Nitrogen Narcosis at Sea Level

Nitrogen Narcosis at Sea Level

I’ve long since given up any hopes I might once have held for becoming a neurosurgeon. Neither does destiny favor my opportunities for a career as a professional baseball player, porn star or circuit judge in anyone’s district court system, although I once considered it a distinct possibility that any one of these vocations would suit me just fine.

Unfortunately, as it turns out, I’m physically unqualified for several of these occupations and scholastically excluded from the others. Evidently, enthusiasm for a particular subject can only carry a person so far; then, actual qualifications and/or credentials have to be produced.

Besides, who would hire someone as an apprentice jurist who’d nearly reached mandatory retirement age? I can’t prove it but I suspect that a movie producer might quickly become annoyed with his new adult movie star who could only perform once a week.

Now, some might find these realities a total waste of time, a disservice, really… but for those of us who’ve lived vicariously through our associations with people who make their livings as ball players, et al, much satisfaction is derived from the effort. The trick is to keep adding to your available supply of worthy subjects.

So I decided to take a walk. Surely, if I looked around a little, I could find someone worthy of emulation from afar.

It's a fairly nice day where I live, one of those days that remind you why you're here, one of those days when you feel like you're a part of something bigger, something important, like you’re plugged into some massive generator; like you are an essential part of a machine that never stops churning. It's one of those days when the sidewalks feel like they're vibrating underneath you as you walk. Or maybe I’m just about to stroke out… I’ll know pretty soon, one way or the other.

Almost immediately after I stepped out onto Morley Street, the main drag through our burgh, some lady with two strollers plowed into me. Not only was she pushing two strollers, she was carrying four bags of groceries, wrapped around each of her arms like a straitjacket. She was so harried that she not only didn't apologize when she almost knocked me over, I'm not sure she even noticed. One of her babies was wailing; the other was playing with a bag of frozen peas. The woman wasn't being chased by anyone, but she might as well have been; she was so caught up in what was assuredly a stressful journey home, so single-minded in her attempt to get home as quickly as humanly possible, that if I hadn’t been wearing pants, I doubt she’d have noticed. And even more troubling, this seemed to be a regular thing for her… this pushing of children, this carrying of bags, this nonstop journey from point A to point B. As I quickly assessed her qualifications for vicarious selection, I wondered how long her life had been like this. She was young; I bet it wasn't more than five years ago that her friends held her hair back as she threw up in the back of some shithole apartment, doing jello shots and smoking reefer while Nirvana’s In Utero droned in the background. When did it switch for her? When did the tide turn? It was probably a gradual thing. She felt she was getting older, that the world was starting to close in on her, she met a nice guy, she settled down, she had children (twins!), and before she knew it, she was carting the sum of her existence down a nondescript street in Moberly freaking Missouri, aware of nothing but this. She had the look of someone who had not thought about herself in a long, long time.

No, I’d have to look further.

Two kids are hanging out in front of the Dollar Store. They're always here, whether the store is open or not. They're black kids, and they're always passing their headphones back and forth. They're obviously very bored. They always comment when someone comes into the store; when I went in to buy toilet paper the other day, they saw my bald head and said "Hey, here comes Chrome Dome." They laughed and so did I, trying to show that I get it, I'm hip, and they scoffed at me, told me to "laugh it up, Baldy, maybe tomorrow I'll pop a cap in your ass." Sometimes a third kid joins them, but I don't think they like him very much, even though he clearly likes them, or at least wants their approval. He'll stand there, next to them, talking more than they are, and they treat him like he's not there. Occasionally I'll see him standing there by himself, waiting for them to show up. I suspect he'll wait a very long time, if necessary. I wonder if he considers them his best friends. I bet he does… maybe I should talk to him about living vicariously.

