A Boy Named Charlie Brown

Last night, I was hanging around at home trying to catch up on things. “Things” – you know - the stack of bills and papers that need to be filled out and/or filed and what not. I’ve been avoiding it forever. I didn’t make much progress either, because after I ate some food, I got sucked into a showing of “A Boy Named Charlie Brown” on ABC Family. For some reason, they were showing it as part of their Christmas lineup. This is odd, because it has zero to do with Christmas. At any rate, this was the first time I’ve seen this movie since I was like 4-5 years old. Yet, I still remembered it vividly. It was the first movie I ever remember seeing in an actual movie theater. It was at the Hollywood Theater here in Portland in like 1975-76. The same theater where I would later see movies such as “ET,” “The Crow,” some French movie that would be considered porn, if it weren’t French and filmed in black and white (making it an art movie), and a professional bowling documentary. A group of kids from the neighborhood went and were guided by some of our older siblings. Going in, I believe I was well aware of the Peanuts story – having watched the specials on TV, but I don’t think I could’ve ever been prepared for this movie. It is so damn dark! The entire movie is a series of humiliating experiences for the downtrodden Charlie Brown. Somehow, he finds success in his school’s Spelling Bee, and moves on to bigger national competitions, until he ultimately loses over a word he should know better than almost any other. Now that I’ve spoiled the plot, I will continue. As a young child, I was affected by this movie in a very dramatic way. I don’t know if it’s because even as a little child I identified with Charlie Brown, or if his character influenced me. I was profoundly saddened through the entire movie. I wanted so badly for him to succeed. I ached for him in his bus travels to the competitions, which were long and tiresome and extremely lonely (immaculately portrayed by the solid and muted colors of the animation). The lack of adult characters in the Peanuts series also somehow added to the emptiness to this kid who hadn’t ventured away from his parents very often up to that point, but was now out without his. I’m not sure where I’m going with this, but I wrote a short fragment story for this blog yesterday entirely based on a piece of paper I found that had “Nineteen days after” written on it – so I guess it doesn’t matter.

Watching “A Boy Named Charlie Brown” last night got me to thinking. Why did/do I identify with “Chuck” so much? Maybe it’s because during my life, people have associated me with him. Maybe it’s my giant head. Maybe it’s my attitude and disposition. When I was in High School, the drama teacher asked me to play the part of Charlie Brown when they were planning on doing the musical “You’re A Good Boy Charlie Brown.” I was confused and did not accept, which turned out good for everyone, because that small community was spared hearing my singing voice (which as the game “Rock Band” has proven, I get booed off the stage), but Ken did a much greater job than I could’ve ever hoped for. My dad even painted a Peanuts related painting around the time I was born! It has stuck with me throughout my entire life. And watching it again, after thirty some odd years, it affected me exactly as it did when I was 4-5 years old, except now, I am much more jaded and used to all of those “lost” feelings. I found it interesting that at the end of the movie, Charlie Brown is so distraught over his failure that he shuts himself into his room and refuses to face the world again. Linus comes to visit and convinces him to go out again. When Charlie Brown finally goes back out in to the world, he sees his friends out and about. He sees some of the girls jumping rope and a couple of the boys playing marbles. They are all oblivious to him. This element of adding the stab that he is inconsequential to his already strong ache of failure is downright devastating. There are many important lessons in the Peanuts movies and specials, but I think the main one is a lesson in absolute humility.

Waiting for the Sirens' Call

Nineteen days after. “After what?” he thought to himself. Every damn day is the same. What’s the point in defining distinction to a specific day?

“I’m tired of your fatalism,” she said to him as she reached her hand out for a moment.

He looked down and agreed that she most likely was tired of him and his attitude. He felt like a cancer that was slowly eating away at all of his relationships. “Why don’t you go then?”

“I think I will. I need some air. I need some sunshine in my life.”

And with that, she turned quickly, slid her arms into her waist length jacket and opened the front door. She turned back to him from the doorway first and watched him for a moment. He was sitting on the chair with his elbows on his knees and his head facing the carpet, ignoring her. She thought about saying something conciliatory, but decided against it. Instead she walked out and shut the door quietly behind her.

