Time has passed him by
Life continues
with its cycles
with its manifold excitments and exasperations
while he sits
gray, weary, jaded, still.
Babies are born, plants grow, funeral homes, withering leaves
Marriages, graduations, holidays
reminders, schedules, plans
What was he expecting to find?
Tragedies, police shootings, injustices,
Quiet joys, simple gifts, wisdom
Yet the trash is still taken out in the morning
Yet the rocks are still crumbling to dust
Yet the rivers carry dead bodies like floating logs
He hasn’t enjoyed a conversation in years
Why are they all so excited about these things?
He doesn’t understand the news
How do they all forget so easily?
Friends and family died years ago.
He became reconciled to his
constricting dreams and steady routines
Hot and cold. Light and dark. Day and night. Back and forth.
Changing seasons unaccountable treasons unfathomable reasons
They all kept moving faster and faster
Towards what?
They all captured, clicked, stared
They kept talking and talking and talking
It was as if he had gone off into the woods
and they had followed him there to mock
It was as if he had turned into a deaf, blind monster
and they were playing games with him
Over the years as he lost touch, lost empathy, lost hope
He wondered why he wondered why he wondered why
He never downloaded Pokemon Go
The explosion and craze of this Pokemon Go App is unprecedented. I’ve never seen anything like it.
In a week there are have been 7.5 million downloads and Nintendo’s stock increased in market value by $7.5 billion.
On my walk to work yesterday I saw crowds of people looking for Pokemon, one guy muttering under his breath, “I just want a fucking Squirtle.”
Armed robbers in Missouri used the app to lure victims to isolated locations, police said.
A quest to find Pokemon led a teen to discover a dead body in a river in Wyoming.
Watch your thoughts, they become your words.
Watch your words, they become your actions.
Watch your actions, they become your habits.
Watch your habits, they become your character.
Watch your character, it becomes your destiny.
Watch your thoughts.
For many years I’ve known, at least in the back of my mind, that thoughts are powerful, directional forces in one’s life. I remember in a college philosophy class reading these quotes by Marcus Aurelius:
“The soul becomes dyed with the color of one’s thoughts.”
“Very little is needed to make a happy life, it is all within yourself, within your way of thinking.”
Yes, Emperor Aurelius, what we think is important.
But we’ve all had those days where we wake up feeling morose and cranky…and the rest of the day seems to follow suit. Then there are those times we think unstoppable, triumphant, glorious thoughts…and all the circumstances of the day seem to work in our favor.
So the solution is simple, right? Just think more positively and have a better life…in the words of the poet Biggie Smalls:
Uh, damn right I like the life I live
‘Cause I went from negative to positive
And it’s all…(It’s all good)
But here’s my issue/concern #1:
How much control does one really have over one’s thoughts? How much should we expect ourselves to have the ability to watch over them? How does one simply “switch from negative to positive” despite the intervening chaos of the outside world?
Because the outside world often invades our thinking. We’re not empty islands of consciousness. We’re affected by our past and our surroundings. When you’re tired or you’re in pain, you think negatively. When you listen to a beautiful song, your thinking becomes brighter and more positive. Depending on what you eat, your thinking is altered (just now I crushed an entire box of cinnamon toast crunch and I “see” my thoughts are more sluggish and uncooperative.) If you’re high on drugs, you think you’re on top of the world. When your loved one is treating you cruelly, your thinking plummets. When you overcome an obstacle, do something kind for someone else, or even remember a special moment, the color of your thoughts change.
Over the years I’ve read hundreds of articles and books on free will and the brain. I desperately want to believe that the brain is more than a complicated muscle. There’s a burning conviction inside of me that I can mold and craft my life within reasonable bounds. But when I mentally step back I can’t get over the knowledge that your sense of self, your mood, your beliefs can be altered by poking, cutting, and tampering with the physical brain. Insert dopamine into the arcuate nucleus of the hypothalamus: happiness.
Unsatisfying Conclusion #1: The “self” is influenced by millions of unfathomable things…we can play games with it (in a bad mood? listen to your favorite song, exercise, remember a beautiful moment…then ride the mental momentum etc.) but this doesn’t take away from the fact that we’re constantly pushed and pulled around and it’s not always easy to press the on-switch of positive thinking.
