Sam Hendrian: 'Hangin' In'

All contributors of the Serein Lark Review are interviewed for our blog.

You can read Hendrian's interview here!

It was clear to me from the very start that Sam Hendrian's convincing piece 'Hangin' In' belongs in the Serein Lark Review. It illuminates the small moments that capture one of the bleaker sides of modern society and what is likely one of our most dangerous problems today: our inability to care and pay attention to another's well-being. The language is right to the point with a consistent, precise character that feels real and true. I read it and immediately felt not only called out but emotional. Dear reader, enjoy.

Raquel Saldana dreaded the question “How are you?” more than any other phrase in common use. Whenever someone said it, it implied they couldn’t care less about how she actually felt. And she was uniquely sensitive to indifference. But that’s the way the world worked; people didn’t have time to give a damn about feelings other than their own.

Except she hated that concept too: “That’s just the way it is.” She refused to be resigned to helplessness like most of her peers were. If something was wrong, then it needed to be fixed; humans held more power than they gave themselves credit for. 

Nigerian by descent and boasting a stunning set of lovelorn brown eyes (yes, a history of romantic rejection could contribute to someone’s beauty), Raquel knew how to make her point-of-view clear, no matter how many friends she alienated in the process. Although she often pondered the collateral damage: was loneliness the price of authenticity? Maybe she should conform a little. But every time she tried, she felt her soul begin to disappear, and that remained the worst feeling in the world.

“How are you?” The handsome Trader Joe’s cashier asked out of obligation, although he had been well-trained to sound like he actually cared. 

“I’m… okay.”

“Great! Will that be all for you?” 

One of Raquel’s many pet peeves was when someone thought “okay” meant the same as “good” or “great.” But she’d let it slide for now. “Yes, that’ll be all.” Well, at least she’d gotten the adolescent rush of chatting with such a good-looking employee; she’d arrived there right before an elderly cashier opened up their lane and offered to help the next person in line. 

But why was she only feeling “okay?” There were a variety of complicated reasons that no one understood – especially those closest to her – but they could be distilled down to an acute sense of isolation, almost as if she had been born on the wrong planet at the wrong time. Sure, she had a caring family and friends who tried to be supportive. But the sensation of being loved – of being wanted and prioritized instead of just passively appreciated – remained elusive. 

Maybe she merely hadn’t found the right people yet; that’s what her mom often said. Her current friends were nice enough, but she realized more and more that they shared little in common. She'd long been a fan of classic musical theatre – Rodgers & Hammerstein, Stephen Sondheim, Lerner & Loewe – but almost every person she befriended in Los Angeles didn’t know who the hell these legends were. One day, she found herself crying while watching a YouTube recording of a high school performance of Into the Woods; there were few things lonelier than realizing nobody close to you appreciated what you loved. 

***

Raquel had always refused to go to therapy. She considered it a form of emotional prostitution, and she didn't think it would be much of an uplift anyway. Her own form of therapy was going to hair salons, doctors' offices, and diners, places where at least people were better at pretending they took a genuine interest in her. Although she still saw through their act. "Your hair is so beautiful" meant "Give us an extra tip." "You're in pretty good health" meant "But not good enough to avoid coming back soon and giving us more money." "I'm glad you enjoyed your pancakes" meant "I'm glad you have a reason to come patronize our business again." Everything was transactional at the end of the day.

"Happy you enjoyed the pancakes!" 

Denny's had become Raquel's favorite quasi-therapy spot. "Yep, they were quite delicious. How's your day going?" 

"I'm good, how are you?" 

Raquel had asked about their day, not them personally, but she'd grown tired of splitting hairs. "I'm hanging in." 

"That's good. Let me know if you need anything else." The waiter then rushed over to have another automated conversation with the people at the adjacent table. 

Raquel hated feeling angry, but she couldn't avoid it. She suddenly wanted to give the cold shoulder to every acquaintance and barely-there friend she might encounter over the next week. She took so much real interest in their lives, yet they only ever replied with "That's nice" when she told them about her own life. Why did they deserve her kindness? Then again, wasn't the point of kindness that it wasn't necessarily deserved? Oh, now was not the time to be virtuous; she was entering her villain era.

Although being a villain just didn't suit her. Every time she tried to be rude, some niceness slipped out and proved she was merely a bad actor. She still alienated a couple of acquaintances in the process – people were easily scandalized by the slightest suggestion of brusqueness from her – but it wasn't too much of a loss; placeholder friendships didn't cut it anymore. Oh, what was she to do? Get old early and put in a hearing aid to endure superficial conversations without wanting to kill herself? Okay, maybe that was a bit extreme...

"Have you ever thought about becoming a therapist?" Raquel's mom, Janie, asked over the phone. She had never been skilled at validation, but she always tried her best. "You could help people like you who aren't easily consoled." 

"I've thought about it. But I don't really want to go back to school." 

"You don't need a Master's degree to be a therapist these days. Haven't you seen all the therapy ads on YouTube?" 

"Those are SO cringe. But I'm pretty sure they still have a Master's degree." 

"How about an unofficial therapist then? A listening ear for your friends." 

"I could never ask friends to pay me. I barely have any of them to begin with." 

