I failed to completely evacuate my bowels this morning. I pride myself on efficiency in this department, but this morning things failed to “go” as usual. So there’s this lingering sensation of something left hanging. I hate this feeling.
I should try to elucidate in better detail exactly what I’m dealing with, here. Oh—you’re not interested. Okay, yes, of course, I get that. Would you be more interested if I said this feeling has galvanized me into taking greater control over my life? No; I can see the disappointment in your eyes. Well, would you be more interested if I said this feeling has led me to formulate a plan to kill my boss?
Ha-ha! Got you. Of course, I won’t actually kill my boss. I will, however, darn well think about killing her. This should rekindle your interest; after all, who doesn’t think about killing their boss at one time or another?
Anyway, thinking is one thing that separates us from the lower animal orders. And even though I’ve failed at many things, I’m no failure at thinking.
I think a lot, about a lot of things.
I think about going to work now, going to work and sticking this job out awhile longer. More precisely, I think about sticking it to the boss. I say “the” boss and not “my” boss because I refuse to connect her to me personally, one-on-one. No, she is a boss, and as such has no real individuality. She is not “my” anything. And so, I can think about killing her, in an offhand, lighthearted way that people often do. I believe I am not alone in my (lighthearted) homicidal thoughts. And, after all, thinking is not doing.
The bus is a cattle car again. Metro is becoming impossible. I get a crossways bench seat, which I hate, because they always pitch you sideways, which is so unnatural. Not that we humans are particularly “natural.” We go along and I close my eyes and try not to think about anything. My mind always has some goddamn thing for me to attend to: work, what I’m wearing, my non-existent sex life and what I’m going to do about it. I open my eyes as the bus stops opposite a small gift shop, and the sight evokes a sudden pang of nostalgia. I used to work in a little photo and gift shop in the University District; it was a job I enjoyed, but it’s ancient history. Who even uses film anymore? The man behind the counter is picking his hose. How many people do this, believing themselves unobserved? How often did I do it, standing at my counter? The thought is disturbing; I know I did it, and freely admit it. That’s one thing I never fail at: admitting my own faults—if in fact picking your nose can be labeled a fault. If most people do it (and I believe they do), is it wrong? And if so, by which system of morality?
The bus moves on and my thoughts move on to the white-crowned sparrow I saw in the hedge this morning, a delightful little chap, his striped cap a glaring anomaly among the dull house sparrows. I wonder how the species evolved in this particular way, and what the other sparrows make of him. Do they ridicule him and call him names? My ex-wife ridiculed my striped stocking cap and even refused to be seen in public with me wearing it. That’s a damn cruel thing, and I know animals and birds can be every bit as cruel as humans. It’s a cruel world. Oh, well; I dumped her ass and that was that. I wish I still had that cap, but as the years pass, I jettison things. It’s just a thing with me.
I close out the thought and close my eyes and let the rumble and motion of our great metal juggernaut, one of man’s many marvels, vibrate through my body. I suppose it might shake things loose down below and require another kind of movement during the day. I prefer to get that done first thing and shower right after, but what will be will be.
The bus zooms down Aurora Avenue and over the great bridge built during the Depression. I open my eyes and think about living here in 1935 and watching the great steel cat’s cradle materializing like something from Buck Rogers, and reading about the excitement in the paper at the breakfast table, and saying to my wife, “Honey, I thought I’d wear my ice cream suit to the market, today. It’s spring now, after all. What do you think?”
She says (in my mind), “Why, yes, that would be lovely.” Her voice bears no trace of ridicule.
I kiss her lightly on the cheek and leave for work. What would leaving for work feel like in 1935? Walk outside, a fedora on my head, a stout leather briefcase in my hand, hear the steam trains whistling in the distance, the boats hooting on the Sound, the cars farting along, so much louder than cars today. Back then people still burned crude oil and even coal for heat, so the air would probably smell different and everything would feel different except maybe in the nicer residential neighborhoods. They always seem frozen in time.
That was a Seattle far older than mine, and I know my thoughts are dog-in-a-basket kinds of thoughts when reality says, Sorry, you can’t go back there, that time is closed.
Well, what if I were to open it?
Not sure I really want to. The colors and shapes and shadows of civilization-2017 whiz by, the time is now, and I admit to myself that I like my time. I feel happy. I think about becoming a Zoroastrian; I once knew a man who was Zoroastrian, and he was happy—happy as hell, I always thought. For a nanosecond I wonder if that’s where Zorro came from, and a voice inside my head says, There wasn’t any Zorro, dumbass. And I think, Oh, and how do you know that, dumbass?