He took a deep breath and finally looked up. He kept focusing on this idea that nothing ever changes. Why is that? She had made her ultimatum and nearly three weeks had passed. He couldn’t remember what she threatened or what the timeline was. Maybe his deadline had already come and gone. Maybe he was once again too late. He remembered some words similar to “next step” and “advancing” coming from her lips, but didn’t really pay any mind to them. She had always been alluding to such things - like anything progresses. She was always asking him what he was waiting for. Wasn’t the answer obvious?

He stood up and stretched. He did feel a pang of guilt that he was relieved that she finally left. He knew she would be back. Her stuff was still there. He walked into the kitchen and looked in the cupboards for something to snack on. There was nothing that caught his fancy. He wasn’t sure what he wanted anyway. He laughed to himself, when he realized that she would’ve known exactly what he would’ve wanted for a snack. She would’ve created something where from these random items and it would’ve quelled the pit in his stomach for another stretch of empty time. Why would she do such a thing? Was she simply trying to prolong his agony, or her own?

He left the kitchen and shuffled into the other room again. He had arranged the room, so that there was a variety of seating surrounding a large low square table. The side along the wall was lined with a couch, while the other three sides were lined with mismatching chairs. He flopped himself onto the couch and placed his cheek onto his hands. He watched the door over on the empty side of the front room. Maybe if he could fall asleep he could eat up some more time – to find a way to get through another day.

You'll Never Get To Me

It was about this time of the morning five years ago when I received a very important call. I was at work on a Monday morning trying to figure out how I would get through the day. At 11:30, I was scheduled to head over to the dialysis clinic a few doors down from my job for another round. On that morning, I didn’t think I could do it. A few months prior, I had made an agreement with my transplant doctors that I wanted to try an aggressive treatment to try and increase my chances of finding a match on the transplant list. During the two and a half years I had been a dialysis patient, I first had to wait 18 months before being eligible for transplant, due to the cancerous tumor ridden kidneys I had had removed. Once they determined that I was cancer free, I was put onto the list. This was an amazing relief. I finally had something to look forward to. The team at the clinic was always so positive and upbeat, convincing me that it would only be a matter of time before I would get a chance at a kidney. They gave me a beeper and told me to carry it around with me at all times in case that call would come. It could happen at any time!

That first year and a half on dialysis was a complete nightmare. When I had my kidneys removed, I woke up in ICU and the entire world seemed like it had dulled like my life had been shifted slightly like a radio station just off its channel. I was released from the hospital the evening before Thanksgiving 2001. But the holiday did not inspire much confidence in me. I was so weak that I could barely make the 5 minute car ride to my brother’s for the family dinner. He had moved his girlfriend and their cats down from Seattle, just so he could be closer by for me. They were serving a seriously deprived of flavor or options Thanksgiving dinner just because of my condition. This filled me with guilt, or would have if I could’ve done anything besides lay on my back on stare helplessly at the ceiling. I had gone into this deal determined not to let it run my life, but here I was nearly comatose and ruining everyone’s lives around me. The following year and a half were filled with emergency room visits, serious infections and bad moments during dialysis, but somehow, little by little, I began to feel stronger. I managed to return to work full time, even with 4-5 hours of dialysis three evenings a week. I was able to make some trips like a couple of the March Madness trips with the crew and to Hawaii for Wil and Carrie’s wedding. I was even able to go out and do some activity again, like swimming and golf. All I had to do was get to the 18 month mark.

This was the progression. Always looking forward to and trying to ignore the daily struggle. Once I had the beeper, an entirely new set of problems arose to join the ones I was already experiencing. Damn it if that beeper didn’t start going off on a regular basis. I would quickly call the numbers that would appear and inevitably, it would be some girl who was trying to reach “Ted” or “Johnny” or whoever. Or it would just be a bad number. I started to dream about losing the pager or not being able to dial or read the numbers on the display. This is why I decided I had to break down and get a dreaded cell phone. During the first 6 months of being eligible for transplant, many of my friends went in to the clinic to get their blood tested in an effort to possibly be a donor. This was both an amazing honor and a major source of guilt. I did not want to have anyone go through surgery on my behalf. However, I also did not want to stop them either. In the end, no one matched. This is when I discovered that my blood panel was not matching with any of the kidneys that came and went through the mysterious list. They called me in to let me know that they were no longer very positive about my prospects. Maybe it was due to the 9 units of blood I had once needed during a hospital stay years prior, which creates antibodies, which are not good for donor recipients. This is when the decision was made.

