He – “I’m nervous.”
She – “Don’t be.”
He – “I can’t help it. Are they going to think I’m weird?”
She – “Probably. They’re weird too.”

[pause]

He – “Should I maybe talk with an accent?”
She – “No, I don’t think so.”

I hastily agree to meet her, and when I put the phone down I realize that, in my rush, I’ve failed to nail down every last detail. Variables like these make me uneasy, like a box of dropped tacks. Fifteen minutes later–fifteen? Or did she say fifty? I’m leaning against the alcove wall next to the ticket kiosk and I can feel their eyes on me. I don’t know if I’m in the right place–there are several theatres along this main stretch–and it shows on my face. Was it today? Maybe she said on the fifteenth, a Saturday. It would make a lot more sense than a Wednesday. Who meets anyone on Wednesdays? Extroverts, that’s who. Freaks.

It’s disappointing to think that I could be lost and don’t even know it yet. If lost is a state of mind then I became lost just as I was hanging up the phone. Americans are cruel to lost folk – they eat them up hungrily, like we were little wandering morsels.

Will she show? Another variable: Maybe she is lost, and we’ll both be waiting outside our respective theatres. The more I think about it the harder it is for me to remember how to look casual. I feel conspicuous. My arms hang like ornaments on the tree after the presents have already been opened. I’m making the other people nervous now too – some ticket holders ask me if I’m waiting for the movie, and I break into a sweat and gulp for air. I hate myself vicariously through them.

What I need is a story. Something I can tell myself that will give me a reason to be standing there. If I believe it I will look confident, even if I don’t actually tell people what my reason is. I’m a plain-clothes surveyor, balding quickly now. I’m a social anthropologist, and my shirt is missing two buttons. I’m studying kiosks for my architecture class, and plus I think I may be going blind. Each of the lies I fabricate is paired with a time-worn anxiety, and the reason is that a part of me gets off on the angst. All these comfortable people around me, who would want to be like them anyway? I’m falling apart over here and I find it preferable.

When I finally do see her approaching from down the block I realize that I’ve had my story all along: I’m trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing here. Agreeing to meet someone, true though it may be, actually affords me little in the way of justification. No, for me it’s every tedious, sundry possibility between myself and reality that provides context. Otherwise I suppose I would just take everything at face value.

Freaks.

When they talk about the miracle of life they always show–without fail–some idyllic scene with beautiful bodies and some mystical abstract dance of cells and pulsing bits. But where’s the horror in that? When your stepfather is going all brazos locos on your ass, doesn’t he still represent a perfectly choreographed dance of synchronized biological wonder? It’s funny that form doesn’t really follow function–not really. I mean sure, you can tell by his face that the man chasing you down the alleyway with a jagged piece of glass is upset, but does it really change his form? Does it split his face down the center to let spray a fountain of pus and redolence? Does a meshwork of dark sinew reach out from his crotch? I daresay not. He too is a poetic symbiosis, and you never even stopped to consider that, not for a second.

So what are these shapes we’re trapped in? Have you ever really looked at your hand? What an odd-shaped thing to be attached to, and with little shells at the tips. Why are we not perfectly spherical? It seems that a sphere is the natural form of a thing influenced only by itself. Anything not spherical then represents a reaction to external forces, an intent to head in one direction or the other. It’s like the perfect story: In the perfect story nothing happens. It’s when you take the decisions, and you’re actually whittling away at infinite possibility, that any action happens. And I’m certainly no fan of action.

When I was a wee tyke I had an irrational fear that my head was oblong. Kind of like Giger’s alien. I was so self-conscious about it that I didn’t like people approaching me from the side. I would turn my head to face them whenever possible to avoid being seen from a perspective from which my misshapen head would be obvious. I don’t think that way anymore, but it doesn’t matter so much anyway, because in my mind I am a sphere.

What is it when the jar lid is on too tight, but you’re the only one who ever opens your jars, so really you’re just mad at yourself? What’s that? This is the now self–hugely wizened, of course–angry at the former, lesser self. But look: you’ll screw the lid on extra tight this time just out of spite for your future self. See if you can open that, you fuck. Now it’s on good.

