The velvety chime from the phone goes off at
5:15. I’ve been awake since 4:30. Laying in bed, my mind is tired but my body
is kicking to get moving. I want to sleep in until 6:00. That’s not going to
happen. Once I’m awake, the day is a treadmill I’ve been strapped to. No wonder
those used to be torture devices in 19th century debtors’ prisons.
I exhale forcefully, the air rushing through my
chapped lips. I peel the covers back and move like an invalid, putting my feet
onto the floor’s frigid resistance. Rubbing my temples, I make a sour face and
hit the “stop” button on the phone’s interface. The room returns to the fan’s
ambient seething.
The dresser drawers open and I pull out a pair
of torn up jeans and a black and purple Miles Davis t-shirt. The latter
is a Christmas gift from my little sister. The bed gets made. The covers
tightly wrap around the mattress’ corners and edges. The right side of the bed
has an indentation. The left side is perfectly flat. Queen size bed. Wishful
thinking.
Breakfast is an obscenely large bowl of oatmeal
with Stevia and cinnamon followed by a protein shake. I consume 800 calories
easily in just under a half an hour. Everyday I wonder how many starving
families in developing nations I could have fed. Instead, I stay alive so I can
have first world problems.
As I shovel spoonfuls in my mouth, Stephen
Colbert lampoons the news. Something about Trump, Herschel Walker and the
upcoming elections. This season is especially personal for me; I did canvassing
for the Democrats for a few weekends in Reno, a purple area. The polls are showing
the GOP getting the house. The Senate is now a toss-up. Life is Vlad the
Impaler. My efforts are now skewered on a stake amongst the living forest of my
cohort’s mutilated hopes and dreams.
Dismayed, I stop really paying attention. Even
if I was, I’d forget all of this by tomorrow. The wall at the dining table has
a mood scale taped to it. It’s positioned perfectly above the laptop screen’s
height. Every morning I read it. Today’s forecast: low of 51 and high of 66,
with withdrawal of social situations, less concentration than usual, slight
agitation. Advice: layer up and find comfort in routine.
A 10,000 lux lamp’s rays penetrate my corneas
and dive straight into my retina. The coffee drizzles into the pot from the
spout. As the cistern fills, the room smells more and more like the elixir.
Legal, socially acceptable drugs. I’ll end up drinking the entire 8 cups this
morning. I haven’t drank alcohol in eight years but I consume enough caffeine
in a day’s time to cause an elephant sudden cardiac death. This will hopefully
elevate the mood forecast from a 5 to at least a 7: a balanced mood,
positivity, fewer signs of depression, with life going well and a saccharine
outlook. Caffeine: bolstered moods for the interim followed by a crash. Legal.
Cocaine: same. Illegal. Both: addictive and have withdrawal symptoms. Hmmm…
I turn youtube off, my efforts and enthusiasm
now harpooned from one orifice to the other and put on display for the town to
see. I put on the Slipknot album “We Are Not Your Kind” on Spotify. The dishes
get washed. Foam roller and stretching routine follows. Behind whatever Francis
Bacon-esque mask he's wearing, Corey Taylor cycles between singing and roaring.
“I'll never kill myself to save my soul
I was gone, but how was I to know?
I
didn't come this far to sink so low
I'm
finally holding on to letting go
You've
killed the saint in me
How
dare you martyr me”
Rolling
on the stiff material is painful. With the stretching routine, it takes me
almost a full half hour. Everyday maintenance. What a drag it is getting old.
Death metal, a bucket of oatmeal and a lethal dose of caffeine. The latter is
my mother’s little helper. I heed your advice, Mr. Jagger, as well as that of
the mood scale: find comfort in routine. I shall, I shall.
My teeth are brushed, I’m fully dressed, my
lunch and my bottles filled with electrolytes are in my backpack. About to head
out the door, I remember something. I dash back to the bathroom to the sink,
unscrew a dram amber bottle. 300 mg of lithium. Down the gullet. The cap gets
replaced and the bottle is returned to the other neighboring medications and
supplements.
It’s still dark outside. I hate winter and
daylight savings. Thank goodness for the 10,000 lux. No wonder I have been
fatigued and internally agitated lately. The transition from late summer to
early fall happens quickly, the tilting of the Earth’s axis at its peak
velocity. One day it’s sunny, the next we’re shrouded. This time of the year is
always tough for people like me. And everyone wonders why I abhor the cold
weather: it’s not the weather, it’s the lack of light that affects my
disposition. If it were brighter out, I’d probably be okay with the cold. As it
is, I’d rather be in a cave and hibernate through this time of the year. This
season, I’ll be home for the holidays with a toe tag.
Maybe I do listen to just a little too much
death metal in the morning.
The street is empty save for the contents of
some trash bins that have been strewn about. Some vagrants must have gotten
into it. I have mixed feelings about the homeless problem in this city.
Graffiti adorns the side of one of the apartment buildings. I read it: “Geo reg
zeros bit winding bask aides batters ash brat blabs, hispanics waned immigrants
bull replace abe write paced.” I’m mildly annoyed. If someone is going to
graffiti, at least make it something stylish and/or profound. Instead, this
vegan gets more (word) salad.
“Morning, Jordan,” Miguel waves. He has his mask
on. There’s no one else around and we’re outside.
“Hey, Miguel,” I say back to him, smiling. I
hold my coffee full of cold brew up to him.
“Are you rowing today?” He asks. His expression
hides behind the cloth.
“Today’s a lifting day.”
“Well, have at it and keep it up. You’re an
inspiration.” He never lets up his pace as he passes me by. I see him walking
all hours of the day everyday. So much so that I wonder if he even has a job.
He lives in the nicer condominium buildings in the vicinity. There are several
people like this around my neighborhood. They do so much strolling that I
wonder how they get any work done at all or if they just inherited wealth and
bought a swank loft and now spend their day socializing with their neighbors
and getting expensive coffee and pastries from the artisan bakery.
Food scraps, containers, newspapers, pizza
boxes, broken glass are splattered across the ground like an urban
evisceration. Two men sift through the dumpster. One of them stands on the
pavement, collecting the cans into a trash bag. The other is in the dumpster,
foraging for anything that can be returned for meager compensations. Every so
often, a can flies out and the outside man catches it and stuffs it in with the
others.
I try not to look at them or the mess. In my
peripherals, the outside vagrant in layers of soiled, tattered, second hand
clothing turns to me. I avoid eye contact. In my peripherals, weeping lesions
and sores cover his hands and face. His features barely peer through the
defiled integumentary.
Work is at Truve, a personal training and
fitness studio. The doors are open. Bread and wood oven aromas from the
adjacent bakery wafts, filling the studio and tantalizing the sweaty, gasping
bodies. It should be a ticketable offense to have enticing treats within a mile
radius of a fitness facility.
The
doors lead into a wide open, high ceiling room. The sky lights above are a moot
point this time of the day and year. Squat cages, dumbbell racks, weight plate
trees, shelves of various fitness equipment are up against the walls. Two large
tires are in the corner. Trainers and clients are all at work. Malik is on the
first squat rack with his badass client, Brianne, squatting impressive weight.
He spots her as she grunts and curses to get the bar up.
“Morning, Malik,” I say with pressured cheerfulness
as I walk by, remembering my self-scored 5 from the chart. I make earnest
attempts to force that number up.
“Jordy!” He yells, turning his head slightly in
my direction, trying not to take his attention away from Brianne.
