Nothing
A short story
“Lately, every time I ask my wife what’s wrong, all I get is the same old nothing. But I know better, mate. There’s too much packed in that nothing of hers. So I can’t help but wonder, what does she expect from me?” Rooney was complaining while grabbing a beer from the fridge.
“To decipher everything! That’s what’s expected of you, my friend.” Max answered as confidently as he was slicing the eggplant, which he then salted to remove the excess liquid and bitterness and to ensure its silkier texture.
“I guess you’re right,” muttered Rooney, while opening his beer.
“I know what you mean. You can’t imagine the scenes that come to my mind every time we leave our troublemaker home alone, and he tells us he is doing nothing when we check on him.”
“Doing nothing is an art form.”
“Doing nothing is impossible.”
“Well, not impossible!”
“Think about it! We’re always engaged in some sort of activity — we think, sleep, dream, cut onions,” said Max, while chopping onions into fine pieces. “Or we try not to do something, much like I’m trying not to cry from these onions.”
“What about those Buddhist monks? They can do nothing for days in a row.”
“Well, the monks meditate, which is not the same as doing nothing. We may acclaim them for doing nothing, but know this — their nothing resembles your wife’s — it’s a code word for a lot more than you think. Actually, in Sanskrit, the term Śūnyatā, which is often translated as emptiness or nothingness, constitutes the ultimate reality for the Buddhists. And that, I reckon, is far from nothing,” assured him Max, while cutting the tomatoes into perfect cubes and the zucchini into equal rings. He then heated the oil, added a pinch of salt and a sprinkle of thyme. All that, while thinking at the back of his mind how he wished he was like Shiva, with at least another pair of hands.
“But the monks don’t think of anything while they meditate. I’m telling you, they’re the real deal!”
“They may seem so, but what they’re doing is simply not engaging with their thoughts. Plus, they’re positioned in a certain way — sitting, or laying down, or something of the sort. Meditation requires a very strong concentration, which is energy channelled in a certain direction. It’s a verb, after all. Moreover, according to the Buddhists, everything is in constant flux, nothing is ever still. Thus, my friend, it’s not the case that they’re doing nothing.”
“Hmm, when you put it this way — someone seated in a lotus pose with their eyes closed, allowing their thoughts to flow. That’s definitely something,” concluded Rooney. “But then, what’s nothing, Max?”
“Nothing is ever nothing. What a paradox! Everything is something, in a way,” replied Max, who put the food in the oven. “And women, my friend, are well aware of that.”
Normally, Rooney would circle around his friend while he was cooking, trying whatever he could put his hands on. But on that day, he preferred to walk in a straight line, back and forth, occasionally looking out the window.
“No, mate, I refuse to accept that nothing is ever nothing.”
“Why?”
“Well, because what do you have in an empty room, for example? Nothing. You see!”
“I don’t quite agree with you.”
“How so?”
“Well, it’s not like there’s nothing in an empty room. What about air, light, electrons, and similar stuff?” Said Max before he grabbed two beers from the fridge. One for himself and the other for his friend, who was about to need it.
“Hmm…” Rooney finished the rest of his beer. “You’ve got a point there. Man, what the hell?! That’s ridiculous! Why does this word even exist? And who came up with nothing in the first place? Without it, men might have a better chance of actually understanding women!”
“Well, I’d suggest the most pragmatic use of the word is when we say almost nothing. For even the most insignificant thing is almost nothing, but never truly nothing.” Max gave Rooney his opinion along with the cold bottle of beer.
“No, mate, almost nothing doesn’t work for me. Imagine my wife swapping nothing for almost nothing! I could no longer accept her answer and return my attention to the game. Nope! Almost nothing requires elaboration, one needs to investigate the potentiality of the almost bit. It’s her loss when she says just nothing, you know.”
“Now that you’re mentioning loss, lately I’ve been thinking about it a lot. About all the things we lose, the lessons we may learn, and about that slogan — impossible is nothing.”
“Ha! The copywriter had it all wrong, mate! If nothing is even nothing, then impossible can’t be nothing now, can it? So impossible is something, after all. Anyway, what did you come up with?”
“Well, I drew inspiration from the antonym of the slogan, instead. Everything is possible! So I thought I might give people a second chance, by opening a bureau for lost and found… everything.”
“Everything?”
Coping with nothing was already troublesome enough for Rooney. So worrying over something as grand as everything seemed way too disturbing to him.
“Everything.” Max was confident.
“Dealing with everything, mate, is no joke. But who am I to stop you, if you’ve already…” Rooney’s train of thought was interrupted by the sharp smell of burnt food. He sniffed a few times before he screamed. “The dinner!”
Max rushed to open the oven. A cloud rose as if it were the mushroom of a nuclear bomb. The host waved a few times so he could clear the air and glimpse at the dish.
“What’s wrong?” Rooney was curious.
Max coughed a few times, then turned to his friend, winked at him, and replied with a sly smile. “It’s nothing.”
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Lina Ignatova is a content and creative writer. Curiosity is the backbone of her character, questioning — the doorkeeper of her mind, and she has a healthy disrespect for the impossible. When she’s not wondering and writing, Lina’s wandering and climbing. She did her Master’s degree in Philosophy at the University of St. Andrews. Her philosophical interests are a fascinating blend of Aesthetics, Time, Buddhism, Daoism, and Moral Psychology.
- Medium: medium.com/@LinaIgnatova
- Instagram: instagram.com/linaignatova_writes
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Cover image: Midjourney.
