American Fez

In A Lonely Place

A twenty-four hour city convenience store at midnight. Dirty windows of yellowy-green florescent luminescence half concealed behind unsubtle advertising signage on an otherwise dark and deserted street. It's almost an Edward Hopper scene suitable for framing. Inside, the security guard from a nearby office tower is buying popcorn to munch on while binge-watching the single-shot shows displayed on his closed-circuit television system. Twitchy students gather energy drinks and snacks to fortify themselves for eventually slogging through that biology paper due in the morning. A refugee from the bar room next door buys microwaveable pizza and aspirin to soak up all the booze he's consumed. And I'm here also, wandering the two narrow aisles in search of the cooler containing oat milk. A mere pint will do for my purposes. Please God may it be in stock.

I'm not one of you, I want to tell the other late night shoppers as I go about my quest. I may have been you in the past but I'm not like you any longer. I am a normal human now, a stranger in these parts who keeps regular hours and limits himself to two glasses of wine. Nevertheless, here I am. You see, we're entertaining a guest who only puts alternative dairy products in her morning coffee, and someone who shall remain nameless forgot to pick it up from the supermarket on his way home from work. That's right, I'm employed in an old-fashioned nine-to-five business. I'm not a part-time rent-a-cop wearing an ill-fitting uniform who gets paid an hourly wage. I'm not a stitch in the gig economy quilt nor or a partying tech-bro with a flexible schedule. So take the opportunity to examine me now for you may never seem my kind again. And having said all that, do any of you somnambulant weirdos know where I might find a bottle of oat milk in here? 

No such luck, of course. The closest thing to oat milk turns out to be a grimy carton of almond milk, possibly past its expiration date but the printed numbers are too smudged to read. I'm not sure it will be satisfactory but it will have to do. I'm the only customer paying with actual cash; everyone else uses a credit card or some scannable app on their phones. But we clients of the twenty-four hour city convenience store all have at least one thing in common: we'll all be in trouble come the morning. The students for handing-in a rushed, last-minute paper; the bar-room patron with his debilitating hangover; the security guard for falling asleep at his station; and me for forgetting to buy oat milk. Outside, the silent Edward Hopper scene dissolves into a shadowy film noir. I turn my collar up against the cold and slink home with my counterfeit goods. 

Mind Body Mistakes

There is an infectious, visceral response to frenetic orchestral music that can turn even the most mild-mannered individual into an imaginary-baton-wielding Toscanini, arms flailing and body bending back and forth like a human-shaped wind-sock on a garage forecourt. And listening to such frenetic orchestral music while at the gym was how I nearly broke my neck on the elliptical machine.

My limbs were exercising in perfect coordination, arms simulating cross-country skiing and legs faking cycling, when suddenly the aural hurricane called Platee: Orage by Jean-Phillip Rameau came ripping through my headphones. An irresistible inner-urge to 'conduct' the music immediately took over, so I unwisely let go of the elliptical machine's handlebars, waving my arms wildly in the air in time to the hyperventilating sound of the string section. Thus unbalanced, my feet lost their moorings in the whirring pedals and I found myself leaping backwards onto the floor mat, landing awkwardly but safely in a very undignified crouching position, Imagine the acrobatic equivalent of an anxious giraffe being shot out of a cannon and crashing right-side up into a bouncy castle.

All eyes in the gym were upon me. Raised-brow stares of curiosity and amusement rather than concern for my wellbeing. Ecce homo, I wanted to tell them, this is just who I am. The sort of person who listens to eighteenth-century opera, who wants to keep fit, and who often combines two very different activities that become dangerous if combined. For instance, I always take a brief respite from the stove to calculate my BMI when I'm cooking dinner. Sometimes I even do a few tai chi moves when I'm pruning roses in the garden. I'm a daredevil multitasker. What of it? 

But I said nothing, stooped down gingerly to pickup my water bottle as I was still a trifle dizzy, then wobbled my way back to the changing rooms. I don't know. All that money in monthly gym subscriptions and expensive sweat-wicking shirts, and instead of rippling muscles all I've got to show so far is a reputation for exercising like a Loony Tunes cartoon. Perhaps I'll cancel my membership and try combining simple squat thrusts on the carpet at home while reading the novels of Patrick Modiano. What could go wrong?

Is Anybody There?

My colleague just said 'we need to think outside the box on this,' without realizing, of course, that using the expression 'thinking outside the box' is about as far inside the box as anyone's thinking can get; so far deep inside the proverbial box, in fact, that I doubt they will ever get out again. 

My colleague thinks about thinking outside the box without understanding that the box has become himself. What he believes to be new ideas are merely the same old recycled contents of the box concealed in different colored bubble wrap. And it's not really even a box. It's more of a cardboard coffin where his defunct brain is laid to rest. 

But my colleague's brain will never rest in peace because it's constantly quoting chapter and verse from "Fifty Techniques For Increasing Your Sales." The grave of his mind is a conference room echoing with corporate cliches and executive aphorisms. An unquiet soul wearing a power tie and casual Friday clothes. 

I suppose we should send flowers to my colleague's desk: Sorry for your loss, except it's our loss as well in a way for God knows we need another working brain these days. Instead, here we are holding a seance with his empty skull and I write the words 'fraudulent medium' on my memo pad.

Waters of the Mind

I recently replaced my old rowing machine with a new-fangled gondola machine. Calories are burnt by imitating Venetian canal poling instead of river rowing and O Sole Mio can be sung during the workout if you wish, but I would need a personal trainer for any vocal exercises so I concentrate on the poling action. Neither do I wear a stripy shirt nor a circular straw hat circumnavigated with ribbon. I do, however, pretend that my IKEA shelving unit is the Bridge of Sighs. It's almost as if I'm actually gondoliering around Venice but with no fear of drowning. Then, when I'm thoroughly exhausted from my poling, I collapse into the couch like a Doge relaxing in his palace after a hard day's doing whatever a Doge did. Who needs to travel?

So I'm now considering upgrading to the home gym paddle-steamer machine manufactured by the same company. "Excellent for cardio," it runs on pedal power, obviously, and is equipped with a realistic funnel and preprogrammed Dixieland jazz soundtrack. I can imagine myself floating down the Mississippi river while strengthening my abs and gluts. But I'll probably just settle for the yacht machine which is much simpler and has a smaller footprint in the living room. This fitness regimen involves repeatedly running fore and aft while shouting incomprehensible sailing gibberish and ducking to avoid being hit in the head by the swinging boom. Should be a novel, not to say, naval, way to lose some of that excess winter weight.

Getting Away From It all

I flew to Florida last week, taking a brief vacation from Coronavirus, swapping surgical masks and paranoia for palm trees and sea breezes, Franz Kafka for a trashy beach novel. Here, lounging poolside at a tiki hut clinic serving rum cocktails with a fancy straw instead of vaccines in a syringe, it's good to feel the sun on your uncovered face. After all, the only protection required in these parts is UVA/UVB factor fifty. Nobody whispers anxiously in your ear 'Peter just tested positive andJanice is self isolating.' There is just the soothing sound of waves crashing on the shore and a waiter asking if you need another drink.

The pandemic is a bothersome stingray in the ocean of life. But we should still go swimming regardless. Vacations are always far too short, so don't hide away in your hotel room playing solitaire on a laptop and staring out the window. The water is warm, the sand is golden, the sunsets are spectacular.