Misconception

Misconception

         I get off my plane and find the airport is stuffed, still.  I’ve been gone two weeks on business and it looks no different from when I left.  I need to relax my plane knots.
         I head to my usual bar.  Order my usual drink.  Sit in my usual chair.  I notice three girl friends and start to worry about how I look.  It’s a natural feeling to be worried about looks.
         To my amazement they are looking back.  I pat my head, just to make sure; fly-aways are no laughing matter.  The one on the left is really cute.  Then, the damnedest thing happens, she stands up and walks towards me.  I straiten my shirt and rub my chin.  I should’ve shaved.
         I’m thinking this must be a joke.  Some kind of bet, or something along those same lines.  I can tell right away she’s too good for me.  She has the most gorgeous eyes.  I have a soft spot for gorgeous eyes.  The cutest nose I’ve ever seen and a waist that begged to be grabbed.  Her luxuriously smooth legs looked even longer protruding from her mini skirt.  And beautiful blue angel eyes that could bait even the smartest of fish.
         “My name’s Katie.”
         Fake name?
         “I don’t really do things like this, usually.  Would you like to dance?”
         I know I shouldn’t get up.  It just isn’t worth it to get rejected. 
         I stand up and instantly make her twenty bucks.  We dance.  I buy her a drink.  We talk.  I buy her a cab.  I don’t even get her number.  My house is only six blocks away.  I decide to hike it.
         It’s 12:02.  To pass the time, I start talk-singing.  “Just a small town girl.  Livin’ in a lonely world.”
         The guy at the bus stop mutters, “She took the midnight train goin’ any where.”
         [Cue song and dance scene]
         The homeless and the night-stalkers come out.  Business men and women crowd off the bus.  I start to cut the rug front and center.  Everyone copies then follows along.  It’s like straight out of MJ’s Thriller.  “Just a city boy.  Born and raised in south Detroit.”  We dance the entire six blocks to my apartment.  As I turn the key my posse disappears.  I look at my watch.  It is now 12:24.
         The only thing I learned between grades 2 and 5 is that daydreaming is the perfect way to pass unwanted time.  I firmly believe this is the only reason I still draw breath.
         My father keeps telling me, twice a year, on my birthday and his, that I need to stop living in dreams, and find myself a girl.  I’ve tried looking.  My most reasonable explanation is God gave every girl me-proof eyes.  Yes, that has to be it.
         I walk into my room to get ready to shower; I never sleep dirty.  As I’m taking my clothes off I start imagining the pleasant sounds of waterfalls and the soothing voice of Brandon Flowers.  As I approach the bathroom I notice the steam billowing out from under the door.  Wait a minute!  I’m not imagining that.  I bust open the door to the bathroom to find a man in my shower.
         “Whoa.” He says as he slips, dragging the shower curtain down with him.  The shower beating on his head dispersing the bubbles from his shampooed head.  “Umm, hi?”
         “What are you doing in my house?”
         “What do you mean your house?”
         “So you’re squatting?  Is that it?”
         “Whoa there.  Cool it with the labels”
         He thinks he’s so funny.  “Get out of my house.  Now.  Get out.”
         “Dude, what are you —
         “I don’t care what lame excuses you have.  Get.  Out.”
         “But…”
         I grab my hockey stick from behind the door and motion in a threatening manner.  He scrambles out of the shower, soaking wet.  As he runs for the door he slips on the linoleum in the kitchen.  He barrels out the front door and scampers across into an alley across the street.  It’s at that moment I realize he was wearing a green togo with red and yellow leaves...I guess it’s time for a new shower curtain.