"Then do it on a volunteer basis. Something to give you emotional fulfillment." 

"It's not a bad idea, Mom. I'll take it into consideration." 

"You never take anything I say into consideration." 

"Well, I'll try to do better starting now," Raquel concluded with the half-hearted enthusiasm of a New Year's resolution. "Do you have anything you want to get off your chest? I could practice by playing therapist for you." 

"Oh, not really. I've already taken it all to Jesus." 

Raquel repressed an eye-roll. Not that she had anything against Jesus. But spiritual speculation could never replace tangible human intimacy. "But don't you think Jesus is super busy? I'd be happy to listen too, just in case he missed anything." 

"That's alright. If it's God's will, it's God's will." 

"If what's God's will?"

"My happiness. And yours, for that matter. Some of us are just meant to be miserable." 

"I don't think I agree with that. And I'm much more cynical than you are." 

"Cynicism's got nothing to do with it. As long as Heaven exists, then I don't need to be happy on Earth." 

"But what if Heaven doesn't exist?" 

"It does. I'm certain." 

"It's not good to be certain of anything, Mom." 

"But you're certain it's not good to be certain of anything."

Raquel chuckled at her mother's well-deserved accusation of hypocrisy. "Fair enough. Okay, if I condone certainty about anything, it's that certainty is bad..." 

"Oh, Raquel." 

"Oh, Mom." They had reached a peaceful standstill, which was the best either of them could hope for at this point in their relationship. "I've got to get going, but love you!" 

"Love you too." 

Raquel didn't actually have to get going, but she'd reached the limit of her conversational stamina. That was the caveat of trying to be sincere in every single word you spoke; it grew to be goddamned exhausting. Maybe she could adopt an automated phrase or two. Although wasn't "I love you" already an automated phrase? 

***

Despite not having anything she absolutely needed to buy, Raquel visited Trader Joe's again just to see if there were any handsome cashiers who might satisfy her conversational needs. As always, she was about to be checked out by a real stud when an elderly cashier opened up their lane and said, "I can help whoever's next." Welp, so much for that dream; she certainly didn't want to make an old man feel rejected. 

On her way out of the artificially friendly store, she heard someone say, "Aww, that's so CUTE!" which suddenly gave her a splitting headache. She started hearing every meaningless phrase in common use, at full volume and on constant repeat: 

"Nice!" 

"How sweet!" 

"I'm sorry to hear that." 

"Hope you're doing well." 

"Oh my god STAWP." 

"That's really cool." 

"How are YOU?"

If there had been a bridge right there, she might have jumped off. But thankfully, there wasn't; she knew she had to go on living. If not for herself, then for someone else who could benefit from her no-bullshit compassion. But did such a someone exist? In her experience, most people preferred the familiarity of automated consolations; creativity scared them. What good was loving genuinely if most people would only receive love artificially? Okay, maybe "artificially" was too harsh a word – everyone had the right to love in their own way – but Raquel still believed in her heart of hearts that most people were selling themselves short; they were capable of far more nuanced compassion than they thought. What was that Winnie the Pooh quote? "You're smarter than you think, braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem." Such good advice. But it was human nature to ignore good advice.

Well, she knew one thing: She wasn't gonna find such a conversational wizard at Trader Joe's. Or at any other customer service place she frequented to deflect her loneliness. Maybe she should stop looking; couldn't somebody find her for a change? And if so, how could she make herself more findable? Dating apps certainly didn't work. Nor organized socializing of any kind. It had to be spontaneous. But the problem remained that you couldn't plan spontaneity; you just had to keep being patient for something that may never come.

Patience wasn't Raquel's strong suit. Was it anybody's? Waiting implied a lack of control, and she always had to be in control, even if chaos was ultimately the only real truth in the universe. I can't wait around! I have to seize my moment! But what if there was no moment to seize? What if all those pretentious college students were right, and we were all in a computer game being controlled by ruthless puppetmasters? In that case, maybe jumping off a bridge would be a logical decision. Although what did she know? Sometimes agnosticism was the surest path to faith. 

Perhaps she could move to a third-world country? Surely people would be honest about their feelings there. Or a slightly more feasible feat: how about working in customer service? Somewhere the cashiers were forcibly friendly in a cringey way, like Starbucks or Chick-fil-A? She didn't have to work there long, just for the length of a social experiment. Alright, it was settled; she'd apply to every Starbucks within a five-mile radius, which was quite a large number. 

Two weeks later, she had a job. Her strategy was as follows: Whenever a customer asked how she was, she would respond, "Hangin' in." She'd then tally how many people actually recognized this as an answer of quiet desperation, then quit when the tally reached 50. Whatever it took to prove that some sincere, emotionally sensitive people other than her existed...

"How are you?"

"Hangin' in." 

"That's great!"

***

"How are you?" 

"Hangin' in."

"Wonderful."

***

"How are you?" 

"Hangin' in." 

"Nice." 

***

"How are you?" 

"Hangin' in." 

(No response.)

***

"How are you?" 

"Hangin' in." 

"Aww no, what's going on?" 

Despite her constant melancholy, Raquel felt happier than she'd felt in a long time as she prepared to answer this perfect stranger. 

The End.