I’ve come to understand that, in most cases, there is just one thing that is supposed to hold our attention. It’s usually the most obvious thing, and far more clever folk refer to it as “the thing right in front of you,” or “the task at hand.” Yet it could be anything. Whether we’re clipping off body parts and storing them in freezer bags, or filling our tax forms with bizarre scribbled figures, we know where our focus is supposed to be.

Even so, it’s difficult for me to lose myself in the moment. A given situation may be worthy of my attention, but time and time again I find myself distracted by the meta situation. The vaguest notion is likely to set my mind to recondite contemplation, and I soon lose track of things completely, like an autistic child distracted by a shiny button. A good example is my stepfather’s watch. When I was a child I had a stepfather who sported one of those auto-winding watches. I was fascinated how it whirred when he moved his wrist, which was usually when he was gesticulating at me during one of his tirades. A tirade is something you’re meant to pay attention to, otherwise why bother? But my mind was on that little mechanism with its flywheels and gears and… I didn’t actually know what was happening inside the watch, but by the time I emerged from thought it was already too late, and that watch was a hornet around my ears.

I go into each new situation with the best of intentions, determined to behold, consume, appreciate, without falling prey to the seductive analytical noise that whispers from somewhere close by. Sometimes I think I may even succeed. For instance, I recently managed to enjoy several sets at a local tennis event. It was during a slow weekend, and I had no pressing matters to attend to, so by all accounts I should have been able to surrender my attention to the little yellow ball. But that’s just it: the entire audience had already surrendered to the ball. Once the syncopated swivel of their sprinkler-like heads became apparent to me, any hope I might have had of being engaged in the rest of the match was lost.

The attendees were oblivious, and to a person, hopeless. I fancied I could hear their vertebrae grating against each other like granite blocks, and feared that their synchronized movement would generate eddies of air that, cumulatively, might soon suck down the roof of the stadium. At the same time I became very conscious of my own head movement, and the thought of joining mindless consensus gentium was out of the question. In fact I didn’t turn my head for the rest of the weekend, and spent the remainder of my leisure as if my spine had been fused.

Though my life of seclusion offers some respite from distraction, I still find myself occupied over things I shouldn’t notice at all. Very recently I’ve been hearing newscasters breathing. To be sure, any given news program consists primarily of actual news, recited by a photogenic crew, fleet of tongue, and authoritative. But the sheer volume of words involved in such presentations requires a precision of breath control matched only by the hurried inhalations of synchronized swimmers.

Unfortunately, once I’ve become attuned to the scantily camouflaged snort of an anchor’s inhalations, it’s all I can hear for the rest of the show. The rest of the monologue becomes a vague chatter, which is punctuated by a continuous chain of thunderous billows. I understand that the news staff must continue to feed oxygen to their respective brains, but must they allow the atmosphere to whistle through their teeth like a turbo prop?

Am I thinking about something, or thinking about thinking about it? The question occurs to me with increasing frequency, and I fear there may be no end to it. I wonder how self-referential this sentence will be, and if I’ll know when I’ve made my point. I’ve become an outsider in my own head. I’m just pretending, merely going through the motions even now. And if it’s true what they say, that in the end you are who you pretend to be, then maybe in the end I’ll be no one at all.

“Don’t use that one!”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because it’s the last one. We won’t have any more.”

The conceptual gulf between none and one is much larger than between one and many. As long as you have at least something, the thinking goes, you’re not left with nothing. There’s a stigma in our hallowed land of blind consumerdom against having nothing. You can have anything your heart desires, as long as it’s not nothing. That’s where the line is drawn.

The belief is so pervasive that it affects even me. Try as I might to have as little as possible of anything, when I get down to the last little bit I find myself rationing portions to ridiculous degrees to avoid running out entirely. I can make the last of the shampoo–just the filmy residue clinging to the inside of the bottle–last for three weeks. Further, I’ve found my rate of consumption dropping steadily to nil as supply dwindles just so I’ll always have that last one. The last animal cracker, the last clean towel, the last straw.

We fortify ourselves against the eventuality of nothing by stocking up, buying bulk, filling our crawlspaces with stores of dry grain, purified water, drums of baby oil, latex body suits, and at least one extra riding crop–just in case.

“What if they’ve stopped selling this kind?” I ask. “What if this is the last one in the world?”

“Then we shrink-wrap it and put it in the freezer next to the bodies of our parents.”

You can never go home again.

