No Working Title

June 2008

         It never fails. I find myself downtown, during an event that attracts thousands, and the worst possible scenario plays out in my head. It could be any city, any event, but nonetheless the visualization is always the same. Maybe a person close to me in the crowd notices first; they look up. They say something to the person next to them. I can’t hear what they say, can only see their mouth move. The other person glances up and freezes. Suddenly it’s a chain reaction, everybody looking up into the sky. Music that is playing either stops or is quieted by my own mind, I can’t tell which. There is a hushed tone over the crowd. Occasional murmurings, and I look up. Something shiny is falling out of the sky… fast. There is a trail of thin white smoke behind it. Everybody is continuing to ask what that thing in the sky is, but suddenly a sick feeling descends upon the mass of people. Something is wrong, is off; you can actually feel it emanating from the people next to you- something is about to happen. Something that the guy next to you holding a tiny American flag and frozen lemonade wants nothing to do with, and neither do you for that matter. And then it is deathly quiet and white. As if God himself took a picture, a flash brighter than any human eye should witness erupts behind skyscraper silhouettes. All of the sound sucked out of the air by a vacuum. A millisecond later I feel myself swept off my feet; my body rag-dolled by the scorching hot air, my flesh burned as I slowly fade out. A nuclear detonation. It’s vivid. It’s terrifyingly real.

         My psychiatrist says that this is a projection of my social anxiety and personal dissatisfaction with my life. He says that I am mentally wiping the slate clean, eliminating the idea of being lost in the crowd, that feeling of insignificance; at the same time I’m “doing away” with myself. He also tells me that it is completely normal to feel insignificant, unimportant. To feel like just another cog in the machine. He tells me that, at times, even he has felt similar. He says these fantasy/nightmares will subside once I can become fulfilled with my own existence. And maybe he’s right. Then again, since I am paying him, maybe I should tell him the rest… maybe I should tell him about Lena.

January 2008

1.

         My name is Cander. I am an American. I am a collections agent. I’m that guy that calls you at the worst possible time with that smug tone- “Mr. so-and-so, this is Cander from so-and-so. I’m calling about your past due payment on so-and-so. Yeah,” I say, always pausing for emphasis, “so when can we expect payment?” You’ll notice I say we, as if the company I work for is in human form and standing behind me, hand on my shoulder listening in on the shared receiver like a high school girl. It’s just one of those things. To be honest I don’t really even pay attention to it anymore. It all sounds the same by now anyway.

         My psychiatrist says that my awareness of routine is part of the problem. The cognitive recognition of repeating steps everyday creates the “cog in the machine” feeling. He’s right, but what exactly am I supposed to do about it? He hasn’t told me yet.

         Also, I’m pretty sure I’m going bald. I keep looking at the random black hairs on my desk and telling myself that I better hurry up, find a girl, and marry her before my hairline is at the crown of my head. I count them and think about all of my ex-girlfriends that I should’ve held onto. I wonder what they’re doing. I imagine what they look like bald and try not to laugh. All the while I’m telling you that it is absolutely crucial that you mail in your payment by the following business day or otherwise further actions will be taken on your account. But this isn’t too important.

         What’s important is that I drink something like five energy drinks a day.

* * *

         They seem to come out with new brands of them weekly. At the gas station down the street from my apartment they have a whole section of the drink cooler devoted to these little abominations. Most of them are packaged in tiny eight ounce cans with loud colors and even louder names. Names like: Killer, Ripped, Xtreme, Insane, Sociopath, whatever. It’s ridiculous. I mean, I cough up the two dollars for them, but just know that I do so contemptuously.

         Essentially, they are the coffee of the 21st century… how disturbing. My generation has grown up as the pantywaists of history. We can’t even handle coffee, unless it’s loaded with caramel, chocolate, sugar, and topped off with whipped cream. Oh, and the colder the better.

         I drink these skinny little cans all throughout the day to avoid falling asleep while I’m trying to be assertive with people that constantly lie to me over the phone. It’s hard to sound firm when you keep yawning or slurring your words. It’s hard to euphemistically call these people liars when you can’t focus. So again, the energy drinks help.