I walk by the third squat rack. What looks like
a circuit of trap bar deadlifts, bench press, t-bar rows and box jumps is set
up around the apparatus. Blair is on it with her two female clients. She
smiles, her eyes closing slightly as she waves to me and says “Good morning, Jordan.”
Her thick, obsidian braided hair is pulled back into a tie. Her two clients say
nothing but nod at me. They drip sweat and take labored breaths as they rest in
between sets. All of the women in this gym are fit and gorgeous. I learned ago
to keep my interactions with them minimal or nonexistent; they’re here to get
down to business.
Jeff, my first client of the day, is amongst the
benches near the dumbbell rack doing his rotator cuff and core work. I say hi
to him. He raises his upper arm with the dumbbell and smiles warmly like the
baking pastries and sourdough next door. I put my backpack away in the break
room upstairs but take my coffee mug and two shaker bottles with electrolyte
fluid. My emotional support liquids. Like my breakfast, I’ll be voracious and
down 20 oz of the cold brew and then 40 of the electrolytes. No wonder I run to
the bathroom every 20-30 minutes.
My
office is the middle squat rack. For many reasons it is my favorite squat rack.
For one, it is pushed up against the retrofitting and not the wall. This
displacement makes it easy to squat on the inside of the cage and perform pull
ups on the outermost bar, away from the wall. Secondly, it sits in between both
weight trees, making it easier to get to whatever plates I need. Next to the
weight trees are adjustable dumbbells, eliminating the trip across the room to
the rubber hex dumbbell rack. Not that I’m particular or anything.
Today
is Tuesday, “Dia del Peso Muerto.” Deadlift day. I see Jeff today for the
respective focus, Thursday for squats and Saturday for bench press. With his
leggings on, he is prepared for that bar to grind against his legs. After he is
done warming up, he comes over, looks at the 225 lbs. of iron and bumper plates
and forces a smile. Welcome to the cheese board, Jeff.
“Remember the first couple of sets are the
worst,” I say.
“I know,” he sighs. He gets to moving the
bar up and down, finishing after the 8th repetition. He then moves on to bench
press, starting at 155, working his way up gradually over the sets to
230. The 225 lbs. of bar and plates on the floor increases over the first
half hour to 335. After each set, I give him words of encouragement or
affirmation. After the last sets, we transition to box squats and t-bar
rows.
“What’d
you do this weekend?” he asks me. When Jeff starts a conversation it means his
coffee has kicked in.
“Oh,
you know, same old: trained you on Saturday along with all the other clients…
did my work out afterwards…”
“Three
hours?” He says, racking the excess plates. His gorilla arms are encased in a
thin film of sweat. The muscles underneath flex and relax as he grabs the
different weights.
“Yeah,” I say with shifting eyes. “You know me…
went home, did admin work, took an edible, wrote some gibberish that I wasn’t
really happy with. Sunday I got up, went for a 40 mile bike ride, and met
up with some friends in the city for dinner.”
“Whoa. Sounds full as usual. What was wrong with
the writing?” He asks. He positions the J-hooks up on the cage to his
shoulder’s height.
“Well, not necessarily unhappy with it - I just
didn’t write very much. I’ll have to pick up the slack later on. National Novel
Writing Month is next month. I’m just trying to get the creative juices flowing
and it’s proving to be difficult.” I say, and put the bar on the hooks and then
place a 45 and 25 on the left end. Jeff does the same on the right. “I
think the more notable thing going on is that I have my fifth Tawkify date
tonight.” I scratch the back of my head and smirk. Jeff has his back to me.
“How’s that going?” He gets under the bar and
begins warming up his box squats.
“It’s going,” I shrug. “Nothing noteworthy to
report yet.”
Alison, the manager, power walks through the
door. If she were a manual transmission car, she would have no 1st gear. Her
arms swing aggressively, spinning a set of keys in her hand.
“Malik, you forgot to turn the lights off last
night when you locked up!” She says, not slowing down as she makes her way to
the stairs.
“I wasn’t the last one here,” he says, spotting
Brianne now on dumbbell chest presses. He retorts but Alison is already across
the large room, bounding up the stairs. Malik raises his eyebrows and shakes
his head, keeping his hands underneath Brianne’s elbows.
“Good morning - nice to see you too, Alison.” I
say loud enough for the room to hear me. Malik looks over, shows his teeth and
snickers a little. The scar on his cheek has left a bare spot where his salt
and pepper beard would otherwise be covering it. The laceration left the
proximal skin barren, like the surroundings of Lake Karachay. Malik seems to
pull it off fine, though, adding character to his good looks.
I often wonder what it’s like to survive half
the shit Malik has gone through and still be even-keeled about everything. But
then I remember there’s not much I know about him other than our mutual love
for exercise and writing. It’s hard finding kindred spirits to hang out with:
they’re all just as much of a stalwart workaholic.
11
am rolls around. Done with my last morning client, I quickly shove two
bagels into my mouthhole and wash it down with a pre-workout drink. Gathering
my shoes, belt and chalk, I head to the lockerroom to change into my lifting
attire.
The
workout takes 3 hours as usual. Feeling fatigued, I power through the supersets
and heavy compound lifts. The first circuit is the worst. As soon as I get
through squats and pullups, everything else becomes a breeze.
I shower, get back into my regular clothes, get
protein and quickly eat from my tupperware consisting of braised tofu, quinoa
and grilled vegetables. Meal prep and shopping takes four hours every
Sunday.
Why everything good for you takes so much
fucking effort is a mystery and unfair. It’s frustrating that the human body is
so prone to entropy; there has probably never been anything good for
someone that didn’t require exorbitant energy. Prepare and eat this protein or
waste away; pump and drink this water or desicate in three days; meditate
everyday and do a gratitude journal or you’ll be an asshole; exercise daily for
at least an hour or get metabolic disease; work or be homeless; read or be
stupid. How wonderful it would be to be a leopard or panther: beautiful but
whose sole purpose is to conserve energy, expend it only when hunting and sleep
the rest of your life.
At precisely 2:30 pm, my phone rings. “Anya -
Tawkify” reads across the phone screen. There’s a backdrop of Heironymous
Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights. Green button for “Answer.”
“This is Jordan.”
See Spot.
“Hello, Jordan, it’s Anya - how are you?”
See Spot Lie.
“I’m great.”
“Are you looking forward to tonight?”
“Absolutely!”
Lie, Spot, Lie.
(Transcript
Lost: Insert Cursory Exchanges Here)
“So,
I have some information on your date tonight! I’m super excited about this one;
we put a lot of thought and time into it. You two have a lot of overlapping
interests: she works in the mental health field as a copywriter, races horses
professionally and is also in the fitness industry - very much like you. She is
super close with her family, studied PR and Advertising in college. Some
hobbies include hiking, camping, being outside, exploring, dancing, cooking,
sci-fi movies and books, learning about the brain and body and spending time
with friends. Her inner circle would describe her as fun, a great listener,
nurturing, introspective, self-aware, genuine, and active. Finally, she’s 5’6,
has no kids, doesn’t want kids, is culturally Jewish and lives in Oakland. What
do you think?”
I try not to sigh. “She sounds great.”
“And of course, I’ll send you all that
information in text so you can review it and have some things to talk about
tonight on your date!” She says, placing a strong emphasis and ascension on
those last three words.
“That sounds great, Anya. As always, I
appreciate you and the staff’s efforts. I’m feeling good about this one.”
“Me too! Take care.”
“Take care, Anya.”
