There seem to be three baby birds, though it’s hard to tell because they all look the same. There’s one who keeps fluttering up and hovering in front of the nest, seemingly uncertain how to get in. Another darts in and out, seemingly thrilled to have figured it out. A third remains inside, chirping insistently. The parents are still feeding it; they must be exhausted. They’ll all be gone soon, so I’m spending as much time out here as possible.
Their chirping seems especially loud this morning because the traffic on the three ramps heading west is barely moving. This is the first time I’ve seen it this congested. It’s so quiet I can hear a man in his car yell, “Fuck you! Fuck you! FUCK! YOU!”
My own rides have evaporated. I guess I’ve hit the limit of what people are willing to do to help. I don’t really mind taking the bus, but it’s less human interaction than I get in the car. I know my circle of acquaintances will be exploding when I’m back at work, but until then I have somehow, unbelievably, become even more alone. I don’t even interact with the other patients anymore; with the schedules being staggered, they’re in the tubes by the time I get there, and the next shift starts when I’m inside.
I’ve also stopped answering the phone, which rings all the time with collection agencies. Even with insurance, I owe so much money to so many different medical offices, I will never pay it all off. I can feel needles of anxiety spreading within me, sharp and crystalline.
When I go in, Sally has me watch The Meg. It’s terrible. Gladys asks me why I’m letting her pick my movies.
The Meg (short for Megalodon) is about a prehistoric giant shark released from the depths by scientists. The shark cage in the movie eerily resembles the chamber. I can imagine huge teeth clamping down around me.
I’ve never understood why there are so many shark movies, considering how limited the premise is. This one tries not to take itself too seriously without hitting the depths of idiocy plumbed in movies like Sharknado or Sharktopus (which at least have funnier names). It’s ridiculous and predictable, which I guess is what most people want.
That night I decide to go to First Thursday, when all the galleries have openings. On a beautiful night like this it can be nice to wander around the Pearl District, and sometimes there’s some interesting work on display. But tonight everything strikes me as being dull and pointless. Even with my blurred vision I can tell I’m not missing anything. It all evaporates the moment I turn away.
I walk the streets crowded with booths of people selling crafts and feel increasingly isolated. There are couples everywhere, and packs of scantily-clad young people on the prowl. I don’t fit in here any more than I do with the mainstream folks who flock to theaters to see those shark movies. Not that there’s anything avant-garde or especially stimulating about First Thursday. Despite its pretensions, it’s a glorified stroll through the mall.
I know I’m not that weird, and that my taste isn’t that esoteric. I am fussy though, in that I don’t want to waste my time looking at disposable art. I realize that my snobbishness contributes to my isolation. I feel so alienated from the same world I long to connect to. I’m a friendly person and I can get along with nearly anyone, but I rarely feel like I’m actually connecting with them in a meaningful way. It’s all just splashing in the shallows.
Not yet ready to face the quiet apartment, I stop at the Goose on my way home. A huge group arrives right after me, a phalanx of blandly attractive young people in jean shorts and tie-dyed t-shirts. Some of them carry guitars. I order a drink and try to write but nothing comes out. I feel like I’m staring into an empty room. The air is filled with voices but no one’s there.
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