When I take a hard look at my social plan, measure its pulse, offer a brutal diagnosis, it’s quickly becoming apparent that, of all the adjectives I could apply to it, “successful” certainly isn’t one of them. I’ve made some effort to engage in society, sure, and yet deep down, even as I type this, I know I’ve expended an equal amount of negative effort to ensure the plan’s failure. Part of me is relieved, really, that the two communities I’ve explored haven’t had any real traction.
Obviously this won’t do. My current existence could easily be mistaken for that of the elderly or the incarcerated. Most of my hours are spent sitting, essentially, and aside from 15 to 20 minutes of sunlight and three squares a day, there might be an occasional round of golf on the weekends. Holy shit, you know? This is the reality I’ve fashioned for myself. Throw in a couple pairs of orthopedic shoes, a Jell-O social every other Wednesday, and a synthetic hip, and I’d be set.
The places where people my age statistically congregate appeal little to me. I was at the Epicentre a few weeks ago for happy hour, and it was as if all the city’s Hollisters, Gaps, and Abercrombies had violently collided into each other, creating a hot zone of fancy clothes, perfume, and hair product. It was ground zero for what may have been the most expensive mating dance in the natural order.
Before me is a rapidly shrinking list of venues. I made a rare quarterly appearance in church last weekend, and it wasn’t bad at all. Now, this isn’t to say I lasted through the whole service, but more on that later. Could it be? Is this the next community to investigate? Church? A “Lord help me!” would not be entirely sacrilegious here.
Suburban living has a way of magnifying inconsequential affairs, and things that any sane passerby would dismiss as minor tend to adopt epic significance. A mosquito might find its way into your home, for instance, and what ensues is a taut game of cat-and-mouse worthy of a Grisham bestseller. I’ve been playing this game myself recently and emerged the winner yesterday, though the cost was great: five painful welts, with one more than an inch in diameter.
It’s such a small insect, but damn it if quality of life didn’t dramatically decrease the last few days. Personally, I’m not opposed to sharing a bit of blood with a creature who needs it, especially if it’s, like, the one thing it eats. I have plenty to spare, after all. But it’s a slap in the face when you offer free food, only to be poisoned when you finish dispensing it. So I hunted the bastard, room to room. Didn’t go so far as to lure it, as I had to do last year, because luck favored me this time and I managed to trap it in a bathroom. And when the sonuvabitch landed on the door sill for a breather, I punched it. “Suck it! You dumb fucker,” I shouted exultantly, hoping it would appreciate the wordplay before it died.
With the AC working at full blast now and the mosquito threat temporarily neutralized, it’s time to move onto the next problem. Recently I’ve been finding a small black bag of doggie poo in my trash can every Wednesday, right after the garbage has been collected. I understand why it’s there, of course. Who wouldn’t find it convenient, with an empty can lining the curb, to get rid of Fido’s shit and continue a walk unencumbered?
This doesn’t sit well with me, however, because I’d rather not have pet waste marinating in my garage at 90 degrees Fahrenheit for a week, you know? I recall my old man regaling me with his solution to one neighborly dispute: slashing some tires in the dead of night–all four, to be specific–and as much as I admire the cojones required of this, I believe our generation is mandated to do one better than our elders. I need to devise a more elegant answer. The gears have been turning, as you can well imagine, and a plan shall be formulated shortly.
Mortality isn’t what I’d qualify as light conversation on a Thursday or any other day, but between the coverage of missing plane debris and nukes detonating underground and church shootings and, just today, the passing of David Carradine, it’s certainly top of mind. And while I don’t like to dwell on it for too long, lest I end up paler than a Twilight superfan shopping for incense and powdered bat nuts at Hot Topic, it can serve as a sharp check-up on how I’m investing the time allotted to me.
Usually, though, it’s not the dire news stories that bring death to mind. No, the triggers are more oblique, and I can think of two specifically. One is related to messing up dates in e-mails. I’ll type 06/04/90, for example, and realize I’ll be long gone in 2090. The other reminder comes whenever screen performers pass. It’s, like, I just saw Carradine in Kill Bill a few years ago, or The Golden Girls are barely plural now. Granted, these were older stars, so it’ll be much more unnerving when actors and actresses progressively closer to my age start to croak.
There are no easy answers to this conundrum. It’s not even a conundrum, really, so much as the way things are. For me, the conversation continues to wend its way back to this idea of creating something great, something that will outlive me. I want to take the time given to produce a work that endures. This is as far as I tend to get, however, and the hope is to move beyond the abstract, find the concrete, and connect the dots.