What with all that anger? Can’t you just get along with yourselves? Are you trying to start a riot?

And what is it when you clear the last plate from the sink, and there, caught at the bottom of the drain screen, is one single fusilli noodle that escaped hours ago, and you find yourself getting sentimental over it? Is that normal? You stand there peering down at the lone fusilli noodle, and you think of all its friends who made it out after being in their box together for so long, and here lies a lone remnant, cold now, and… diminished somehow. You pick up the pale flaccid spiral and drop it into the garbage bag with grave resignation. Then you rub your fingers as you look out the window.

But again, maybe it’s better than the alternative: unadulterated rage. Nice try you pasta fuck! Come here, the drain’s too good for you. And you add it to the other escaped pastas in that crawlspace behind your toilet.

What’s that all about? That’s not normal at all.

Get better soon.

From “Tools of Survival in the 21st Century,” Chapter 18.

Another possibly soul-decimating experience is seeing someone from some distance away. Assuming you know the person, how do you go about filling the time from the point you make eye contact to the point where you might engage them in a witty exchange without rupturing the eardrums of the people in your immediate vicinity?

There’s no escaping it now–your fate was sealed at the point of eye contact, when you unwittingly acknowledged them by meeting their gaze. This is tantamount to entrapment, of course, but the burden remains on you to maintain some semblance of social grace, even though you are quite aware that they’re watching how you walk even now.

Are you a loper? Do you swing to and fro like an orangutan when you walk? Do you bob your head like Gomer Pyle, or shuffle your feet? Or maybe you shuffle just one foot. Perhaps you’re completely lopsided. You can feel invisible forces of realization tugging you to the side even now, and this person is witness to the entire humiliating scene.

But these thoughts alone aren’t what keep you from maintaining eye contact throughout your journey. Rather, it’s because you don’t want to present yourself as predatory. No one maintains eye contact while they’re walking except for certain types of cats who weigh more than you do, so it’s an acceptable social behavior that you would look away as you continue. That’s well and good, but the burden remains to be addressed.

As you approach your comrade it is essential that you do not look at your surroundings, for the danger exists that you will make eye contact with yet another acquaintance, and that might very well destroy you. Instead, allow your face to go slack as if you are somewhat lost in thought, and look down at the ground in front of you.

Caveats: First, do not think too hard about anything. If your face is frozen in a wince, or if you cave in to the pressure and begin to weep, then why bother even trying to fit in? Why did you leave the house this morning? Why even clean the vomit from around the empty coffee can next to your bed? And second, be sure to tilt your head down when you engage in facial neutrality, and not just your eyes. You are aiming for contemplative, not besieged by inner voices. Only one type of person forgets to move their head: a psycho. So look down correctly.

Now, when to reengage? No peeking! A psycho peeks, because a psycho sees things that aren’t there. Your goal, in contrast, is to not see things that are there, and to do it in a way that seems natural even though you planned it all out weeks ago, and have been practicing in your basement using the trusty doll-head that you stole from your little sister in grade six.

You’re coming up on the person a little too quickly, so slow down. To convey a laissez faire demeanor, manufacture an itch, even if you don’t have one. Scratching an itch has been shown to be a social disarmer, as long as you’re not scratching incessantly at your eyes or tongue.

And at last you’re close enough to them that you can see them in your peripheral vision. Now it’s up to you: you are free to engage them in friendly conversation (as covered in Chapter 12). Remember that it is not always possible to come off as a “normal,” but you should always strive to keep the choking, gasping sobs at bay for as long as possible.

Good job! Later on, as you squeegee the last of the Crisco from the can with your tongue, you can look back on your encounter as a successful step in your ongoing, pathetic quest for social integration.

Tell me, did you see that brief light? It fell fast, but when I looked it was still there, farther away, but in the same place. Did you hear that there are children on Mars? They found them hiding among the rocks, and even though they smiled, they would not speak of their homes. Did you see the cow painted on the face of the moon? It was flat, but its eyes would blink and follow you as you danced. The houses, they were made of blocks, and everything fit together just so. Did you see that? And if you did, where did it go?

