Be a nervous wreck, every day, no matter the circumstances. This means performing the following acts: nail biting, cuticle chewing, carpet pacing, shoe scuffing, loud sighing. Cross and uncross your legs. Talk on the exhale and the inhale, an endless stream of just-under-the-breath chatter about what that guy over there is looking at and how you’re going to call the police if he doesn’t stop staring. Whisper things like “oh my god” and when people ask what’s wrong say “nothing!” loudly, but as soon as they turn away, say “oh my god” again, this time a little more huskily.
Archive for February, 2009
BJ works as a VAR in a SE neighborhood in DC. This basically means that he takes PCs and strips them, adds RAM and a new OS, plus a high-speed BNS (more BPS), a CNY-based FED, and a state-of-the-art VMM.
At lunch he eats his PBJ, drinks a V8, checks ESPN on his PDA. MJ from HR pops in to ask if he saw CNN this morning.
The PM is more of the same: PCBs, MCIs, ETC.
When BJ comes home at night and his wife asks him how work was, he just sighs and says: “LOL. IDK.”
The two years you spent in Boston worked a drawl into your accent which puckered your chin when you spoke. After you transferred to Louisiana your jaw slackened, your aaws became aahhhhwwwws, and your shoulders took notice and relaxed as well. Then: Brooklyn, where they stiffen up again, ahws morph into wahws, and the corners of your mouth flatten themselves against your cheeks in a New York smile. This is the first city where people notice your dimples. They woo a young lady named Beatrice. You move to Chicago to get married, and when it’s time, you say: “Ah do.”
There’s a rhythm to it, the swaying and rocking and dimming of lights, the counting of sleepy heads and the pointing to four emergency exits; there’s a pattern in the pulling of the straps on the oxygen mask, first the left then the right, the familiar push of gravity against your chest, the squeaking of the beverage cart, the repetition of questions, the pull of a metal tab on ginger ale; it’s a sort of choreography that has become a dance which moves through your elbows and holds you close as you soar above illuminated grids quilting the ground below.
After the baby comes you are going to wanna take a nap. But the baby starts crying. It takes awhile to quiet him. When you are just about to close your eyes again, he is going to have questions: Why isn’t the sky purple? Can I have a cookie? You answer sleepily: Because it’s blue; no. Then he wants to borrow the car, plus ten dollars. He stays out too late, marries the wrong lady, and just when you are about to lie down, he calls you to ask what he should say when his baby asks about the sky.
This Thing happens to you, and it knocks you off your feet, and you at first are paralyzed by this Thing and its aftermath; you wallow and wail and weep and worse; then the Thing grows more distant so you reflect upon it, and finally when you are ready, you write a book about this Thing and its impact on your life; the book is a best-seller and the movie version stars Jessica Biel, whom you’d normally find irritating but will grow to appreciate, as you watch her from your folding chair by the snack table (granola bars, Gatorade, hummus).
Life inside a cartoon character costume is heavy, dark, and hotter than you would think. Unlike the cartoon characters of your youth, whose footsteps were so light they often paused in the air mid-skip, you find yourself pulled toward the earth by two twelve-pound mouse feet. Lifting your arms for a wave sends waves of pain through your rotator cuff and droplets of sweat down your ribcage. Sometimes you rest your enormous paw on a small child’s shoulders not out of affection, but for the momentary bliss this lean can provide. At night your remove your head and lie down.
Little kids are always asking what it’s like to be a veterinarian. Their eyes shine like pennies when you tell them you play with fluffy kittens all day long. You fail to mention the time you dropped a slimy newborn kitten on the floor and heard it crack like an egg, or the fact that puppies cry when they see you. And you certainly don’t tell kids that it’s hard to find a wiggling dog’s veins, especially under all that matted fur, so half the time you just end up stabbing aimlessly with a syringe and hoping for the best.
He’s known as the Republican in the office. He wears shorts and goes barefoot during trips to the copy machine and there’s always conservative talk radio mumbling in his cubicle, woven under sporadic bursts of whistling. He’s married, one teething toddler and two cats. He takes the bus in the mornings, drinks his coffee black.
People don’t like the Republican in the office. He doesn’t mind. He is the only one who knows the satisfaction of sinking bare feet into office carpeting, sitting back and pulling a glittering staple from his heel. He admires it in the cold fluorescent light.
The guy on the corner ahead is waving, he sees you and pumps his arms through the November air, his red scarf sailing back to reveal a plastic badge strung around his neck by a bleached tennis lace; this guy wants to know if you care about polar bears; he produces a clipboard from under his down coat, and a blue ink pen wound in rubber bands; he is walking backwards now, alongside you, asking if you heard him the first time, when he said the thing about polar bears; this guy is good; he makes more money than you.