I continue down Morley. There's a bar called Murphy’s less than two blocks from my house which, every time I look in there, seems to have the same five people in it. They're the retired types who come in around ten in the morning, set a stack of bills in front of them and just let the bartenders refill their drinks and take from the stack at their leisure. They don't seem sad, or happy; they barely talk. The bar has a TV, tuned to CNN. They just stare straight ahead, sipping their drink… tired of the world, I think. I wonder how they got this way, too. I wonder what their home is like. I imagine it is spare and dark. If the bar didn't close, they'd never go home. I sometimes go to Murphy’s myself, when I want the same experience of solitude among strangers. I've never talked to any of them and none of them have ever talked to me. It's a comfort.

In front of me, a couple is fighting, desperately trying to disguise their argument from the world… and failing miserably. I can't make out the specifics of their tiff, but apparently there's something that he always does that drives her crazy, something that makes her feel she is making a mistake by continuing to be with him, and that he has little desire to stop doing it. She is saying, "I don't know why you always do this," and he is trying to ignore her, walking faster and looking away, but she is right behind him and she is speeding up, trying unsuccessfully to catch him and walk beside him. So, I speed up, too, to stay with them, and she is starting to yell now, and what had been his mutterings a few seconds earlier are starting to become shouts. He is now waving his arms in a robotic manner, as if this is a conversation he has had too many times already and lacks the energy to give even the most feeble resistance. He says something to her that I can't make out, and she stops and begins to cry. He tries to keep walking, wants desperately to keep walking, but he can't now, and he turns to come back to her, looking sympathetic and guilty, and I speed past the both of them and know exactly how they both feel. Momentarily, I considered stopping and asking them if they’d like a new apprentice friend, but thought better of it. Usually, times like this are not conducive to the success of fledgling relationships.

Because it's such a nice day, two women are having brunch outside of a fancy French bistro. The place screams pretentiousness. I haven’t personally visited this bistro before, but one of my friends assures me it’s exactly what you'd suspect: shitty service, rude wait staff, overrated food, and way too expensive. Places like this are always crowded for reasons that escape me. The two women, probably in their late twenties, are dressed in business suits and have leather handbags next to them. They are wearing a lot of makeup. They both went on dates last night, and they're deconstructing the dates, evidently the most fun part of the entire experience, judging from their laughter. One was going on and on about her date's face; I guess he had a bad acne problem in high school and still carries the scars. He's a lawyer, it seems, and he tried to kiss her good night, and she was kinda grossed out but kissed him anyway, and if he calls, she'll go out with him again… sure, why not. The waiter comes by, and the two women scowl and complain to him about something. He looks apologetic but probably isn't, he probably hates them… probably hates all of them.

Suddenly, I crave a mint, so I walk into a Rite-Aid and stand in line behind a man who is having trouble with his credit card. He is saying that this is impossible, that his card works just fine, and why can't they just run it again? The woman behind the counter doesn't really care and just wants to go home; she runs the card again, and then another card, and then another… and none of them are working, so the guy starts to yell and the woman never changes her apathetic expression. He throws his hands in the air, curses, and storms toward the exit. He is moving too fast, though, and he smacks right into the automatic doors. The woman behind the counter smirks, gives me and my mints the once-over, shakes her head sadly and says, "Okay, you’re next, Rockefeller".

It's starting to get dark, so it’s time to go home. I buy some Diet Pepsi and some batteries for my mouse. My wife isn't home from work yet, so I shut off all the lights in my house, sit down at my computer and begin to type. It is so simple here, so peaceful. I see so many people out there, who don't know what they're doing in this world, who are just like me. I wonder where they find their peace. I wonder where they go to slow everything down, to try to make some sense out of the chaos, to try to strip out some meaning from a planet that is doggedly determined not to provide it. I wonder where they step outside of themselves and relax, and think, and just be. This is where I find it. Alone, in a dark room, listening to the screams of Nirvana, the sound of helplessness. This is the only place I know to go. I fear that I might be lost without it. Sometimes I feel it is all that I have. What else can I do? I’m too old to become a neurosurgeon.

Bob Church©2007