The plan was to wipe my immune system out to help increase my potential for a match. By this time, though I was doing pretty well for the average dialysis patient health-wise, my body was suffering. I had dropped down to about 145 pounds and was losing stability and strength noticeably by the day. I felt like I had to go for it, because I was deteriorating and I was losing hope. I started taking the immune suppressant drugs they normally give to patients post transplant and they started me on monthly treatments, which if I remember right, were designed to clean my blood of its natural defenses. I would sit in a small room on non-dialysis days hooked to an IV and stare and try to sleep. This was something that was getting more and more difficult to do, which didn’t help my state. From the dialysis I was always itchy and twitchy and uncomfortable. I would read books all night (thanks to Ann for the stack of transformative books on loan!) or listen to music and then watch a few hours of the repeating early local news before heading to work. And it was one of those early mornings at work on October 18th, 2004 when I placed my head on my desk for an intended moment out of complete weakness and fatigue. My manger passed by my office on his way in for the day and asked if I was doing alright. For the first time, I told him that I couldn’t do it anymore, that I didn’t think I could make it through another round of dialysis. This was before I summoned up as much strength as I could and tried to shake it off and pretend that things were really okay. Another hour or so passed and my phone line rang. I answered it casually, because it was my direct line and only co-workers and family and friends had known that number. It was my transplant coordinator on the line and it didn’t faze me. He was very quiet and spoke very slowly. I assumed he was calling me to have me come in to have more labs done. Slowly it began to dawn on me that he was telling me that a kidney was available for me and I went in to shock. He gave me instructions on what I needed to do and told me to immediately go to the hospital. I set the phone down and actually finished the item of work I was doing. I sent an email to a bunch of my friends that the call had come and phoned my family and then went to tell my boss. That was it. I was on my way and was in surgery before noon.

Now that I’ve bored anyone that has read this far, including myself, I’m not sure where to go with this. It is a momentous date in my life. It’s Eric and Ann’s anniversary for one (Happy Anniversary kids!) and I have a putter with their wedding date on it leaning against the wall next to me to remind me. Oddly, it is also the name and date of a briefly annual series of mix tapes I made during High School. From 1986-1988, on October 18th, I made a mix tape for my own enjoyment and for some reason titled it simply “October 18th.” I made another one in 1991, after my mom passed away. These tapes were boxed away for years and forgotten until a few months before the transplant. Due to many nights of sleeplessness, I began rummaging through all of my things late at night sometimes. My goal was to get my things organize and to shed my clutter. I think subconsciously I was shedding extraneous stuff in case I never did get the call. This is when I discovered the four old simply titled tapes. I enjoyed hearing them again and recalled how I was trying to capture a certain vibe – a welcome to autumn thing, or a rainy day feeling. Needless to say, I started the series again (now mix-CDs) in 2005 to mark the date. I need to make one today to mark the occasion.

Speaking of music, those months leading up to the transplant were rough, but I absolutely lost myself in music. One song in particular stands out. Jeff introduced it to me late in 2003. The song is “You’ll Never Get To Me” by the post-punk stalwarts, Killing Joke. I had kind of forgotten about them, but suddenly they arrived with a self-titled album full off angry political anthems and this one song that instilled me with such resolve and hope. Here are the words with the chorus only at the end along with a link to the song:

“Sea of hurt, I feel the waves of pain
And now the tides come in again
I'm caught in a vicious cycle of despair
Give me the courage to face another day, oh!


I sat in silence, I was mourning
I said sorry a thousand times
I cried aloud to God from all my failings
But God seemed deaf as well as blind, oh!