Did you ever find a music box behind a crate in the attic that still played the song your mother used to hum? It was sad to be moving away from there, I’ll bet. And did you notice the marks on the back of your hand? Do you remember the book with the pages ripped out? You could still see the stress creases on the ragged flaps that remained, and they brought back…

The refrigerator clicking on, and the crickets outside, and the door that no one else could see that was there, sometimes. The figurines. The lace, the ribbon, and the bell (kept from before). Did you ever wonder why they could only see you when you saw them? The whispering, the magnets in the walls, and the secret passage that you suddenly remembered forgetting? Did you find out who it was who was living in your room when you got back? Did you read about the elephants being born with no tusks? Green lollipops? Did you hear the ticks as the house settled? That’s normal, especially in the summertime.

But if you find out what to do, and about what happens next, let me know.

Mine was an aged building that sweat under the pressure to remain standing. Mold had bruised its damp walls, like storm clouds from an artist’s brush. White awnings like sails webbed freshly-carved stone buttresses hewn long ago, and that once seemed to herald a new prosperity. But these too turned a uniform gray. The moon was keeping me awake. The moon and seventy three chinchillas that had made a nest for themselves in my pantry.

I was lying on a mattress I call “Sadie,” watching projections of the phosphenes frolicking in my eyes when I saw the tear. In truth, I’d noticed the flaw in the wallpaper before, but from this angle the curled ridge looked far more prominent–more inviting. I leapt up, danced a little dance, edging gracefully over to the tear in the wallpaper, and heard as tiny feet skittered across linoleum in response.

With a graceful but precise maneuver, similar to those I’d honed in Central American jungle dales, I swung my arm around and caught purchase of the torn edge, and then stepped away from the wall, tearing the damp paper down to the yellow, varmint-stained moulding. And then I stood still in spent victory.

The webs between my toes tingled and I realized that I’d been standing for hours, staring at the newspapers that lined the walls beneath the faded wallpaper, spongy and moist. I pressed my thumb into a block of text and it gave away almost immediately. I felt something cold, and there was a sucking sound as I pulled my thumb free. I don’t remember which came first, the high-pitched ring in my ears, or the uninvited tears. My sadness, though, was absolute, and I sought solace in the fuzzy words on the pages I lived in. I curled up by the warped floorboards with my hand against a column about a provocateur who arrived by rail in NOLA.

Look at that woman, will you?

Mmm?

She looks old, doesn’t she?

Her? She sure does. I’ll bet she’s 70.

And you can see every year on her. It’s too bad that she didn’t have Juvox in her day.

Jew-vox? As in “voice of the Jews?” What’s that?

No, silly! It’s only the most revolutionary, most effective vim-restoring system ever devised, and it’s got more than Jews talking about it.

It sounds like I’ve really been missing out!

Well fortunately we’re not a moment too late. Let me tell you about the wonders of Juvox. You lead an active life, but somewhere along the way you’ve lost the passion you had when you were younger.

It’s true, I really have.

You look disheveled at best, your features have all stretched toward the floor and melted together like wax, and your friends all share one thing in common: A strong sense of sympathy.

Boy, I feel terrible.

But what if I told you that there was a way to restore your youthful vigor? To put the fight back in your fists, and to regain that nervous energy you felt as you saw someone cute from across the compound?

I’d say who’s your supplier!

Ha ha. Well it’s not a drug, per se. And Juvox isn’t just a topical cream either. We call it the Juvox Vim-Restoration System. By going step by step through our specially designed process, you’ll be tampering with your chemical makeup in ways that mother nature could never have foreseen.

But is Juvox safe?

It sure is! Juvox is all natural, and is made from only two base ingredients.

That’s really amazing! How can Juvox be so effective without containing at least several industrial grade pollutants?

Well the methods of extraction and refinement are proprietary, but I’ll tell you that Juvox contains only death row inmate testosterone, and the sweet, soft forehead sections from third world babies.

You’re kidding!

