Existential Dread For Beginners

Really, Cosmo Magazine is to blame.

Although it seemed completely out of character, last week your significant other picked a copy up from the impulse rack at the grocery store.  They bring it back to the apartment you share, looking smug.

“What’s up with that?” You ask.  ”I didn’t take you for the kind to read Cosmo.  Once you’ve seen one issue of that stupid magazine, you’ve seen them all.”

“Oh, I thought we could try some of these,” They say with a sly grin, pointing to a large block of text on the front cover advertising FIFTY SIZZLING WAYS TO SPICE UP YOUR SEX LIFE!

For the most part, the magazine is predictably bland.  You take turns alternating suggestions, and while the exercise started off enticing and naughty, by #41 (PUT YOUR VAGINA ON YOUR PARTNER’S PENIS, MAYBE?) the thrill has already started to wear off.

Feeling the gap forming between you, your partner decide to give the thing one last go.

“Okay, how about this one?”  They suggest.  ”#48 - SEND EXPLICIT TEXT MESSAGES FROM SEPARATE ROOMS?”

You’re not sure how this’ll work, but your partner seems really into it, so you decide to give it your best.  That night, you agree to sleep on the couch, right outside the closed bedroom door.

At about midnight, you receive a text:

“I WISH U WERE HERE TO SEE HOW HOT AND BOTHERED I GET THINKING ABOUT U.”

You think about it for a moment before sending back —

“ME TOO.  I WISH I WAS THERE.  I MISS YOU.”

They respond, almost instantly with —

“AWWW, POOR BABY.  R U LONELY?  ;)”

You reply —

“YES.  ALMOST ALWAYS.  I HAVE A HARD TIME SLEEPING ALONE.”

For good measure, you clarify —

“I THINK IT STARTED WHEN MY FATHER LEFT.”

There is a long pause, before —

“UM, WHAT?”

“EVER SINCE MY FATHER LEFT, I HAVE DIFFICULTY SLEEPING ALONE.  I THINK IT’S BECAUSE I USED TO STAY UP LATE AND HEAR MY MOTHER FRANTICALLY CALLING ALL MY FATHER’S FAMILY AND FRIENDS, ASKING IF THEY’D SEEN HIM.  NOBODY WOULD TELL HER ANYTHING, AND EVENTUALLY SHE STOPPED CALLING, BUT SHE WOULD STILL STAY UP, LATE AT NIGHT, RIGHT BY THE PHONE.  I WOULD SOMETIMES TIP-TOE OUT OF BED AND WATCH HER FROM A CRACK IN THE DOOR.  SHE HAD HOLLOW, SUNKEN EYES IN THE MORNINGS, BUT SHE NEVER MENTIONED IT.”

There is no answer, so you decide to continue —

“EVER SINCE THEN I HAVE PRETTY SEVERE ABANDONMENT ISSUES.  WHICH PROBABLY EXPLAINS WHY I WENT THROUGH SUCH A PROMISCUOUS PHASE IN HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE.  I JUST WANTED PEOPLE TO BE AROUND ME.  IF WE’RE BEING HONEST, IT’S PROBABLY WHY I SUGGESTED WE MOVE IN TOGETHER AS QUICKLY AS I DID.  WHEN I’M ALONE, I STARE AT THE CEILING AND START TO THINK ABOUT HOW EASY IT WOULD BE FOR ME TO DIE AT THAT MOMENT, AND HOW LONG IT WOULD BE BEFORE ANYBODY KNEW.  IN FACT, A LOT OF PEOPLE PROBABLY WOULDN’T FIND OUT FOR MONTHS OR YEARS, EVEN.  THAT’S WHY I DON’T LIKE BEING ALONE, BECAUSE IT REMINDS ME OF THE CRUELTY AND SHORTNESS OF LIFE.  SO, YEAH, I WISH YOU WERE HERE TOO, BOO.”

Nothing happens for a long time, so you add —

“ ;) ”

There is no reply for the rest of the night, and before you drift off to sleep, you’re positive you can hear the faintest sound of crying behind the bedroom door.

When you wake, your partner is gone, along with all of their belongings.  When you try to call their cellphone, a very polite recording informs you the number has been disconnected for years.

For twenty-three minutes at this Cub Foods, you will be nothing short of a Golden God.

