A Dumb and Lazy Fool

As I enter my apartment at the end of another emotionally exhausting day at the office, I think, it’s no wonder so many people don’t want to leave their homes anymore. But, bed rotting is for the rich. The rest of us just have to get out there and get it done.

Nothing ties me to this place here in the North Bay. Parents retired and moved to Phoenix. No other family here, and any friends I once had here have scattered in all directions, far from this bored little town. What should I do, I think, to free myself from this impossibly dull state of mind? I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep. I’m not that kind of tired. I enter a search on the internet, “What should I do?” I’m offered several solutions. Join a gym. Start a side gig. Go for a walk. Read a book. Call a friend.

A side gig, I thought. That might do it. What though?

Every day, the same. Get up. Go to work. Weekend comes and is gone in a quiet whimper of a moment. I am damaged, struggling, like a dying insect caught in a web, weighted down in my silky straitjacket of skyrocketing rent, high cost of living, and an unforgiving, toxic work environment disguised as a tolerable existence with a possible better future if you can just do it right. Say the right thing. Be the right guy at the right time. So, 2025--not a good year so far.

The pressure had been building, the drive to drink arriving earlier than anything approaching appropriate, and the unwillingness to give up a single ounce of space in my head for a paycheck just ravaged my brain until I completely spiraled into a quiet frenzy of rage that, on the outside, looked like me bumping the inside of my wrist on my forehead, but on the inside looked like me screaming into the abyss of infinite days the same as the same as the same.

I mumble obscenities as I wake up and turn my phone alarm off. I’ll never go outside again, I think, as I stumble into the bathroom, still a little drunk from last night’s lonely party. Then it dawns on me that I don’t own my home, and if I don’t get myself to work, I won’t have a place to go on any introvert missions for any real length of time. So, as usual, I dress and plow through another brutally cold day at the office.

The temperature at the office, always set at just exactly too cold to be comfortable, could not compete with the corporate coldness of the day. The double-speak circling back to more double-speak with a full video production at two back-to-back meetings, topped off with two supervisors separately pulling me aside, both with nothing good to say about the extra work I had put in on the Carlson reports, each smugly letting me know that the entire file was disappearing to another division. Some higher-up would take credit for my work, not to mention my commission. I’m invisible, I thought, completely and totally disappeared.

Is it the thick, wet blanket of lethargy I have been wearing, I wonder, or just stupidity that keeps me from being brighter, stronger, better? I am so unlucky.

The following morning, a day off at last, I wake up mumbling, “Side gig.” I grab a marker, tear off a section of a cardboard box, and write in all caps: MY DOG NEEDS FOOD. ANYTHING HELPS, and then I throw on my crappiest clothes and drive to the city. I pull on a scruffy brown knit cap, put my big sunglasses on, and sit down with my sign in front of a busy shopping center. People shop for groceries, get coffee, go in and out of the post office, a shoe store, and a dollar store. I place an old cardboard coffee cup in front of me and wait.

I know how I feel when someone with a sign and a cup looks directly at me, so I avoid eye contact. It seems better that way, and sometimes I opt to stand up, leaving the sign where it can be seen at my feet. That way, eyes are immediately directed away from the dreaded eye contact.

An old guy asks, “Where’s your dog?” and I just shake my head and sigh, “With the wife.” He drops a couple of coins in the cup. And that was my first “sale” of the day. I make sure there are never more than a few dollars in the cup, and I meditate deeply, ignoring the heat and the glares of those that say things like, “Get a job,” or “I work hard for every dollar,” and “You’ll just drink it all up, but I’ll buy you a meal,” which I accept graciously.

By the end of the day, I have $240. I find another spot near the zoo the following day, and I get another $300.

The following weekend, I can’t sleep again. I drive back to the city and park in a lot near a pier. Even though my sign now just says ANYTHING HELPS, a couple of people recognize me and ask about my dog. This time they want details: What type of dog do I have? Is the dog safe and comfortable? Would I be interested in working at their property doing some odd jobs? The dog is welcome to stay at the house with the other dogs, but there’s a spare space in the back shed if you and your wife, you had mentioned a wife, need a place to settle down and get your bearings for a bit…You really wouldn’t need to do much, a few chores around the property. There’s plenty to do. You make some room out in that back shed and you can stay in there long as you like or at least until you get something else figured out?

I shuffle off in a true daze and head over to get a coffee at the fast-food restaurant across the street. I wash up in the restroom and a man steps out of a stall, shirt in hand. His skin is ruddy from the sun, and though he does seem to be in his early 20’s, his face looks like an old, parched leather glove. He stares at me in the mirror as he rinses the shirt in the sink and uses it to wet his hair and face. Pretty awkward. I’d been so focused on not making eye contact, and now I couldn’t look away from this odd, apparently homeless, okay, unhoused stranger.

His whole body jerks toward the mirror, and caught in the moment, I jerk away as his image jolts toward my reflection. I try to laugh it off, but his demeanor does not adjust accordingly. He turns to me with no hesitation and jerks his body violently toward me! I jump back and my hands involuntarily come up to protect my face and head. He seems unmoved, amused even. His cold, hard eyes betray nothing.

Trying my best to recover my composure, I slouch and move backwards toward the door, my hands raising and lowering in involuntary soothing, calming motions, as if I were in a virtual reality game and this gesture would still this violent stranger. Our eyes remained locked, and it seemed that any rules of acceptable behavior disappeared, as if social structures were made of smoky mist, gone in a puff.

The man whips his wet shirt toward me, the tip of it catching at my bare skin along my shin. The pain surges through me and I turn to run. He laughs as I slip on the wet floor, and as I try to regain my balance, he just chuckles. Once back on my feet, we stand face-to-face again, this time I do not look at him directly.

Then he said, “Listen, Eric, let’s grab a beer. Follow me. We need to talk.” He knows my name! I felt a worm of compliance take over my backbone. Surrender, the nearest means of survival seemed the only option.

He led me to a nearby bar and we went inside.

He explains some rules to me. “First,” he says, “We all meet at the shelter for coffee and breakfast at six a.m. Pay me $150. Take a sign and get an assignment. If you got no $150 to give, take a sign, get an assignment. Come back at 5:30 and pay $200 or suffer the consequences. When you come back, you report your take.” He pulls out a spreadsheet. He shows me the rotation. "Nobody gets the same spot twice in a month. Everyone gets the same chance at getting the good spots.”

“You see?” he says, “We have to assign corners. Why do you think nobody else was taking at the places you took from last weekend?” He paused and went on, “Those corners you were on were supposed to be empty for two weeks. People get used to seeing someone there, they stop seeing. We become invisible. The money stops flowing.”

I tell him, “Why do you think I’m out here? I don’t want your rules, or anyone else’s. I just want to sit and think for a while. I’m so tired of following.”

I continue, “$150 a day? From how many people? You must be bringing in…”

“Don’t,” he says, “Don’t start doin’ the math. I’ll beat you so ugly. I won’t stop until you pay me to stop.”

I get to my feet, drop a twenty on the table for the beers. “No thanks, I’ll take my chances. Keep the change.”

Back out on the street, I head back to the corner and finish out the day.

When I get back to my car, the tires are slashed and my windows smashed. The upholstery completely sliced to threads.

I call my insurance and finally get myself home. I can tell something’s wrong…the door’s ajar. Everything in my apartment, gone. Even the refrigerator and stove are gone, and I didn’t even own them. A note tacked to the back of the front door says, RULES ARE RULES AND EVERYBODY FOLLOWS.