Requiem for a Thought

Earlier this week I read a news story out of Winnipeg, Canada:

“His telephone number was still listed in the telephone directory and his condominium fees and bills were automatically being withdrawn from his bank account.

"No one knew Jim Sulkers had died in his bed almost two years ago.

"Neighbour Sam Shuster said residents in the complex often wondered where the man they knew only as Jim had gone, but were told his condominium fees were still being paid.

“‘How can that happen, for God's sake. Two years!’ Shuster said yesterday of the man who had been a resident in the building since the mid-1980s.

“‘I used to ask the president of the board of directors where in the hell is he? She said all she knew was the bank gets the monthly money so we don't worry about it.’

Sulkers' remains were discovered Wednesday. Manitoba's chief medical examiner, Dr. Thambirajah Balachandra, determined he had died of natural causes.

“Sulkers, believed to be in his 50s, had multiple sclerosis. Balachandra said there were no signs of trauma and he was able to quickly rule out homicide, suicide or accident as a cause of death. But because the body was in a mummified state, he could not determine an exact cause.

“He said a newspaper dated Nov. 21, 2002, was found in the man's apartment and a wall calendar was opened to November 2002 — evidence the man died nearly two years ago.

“A cousin, Kim Dyck of Winnipeg, said she lost contact with the man after his mother died about 10 years ago, but relatives had attempted to make contact with Sulkers last summer when they were in the city for a wedding.

“‘They knocked on his door and he didn't answer,’ she said. ‘You assume he isn't home. You certainly don't assume he's dead.’

"She said the man's bills must have been covered by a pension cheque automatically deposited into his bank account.

"Neighbours said Sulkers' mailbox had become full several times and was always emptied by a letter carrier.

"Canada Post spokesman Brian Garagan said letter carriers are required to clear full mailboxes and inform a supervisor, who calls the condo owner. He said the corporation was trying to determine if that policy was followed.

"He said Sulkers' mail delivery was halted at some point but he wasn't sure when. He said he would be talking to the letter carrier on the route.

"Marcel Baril, executive director of the Family Centre in Winnipeg, called the situation bizarre and sad. ‘It's odd that we live in a society where technology can take care of our affairs like that, even if we passed away two years ago, and nobody's noticed.’

Morbid? Faulknerian? Indeed. However, throughout my reading of the article I kept returning to one idea: How can someone become so far removed from society and society interaction that they could, in effect, slip through the cracks for two years and not be noticed.

Set aside this man’s death for one moment, since his death is really only a minor event as far as the central focus of this story is concerned. He was dead to the world long before his life expired in that bed. His physical death only adds a tinge of morbidness, whereas his “metaphysical” death, that being his separation from the world, paints the entire article.

Without a family (or at least without a concerned one, we are led to presume), without friends, Jim Sulkers (such a literary name for such a literary theme) wasted away from multiple sclerosis for at least two years. However, for the past two years he could just have easily been living in Switzerland, Mexico, or some such place, having decided to skip town one day a start a different life. The result would still have been the same, no one would have said anything, he would never have gone “missing,” and, in this particular circumstance, the story would probably have never made the paper.

So what of this deep disassociation with society; is Jim Sulkers an anomaly? I doubt it. Surely it is one thing to voluntarily withdraw from society; it is quite another to be forgotten or dispossessed by society. I’m reminded of the Beatles song, “Eleanor Rigby.”

“Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people

“Eleanor Rigby, picks up the rice
in the church where a wedding has been.
Lives in a dream.
Waits at the window, wearing the face
that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?

“All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

“Father McKenzie, writing the words
of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near.
Look at him working, darning his socks
in the night when there's nobody there
What does he care?

“All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

“Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people

“Eleanor Rigby, died in the church
and was buried along with her name.
Nobody came.

“Father McKenzie, wiping the dirt
from his hands as he walks from the grave.
No one was saved.

“All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?”

I fear that this level of loneliness and isolation, be it in the form of a fictional Father McKenzie or real Jim Sulker, is manifesting itself surreptitiously in our society. Though the internet (and similar technology) has given us unprecedented access to thoughts and ideas, but not people. Even with the “blog” revolution, one finds an increasing openness on the part of the bloggers, but without much intimacy with the reader. We gain the insight to someone’s life and thoughts, but only through the manifestation of a computer code written in simple ones and zeros. I may be able to talk with someone in China through the internet or email someone in Australia, and no matter how detailed the conversation or note is, a barrier of thousands of miles separates us—physical human interaction is nonexistent.

And so it almost seems to me that we are slipping away from each other just as we believe we are getting closer. Our digital interactions, while rich in ideas, lack substance because of the very ease and anonymity it provides. Are we all, me included, simply living versions of Jim Sulker, wasting away in our homes and offices from the true human experience—physical interaction and the pain and joy that it inevitably brings?