Keeping My Hand in the Fire

I was sitting alone in my room. My phone was plugged into a wall that was not accessible to me at the time, and my computer was starting up (a laborious task most mornings). I found myself reading the back of a deodorant container that sat on my desk.

Why?

I poured over these names to impossible chemicals that I didn't honestly care about, yet was compelled to fill my time with. I protected my fragile ego with explanations labeled as "curiosity" and avoided words like "distraction". I just wanted that time in between me hitting the power button on my computer, and the time when I could start browsing the internet and all things stimulating to go as fast as possible or better yet - disappear.

Why?

I then thought about the time I spent in the gray spaces of my day. The times that weren’t super stimulating and engaging. The half an hour I had before a lunch engagement, the space between meetings, walking, all of these times that I would plug in and disconnect. I’d look at this screen, or that screen, or whatever I would have to do to make the time go by quicker.

Why?

I wanted to just be at destination from destination, and hated the transit stage. Miley Cyrus allusions aside, but maybe it is just about The Climb. I don’t even mean the journey vs. the goal tired old message. All living things have an instinctual self-preservation; it’s what makes us pull our hand away from a flame without thought. I think that without thought bit is particularly interesting, because what if that reflexive reaction is also present within our thoughts?

Perhaps I’m rushing through those blank or gray spaces, because I’m afraid of my thoughts? Or maybe I am attempting to preserve myself from something that I already know? Or something I feel? I mean, I’m not the most emotional or feeling guy, but I do have them -- even if they’re under several layers of scrutiny and critical thought -- and I do value them. I don’t like feeling sad or lonely, I know that from my gut, but are they inherently bad?

In a bad break up our friends and family often try to mend and heal those feelings. They want you to move on as quickly as possible, and the victor of said break up is often seen as the person that does so first. Why? We empathetically hate to see people we care about hurt, but that’s an immediate and short-sighted understanding of emotions. All of them: loneliness, happiness, sadness, etc. are temporary and recurring. So maybe that same self-preservation instinct applies here; we distract and timewarp in order to avoid feeling these uncomfortable “bad” feelings.

Those feelings are human, and are not bad or good. They’re part of being a human.

This also means that it’s human to not want to feel them, and therefore I cannot blame myself for running from them or covering them up. I am guilty of being unconscious though. I excused myself for not feeling or thinking by arguing boredom or apathy. I was allowing my self-preservation to dictate my thoughts and feelings, and it was without thought, like pulling my hand from a flame. So I try to keep my hand in the flame for a little longer, and see what it feels like.

I do have to defend myself, because if you allow those feelings bog you down, it allows the incessant flow of doubt to erode you. And frankly, who wants to share a coffee or a tequila shot with someone in a deep existential hole?

So maybe I protect myself to maintain my optimism. I need to be able to look at myself in the mirror and see hope and doubt swirled into one complete human, with balance and confidence. I need to be able to maintain optimism when thinking about the future friends, family, career that will be my life, but also about the beautiful, smiling, girl sitting across from me in my favorite coffee shop

I sit in that worn, gray chair, and realize that I’ve been staring at my reflection in the blank monitor screen. I attempt to ask myself the questions that only I can ask myself. I allow myself to feel truly, tragically, and hopelessly alone, and smile.

