Attempting Normal (21 page)

I want to understand opera. I don’t like all of this disposable entertainment, Twitter feeds and TV shows and Angry Birds. I want to see stuff that has been entertaining people for centuries, that offers its audience meaning that allows them to rise above the rabble; art that elevates the human spirit. But opera is almost always in another language and, to me, that is a fatal deterrent. How much can I enjoy it if I don’t understand what they’re saying? That’s a nice song, I think, those are good costumes, that guy seems to be upset about something.

Maybe opera is not the thing I’m looking for.

How about ballet? That’s cultural. Why don’t I go see some ballet? Because I don’t really understand ballet beyond the point where she’s spinning around and, oh, she’s flying and the guy caught her. He didn’t drop her! That has to be half the appeal of ballet—watching people fly into each other’s arms and not get dropped. Or secretly hoping they do drop. That’s not art, it’s more like athletics, which I don’t get beyond grudging admiration of
extreme physical accomplishments. Modern dance is interesting if it’s not silly.

Perhaps I should see more theater but there’s nothing worse than bad theater. Have you ever had to sit through a bad play? Bad theater is torture by another name. If the acting is bad I feel sorry for the actors. If the play is poorly written I feel embarrassed for everyone involved, including the audience, and wonder why someone doesn’t get onstage and help them. Like when a boxing trainer throws in the towel when his fighter is getting badly beaten. I have been at a play and thought, “Someone should put a stop to this.” Have you ever had that feeling when you’re watching a play?
I’m going up there, enough is enough
. Sadly, if you are at a bad play it is usually because someone you know has brought you. Or worse, you have a friend in the show. That’s always a tricky chat backstage afterward; being the person who’d actually stopped the play midway through would probably make it even more awkward.

The point is, maybe I need to re-immerse myself in fine arts. They’re magic. It doesn’t always work but the good stuff, or at least the stuff that resonates, should engage your heart in a way that can reflect, sate, define, amplify, provoke, or relieve what seems like chaos or confusion in your life. The art allows you to experience it and better understand your own undefined or renegade emotions. Sometimes the art gives you new things to worry about. That’s some good art there.

Then again, maybe I have enough drama in my life.

I recently almost broke up with my girlfriend, Jessica. Here’s something I learned about myself. I don’t know how to break up
with people. It’s new to me; I don’t know how to do it and to be quite honest with you, if I’m left to my own devices I will never break up with anyone. I will marry a person I’m sure I shouldn’t be marrying before I’ll break up with them, which is unfair to everybody involved.

Here’s the problem: If somebody likes me a lot, why wouldn’t I want to have them around, even if I don’t like them as much? It’s very nice to be liked.

Every day you say, “Hey, how’s it going?”

“I like you.”

“Cool, thanks for hanging out.”

Unfortunately, if that goes on too long it becomes, “Hey, what’s going on?”

“I like you.”

“Why? I’m nothing but a dick to you because I don’t like you as much. Why do you still like me?”

“I like you even more now and will desperately cling to you forever.”

Then you are really screwed. Then you have to figure out how to blow up the situation or try to be an adult. And of course you want to be an adult, but how do you break up without drama? That’s the big question. And there is no answer. So instead I just create as much drama as possible, as much chaos, as much pain as I can, until the point arrives when the person says, “I can’t put up with this shit anymore. I’m leaving.”

Of course, that is the moment when I realize I can’t live without them.

Wait, you’re saying, there
is
an adult way to break up. Why wouldn’t you just say, “Look, I just don’t think this is working out and I think we’ve been through a lot together and it’s been fun, but I just don’t think there’s a future in it and I’m sorry”? Ah, but that’s when they start crying and I say, “Oh, don’t cry. Why are you upset? Okay, let’s just keep going. I’m an asshole.”

That’s the problem. I would rather just push it to the limit and then push it some more till it all blows up. That’s my opera. That’s my theater.

So this is what happened. I had been fighting with Jessica for about twenty minutes. I have no idea what it was about. Does it even matter at that point? You’re just gunning for make-up sex after the fifteen-minute mark. This is the scene.

I was standing by the door of my house on the inside. The door was open and the screen was closed. The windows of the house were open. Jessica was standing inside the house saying, “Stop talking.”

I said, “Get the fuck out of my house.”

“Just stop fucking talking.”

“Get out of my house. Now.”

“I don’t have to get out of your house.”

That baffled me. In my moment of confusion I noticed someone walking up the driveway, a Latino man. He had his arms raised up over his head as he walked up on my front porch. He looked upset. I stepped out the door. I said, “What’s up, man?”

He pleaded almost desperately, “Please stop fighting. They are going to call the police up the street.”

“They don’t need to do that. We’re cool. Just an argument here.”

It was then I realized his arms were raised to indicate he was an unarmed civilian. He didn’t want to get involved in what was potentially a violent situation from his point of view. He thought he was being brave and wanted to make sure I knew he came in peace. I was slightly offended. I am not a physical abuser. Emotional abuse is my thing. I have my principles.

Then the stranger started crying.

“What’s up, man?” I said, looking back into the house at Jessica,
who was keeping her distance, looking confused but still trying to hold on to the anger and spirit of the argument.

“I just lost my wife,” he cried.