         The only problem is that the energy seems to carry on through to the wee hours of the morning.

         On my couch, late at night, I stare a hole through my television. 24 hour news channels, 24 hour sports channels, music channels that don’t play music. These are all on the viewing schedule, until I can no longer keep my eyelids open- usually around 3:30 a.m. I wake up at 7:00, get ready for work, buy more energy drinks, and so on. This is the usual routine.

         But, occasionally, when I know sleep is a long way off, and I’ve seen enough news and reality television, I mix it up a little. My psychiatrist says that this is a good thing, but doesn’t necessarily agree with my choice of activities. He says that I should choose healthier activities than drinking. We don’t discuss the prostitutes.

* * *

         Don’t get me wrong; I’m not some night-crawler john out trolling for streetwalkers every night when the sun goes down. I don’t get side alley blow jobs or nauseating hotel rooms with yellow tar-stained wallpaper and orange bedcovers. I try to keep it as clean and- the word classy isn’t the right one, but it’s the first that comes to mind- as possible. The reality is, and I can admit it to myself, that as a human being I desire to be sexually active, but as an individual I am terrified of emotional attachment. Something to do with the divorces of mine and everybody else’s parents I guess.

         So the easiest way to achieve both sex and emotional detachment is a – well, prostitute sounds dirty, let’s go with call-girl. The rich man’s hooker… except that I’m not rich, so my encounters range in the frequency of about once every two months or so.

         The encounters are very much the same and yet still very distinct. The girls, similar looking, but with identifiably different features. Their attitudes are all paralleled in the desire to please you and at the same time get everything over with. Some are sweeter about it, some are obviously fucking you for money- but you can’t let that get to you, because after all- it is a business arrangement.

         The nights always start the same- a little lonely, a little drunk. A brief sexual thought slides across your mind, it could be something as innocuous as a bra commercial, but that triggers a deluge of pornographic images stored in your brain. And so you pick up the yellow pages and check your bank account.

* * *

         A knock comes at the door sooner than you are ever ready for it. You think to yourself that it would have been cheaper to just masturbate, but now it’s too late for that. And you’re nervous. You know that this probably isn’t her first time knocking on a door that night, and it kind of makes you sick, but you open the door anyway. You forget about that disturbing feeling of being the last job for her that night because you are often greeted by a genuinely attractive girl. For six to seven hundred a visit plus tip, they had better be attractive.

         The one at my door looks deserving of the fee. She looks good. She looks cold. Not too surprising, considering the frigid January winds that licks at my face and exposed feet as we stand there staring at each other.

         “So…” She peers over my shoulder. “Can I come in?” she asks with surprising timidity. I step back, allowing her a small space to squeeze through to my living room. She brushes past me with the scent of too much perfume. Not cheap perfume, just too much of it. I suppose it’s more pleasant than the smell of anonymous sex from that night’s previous encounters. “I like your place” she lies.

         These first seconds, the small talk, the looking around and up and down of each other are always awkward to say the least.

         “Yeah, its okay I guess. Its home.” I say, followed with an uncomfortable laugh that stretches into one long note. Ahhhhhh. I rock back and forth on the balls of my feet. We are both trying to figure out the next thing to say.

         She sets her purse down on my coffee table. She moves closer to me, inches from my face. She asks me in the breathiest, sexiest voice that she can muster. “So, what’s you’re name?” Shyness be damned, she touches my chest. I jerk away momentarily. As many times as this has happened, it is still unnerving to have a stranger come on to you instantaneously. Even if you did pay them to.

         The overwhelming sick-sweet smell of alcohol fogs out of her mouth, and I briefly wonder if she drove here. I imagine her getting in her car, a sedan of some sort, after leaving her last client. Spraying on the overdose of perfume and putting two pieces of gum in her mouth; checking her mirrors and cautiously proceeding to my apartment; both hands gripped to the steering wheel at ten and two.

         She can sense my nervousness. One never really get used to sleeping with strangers. She is obviously comforted by my coyness and she becomes more aggressive, running her fingers through my hair, assuming her role as the call girl.