*Note:
an·he·do·nia
Pronunciation: (ān'hē-dō'nē-ə)
Function: noun
Definition: a psychological condition characterized by inability to experience pleasure in acts which normally produce it
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Chapter ONE: Perceptions and Preconceptions __________________________________________


“The masses of men live lives of quiet desperation.”
-Henry David Thoreau
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You've been here before, you know this place.

There is little reason for details. But a lack of reason has never been enough to keep me from talking. A lack of reason was never enough to negate our very existence, and hopefully, it won't be enough to keep you reading this story.

Listen.

The place is Stephen's Sports Bar. It's owned by a guy named Chuck. When you arrive the customers collectively lazily shift their dreary gazes to you. The bartender offers you the customary head nod to acknowledge your presence as you navigate through the shadowy darkness. When you walk by, our eyes follow you suspiciously.

Behind the bar is a small menu of food that nobody is ordering. In the corner next to the menu, a small TV broadcasting a basketball game that nobody is watching. There is a jukebox filled with music the likes of Bruce Springsteen, Grateful Dead and Bob Dylan. Currently playing: George Thorogoods' I Drink Alone. There is no pool table, no dance floor, no live band, not even a dart board. What you've no doubt noticed already, however, is the aura of somberness and disparity as thick as the blanket of smoke that hovers a few feet below the ceiling.

I’m not really sure why you’re here, but I really hope you it wasn't to try to meet people or have an uninhibited good time or divulge in some profoundly interesting, "feel-like-you-really-connected" conversation. That's not gonna happen. We aren’t in the mood for fun, and from the looks of it you aren’t either. This is a place designed for the sole purpose of getting shit-faced drunk, making a bonafide ass out yourself, and being forcibly removed from the premises.

The “crowd” is anything but a crowd. The folks currently inhabiting this place are an indefatigably unpleasant bunch. Sitting at one wobbly, blistered table near the restrooms two unattractive lesbian women are leaning over their beer pitcher whispering angrily to each other about something. The angelic princess sporting the spiked bleached hair with rust-colored highlights and the subtle “I Lick Pussy” shirt is angry with her girlfriend for her refusal to show affection in public. In the corner of the bar by the TV, an old man in red and blue suspenders and a Stephens' Sports Bar t-shirt is harassing the homely female bartender. The bartender smiles coyly when he makes a slurred comment about her ass then turns away with a scowl and wide desperate eyes fighting back tears. How did I end up here, at this moment, in this place? You can almost see the thought bubbles over her head. At a table near the door a group of college aged boys are laughing incessantly and for no apparent reason. Though it is highly unnecessary, closer observation would reveal that they are stoned.  Disdainfully eyeing them, huddled against the wall, at a booth near the back under the Bob Marley poster is a young looking mid-twenties guy scribbling in a journal. In front of him sits an untouched white russian, and two empty beer bottles.

You came alone tonight. Things haven't been going so well lately. But honestly, were things ever that great to begin with?  You can't remember the last time you felt truly happy. You sighed, defeated as those idyllic dreams and naive aspirations of your youth dissipated into regrets and disappointments. You unknowingly let the media and corporate America manipulate and infiltrate your mind with cars, and houses and toys and gadgets that you can never afford. You didn't notice them plotting the distance between you and their perception of what defines beauty and meaningfullness. Then you broke your heart trying to make that perfect guy (or girl) love you. Now you've discovered that you will never be smart enough or pretty enough or rich enough or strong enough. Whatever it is that you have to offer this world, it just isn’t enough. Everyday you feel emptier inside, you feel as if you are being suffocated by your own perceptions and preconceptions and failures. What is there to be happy about?

Yeah. I got you pegged. You...you are here to forget. You are here for the same reason as the old guy at the bar spewing demoralizing accusations at anyone who can hear him, the same reason as the two brutally ugly bickering lesbians, and the potheads and the sniffling overweight bartender and me; the cowering, dejected shit on God's shoe. You're here because the gap between who you wanted to be and who you are has become so enormous that you are about to be swallowed up in the irony of your own life.

And while you're waiting for your drink, you wonder why you came to a bar when you could have gotten drunk at home. You won't find it hard to admit to yourself that it's because you are lonely, bored, and delusional. You were hoping that you might find some connection with somebody. Only you don't have the nerve to spark up a conversation with a total stranger and you don't think anybody ever notices you.