We drank and smoked and talked until the dawn
We shared our problems and our food
Telling tales of courage and resolution
Through all the hardships we'd endured, oh!

Oh, sing a song of joy
Sweet childhood, never desert me
Time for celebration, oh!
Overcome with a sense of elation
I'll never let you get to me
Survival is my victory
Time for celebration, oh!
Overcome with a sense of elation”


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uqp6SHn1Kf8

This also leads me to where I’d like to go with this. I want to send my endless thanks and appreciation to my friends and family for helping me survive the dialysis years in order to be able to celebrate this 5th anniversary. So many people stepped forward to offer me a kidney and even tested to go through with it. So many people came to spend time with me in hospital rooms and dialysis clinics or just came to spend time with me. Sometimes too many! There were a few times when I had so many people in my hospital room or dialysis chair that I was worried they’d all get thrown out! I don’t know if I would’ve made it through my first month without kidneys, let alone those 2 years and 11 months. I just hope that someday I can repay all of you. Thank you.

An End Has A Start

Life happens. Isn't that one of those old cliches? Well, it has always happened to me and I'm done with it! I have spent too much of my time letting life happen to me, as opposed to going out and making it happen my way. I inherited my mom's gentle spirit and take a backseat attitude, along with my dad's tragic crumble under pressure and give in attitude. Let me tell you, it's not a good combination for taking a stand.

Currently, I am working two part-time jobs, neither of which has any kind of benefits, like health insurance or paid vacation time. I have been working long hours endlessly, through sickness and in health, with no breaks and no advancement. Meanwhile, I have continued to look for something regular, full-time, singular, different, and especially one that includes some kind of additional benefits besides pay. Last week, I found one. So, I am momentarily keeping the job I do at home, and I sadly gave my two weeks customary notice at the other. "Sadly," because I enjoy the people I work with. Unfortunately, the new job will not wait for me. So, again, I try and do the right thing. Continue with my commitment to the old job with my notice and still go in to the new job to show my new commitment to them. What is the result? Misery! It's terrible. I am trying too hard for everyone else. I am not doing the right thing for myself. The good news is, by week's end, if I survive, I will be back to two jobs (although more hours than before) and hopefully, soon enough, ONE job. The thing is, I am not that healthy. I am much healthier now than I have been anytime this entire decade, but this is literally driving me to the grave. And for what? So I can earn enough money to pay for my exorbitantly priced transplant meds and all the crazy meds that I take to fight the side effects of the transplant drugs? None of this makes me happy. None of this fulfills me. All it does is feed me and clothe me and give me a crappy place to live. This has to change and I will make it happen.

On the other fronts, I need to make more progress as well. At least I am starting to make headway, but I have a long way to go. There have been a couple of posts in the recent past about women that I have taken a fancy to. One of which I have made a mild effort to make a date with (or whatever) to little effect. Here again, I need to overcome myself and be definite and forward and ignore my doubts. I need to do this for myself. In the other case, I may be fighting an uphill battle that no attitude adjustment can change. But I will not forget and I will continue to work my way towards a chance. Any kind of chance. A chance to end this dark pathway I've been on and create a path that I can feel proud of. That is, once this upcoming week is over. I still have butterflies rumbling around my gut and I want to change them from ones of stress to ones of anticipation and excitement.

Great Northern

9/11/09

After yawning, I slowly raised the beer to my lips. “Why do I do this?” I asked myself. A Weather, the slow-paced, simple, yet weirdly enticing local band have cleared the Mississippi Studios stage and Rachel Stolte and Solon Bixler and company from LA band, Great Northern, began arranging their equipment onto the stage. What a change from when I first saw them at the Crystal Ballroom on November 10th of 2007. That much bigger venue was nearly sold out. They had a stage crew to set up their gear and someone to tune their instruments during their set. A set made up of the sweeping epic burners and ballads from their beautiful and stunning debut album, Trading Twilight for Daylight. At the time, they were getting some radio airplay with “Home” the weakest song on the album, which seemed to draw out an enthusiastic crowd. Great Northern took a risky angle and played the slowest and quietest songs from the album to open the set that night, but it paid off in spades. It was one of the most intense and captivating shows I have ever seen. The songs were much bigger and better live than on record and the set-list continued to build and build flawlessly, never allowing attention to wane. It was also one of the few shows I’ve gone to alone. I remember inviting a handful of friends who had never heard the new group, nor seemed interested in finding out about them. I had also hoped to take along a certain someone at that time, but that never panned out either. So, there I stood alone, amongst hundreds upon hundreds of people.

