The Running Man

4/5/2006


To show you how far I have fallen (Ecclesiastical) or disintegrated (Clinical) depending on your point of view, when I woke up today I thought it was Friday. No big deal, right? Days of the week are just human concepts in an attempt to keep track of time which, by definition, is infinite and therefore immeasurable. Although I know the rotation of the Earth, the planets and the Sun play a part in these 24 hour quantities, sometimes the whole system feels completely arbitrary to me.

If this delusion of mine ended there it would be a funny little thought. A possible "senior moment" which could be snickered at or dismissed. But unfortunately my belief that today was Friday was so absolute I put on a turtleneck instead of the usual shirt and tie combo. I leisurely strolled out the door and waited for the bus. Having just missed one, the driver actually waved to me as he pulled out, I had some time to debate if I should get the New York Post (25 cents – the paper of record) or not. I usually do but on mornings when I feel particularly groggy, hung-over, angry, dazed – fill in the blank – I don’t because I feel it is more productive to sit on the Number One Train (Where the bus I just missed was going to take me) and space out to whatever is playing on my I-Pod. My theory being that I can learn a lot more about human connection and emotion from guys like Dylan, Lennon and Reed – hell, even Simon and Garfunkel – then assholes like Dunleavy, Peyser and Malkin.

After about five minutes of this waffling, I said what the hell, threw my cigarette to the graying cracked cement and proudly marched into the bodega. After slamming the quarter on the counter, I took my copy of the Post and shoved it under my arm without even looking at it. My plan was to pretty much zone out for most of the train ride and then start reading the paper about half way through when I switch over to the express and lose my seat. In my mind, I was already sure that I was probably going to bypass all the gobly-gook that passes for news in that rag. I was most interested in the entertainment section in the middle because, remember, IT WAS FRIDAY, and that’s the day all the new movie reviews come out which I like to keep up with.

Call me callous, but I would rather be entertained by the likes of George Clooney and Scarlett Johansson then by sensationalistic stories about who was raped, who was murdered or some other urban situation that the Post clearly points out that I should fear in the course of my everyday life.

The bus comes. The train comes. I zone out.

I experience my own personal magical mystery tour of sight and sound. I will not describe the scene in its totality but I will offer some advice. While listening to music through headphones DO NOT try to ignore any ambient sounds coming from the people in the car or the train itself. INCORPORATE them into the music. Believe me, if you follow this rule your aggravation level will go down and your enjoyment will go up.

For example, this morning, the distinctive notes from The Beatles "Ticket to Ride" was enhanced dramatically by a fat women sitting in the middle of the car having a conversation with her friend who was sitting on the opposite side of the train.

I think I’m going to be sad
I think it’s today, yeah


I TOLD HIM IF YOU DON’T MESS WITH MY MOTHER-FUCKING MONEY
THEN WE’RE STRAIGHT, YA KNOW WHAT I’M SAYIN’


The girl that’s driving me wild
Is leaving today


THAT MOTHER-FUCKER IS A PIECE OF SHIT
YA KNOW WHAT I’M SAYIN’

Add the background screech of a particularly sharp bend in the track and you hit the Tri-Fecta!!!

Anyway this situation continued all the way down to 42nd street. At that time, I felt myself cognitive enough to look through the paper. As I mentioned before, I quickly thumbed through all the silly "news" articles with the bold type saying things like, "Be afraid of everything and everybody… especially the person next to you because he or she is a scumbag who would cut your heart out and dance over your corpse if they had the chance," to get to the entertainment section, arrogantly called "NY Pulse." When I arrived at the pulse, something strange happened. There was a story about celebrity vacations. Then I turned the page and there was some other story about some bull shit I had no interest in. Another page was the theater critic providing some juicy behind the scenes gossip about whatever the latest Broadway Show is I have absolutely no intention of seeing. Then came the classifieds, which signified the end of the section.

I thought it was weird that there were no film reviews on a Friday. A queasy feeling started to fill my already jumbled mind. I knew something was wrong but not quite sure what. In this unsettled atmosphere, the kind of situation that put Rod Serling’s children through college, I turned to the front page of the paper not really expecting to have my mounting questions answered.

After perusing the front page boldface headline, "Right Now You Are Surrounded by Sick Perverted Animals Who Will Do Anything They Can To Screw You…So Keep Your Hand On Your Wallet At All Times," I saw it, plain as day:

Wednesday, April 5, 2006

I stared at this information for a solid ten seconds. I know that doesn't sound like a long time but try it. Use your watch and look at three words for ten continuous seconds.