But I've noticed you. Hiding behind my journal, feigning distraction. I watched you come through the door, head down, shrouded in your black pullover jacket, your face hidden beneath the hood that you don't even bother to remove as you advance to the bar. Your long slender legs and perfect ass are complimented nicely by the tight low cut “fuck me” jeans that cling to your body, yet your gait, posture and lowered gaze imply that you are distraught, anxious and lacking self-esteem. I sympathize for you. I know your pain.

Perhaps I've only assumed you to be miserable, in an effort to conjure up a connection between us. Perhaps you don't feel miserable or lonely at all. Perhaps you are perfectly happy and not at all worried about anything. Maybe you have lived your dreams and you are quite responsible and are brimming with morality and gushing personality. Maybe you are exactly the person you want to be. Maybe that is just how I feel and I'm just projecting my insecurities and disappointments onto you.

Perhaps. But I doubt it.

Either way, it doesn't matter, I'll never know the real you because I will never make an attempt to talk to you. I'll just sit hiding in the corner behind my journal, inventing your entire past based on the few moments that our paths intertwined. Besides, my perception of you is all that truly matters as I am the one writing the story here.

I sit sipping on my white russian, hypothesizing as to just what exactly brought you to this place and time. In my mind I try to calculate to what degree my speculations about you are tainted by my own morbidly pessimistic view of the world.

Am I interpreting your life as a hell on Earth solely based on the reason that I have hit the proverbial rock-bottom?

Should I take into account that as of today I am homeless? Should I weigh in the fact that I have no vehicle, and very little money? Am I perhaps a little pissed at myself for severing ties with virtually all of my family and friends? Is the seething rage not amplified by resentment of passing on a college education for a plethora of drug addictions that I can no longer afford? Would the sudden realization that I am a self-centered, manipulative, cold-hearted steaming heap of shit affect the way I view the world around me?

Perhaps.

Charles Wright Mills, a renowned sociologist wrote in his 1959 essay “The Sociological Imagination” about man's discontent in accordance with the milieu in which he inhabits. He observed that it was not at all unnatural and even altogether likely that one would never find happiness from life. One primary reason for this being that everything found in ones' environment serves as a constant reminder of what we don't have. One does not need to look hard to find ways to feel inferior to his or her fellow human being. Whether people choose to admit it or not, competition is an integral part of everyday life. People often gage their own success and ergo happiness on personal appearance, intelligence, possessions, friends, lovers and money. Virtually everything we do is influenced by a subconscious desire to transcend our perceived social castes.

With the advent of television, and more recently the internet, our scope is constantly being broadened. Those born during this time of vast technological improvements have been taught that we can all rise to levels of greatness. We have been inadvertently or otherwise implanted with the notion that there is a doctor or lawyer or actor or athlete or scientist in all of us, when in reality this is just simply not true. In our culture the spotlight shines brightest on an elite minority of the prettiest, and most intelligent and richest of our species. And while it is true that every great achievement in science, politics, math, philosophy and even sports elevates our understanding and capabilities as a species; these same achievements leave the individual person feeling less and less significant. For some people this shrinking feeling is a minor nuisance in their everyday life, for others it inhabits, whether subconsciously or consciously, every facet of their existence.

What I don't have is a home, a car, and money.

What I don't have is love, motivation, inspiration or faith.

You walk to the bar to order a drink, a screwdriver. I watch you with discretion awaiting the chance to see your face. The old man at the bar stops his ranting when you approach and begins staring at you unabashedly. He starts muttering something, presumably overtly sexual. You turn to look at him without an apparent response. I watch with considerable disbelief, the horrified expression frozen on his face as his barstool lifts about 6 inches off the ground before making a 180 degree turn towards the wall. The barstool does not return to the floor, it just remains impossibly hovered in mid air. Flabbergasted and too inebriated to appreciate the implications of what just happened, the drunk old man decides to forget about you and twists to the bar to his left to grab his beer, but as he leans in that direction the chair tips with him. When he is about to topple over he straightens up and clutches the seat of the stool.

What I don't have is sobriety.

You pay the bartender; who seems to have no reaction whatsoever to your apparent telekinetic talent. By the time it dawns on me that I could be hallucinating you are already moving towards my table. I'm not normally good with females and I instantly feel a wave of panic at the prospect that you may try to initiate a conversation with me. I sit my journal on the table and sink down into my chair. Suddenly my peripheral vision abandons me and my view autonomously fixates on you. Your head is still facing the ground as you slowly amble on at a protracted pace towards my table. I shift my head to the left and right and somehow you still remain dead centered in my field of vision.