Issue/Concern #2: Negativing thinking and doubt can be horrifying and tortuous now, but it may pay off in the future.
“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” -Friedrich Nietzsche
“My mustache is better than yours.” Friedrich Nietzsche
Contained doses of struggle has its merits. Whether it’s your leg muscles or your brain, if you don’t work them, they decline. Because everything is in flux, nothing stays the same (Buddhism 101).
“Difficulties strengthen the mind, as labor does the body.” -Seneca
“If there is no struggle, there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet depreciate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightening. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters. This struggle may be a moral one; or it may be a physical one; or it may be both moral and physical, but it must be a struggle. Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will.”
-Friedrich Douglass
“We could never learn to be brave and patient if there were only joy in the world.”
-Helen Keller
This means that negative thinking, mental struggle, and spiritual pain carves out parts of our mind and selves so that we think more clearly, simply, and positively in the future. Mental anguish makes us better on the other side.
So shouldn’t we, in a sense, say bring it on to negative thoughts? Shouldn’t we submerge ourselves in loathing and confusion? Because if we survive…we not only have learned about ourselves and the world, but we’re left with the residual belief that we can handle anything in the future.
Right now I could drop my writing ambitions and coast on positive thoughts for the rest of my life. Whenever negativity creeps into my consciousness I’ll jump on it and say: “At least I’m not starving, at least I can go to the movies, at least I’m not retarded or paraplegic, at least there’s bacon, at least my dog loves me, I’M THE MAN, LIFE IS GOOD.” But no…I return to my apartment and I’m consumed by doubt and anger. I beat myself up.
Yet how long will this go on? How much progress should we attempt to achieve through ceaseless struggle?
I used to read a lot of self-help books. Many of them have the following message:
What you think about, you bring about.
This is also themessage of “The Secret” or The Law of Attraction: By focusing on positive or negative thoughts a person brings positive or negative experiences into their life.
So if I focus, positively, on being a successful writer, on being a good person, on a healthy, sunny existence…experience will mirror my beliefs?
Perhaps…in my own, narrow way.
But I think this sort of positive thinking can be dangerous, can be stagnating. How does one improve if they’re always patting themselves on the back? How does someone move to another level in their art, in their thinking, in their confidence, in their strength, if they are busy telling themselves how good they are? Doesn’t calling yourself a wretched, stupid, lazy nobody provoke action to remedy the situation?
Today a regular came to my bar and was pissed off that he had to wait a couple minutes for his drink. Then he was angry that there wasn’t enough vodka in his Moscow Mule. Before he left, he told the new bartender that, “I’m actually a really nice guy. I’m not an asshole.” A quote from a Louis CK comedy sketch came to my mind: “Nobody’s allowed to say that they’re not an asshole. It’s not for them to decide! Other people decide whether or not you’re asshole.”
So can’t positive thinking, in a sense, be delusional? You repeat to yourself: I’m a nice guy, I’m successful, I’m strong, I’m charming, I’m caring…meanwhile, you’re a mean, weak, selfish bastard living in a hovel. Wouldn’t it be better if you had more negative, confusing, depressing thoughts? Wouldn’t that develop more empathy and understanding?
Unsatisfying Conclusion #2: Yes, negative thinking may bring about negative experiences…but it is also your brain searching and coping and digging through the maelstrom of experience.
“To live is to war with trolls.”
-Henrik Ibsen
All that being said, we should still watch our thoughts, positive or negative.
Humans are adaptable. This is one of our most defining characteristics. Not only have we adapted over thousands of years to cope with Mother Nature’s brutal indifference, but we adapt each generation to the new technologies and innovations passed on by our forbears.
But despite our ability to adapt to changes on the surface: faster communication, tastier and faster food, driving cars opposed to horses, easier access to healthcare, information, movies, pictures, more wealth etc. etc. etc. etc……some things never change. Love. Dreams. The unanswerable questions (why are we here? where did it all come from? What’s out in space? Debates on God, Free Will, and Justice.)) This explains the durability of art.
But something really really big has happened on the surface in the last twenty years, and I’m curious in what ways and to what extent it will impact our inner lives and what it means to be human.