Untitled NaNoWriMo - Chapter One

James I glance through the space between the stall door and the divider as I count the minutes as they pass. My watch reads 2:45 p.m, and I know that if I make it a little bit longer then I could spend some time at the water cooler during the afternoon “Consulting Meeting”. That would be another 15 minutes, then I could get away with a half an hour of catching up on emails and internet things, then another half hour at the coffee station and water cooler, 10 minutes back in the bathroom, and by then it’ll be practically punch-out time! No one works the last half hour, or at least I don’t. So I can get by this afternoon with maybe 15 good minutes of productive activity. I get up from my throne of procrastination, and flush, despite there being no reason to, appearances to keep I guess. I wash my hands in another purely ceremonial fashion, and head out the door. I spot Dave from a couple cubicles down from me staring blankly ahead while sipping water from the cooler. “Hey Dave, how’s about them Steelers?” I offer, remembering him recounting his favorite team. “Huh what?” he asks, and I repeat. “Hey Dave, how’s about them Steelers?” “Oh man, they’re up, they’re down, without a solid secondary there’s no way they’ll go far in the playoffs,” he returns, a little glow finding its way into his eyes. “Yeah, I have them as my Fantasy Football defense, and they’re killing me,” I reply. “Totally,” “Totally,” The weight of the awkward tension would bog down nearly anyone else, but not me. I’m here for the long-haul, or at least the next 13 minutes haul. I wait for him to balk, for him to waiver, and give up this social stamina contest, but his gaze goes blank again, staring at the sea of cubicles. I see that he’s a master, I’ve only been playing this game for the past three years, so I prepare to dip out to his obvious supremacy, but then he wanders away. “Well, good luck this weekend!” my words chase after him as he drags down the corridor. “With what?” he asks, genuinely concerned for a moment. “With the game,” I respond. “Oh yeah, thanks,” he says, turning back around. Man, that was disheartening, but I won the great water cooler war, and now I can spend the remaining 6 minutes without the pressure of forced conversation looming. For a second I wonder what I’m going to have for dinner tonight; I don’t think I have anything leftover in my fridge, and I definitely didn’t thaw anything from the freezer. Maybe I could grab some take-out, but I ate take-out last night. But really, what other options do I have? I wonder if that Mediterranean place will still be open by the time I get off my train. Oh shit, I have to pick up more cat food anyways, I guess I’ll just go to the grocery store, and pick myself up a rotisserie chicken or something, maybe some bread and other things for when I finally remember to start packing my lunch, instead of eating out everyday. “Hey Jimbo, how about them Ravens?” “Sorry, say that again?” I ask, and he repeats. “Hey Jimbo, how about them Ravens?” “Oh yeah, we look pretty good this season, but we’ll probably choke like we always do,” I respond. I my leave, checking my watch, and I stop by the coffee pot to grab a stale cup before returning to my desk. I see that there’s a covered platter of doughnuts on the counter with an emphatic note reading “PLEASE EAT ME”. I briefly consider, before complying, twice. I wipe my chocolate frosting fingers on a napkin that was hanging around from my fast food lunch that day. I open my company email, and then another browser tab for my personal email. I check the filter on my personal email labeled “Fantasy”, and look at my roster. All of my players seem healthy, and my pending trade for a different defense for the week was accepted. I silently celebrate my imminent victory, and close the window to check on pressing work matters. Who keeps leaving the creamer out on the counter? URGENT: Need reports in for the Consulting Meeting this afternoon Party Planning Committee requires new members! Important Member of the Owner’s Family Site Visit James, read this. I click on the last email, and begin to read its contents. Dear James, How have you been? It’s been since college that we last spoke! Well, me and Jennifer ended up getting married, it was a really small ceremony, and that’s why you weren’t invited. Lies, I saw the pictures on Facebook, and their wedding rivaled the royal one. Even the weird kid Billy that lived down the hall from us, and his odd colored hair choices were spotted in some pictures. I just wanted to let you know that we’re planning on moving into the area, and wanted to see if you’d like to grab a bite to eat. Sorry about the dramatic email subject, I just thought that it’d get lost in your work email archives if I didn’t make it sound so serious, and we all know that you just use your personal email for fantasy football. I hope all is well, and look forward to catching up soon! Cheers, Trent --- Trent Landon Associate Financial Officer - Charles Ingram Financial Trent Landon, my college roommate that ended up marrying my college girlfriend. Honestly, I don’t hate him or her anymore, but I had comfortably removed myself from their friend circle soon after they had sat me down at a small coffee shop “to have a little talk.” I begin to type: Hey Trent! You’re right, it has been a long while, too long some would say, some would, but I wouldn’t. I jam on the backspace key, and try again several times before giving up. I then open the urgent email and its attached file. I search through my filing cabinet, and find the note sheets that I had filled out during the last consultation. One of my current clients was this up-and-coming cell phone app that allowed people to post pictures of their meals and would be matched with people based upon their similarities. They were workshopping the name, but currently it’s called “Heart Through The Stomach”. I hate it, but my job is advertising, so I have to make it sound like its the next instagram. I watched T.V. shows about marketing and advertising when I was in school, and it seemed so sleek, so cool. Episodes considering the immense responsibility it was to come up with the perfect slogan for a brand. Swirling expensive bourbon while inappropriately hitting on tight-skirted secretaries, and planning happy hour drinks with clients that looked always like movie stars and never like overweight businessman. The smell of mahogany and cigars practically oozes out of your screen while you watch these shows, and they never have florescent lighting in their immaculate corner offices. I quickly search the name of our client’s app on the internet, and note the first few links that pop up. Nowadays this game was about internet searches and keywords; “all about those clicks and downloads.” my boss had said during the last consultation. I found it hilarious that he couldn’t even make it sound remotely clever. The slogan truly is dead I guess. The company that had contracted us had bought the app from a couple of entrepreneurs had no plan for the app beyond three years, and was hoping to resell it to one of the big companies before the end of the year. I swirl the sad coffee in the bottom of my “Hardly Working” mug, and look at my administrative assistant, a nice college grad from the local university named Ted. Ted likes dogs and reality T.V., and doesn’t care much for sports. We haven’t exchanged many words since our initial meeting. I reach my hands to the ceiling and open my mouth wide, sucking in air and hopefully energy. I briefly stand up from my Officesmart Econo-comfort Chair, and see a dozen other people over the cubicle walls doing the same thing. I smile for a moment, thinking of a science channel special I had watched some nights ago about prairie dogs. I spot middle management getting off the elevator, and signal to the others to get down before we were spotted. The clock reads 4:00, and I prepare myself for my next bathroom break. I unlock my top desk drawer, and retrieve my personal cell. I also grab a fun-sized candy bar. I give my polite goodbyes and little jokes about the grind to my office companions as I left. Tough crowd, but they can’t help it. I gotta try to bring a little light into this place. The first train is bustling, and I wasn’t able to get a seat. I stare blankly at my phone, despite its serviceless state. I scroll through my screens of apps, some personal and some demos from potential clients. I grab a copy of today’s paper to read while waiting in between stops. I notice a young man pondering over one of the station maps. I consider helping him, but I hear my train pulling in behind me. I get off at my stop, I buy a bag of nuts from a street vendor, and stop to give them to Chuck the homeless guy that lives a couple blocks from my place. “How about them Steelers?” I ask him. “Same shit, different names, they’ll be alright though,” he replies. I walk a couple more blocks before I get to my building. It’s an older model, but has been taken over by 20-somethings and bohemians. I don’t really care, because I don’t spend much time there anyways. All I know is that within the three years I’ve lived here, two different coffee shops, and a microbrewery/used bookstore have sprung up. I put my key into the lock of my small studio apartment, and remember that I had forgotten to go grocery shopping. I look at my watch, and decide that it can wait another day. Take-out at this time would take another hour, and by then I am hoping to be at most half-conscious on the couch watching a show about how gumballs are made or something. The door swings open and Trig, my cat, brushes my leg, and looks up at me expectantly. Breaking my heart with every molecule in his little feline being. “Shit, sorry dude, I totally forgot to buy you food, and much less importantly myself any food,” I tell him. I open my freezer, and grab a bag of frozen chicken thighs and run them under water in the sink. Once they’re thawed enough to get out of the bag I put them on a plastic plate and in my microwave. I contemplate actually calculating the amount of defrosting it should require, but I end up frustrated, and just hit the comp-u-defrost setting trusting that the magic of technology will help me. I sit down on my rundown old couch, the same couch that hid ping pong balls and quarters during my college days, the same couch where I had first met Jennifer, and the first couch that I had to move up flights of stairs into my own place. I mean to turn on the T.V., but I wake to the sound of my microwave chirping at me. I remove the rubbery, half-cooked chicken, and then toss it in a frying pan with some salt and pepper. I start boiling water for rice, and grab a can of salsa from my refrigerator. The chicken is already practically cooked, so it doesn’t take long in the pan. I take a thigh out for Trig, cutting it into very small pieces, and smash some rice into a paste for him. He digs in without hesitation; I remember reading about cats that are picky eaters, and then pet Trig, suddenly feeling more appreciative to have him. I eat as procedure, to fill a necessity, and the metal clang of my fork hitting the bowl marks the end of my meal. I catch an hour of T.V. before looking at Trig and asking. “Well, bout that time eh?” I make sure my alarm is ready, and pick out a tie for tomorrow.

