Nebraska

The man sitting next to you is not a gnome. He may appear to be a gnome, but he’s simply shorter than most people. There’s nothing wrong with that. You shouldn’t even be looking at him. Staring at him. You’re staring. How embarrassing. Who raised you? Just look down at the magazine you’re reading. It’s from 1812. There’s a test to find out if you’re possessed by Satan. Take the test. Find out. If you fail the test, the magazine recommends you turn yourself in to the village clergy so that you can be thrown into a well. The man next to you is reading a magazine from 1987. He’s trying to find out which character on Family Ties he most closely resembles. You’ve been sitting here for several days. Your wound was green when you walked in. Now it’s dark brown. What if it turns black? You should say something to the receptionist, but you should also try not to annoy her. When you walked in and she asked you if you brought an animal to sacrifice and you told her you didn’t, did you notice the face she made? Why didn’t you bring an animal? Did you think you were going to pay for this appointment with money? With dollar bills? A credit card? The gnome brought an animal. The gnome brought two lambs and a goose. The gnome gave the receptionist options. That’s why the gnome is going to be seen before you are.

Yes, I’m referring to him as a gnome. I’m not you. I know he’s a gnome. I have that assurance as an omnipotent force within your narrative. You have no idea that he’s a gnome. You believe gnomes to be imaginary. What would make you think that? Because you’ve never seen a gnome? You’ve never seen Nebraska either. Does that mean it doesn’t exist? A third grade teacher introduced you to geography by showing you a map of the United States and you believed them. A voice narrating your day tells you that there’s a gnome sitting next to you and you still don’t believe me. Is it because initially I told you that the man next to you wasn’t a gnome? Didn’t they teach you about unreliable narrators in third grade? At what age do they teach you not to trust? They should teach it in kindergarten. They should teach it in pre-school. It should come with crayons and construction paper.

Are you in pain? What’s your relationship to pain? There’s a magazine on the table in front of you from last week and it looks like a science magazine, but it’s really all pseudoscience, because putting real science in a doctor’s waiting room is like putting arsenic in beef stew. It might not kill you, but it’s unlikely to do anything else. Even pseudoscience is a form of science if only because the word “science” is right there in the name even if it does indicate “false.” I need you to read the article, because the authors claim that one way to deal with pain is to pluck one of your eyelashes. The immediate pain from that will distract from the other pain you’ve been coping with, and you keep plucking eyelashes until your body totally forgets about the original pain, because the eyelash pain becomes the primary pain or until you run out of eyelashes.

How many eyelashes would you say you have?

Did you notice that the gnome doesn’t have eyelashes? Were you aware that gnomes don’t have eyelashes? Aren’t you lucky to have eyelashes? Think about what would happen if you couldn’t bat your eyes. Do you think you can bat your eyes without eyelashes? What would make you think that? Did your third grade teacher tell you that eye-batting can be achieved sans eyelashes? Where did you go to school? You’re reading pseudoscience and you’re unable to identify a gnome and you believe everything the narrator tells you and you don’t bring a goose to the doctor’s office when you have a wound the size of a silver dollar. You are not educated. You may as well stop thinking that you are. All the degrees in the world don’t make up for a lack of common sense.

When you hear my voice, what voice do you hear? Does it have an accent? Am I Southern? Could I be British? What kind of British? Cockney British? Upper class? Notice that I said your wound is the size of a silver dollar, and you didn’t even stop to think that you’ve never seen a silver dollar? Your wound is not the size of a silver dollar. It’s much larger than a silver dollar. I’m concerned. I’m concerned for you. I have no interest in narrating a story where the lead character dies. Luckily, the lead character is the gnome. Not you. You think you’re sitting in a story with a gnome, and you’re the main attraction? The vanity. I’m astounded by it.

That gnome is going to go on a series of adventures today that will fill several books and nineteen unwatchable films. You are going to sit here and read several magazines and find out that you’re an Autumn, an ENFP, a Libra rising, marriage material, not a witch but someone who will be accused of being a witch, a dog person, a cheerleader, an ideal victim for a narcissist, at risk of falling for an MLM, a Viking, and, most importantly, a character on the periphery.

When the receptionist calls the gnome’s name, it’s important that you don’t seem envious. Be happy for the gnome. He might have a life-threatening condition. You have no idea what people are suffering from unless you’re their doctor, their priest, or their bartender. Your wound may be black in another hour or so, but that gnome may have internal injuries that would make your wound look like a hangnail. It’s all about perspective. Do you understand that? Did anyone ever teach you about perspective?

It’s certainly more important than Nebraska.

Compared to perspective, Nebraska may as well not even exist.