Cell Phones: To communicate with anyone you know…instantly…whenever you feel like it. How does this affect the nature of relationships? How does this affect attachment? Letting someone go? Re-connecting with someone in your past? Expectations?
Internet: To obtain almost any information instantly…facts, statistics, short stories, articles…youtube videos on learning calculus, organic chemistry, sewing…to be entertained endlessly through more and more movies, music, comedy, interviews…websites exist that find you what you will like based on your interests.
It’s honestly overwhelming. And I think my generation is unique in that we grew up without cell phones or the internet. We were introduced to these technologies in our adolescence/high school. I can remember a world without cell phones or the internet, but I have “become an adult” with these technologies as a part of my life.
So how is the world different? Well, one thing I think the cell phone and the internet has done (and will keep doing) is create more pockets of fulfillment. This is subtle and most people don’t notice it (a negative of the internet and the cell phone is a lack of steady attention). Let me explain:
The internet and the cell phone have severely reduced transaction costs. In economics the term, transaction cost, is what you have to give up in order to make an exchange of some sort, or what you have to give up to participate in a market.
Time is a cost. In the past, your uncle may have a written you a letter saying that he has a $500 gold nugget he’d like to give you for free. (Note: nothing is free.) But if your uncle lives 4000 miles away and you have to spend three months traveling there, you may re-consider this offer. (Even if your uncle offers to pay for the travel expenses, you’re still giving up three months of your time to obtain the gold nugget.)
The cell phone and the internet have drastically reduced the time it takes to communicate and obtain information. I’ve often wondered why this hasn’t caused businesses to explode…but in a sense…it quietly has. There are more people selling, buying, and doing more, different things than anytime in the past…and it’s growing. Before you’d have to call landlines and leave messages. And you’d have to wait while you listened to these messages. Now you can reach Person A instantaneously:
“I need 25 cases of X by tomorrow 3pm.”
“Got it.”
*Click.*
So what do I mean by pockets of fulfillment? Two, random observations I had while riding the ferry boat back to Staten Island tonight:
1.) My co-worker bought a vape today in order to limit her cigarette smoking. She told me about her friend who is a “vape expert,” who is aspiring to join a select group known as the “vape gods.” She told me the story of how she bought the vape today…the salesman describing the parts, the designs, the nicotine liquids, the way to use it, etc. etc. he knewso much about vapes. The internet and cell phones have allowed markets to become more and more specific…not only concerning peoples’ specific needs (more healthy, more environmentally conscious, more “hip,”) but concerning the people who meet those needs (who designed the vape? who built the mouthpiece for the vape? who marketed the vape?)
2.) I read in a NY magazine about a new comedy group composed of 4 guys with Aspergers called Asperger’s Are Us. Could groups like these form and reach someone like me (a documentary was just made about them) without the internet and the cell phone?
But the major drawback of the cell phone and the internet, though…a loss of patience, a loss of attention. And often times people aren’t conscious of this loss of patience (I’ve noticed this especially with people under 22 years old), they just want this thing now…whether it’s a job that’s fulfilling, a relationship that works, an answer to a personal problem, etc. But some things, some truths, some feelings…take time. You just have to wait.
This story is extremely embarrassing and compromises my masculinity, but one must take no self-conscious prisoners in the glorious and noble pursuit of truth.
It was 2am on a Wednesday night. I was going home after a strenuous restaurant shift. While passing the subway shop in the St. George terminal I saw a pretty woman in formal dress walking ten steps ahead of me. Despite the friendly beckoning of the Indian man who works the graveyard shift at the subway (we often joke with each other that neither of us sleep, that all we do is work, give each other high fives, and he gives me free cookies) I merely acknowledged him with a head nod and kept walking. For some reason, in my exhausted, lust-shredded mind I thought, “Walk past that woman, just walk past her.” So I tightened my grip on the straps of my jansport…and increased my gait.
Once outside I passed her on the right and looked at Manhattan across the bay. Mission accomplished. But wait a second…what did I even do? “You’re an idiot,” I thought. “But don’t look back.” I walked faster and admired the lights of the skyscrapers in the distance. Someday, Manhattan, I will return. A feeling of conviction and power rose within me. That’s my city, the greatest city in the world, the city of fleeting chances, intensity, insanity, wretchedness, riches, loneliness, clashing and thrashing, thwarted and realized dreams, desperate hopes. It was a hot summer night.
