“Shadows scanned and held me in yesterday’s darkness.”
Much of my life was spent wandering with little direction: a random particle bonding with life’s milestones. Graduation, career, marriage, and home ownership; all stripped away (with the exception of my degree, but if the university revoked my diploma due a clerical error, then this would also be an expected demise).
Be careful what we wish for.
I was thankful we never had kids. I wouldn’t want them to inherit my burdens, let alone be burdened with a scorched earth. I suppose my negative views on society were only the beginning of my downward spiral.
In a cataclysmic event, everyone became aware of my coasting, unmotivated tendencies, and all that I possessed, or fell in my lap, was torn from me. It was also when I began to faintly hear slow-moving thoughts, not of my own. At first I assumed it was my own whispering conscience. With each day that passed, however, the voice grew louder and more influential, especially after the devastating repossessions.
One would think that being directly affected by these unfortunate events would promote responsibility. Instead, I fell deeper into numbness and floated into an apartment built on severance and regret.
Float on.
I tried smoking, alcohol, drugs, escorts—I felt nothing. I tried yoga, lifting, running, cycling, half and full marathons—still nothing. I was living in a self-made purgatory. Many things I tried merely shed a flicker of happiness, and nothing proved significant enough to induce fulfillment.
Houseless, wifeless, jobless, hobby-less, I did what I do best: wandered. I spent entire days, sometimes weeks, trying to find my place in reality, only to be pulled back by routine and short-term obligations, like eating or paying bills.
A neo-nomad on the cusp of purpose: something that would give my pointless life a whiff of direction or meaning. I grew tired of trying to take my destiny, so I decided to succumb to life’s current and let transpiring events wash over me, without resistance. If I could cast a big enough net, something—anything could get tangled.
| 3 |
I floated for a year—one calendar year without a snag, bite, or tickle. I was in disbelief. It didn’t feel like a year. Then again, it’s easy to lose sense of time when floating aimlessly through a universe of distractions. I needed to feel something about this anniversary, so I figured I'd grow restless.
I reflected on the year, pondered the buffet of events that took place, and came to the conclusion that there must be an even balance between floating and action. Submitting carelessly to the current was too passive. I found times where I was within reach of possible purpose but simply did not tighten the net to capture and examine it. As a result, my days bled into blurs of insignificance. Shadows scanned and held me in yesterday’s darkness.
Conversely, too much action was too aggressive, which led to fraternizing with fake, empty individuals: those who seek volume over sustenance and collect friends like dust. They drop names with only a shred of commonality to create the illusion of popularity and could easily erase one for the prospect of two.
Perhaps my objective needed more thought. What was I looking for, or rather, who was I looking for? Mammals are hard-wired to find a mate and reproduce to mimic immortality. Was this innate motivation driving my search for meaning? The thought made me worry that the forces of nature sullied a whole year of experimentation. A change of plan was needed.
I decided that if I were to find my purpose, I couldn’t be too passive, too aggressive, and most importantly, I shouldn’t discriminate on any situation that may float passed me.
| 4 |
It was my usual diner. My gut told me I was hungry, so I ate.
The smallest steps forward are steps forward, nonetheless.
The place wasn’t glamorous, as most diners usually aren’t. Still, it offered a sense of home, which adds luxury to nourishment. Its floors were uneven, made obvious by the run-away crayons, shoe scuffs, and matchbooks under most table pegs. If anything, the place was rooted on consistence. From the waitresses who worked there for decades, to the quality and presentation of the food, there were no surprises. The weekly dinner specials even rotated in a pattern as predictable as the lunar cycle.
Chicken Cordon Bleu? Spring must be approaching.
This low-risk predictability is what made me a regular. When randomly floating, surprises usually aren't well received. They come in many forms: belligerent drunks angry because I popped their personal-space-bubble; impatient people annoyed because I’m in the way of their urgent tasks; insecure people who mistake my blank, unintentional stare for a personal vendetta.
Not that these types weren’t patrons of this particular place—they occupy everywhere light touches. At that particular diner, however, their influence could be suppressed by the perimeter of a slanted table.
“The usual?” the waitress asked. She was already writing down my order before I could provide an answer.
“Sure,” I said as sarcastic as possible but still sounded monotone.
She nodded and retreated to the cook’s station to relay my usual order. On her way, she glanced at the clock above the main entrance and flinched.