         I wake up with a TV remote enema.  I fell asleep on the bed and now I’m on the couch.  Too tired to be confused, I walk to my closet and blindly pull out slacks, shirt, and tie.  I put them on and start walking to the kitchen when I trip into the door.  I can already feel the blood rushing to the new bruise.  In three steps my pants are around my ankles.  My pants.  My pants?  These are not my pants.  I run back to the closet to find half of my closet is filled with clothes that aren’t mine.  I find some that are mine and hurry to...bacon?...Boy oh boy do I love the smell of bacon.  Wait, who’s making bacon.
         I slide into the kitchen like Tom Cruise to find a gourmet breakfast waiting for me.  Actually, two breakfasts?  I notice the fridge is open and protruding from the open door is a  corduroy clothed rump.  The fridge is full of food, which it never is, and the man is dressed in a beautiful mandarin silk shirt.  Corduroy and silk?  That’s either fashion brilliance or a laughing matter.  Most likely the latter.  “I took the liberty of filling your fridge while you were out.  I noticed that you were on the saltine and mustard diet.”
         “I thought I kicked you out, Squatter.  Why are your clothes in my closet?”
         “Squatter - A person who unlawfully occupies an uninhabited building or unused land.    Considering, in all actuality, that you want me and even need me, roommate would be more appropriate.  Which also explains the pants.”
No.  No.  No.  This is just a nightmare.  I close my eyes.  I know you don’t want to go to work today but no more tardies or the promotion is going to Lenny for sure.  The bacon smell starts to fade.  Wake up bud.  Just two more weeks until the job is yours.  Now wake up and get ready for work.
         I open my eyes and the squatter’s head has grown to cover half my field of vision.  Our noses are almost touching.  “Are you okay?  You seem a little sick.”
         It takes me a lifetime to realize, but I’m not dreaming!
         “Who ARE you?”
         “Ah.  There you are.”  He shakes a finger at me, “You gave me a scare there.  But you were just lost in an internal battle.  Willpower pitting itself against your urge to sleep.”
         “Tell me who you are right now or I’m calling the police.  And then I’ll probably call them anyway.”
         “I, my friend,” he leaps on to a chair, “am your new best friend.”
         “Get off that chair!  My grandma refurnished those before she died!”
         “I am so sorry.”  He does the epic “stand on the back chair fall.”  The chair, after a seeming slow motion fall, splinters on impact.
         “As I was saying.  I am going to change your life.”  He throws the vase on the speaker into the air.  I dive, too late, to catch it.  “You can consider me your second opinion.”  Jumps onto the glass coffee table.  It holds for a moment then shatters.  “Or your personal walking conscience.” 
         “No.  Leave that alone.  I spent forever organizing those.”
         He picks up the DVD rack and shakes them into a pile on the floor.  “I can be your fairy god mother.”  Then he dumps the CDs. 
         “Those were alphabetized you moron!”
         “But what I really,” he walks towards me, kicking DVDs and crunching glass, “truly am,” he gets right in my face, “is your greatest day dream ever.”
         I open my eyes.  The chair is whole.  The vase is unbroken.  The table complete and racks filled.  The squatter’s head has grown to cover half my field of vision.  Our noses are almost touching.  “And we are gonna revolutionize the way you live.”
         
         “That’s not possible.”
         “Oh, but it is.”
         We’re sitting on across from each other on the couch, staring with constant eye contact.  I squeeze my eyes and focus on removing the intruder.  I, again, open my eyes to see I failed.
         “But I can’t get rid of you.  Daydreams aren’t permanent.”
         “See there’s the fantastic part.  You don’t want me gone.”
         “Yes I do.  I want you gone.”  I close my eyes yet again, this time knowing how to get him gone.  “I do not want you here.”
         “Are you done yet.”
         “Dammit!”  I grab my jacket and keys, slam the door behind me, and run to get a cab.
         “Lucid and Fundamental.”
         I got passed by three times before a taxi finally picked me up.
         “And I wouldn’t mind a bit if you hurried.”
         “Is that how you talk to all of your best friends?”  It was the squatter.
         “What?  How are you here?  I left you in the room.”
         “No, you didn’t.”  He points to his temple.  “Remember.”
         “Just drive the damn car.”
         “Yes, sir, Mister Sir.”
         I ask him if he just happens to have some Ibuprofen.  He pulls out a medicine bottle and shakes out a couple for me.  “Are these in my head too?”  I see him smile in the rear-view-mirror.  I pop them down.  I power nap the ten minute drive.
                   My father has been telling me for years to find a girl; and every time I ask him how.  He always says to love her, and love her, and keep loving her until she loves you back.    Then you will be in love.  Simple, right?  I never heard my father tell my mother he loved her.  I never remember him telling me either.  I guess I never learned how to love.  I tell my father that but he says of course he did.  He taught me the same way his parents taught him.  It always comes full circle.
         I wake up to a Joaquin Phoenix faced Jack Black bodied cabby holding his hand out demanding my money.  “I said ‘$8.75.’  Are you listening?”  As I step out of the cab I catch a whiff of a woman's cinnamon roll.  I didn’t eat breakfast.  I look to left and see my frequent lunch spot, a Hot dog stand called “Frank’s Furter’s.”  Original I know.  But the peculiar thing is not the name, it’s Frank.  He looks unusual today.  Oh, right.  He’s the squatter.  A man passes me with a newspaper.  The Squatter.  There’s a lady on the steps drinking coffee.  Squatter.
         I slap myself a few times to clear the world.
         Every one in the square is looking at me.  Every one in the square is The Squatter.
         Slap.  Slap.
         I walk up the stairs and enter the precinct.
         People turn to stare at the crazy man walking up the stairs.
         