“Hey, do you have a cigarette I could bum?” a feminine voice behind me asked. I turned around and smiled.
“No, but if I did, I’d give you one.” Yes, she was also pretty from the front…she looked Jewish. She had curly black hair, green eyes, and a nose ring. A quote from a story I read in the morning came to mind:
“It was a touchingly beautiful face, just as always the beauty of Jewesses is of a peculiarly moving kind – a consciousness of the deep misery, the bitter scorn, and the evil chances wherein their kindred and friends live, brings to their lovely features a certain aching tenderness and observant loving apprehension that strangely charms our hearts.”
I read too many books. I slowed my gait and she picked up hers.
“Why the hell are you wearing khakis?” she asked.
“I just got off work.”
“Where do you work?”
“I manage the bar in the Whitehall ferry terminal.” Now we were walking next to one another. I thought this was funny and felt strangely at ease.
“But why are you wearing khakis.” She might have been drunk, but she also seemed like a spark plug of a girl and peculiar. Her strong tone of voice and acerbic mannerisms struck me as flirtatiously inquisitive and feisty.
“I told you this already, I’m walking home from work.”
“Wait, do you live on Staten Island?”
“No, Brooklyn. I’m taking the long way home.”
“Oh my god, you’re hilarious. But really, you live, like, close by?”
“Fifteen minute walk down Richmond Terrace.”
“I’m down Richmond terrace, too.”
“Let’s walk together. I’ll protect you from any strange men you might meet.” She laughed.
“But wait…why do you live on Staten Island?”
“Cheap rent. Short commute. View of the water.”
“I mean…but why do you live here?” She was starting to get on my nerves. But I thought I’d at least get her number.
“I just told you.”
“But who lives here?! It’s such a shit-hole. I hate this place.” For the next five minutes she basically kept repeating how much she hated Staten Island and commenting on the ridiculous fact that I was wearing khakis. Then she stopped in front of some shadow-shrouded stairs.
“Hey, wanna come inside and smoke weed?”
“Sure.” I knew I wasn’t going to smoke weed…I rarely smoke weed with strangers anymore because I get the fear. But yes, I’d gladly follow a pretty woman into her apartment and see what happened.
Let me pause and say this kind of thing never happens to me. I’m not a strikingly handsome guy. Women have never fallen into my lap. I’ve always had to spit incessant, shameless game for a woman to think I’m attractive. The only time something remotely like this ever happened was in Atlantic City five years ago. My friends and I were taking an elevator up to our room and three, drunk girls joined us. One of them pointed at me and said, “You’re really cute. Come to my room in ten minutes: 2678.”
“I will.” Ten minutes later I’m sweating outside 2678 with a throbbing heart and a condom in my back pocket. The door opens to reveal an old man in a bathrobe, “Who the fuck are you?” I walk away.
Inside, the pretty Jewess’ apartment was a mess. Piles of clothes were scattered all over the floor. Weed paraphernalia littered a low table in front of a couch. There was a record player in a corner and abstract art on the walls. The apartment was spacious and looked large enough to accommodate two people. Ah, yes, that’s it…perhaps I’m a rebound. I’ll take it.
We sat on the couch and chatted about innocuous things. She worked for airbnb and didn’t like it. Her boyfriend moved out months ago. She still kept saying how much she hated Staten Island and asking why I lived here. “I refuse to answer those questions anymore.” A wave of fatigued washed over me and I almost passed out. I had pulled an all-nighter the night before and was averaging 4-5 hours sleep a night for the past month. Sitting on the couch and not moving made me realize how exhausted I was. Should I go home? No, of course not. There was a lull in the conversation and she said: “I’m usually more witty than this,” We were sitting very close to one another at this point: now now now. I clumsily kissed her, then she pushed me away. I’ve played this game before. I leaned back, put my hands behind my head, and relaxed. Again, I almost passed out. She smiled and stretched out on my lap. I massaged her breasts. They were large. She climbed on top of me and took off her shirt. Her body was nice. Better than expected. I was now fully awake. Most girls I’m attracted to don’t have large breasts, so I took this opportunity to play with them: lift, knead, grasp, flick.