I fought the urge to humor the possibilities regarding my order but eventually submitted to my curiosity. Would she have been so absent had I ordered something off-menu, verifying my existence by simply looking at me? Did her simple question regarding my order set the stage for infinite scenarios, anxiously waiting to be played out, only to be determined by a single word?
Sure.
It was too late. The universe’s engine was already idling forward before I could even think to mutter the one-word answer. I shrugged and sipped of the room-temperature water.
Life is too small to make waves. Focus. Purpose approaches.
My insides began to rumble; strangely, not out of hunger. The light from the dusty pendants weakened, struggling to evenly distribute what little power they could draw. The dimness stirred me, and my eyes locked on the next customer through the door, of which I had no control. There was no noise or outside influence that called attention to the door; it opened without announcement. My eyes simply snapped directly into position, as if an internal alarm fired, igniting ocular nerves to the proper angle.
I gave it no more thought and figured it was one of my gut feelings. Besides, the man who walked in was hard to miss. He was enormous; not obese but built like an exaggerated comic book villain. He had no neck. His shoulders sloped up just behind his ears, and his upper torso was swollen as if stung by a thousand bees, making his shirt crease in awkward, impossible places. I sympathized with his shirt. It looked as though the slightest flex would cause it to give and disintegrate.
The waitress wasn’t taken aback by his size, as she asked how many in his party—he would be dining alone. She led him to a table directly across from mine. If it weren’t for the crooked chairs between us, we would’ve been sitting together.
“The usual?” she asked not once looking at him, a standby menu under her arm. My ears perked.
“Sure,” he said.
I felt uneasy, like I was given a spoiled movie plot. Before I had a chance to ponder this coincidence, I felt my hand raise and gesture him to join me; my wrist felt tied to a string pulling my movements without my intention.
He looked surprised, but intrigued, and got up from his table. The floorboards creaked under his weight. It wasn’t until he towered over me did I realize how obnoxiously massive he was. I gulped like a cartoon character. The string was severed, and my hand limply fell to my side.
“Do I know you?” he asked in a high voice, made even higher by the upward inflection of his question. The room tensed. My forearm ticked with electricity.
“No,” I said and continued to introduce myself. I explained that I also ordered the ‘usual’ and was surprised I hadn’t seen him there before. He looked at me, looked at an empty chair at my table, and paused. His whispered thoughts entered my own and dissolved with the flex of my face.
With his mind made up, he sidestepped to a seat. The chair moaned against the ribbed floor, and he sat down without further disturbance. For someone so big, his movements were surprisingly graceful and light.
We gestured to the waitress that we would be sitting together. She nodded and, once again, looked up at the clock. Judging by her look of disapproval, it seemed to be broken. But before I could check my watch to confirm, he interjected:
“What do you do?”
This was simple small talk—a trait learned at the beginnings of social acceptance. After a certain age, one is no longer assumed a naïve student oblivious to the problems of harsh realities, which defines the question as a required pleasantry, like commenting on weather. In most instances, the answer is equally dull and is seldom received with genuine interest.
For me, the question was always easy to answer—be it the truth or a lie. I would often have a generic reply holstered for such occasions, however, a blockage halted my practiced response. His question triggered a flash, and within a blink, I was given an advanced screening of the entire conversation to follow. But before I could recite my answer to his question, I felt the same rumble in my core. This time, it was much more severe. It gained intensity and erupted out of my mouth:
I am a floater.
My slow, labored words perplexed us both. I stammered and rubbed my eyes with my knuckles. Fading glimpses of his (irrelevant) responses pressed into my eyelids.
(a floater) he inquired, (like in an offith)
Yes, in an ‘office.’
How long have you been... in shape?
Surprised by my choice of words, or perhaps by the slow, syncopated way in which they were recited, he chuckles at my question. I remain straight-faced, as I expected both my questions and his answers.
(thinth back in junior high i was a thcrawny kid back then and wath alwayth gettin bullied and picked on tho I dethided to thtart bulkin up ya know liftin weighths)
I see that.
(the bigger i got the more i was left alone but ath you can thee im thtill liftin)
My inner ear changed shape to compensate for the pitch and impediment of his speech. I was proud that he wasn’t more self-conscious about it. Still, I found myself swallowing bullied laughter to save his feelings.
Kids are cruel.
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