the safe. Yes, it was a mansion. No, there were no guest rooms. It even had formal gardens, and staff. But it wasn’t a home, if you get my drift. It was lifeless, even though it had a Monet. There were dust bunnies lurking behind the Ming vases.

She was back in the States pretending to fit in and not doing that well at it. He thought she was on vacation. She was living with a local Italian she met skiing in the Alps. She’d ask me to lie and tell those who asked that she was in nursing school, and selling Australian wines from her husband’s vineyards, on the side.She’d be back for the Preakness, or whatever their version was. He owned winners. It was all mind-bending.

I, however, was being shown around town as her “best friend” from the U. S., a famous couture, or a food columnist for the NYTimes, or…any other title, depending on the person she was trying to impress with me. Society paparazzi began to follow me. I politely shook them off, claiming the desire for privacy, not press attention, on this trip. Secretly, I wanted out, and just when I thought I could escape deep into my closet for a deep breath and peace, my hostess called her lover, not her husband—her lover—telling him when to pick us up for dinner. Bless me Jesus.

He picked us up in a limousine, and, in front of me—still in jeans and a black turtleneck, which being well bred they graciously ignored—they asked me where I wanted to go. I responded, “Oh, this is your city, surprise me!” Where-upon he, her lover, rather gleefully said, in front of me, “Let’s go where we can be seen!” I am not making this up. I swear he said that. I’m already trying to disappear, not be in the limousine, or somewhere in Melbourne, or somewhere in Australia, or somewhere in the universe, and it just wasn’t working, so I guessed it was my opportunity to learn this uppity, “being seen” skill.

It looked like a very up-scale, very haut restaurant. I inhaled. I exhaled. We were greeted as if we were royalty. I automatically stood taller. I felt a subtle shift, then glances from those already seated thanks to the psychic wave wafting off our entitled aura as we were led to our table. Did I mention I stood taller? Along with this air of elegance, reeking in poshness, came the barely understated introductions to me, as one after another, those in the know, welcomed me, the best friend of she who shall not be named. I’d been seen. I couldn’t wait to shower it off me, that façade.

Once back home, a flamboyant friend wanted to go out to dinner, so, playing him, I asked if he’d like to learn how to be seen! Oh, yes, he did—no hesitation. So, me being facetious, him being his show-off self, I showed him how, and yes, folks did come to our table to be greeted. Unbelievable. This is real. Measurable, it actually exists.

A few years passed, and that same friend asked me if I wanted to be an extra in a movie being filmed on Nantucket. I’d be paid enough to cover the plane fare and dinner out. I’d blend in. I agreed. He was an extra, too. In the end, all scenes he was in were cut, or an angle without him was selected. Mine were all kept, including the last scene with just me, reading on the top deck of the ferry, and the lead, apparently “contemplating his future”, leaning on the railing studying the horizon. My friend was being a royal pain always looking into the camera, asking people if they wanted “to do lunch”. He embarrassed me. So, once he settled down, I asked, “SOooo, how’d you like to learn how NOT to be seen?” His response was a firm, “No.” I’d created a monster.