“I’m gonna go take a shower,” she said.
“I’m coming with.”
“Alright.” We strip and step into the tub. Her eyes widen when she sees my body. With clothes on I look skinny, but from all the running I’m fairly muscular and girls are usually surprised when they see me naked.
While showering we kiss and play with each other. We also laugh and joke about things I can’t recall. At one point, though, I do remember her saying,
“You’re so weird. You’re like a dad.”
“I know. You’re not the first person to tell me this. I like being weird.” She kept leaning down and rubbing her butt (which was also nice) against my pulsing cock. I was consumed by lust and tempted to take her in the shower, but thankfully the voice of reason shouted: no way are you taking this strange woman who brings a stranger back to her apartment without a condom.
For a moment, while sucking on her nipples (which were on edge of being pancake nipples…but still very nice) in the shower, I thought about the silly absurdity of this situation. While on the ferry boat back to Staten Island I was thinking about working on my novel for an hour then blissfully passing out on my comfortable bed…now here I am, in a bathtub, gently rubbing this stranger’s clitoris while her nipples are in my mouth. How drastically our lives can veer in a different direction.
We dried each other off and walked back to the couch. For a moment, my vision faded while walking through her apartment…my desire for sex was fighting valiantly against fatigue.
We cuddled and kissed some more. I retrieved a crumpled condom from my jansport and put it on. She played “hard to get” again and playfully denied me, but we both knew where this was going.
I flipped her on her back and mounted her. I put it in and began slowly thrusting. She turned on her side and closed her legs more…I think to make herself tighter? Then something extremely embarrassing occurred which had never happened to me before…
I went soft. While inside her.
I pulled out. She climbed on top of me and I became hard again. I slipped it in. But after a couple of thrusts…
I went soft again. While inside her. The Horror The Horror.
She sighed and laid across my lap. Her smooth, round butt was inches from my face. My limp penis refused to respond. I ran my hands along the beautiful contours of her ass. I couldn’t understand what was going on. Here was a pretty woman who wanted to fuck…and my penis was letting me down. Like an idiot, I said,
“I’m…I’m really tired. I haven’t slept a lot lately.”
“Excuses.” She wiggled her butt. My mind continued to spiral down in confusion and loathing. What was wrong with me? This woman was hot! I wanted to fuck her, but…but…but…
I passed out. I woke up an hour later with her butt still inches from my face. She was asleep facedown on the couch and snoring. I gently lifted her off my groin, walked over to my jansport, pulled out a business card, and left it on the table.
Outside the sky was gray and the birds were chirping. Believe it not, I felt happy. One of the many reasons why I enjoy New York City so much is the innumerable possibilities for wild things to happen. I arrived at my apartment, slept a few hours, and went to work.
The next day she texted me. We flirted through texts for the next week. One night I was walking home and saw her sitting outside her apartment with a man. He seemed to be pleading with her about something while she looked disinterested. I asked her about it via text message the next day (“Was that your bf?” “He thinks he is. He wants to be.”)
Not long after I lost my phone and almost all of my phone numbers. Our conversation was lost. I’ll most likely never see her again. I do remember, though, the last thing she texted me when I told her she wasn’t that witty:
Yesterday I re-read Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, The Imp of the Perverse, and was still thinking about it an hour later while masturbating with my own feces.
Self-destructive behavior and self-destructive thoughts are an interesting field of study. In Eddie Poe-Poe’s short story he begins with an essay describing this principle of perverseness: “…an innate and primitive principle of human action, a paradoxical something…a mobile without motive, a motive not motivirt…through its promptings we act, for the reason we should not.”
In other words, we do the thing because a voice in our head tells us not to do the thing. Poe-Poe ends his story with the narrator admitting to the reader that he is a murderer who committed his crime without being suspected or punished. One fine day, whilst the murderer is “sauntering along the streets…murmuring, ‘I am safe – I am safe- yes – if I be not fool enough to make an open confession!’ he is stricken by the Imp of the Perverse and makes an open confession. He ends up condemned in prison wearing fetters.