The lady forgot my hot chocolate. The receipt says I was charged for it, but the product never materialized, and I had a lapse and completely forgot about it until now. I worry over the receipt. So much time has passed, yet the reluctance I feel blooming up inside me must be overcome, and soon. Clearly I was charged, and must right this wrong. Up at the counter I see the shift has changed, so I catch the eye of the new attendant and explain my situation. “I was charged but never received,” I say, and flash a hapless smile. He has no reason to disbelieve me, and in fact probably remembers me from previous visits, so he prepares another cup.

No, not “another” cup, make that “a” cup. The first cup. Because of course I never got the cup I ordered. Or so he thinks. In truth he knows absolutely nothing about me. Maybe I’ve been patronizing this shop for the past two years only to set up this heist. In fact perhaps my nerve is such that – even now – I still have the first cup balled up in my clenched fist, and when the man at the counter passes me the fresh cup I will bean him in the forehead with the balled up first cup, righteous in my judgment that it’s all been too easy.

The thought is so perfect in my mind that it summons a wince, and passers by think I’ve just bitten my tongue. The truth is that I’m feeling guilty over nothing. It’s a phantom guilt. Pangs over what I might have done, or may yet do still.

The veracity of my story is assumed how? Faith alone: a fragile truth, a fragile trust, a bond borne on absence of suspicion above anything else. It offers almost too tempting an opening for disaster. I imagine wheeling around and spraying my hot chocolate on the nearest patron. “There! You happy now? You should have said no when I asked for a hot chocolate! You should have charged me treble! This all might have been avoided!”

Most of the things I feel bad about are things I’ve manufactured, though they’re no less plausible than any truth. And what is truth, really? I may well have purchased my lunch with money stolen from some beggar’s cup, so why not? Two paths lead to the same destination, one a path of virtue, and the other a path of deceit. Who knows which path I’ve taken but myself? Knowing the truth is insufficient to excuse me from the possibility of guilt.

On the other hand, I wouldn’t be feeling this guilt at all if people knew what I was capable of, and realized just how flimsy and inadequate an assumption can be. I return to my seat with the certainty that I’ve just stolen a cup of hot chocolate.

Until now the only remedies for people unable to otherwise cope in social forums involved psychotropic drugs, surgical modification of the frontal lobe, or surprise assassination. But now there is hope even for those of extreme disadvantage through a revolutionary system called Interactive Disengagement, actually a practical art form that balances engagement with detachment.

Putting this system in an anthropological context begins with the understanding that humans are intrinsically selfish, solitary creatures. As we no longer find ourselves huddled under rocks batting at cavebears, our natural instincts have atrophied to the point where casual social gatherings seem almost inevitable.

Let us now take a look at some of the dynamics of social behavior, and at some things we can do, through Interactive Disengagement, to minimize disgrace. We will use a party scenario to illustrate.

Scamper finds himself, horrified, at a house party. Though he’s found a group to associate himself with, he is nervous and crosses his arms to hide shaking hands and damp palms. In doing so he has made his first mistake by inadvertently taking the stance of the aloof expert. He is not aware that body language is an important part of social interaction.

“So, like,” says Dave, initiating a group discussion, “what’s the wackiest thing your family ever served guests?” As the others cluck approvingly, Scamper smiles to hide panic and scrambles for something to contribute should the expectation arise. Revelatory anecdotes, that is what’s called for. The idea comes to him that he might at least look cooler if he didn’t blink. That’s just the thing, thinks he, to convey a more intense, thoughty appearance. He concentrates on not blinking as he roots for ideas. Maria is saying, “My aunt served bouillabaisse to the children for Thanksgiving!” Approval is awarded through polite, metronomic laughter. Around the circle it goes, each contribution serving to connect the participants emotionally, reassuring them in the face of mortality that they are not alone. Not tonight anyway.

And then Scamper feels the pressure to speak. Forgetting himself he blinks his eyes for the first time in minutes, but has no time to halt the momentum as tears suddenly stream down his cheeks. “Papa once made my retarded brother eat a hooker. Um, that he- he was. He found…” But by now the conversation has died. The quaver in his voice has drained his words of life. Members of the group who aren’t baring their teeth in revulsion are covering their childrens’ ears, and an elderly couple begins to vomit uncontrollably.

Scamper’s anxious fear has revealed him as the awkward outsider; an interloper who threatens convention with his ignorance of societal mores. Naturally Scamper lashes out with his fists, and the night ends on an awkward note.

Location

The first thing one must do in any social gathering is to find a comfortable place to exist, preferably against a wall. People standing behind one are to be considered threats, and will probably make rude comments under their breath or just stare at one’s neck. Sitting in a chair with one’s head hanging, though comfortable, may actually draw unwanted attention. Rather, when gatherings threaten to become overwhelming, consider sneaking off and curling up on the cool bathroom floor.

