“Phantoms”

Robert Michael Lovett

Life is Ridiculous.

Just when you think you’ve got a handle on it, something new comes along and changes everything. I think that new experiences automatically manifest themselves as undesirable. When I awoke this morning, I knew where I stood and what my purpose was. But that purpose has been taken away, and now all I feel is emptiness and dread.

Two weeks ago, I was in a bar downtown with some people I knew from the office. I wouldn’t necessarily label them friends, that implies concern for one another. I don’t really give a thought to any of them, but there was this new girl Karen. She’s funny, sweet, and has this energy about everything she does. It’s like she thinks this world is some bright happy place, and everything has its own bright happy place in it. I was looking to maybe tarnish some of her innocence with a little drunken debauchery.

I’m married, and have been for six years. I strive not to let it get in the way of my personal life most of the time, because she would want me to be happy. But I can’t separate myself from her; without her, life would be meaningless. As much as I wanted to take Karen home with me and lose myself in her blissful embrace, my overinflated superego kept me from doing anything. We talked about her new job, and her family, and her school, me steering the conversation away from anything too personal. But she got me talking about psychology, a subject I’ve avoided for half a decade.

Why is it that humans seek despair and isolation? Why can’t we change our situation and move on to better and greener pastures? Maybe I’m just in love with the idea of the tragic hero: one who has been thrust in an unfortunate circumstance yet soldiers ahead, noble and chivalrous. The audience always knows what he needs to do to find happiness or resolve his conflicts, but in real life things aren’t so easy. I mean, a play about a man who doesn’t really do anything for half a decade wouldn’t be very entertaining. I guess that’s it, then. I just wish life was more like an epic verse with great tragedy followed by death, or foibles and misunderstanding followed by happily ever after.

I go to the bars at least three times a week. Most people go out to meet people and be social, but I all seem to be able to do is watch others. I sit in the corner, or at the end of the bar, nursing my self-medicating brews, and I analyze all the people coming through. I see the drunken nymphomaniac girl moving from guy to guy (and sometimes girl) until she finds someone who can give her even the smallest amount of tenderness and acceptance, and latches on like a drowning rodent. I see the old man talking with the bartender about days gone and chances missed, and how much the world has changed since he was a kid. I know I could never be happy enough with myself to chat so nonchalantly about it with a stranger. But mostly all I see are my eyes peering back at me from the dingy glass bartop, scrunched together and barely holding back tears.