Tennis Elbow

I can’t be left in a room like this. It’s kidnapping. I never agreed to it. Find me a contract where I said this was something I wanted. You’ll never discover it. And what’s in this room? Giant dollhouses. Giant dollhouses that I can sit and…And do what exactly? Reflect? I can hear music outside. Beautiful music. Is it from a live band or is somebody playing it on a device of some kind? I don’t know. I can’t investigate. Because the door to the room is locked. Each dollhouse has a working refrigerator. The refrigerators are filled with food. All kinds of food. Any kind of food you could want. But I don’t want food. I want to leave the room.

Some might say my calling it a “room” is misleading when it’s as large as it is. Yes, it is the size of an airplane hanger. Maybe a bit larger than that. It doesn’t matter. All enclosed spaces are rooms if viewed a certain way, and that is the way I’m viewing the space I am currently in. There is a small, inground swimming pool. There is a hot tub. There is a sauna. There is an area where a movie screen is down and they are playing my favorite movies. I will not be coddled. I will not acclimate to this space. I want people. I want life. I want socialization. There is a coffee shop where robots make coffee, but they do not look like humans. They are not meant to look like humans. They address me when I enter, but so what? I know what they are. I ask them questions, and, yes, they do answer some of them, but not all. They will not tell me where the music is coming from. I ask them when I can leave, and they say on Monday. Today is Friday. They tell me I’ll be spending all weekend in here. I ask them to poison my coffee. They say they will not harm me in any way. A new movie comes on the screen. It’s a cartoon that I loved when I was eleven. I haven’t seen it in ages. I want to bash my head against the walls of this place, but the robots say that, if I do, other robots will come in and restrain me so that I don’t injure myself.

These monsters.

There is a section with books. Nothing but books. A library, if you will. Hundreds of books. Maybe thousands. I don’t know. Many of them are books I would like to read. Many are books I have at my home. Books I keep meaning to “get to.” But I will not read them here. I do not read under such circumstances. I am trapped in here on a Friday night and outside the world is dancing. I tell the robots that I can’t be suffocated like this. I tell them I have conditions. I have anxiety. I have tennis elbow. It flares up under stress. The robots say that they have reviewed my medical records and that I am perfectly healthy. Then, they make me a latte. I throw it on the floor. Another robot comes in and cleans up the mess I’ve made. Outside, people are falling in love. People are having dinner with their friends. People are imbibing. They are sucking in fresh air and buying plants and moving into new apartments and having babies and I am here and I am here and I am here. I beg the robots to free me. They say that they cannot. I demand to speak to whoever is in charge. They tell me that person is gone for the weekend. How ironic. The person responsible for my imprisonment is out there enjoying themselves at an air festival or a clambake, and I cannot move. I am paralyzed in a dollhouse.

Inside one of the dollhouses, there is a laptop that is not connected to the world-at-large. Instead, there are writing apps so that I may journal or write a poem or a story. I will do no such thing. I cannot create like this. I am too distracted. I am thinking about all the places I could be or the things I could be doing or the people I could be making love to or the babies I could be having if I were able to have babies. I think about the weddings I could be attending. I think about the jazz clubs I could be playing at if I knew how to play jazz or any kind of music at all. I think about how I could be visiting my father if we still spoke and I knew where he lived. I should write all of this down as soon as I’m out of here. I’ve been meaning to turn my life into a short play that can one day be adapted into a film. Kubrick would be the perfect director for it if he were still alive. A robot rolls by the dollhouse and asks if I’d like a tea or biscuit. I tell it that I want liberation. Nothing more, nothing less. The robot says Monday will be here before I know it. It’s mocking me with the length of my sentence. Outside, flowers are growing and squirrels are hiding in trees. Squirrels have more than I do at the moment. I walk up the stairs to the second level where a go-kart track and an arcade have been set up. I want someone to run me over with one of the go-karts. The music is fainter up on the second level, but not by much. I think about throwing myself over the edge, but what if I merely break a bone and the robots nurse me back to health? I decide to accept my fate. I play on a pinball machine, and when I hit a certain number of points, a robot appears and gives me a giant stuffed duck.

Sickos.

There are no beds in the dollhouses, but there is a third level with a designated “resting” area. The lighting is low. There’s soft music playing. There are cushions and blankets everywhere, and the floor is one giant mattress that feels like a tender bath as soon as you lay down on it. I lay down and immediately begin to hyperventilate. I’m in a nightmare. Unless I can fall asleep and wake up on Monday, then why bother closing my eyes? Why bother trying to seek rest? There is no rest. There is only the music outside and the ears that get to enjoy it without documentation. Without photos of the band. Without photos of friends at the bar enjoying it alongside me. Without captions like “These guys <3 “ or “About last night.” Without the dopamine rush that comes with knowing you’re living, really living, while some poor jerk is locked away somewhere.

Tonight, I am the poor jerk.

Downstairs, I hear the whir of the hot tub jets and the dialogue from the movie screen and the whimsical bleating of the goats in the petting zoo, and I know that no man has ever been as impoverished as I am, because I have a poverty in my soul. In my very essence.

I try to close my eyes, but it’s no use.

Even in the dark, the music plays.