Next, one must find a group of people against whom to practice peripheralism. The aim with peripheralism is to stand close enough to the group to seem open and approachable, but far enough away so that one isn’t actually forced to think of anything witty to contribute.

Appearance

Body language and personal appearance are indeed the first cues people look to in order to assign both social standing and content of character. This being so, one should strive for a kind of social invisibility by avoiding visual contrast with the other participants. If Scamper, in the scenario above, had approached the same circle with matted hair, unfocused eyes, a slack jaw, and hunched shoulders, and been muttering something like “gon’ dig me a hole,” repeatedly in a hoarse, singsong voice, chances are he would not be the first person consulted to expound on current events. While this may seem like a good thing, it is not the best approach to achieving social invisibility.

Nodding on cue gives people the perception that one is participating in a conversation, and will allay their fear that one is just watching. Avoid nodding for more than thirty seconds continuously.

The “thirty second principal” can, in fact, be applied to most social activities. The idea is that doing anything for more than about thirty seconds attracts attention. Social functions are not places for doing anything for prolonged periods of time. Being in society means moving, changing, being busy, and appearing more or less excited about the whole idea.

Behavior

Discouraging engagement requires both attention skill and quick thinking. One must identify the direction of conversational tide, decide on a plan for unsolicited attention, and execute the plan as required by the situation.

Avoiding eye contact figures heavily in this endeavor. Staring into someone’s eyes, especially if one hasn’t been blinking for several minutes, is often the only invitation others will need to engage one in conversation, or a fight. To avoid eye contact, focus on a spot directly between two adjacent people, or, in emergencies, over everyone’s head. If discovery seems imminent then one must remove oneself from the field of view entirely. Dropping to one knee to tie a shoe is heavily recommended. Alternately, one might look at one’s watch as obviously as possible, and then look laterally across the room as if in expectation of the rest of one’s party. This is called the “Where could they be?” technique.

When fear wets the palms of the sensitive one, it’s important not to hide them or to make fists. This will only make matters worse, especially if one must shake hands. Batting at phantom flies is a possibility if the palms are a little damp, but flailing in general should be avoided if the palms are soaking. For such occasions the best plan is to wear gloves.

Behavioral props such as not-blinking usually end in disaster, and should therefore be avoided at all costs. In order to “look cool” Scamper is sacrificing this bodily need, and that’s never cool. A more relaxed look might be achieved by lowering the eyelids slightly. Other bodily functions, such as breathing and urination, are best approached in a natural way, as too much or too little of either may draw attention. Another popular behavioral prop is speaking with an accent, but unless one has prepared a detailed fictional history, this is actually a behavior best avoided. However, speaking another language entirely is highly encouraged.

It is also important to avoid the rustic and unclean act of shaking hands. Shaking hands allows others to gauge one’s strength should a gathering turn ugly, and is also a great way to spread disease. One way handshaking can be avoided is to hold something in both hands, such as a cat or a baby. This is best done before one is asked to shake hands. Magazines make excellent props, because one can pretend to browse as needed, distancing oneself from the conversation. Avoid holding flaming objects or weaponry, which are looked upon as conspicuous in most circles that don’t involve white hoods. Pretending that there is something vile covering one’s hand works occasionally, but is enhanced greatly with a visual prop such as molasses or mustard. Sneezing into one’s hands will also do in a pinch. Preemptive blows to the requestor’s head should, in general, be considered only as a last resort.

Conclusion

The lesson in Interactive Disengagement, finally, is that participation is failure and to be avoided at all costs. In our next lesson we’ll talk about girls and how to avoid scaring them off by using the technique known as Gynocentric Disantisocialivism.

They say that even the longest journey begins with but a single step. They also say that if you don’t know where you’re from then wherever you go is home. So does this mean that to walk in someone else’s footsteps is breaking and entering? I’m thinking about how the things we do every day and take for granted may in fact be criminal, and that I am probably a criminal without even knowing it, and since I have a problem with authority figures (check out my rap sheet), I have become quite emotional and erratic in my old age, though you could never tell this by merely looking at whatever weapon I happen to be pointing at you.

Generally you won’t see me though. I assume that everyone feels pretty much the same way I do about other people, which is that they drain the life out of me. If it’s possible to avoid them entirely I will, for my sake and for theirs. Having said that, I’ve noticed recently that people have an upsetting tendency to go exactly where I need to go, only they’re in front of me the entire way there, and walking at just about the same speed I’m walking, only a little bit slower. In fact our rates are so closely matched that if I were to attempt to overtake them it would take roughly half an hour. So I’m forced to remain in my little invisible prison thirty paces behind them, maintaining.

