Silence and Solitude

I am driving down Lakeview Avenue for the millionth time tonight. It is nearly midnight and I’m on my way home from Supervalu, the only place open this late where I’m not guaranteed to be hit on by at least one disgusting chauvinistic male who will undoubtedly call me some type of candy and demand that I give him my phone number. “It’s just a phone number, honey,” he’ll say, and after I show him my engagement ring (fake, of course, but necessary since I deal with this type of thing far too often),“we can be friends, your fiancé will never find out.” Usually at this point I flip Mr. Pig the bird and stalk off. One of these days I’ll probably be shot.

         I bought three things at Supervalu: cigarettes, a Hershey Special Dark bar, and a pound of coffee (and not the good kind, either). The three things that, had I an addictive personality, I would be addicted to. Instead, I’m smoking a cigarette because I think I should, indulging in chocolate because it somehow makes me feel more feminine, and drinking caffeine because in five hours time I’ll have to be at work and I’d much rather spend these next hours writing than sleeping since the effect is about the same.

         On my left I see two figures: A man in black dress pants and a tie, and a young boy, probably about twelve or so, wearing a flannel sweatshirt with the hood up. What the hell is that kid doing out so late? And is the guy a pedophile or something? For a fleeting moment I consider turning around and pulling up beside the odd pair just to satisfy my curiosity. Then I remember how late it is and realize, since I drive a black Ford Probe with bad exhaust, that my curiosity could be misconstrued as violence, psychosis, or, even worse, prostitution. I continue on my way home.

         Turning into my alleyway I notice nothing unusual. I avoid the giant pothole twenty yards in, scowl at the tan Toyota Camry with the bumper sticker proudly announcing to the world, “Fueled by Caribou Coffee” and finally pull into my driveway. I am greeted by a pang of guilt as I realize that every single light in my apartment is on. The thought, so much for energy conservation, is quickly followed by a customary fuck it.  In the window sits Katara, my lovely feline companion, probably the one and only creature that will ever tolerate living with me, what with my nocturnal habits, constant humming, and periodic obsessive-compulsive cleaning binges. The other day I came to the realization that, were I ever to become a stabile and sane human being, my house would be a pit. Good thing I’m crazy.

         My door creaks as I open it and again upon closing. I wince. I look around at my dwelling. I have two bedrooms (only one of which is functional since, during our last major rainstorm, my entire bedroom flooded, forcing me to rip out the brand new carpet and spend the last few weeks sleeping on my couch), half of a kitchen (a small fridge, one burner, a barely used microwave and a toaster), a small bathroom and shower, and the only two pieces worth admiring: A large well-stocked bookshelf and, within arms reach, a big comfy leather chair with ottoman. For what I pay, this place is amazing. But it’s nowhere near any of the places I routinely visit: Work, school, friends. School is twelve miles East, work is ten miles South, and, for whatever reason, the three friends I have live in Deephaven and Chaska, also known to city dwellers such as myself as the ends of the earth. And me, I live in Robbinsdale, three blocks away from North Minneapolis, the neighborhood where I grew up. Sometimes late at night I  think I hear gunshots but I’m probably just out of range. Still, I really need to move.

         Were I to move to Minnetonka or Hopkins, nearer to my place of employment and friends, I could afford a studio apartment where I’d maybe sleep one night a week (as opposed to my current three), spending the other six unwittingly eavesdropping on my neighbors through flimsy plaster walls. Nah, not worth it. Dinkytown would offer the same plus drunken college kiddos, frat boys, and constant evening traffic. Definitely not. So here I’ll stay until I finish my worldly business. Then it’s off to a cottage in the north woods where I’ll have a white picket fence, three cats, and a chemistry lab in my basement--there will be no animal testing, of course.

         This thought alone keeps me going. Some people dream of money, of love, of success. I dream of silence and solitude. Once upon a time I had delusions of grandeur too. I dreamt of saving the world, of creating an alternate fuel source, of teaching people things, of “giving back”. Then reality hit. In order to teach, people must be willing to learn, to listen. Alternate fuel sources have been invented but get shot down before leaving the starting blocks because they just aren’t profitable or capitalistic enough (either that or their inventors have been “dealt with” by the government). And this world is far past saving. So I’m just along for the ride.
         
