I Put My Hand to the Plow and Look Back

    I wake up on Friday morning wanting to punch my roommate in the face, and I do. That’s how I end up in the hospital. I have never hit someone, closed fisted, in the face before. I’ve slapped people plenty of times, mostly because I was too afraid to punch. But not today. I punch him square in the mouth. Lucky for him, he is laughing like an idiot. Otherwise his teeth probably would have punctured both his lips. Instead, they puncture my hand. The knuckles hit those little yellow daggers and are stuck for a second. I can feel the incisors yanking out as he falls backward. It hurts. A lot.
    The nurse at the hospital calls me an idiot. I thank him for his diagnosis and the stitches and go on my way. Jeremy is waiting for me in the lobby. He has a prescription in his hand. We don’t say anything to each other until we get in the car. Then we both jump in at the same time.
    “IfDon’tyoueverevenstartcrazyfuckinIwillassholemurderyouif
WhatmeI’ll beat your face in next time,” Jeremy trails off after I stop.
    “You’ll beat me in, will you?”
    “What is wrong with you?”
    “I got eight stitches in my hand, and you got a prescription for some Tylenol.”
    “No. Why did you hit me?”
    “We’re not talking about that right now. Not unless you wanna add some morphine and maybe a leg cast to that piece of paper.”
    Jeremy looks at me like he’s never seen me before in his life. Maybe I’m different. No, I’m not different. I will make no apologies. Six months ago, I did notice things beginning to spin. I decided to quit my job. I was tired of work. 
    “So, you’re like Ron Livingston in Office Space,” Jeremy said. We were playing Mario Kart when I pitched it to him.
    “No.”
    “So what is this then? It sounds like Peter.”
    “Peter was tired of his bosses telling him what to do.”
    “So that’s not why you’re quitting?”
    “Nope.”
    “Okay, why then? —Goddamn red shell!”
    “Because this is just the beginning of—I don’t know what to call it yet. Something new.”
    “Sounds like Peter, man.”
    “Peter was tired of rules and regulations.”
    “You’re not tire—damnit!” Jeremy threw the controller down. He’s terrible at video games. “You’re not tired of that?”
    “No, I am,” I said standing and turning off the T.V. “What I’m doing is more than that though.”
    “So what are you doing then?”
    “I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”
    We have to go to CVS before we go home so Jeremy can get his prescription. I go in with him and look at the cards. They have a category called “Any Occasion.” A card just because. I pick one up to read. On the front is a cartoon cat shrugging its shoulders with a bashful smile smashed on its face. The inside reads:
Don’t know why,
Just sayin’ hi!
Hi!
For some reason I feel sorry for the cat. Jeremy comes up behind me.
    “They have magazines,” he says.
    “Can you believe the nerve of these people?”
    “What?”
    “These cards.”
    “Just forget it; let’s go. Damnit my mouth hurts.” He turns, putting his hand to his front teeth and rubbing. I follow him down the aisle.
    “I’m just saying, what is the purpose of this card?” I still have it in my hand. “Who buys this?”
    “No one probably—Jesus, what is wrong with you lately? Just let it go.”
    I buy the card.
    “There’s an envelope that comes with this,” the checker tells me.
    “I don’t need it.”
    Jeremy doesn’t notice until we get in the car.
    “Is that what you bought? Two weeks without a job and you’re wasting what you have left on some card you’re not—what the hell are you going to do with that?”
    Yes, it took me five months to grow the balls to quit my job. That’s not Peter at all.
    “I don’t know yet. Hey, remember how I told you I didn’t know what I was doing six months ago?”
    “Didn’t know six months ago? You don’t know now!”
    “That’s not what—! That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean you said, what are you doing if it’s not the Peter thing, and I said, I don’t know but it’s something. Well, I decided. I’m quitting life.”
    Jeremy laughs so hard that he pulls the car into opposing traffic, but quickly swerves back to avoid a not-too-happy Mustang.
    “So you’re committing suicide?”
    “No, that’s not it at all.”
    “I’m sorry,” he says trying to control his laughter, “You just sound like a retarded sixteen-year-old. You know, one of those, like, really philosophical kids who thinks they have it all figured out.
    “Dude, I—“
    “Oh!  Like a drama kid!  That’s it!”
    I don’t say anything until he laughs it out a little.
    “I’m just tired of—thiiiis,” I say waving my arms around.
    “So you want to commit suicide.”
    “No.  I just—don’t want to do anything—but even that involves compliance to something—which is nothing.”