         “Are you done working yet,” he says as he peaks over my desk.
         “Stop bugging me and let me work!”  My coworkers all give me disgusted looks.  I whisper, “It’s only ten.  Stop trying to get me fired.”
         “Hmm.  Maybe you want to get fired because I am actually you.”
         “Squatter, I need this job.  I need to get this promotion.  Now leave.”
         “You need it.  You do not want—”
         “Leave!” I aim to punch him.  I punch the file cabinet.  Weird looks.  I walk to the bathroom with a hanging head.  I find the cleanest, dirty stall to hide my shame in.  I sit down and hold my head in my hands.
         “Why don’t you just accept this?  Stop fighting it.”
         “Why don’t you just leave me the hell alone?”
         “Because I don’t want to.”
         “Get out of here right now before I smack that smug smile right of your face.”

         
         After the longest day ever, I plop on the couch with a bowl of Breyer’s Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream and turn on the hockey game.  The Squatter walks in front of the TV.  “We need to talk.”
         “What it is now, Squatter,” I sigh.
         “Now I understand why you are such a miserable little turd, and it’s no wonder.  You need to get yourself a girl, mate,” he says in a perfect Jack Sparrow accent.
         “I know I do.  Friends have told me.  Family has told me.  Dad has told me.”
         “Now that you have finally admitted you need me—”
         “No I didn’t.  I would be happy if—”
         “We can set a game plan.  I’ve got your back here.  Do as I do, say as I say and we’ll do this one step at a time.  What do you say?”
         I pretend to sleep.  The only thing I learned between grades 6 and 8, was that the only sure way to not be called on was to sleep.
         “Hey.  Don’t try that crap on me.”
         “Fine.  I’ll give in.”  People always tell me I’m a pushover.  Until now I preferred to think I was just too nice.  “But I can’t keep calling you Squatter.  What’s your name?  Tyler Durden?”
         I thought it was clever.
         “How dare you bring me down to the level of Split Personality!” 
         Not funny I guess. 
         “I am a work of art.  The one.  The only.”  I make a mocking mouth with my hand.  “I am the Jesus of your mind, my friend.  I am a figment, but I know.  I see.  I am a creation straight from the mind of a gentlem—”
         He stares at me, then continues, “Witty, and slightly smarter the average, man.”
         “I don’t really consider myself ‘witty.’”
         “Well think about it this way.  I am part of you.  I am you.  And what would you consider me?  What one word completely describes me?” His smile is almost grotesque.
         “Annoying,” I offer.  After having my innards boiled by his death glare, I decide, “Witty.”
         “Witty,” he agrees.  Continuing his interrupted monologue, he says, “So because you created me, you have the very fine privilege of bestowing upon me a suitable name.”
         I stare blankly, roll my eyes, and again pretend to fall asleep, hoping this time it will do the trick.
         I wake up.  Chuck is gone.  I feel so lonely now.  My flight is debarking.  I pick up my luggage and head to my favorite bar to relax my plane knots.