The bus rushes on and we reach my stop. I step onto the sidewalk and think about something Ralph Ginsberg—I think it was Ginsburg—said about Great Curator of the Universe watching over us. Was it curator, or creator? Shit. Walking briskly, I become momentarily confused, then think: If I ever find a lover, I’ll raise this question with her. Or him. Who knows? A great question, but then, I have so many questions I’d like to raise, if I had someone to raise them with. Raising them with only myself leads to an unrewarding circularity.
I walk toward the office and marvel at the morning, which is dazzling, surreal, even, so much so as to make the eyes and the soul hurt with joy. Hurtful joy: a nice thought. I’ll have to take that up with my lover, if and when we ever meet. I wonder: Do the indigenous people here see things this way? Do they have a word for “dazzling” in the sense that Europeans use it? I think they must have many other words, words we don’t have, just as they believe rocks and trees and all other things have spirits. I’m thinking I might believe that, myself; it might make me a better person.
Impulse seizes me and I stop at the Belltown Grocery and pick out a roll of Life Savers. When did I last have Life Savers? I feel young again! But hey—where’s the little red string? There should be a little red string sticking out, right here on the end. Goddammit, Lifesavers always have a little string to open the tube. Dammit! Why are they always changing everything?
Grow up, I tell myself; change and inconvenience often spawn opportunity, and as I try to dig out the string I get a sudden idea: Maybe this afternoon, when my boss usually goes out to Starbucks (she possibly doesn’t think anybody notices, but probably doesn’t care, either), I’ll release the balance of my morning deposits (which, thanks to the motion of the bus, now seem to be hinting at “moving on”) into a container and leave it on her desk. Oh, wait: here’s the string. It was hidden in a fold of foil. Stupid me, that’s what I get for flying off instead of coolly deliberating. The Life Saver tastes wonderful—I love Butter Rum and am glad to find the taste has not changed. The sudden jolt on my tongue is like the dawn of life all over again.
Full of sweet inspiration and sudden revelation, I go to the office, and everything is groovy. Good energy wafts amid the cubicles, my boss is all agrin, and I move my week’s work smoothly forward. At noon I go to the cozy little office lounge and enjoy a Tillamook cheese sandwich. I take it out of its waxed paper (I always think a sandwich tastes better wrapped in waxed paper rather than plastic) and slowly savor it. The bread and the cheese are superb. With it I have a carrot and half an apple, a chaste luncheon and a perfect one.
As I eat, I think once again of the Titanic. I’ve been a Titanic buff since I was a kid, and have seen the most recent movie three times. Often, say when I’m suddenly sleepless at three in the morning, I revisit all the missteps, miscues, and mistakes that resulted in one of the most infamous disasters in history.
You may ask, Hasn’t the Titanic been analyzed to death? Yes, but no. It’s an infinite subject, the probabilities are infinite, and infinitely interesting. Missteps and miscues: how many do we encounter every day? How pervasively does disaster lurk, implicit, in every mundane moment? The ship was held up for almost an hour right when she left port, by a near-collision with another boat. What if that hadn’t happened? What if I had missed my bus this morning?
So, you ask, where does it all lead? Does it have to lead anywhere? Maybe it circles around, like the Titanic with its rudder hard-over. And then there’s this: what about considering it from the iceberg’s perspective? Imagine seeing that mass of lights coming straight at you out of the dark. Imagine feeling that knife-like bow slicing into you! It’s a good mental exercise.
Either, or, or both: I want to get at the essence of causality, here. Hubris? Complacency? Extra-human agencies? Even if certain factors had been different, would the outcome have been different? Could it have been different, or was it all irrevocable, fixed, pre-destined?
There is no answer, there are infinite answers.
Work grinds peacefully on, little finger clicking sounds clacking across the office, people making jokes. It’s not a bad job; we all pretty much get along, the boss even says something nice once in a while, and best of all, it allows me plenty of time to think. That thought I had about killing my boss hasn’t been back. Banished by warm reality. I do not put a container of feces on her desk. A little while ago I finally shook the balance loose, and I think that’s settled me down. My boss really isn’t so bad, even with her “evaluation” bullshit. Hell, I’m sure she’s had to be “evaluated” more than once, herself. That’s what we do, isn’t it? Just now, I heard her chuckling over something or other. It’s a nice sound. And the day is winding down. Soon, night will come.
Night has come: magical, mystical, moony, loony night. I love the night and want to be out in it, I want a drink, action, fun, glamor, companionship, magic, sex. I stand, newly energized after a hot shower, and slip into night clothes, black slacks, boots, suede coat. I’m 57 and I feel good.