And as for potency, nothing else comes close. The steroid hormone testosterone is one of the essential building blocks of aggression. It’s also primarily male–that’s how the inmates got to where they are! So we went right to the source. Juvox is infused with enough testosterone to bring the gleam back the the eyes of a cataract patient.

But isn’t it difficult to extract enough testosterone?

It was at first, but Vitubus, Inc.–the makers of Juvox–forged many mutually advantageous relationships with judges in several southern states in the early 90s, and access to dead men walking was as easy as electrocution!

But didn’t the Supreme Court recently rule that it was unconstitutional for judges rather than juries to decide whether to sentence a killer to death?

It’s true that there have been setbacks in the capital appellate process. But that’s why Vitubus, Inc. wasn’t content just to rely on hushed mandatory donations from inmates. Thanks to several key scientific advances Vitubus, Inc. hedged its bets by employing orchidectomy to populate its own testicle farms, and now the supply of grade A testosterone is on the rise, so to speak!

Ha ha.

And when you talk about soft, supple skin, what’s the one thing do you always use for comparison?

Why the foreheads of babies, of course!

Exactly. And we’ve scoured the planet and set up Missions in several of the most impoverished countries you could ever hope to find. People there are never lacking for babies, and these babies in particular have some of the softest foreheads in the world! Most people in these cultures simply have no access to the nutrients essential to building strong bones, and as a result infants often keep their soft foreheads until the age of about three! By fostering a belief in ritual trepannation, Vitubus Missions have more vital tissue than they know what to do with.

Wow. But hold on a second–isn’t eating babies wrong?

Not according to the Bible. And Juvox comes in a refreshing gum too, for people on the go!

Convenient!

Yes. Let me tell you, the results are just amazing. For the past four months I’ve been using the system myself.

How old are you anyway?

I’m 24!

Holy mother of fuck!

Mm hmm! The Juvox Vim-Restoration System isn’t available in stores, but if you call the number on your screen one of our operators will work with you to come up with a payment plan that works for you.

That sounds too good to be true.

You should start using it as soon as you can. And, as anyone on death row can tell you, the clock is ticking!

I’m going to call right away!

Operators are standing by.

You know the sound the lotto ball makes as it winds its way fatefully through the innards of the ball machine, thence into the waiting hand of the local “aspiring model”? It’s kind of a welling gurgle, rattle, thwop. Well that’s what my pipes sound like as they disintegrate. Did I mention that they’re disintegrating? Slowly but surely coughing themselves up, like a tuberculosis patient during her last moments.

The house where I live is old, and I’m pretty sure–if I have my history straight–that the druids who originally built it fashioned its plumbing from the hollowed out bones of their enemies. So really it was only a matter of time before the whole works began to give away. The pipe detritus gather like artifacts in the screen filters of my shower head, blocking the flow of water so as to cause random streams to go shooting up over the shower curtain like the frolicking water show at the Bellagio Hotel in Vegas, only less chintzy.

I know that this is something that I should deal with–and I don’t mean installing slot machines and charging admission. It can’t be good for me, regardless of my feelings for the welfare of my house. Maybe I’m just waiting for a sign that I should act. And if this is the sign, then I’m just waiting for a sign that this is the sign. Weeping boils might do the trick. Or actually, no, I’m calling to have this looked into first thing. After the holidays are over.

Of my many talents, the one shower-related talent of which I’m most proud is my uncanny ability to manually meld two unlike bars of soap at the molecular level. Even the tricky varieties–those with seaweed or coral or flecks of tea leaves or entire railroad spikes–are no match for my soap-bonding prowess.

It’s surely a terrible thing to let soap go to waste, yet it becomes a challenge to use each product to its last as its size quickly approaches that of an escaped droplet of pancake batter. The answer, then, is to fuse the diminished remains to the virgin body of a new soap cake–like a parasite to its hapless host. But if that’s the answer, the means may quickly prove beyond the meager abilities of the zealous shower attendant–my remarkable powers of digital dexterity have taken years to perfect.

Naturally I remain hesitant to share the details until the patents have cleared, but I’ll tell you this much: if I applied this much energy into other areas of my life, there’s no way I’d be paying frigging $2 to cross a bridge every day.