I press the button to hang up. The black
background goes to the unlocked home screen. Underneath the icons, a painting.
To the upper left, a hill is covered with harpies beating on naked souls. In
front of that, a large head acts as a part of the landscape, opening up its
mouth, exposing its inside full of deformed creatures mutilating and
dismembering the tortured. To the bottom left, a man vomits over the side of a
wall onto an unsuspecting woman who is being violated by a avianesque-humanoid
creature. To the right, a castle is being stormed, soldiers in the buff being
impaled on long pikes. To the bottom-right, a man is crushed by a flat boulder,
his inside splattering outward. The sky above is ablaze, billowing with smoke
and silhouetted with buildings, fire-shedding their veneers, exposing their
endoskeletons.
I put the phone in my lifting pant’s side
pocket. Putting on my hoodie, I grab my sling bag and go back downstairs and
onto the main floor of the gym. 2:45 pm. Still another 5 hours before showtime.
Dinner menu: cheese, catfish, raw prawns and the rough end of the pineapple. My
3 pm group is here. Though I am delighted to see them, my quads and neck go
tight. My hand wants to massage my temples. I refrain.
“Hey, guys!” Plus de fromage. “Looking forward
to deadlift day?”
“Always,” Tyler says.
Dev just smiles and laughs like he always
does.
I
end the day with Lisa and Jennifer, my two biotech lawyers. A completely
coincidental, random pairing that somehow made for a great training couple and
friendship. The two now hang out outside of sessions together. Luckily, this
job is a social scene. Those who train all get along. They all have two
fundamental things in common: fitness and the means to afford it.
Home is a 4.5 minute walk. It’s 7 pm. I have 45
minutes to change, groom and walk half a mile to Hopscotch on Telegraph. Plenty
of time. My universe is small. That’s the way I need and like it.
Passing by the same area as the dumpster and the
foraging vagrants, I notice the neighborhood clean up has hauled away the mess.
Some shattered glass is scattered and sprinkled over the crack and pothole-ridden
sidewalk and pavement. The transgressed car has long since moved. The shards,
a.k.a. “San Francisco Snow,” remains. Staining the side of the neighboring
building is the fresh graffiti I saw that morning. I imagine it will take a day
or two before someone comes to paint over it.
I get to the main entrance. The window next to
the door has been smashed as has the entry console. Getting out my phone, I
open up the Butterfly app and slide my finger across the “Open” bar. The door
chimes and unlocks, letting me in. Thankfully the vandalized device still
works.
Once in my apartment, I quickly disrobe, putting
all my work clothes and sling bag onto the bed. The clothes I am wearing for
tonight are already hanging on the back of the door: dark blue slacks, burgundy
button up, black leather shoes, black socks, black leather jacket, black
undershirt. Everything gets on easily except for the button up; the top three
buttons don’t fit over my chest anymore. My watch’s digital face reads 7:15.
Being conservative on time estimates, I don’t bother changing the shirt. It has
already been dry-cleaned along with the slacks. Everything else I own either
doesn’t fit anymore or is horribly wrinkles.
My back pocket vibrates. A text from Tawkify.
The camera recognizes my face and unlocks the hidden text:
‘Hello from Tawkify! Looking forward to your
upcoming date at 7:45 pm PDT. You’ll be meeting at Hopscotch - 1915 San Pablo
Avenue in Oakland, CA 94612. Your date’s name is Molly.’
Well, I’m sure Molly won’t care about the wrinkles
in my other shirts but I’m trying to be extra careful. Though now I’m concerned
about the three buttons. Behold ant hills as mountains.
The phone rings, the Bosch backdrop lighting up
again in my hand. “Judith Smith - Mom.” I scramble for the bluetooth
headphones, take them out of the case and quickly put one in each ear. I’ll
talk to her as I’m walking. I take one last look at myself in the mirror,
observing my attempts to hide the unintended undercut the barber gave me a few
days ago. It’s still plainly obvious and hasn’t grown out at all. Styling it
with various products hasn’t hidden it in the slightest. The blonde hair, blue
eyes, chiseled features and robust, sinewy build will undoubtedly work against
me. I may as well be wearing an all black Huge Boss outfit and an iron cross
and goose step my way to dinner.
I get the sling bag with my leather jacket in
it, turn off all the lights and leave, locking the door behind me.
“Hey, mom.”
“Hey, hon, how are you?”
“Good!” Spot returns.
“Are we still on for…”
“Saturday? Yes! I haven’t
forgotten.”
“Okay. Usually you send an invite over but I
never got one.”
“Oh yeah, I must have forgotten to attach your
email to it. I’ll do that right now…” I open up google calendar and put mom on
the invite for “Julia and Katie Birthday Dinner” and then the namesake emails.
Skipping down the stairs, I’m finally feeling my feet and legs being a little
bit lighter. The ground floor exit opens up onto 23rd street. I make a right
and start walking to Telegraph.
“You have your date tonight?”
“I do.”
“How’s your mood?”
“It’s meh.”
“Be optimistic.”
“Optimism is the sole ingredient of
disappointment.”
“Don’t be pessimistic.”
“‘Pessimist’ is just a hopeless optimist’s way
of labeling a realist.”
She
laughs. “Oh, son, you always have a snappy answer for everything.” Everyone in
my
family is endearingly addressed by their role.
“You
know me - I try my hardest.”
“How’s
your rapid cycling? Under control?”
“My
psych put me on Lithium and it seems to be doing the trick. A bit drowsy but
it’s
getting better.” I’m passing by The Legionnaire,
the bar around the corner from me. For a Tuesday night there’s a surprisingly
large crowd hanging out in the patio area. Not quite cold yet, I keep my
leather jacket in the sling bag. Amongst the loiterers is a woman and man
smoking cigarettes. Pints in hand, their heads go sentry in my direction as I
pass by.
“It’s been a few months but it’s under control.
Better even.”
The man gulps his beer, his facial features
hiding behind the pint glass. His stringy blue hair and eyebrow piercings are
prominent. He does a poor job of hiding his scrutiny of me. The woman next to
him keeps warm in a woolen cap, keeping her dreadlocked hair in place. She
sports patagonia and hemp bracelets. The man whispers something over to her,
his gaze still fixed on me. She glances over at me too. Ignoring it, I keep the
pace and conversation going.
“I’m walking there right now.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s a place called Hopscotch. I’ve never been
there.”
“Are there vegan options?”
“I don’t know - I guess I’ll find out when I get
there.”
“What if there’s nothing for you to eat ?”
“I’ll figure it out. There are plenty of other
places to go in the area.”
“So you don’t need to stay at that restaurant?”
“No, we’re just meeting there - if we decide we
don’t like it, we can always go somewhere else.” I’m on Telegraph and Thomas L.
Berkeley corner near the rock climbing gym. I press the walk button. One lone
car sits at the stoplight. No other drivers are crossing the intersection. The
red light is stubborn. Both the car and I wait begrudgingly. On the ground are
a couple of knocked out teeth and a large stain of dried blood, bile, and
mucus.
“I suppose there will be other places open that
we can look for. I’m kind of in the mood for Souley Vegan but I don’t know if
my date will be.”
“Do you know anything about her?”
I give mom the details that Anya, my matchmaker,
gave me.
“Horseback rider? She might know
Lyssette.”
“I doubt it.” ‘And I hope not.’ My shoulders and
neck tighten up. “Anyway, I’m getting close, Mom. Thanks for calling and
checking in on me.” Mother Teresa doesn’t have a thing on any mom, especially
not mine.
