My problems are three:
1. I have what the polite refer to as a “friendly face,” and what the impolite refer to as “the visage of a warped Cabbage Patch Kid who’s grown up in the slums of Beirut and pulled out all of its yarn hair.” Somehow, despite this somewhat intimidating description, my recent Maori facial tattoos, the even more recent lacerations by broken bottles graciously bestowed upon me by an offended Tribesman, and the intense facial reconstructive surgery that resulted, I get approached by strangers approximately 1372% more than anyone I know.
2. I desire, nay *require*, a fair amount of alone time. Time when the world around me no longer exists and I am a contemplative, perhaps even hallucinogenic mushroom feeding porously on the wastes of man and cowkind. Often, this is called “lunchtime,” as it is a welcome reprieve from maintaining my professionalism and kind demeanor in the face of unhalting ignorance.
3. I do not have, as many people do, a map of my fair city laid out in my head. When I moved to Milwaukee, I needed only to know where three places were, and the rest was Mapquest. After living here for five years, I am on the precipice of a breakdown dealing with highways that do not always travel the direction they are designated. 94W goes North into Milwaukee and West out of it, 43S comes into Milwaukee from the North and leaves to West as well. 894S? I haven’t the slightest idea. When I drive somewhere in Milwaukee, I need specific directions, or I end up in Beloit. It’s as simple as that.
These three problems lead to this all too common occurence:
11:30 a.m.
With half my day behind me, I mindlessly slump my jacket onto my shoulders, zip up, and move down the back stairs into the street. The honking and screaming of the drivers maneuvering around me now go unnoticed. I am alone. In a world of noise, I am silent, recessed entirely into self and daydreaming little daydreams of video game dominance. My subconscious shifts me effortlessly out of the path of oncoming pedestrians, my feet tread determinedly toward destiny: Cousins.
The Red Hand, my id murmurs. We always must stop for The Red Hand. Roving, my eyes return to me only the data needed to keep from stumbling. I am immersed now in conversations that have not yet happened but in the babbling time-stream of my mind. Chilled from river winds, my thighs burn with anticipation of motion. We always must stop for The Red Hand.
And another warning, this one from the rotund scouts in the front of my face. A car, red if that matters. A passenger, an older woman if that matters. Her window is going down. Brain, I hate to call when you’re on vacation, but…
“Excuse me young man, where is the train station?”
“…midgets…”
“Young man?”
“Uh. Wow.”
“Yes?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Thank you.” Window rolls up. “I’m not certain about this policy of letting the mentally disabled out on their own…”
Dammit Brain! demand the eyes, Where were you on that one? Where it always is when I get asked directions while walking downtown: elsewhere.
This scenario, without exaggeration, replays on every lunch journey I make alone. I have observed in despair as vehicles brimming with the lost troll past cafe employee after police officer after land surveyor only to home in on me as their beacon in the bewildering sea of street signs. And more often than not, I send them away disappointed and perhaps more confused. On the rare instance that I have known where to send the person, my brain only fessed up to the interrogation long after I had shrugged ashamedly and forced away the inquisitor with their loathing of me.
Please, if you see a bald, jolly-looking fellow plodding the street, reciting Family Guy scenes in a mumble and snickering lowly to himself, leave him be.
Related note: Czeltic Girl (who, if driven around Milwaukee in the trunk of a car, blindfolded and asked how to get there from here, would laugh in your face at the simplicity of your request) lunches with me frequently. Naturally, no one asks when she’s around. The closest we get is an impromptu wedding officiated by a friendly, drunken panhandler.
