It was just around closing time at Future Furniture when Harry Harrison was putting up the chairs and sweeping the floors. Business had been slow that day, especially considering the release of the new furniture sets and silverware series. Nevertheless, customers frequented the shop and were polite and well educated as usual, but that afternoon, a certain individual caught Harrison’s attention. A man of a fair build and marble skin made a comment on Harrison’s shop and the nature of it: “Wonderful place you have here, mate. Your silverware set is impressive. I’m so glad I found this neat little enclave…”
Harrison froze, panicking under the social guidelines that required him to reciprocate with a response of his own. Surely he could take the easy way out and repeat what was just said right back at the man, but then again, he postulated that doing so would result in utter social entropy. He was caught off guard by the last word in the man’s sentence: enclave. How on earth was he to respond intelligently when the customer was speaking at a level so far above his own?
Five minutes passed and Harrison responded enthusiastically with the best thought he had. “Yes, it is a very very nice enclave!” The man left through the door with a puzzled look on his face, obliterating Harrison’s self-security. “Damn! I must have used the word terribly wrong! Agh! Did you see the look on that man’s face, Harry? You blew it!” Harrison put up the few chairs he had left, swept the rest of the dirt under the carpets, and locked the doors.
Tomorrow arrived on schedule, and Harry greeted it with the same jaundice as usual. Tomorrow always became today as the sun made its way across the sky, but Harry stayed the same: still the same man wrecked by his failing to competently understand the word enclave. It would be the death of him if he didn’t get a hold of himself. Enclave. Enclave. Enclave. Harry repeated it religiously, hoping this worship would lead to some breakthrough, some meaning, just as religion does. Alas, he still found no meaning in the word. It was just enclave.
Days passed and Harry began to lose hope. Words couldn’t be learned, they had to be taught! Who was he kidding—ignorance is bliss and his curiosity was futile. He was just leading himself further down a beaten path. Soon enough, he realized that maybe he didn’t want to know. Maybe it would be easier, it would hurt less, if he forgot about it, if he just didn’t remember to remember. Although much of him wanted to know, he decided the part of him that didn’t want to know was the part of him that he needed to embrace.
Eventually Harry forgot about the word, but the little part of him that needed to know stayed intact. That little part of him remained a place, or one could say a group (of emotions), that was different in character from all those surrounding it within himself. Harry had found his enclave.