Some things don’t change. Here I was again, alone, about to watch the same band (with a different rhythm section) perform. The usual invitations to come along were extended and even a hopeful, but important invite to my favorite pharmacy gal. She didn’t show, or she showed early and bailed, because I didn’t arrive until late (I know, I know, but it eases the sting a bit) after witnessing a depressing Timbers loss at PGE Park earlier that evening. While watching A Weather close up their set, I considered dumping the scene myself. I was extremely tired from working way too many hours and from the aforementioned game. Then, I remembered that set from two years prior and how magical it was. Then again, the band had changed (gone was their smoking hot bassist!) and the big crowd and the buzz of anticipation in the air. Instead, the tiny and not even half-full Mississippi Studios was hushed with conversation between the several handsome couples spread out sparsely across the main floor and up above in the balcony. I started to hum the opening song from their new-ish sophomore release, Remind Me Where the Light Is, to try and keep my mind on target.

The random play of songs finally cut off and the band that had never been behind the curtain was ready to entertain us. A few strikes of the guitar strings and a bit of feedback blared out as Rachel said hello to us and announced their presence. That first song was the one I was just humming, “Story,” and the words came to my lips like they’d always been there:

“Tell you a secret
Tell you a story
About someone inside
Pass it around
Get you some glory
And don’t forget to tack on a lie”

I started to cross the floor toward the stage. The music was all that mattered now and the more upbeat and streamlined sound on their second offering was just what I needed. I wasn’t sure how this show would go, but they would not disappoint. Instead of the larger than life moments of the prior show, they made this one intimate, yet no less intense. Where before the atmospheric songs from album one seamlessly segued into one another, this one had them bantering directly with the few of us in the audience, while they prepped for the next tune. Rachel took the opportunity of the setting to wander out onto the floor – off the stage – and sing to her audience directly. Eventually, she and Solon wandered over to the side wall of the room away from the front to play an unreleased ballad on a piano pushed into the corner and out of the way. This was special. The entire set was new material from the last show. I am biased when I say this, because I love their two albums, but they are a must see! I have seen hundreds and hundreds of bands over the last 25 years, and am fairly jaded when it comes to the concert conceits and traditions. It is always refreshing to be surprised and amazed and to go home energized, instead of worn down. By the time I drove home, I had forgotten that I had been there alone.

Who wants to join me for the shows this Thursday and Friday and next Monday?

