On the Verge of Coherence

When I drove into the city for work every day, I was forced into a practical and analytical mindset before even entering the building. Planning my route according to traffic reports, monitoring speed limits, merging, BBC news on NPR, finding parking, calculating whether it is cheaper to feed a meter all day or use a parking garage, figuring out the fastest walking route or which bus to use to get from wherever I end up parking to my office... It was a warm up often more challenging than the job I had at the time, whatever that was. People like me could land a decent position back then, the job market was less competitive. Then again any job market can be described as nothing short of dystopia to a prematurely jaded recent college grad who is holding onto dreams of being a rock star despite a complete lack of focus and a hair line that was even then showing signs that it would soon recede. I was just grateful to be done with retail, construction, bartending, and the other undergrad employment options. My degree was an inconsequential side effect of years of indecisive debauchery, and my career goals were commensurate with that. Specifically, I had no ambitions past moving out of my parents house and into some urban space that probably had one brick wall and some outdated heating system that involves steam and large metal coils that were prone to vibrating all night... y'know, so I could more accurately imitate the lives I found featured in books, movies, and magazines. As the stress of driving to work got to me, I learned that commuting to Philadelphia from the Jersey suburbs via public transit was a filth-caked luxury in comparison. Not only did it cost about the same as driving with far less stress, I also had options like reading books, people watching, or even active courtship. I rarely participated in the latter, but I did witness some really gratifying unions where two obnoxious people mercifully removed each other from the local dating pool. My personal favorite was also the most frequently encountered: Two attractive people generally a few years older than I was at the time who've never met... wearing B-list designer outfits whose name ends in a vowel from Lord & Taylor (the guy) or something with incendiary sleeve placement and a skirt with faded orchids, oleanders, and clippings from an Andulusian newspaper circa 1916 from Anthropologie (the girl) that will eventually be worn by actual cool people twenty years from now(1). After an ice breaker and 3-5 sentences they are sitting next to each other talking about other countries they've visited (2). I suspect that they always wear at least one attention-grabbing article of clothing or accessory purchased overseas to increase the likelihood of manipulating the conversation in that direction. Eager to impress, they treat their trips to Europe like an $8.99 prime rib special. They give rehearsed depictions of glass pyramids like an all you can eat pancake offer, and of course unlimited free refills of camaraderie in Nepal. After being exposed to this for several months, I acquired a discerning appreciation for the nuances of schadenfreude, which was becoming less recreational and more of a lifestyle.

So every day I was inhabiting these ambient domains for an hour or so before arriving at work, occupying this head-space of literature and ego-biased people watching. My daily transition from this to cold hard data analysis was in need of some sort of segue. In the absence of this segue, I find the jolts of reality and the impact of concrete demands begin having a strange effect. My brain acquired a goaltender to protect me from reality and responsibilities so I could continue hopping between incomplete lofty thoughts. With this entry-level position, work-related decisions are basically made for me by logic and numbers. I had no interest in advancement, so I just coasted through every day, trying to imitate the behavior and vocabulary of coworkers. Sometimes I felt wretched, but usually I didn't feel anything at all.

After work I backtrack to return to the speed line. I pass through Rittenhouse Square, a standard issue urban park featuring statues, grass, and a defunct fountain. Sometimes I like to hang around and feel like part of the atmosphere as I read, reflect, and of course look fuckin' cool. The park benches that aren't occupied by the homeless are in high demand, so I often end up in the grass, which is the choice for the young people anyway. I sit amongst the artists and students, precisely the bohemian crowd you'd expect to find in this setting(3). I experienced frequent epiphanies at these times, each one contradicting the previous. I feel like the outsider at the park as the only guy wearing a long-sleeve dress shirt and a tie in the summer, and I feel like the outsider at work because nobody else sits in the park and reads Russian literature after hours. Am I the only person with both perspectives? Am I just surrounded by pods?