But throughout this essay and story I couldn’t help but wonder: “Can we ever fathom all of the reasons for our actions? How much should we hold ourselves accountable for knowing the reasons behind what we do? Do we truly understand the “self” behind “self-destructive” behavior?” And concerning the battle going on in our heads “Do this, don’t do that.”…who are we to pick sides?
It’s all very confusing when you go down the rabbit hole…even Poe Poe says, “Nor will this overwhelming tendency to do wrong for the wrong’s sake, admit of analysis, or resolution into ulterior elements.” Yet here he is analyzing the tendency.
What if the narrator of the story had encountered a beautiful, intelligent, convincing Christian woman two months prior to his confession. What if she had preached the merits of confessing your sins. Maybe the narrator forgot about this woman, even though she still managed to alter an aspect of his subconscious. So it wasn’t the imp of the perverse telling him to do the wrong thing, but the angel of Christian morality telling him to do the right thing.
I felt hesitation typing the sentence, “masturbating with my own feces,” but I went along and did it. Similarly, I feel some apprehension and guilt concerning the unhealthy, sleepless lifestyle I’m leading in order to publish stories, continue with blog posts, novel, job, etc….but I’m destroying myself/health because I value a different aspect of myself: clarifying and simplifying my writing voice…working a job that allows me to keep living in NYC…providing my growing audience with posts to read…achieving my goal of supporting myself through writing.
We’re all destroyed in the end. Some of us do things in our lives which cause us to expire faster. From a narrow and limited perspective it may seem like the man swimming with sting rays is engaged in “self-destructive” behavior (Steven Irwin) but perhaps he values adventures with dangerous animals over personal safety. From a narrow and limited perspective is may seem like holding your breath for 17 minutes is “self-destructive” behavior (David Blaine) but perhaps you value testing the limits of endurance or proving skeptics wrong over physical comfort.
What makes all of this problematic and convoluted is the fact that we have desires and often these desires are subconscious or conflicting. Pussy, money, weed, love, comfort, attention, solitude. What do you want? In our fumblings and gropings to get these things we often engage in (what looks like) stupid, self-destructive behavior. We often have a voice in our head which shouts, “Don’t do that! It’s wrong!” but a quiet, subtle, more insinuating voice…with hidden, stronger motives…overrides and we do it.
Edgar Allan Poe was a controversial, combative, raging alcoholic who wrote gruesome, violent stories. I think an insight into his aberrant behavior and “terrible” stories is the last paragraph of The Imp of the Perverse:
“But why shall I say more? To-day I wear these chains, and am here! Tomorrow I shall be fetterless-but where?”
The deep and obsessive understanding that many artists have of the annihilation we all face leads them to act “crazy, self-destructive, wild, hurtful, outrageous, etc. etc.” Look at me! My paintings! My music! My words! I’m here! I’m here! Quick! Before I’m dead! Then their addictions or wild tendencies find free reign in the knowledge of the encroaching blackness.
My alcoholic grandfather used to watch joggers and say, “Poor bastard doesn’t think he’s gonna die.” This sort of thinking often leads to “I’m gonna do, think, or drink what I want…cause it’s all ashes and dust in the end.”
We shouldn’t give in to nihilism, though. I think the best we can do in order to avoid the imp is figure out what we really want…clarify it, repeat it, work towards it. And until then….you gotta just keep shitting in your hand and jacking off.
Last night a regular at my bar (“The Devil”…see People at my Job) pulled me aside and shoved his stinky-booze-breath in my face,
“Uh…dude…you should check out the bathroom…big problem.”
I opened the door and discovered shit smeared on the wall and shit-covered toilet paper all over the floor. I put on gloves, got the mop bucket, held my breath, and cleaned up the mess. Then I watched the security camera.
Two boys were the culprits. But wait a second…they were still sitting “with” their family at the restaurant! (Separate table though: telling.) I thirsted for some type of revenge, but I’m a manager and wasn’t about to make a scene, so my tactics for releasing rage were limited. Perhaps I should let the whole thing go? My nostrils were still quivering from the stench. Nay.
I approached the low table of adults and half-kneeled next to them (same plane of eye-contact, manager technique, disarming) and said,
“Are your sons feeling alright? Are they sick?” The parents and grandmother looked angry and confused.
“No. Why?”
“Well, fifteen minutes ago they went into the bathroom and smeared their shit on the wall and left shit-covered toilet paper on the floor.”