When I leave the facility at night it’s usually dark outside, and almost invariably there’s a vulnerable young woman walking a couple dozen feet in front of me. I don’t know for a fact that she’s vulnerable, of course – she may very well be capable of extracting vital organs using only her incisors – but the assumption is that the hulking male thirty paces behind her is the antagonist. As we walk she turns the same direction that I need to go at every opportunity, and I’m between gears just so I won’t gain on her too much. It takes an emotional toll on me, but it’s uncomfortable physically too: I’m walking faster than a shuffle, but slower than my usual aggressive stomp, so I feel awkward. Add to this the fact that I’m consciously looking anywhere but straight ahead and I begin to look like someone who may have just clawed his way out of a hole outside the perimeter fence at the local neighborhood happy home.

On the question of whether to walk silently or to make noise I’ve found no solution. Walking like the ninja will not attract as much attention, but may trigger her sense of peril should she catch a glimpse of you approaching as she turns a corner. Making a deliberate sound to announce yourself works for the first few minutes, but after a good 30 minute hike (“Ahem… still here behind you.”) it puts you on par with a Tourette’s Syndrome-afflicted rapist.

I’ve tried going out of my way to get out from behind these people, but I always encounter them again a few blocks up, and that’s even more awkward. Once I said, “I seem to be stalking you,” aiming for a Hugh Grant charming befuddlement, but mustering instead a Peter Lorre caliber facial twinge that actually caused my right eyelid to overrun my lower eyelashes (a feat I’ve been unable to reproduce since).

Now I think it’s a conspiracy, and I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s like these people have figured out a way to follow me – right in front of me. Contact with poison will eventually heighten your tolerance to it, but walking home the same way, somehow, only makes you more vulnerable. It’s humiliating and frustrating, and it reminds me that I am a creature of routine, and that will be my downfall. As far as the law is concerned I am the stalker – and sure, technically my actions are those of a stalker, but on the inside I am the helpless victim.

That said, I will on occasion follow someone home for no reason.

I have a constellation of blindspots, mainly because I don’t respond well to physical damage. If something ill should befall my person I simply avoid looking at the site of damage from then on. That body part becomes carne non grata, and I quietly but efficiently erase its name from the front register.

Why have I taken things to this extreme? Because when reading a description about fruit just past ripe is enough to make me feel squeamish how can I be expected to cope meaningfully with the horrors of personal upkeep? I don’t think I’ve seen my teeth since I graduated high school, but people tell me they’re still white. But I’m only realizing now that my capacity for untreated pain is vast simply because my fear of treatment far outweighs a momentary discomfort. Or even minor dismemberment. Avoidance is truly the best medicine, especially if you eventually want to look somewhat like a zombie, which I do.

The year I stubbed my toe was particularly informative. This wasn’t a normal stubbing, where you hop around like Dick Van Dyke for a moment and everyone laughs. This is one of those stubbings where you hear an unfamiliar sound like celery snapping, and your pupils dilate, and your skin loses all its color, and you go silent for the rest of the evening as the party hosts wonder why they invited you in the first place. The first few days after the incident found me gently probing and massaging the remnants of my toe, though I never looked at it. In fact I didn’t catch a glimpse of it until nearly two years later, and then only because someone told me it looked fine. Which is does. Pretty much.

A few weeks ago I forgot the valuable rule of physical conservation (i.e., “Don’t do anything.”) and decided it would be helpful to open a bottle using nothing but a screwdriver and the edge of a concrete step. A few minutes later I could be found in the bathroom, lights off, tearing open the bandaid box with my teeth as I held the pieces of my thumb together with my other hand. I won’t see my thumb again until around 2005.

That’s not to say I’m completely inflexible. If the disfigurement is impossible to hide, and the reaction is likely to be worse than the pain, then I can be coaxed into action. In high school I had my nose severely broken when I turned a corner just as some hall urchins were playing hallway golf. The sound of the ricochet of the ball, to my recollection, was louder than the inter-class bell. The denial response was immediate as I turned down help from the responsible parties, and marched dutifully on to my next class. I was the first one there, and sat alone knowing that something was amiss, but unable to figure out what I should do next. Perhaps nothing then? Excellent choice. I started to remove the books from my bookbag when I realized that I could see my nose through my right eye much more prominently than through my left. “Fuck,” I said, more with resignation than anything else, and marched off to the clinic where I promptly fainted.

So you’ll understand me when I say that the calm I exhibit as I await the day that scientists are able to upload our minds into robot bodies is nothing but pure facade. Get me off this meat bus. Just don’t make me watch when they actually execute the procedure.