“All right, hon. Love you!”
“Love you too.”
To my right is an office building with all of
the lights on.
MLK, Thomas L. Berkeley and San Pablo collide
together like an urban planning satire. The Alameda County Office of Social
Services is conveniently located near the Greyhound Station and Public and
Transitional Housing and a drug rehabilitation clinic. A senior living facility
is within a few blocks.
Here, sidewalks, public spaces and medians are
fair game for tents, makeshift dwellings and shelters, shopping carts and
scatterings or mounds of trash, the surrounding bins forgotten or flippantly
denied. Shriveled saplings and abandoned or burglarized cars punctuate the
sidewalks and parking zones, respectively.
Everyone living here does so for a number of
reasons: skyrocketing housing and rent prices; loss of jobs due to recession or
the lockdown; bused here from other states; kicked out of state-run institutions;
mentally ill. With no money, family or resources, the unfortunate are forced
into the streets.
Some argue over whether the City of Oakland has
any power over this and just decide to do nothing. CalTrans kicks the
encampments out of a place and closes off the area with high steel fences. As a
consequence, the homeless get shuffled around. This does not to solve the
problem - it merely temporarily displaces it. A bureaucratic game of urban
musical chairs.
Chaos rules the encampments - drug deals and
use, disease, prostitution, rape, interpersonal violence and conflict are
resolved with little to no intervention. A tacit understanding has been
established: neither the authorities or encampment residents want to commingle.
So they don’t. The way one does something is the way they do all things:
wasteful, sinecure politicians do nothing to get to the root of the problem,
opting instead to trim the leaves, if that.
Hopscotch is a block away from the bedlam. The
establishment and its surrounding businesses maintain order and isolate
themselves from panhandlers and the criminal element. There’s even an outdoor
dining area at Hopscotch that was set up after lockdown. The outdoor dining
extends outward from the building and onto the sidewalk. Brazen. Stupid but
brazen.
I walk through the door and across the black and
white checkered floor to the 50’s style swivel stools at the bar and take a
seat.
“Good evening! How may I help you on this fine
night?”
“Table for two. It’s actually a reservation
under the name Anya Clark for 7:45.”
The host looks at his tablet. Anya is listed on
the first page.
“Right there. Did you want to sit at a table or
the bar?”
“I think I’ll sit at the bar for now. I’m
waiting for someone but I don’t know if she’ll want to eat.”
“Totally fine! Hang out as long as you want.” He
says. “Right this way. Help yourself to a drink. I’ll leave you a menu
anyway.”
I take a seat on the swivel chair’s red vinyl
cushioning and put the sling around the backrest. Getting comfortable, I rest
my feet on the railing below and take out my phone to start reading from the
kindle app.
Page 190 goes over “Social Zeitgebers and
Zeitstorers.” Translated, the former is a time giver or time que. These refer
to environmental variables that act as circadian rhythm and/or time cues. This
includes daytime hours, concentration of light, seasonal fluctuations,
temperature, weather and even the moon’s photons. Zeitstorers, literally
translated, means “time killer” or “time disturber.” This would include unexpected
social events that throw off one's routines; travel; new relationships; any
sudden change in someone with a mood disorders’ normal rhythm or patterns that
could possibly trigger a depressive episode.
This makes me recount the past year and a half
in comparison to the year in lockdown. In lockdown with Vanessa there were no
outings; we all stayed inside; food got ordered in; shopping was done via apps.
If we did go outside we had masks on. We cooked every meal at home, kept a
strict regimen of exercise, didn’t drink, rarely took edibles, no traveling.
Life became a flatline. Those were simpler times. Possibly even better times.
If only I had had more patience for her decline we’d still be together.
Sometimes “good enough” should just be good enough. “Perfect” and/or
“effortless” is a pipe dream.
The light gets blocked. Turning around in the
swivel chair, I am confronted with a woman in a stylish, intricately crocheted
sweater, fitted blue jeans, leather boots and scarf. Her hair is wavy, the left
half of her face looks like it has been dragged across miles of concrete,
exposing her gums and teeth, and her eyes are hidden behind stylish
shades.
“Molly, I presume?”
Her head ticks and cocks side to side in a
spastic movement. She opens her mouth, spilling black liquid and saliva onto
her sweater. It oozes onto and saturates the thick wool. The excess rolls off
in beads and drips onto the floor.
“Hi, Jordan.” She takes her seat next to me,
removing her scarf. I wish she had sat to my right so that I wouldn’t have to
look at the rotting half of her face. Suppressing my visceral reaction, I
ignore it, trying to look at where I think her eyes are behind the shades.
“So, this is funny - it looks like fate has
brought us back together again.” I say.
She looks down at the counter.
“Yeah…”
“Well, that’s great, I really wanted to meet you
after we connected on OKCupid but it looks like we both got busy and didn’t
stay in contact. So that’s nice that we’re here on an actual date. You seem
super cool and interesting.”
“You made me uncomfortable over our
texts.”
“What? Really? I did?”
“Yeah.” More fluids spill from her mouth and
onto the table. Her shoulders tick upward, her body jolts and spasms. With her
fingers, she starts playing in the pool that has formed in front of her. She
smears it out into a flat, thin puddle. With her finger as a writing utensil,
she begins drawing.
“Wow. Okay. I’m really sorry about that.”
“A lot of people make me uncomfortable. I expect
nothing better than that.”
“What did I say?” I try to use these faux pas as
learning experiences. The last thing I want to do is come off as entitled and
aggressive.
“You asked me on a gym date.” She says. The
filth in front of her is now smudged from her fingertip, revealing a stick
figure wearing a hat and sitting on a horse.
Waiting, I say. “And…?”
She wrenches towards me. “What do you mean
‘and’?! That was enough!”
“Oh no! I’m - I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to come
off like that.”
The bartender walks over as he dries a pint
glass with a dark cloth.
“Can I get you anything? Drink, menu… whoa!” He
puts his glass and rag to one side and covers his nose. “Dear God, where is
that smell coming from?! It’s like rotting fish!”
“That’s okay,” Molly says, “I’m not staying.”
“Oh?” The bartender asks.
“No, you made me uncomfortable on OKC. I don’t
want to be on this date.”
“Oh, man, I’m really sorry, Molly. Look, I can
make it up to you - I think we had a misunderstanding. Here, I’ll buy you dinner.
On me. Think of it as a penalty for me being an asshole.”
“Really?” She sounds unimpressed.
“Yeah, for sure. I feel really bad and I want to
make it up to you. I know we barely know each other but I’d really like to get
a second chance and express how sorry I am. Look, I really had high
expectations for tonight. I really wanted to meet you.”
She looks in my direction, devoid of any
expression. Her arm twitches as it rests on her lap. Lifting her hand up, she
wipes her nose, smearing the black liquid over it. “Fine. I’m here. Might as
well. I’m hungry anyway.”
“Thank you, Molly.” Some relief.
“I’ll stay.”
The bartender pulls out another rag from under
the table and begins to reach for Molly’s puddle. Like a reflex, she grabs his
wrist. “Don’t.” She growls. The debrided part of her face raises up slightly.
With her exposed denticulations and oral cavity, it merely adds to what is
already a fixed look of disgust.
“But I - “ he begins.
“Don’t fuck with me.” She tosses his hand back
at him. With his hands up in the air, he backs up slightly.
“My mistake. It’s a lovely picture.” He smiles.