Above and behind you the hands of the Budweiser clock on the wall begin racing around in opposing directions. The minute hand moving counter-clockwise, the hour hand moves at the same speed in the opposite direction. The music on the jukebox cuts out abruptly and is followed by a few moments of piercingly loud static. Through the speakers a frail, frightened voice emerges through the static. “W-what the fuck is going on here?” the bewildered voice asks. Time slows and the clock's hands lose momentum before coming to rest at 0:00. Logic is whisked away on a tidal wave of surrealism as I stare at the 0 between the twelve and the one on the clock. “What the hell!?” In mid stride you slowly begin to levitate as if you stepped onto an invisible escalator.

Through the static in the speakers: “Holy shit! This can’t be happening. [heavy breathing] Jesus Christ, how fucked up am I?” More static erupts then: Is that my voice on the speakers? I answer my own question. “It has to be me. But how? What does she want with me?”

I can feel my accelerating heart beat in my head, and my arms start to prickle as an unfamiliar pristine strain of fear lumps in my throat. “This is so fucked up. Is this some kinda acid flashback? No, too fucking loony. What then?”

In my left temple I start to feel the sensation of something burying claws into my skull from inside my head. A sudden excruciating pain blurs my vision as you reach a plateau in your elevation at about three feet off the ground, then begin to float towards me at an insanely slow pace. I gasp violently for breath, my entire body now numb and paralyzed. “Oh shit I can't breathe! I’ve got to get up, run!” The speakers echo my thoughts as I nervously laugh when I notice that you are still carrying the screwdriver in your right hand. The pain in my head scurries around the inside of my skull to my right temple like a microscopic mouse sauntering along the surface of my brain. I can feel tears and snot and drool flow profusely from every orifice of my face. Locked in paralysis, my inner voice now screams through the speakers: “WHAT THE FUCK IS IN MY HEAD? WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME?” The painful sensation in my cranium burrows into my right eye socket, poking into the bottom of my eyeball. My eyes instinctively clinch shut yet my vision remains impossibly intact and more vivid than ever. The colors of everything in my vision start to change.“This isn't happening, this isn't real,” the jukebox announces, “Snap out of it!”

There is one last outburst from the hissing static as the pain in my head diminishes entirely, and my secondary vision goes black. I sit for a moment with my hands covering my face, trying to get gain control over my mind. Then I hear the music kick back on, I hear the old man at the bar yelling about a malfunctioning chair and how he should be treated with a higher degree of courtesy. “Mr. Peterson, you just fell off your stool. I'm cutting you off, you've had way too much to drink tonight,” the bartender explains calmly and as politely as possible. I hear the stoners by the door laughing riotously. Slowly, I open my eyes hoping that this bizarre hallucination has retreated. Instead I find you sitting at my table. The hood still covers your face as you finish off the last sip of your screwdriver. After noisily slurping up the last swig through a straw you look up and I finally see your face. With one casual glance into your deep blue eyes I'm immediately overtaken by an insatiable, almost frighteningly powerful urge to never let you out of my sight again. Your pupils expand to drown out the whites in your eyes and I bear witness to an infinite, translucent ocean of serene blue water swaying in a gentle, idyllic breeze. At this moment I attain pure ephemeral nirvana; complete unadulterated peace and joy, and indefatigable ecstasy beyond the limit of words. When you avert your gaze, I am abruptly snapped out of hypnosis, but the fear has been replaced by sheer awe. Strands of blond hair trickle down in front of your mesmerizing eyes. A smile that is all at once deceptively shy and playfully malevolent paints your pale lightly freckled skin. I am surprised to see a face of youthful exuberance, of animated vitality, and a truly exceptional brand of beautiful.

“Pretty cool, huh?” You speak with a hint of frailty and innocence.

“Errr....what's cool?” I reply in confusion.

You point to my journal lying out on the table, writing itself. The mechanical pencil dances along the open page, exploiting my words and thoughts and observations as they occur.
“What the hell...” I watch in utter fascination as these very words appear on the paper in my prose, narration and handwriting.

“So...did you have me pegged?” You ask with a megalomaniacal giggle.

Before I can reply you are gone. Into nothing… nowhere. The pencil drops into the open journal.

What I don't have is sanity.