         Sometimes, when I need a bit of fresh air or to rationalize smoking another cigarette, I go stalking along the parkway. Stalking because, rather than walk at a leisurely pace, my muscles get going and refuse to stop (apparently even for two ton vehicles). Rhythmically I plod down the sidewalk, nodding occasionally at passersby, but mostly staring straight ahead immersed in my thoughts. Yesterday I had an epiphany involving the observation that I rarely speak of serious or philosophical matters to anyone but myself. Probably because, I noted, I get into long and involved arguments about such things and no one argues with me quite the way I do.

         On my parkway stalk I noticed something else: I spend far too much energy being mild-mannered. Sometimes I’d love to just tell the world to go screw itself. Instead, I put on my customer service face and pretend like everything’s okay. I never cry, I rarely yell, and I apologize for things even when they’re not my fault. I make excuses for other people’s faults, rationalize their actions when they betray, disappoint, or hurt me, and avoid conflict whenever possible. I wonder sometimes what would happen if I dropped the façade and told someone, anyone, what I really felt.  I imagine they’d look at me in mild surprise and then walk away because I’m not worth the conflict.

         My eyes are drooping but I know that even if I fall asleep for a few hours my dreams will be plagued with maenadism, chaos, madness; repressed feelings that come out to play only in alternate consciousness. I haven’t been able to meditate successfully in weeks because, left to their own devices, my thoughts create a maelstrom in my head, procuring fits of anger. Or housecleaning.
         My pillow must be made of rubber because my head hits it and bounces right back up again. It is four thirty in the goddamn morning (how one can call it “morning” puzzles me since the sun won’t be up until seven thirty at least): time for work. Work passes slowly with a grand total of five customers in the first three hours then flies by as, from nine o’clock until the end of my shift at one, the line of customers reaches the door and my drink screen is completely filled with ridiculously intricate and nitpicky beverages, my favorite being a large skim half-caf sugar-free hazelnut latte, less foam, with one less pump of syrup and would you please steam my skim to one hundred and seventy five, not eighty, degrees?

         What I’d like to say: “Hell no, you high maintenance rich bitch”.
         What I actually say: “Certainly ma’am. Have a lovely day”.
         Customer service Hannah wins again.

         I am on the city bus. Most of my thinking is done in transit. This can be quite dangerous in cars and on foot but on the city bus my mind is free to wander. My bus ride is taking extra long today. Traffic is miserable and for some reason this particular bus driver refuses to drive on the shoulder. Maybe he’s been flipped of by one too many irritated drivers (I confess I myself have been one), or maybe he enjoys making every single one of his passengers irritable (minus the one guy slumped against the window in front of me snoring), but either way I’m tired and want to get home. Apparently so does the woman sitting in front of me who is incessantly tapping her foot. Her foot that, I observe, is sheathed in a knee-high, lime green mukluk covered in mud. It hasn’t rained in weeks. I begin to play one of my favorite games called “Backstory”. The rules are as follows:
         1. Individuals must not be named.
         2. There can be no speculation on age or marital status.
         3. Each story must revolve around an item of reference (the green mukluks, for instance).
         4. Never, under any circumstances, should contact, verbal or eye, be made with the individual.
         
         This individual woke up late for work. After frantically searching for her black flats and coming up empty handed, she grudgingly stuffed her feet into a pair of black stilettos and rushed out the door. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, a black cat darted across the walkway, causing her to stumble to avoid a collision and break her heel. Cursing her luck (it was a black cat, after all), she hobbled back into the house and grabbed the first pair of shoes she could find: her lime green mukluks, still covered in mud from the last time she gardened in the rain.
         
         I’m not sure when I first started playing this game, or why I’ve continued for all these years. I guess I like imagining that other people suffer from the same misfortune that I do. My stories are almost always tragic.

         Tragedy won’t plague me for long, though. Someday I’ll have a quiet and reflective place to think. I’ll think about the sun as it’s rising. I’ll think about the earth, the sky, the water, the moon and the stars. I won’t have to think about how much I hate my boss or the city or my house. I won’t have to be customer service Hannah ever again--my cats will like the real me. These thoughts, realized in cars, on parkway stalks, on buses, keep me going. So I will continue my daily travails and fulfill my worldly obligations because somewhere down the road silence and solitude await.