“We can even keep it there as a permanent fixture.” He steps away, bringing
back two glasses, filling them each with water. She looks down at it tacitly
and then pushes it away. The glass falls over the back edge and shatters on the
floor. Ignoring it, I take a gander around the restaurant. In a corner near the
entrance, I see a female-female couple. The one against the wall peers out of
the corner of her eyes in my direction. She shakes her head at me as she blows
steam off of her clam chowder. A deep laceration in her jugular area weeps as a
few maggots feed on the gangrenous tissue. The other woman eats her reuben
sandwich.
“Did you have a chance to look at the menu?”
Molly asks.
“I did, actually. I think I’m going to go with
the vegan BLTA.”
“Vegan BLTA?”
“Yeah, I’m vegan. The tempeh bacon - from Whole
Foods, I’m assuming - is delicious. But don’t mind me - get whatever you feel
like. Get a steak if you want to. No judgments here.”
“So you think you’re better than me?”
“What?! No, not at all. I choose to eat this for
a myriad of reasons but it has nothing to do with vanity or sanctimony.”
“Whatever. I’m getting the veal.”
“That sounds good.” I wave down the bartender.
He comes over, wiping his hands on his apron. I put the order in.
“Anything to drink?” He asks.
“Nothing for me. The thought of anything liquid
makes me want to vomit.” Molly states, trepidations absent.
“How do you want that steak cooked?” He keeps
the crook of his arm over his nose.
“Cooked?” She seems almost offended. “Don’t cook
it - give it to me as it is, genius.”
“Sure. Um, do you want silverware?”
“Of course I want silverware. What am I - some
kind of brute?”
“Right, silverware. Got it. Your meals should be
ready in about 10-15 minutes.”
Things settle down. Molly and I have a
relatively pleasant conversation. I ask a lot of questions. She answers in a
torrential deluge of unabashed irritation and sometimes incoherent thoughts. At
one point she starts raving about the deep state and George Soros funding Black
Lives Matter so that people of color can replace caucasian Americans. I ask
follow up questions, she foams from the mouth and excitedly answers.
With a napkin in my lap, I remember to take more
refined bites and masticate thoroughly. Normally I’m in a rush to eat in
between clients. Now I’m out for the evening. I can settle down. Molly mauls
her raw steak, the silverware ending up as a cursory suggestion. Aside from the
snarling, chewing and ripping of connective tissue, she remains silent during
the wanton feasting. Afterward the veal is gone, she burps heartily and licks
the plate, smearing black fluids all over the white ceramic. Her sunglasses stay
on the entire time. Curious, I take a chance.
“So, Molly, I like your outfit.”
“Yeah…?”
“But why the sunglasses - it’s night out?”
“It’s too bright in here. Also too loud.”
“Oh. Well, in that case I can pay the bill and
maybe we can go somewhere with less intense light.”
“Let’s go for a walk so I can digest.”
“Sounds good. How did you get over here? Maybe
we can drive over to the Embarcadero in Jack London and walk along the water
front.”
“Took an Uber. Where am I anyway? I got out of
the car and that’s the first thing I remember from this evening.”
“You’re at 1916 San Pablo Avenue at Hopscotch.”
I’m keeping it together. No need to judge. The bartender comes over with the
leatherbound tablet and begins handing it to me.
“Someone was hungry…” he begins. Molly hisses
and bears all of her teeth. She jumps up onto the swivel chair and then over
the bar, sullied hands reaching out at our server. Colliding with him, the two
fall back into a shelf of glasses and saucers and then onto the floor, Molly on
top of him, mouth agape and flinging fluids everywhere, biting at him. As he
screams, he tries pushing her away. This only further aggravates her as her
movements become more violent and thrashing.
“Good God!” I jump over the bar and try to
restrain Molly. The rest of the room gawks in horror. The female-female couple
rushes over, crowding the back bar area. The curly-haired Reuben-eater pulls
Molly away while the one with the gaping neck wound tries to get me to calm
down and back off. In a rush of adrenaline and other flight-or-fight hormones,
I push the woman off of me, who then falls backwards and knocks into the soda
fountain.
“We gotta go!” I yell to Molly. I help the
bartender up and grab my blind date by the hand, the other woman rushing to
help her partner. “I’ll come back later and pay the bill - I promise!” I grab
my sling bag and her jacket. As we are dashing out the door, the two women
scold the bartender, saying he shouldn’t sneak up on ‘their kind’ like
that.
Sensitivity training noted.
I have her hand and sprinting with her down San
Pablo towards Broadway and Frank Ogawa Plaza. Hopefully we can hide out
somewhere and wait for an Uber to take us to the Embarcadero.
“Where are we going?” She asks, now sounding
more meek and confused.
“Don’t worry about it!” I yell to the front of
me, not caring if she hears me or not. At this point I doubt it would make any
difference if she did.
We get to an archway that leads into the grassy
area of City Hall. She’s panting effortfully. I am too. I get my phone and dial
up an Uber. I would be calling it a night but all I can remember is the flat
side of my bed. I dial in the address for Plank. My plan is to get dropped off
there and go for a walk. The ride and the promenade should calm us down. We can
get a drink at the Heinold’s First and Last Chance Saloon. But then I forget
that neither of us drinks. Me for alcohol and for Molly liquids of any kind.
Just a walk it is then. In either case, making out on one of the piers with the
lit up city sounds romantic if I can pull it off.
The black Honda Civic pulls up. We walk over to
it. I open the door for her and she climbs in.
“Good evening - Oh God! What is that smell?”
Wearing a mask, even the driver is assaulted by the smell of dead carp.
“Please just deal with it and I’ll tip you
extra.” I say. Nothing is going to get in the way of me getting any action
tonight. The driver reaches into the glove compartment for another mask. He
doubles up and carries on, rolling down the two front windows and turning the
vents on full blast.
The city passes us by as we glide down Broadway.
The Financial District streets are mostly empty save for a few late night
dining spots. Chairs are turned upside down onto tables in most windows; gates
are down; people in sleeping bags rest in doorways and vestibules. The days are
getting shorter and colder. I wonder how the ill-fated survive winters. But
then I wonder how anyone survives anything. Molly plants both hands on the
window, frantically cocking her head towards objects as they pass by and
disappear out of sight. How she’s able to see anything with the sunglasses on
is beyond me.
We go under the 880 and are officially in Jack
London. The car arrives at Plank. I get out and come around to let Molly out.
Her face is up against the tinted window. Opening the door, I tell the driver
to have a good evening and “thanks a ton”. Without a word, he quickly speeds
off as soon as the door is secured.
We walk around the large building. I know where
to go. We’re walking abreast, her bare hand swaying by her side. Every so often
she staggers or loses balance but then quickly regains equilibrium. Water
Street’s restaurants and bars are open. The crowds are getting smaller and the
staff look like they’re closing up. Somehow, Heinhold’s is still popping. The
music is on but not as loud as it normally is. Cheering emanates from the open
door on the log cabin structure. Must be game night of some sport. October
Baseball, I presume.
Molly’s staggering gets worse. All the dehydration
is probably getting to her. Finally a stumble almost becomes her downfall. With
reflexes, I catch her and bring her up.
“Whoa whoa - are you okay?” I have her arms in
my hand. She’s warm, even through the jacket and sweater.
“Yeah, I’m fine, just a little delirious.”
