You're Doing Great!

by Tom Papa

  The casino is about an hour’s drive from the train station through normally beautiful countryside. This was the land of the Mohegan tribe who sued the U.S. government to get their land back and by gaining a sovereign reservation were allowed to build a casino and restore their wealth. I’m not sure if this really made everybody “even steven,” but it definitely helped. I wonder why we never hear about giving casinos to African Americans throughout the South. It might be something to consider.

  We finally pulled into the station and everyone scrambled through the light snow into their families’ cars. In the old days, about three years ago, I’d have to take a taxi driven by a man of questionable moral standing who was very likely drunk. Now I order up an Uber, which is pretty much the same guy who drives his own car.

  I was nauseated and my head hurt and his car smelled like old shoes. In moments like this I just need to stop moving. Literally. That’s the hardest part of being on the road, the constant motion. I sometimes feel like an astronaut in training who never gets past the vomit rocket stage.

  For the first time in my career I have uttered the words “I’m away too much.” There’s a steeliness that one needs in order to not be lonesome on the road. This isn’t a disregard for the joy of being home and spending time with your family. But at the same time, if I were to wrap myself around my home life like a giant quilt, I would never leave.

  And I have to leave. It’s my job to leave. I think.

  I was late. I checked into my room, which I have to say was pretty nice. I showered and headed down to the club. My buddy Andy was the opening act, and he was onstage doing his best and that normally is enough to get the crowd going. But not tonight. This crowd was off. My mood started to sour.

  Any hope I had of getting through the night unscathed disappeared as soon as I got onstage. Immediately after my introduction, someone in the third row threw up on his table. When someone throws up it’s like a bomb going off. In slow motion I could see everyone recoil, fall back on their chairs, and take cover. The drunk guy just looked around like he was just as surprised as anybody else.

  The night was horrible. The crowd was so drunk and loud that they started heckling each other. There I was in a suit and tie, thousands of miles from home, performing material I have worked on for the last two years in front of what was essentially a bachelor party. It’s difficult in these moments to hate not only the entire audience but all of mankind.

  I walked offstage and into the elevator, went back to my room, and peeled off my clothes. What were flurries a mere three hours before was now a blizzard pounding into my windows on the thirty-fifth floor.

  The owner of the club had given me Rice Krispies Treats that his wife had made. I was so hungry that I ate two immediately. They must have had something in them because within a half hour I couldn’t feel my hands.

  I don’t remember how I got there, but I suddenly found myself at the slots, drinking a gin and tonic with a group of old ladies, like the good old days. We must have had a good time because when I woke up in the morning there was bright red lipstick on my cheeks.

  Fighting a terrible headache, I looked out the window and the entire world was white. The storm was fierce. I checked my phone. The Saturday night shows were canceled, as was my flight the next day, along with all the other flights that were leaving from the Hartford airport.

  Just as I had forecasted, I was very stuck. And very alone.

  I wandered downstairs to the casino. Even the people who came here on their own looked depressed. The slot machines didn’t jingle as much as sigh. I looked around the way someone does after being hit in the head, trying to make sense of the world.

  My initial instinct was to eat and drink. Maybe a large fried-egg sandwich and spicy Bloody Mary would change things around or at least bring a little of the humor back to the situation. Most of the restaurants were closed. The blizzard not only had trapped the guests in the hotel but had snowed the workers in their homes.

  “Dude! You were hilarious!”

  A big lug in an even bigger flannel shirt came running up to me. He was covered in snow and looked like a snowman who just came in from hunting.

  “Oh, thanks,” I said as I reluctantly shook his hand.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “I’m not sure.” I really wasn’t.

  His energy was frantic and too determined for this sleepy, snowed-in morning. I was really afraid he was going to ask me to play in the snow with him and slowly started moving away.

  “When do you go home?”

  “Depends on the storm, I guess, the airport’s closed.”

  “Yeah, but Newark’s open.”

  “That doesn’t help me.”

  “Why, they don’t fly to L.A.?” He laughed and punched me in the arm with his snowy fist.

  “I mean, I’m not in Newark. I’m stuck in a casino in the ass end of Connecticut.”

  “Yeah, but dude, I’m going to Jersey and I have a truck.”

  “Uh … what, now?”

  “Yeah, man, go get your shit. I mean, if you want to. I’ll drive you there.”

  “Are you sure? Aren’t the roads closed?”

  “Dude, we don’t need roads. We have a truck!”

  Yes, we did. We did have a truck. And a man who was a part of that horrible crowd that was out to kill me ended up being one of the funniest and kindest people I had met all year. We laughed, skidded, and bonded all the way to Jersey, and pretty quickly, too.

  Before I knew it, I was headed home in a cramped middle seat, nibbling on Cheez-Itz. Who can complain about that?

  BE A GOOD GUY

  Be a good guy. At least give it a try.

  Don’t yell and scream in places where it’s not cool to yell and scream.

  Don’t start fights and don’t get in fights for no reason.

  If someone is being hurt and they need your help, fight away.

  Don’t curse in front of children.