“Nooo, not them.”
“I watched the camera. It was them.” They paused and looked at each other.
“Ahhhhh, oh, yes, ____ wasn’t feeling well, we’re sorry.” They weren’t sorry. I had observed them since they sat down. They had sent food back twice and complained unnecessarily to the server. They were wretched, despicable human beings. The grandmother’s hideous face was lined with wrinkles of bitterness. The father had beady eyes, a hitler mustache, a pointy chin, and struck me as a prick. The mother was obese with sagging cheeks, bleary eyes, and wispy hair. The mother blurted:
“And?” The father added,
“What do you want?”
“Tell your sons that it’s inappropriate to smear their shit on the walls of a public bathroom.” The father nonchalantly leaned to the side,
“_____ and _____! Tell the waiter you’re sorry.” The boys hadn’t been listening.
“We’re sorry Mr.!” I walked away. Nothing had been accomplished.
Twenty minutes later I was working upstairs when I received a text message from a bartender:
“Customer wants to talk to you.” I went downstairs and saw the mother leaning against the bar.
“How dare you,” she said. “Never have I gone to a restaurant and had a waiter complain about me and my family. My son has special needs. He’s not stupid. He’s smart. But there wasn’t any toilet paper left and he didn’t know what to do. I’m writing a bad review as soon as I get home. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Sometimes, in life, I wish I was more of an asshole. Because if I was…I’d have been prepared for such an attack. I’d have lashed out with my opinions. I’d have been quick to the gun. But I’m not. Despite being socially pounded in the ass by NYC and restaurant environments, I look for the best in people. So I stood there, in disbelief, wondering if this woman was being serious at first, then letting her rant because what would fighting against her have accomplished? I knew there had been two full rolls of toilet paper in the bathroom in which her son/s had spread their feces, yet I let her shout, nod in satisfaction, and leave.
Twenty minutes later I found a server crying in a stairwell.
“I’m leaving,” she said. “Transfer all of my tables to Caitlyn.”
“Why? What happened”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I’m leaving.”
“Was it that table with the two, shitting-boys?”
“No.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No.” She doesn’t know that I had a crush on her when she was hired, but that it faded away due to time, the seriousness which we take our jobs, her comments implying being devoutly religious, and the social barrier of manager vs. server. Again, if I was an asshole I’d probably have ignored this barrier. But I wouldn’t put a woman in the pressured, difficult place of choosing between job/livelihood and pleasing a man above her. (How many millions of women are put in this kind of wretched situation everyday?) Besides, she had developed a crush for a bartender. That’s why she was crying. He was drinking after his shift at the bar and hitting on her too aggressively. There was a regular there who liked her, too, and was also hitting on her. Then there was a drunken, idiot saying inappropriate things about her yoga pants. The three guys were all sitting in a row next to one another and chuckling. (I learned all of these details later.) She just wanted to go home.
An hour later the only barback/busboy arrived at the restaurant. He hadn’t shown up for work the past two days and wasn’t responding to phone calls or texts. The police showed up, though, looking for him. Long story short, his girlfriend had put a restraining order against him. She had stabbed his ball sack with a box-cutter (did I want to see it? No.) He had slashed her ear. He had spent a night in jail. Here’s the paperwork. He’ll be in for work tomorrow.
At 1:45am I’m sitting in the ferry terminal waiting for the boat. I’m thinking how my life is a ceaseless grind, and yet there’s no way that my perspective is unique. Other people must be going through this sort of thing too. Other people must be coping with daily depressions.
But am I paying for wrong things that I did in my past, or am I being somehow prepared for obstacles in the future? That’s the problem with justice: you never know which direction it’s coming from. Are you being punished for what you’ve done? Or bombarded by senseless pain and confusion so you’ll be ready for what will arrive?
You ever hear someone say “I wish I was a little kid again”? Ever watch a movie or listen to a song that laments lost innocence and lost childhood? I couldn’t help but fall into the fantasy as I sat there in the terminal. What happened to my joyful innocence? How did I end up here?