Play it cool, slick.  Start off nonchalantly browsing through the snack aisle, occasionally picking up a box of Cheez-it’s to examine the price, like some kind of ordinary Joe Schmo.  Timing is everything here.  Savor the moment.

Don’t be afraid to wait for a good audience.  There’s no shame in taking your time.  You’ll know them when you see them: ten-year-old kids, trailing behind their parent’s shopping cart, looking all bored and aloof, like they’re too cool to be grocery shopping.  It’s time to show these fucking dummies who the real hot shit in Aisle 7 is.  (Hint: It’s you, bro.)

Make sure you have enough room to take a running start.  You’re going to have to gain some pretty good momentum if you want this to look good.  When you’ve reached a brisk pace, grip the handles tightly and lift yourself up onto the little rail underneath the basket.  Your full weight will almost instantly cause the cart to tip upwards — and this is the important part — so you’ll only have a split second or so to lean forward just enough to balance the cart on those two back wheels.  

If you fuck it up and overcompensate, the front wheels will slam back onto the floor and you’ll look like a total tool.  If this happens, just play it off as best you can and get out of there.  Don’t come back until you’re ready to fly with the eagles.

But if you manage to balance just right, you can ride that baby all the way down to the end of the aisle.  Right past those stupid little babies and their stupid mommies and daddies, with their stupid carts full of Sunny D.

Depending on how proficient you get at popping shopping cart wheelies, you could theoretically go up and down from one aisle to the next, blowing all their little ten-year-old minds.

Eventually someone who works there will come up and forcibly ask you to leave.  Quietly oblige, but not before tossing a smug look at those kids.  You won’t have to say a word, just let them savor your moment of victory.  Bask in that aura of respect, baby.  You’ve earned it.

“I love this song,” you say.  It comes out as ‘mmm mmphm mphm,’ so you repeat yourself once the man closest to you (you’ve come to think of him as the leader of the gang, although admittedly the matching black ski masks make it difficult to pick out any unique, defining characteristics) loosens the ball gag.

“Fugazi, right?”  He asks.

You nod, excited.  This is already the longest conversation you’ve had, not counting that tearful phone call they forced you to make to your family and loved ones.  And that must have been three or four days ago.

“Yeah.  They guys really rocked hard back in the day,” You tell them, eager to show off your knowledge.  ”I saw them at the Rose Ballroom during the In On The Kill Taker tour.  Great show.”

“What was that, ninety-two?”  The shorter masked man with the gun asks.

“No, ninety-three, I think.”

“Sweet.”

There is a lull in the conversation while you listen to ‘Give Me The Cure’ as it crackles out of the radio speakers.  The album, 13 Songs, was actually a compilation of two early EP’s, and it remains Fugazi’s most successful release to date.  This song (and album) always remind you of this crazy kid Jacob Moore that you knew back in high school.  Jacob initially got you into Fugazi, along with a bunch of other stuff on the Dischord Records Label; Iron Cross, Minor Threat, Lungfish, stuff like that.

You can’t help but wonder what Jacob is up to these days and momentarily wish he was here to reminisce (or, at the very least, help chip away at that $80,000 ransom).

“These guys sure kicked ass, huh?” You say, trying to keep the conversation from faltering. “Joe Lally; totally underrated bassist, right?”

However it seems your kidnappers are only casual Fugazi fans at best, and by the time the song fades away and the radio changes to a commercial for the Shane Company jewelers, you’ve run out of things to talk about.  You sit in silence (aside from the occasional fit of nervous crying) for another three days while your family desperately tries to raise the ransom money by sundown.  They are unsuccessful in meeting the previously established deadline, so the three masked men will have no choice but to take you to the parking lot of a Home Depot and fire a Beretta 92, execution style, into the back of your skull.  You will be discovered three hours later by the janitorial crew.

(For the record, not that it really matters now, Jacob is general manager at a local Applebee’s.  He likes his job okay, but most days he’s very aware that if it wasn’t for his wife and kids he would probably have picked a different profession.  He will read the newspaper article about your kidnapping over breakfast one morning and spend approximately four bites of Cheerios wondering if it’s about you.)