Accidentally Finding Humanity

I sank into my worn, gray, computer chair; the chair I had bought at Goodwill for fifteen dollars. It was the chair that held me as I wrote paper after paper, mere minutes from their deadlines, the chair that moved with me from dorm to apartment, to apartment again, and, finally, back home. I had just bought a plane ticket to San José, Costa Rica from JFK in that chair. The plane left in two days. I was going by myself, and I don’t speak Spanish. I took a large bus to NYC from my small, college town. I was planning on staying at my longest standing friend’s place for a night before my plane left in the morning. I gave him less than a day to save me from a night on a cold park bench, and he came through. We spent the better part of the night talking about life, growing up, and figuring out what sort of shoes I should buy to blend in to NYC. "A rule of New York City is that you don't stare," says my resident friend as I tag along on his morning subway commute. I immediately think that's dumb and continue to watch as people focus intently on their phones. We're underground, so I know they don't get service. But they'd rather stare at their unconnected devices than try to connect to these people. I thought that was dumb, but now I don't. You see, if your stare lingers too long, your passing glance becoming a brief moment of eye contact, you might start to actually see the people around you. Your mind might notice the worry lines, the smile lines, the blemishes, the scars. Your mind might realize the certain way they hold their bookbag - close to the chest, or their shoes - well worn and faded. Your mind might turn over stories that explain them, the family that created the person in front of you, friendships and relationships that created those worry and smile lines. Adventures past that left blemishes and scars. You might stumble upon their humanity. And if you should do that, it's hard not to fall in love. Not necessarily romantic love, but empathetic love. Then, the voice booms over the loudspeaker and you watch these people weave out of your life, likely never to be seen again, and you realize why everyone is so devoutly attached to their little bubbles. Because people can only take so much heartbreak in a day. I made it to JFK, and then to San José, and then to the farm I was staying at, and then around a couple other cities, back to San José, and then back to NYC. I survived with only a few key words and lots of wild gesticulation. That goes for both my travels abroad and NYC’s public transit system. I was beaten, worn, and looked like a homeless farmer. I didn’t match the dress code for a couple of restaurants, and the one I finally sat down in didn’t give me a menu. I’m pretty sure the waitress was just thinking of a nice way to kick me out once she thought that I had sufficiently warmed my ol’ hobo bones. When I got back on the subway to go home, I stared. Accidentally, I fell in love with every single person, because in that short time we shared something sad, beautiful, and pure - humanity.