Do you see what I'm talking about?

This revelation hit me extremely hard for two reasons. The first was metaphysical in nature and the second very practical.

1) When I left my house to do my daily dance for the Man, I didn't think it "felt" like Friday. I honestly believed it was Friday. I showered, dressed and rode public transportation for upwards of 45 minutes not realizing my error. In fact if I did not buy the Post ("All the news that's fit to print") which, as I mentioned, I almost didn't, I still would have thought it was Friday. Through the security checkpoint in the lobby of my building. Up the interminable elevator ride. All the way through the beautiful glass doors and the snakelike path through endless felt boxes which ultimately deposits me into my cube. I might have even said "TGIF" with a stupid grin on my face to a co-worker who, most likely, would have immediately thought I was a complete fool-tool. This situation opened the door to so many questions. Although I, along with billions of other people, follow these artificial calendar guidelines, what, in reality, is the difference between Wednesday and Friday? What is time? It occurred to me that we base many of our decisions and our moods on something that could be as false and artificial as most of the "journalism" that appears in the New York Post. Damn chilling.


2) I was wearing a turtle neck.

Ruh-Roh.

After two minutes of contemplating the meaning of quantum physics, space, time and the essence of being, I turned my attention to the very real predicament I found myself in.

Since it was Wednesday, my company's "Casual Friday" rules obviously would not apply. And since it was already 8:30 AM, there was no way I was going to be able to get back home, change and get to work anywhere near on time so that was not an option. I toyed with the idea of walking into the office dressed completely inappropriately but then I remembered there was a meeting scheduled so that was not an option either. No, I needed to find a collared shirt and a tie in a half-hour. Unfortunately, it appeared nobody on my car was selling. In a nutshell, I was screwed.

I went into problem solving mode. I scanned my over-taxed, breaking-down brain for a solution. I put aside any negative self-pitying thoughts I was having and focused. We passed 34th Street…nothing. 14th Street...nothing. Chambers Street...still nothing. Situation critical.

THINK, DAMN IT, THINK!!!

And then…AHA!!! There is a Syms clothing store in downtown Manhattan. Not only do they have relatively cheap cloths but they also have an extensive fatso section, which would certainly cover my immediate need. I looked at my watch - 8:41 AM - and jumped off the train to get the local, which…lo and behold… pulled right in. I flung myself on a seat and plotted my next move.

The next stop put me right in front of the store. I remembered I kept a tie in one of my drawers at work so that part was covered. All I had to do is run in, grab the first shirt I saw, pay for it and then run to my job. My company is on the "handscan" system, which records your comings and goings exactly on the minute so every second was critical. The past two days I was late so I was really concerned. I would have eighteen minutes to complete my odyssey and I knew I was cutting it absurdly close but it was feasible. Besides, what choice did I have?

The train stops, I briskly move up the stairs. Through the "iron maiden" and into the store. The first shirt I see in my "Omar the tent-maker cut" is a noticeably loud blue basic button down. The kind of clothing you would wear if inconspicuousness was not an issue. Price - 20 clams. Just my style!

As I pay for the merchandise I notice the store's motto:

Syms - An educated consumer is our best customer

I suggest to the cashier that they should change it to…

Syms - Complete buffoons who totally fuck-up keep us in business

I grab my bag and bolt for the office. I rush down Wall Street weaving in and out of the throngs of people who, as far as I could see, actually knew how to dress appropriately for a normal workday.

I go through security and take the escalator by twos. The elevator bay waiting area is crowded but…more luck…one arrives just as I join the crowd. Everyone piles in and I'm resigned to wait for the next one which would effectively end my chances of getting my greasy palm onto the Big Brother gizmo on time. Oh well…I tried.

But wait! A women gets off the overloaded lift car…my guess is out of some sort of sense of etiquette and/or politeness…which gives me the opening I need. I stuff my fat ass right in there much to the chagrin of the underpaid/overworked drones already in place and the dirty looks of Ms Manners. Normally I would have waited as well because it was painfully obvious that I didn't fit.

Fuck'um. Simple human decency means nothing when cash money is on the line.

Elevator stops. I zip through the doors and get to the scanning machine. I type out my security code, slap my dirty digits down…beep beep…8:59AM.

Music to my ears!

Ten minutes later, as I stood in the middle stall of the Men's toilet changing into my brand new Royal Blue Nautica dress shirt, a smile ran across my face. I became overcome with emotion. I was filled with a great sense of accomplishment and pride.

They shoot horses, don't they?
Larry