Where's Norm?

Where’s Norm?

By definition, they referred to “it,” meaning me, if one were honest, as rare, odd, “special,” psychotic, abnormal, and my all-time favorite syndronomous (maybe a fictitious word meaning with a syndrome, but it sounds like something they would say, and if not actual, I speculate it should be a word, the way it rolls off the tongue, yes?)

No matter how it’s been painted, the strokes have been cruel, unkind, and lacking introspection, definitely void of compassion or understanding. Thus, my safe zone remains under the desk, void of contact so as to not have my head spin, my senses come unglued, or an episode of hyperventilation to the point of headache, cold sweats, ad nauseum (not a made-up word, but not recognized by my computer’s dictionary; maybe misspelled, who cares, the point has been made) no doubt. Asked by those educated in this exceptional disorder or psychological condition— “So Norm, when did you start noticing a need to isolate yourself?” Profound, and to think it only took twelve or so years of higher education and thousands of dollars to come up with such an original thought.

Here I sit under the desk, insulated from the flying arrows that often pierced my heart. You know, those looks from the curious minds peering into and judging my personal life. Let me clarify; I choose to venture to the rest of my loft apartment for privacy, cleanliness, and, of course, food. If not, the stench would force me to find another suitable habitat. I also crawl into my bed at night, but that is not where I am most comfortable, although, with fully extended sheets and blankets, I can create another world, one I discovered as a child, but that is for another day.

On this particular day, the most eye-opening thing occurred. When the grocer delivered my food and did the double rap on the door to let me know my purchases had arrived, I peered out of my one pane of glass to watch him peddle away even though the scurrying crowds below were enough to make my skin crawl and were more than I could stomach. The very unusual happenstance came when I took a peek only to find empty streets save an exceptional person hurriedly walking with their face mostly covered—someone more courageous than I, but obviously with a need to stay to themselves.

Safety comes in many forms, yet the expected rush of the city was absent. My safety zone was and is clearly under the desk. “Why a desk? Why seek shelter at all, and from what?” That, too, has been part of the barrage of questions from lofty-minded psychobabblers, you know the type. I’ll allow the pretense of denial from these geniuses; after all, my journey began with rejection, followed by fear and ultimate survival. Here’s a clue. What were we told to do in the event of a Russian bomb when you were seven?

Certainly, you are catching on by now. Ah, you’re thinking, when did this madness begin? The clever question follows: Did something traumatic happen that sealed me into safety or, as they so inadequately named it, drive me to isolation? No, no, no, I was not isolated, merely comfortable under the desk, protected and secure. A position from instruction, mind you, and of choice, if you will.

Stopping short, I was there that day, at home, feeling too ill to be at work, when I heard the roar of the engines, then shaken to my very core from the explosions. Obviously, that day had come when the Russians dropped the bomb, and the eager student that I was and am, I went under my desk. Isn’t that logical? We were taught that and had drills when we were children; I didn’t forget. In fact, I don’t forget anything, ever. Maybe it all gets jumbled at times, but I remember everything I was ever taught or read.

Sorry for the regression. Peering from the window again, what, to my wonder, another stray soul cautiously emerged from their building, hidden as well behind a covering of sorts. Okay, my curiosity overcame my trepidation, and for hours I watched. This opening into the world outside of mine provoked an even more brazen step.

I turned on the television, a gift from a “concerned” family member who thought it might help my condition. It was the first time I had taken such a bold step in ten, maybe fifteen years, who knows. I wondered if it still worked.

Before going into the madness on the screen, the question may be posed—what do I do beneath the desk? Simply, oh, brilliant ones, I write marvelous stories of fantasy worlds, mythological creatures, and anything that enters my mind. While not mixing with people, per se (who could tell if they were Russians, the teacher had said they would assimilate), I had friends in plentiful numbers. They were born from my imagination and willed into existence, at least my existence.

Now back to the story and newfound information. Like a flash, the television sparked on, the screen being somewhat divided. Shops, dining establishments, and the like showed signs stating CLOSED or MASK REQUIRED. Hm. The other side of the screen, highlighted by a blue background, displayed the statistics of deaths, hospitalized, and newly diagnosed people. All of this I found remarkable.

Abruptly the street scenes changed, and a live announcement began. A cluster of people, names in a rolling message at the bottom of the screen, started jockeying for the microphone, or so it appeared. The message to all—ISOLATE EVERYONE, STAY IN YOUR HOMES, DO NOT GATHER TOGETHER.

Wait, I thought, the whole world now sees things my way. Everybody gets the impending doom and it's about time. I've always bee precocious, it took all the others to figure it out. It’s all about safety, people. So, will I get apologies from the many who donned me insane, crazy, mentally unstable; I think not. No, they’ve all forgotten ol’ Norm.

By Corinne Arrowood