 I answered the phone. The caller on the other end didn't even wait for me to finish the standard greeting. He cut in, unleashing a frantic outpouring:
"It'll be a cold day in hell before I let some Ren Faire fortune teller be right. I mean, seriously, I live in the suburbs outside Chicago. The odds of being mauled to death by a bear seem spectacularly low. However, my mind keeps orbiting the possibility of puns. Perhaps, attempting to make her prediction more mysterious, she delivered it as a kind of riddle, a coded premonition of sorts. As such I keep imagining a large hairy man breaking my skull against the brick wall of the local mall, and puns seem likely given she was dressed as an Elizabethan dinosaur, doing readings under the pseudonym Madame Tarot-dactyl. "Whatever the case I've come to a grizzly realization. My perception of reality is often the polar opposite of optimism, and though I've accepted the unbearable black view that existence tends to lead along a shitty brown trail to despair, this latest paranoid fixation may actually be another in a long line of excuses to avoid going outside. In other words, I've spent the last seventy-two hours watching savage bear attacks online in order to fuel a fear that justifies not leaving my apartment. "Home is supposed to be a castle not a burial site. However, paranoia and anxiety are great at barricading all the exits. Even those left wide open are an almost unbearable mockery; there simply to create the illusion of an easy escape. "I could hypothetically leave at any moment. There's no tangible barrier preventing exodus. That said, it's safer here. At least it feels that way. "I'm not qualified to play psychiatrist, but some moments are easy to adduce as the cause of certain outcomes. Being attacked by a dog at the age of six, losing an eye in the process, definitely explains my fear of dogs. Getting stabbed by two girlfriends illuminates why I flinch when romantic partners reach for me too fast. I left a fast food chicken joint moments before everyone inside was killed, inspiring my belief that eating fried chicken is lucky; however, given that the gunman was never caught, I sometimes worry he's hunting for me. "Now I can't stop thinking he'll attack me. A bullet in the dark ripping open my shoulder. I'll run and hide. He won't find me, but the blood pouring down my arm will attract a bear. Then Madame Tarot-dactyl is right! "Maybe I shouldn't've farted in that small tent she used, but that's no reason to fill a patron's head with bear nightmares. I doubt she knew the domino spiral she set off, and I'm certainly not going to do anything in retribution, though I can think of a few barbaric things I'd like to. Then I remember my friend Kathy warned me not to get my fortune told, but the bad thoughts have been so minimal lately I thought nothing would go wrong. So, I guess it's really my fault. "It's like my doctor says, "No matter what, remember you are the baron of the fiefdom in your mind." "She gave me this whole psychological trick where I'm supposed to imagine I'm lord of the land, and all the different aspects of my psyche are serfs under my control, protection, etc. It works occasionally. It just sucks having to admit I toppled the house of cards that is my mental health. I wouldn't call it embarrassing, but it is. "Though that said, I found this online forum for folks like me, the Agoraphenomenal Zoo. There's a guy on there who lives in the middle of the Arizona desert to avoid shark attacks. He sometimes doesn't leave his house because he can't convince himself he won't be attacked by a shark. Maybe I should feel ashamed to say this, but I don't -- I feel great knowing I'm not that fucking nuts. "And that's why I'm calling. You can't always trust information on the internet. So, I'm phoning 4-1-1 to find out how many people get attacked by bears in the United States." "Just one moment, sir," I said. I started typing softly. I didn't want him to become aware I got my information from the internet. That's one thing I've noticed about this job. People seem to believe information services have some mystic repository at their disposal. Perhaps back in the day 4-1-1 could be considered analogous to search engines, but those days are long passed. I could hear the caller's teeth grinding. Fortunately, I found a set of statistics I expected would please him. I said, "Hello, sir? There have only been 15 lethal bear attacks in the United States since 1900. Five occurred in Alaska. I think it's safe to say Madame Tarot-dactyl might not be a reliable oracle." He sighed heavily, "Okay. Good to hear. I'm going to try to go outside now." "If I may." I said, throwing in two cents, "Do you want any information regarding anxiety disorders?" "Why?" He sounded annoyed, "Knowing the odds of a bear attack I can tell my anxiety to shut the fuck up. I am the baron! Got it?" I suddenly felt tempted to lie to him; throw out a caution about escaped venomous snakes slithering about the Chicago area. He hung up before I could. Still, it showered a few sparks on the oily rags that are my constant desire to quit any job. Those flames, however, would not come to life until about a week later. Sitting in Kumas Corner I idled through a volume of "Shirokuma Cafe". Though not the ideal spot for pub reading, the heavy metal themed tavern is the only place to enjoy the simultaneous delight of eating a Pantera, while listening to Pantera. I considered getting a Neurosis but passed. I've had enough of those. Near the end of my burger I overheard two customers jabbering over pints. One drank oatmeal stout, while the other sipped India pale ale. I knew what they drank because like most beer snobs they couldn't shut up and just drink. Oatmeal Stout said, "Didja hear 'bout that guy in the 'burbs?" India Pale replied, "Yeah! No, wait... which surburb?" Oatmeal Stout answered, "Morton Grove." India Pale shook his head. Oatmeal went on, "So this truck hauling all kinds of illegal exotic animals gets into an accident. Most of the critters are just -- splat -- wasted, but a few get loose. One is this Bengal bear, probably bound for some Russian drug dealer, but it gets loose, and it kills a guy." "Crazy man. That's crazy." Oatmeal said, "Crazier still is his last words. The Tribune says he says, 'But I ate fried chicken.'" India Pale said, "What's that about?" His face screwed up, and he added, "Wasn't Baloo a Bengal bear?" "I dunno," Oatmeal said. They both looked my way. Initially I thought they somehow detected the aura of my job the same way the smell of pastry hangs around bakers. Then I realized a polar bear featured prominently on the cover of the manga I held. Frowning I said, "What? Cuz I'm reading about a polar bear who owns a café I know everything about fucking bears?" Oatmeal Stout sheepishly said, "Sorry, man, we just looked at you." Feeling bad for losing my temper I said, "No, I'm sorry guys. Lemme get you some shots as an apology." I waved to the bartender while adding, "I just realized I have to quit my job." India Pale asked, "Why're you quitting?" I said, "I'm not good at it. Recently I gave someone information that made them feel safe when they were right to be afraid." That lit a bulb causing me to think aloud, "I gotta get to Bristol, and see a fortune teller called Madame Tarot-dactyl." Last Friday I had the pleasure of performing at Universal Sound: a storytelling event. This is a monthly affair that takes place in Chicago's Flat Iron Arts Building. Host by Vinny Greco, it features a variety of fine storytellers and a delightful open mic. Performers get seven minutes to tell whatever story they want, fiction or non. Overall, it's a comfortable room full of wonderful folks, and the evening feels like friends getting together to share. I'll be hitting it up whenever I get the chance. In addition, I may be asked back to fill another ten minute featured slot. I'll keep y'all posted as that develops. Meanwhile, for more info on Universal Sound check out their Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/Universal-Sound-a-storytelling-event-226119884926759/ Otherwise, check out my performance below. It's a piece I'm still working on, but is getting better with each telling. It's about insights I gained into my brother when I discovered his porn stash. Enjoy! |
AuthorJ. Rohr enjoys making orphans feel at home in ovens and fashioning historical re-enactments out of dead pets collected from neighbors’ backyards. Archives
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