I look at my reflection in her sunglasses. Save
for the decaying side of her face, she’s actually quite attractive. The silence
is thick and awkward as I try to get a sense of what gears are turning in her
head.. Finally, she pulls the shades off. Heavy bags sit under her ombre green
eye and the other one is hanging partially out of its socket. I get viscid
details of the interior: optic nerve, musculature, fissures, foramen. I
struggle to not make a face. Now I’m feeling liverish.
“Um, hold that thought,” I say. “I actually
really need to go to the bathroom. I forgot to back at the restaurant. I’ll be
right back.” I kiss the living side of her face and run off to find the pier
that I used another time to urinate under. Coincidentally, that was another
date. I remember I actually chose this area for the same reason I did for that
date: a romantic place to make out. Now it is a little different. I need to
rally my troops. I want to hold to my standards but also remind myself that any
port in a storm will do. I’m skin-starved. Then I remember that she is probably
too but in a more technical way.
‘Okay, okay, think about this long and hard,’ I
say to myself. ‘This is the first successful date you’ve had in a while and it
cost you roughly $540. Do not waste it.’ This is the pragmatic side of my brain
thinking purely of finances and loneliness. That’s fair.
‘You may not have another date if you decide to
exchange fluids with this one,’ the more reasonable part of my brain says.
Okay, Id and Ego, you are both at odds. Superego, you’re the tie-breaker here.
What do you think?
‘Fucking run, man!’ Superego says. ‘Your life is
more important than this! Do I really need to spell it out for you?!’
Two out of three: I’m calling it a night.
I climb under the pier and find a clearing
amongst the dirt and rock. I unzip and take care of business on the side of a
piling. Finished and about to leave, I spot something white with protrusions on
the ground. I take out my phone and turn the flashlight on. Pointing it on the
object, it illuminates. I identify the bloated fingers, pallor of the wrinkly
skin, fleshy point of dismemberment and the hacked bone.
“Oh Jesus,” Je dis sans passion. I point the
phone light around, scanning the area. 10 feet to my left I spot it: the rest
of the naked, mutilated carcass. Teeth marks abound and large pieces of missing
musculature, the tide having wiped it clean of fluid, leaving a salted and
brined preserve. This night is far from over; I can’t very well leave it here.
Already anticipating the lack of sleep, I dial 9-11. A cheerful voice comes
onto the line.
“You’ve reached the Oakland Police
Department. Please hold while your call is answered by the next available
representative.” I wait for what seems like an eternity.
‘Hurry the fuck up,’ I say to myself, thinking
about a staggering and dazed Molly on the street. A person finally answers.
“9-11 emergency, this is Janelle speaking,
how can I help you?”
I describe the scene, location, and events
leading up to the phone call.
“What does the body look like?” The
emergency line asks.
“I’ll take a look.” I inch closer to it. The
skin of the face has been completely excoriated, as has much of the musculature
and scalp. A piece of the upper right trapezius, left pectoral, lower right leg
and both hands. The abdominal area is gone, revealing the viscera and what
appears to be many lengths of it either gone or strewn about. Random bite marks
are all over it as are crabs and other carrion-eating marine life. Whether a
rabid animal or person did this is beyond me. Neither option would surprise me
either. I relay the information to the operator.
“Okay, your ticket number is 66705. A police
officer will be out in a couple hours.”
“A couple hours?!”
“Stay with the body in case we need more details
and so we know where to look for it when we contact you.”
“Oh come on - I want to go home!”
“Thank you for doing your civic duty. Have a
nice night.”
‘Ah great,’ I say to myself. So much for being a
good samaritan. I pull my sling bag over my chest, unzipping the big pocket and
taking out a bottle of electrolyte water. I chug it with shaking hands,
completely emptying the inside. I replace the bottle and look at my watch: 9:45
pm. Way past my bedtime. Had Molly not had an eyeball hanging out of her socket
the dead body would have been a real mood killer. Guess I’ll go back up onto
the sidewalk and tell her to call it a night. At least now I have a good excuse
to end the evening.
I climb up the metal ladder and onto Water
Street. The noise from Heinhold’s has been drowned out with what sounds like
yelling and commotion. A crowd has formed in front of the table tennis area
where I left...
“Oh no - Molly!” I run over to the crowd,
pushing my way through the mess of coats, arms and bodies. Sure enough, Molly
is tackling and biting at an unsuspecting male. I rush to her and pull her off
of him. She thrashes violently, biting at my arm and successfully sinking her
teeth into the leather jacket I got from mom last Christmas. Christ! - her
teeth are sharp enough to go through thick, authentic leather. It hurts like
hell.
“Ow, fuck! God fucking dammit!” I yell, tearing
the coat off and grabbing the open wound. At first I see the teeth punctures
perfectly in the skin. A few seconds later, they disappeared from the
free-flowing.
“Where did you go?! You left me!” Growls a
seething Molly. Her teeth are black and red. I’m not sure whose fluid is whose.
It has all spilled over her lips and chin and drips onto her once lovely
sweater. It’s sacrificial now - not even the most aggressive dry cleaning or
stain removal can save that intricate crochet work. “And this motherfucker had
the gall to come up to me and ask me if I am okay!”
My heart is pounding, my chest is heaving as I
hold my leaking forearm around the entry points. I stare into Molly’s eye.
“What?!” She screams.
“Well, are you?”
The crowd gasps.
“What?!” She says again, this time baritone and
lower volume.
“Are you okay?”
The crowd mutters. Some shake their heads,
others glare at me.
“You’d better choose your next words carefully
or you’re dessert.”
The crowd goes silent, waiting for me to answer
her.
Glancing around, I think on my feet.
“You know, Molly, as much as I had a lovely time
tonight, I don’t think it’s going to work out between us.” As the words come
out, I’m looking for the break in the crowd that I can escape through. But then
something happens: Molly’s face goes soft. The gaping wound in her face still
makes it looks like one half of her is sneering. The other half with the loose
eye, however, looks crushed.
“But, I thought we had a good time!”
“Yeah, I did, Molly.” I stand up and soften my
stance. “It’s just that - you know, I have my own issues. A lot of issues, as I
said earlier at dinner. But I think we’re a bit different in how we deal with
our respective issues. As smart, talented, beautiful and accomplished as you
are, I just can’t date someone who won’t go see a doctor when half of their
face is rotting or their eye is clearly divorced from its socket. I have grown
to like you in this short time together but I think we both have a lot of work
to do on ourselves.”
The crowd begins angrily murmuring again.
“I wish you the best. And if you’ll excuse me, I
think I have to help take this gentleman to the hospital.
Her eyes look down. Her head follows. She starts
sobbing, putting her face in her hands. The pendulous eyeball gets partially squished
back slightly into its rightful orifice.
Still bleeding, I take my taste-sampled arm and
place it under the crook of my other armpit. I walk over to Molly. Members of
the crowd talk amongst themselves and observe. I reach out my right hand to place
it on her shoulder. Instantly she bats it away.
“How dare you judge me! If you really love
someone you’d accept them the way they are! Scars, warts and all!” She yells,
her eye flinging around. “I’m sick of hearing this! ‘Molly, you should really
do something about your mouth foaming,’ ‘Molly, go see a dermatologist’, ‘dear
God, Molly, what are you doing with that knife?’ Can’t you people just accept
that this is the way I am?!”
“Yeah!” A man comes up to the front of the
crowd, his arm severed from the elbow, its end teeming with a variety of larvae
and detritivores. At least the bleeding has stopped on the stump. “It’s super
patriarchal of you to hold someone to society’s unrealistic standards of
beauty! Shame on you!”