Inside of Love

It’s been a long while since I’ve sat down and tried to write. About a month and a half ago everything on my computer was lost to a virus, which was contracted thanks to one of my stupid jobs. Not surprisingly I never bothered to back anything up, or save anything to an outside source, so I lost everything. I had several years’ worth of writing tidbits, short stories, true stories and even seven chapters of a long abandoned novel. Instead of getting angry about it, I just shrugged my shoulders and went on with life. The only thing is, ever since, I have noticed a slowly encroaching dark cloud surrounding me. First of all, I have allowed my work situation to grow wildly out of control. I have two part time jobs, which theoretically should total between 40-45 hours a week between them. Instead, now I am working essentially every waking hour of each weekday, save for the moments that I’m traveling to and from each location. I have always been someone willing to go the extra mile for those who I work for, but I have never identified myself with what I do to make a living. I did manage to get away for a few days two weeks ago for my High School’s 20 year class reunion. It was a lot of fun and despite a lot of ambivalence and some apprehension, I had a great time! Oddly though, during my nightmarish drive home in stop and go traffic, I felt a strong sense of sadness. This sadness seemed to have no source. I have no idea what could have caused it. I had a good time and had a chance to catch up with some old friends, but here I was feeling sad. Things didn’t take a change for the better, when two nights later; I was driving home fairly late at night and turned right off the freeway onto an off-ramp only to plow over some sort of creature that jumped onto the road directly in front of me. The moment I saw this small creature’s dark shape and glowing eyes (no clue what it was), I swerved dramatically, but could not avoid hearing and feeling the crunch of its tiny skeleton underneath my front left tire. I drifted home slowly after my indiscriminate killing machine plowed into this poor scared once living being, feeling like my head would explode from massive guilt and the increasing volume in my self-questioning of where my life is headed. I feel like I’ve painted myself into a corner that I cannot escape from. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt like I had nowhere to turn after making poor decisions, but I received a second chance nearly five years ago when I received a cadaver kidney the same morning that I had finally given up. At that time I vowed to myself that I would become a better person in every way possible. In many ways, I have. I am, overall, a much more positive person. I am much wiser when it comes to finances and keeping my affairs in order. And I have devoted myself to helping my brother through his nightmare ordeal by trying to make his life as tolerable as possible. Yet, recently, it all feels like it’s slipping away. I feel like I’m losing control of things. I have allowed stress to put the squeeze on my life and a constant nagging feeling of worry. I do not know what to do.

Then, the plot shifted. Last weekend, I saw a woman who sent chills down my spine. I was in a social environment, where I barely knew anyone and normally would have bailed quickly – being that I am not the most outgoing person. Instead I lingered and planned on how I could meet this beautiful person – to see her amazing smile up close. I kept glancing at her as I worked my through the group introducing myself to the strangers on my way toward her. She proved elusive – seemingly moving through the crowd at the same rate I was. I felt like she was always as far away as she possibly could be, while still in sight. Unusually though, I began to believe that she was returning my quick glances with some sort of positive energy. I cannot convince myself that this could ever be true, or possible, but I almost believed it. She seemed to know everyone, but didn’t seem to be there with any one clique. Her easy calm and casual demeanor built up a serious longing in me. To cut the scene short, I finally managed to win an introduction, but due to circumstances, that is all I managed. This would normally be no big deal. Actually, it would be par for the course. Another pretty girl that I was attracted to that I made no show of interest to, other than maybe a disturbing amount of staring. This time though, her visage has stayed with me. I still have butterflies rumbling around in my stomach after such a brief encounter a week later. I can say that only two times previously in my life have I been affected like this. That head over heels loopy madness and a complete loss of appetite or any coherent thought. I don’t understand it and I don’t like to admit to myself that I have a hole in my life. When I think about her vivid smile, a ray of light breaks through that dark cloud that has been enveloping me and makes me think of possibilities instead of corners and dead ends, yet I still don’t know what to do. There is not a likely scenario where I would ever encounter her again, but I could try and force the issue. I do know someone that could put me in touch with her, though it would be more uncomfortable than actually asking her out – something that has never come easy for me. It doesn’t help that I feel like a combination of Frankenstein and Bigfoot wandering around this planet as a curiosity. Much like the time in the early 90’s when a bunch of my old co-workers and I were at a work lunch at Red Robin and I had ordered the Monster Burger. When the waitress brought the order for the 12 or so of us, she called out: “Monster? Monster?” and it was only me who raised a hand. I don’t know what to do.

Mirror in the Bathroom

I hate taking showers at the gym after working out. Sure, there’s a moment when the sweat gets washed off in the cold weak stream coming from the faucet, but almost immediately the sweat returns due to the massive amount of literally stinking humidity of the locker room. When I get my clothes back on, I always realize that no matter how hard I try; I never get fully dry – making my clothes uncomfortable and every thing about me unpleasant. This is especially true on hot summer days. I actually feel dirtier after the shower and dressing than I did prior to the workout when I step outside and the sun is blazing down. This was one of those days. Luckily I was on my way home during the latter part of a weekday evening commute. Unfortunately, I was on the bus and it was packed and I’m pretty sure the driver had the heat on.