I return by car to Belltown and slip serenely into Rob Roy. Gray stone brickwork around the bar and subdued lighting give the place a chic, sixties elegance that pleases me. The clientele, though, is not elegant, and they’re all staring at cell-phones. The bartender, a bearded young guy in a plaid shirt, sets down my drink without a word, without looking me in the eye. Okay, fine. Two fleshy-faced yobs are yukking it up, trying pathetically hard to impress each other and a dark-haired young woman perched on a nearby stool. One laughs too fervently at the other’s comment—HA-HA-HA-HA!
“Thank you,” says the other one, obsequiously. Then, he says again—yells it, actually: THANK YOU! The young woman pays them no mind. I see this little drama unfold, and see her flick an eye at them, then at me, then away. She has definite style. I think she might be French. No particular reason, I just think that.
I focus on the elegant stacks of bottles and the miniature copper still that sits on a corner of the bar. Cute little thing, bulbous and beautifully crafted, the copper gleaming sumptuously. The thing offers me a moment’s pleasure, but the indifferent bartender and the yobs and the dopes staring dumbly at their phones are already starting to turn my evening sour. I am once again compelled to consider my inner anger and how it could be the death of me. Right now, for example, I feel like telling the yobs to shut up. That, of course, would result in unpleasantness. The yobs look like they might enjoy some unpleasantness, especially with someone they probably would consider a wimpy-looking old guy who maybe has a face like their high school English teacher or someone else they hate. This suspicion makes me hate them and want to lay into them, but I restrain myself. I doubt that they have the remotest sense that this guy just a few feet away is restraining himself from laying into them.
Various other instances of anger boiling up but going unvented: a man jaywalks across heavy traffic and walks toward me. I want to admonish him, but I don’t.
I’m on the bus and a kid sneaks in the back door without paying. I want to challenge him, but I don’t.
I see drivers cutting through the parking lot at the donut shop rather than staying in line at the light, to save thirty seconds. I want to run up to their cars and kick the doors hard. But I don’t.
A guy butts in on the bartender just as I’m ordering my drink. I want to bark at him and box his ears, but I don’t.
I hate myself.
I suppress my anger by focusing again on the ranks of bottles. I love looking at bottles in bars, and think about the distilleries, the quiet, tidy places with quiet, tidy men and women going about the business of making pleasant-tasting toxins that age us prematurely. I wish I could try at least three a night, but know that’s impossible. Still, it’s nice to see the bottles and study the beautiful amber tints and inhale the subtle aroma of liquor.
A couple of the whiskeys are labeled “peated.” What the hell does “peated” mean? Half the damn language doesn’t even make sense, anymore. Well, never mind. I’m drinking Dewar’s and it goes down fine.
I look around and see that the dark-haired young woman remains on her perch. She runs a hand through her hair and gives it a demure shake, a gesture that stirs in me a faint but unmistakable arousal. I look the other way; I don’t like anyone getting the idea that I’m some dirty old man. I only want to sit and enjoy my refreshment and entertain my thoughts in peace. I’m not looking for anything. In the brief sweep of the eye, though, I notice that the young woman is not paying any attention to the yobs. She is, however, paying attention to me.
No. Impossible.
Nevertheless.
Flick goes an eye. Boing! She is lovely, lovely and alone and looking at me. Christ on a crutch.
I have to wonder: is she putting me on? Is she regarding me ironically or critically for presuming to hang out here at my age? Or is she angling for an older man with “security”—i.e. money. It’s always a possibility.
I think hard about my next movement, and what I might say to break the ice. “Break the ice”—I can’t believe I’m even in a situation where that is a factor.
I flick my eyes at her and see that she does not look away. She is looking at me and smiling, softly, warmly. I realize with a cold blast of terror that we are about to become lovers. My mind races, trying to think of things to say that will facilitate this process. Things like, Did you know that buying a roll of Life Savers can make you feel young again?
I shiver uncontrollably as I perch on the cusp of having somebody. Somebody to think and talk about all kinds of things with and go to shows with and eat breakfast with and share a bed with. And a bathroom. I feel transparent, weak as a child, which of course I am. Then I think of something Shakespeare said: Desire outlasts performance. Cruel chap, that Will. But then I have a feeling that anything he said won’t much matter.
Before I can let that deflate me, another thought muscles in and crowds all others out, a thought that makes me happier than I’ve felt in a long time. Maybe it’s silly, this thought, but maybe I just don’t “give a shit.” And with this thought bringing a smile to my lips, I rise and step toward the woman. She smiles at me, and as I fall ever so gently the 93 million miles onto the stool opposite her, I say, “I failed to completely evacuate my bowels this morning. How are things on your end?”