‘Oh boy.’
Another woman with a face full of nodules,
ulcers and a missing nose and sporting a lululemon warm-up outfit and down
jacket runs over to console an hysterical Molly. “Dear, don’t mind him - he’s
just a pompous chauvinist - “
“Don’t you fucking touch me!” Molly screams, yet
again, jumping on the unsuspecting woman.
“Yes, that’s it - don’t let the man bring you
down. Express yourself!” Someone else in the crowd yells. Everyone instantly
turns to pure turmoil. Biting, fist throwing, disembodied limbs, appendages,
fluids flinging around. A woman takes a chunk out of another’s jugular; a man
tears off the arm of a woman walking her dog; an older gentleman gets his head
torn off by a man and his female partner. The evening is ending in a way I did
not anticipate but am not surprised by. I see Molly somewhere in the phalanx on
top of the lululemon woman’s body pulling, long fibers of epithelium, basement
layers of fat and fascia. Apparently I was right - she does like the skin on
her meat.
I see an opening and make my escape. Luckily my running
speed hasn’t waned. Don’t skip leg or cardio day. Sling bag around my shoulder,
I dial 9-11. It goes to an answering machine. I have to do something about this
bite wound. Once I’m farther from the scuffle I’ll look for an all night urgent
care in Chinatown. I remember I saw one somewhere on the corner of Renaissance
Plaza at 9th and Webster. I went there once to have labs done. I tear my shirt
off and wrap it around the wound. I can make it if I’m running. The pressure
will slow down the losses. The distance will take 6 minutes but it’s a game of
constraints: run faster and the blood pumps more aggressively; too slow and I
bleed out. I decide to jog. I don’t know if this is the best idea but it’s the
only one I have. 9-11 still hasn’t gotten back to me. They are a joke.
Arriving at the plaza, I take the escalator and
find the suite number on my phone: 219. Luckily the waiting room is completely
empty. I can be seen almost immediately. The woman in green scrubs, surgical
mask and face shield checks me in and uses latex gloves to hand me a clipboard.
Taking a seat, I fill out the information. I’m starting to feel a little
lightheaded. I turn around in the chair to face the window. I’m already looking
a little pale and balmy but that could just be from the running.
“Jordan, Dr. Won will see you now.”
Getting up, I am feeling even more dizzy. I try
not to stagger over to the entrance door to the GP’s office. It’s difficult.
The assistant shows me in and tells me to sit on the exam table. The disposable
paper crinkles as I put my weight on the cushion, my feet hanging above the
ground. The assistant takes my temperature. 100. Pulse is 90 and blood pressure
at 140/92.
“Everything is very high,” she says with a
thick, Eastern accent. She jots down the numbers on the chart.
“Yeah, I was bitten. I’m bleeding badly. Do you
think you can hurry up the doctor?”
“Yes, yes, I can.” She wheels the gurney away
and exits. A few moments pass and Dr. Won opens the door.
“Hello, hello. I see we are in for animal
bite.”
“Yeah - I mean, no. It was a person.”
“A person?!”
I’m mildly delirious. “Yeah, a date didn’t go
well.”
“Oh,
yes, I see now. I get these all the time!” Dr. Won has his examination light on
and is shining it directly in my face. I squint. He begins waving his finger at
me. “You should have treat her better!”
“Yes,
yes, I know. Thank you - I know - I’m a terrible person for not treating her
right. Look, I’m losing a lot of blood here. Do you think you can just clean me
up, suture me and pump me full of some HRIG and get a blood transfusion?”
“HRIG?
Blood transfusion? How do you know this?”
“I’ve
been here before, Dr. Won, so trust me on this one.”
“Okay! I trust you and treat you! First you take
off shirt so we can inspect you all over. Make sure you not bleeding anywhere
else.” He goes to the cabinet and gets out his suturing kit along with
povidone-iodine solution. I disrobe down to my underwear. He turns around,
takes one look at me and immediately jumps back.
“What happened to you?!” He gasps, backing up
into the counter space and sink.
“What, these?” I showcase my limbs and torso.
The scar tissue has long since healed and quickly - one of the very few advantages
to rapid cycling. Some of them are obvious bite marks, others are four or five
parallel lines indicating fingernails. On my thigh are four, second-degree burn
marks: self-inflicted from red-hot knife cuts. In my left chest, punctuating my
silent trumpet tattoo, is a deeper, fibrous pockmark from when I was shanked in
the state-run psychiatric hospital. Ah, memories. How time flies.
He nods, puts the supplies on the counter and
comes over to inspect me all over. Collected, he clears his throat and tells me
only the forearm is of concern. I go over to the sink and wash it off with soap
and water for 15 minutes, following with a rinse of the iodine.
“How did you get all of those?” After being
silent throughout the rinsing, he finally has the nerve to pry into my personal
life. “It is my business to know. I am doctor. If you are being abused at home,
you must tell me and I can help and refer you to resources.”
“I appreciate you asking me,” I say, wincing as
the iodine soaks the calming teeth marks, “but I do it to myself.” I also want
to say that this geographic area does not have help for people like me; apex
predators had our chance. If we’re not on top of the heap from all the
privilege and power we were born with, then we are the ones who fucked up our
good fortune. Rocks can only be thrown up and never down. I hold my tongue,
lest I dredge up a heaping, stenching dumpster of personal matters.
Won has a soft face like a middle-aged Jimmy
Stewart. He nods with genuine fatherly concern. I can tell a hug is in the
holster. It never gets pulled. I see this everywhere: my therapist; coworkers;
dad; friends; everyone who wants to get closer but doesn’t for
self-preservation. I bring my therapist, Emily, to tears every week with my
aforementioned dredgings, hoping for my silhouette to dissolve. Through a
virtual conference, the hug never happens. I get it. Invisible walls are
everywhere. Those who keep the walls up don’t get bitten. I’m stupid for not
having a moat with marine predators, barbwired fences and guard towers. I know
why - I hope for touch that caresses and does not break my skin, bones or
heart.
I put my pants back on and sit down in the
chair, placing my arm over a metal pan on the counter. The nurse comes back in,
bringing in a blood transfusion bag. She cleans my right antebrachial vein and
then secures the catheter needle, taping it in place. Won takes out the
suturing supplies, puts on latex gloves and begins threading the curved needle
through the outer part of the skin where the marks are. The piercing needle is
not so bad - it’s the pulling of the wound flap with the tweezers that
hurts.
“How are you doing? Does it hurt?” He asks.
“After decades of being an intense athlete, one
learns to push through and keep going.” I say. “Plus you’ve seen my piercings
and tattoos. Needles don’t bother me.”
“That true. But I get patients with same things
and they still scared of needle.”
“I guess I have a weirder relationship to pain.”
“Yes; I see you are strong. Pain is sign of
weakness leaving body.” The needle bridges the wound edges, tightening the two
flaps of skin and flesh together. He repeats this every few millimeters,
bringing the wound in tighter, like a long, agonizing process of closing a
zipper.
“Maybe physical pain builds people. It certainly
built this body,” I say, “but there are a lot of other types of pain I never
seem to grow accustomed to.”
He smiles and nods with sympathy. Like he hears
and sees me as he filibusters on the House floor. His wedding band is bulging
and visible through the latex gloves. His several credentials are advertised on
the walls along with pictures of him and his smiling family. My left hand is
naked and cold. I know for a fact he doesn’t actually understand what I’m
saying. He can look at me and see the dense actin and myosin that can bike 100+
miles or push or pull hundreds of pounds. But he’ll never see my innately enlarged
amygdala and know just how weak and vulnerable I truly
am.
