Fight
or Flight
Reprinted from 2005
by Dagan
(Life can change with the seasons)
It happens sometimes that I doze
off, or start imagining, reminiscing, mixing past images and present
yearnings together in a stagnant cocktail that I often fear will
never be drunk. It intoxicates, this mental milkshake, merely
the hope that I’ll doze again, even for a few moments. If
nothing else, it makes the time pass more quickly, more urgently
toward something or other that really is no better than the present
save it’s my time, or at least I perceive it that way. But
then my eyes and mind unblur and the present comes crashing back
and I am disappointed again, as usual.
People pass me as I sit, hunched at my desk,
my eyes peering from behind my consternation. I imagine they take
little notice of me, for words seem to be the only sign of life
around here. Lack of speech indicates lack of interest, which
the law seems to demand “best not to disturb.” And
in a way, I like it that way, being left to my own thoughts; my
own musings and curiosities left unbroken to indulge. Yet for
all this outer silence there is an inner screaming that forces
my constant dozing and nail biting and hair twirling. I am uneasy,
that’s for sure, but not enough to affect change. A paycheck,
I suppose, has been enough to keep me comatose and quiet, and
where once I declared intentions to get up and go at any moment
I have since been relegated to silent, ineffective desperation.
Beneath my silent exterior there is a longing
for human contact. The same old, same old human contact, I suppose,
that has been written about for generations. I yearn for a connection
that has become clichéd by movies, television, and the
like, perverting that once true and interminable feeling of love
that is now scoffed by the cackles of irony.
Words are pouring in now. Voices of tedium
in their blah, blah, blah fashion that make me cringe. The sound
breaks my concentration and again forces my hand to my scalp.
Can I fight it? Can I win back my focus against this stream of
dreary discourse that means nothing? I turn cynic, oh the irony,
when faced with this daily toil. It is foolhardy to fight it and
close off my senses. Fight or flight, and I choose flight.
Since childhood I have maintained few rituals,
for with age comes certain change in interest, motivation, and
the demands of the current environment. Plus, I was never one
for constants anyway. But the lone stall has forever, as long
as I can remember, been my oasis. The toilet has provided me sanctuary
from the daily grind. It has allowed me a place to flee, to regain
my thoughts and again find my way. Like the cigarette break, perhaps,
I go not merely for something, but away from something as well.
For some reason, today I am not comfortable
in my special place. My solemnity is insecure, my fantastical
concentration fleeting. Even the repetition of the news, in the
form of articles strapped under my arm, is devoid of interesting
content. Patterns, patterns, everywhere patterns and I can’t
seem to break away from the malaise of this everyday tedium which
has become more apparent than ever.
I wait now, in front of the microwave oven, as my lunch warms
beneath the magical rays within. Laziness has materialized before
me in the form of chicken noodle soup, poured from a can and purchased
from an infinite stock. My mind wanders to the endless display
of cans, bottles, bags, produce, frozen goods, and on and on that
line the shelves of my neighborhood supermarket. I wander the
aisles, noticing price per pound measurements, observing bright
yellow “sale” tags, squeezing the peaches in search
of the most firm, the most enduring of the lot. Ding! My soup
is ready.
Some singing creeps up on me from behind a
wall. A gentleman in his forties, cheery, pleasant, wanders into
view. “Hello, Buddy,” he grins. “Hello,”
I retort. The man is making his usual rounds through the building,
collecting trash and tidying up where he sees fit. I block his
way to the trash bin so I put down my soup and hand him the bin.
“Thanks, Buddy,” he says, as he quickly empties the
garbage and returns the bin to its place. “You’re
welcome,” I say, with an awkward smile. And it feels good
to be alive.
It has been seven years since I took this job, reluctantly at
first, but it grew on me as time quickly passed. Isn’t that
always the way when chores become effortless, eventually denigrating
to action without thought or conscience, like an automaton performing
its task? But unlike the automaton, I have a mind. It is a brittle
mind intent on collapsing under the weight of bored repetition,
but a mind nonetheless.
Voices carry into range breaking my trance.
Goddamn voices. Goddamn voices.
“Oh, that’s good, Buddy. Thanks,
Buddy”
It is the singing man from before, spreading
around his “buddies” to any and all takers. My heart
sinks. The unique comfort is gone. My moment of fight has disappeared
once more.
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