Again, it’s like I found a secret passageway. The W from Astoria to Cortlandt is my new path to work, non-stop, seats always available, but only on weekdays. The route ends at Whitehall, which I think is only one or two stops past Cortlandt. So the train ia almost empty upon arrival at Cortlandt. No wrestling and wrangling with stubborn clumps of people to get out of the train.
It felt like I was going to a different job, which would be a fine feeling indeed. The new path sends me to the same futile, pitiless drudgery. OK, I exaggerate for comedic effect. But the job’s ultimate pointlessness has caught up with me. There is no future here, only an endless series of endings.
Yesterday I was in for a shock. Some sort of festivity is going on this week, an annual thing I odn’t care about, but it entails putting balloons all over the place. There are at least three at each desk. They are large and made of what looks like pretty thick material.
Yesterday one of them exploded, right next to my face. The popping noise made me scream way loud, and a piece of the popped balloon hit me on the face. I have no doubt that if I were not on these BP and anxiety meds that I could have had a heart attack or at least a major league panic attack. I was, in fact, shaking for about a half hour, and mmy chest tightened. This happened after I just happened to have written a note to myself that I was feeling fine, feeling fine…
Most people seemed to recognize that a guy screaming very loudly and then falling silent is probably a caause for concern, but one dickless asshat behind all he could do was laugh and laugh and laugh while I reached for a backup does of the panic pill, which worked beautifully, btw. If there was a general lack of concern for me it’s because not everybody here likes me, or even knows me. I mind my own business, which has been a very hard balance for me to keep. In most contexts I am something of an oversharer. This has created a very awkward and at times untenable dynamic. I have a past that conflicts mightily with the missions of this company. It’s not a criminal past, although I do have something like that moldering away in my 1980s. My pasts comprise episodes and incidents that I’m certain crossed into the conscious consideration of people here. It’s happened to me countless times, a conversation with a new person turns on a question: Have you ever heard of the Payphone Project? From there it’s a potential shitshow.
But what am I blathering about? I feel good today. Feeling good, until the balloons start exploding again. Right in my face. That really was a bad moment yesterday. But the pills rescued me. I woke up feeling fine, with a three-quarter boner and no heavily-pounding heart. The air conditioning did not feel as magical as it has in days past but it was fine. Now I know how little energy it consumes, at least in ECO mode.
Oh man the dude and his daily shit just stomped into the men’s room to take a dump. He is nothing if not regular. But still, he nagrifies me any time I see him when I remember feeling violated. I was sitting in the first stall, basking in the afterglow of an abundant and turgidly viscous log. I was getting ready to wipe when this asshat stomps in and sits his naked ass down in the stall directly next to me. Who does that when there is a safer stall, insulated by another, one stall over? I ranted about this adequately enough yesterday, if I remember right. Now I sit here as he performs his daily bowel movement. He will emerge from the shit looking smug and the same as when he entered. Shitting means nothing to him. There is no art, no memory, no feeling of earthy triumph.