It takes him an half an hour to finish
closing the wounds. He places gauze over it and wraps it with an Ace bandage. I
wait with the catheter in my arm, staring at the wall. Not doing anything while
I wait to replace plasma is pleasantly boring. After an hour, Won comes back in
and removes the needle and patches me up, sending me on my way.
Walking home from Chinatown to Northgate Waverly
takes 20 minutes. My feet drag up the stairs and through my door. Immediately I
run to the toilet and try to vomit. Dry heaving commences and continues for
fifteen minutes. I feel bilious but it looks like there’s nothing to purge.
Exhausted, I do my bedtime routine. I add four times the recommended dosage of
a benzodiazepine to my cocktail of other pills. Stripping down, I throw my
clothes onto the desk chair in my bedroom.
I walk over to the mirror near the entrance,
turn on the light and look at my body. A history of skirmishes and scuffles
decorate it. I wonder what I’m going to look like ten years from now if I keep
this up. I sit on the floor up against cupboards and try to force a tear out,
hoping it will calm me down. Again, nothing.
I stay there long enough for the Ambien to kick
in. The world starts to familiarly melt and stretch. My cue to get into bed.
Flashbacks of the evening intrude my efforts to think about something else.
Eventually, I fall asleep.
Morning comes early again. Same ritual: too much
oatmeal, too much coffee, too much reality and too much death metal. It’s a
gamble of how I’m going to feel after a night like that but I’m actually
feeling quite optimistic, even motivated to clean a little bit before work.
Fortuitous is the GRE word I’m looking for.
I get to work. Mara is my first client, a
middle-aged nurse. She and I have been mitigating her back pain by following
the instructions from her physical therapist. The condition is doing better but
we still modify some of the exercises and program until we get the greenlight
to return to our regular regimen. A hearty woman from Texas with a can-do
attitude that doesn’t take shit from anyone, I watch her do squats shallower
than normal. When she racks the bar and turns around, I’m relieved to see that
the skin and flesh on her body is intact.
“How was that?” She asks me.
“Great. How’s your back?”
“A little stiff but I think the more we get
warmed up, the looser it will get. Still better than a few weeks ago.”
“Good and you’re sticking with the stretches and
mobility that the PT gave you?”
“Absolutely. Still, it sucks getting old.”
“I think you’re doing just fine. Better than
most people half your age who don’t do shit for their health or wellness.”
Alison, the manager, sits on one of the weight
benches on her phone while her clients perform Romanian Deadlifts with
protracted shoulders, rounded spines and locked knees. I keep to Mara and
refrain from commenting as always.
Mara asks me how my week is going. I tell her
about the date last night. She keeps doing her dumbbell rows. She doesn’t
respond while she’s mid-exercise but I know she’s listening. She finishes her
tenth rep on each side and puts the weight down.
“What happened to the body?” She asks.
“Oh, shit, that’s right - I completely forgot
about meeting the cops there. It was such a chaotic night that I just fled the
scene.”
“Jordan, you called the cops?” Alison overhears.
“Yeah, there was a corpse underneath the dock.”
“That’s such an abuse of your male white
privilege to use the cops to come to your rescue with your petty problems. Do
you know what year it is? The relationship between cops and civilians isn’t
exactly great…” before she’s able to finish her thoughts, her nose starts
gushing blood and an incisor falls out, also uncorking a reservoir of body
fluids. It cascades onto her shirt, phone, purple leggings and onto the
floor.
“Shit! Look what you made me do!” She yells as
she runs for the cubby near the group exercise room where towels are supplied.
Grabbing a towel and holding it to her face, she leaves a breadcrumb trail
across the smooth concrete. Double backing, she runs to the bathroom down the
back hall. Someone stabbed Jeffy and dragged him through the facility.
Looking at the venous losses on the floor, I
turn to Malik and Blair.
“Did I really do something wrong?” I ask with
anxious earnestness.
They
both shake their heads.
“You’re
fine by me, man. I would have done the same thing if I had found a dead body.
In fact, I had to a couple months ago.” Malik says. He lives merely a few
blocks from me.
“Don’t
even stress over it. She’s just hysterical.” Blair adds.
Relieved,
I languidly walk to the supply closet to get a mop, bucket and caution sign. I
don’t want to be blamed for letting a slipping hazard that I caused go
unresolved.
Finishing
with my morning clients, I race up the stairs to the break room to change into
my workout clothes. As I am pulling out my clip-in shoes for the fan bike, my
back pocket starts vibrating. I take it out. “Anya - Tawkify” shows up on the
screen over the Bosch background. Quickly putting in my bluetooth headphones, I
answer.
“This
is Jordan.”
“Hey,
Jordan, it’s Anya. Do you have a minute to talk about your date last night with
Molly?”
“Yes,
of course.”
“Well,
first of all, how did it go?”
I
tell her everything that happened.
“So
I’m guessing you wouldn’t go on a second date with her?”
“As
they say in divorce court, Anya, we have irreconcilable differences.
Particularly on the dietary front. That’s kind of a big issue for me. More so
than I thought previously.” I voice my other concerns, such as self-care and
politics. Anya listens attentively and takes notes.
“Well,
what rating would you give her for the date?”
I
think about it. “I’d say 3 out of 5. Good date but not great.”
“Would
you like to hear what she said about you?”
I
couldn’t care less. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Well,
once again, you got a glowing review. She already wrote it down as of this
morning. Here’s what she said: Jordan is adorable. He's honest, attractive, transparent,
forthright, generous, super curious, healthy, fit, highly intelligent, and very
energetic. I love how he is just who he is - no pretentiousness or games. It's
refreshing. He is easy to talk to. We shared a great conversation, and the food
was amazing. He was a total gentleman. Looked great, showed up on time, carried
conversation well, had lots to share, and asked good questions - he's a gem.”
I’m nonplussed.
“Are
you there, Jordan?”
“Yeah,
yeah. I’m here. It’s just that - that’s what Molly said about me?”
“Yes…
is – is that so hard to believe?”
“I
mean, that’s a stellar review.”
“It
absolutely is. We tell all your candidates these wonderful things about
you.
“Wow. Okay.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to see her again?”
I
hesitate for a moment. “Yeah, I’m sure. I don’t think it would work out. I
think our life goals and wants and needs for and from a relationship are just
too different.” The revenge and return of Spot. Mendacity does not become
me.
“Well,
I’m sorry to hear that. So since this is your fifth date, Jordan, and you
haven’t had any desire to reconnect with any of your matches, do you want to
put this process on hold or do you think you want to continue?”
More
hesitations. The goddamn image of the flat side of my bed haunts me again.
“Yes, I want to continue,” I say, practically through clenched teeth.
“I
admire your determination. We have to ask these questions. You know dating can
be exhausting and some people get burnt out and need to take a break, even when
working with a professional. But you sound upbeat. Good for you! Optimism is
the strategy! We’ll be in touch over the next few weeks while I vet for your
next match. Does that sound good?”
“Yes
that does, Anya. Thank you so much as always. You and the rest of the team have
been great and patient with me.”
“You’re
welcome, Jordan. Don’t forget to fill out the review for Molly when you have a
chance. We sent you a text with the link in it but it should also be in your
email.”
“Okay,
Anya. Take care.”
“Take
care, Jordan.”
“Bye.”