The weather has been nothing short of beautiful the last few weeks.  Highs in the 70’s in March is basically unheard of in Minnesota.  The weather is so nice that you decide to treat yourself to a Blizzard from Dairy Queen™.  They’ve opened a whole two weeks early than usual to capitalize on this unusual meteorological trend.

Order Reese’s® Peanut Butter Cup, your favorite flavor.  The delicious combination of Peanut Butter Cups and soft serve ice cream always remind you of blissful summer days.  You remember having one of these last fall, right before they closed down for the season.  Boy, that seems like it was only a month or two ago.  Sit on a bench outside and enjoy your tasty treat.

At some point in the process of savoring your ice-creamy snack, you will be overcome by feelings of creeping dread at the realization that there was no winter this year.  There’s hardly been a spring, in fact.  Today could easily be a summer day, for all you know.  You’re no expert on the climate, but you remember just enough from high school to vaguely understand the complete lack of a season might have some sinister ramifications on life as you know it.

Your spoon hovers halfway between your Blizzard® and your mouth as the gentlest ripples of understanding dance through your Cerebral Cortex.  You are, if only for a moment, given the faintest sense of comprehension of your place in the universe; the cosmic mechanics of being are laid out in front of you, and if you possessed the ability to hear the pulse of existence you would hear the timeless wails of Mother Earth as she mourns her inevitable, violent destruction.  Wiser, smarter men and women than you are walled up in laboratories, weeping futilely for the unstoppable darkness we have all unknowingly unleashed upon ourselves. 

Ignore this feeling.  Enjoy your delicious Reese’s® Peanut Butter Cup Blizzard® Treat from Dairy Queen™!  For a limited time only, Dairy Queen™ is offering a second Blizzard® of an equal size for only 99 cents!  That’s a deal you can’t afford to miss!

While offer lasts at participating locations.  Void where prohibited.

You pride yourself in being the best zookeeper ever to be employed at the St. Paul Como Park Zoo and Conservatory.

          You do everything in your power to adhere to a strict feeding and cleaning schedule.  You make an effort to be courteous, welcoming, and helpful to all zoo visitors.  Your knowledge of the animal kingdom is exceptional.  Your interactions with co-workers are professional, respectful, and supportive.  You are, for all intents and purposes, almost a perfect zoo employee.

          Almost.

          In the last few months, however, you’ve found yourself falling into a strange new routine: every night, after all the visitors and staff members have gone home and the gates have been locked, you meticulously make the rounds from cage to cage and proceed to thoroughly emotionally and verbally abuse each and every animal.

          It started off simply – mean-mugging the zebras, flipping off the tropical fish – petty stuff like that.  Just blowing off steam, you know?  You didn’t give much thought to why.  Everyone gets a little frustrated at their jobs, you rationalized.  This was just something to keep you from feeling trapped.

          But it didn’t stop there.  Sometimes you’d catch yourself in the middle of a work shift, fantasizing about the possibilities.  Watching the Sparky the Seal Show at noon and three-thirty every weekday, you feel your blood start to boil at the very thought of that smug little prick frolicking around like a discount whore.  Every cheer of the crowd fuels your building rage.  Fuck that guy.  He thinks he’s so great.

          Before you know it, angrily berating the animals becomes the highlight of every day.  Sometimes you wonder if it’s the only reason you still come to work.  Slut-Bashing the tortoises, lobbing racial slurs at the penguins.  It makes you feel big watching their complete inability to comprehend your blind hatred.  It makes you feel like a man.

          Lately, however, the zoo has started to notice some distressing changes.  The Reptile House has a palpable aura of sadness lingering over it.  The sloths have somehow become noticeably more lethargic and despondent.  The flamingos have all developed textbook cases of Bulimia Nervosa.  The gazelles have taken to unexpectedly bursting into tears at the slightest provocation.

          The zoo, fearing these dark changes may be the results from the stress of captivity, bring in a host of dieticians, veterinarians, and interior designers to offer their expertise.  A new exercise and diet program is introduced, and after a lengthy fundraising process all cages are expanded and renovated to better resemble the natural habitats.  Nobody suspects the animals are suffering depression as a result of your daily habit of completely unwarranted emotional abuse.

          Tonight you stay late to shit-talk a chimpanzee.  You’ve spent the last month learning sign language just for this moment.  You tap on the glass to get the attention of a young male named Sonny.