What does he mean “lost,” I wondered. Did she die or did she leave him? I would temper my sympathy appropriately. But in the end it didn’t matter. There was a crying man on my porch.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I really am.”

The man pulled himself together a bit and then cried out to me, “Do you love her?”

I thought, “This is an awkward way for her to hear it the first time,” but the situation demanded it.

I called back into the house. “I love you, baby. The guy is crying here.”

“Just be kind, please,” he said.

I got it. He was some kind of weird angel.

“Okay, man. I will. Thanks.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.”

“No problem. Tell the neighbors not to call the police, please.”

“Yes, yes I will,” he said as he walked off my porch and down the driveway. Arms down.

I walked back into the house. Jessica shrugged. “What just happened?”

I just looked at her, stunned and ashamed. The arc of the fight had been interrupted. The natural, mutual abuse cycle had been hijacked by a stranger’s emotions. There were no tears; no one had to leave. There was no lost love to be earned back. There was just an awkward silence hanging between us. Something had to be said. It was a potentially profound moment that we could grow from. We sat down across from each other. Minutes passed.

“I wish they’d call the police,” Jessica said. Still angry.

“Why?”

“So you’d stop talking.”

I let it sink in. I wasn’t going to pick up where we left off. It was on me to say something that would bring us closer. I watched this come out of my mouth.

“You know, if we are going to do this we really need to close the windows.”

That was my epiphany. She smiled.

“Definitely,” she said.

That’s why we are together. It’s clearly love. Now whenever I get that metallic pre-rage tone in my voice, Jessica jumps up from whatever she is doing and runs around the house saying, “Close the windows!” It works. We fight less. How can I be mad when she is so adorable, hopping onto her toes to push down all the windows? It disarms me completely.

If that scene were depicted in a play I think I would hug the stranger on the porch and hold him before he walks away. If it were an opera I believe he would have wings and be lowered into the scene on a wire. If it were it a musical I would think all the neighbors would come out of their houses at the end and surround my porch. Jessica and I would come out of the front door holding hands and singing:

Her: We’ll close the windows! He’ll stop talking.

Me: I will stop talking.

Together: We’re sorry. We’re crazy. It’s human. Who are you to judge?

Neighbors: They’re right. It’s human.

Everyone: We’re human. It happens.

Curtain.

  18  

I almost died on a plane recently. At least I think I almost died.

In my mind I almost died and that’s all that’s important.

I used to be afraid to fly but at some point I realized that I just don’t have the energy for it anymore. I have better things to do with my brain. So I stopped worrying and when the planes still took off and flew and landed, even without my emotionally and mentally flying them from my seat, I realized that maybe I hadn’t really been in charge all along. This was one of the most powerful spiritual revelations I have had in my life. The moment that I knew in my soul that nothing I was doing in my head had any bearing on actual events or possible outcomes, I was suddenly free. I was no longer seized with visions of wings catching fire, wings falling off, planes in tailspins, planes falling out of the sky, planes blowing up or colliding in midair. I was no longer gaming out these disasters in my mind, finding ways to miraculously survive and, depending on the situation, perhaps saving many people in the process. The fact that I don’t obsessively ruminate on
these scenarios anymore is an indication I have grown spiritually. I have no control over the plane or anything else really. I am okay with that. Every bump is not the beginning of the end. I move through it. I deal.

On the day I almost died I had to take an afternoon flight to Cleveland. I don’t like flying in the afternoon because the probability of delay is high. If it’s an afternoon flight, I know that “weather” in Denmark means I’m going to be delayed out of LAX for some reason. I don’t know if there are too many planes in the air at all times or if we’re going through extreme weather because of climate change or if the pilots have all just become frightened. I seem to remember a time when planes would fly through anything. I swear I have childhood memories of landing in snowdrifts and flying through thunderstorms. I have a vague recollection of taking off in fire. Just fire on both sides of the plane. I was screaming and my mom was saying, “We’re up. We’re up. It’s okay.” I also watched a lot of Vietnam War coverage as a little kid so I may have things confused in my mind.

Before I left my house for the airport I checked the weather in Cleveland so I could mentally prepare for the likelihood of sitting around the airport. There was a storm moving into Cleveland. I was doomed to pay for Wi-Fi at LAX.

But surprisingly, we took off on time. Once we were in the air the pilot got on the mic and said, “Welcome aboard. We may hit some weather getting into Cleveland but I think we are going to just miss it.” He had a cockiness to his voice. It sounded like he was excited about the possible challenge. I thought, “Then why are you telling us? Are we supposed to sit here for hours wondering how this story ends?”

There was no Wi-Fi on the plane, which I found aggravating because that meant I had to read and write and think as opposed
to tweet and email and IM. Kicking it old-school is a drag on my need for immediate gratification but I settled in. They had DirecTV so I was safe from actually getting anything done.

It was dark out. Our plane was about an hour outside Cleveland when the pilot got back on the mic and said, “Could the flight attendants please prepare the cabin for landing and take their seats. Looks like we are going to hit that weather.” So he didn’t make it. Then the flight attendants told all of us to fasten our seat belts. I was watching the movie
Woodstock
on VH1. I was blasting it into my head as loud as it would go. Joe Cocker was singing “With a Little Help from My Friends” when I saw lightning on both sides of the plane. At first I thought it was the blinking lights on the wings, but no. It was lightning. Lightning is not good for planes.