Aside from all that, I don't accomplish much in the grass on these afternoons. Sometimes I splurge a little and consider dinner at one of the local restaurants, though I am never successful. Every single time I wander the surrounding blocks (which feature most of the best the city has to offer) all I do is find reasons to doubt each eatery until I give up and just get pizza at one of several places near the speed line entrance. It doesn't feel like defeat until I struggle to open the door with two plates in my hands because I'm too self-conscious to eat at a booth by myself. Even more aggravating is groping for my ticket for the subway. I always thought that the "no eating on the train" rule was just an excuse for the cops to persecute the homeless. Not that I read about it or heard it at a cafe or in a song lyric or that I am even prone to making these sort of connections myself, but that I like to imagine that the world is full of clear injustices that I can focus my idealogical outrage on. The fact that I get away with eating pizza on the platform serves as proof that my theory is valid, and the resulting sense of pride and vindication engulfs both the personal failure of eating the same damned pizza as usual as well as the enjoyment of my pizza.

One morning, I am running a little late to work. This has been becoming the norm lately, so the excuses were becoming more like desperate pitches for spin-offs of sitcoms on the CW. Well on this day I don't even have the energy to focus my thoughts and make something up. I try as I sit on the train, but just as I start to form an idea the train goes underground and makes calling work impossible, and by the time it resurfaces it would no longer make sense to use that excuse. I try to think of another excuse, but find myself distracted as I approach Rittenhouse Square. I was later than usual, and apparently at this hour the park is full of ostensibly unemployed or self-employed artists/freelancers walking their dogs. Puffy-eyed from insomnia and from being over thirty... incoherent from years of substance abuse or from being around too many incoherent people... their t-shirts look like expensive relics from someone elses childhood, their sweaters belong to an ex boyfriend's ex girlfriend, their arms are as limp as the dog's leash as they clean up the warm mess and move on.

I decide to say I locked my keys and my phone in the car, thus explaining why I was late and didn't even bother to call. Fortunately nobody had any follow up questions or remarks. I couldn't tell if nobody cared, or if my excuse was so unbearably transparent that they just wanted me out of their face. Either way, I win! I celebrate by treating myself to pizza after work. I took it with me to the park and sat in the grass. People-watching over a meal is great because nobody notices you staring at them when you're shoving food in your mouth. I notice that the bohemians in the grass are just younger versions of the people I saw earlier. I can see them now, balding and stretched out with dark circles around their eyes, walking their neurotic dogs and using the bag their vegan breakfast burrito came in to clean up the crap in the... in the grass. My pizza is on my lap, but both palms are on the ground. I smell my left hand... garlic powder. Then I smell my right hand. Then I throw my pizza out. I walk a lap around the fountain in the middle of the park... I am facing the dry fountain, but I am staring at the people in the grass. Do they need to be made aware of this? I consider the symbolism... "look what your future selves have left for you, don't follow their footsteps, it's not too late to change," etc. I think about how clear and tangible the premises and conclusion were to what I learned today, especially in comparison to rest of the conclusions I've drawn lately about the people, society, myself, etc. What a bunch of bullshit. Then I remember that I still have dog shit on my hands. I walk into a nice restaurant and use the bathroom... and since I'm once again in need of a meal, I ask to be seated.


(1) Not just their style of designer clothes, but the specific garments that they they own and are wearing as they speak. I see some of the same people every day and their clothes are always immaculately pressed, exactly as advised to in articles found in GQ or Esquire... so I imagine they'll be in pretty good shape in twenty years.

(2) For some reason they tend to start out one horizontal row apart and on the opposite side of the aisle (basically one checkers move) from each other, as though they sat just outside of comfortable conversation distance because they were initially feeling shy, but then one decides to finally lean over and start a conversation.

(3) It is tempting to characterize them some more by their specific tastes in music, drink, and irony... but I think that has been done to death. Specifically, I think anybody reading this would already have an image in their head, making any further details unnecessary.