    “Drama kid.”
    “I’m done waking up to structure.”
    “Oh!  I know who you sound like!  Brad Pitt from Fight Club!  Or Edward Norton.  You decide.”
    “No, that’s not what this is.  This isn’t some social experiment whatever thing.  Tyler Durden wanted to spur social unrest.  I don’t care about anyone else.”
    “No, no!  It makes perfect sense,” Jeremy said getting very excited, “That’s why you punched me!  You wanna start Fight Club!  Instead of working, you’re just going to—“
    “Jeremy.  Shut up.  God, you sound like such a tool.  We’re not starting Fight Club.  That’s not what this is.”
    “Well, you’re doing a really s****y job of explaining it.”   
    “Okay—“
    I have to think because I’ve never made an attempt at putting this to words before. I try to picture how it’s going to sound.
    “You know that feeling you get when you’re driving by yourself?  Like, you’re driving down the 605 or something.  Traffic is terrible—just f*****g—stay with me on this, okay?  You’re driving.  And you’re listening to The Get Up Kids or something that takes you back to when you first got interested in things other than what T.V. told you was cool.  You’re just—just focusing so hard.  Listening to every note, every word.  You listen so intently that all of the sudden, you just turn the stereo off.  And it’s silent in the car—no traffic noises, nothing.  Now you’re really thinking.  Just thinking about all the things you’re going to do.  Whenever.  Not things that you have to do, things you are going to do.  And this feeling starts to rise in you; it’s like excitement, but better.  It’s more than excitement.  It’s longing.  To be where you want to be.  That’s what I want.  All the time.  You know what feeling I’m talking about?”
    “No.”
    “You are hopeless.  F*****g hopeless.  You wanna know why I punched you in the face?  Because you never think about anything.  You just do and never think.  That’s why you suck s**t at video games.”
    “Look, I like watching those artsy, indie films as much as the next guy, or even you for that matter, but you’ve been sounding like one a lot these last few months.  It’s kind of disgusting actually.  You sound like you’re—like you’re just—trying way too hard.  Is that what this is?  Some kind of pretentious indie kid thing?  Like, you want to be indie, but not, because everyone is indie now and so being indie is really not being indie?  And, like, you just don’t know what you need to do to reclaim that indieness or something?”  He waits for a response.  “So really, the definition of indie sits with you in your lofty court of indie justice.”
    “I don’t even know what you just said.”
    “Of course not,” Jeremy says throwing his hands in the air and then letting them slap back onto the steering wheel. 
    “I’m just saying what you said has nothing to do with what I’m doing.”
    He doesn’t respond.
    We finally arrive back at the apartment.  Jeremy walks ahead of me through the two rows of parking stalls and up the stairs.  I saunter a bit.  I remove the any occasion card from the small, plastic CVS bag, walk over to the dumpster and throw the bag away.  I turn the card over and over in my hands.
    When I walk in the front door, Jeremy is already in his room with the door shut.  He is blasting The Get Up Kids.  I walk into my room and sit down at my desk.  It’s empty except for my computer, about a hundred crumpled receipts, this month’s unpaid bills, and a multitude of meaningless school assignments.  I set the card upright and open on the back corner.
    I walk down the short hall to Jeremy’s room and knock on the door.  Then I pound.  The music stops abruptly, and after a moment the door swings open.
    “I just want to say—I’m not that sorry for punching you in the face, but I am just a little.  I guess in the way that I should feel guilty for inflicting physical injury.  Just think of it this way: If I hadn’t punched you, you probably wouldn’t have been listening to The Get Up Kids just now.  Or had the opportunity to try and call me out as an indie fraud.”
    “Which you are.”
    “Not the point.”
    “So then what is?”
    “I don’t know.”  I don’t seem to know much about anything anymore.  “I think I’m going to call my old job back.  They said they’d have something for me if I ever returned from finding myself.”
    “That’s what you told them?”
    “No, that’s what they said to me.”
    “I mean, you told them you were finding yourself?”
    “No.  I said I was dissatisfied with their performance.”
    “So you fired them?”
    “In a way, yes.”
    Jeremy c***s his head thoughtfully.
    “I think I’m gonna call some people up and go bowling tonight.  Cosmic bowling,” he says.
    “Count me in.”
    I walk back to my room, sit at my desk and pick up the card.  I don’t feel sorry for the cat anymore.  I respect him.  To do without reason is impossible to defend.  The only defense is just because.  That takes courage.  I want that.