But after indulging my childhood memories….here’s what I realized/was reminded of while sitting there: the problem, the ridiculousness of such a desire…when you’re a kid, you’re a leech. Between the ages of 0-20 (depending on your family environment) you’ve been provided for, allowed to play, given a fantasy world. Of course the memories are often rosy and nice when you could lounge with stuffed animals, draw in coloring books, and play games without worrying about the implications and support of such a lifestyle. You could smear your shit in a public bathroom without consequences. But that’s not reality anymore…that’s not life.
I think the sign of a mature mind is how fast you move on from the pettiness and problems of the daily grind. I’m not very good at it, but I’m getting better. Because while sitting there in the terminal and telling myself to stop fantasizing, I began to look around. Already the stress of the previous shift was melting away and the events that occurred seemed funny. I was looking forward to going home.
Meet Dick Fosbury…1968 gold medalist in the high jump:
While growing up, Dick Fosbury was a mediocre athlete. He failed to make it on to his school’s football and basketball teams, so he became a high jumper on the track team. At the time (early 1960s) high jumpers were clearing bars using methods such as the scissors jump:
The Western Roll
And the straddle technique:
In his sophomore year of high school, Dick failed to complete jumps of 5 feet (the qualifying height for many high school track meets) using the straddle technique.
So he began to experiment with other forms of high jumping.
But even while practicing high jump seriously and using the upright scissors technique, he was not particularly good. He was only able to clear a height of 5 foot 4, well below an Olympic standard.
At a Rotary meet they raised the bar to 5 feet 6 inches. Dick was frustrated and nervous. He’d knew he’d have to do something different. He attempted a variation of the scissors technique, lifting his hips up and pulling his shoulders back. That day he cleared 5’10. But he looked strange.
Because he looked so strange, coaches wondered if he was breaking some rule. But they discovered that high jump rules stipulate only that competitors may only jump off one foot at takeoff: there is no rule governing how a competitor crosses the bar, so long as he or she goes over it.
A revolution was born.
So Dick gradually adapted his technique to make himself more comfortable with his jumps and to get more height out of them. He began leaping over the bar by pushing himself back first, a bizarre technique that necessitated landing on his neck, looking like a corpse pushed out a window.
Of course there were doubters and haters. Spectators referred to Fosbury’s early attempts as an airborne seizure. Newspapers ran semi-disdainful headlines: “World’s Laziest High Jumper” “Fosbury Flops over the bar” (name origin), and comments concerning how he looked like a fish flopping in a boat.
Even when Dick began college, his coach, Berny Wagner, believed that Fosbury would eventually achieve greater results using the western roll (see above) and convinced him to continue practicing the old technique through his freshman year.
It is difficult to break tradition. Teachers sometimes don’t know what’s best for their students.
However, in his first meet of the season his sophomore year, Dick cleared 6 feet 10 inches using his flop method, shattering the school record. The superior results were too much for tradition. The coach let Dick continue with his flop.
Over the next few years Dick continued to refine his technique (developing a curved, J-shaped approach, adjusting point of take-off as the bar was raised, etc.) In 1968 he won the gold medal and set an Olympic and American Record (7 ft 4¼ in.) Now all elite high-jumpers use the Fosbury Flop. Here it is:
The “secret” behind Fosbury’s technique (which even he didn’t know at the time) was a physics idea known as “the center of mass.”
For every object we can locate the average position for all of its mass by taking into account how the mass is spread around the object.
With the old methods of jumping, the jumper’s center of mass was located on their body, so they had to make sure they applied enough upward force to have this center of mass clear the bar.
But with the Fosbury Flop, the jumper’s center of mass is located below their body, so they don’t need to apply as much upward force to clear the bar.
What’s important to know is that Fosbury didn’t know the physics. He just wanted to clear the bar. The physics explanation was an after-thought.
Lesson applied to Art and Business:
Clarify in your mind the end-goal: the emotion you want to convey, the product you want to create, the experience you want to communicate, the service you want to offer…then within a framework of rules…do whatever you can, harness your frustration and experiment, forget the doubters, remember that even your mentors can be stuck in a stagnating groove, adapt yourself and do what feels comfortable…as long as you clear the bar.
Life is a game filled with games. Don’t take for granted how people, even the ones you look up to, are playing it.
Because sometimes you gotta be willing to look like a corpse falling out a window to get what you want.