          “LISTEN UP YOU STUPID PRIMATE.”  You sign through the glass.  “WE TOOK YOU FROM EVERYTHING YOU KNOW AND LOVE AND BROUGHT YOU HERE TO SLOWLY WITHER AWAY IN CAPTIVTIY FOR AN INSATIABLE, UNCARING AUDIENCE.  WHEN YOU DIE – AND MAKE NO MISTAKE, CHIMPANZEE, YOU WILL DIE – NOBODY HERE WILL MOURN YOUR DEATH.  NOBODY WILL KNOW.  YOUR BODY WILL BE PRODDED AND DISSECTED IN LABS; FAR AWAY FROM WHERE GOD AND ALL THAT IS NATURAL DECREED YOU SHOULD EXIST.  YOUR LIFE IS A TRAGIC LIE, CHIMPANZEE.  WEEP.  WEEP BITTER TEARS FOR THE SINS OF HUMANITY.”

          He looks at you with broken, haunted eyes, before shuffling off to a corner and miserably tracing spirals into the dirt with his finger for the rest of the night.  You don’t know if the chimpanzee even knows how to sign, but you feel pretty good about it anyway.  You sleep like a baby.

In the three years you’ve been living at this apartment, you’ve never seen Crazy Mike like this.

                Last Thursday when you step out to take out the garbage, you find him leaning against the dumpster with a distant look in his eyes that had nothing to do with his prolonged and near-constant usage of crack cocaine.  When he sees you, he barely even offers a cursory nod.  He doesn’t even try to sell you a single rock.

                On Sunday, when you get back from Target, you brace yourself for his routinely aggressive sales pitch while you walk the twenty or so feet to the back door.  Instead, you find him sitting on the back steps, deeply engrossed in a battered copy of Nietzsche’s “Human, All Too Human.”  He doesn’t even seem to notice you come in.  After all these years of dreading his daily harassment, you find yourself starting to miss it.

                On Tuesday, you decide to do something about it.  Clearly Crazy Mike is experiencing some sort of existential crisis and needs your help.  You hope the rapidly changing weather might improve his mood, as you’ve always suspected he might suffer from some undiagnosed form of Seasonal Affective Disorder.  Perhaps you can use the weather as a conversation starter to steer him into a friendly conversation.  Perhaps he just needs to know somebody still cares.

                That afternoon you step out for a cigarette and find Crazy Mike where you last saw him, seated glumly on the back steps.  Much to your surprise, you realize he’s been crying.

                “Whoa.  Everything okay, man?”  You ask, genuinely concerned.

                He blinks away tears, blushing.  You awkwardly stand next to him, unsure of what to do.  You didn’t expect this.  Eventually you decide the moment isn’t going to get less uncomfortable, and that you might as well do what you came out here to do.

                “Really nice weather these last few days, huh?”  You say in a pleasant tone.  “They say it’s going to be sixty-three by Friday.”

                “Did you ever read Kierkegaard’s ‘The Concept of Anxiety’?” He asks, suddenly.  “In it, he describes Man standing on the edge of a cliff, realizing that he simultaneously feels both an instinctual fear of falling to his death and an impulsive urge to jump.  The knowledge that the possibility of such complete freedom exists within us triggers feelings of unimaginable anxiety, a condition we can neither ignore nor live harmoniously with.  This is why the human race is doomed to live with a general sense of unknowable dread.  We will never be free of it.  Never.”

                “Huh.” You say.  “Huh.”

                Crazy Mike lapses into silence.  A single tear trickles down his cheek.  He makes no effort to wipe it away.  You stand in silence for a few more minutes before wordlessly returning to your apartment to spy from the kitchen window as Crazy Mike kicks a can through the alley for a few minutes.  You wish you could help him, but he’s on his own truthful journey now.  The best you can do is just support him however you can.  One thing is for sure; your back alley crack dealer will never be the man you used to know.

                For reasons you may never fully understand, you will have trouble falling asleep for the next three weeks.  Your dreams will be plagued with visions of endlessly falling from cliffs, and you will awaken wondering if you fell or if you jumped.  For a few moments after, you will be convinced these dreams hold some great significance.  Try your hardest to ignore this.