NOT GOOD ENOUGH
(Original Image by Mali Desha)
I walk to the end of the hallway and see my boss seated at a grey metal table. It takes a while for him to notice me, but then he looks up and says, “No. You’re not good enough. Not good enough.” And then the door behind him opens. My father walks out and places documents in a filing cabinet. “No. You’re not good enough. Not good enough.” he says. My boss grabs the desk phone, makes a call. Soon, the women of my life — Rebecca, Heather, Trista, Dre, Kendall, Christina, Amanda K., Jamie, Amanda S., Lauren — come marching out one at a time. “No. You’re not good enough. Not good enough.” They all say.
Lauren hands me a mushroom on her way out, and I take it. The grey walls melt into technicolor ripples. The sky ceiling opens to eternity, and the angels, and the prophets, and the saints, and the Holy Spirit, and Jesus, and God are laughing maniacally. They sing to me, “No. You’re not good enough. Not good enough.” I sit cross-legged and meditate, and the world flattens out before me. Every sound is a note of the great melody. Every sight is a brushstroke on the eternal tapestry. From here, my ego dissolves, and my Atman pours a third cup of coffee. He paces back and forth, sipping, looking out the window. He finally sits down at his desk, folds his hands, and says, “No. You’re not good enough. Not good enough.” Then he motions to the door, and I get up and walk out, and I’m back in the hallway.
My boss behind the grey metal table hands me a note which reads, “No. You’re not good enough. Not good enough,” signed in lavish cursive by each of the magazine editors I’ve submitted work to over the years. The editor of Rock and Sling Press scribbled a note seconded by the editor of Boston Accent Lit that reads “—and we do not promote rape culture!” I take the note, ball it up, and throw it over my shoulder. My boss hands me my pink slip. Without looking up, he shakes his head and says, “No. You’re not good enough. Not good enough.”
I walk back down the hallway, away from my boss, my father, the women, the angels, the prophets, the saints, the Trinity, the ego, the Atman, and the publishers and their many signatures and ignorant notes. I walk back to the beginning, to the door through which I entered. Only, there is no door, just a dead end with a child curled up in the corner. “No. You’re not good enough. Not good enough.” he says again and again, rocking back and forth. I place my hand on his shoulder, and he looks up at me with tears in his eyes. He is my son, Alex. And I move my hand through his hair slowly. “No. You’re not good enough. Not good enough.” he tells me.
I hear movement behind us. From over my shoulder, I see the shadows of those left behind creeping along the walls and the floors and the ceiling towards me. My son’s shadow reaches out to theirs and soon the hallway is lost in darkness. “NO. YOU’RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH. NOT GOOD ENOUGH.” they tell me in a singular, dissonant voice. “I know. I know, and I’m sorry.” I say, holding out my arms and walking blindly to where my son used to be.