I put on my headphones and started my player. The slowly building feedback of Jawbreaker’s “Shield Your Eyes” tickled my ears before crashing into the opening line: “There was a sun once and it lit the whole damn sky.” How appropriate, I thought to myself. I adjusted the volume to be loud enough to drown out all extraneous noise, but not so loud that everyone around me suffering through the commute would have to jam along. My forehead was beading up with sweat and it began to run into my eyes. I wiped my hand across my brow and the sides of my face in a feeble effort to stop it. I readjusted myself in the window seat of the bus, and put my bag on my lap to make room for any boarding passengers. I flipped through my bag in an effort to find some reading material, but was distracted by a small bleeding abrasion on my index finger. I’m not sure what had happened, but it had been there awhile, because some blood had been smeared and began to dry onto the side of my hand. I pulled a corner of my towel out of the bag and wiped the freshest blood from my hand before getting lost in the music.

This bus trip was regularly about a half hour and this day was no exception. It seemed longer, because people kept loading on, but not exiting. And the heat! There was no hope in stopping the sweat beading up all over my face. People started filling up the aisles from the back all the way to the front door and for some reason no one was sitting in the open spot next to me. I know I’m not the most handsome person, but I try to be polite. Maybe my stink was simply overpowering. I grabbed the sleeve on my t-shirt and sneaked a whiff on the sly. Not too bad actually. I had put on fresh deodorant and taken a shower just a short while before, even if I was getting drenched in sweat. This was disconcerting, which is strange considering that I am generally disconcerted when someone does sit by me on most days.

Another stop: more people load on and try and squeeze past the mob blocking the entry way by the driver. A friendly looking older woman spots the opening by me and starts to head in my direction. Yes, this must be the reason. People didn’t want to take the seat in case someone needing the seat boarded. This made perfect sense. As she approached I pulled the headphones off and shut down the music. I decided that I should be welcoming and friendly. I looked at her and smiled a friendly nod of invitation to sit next to me. Instead of returning my welcome, she focused her eyes hard on mine, sneered and then continued moving her way by my empty seat and upsetting the crowd smashed into the narrow aisle. This was ridiculous! Now I officially had a complex. It was bad enough before that – having always felt like kind of like a big Sasquatch-like beast – but now, everyone was willing to forgo a semblance of comfort in order to completely avoid me and stand awkwardly smashed among anyone else. This trend continued the entire trip and I had no idea what to think. What did I do to these people? I smiled at the people around me, I use subtle hand gestures to present the open seat and all I got in return was averting glances and silence in response.

Mercifully, my stop arrived. The transit center was a welcome site, not only to get my cramping legs moving again, but to get away from this weird scene. I folded the transfer slip in half and left it on my seat. I swept my hand across my forehead again and threw my bag over my shoulder. I was getting irritated by this shunning I was experiencing and stomped down the three steps and onto the sidewalk. I was instantly confronted by what seemed to be transit security. This was just what I needed.

“May I see your transfer ticket please?” he firmly inquired.

I gazed at him with complete disdain in before angrily replying, “I am not on the bus, nor will I be boarding another bus, so why in the hell would I need a transfer ticket?”

He started to respond, but cut himself off after taking in a deep breath. I pointed at the bus I had exited and told him that I left the ticket on the bus in case someone else could use it. My anger was continuing to build, while his demeanor had changed more into confusion. He nodded his head and walked away. In turn I stormed off in the opposite direction, even more confused, towards home.

I spent the entire walk home racking my brain, trying to understand what had just happened. None of it made any sense. I thought to myself: “It's one thing to be cast aside as a freak in certain situations, but a bunch of adults on public transportation? And why today and not the day before, or the week before that?”

At the end of my destination, I stormed up the stairs to my apartment and slammed the door shut behind me. My aggravation was growing, but at least I was home. I took a deep breath. Set my bag down on the floor and headed in to the bathroom. It was time to take another shower. I needed to regain my sense of normalcy. That was when I caught something in the corner of my eye while passing in front of the mirror in the bathroom. I stopped, turned and moved in for a closer look. There was dried blood smeared all over my cheeks and forehead – almost like war paint. This changed everything.