  Don’t put testicles on the back of your pickup truck.

  Don’t blast your music or your engine. No one is impressed.

  Be kind to women.

  Don’t talk to anyone about what she said.

  Don’t tell anyone what you did together when you were alone.

  Don’t act like you’re deserving of anything. Earn it.

  Go to work.

  Be kind.

  DO YOU EVER WISH YOU WERE SMARTER? NOT ME!

  Being really stupid might be the way to go. To be nice they call it “uninformed” or “distracted from reality,” but let’s face it, they’re not reading this anyway so let’s call it like it is. You see them out there. I’m talking about the people who don’t watch the news, don’t bother with newspapers, and eat candy for dinner. This isn’t a knock, I’m actually envious because they just seem so damn happy.

  I know it makes for a harder life in a lot of ways. You pay for it at other times, like when you have to use something complicated like a toaster. But sometimes it sure seems nice.

  Don’t you think that part of our cultural unhappiness might be due to the fact that we just know too much? Small children don’t know much about anything and look how happy they are. A kid can happily sit in an empty cardboard box by himself for hours. That’s not imaginative, that’s just not bright. Sure, he doesn’t know how to tie his shoes, but he’s not worried about it and he sure as hell isn’t bothered about his interest rate. His only interest is sticking stuff in his belly button.

  I want to be one of those guys Jimmy Kimmel interviews on the street. You know, the ones who think that Los Angeles is a country or that The Rock is our president. Could you imagine being so carefree that the very question “Who is the president?” is the most shocking thing you’ve ever heard?

  Think about how easy your daily decisions are. Planning dinner is no longer complicated. There’s no need for cookbooks and recipes and trips to the store and hours of chopping and dicing. You don’t go to the supermarket at all. You go to Taco Bell
or McDonald’s and the toughest decision you have to make is whether to eat in your car while you’re driving.

  You know what smart people have? High blood pressure from worrying about all the stuff they know. Then they have to make an appointment with their doctor, and that leads to all sorts of worrying about what insurance they have and how much money they make and how they’re going to pay for it. I have a friend that hasn’t been to a doctor since the sixth grade. If he finds a mole on his back, he doesn’t get it checked out, he names it.

  Not me. I know too much. I found a blemish on my leg and spent the next week scaring myself on WebMD. By the end of all my research I was so convinced that I was dying from so many diseases that I started revising my will.

  This happens to me all the time. My doctor said I had pre–high blood pressure, so I bought a heart monitor. Horrible idea. Anytime I feel weird or hungry or tired I’m convinced I must be dying. I hook it up to my arm, which immediately makes me more nervous. Then I worry that my wife and kids are going to walk in and catch me checking my blood pressure, which will only cause them to worry. Nothing like seeing your father, the man responsible for paying your bills, sweating in his office attached to some medical equipment. Now it’s guaranteed that my numbers won’t be good, so I hit the start button over and over again until it finally shows a number that I’m happy with.

  And why do I put myself through this? Because I know too much. My friend with the mole doesn’t know his blood pressure, he just knows that when he gets chest pains he can make them go away by eating salami and hitting himself in the chest with his fist.

  He’s much happier than smarter people. I’ve never met an intellectual doing a cannonball into a swimming pool. He sits at the end of the bar with a glass of Scotch, scowling at everyone because they don’t want to discuss philosophy with him.

  Why would they? So they can spend all night trying to figure out “Why are we here?” That can never be answered by anyone, which means it was better off that the question was never asked in the first place. You know who doesn’t ask that question?

  People who can’t pronounce the word “philosophy.”

  Have you ever met a really smart person? Someone who can do complicated math in their head and has a vocabulary more extensive than a Scrabble dictionary? They’re weirdos. It’s like they’ve been crippled by their intelligence.

  Their eyes are small and beady, as if they’ve seen too much and can’t bear to look at anything anymore. Or they have glasses because they’ve burned their eyes out from all that reading. And they always look nervous. They always look like they know something bad is going to happen. And sure, it’s pretty likely that it will happen and that it will be caused by someone dumb, but guess who’s not worrying about it at all? The dumb guy.

  Smart people buy insurance and fasten their furniture to the walls in case of an earthquake. They wear seat belts and spend their money on emergency kits and stay up late at night making sure they have enough money in the bank. What idiots.

  Dumb people are fearless. They have way more fun. When they look at a trampoline they don’t see an emergency room, broken bones, and a humiliating YouTube video where everyone will see their dumb accident until the end of time. They look at a trampoline and see a thing to bounce on.

  They make ramps that they can jump their bicycle off of. They bungee jump sometimes without a bungee. They have a good time. They see life as a challenge without fear of death because they don’t think about death because they don’t think. Period.

  How great would it be to not know about global warming? You don’t think about the planet dying or the rising seas. You don’t think about recycling or reusing, all you think about is garbage and not garbage and sometimes you eat out of the garbage.

  The news, political debates, financial reports from the BBC: these aren’t shows that interest you. Why would you watch that? You’re too busy watching that reality show about little people who get drunk in bars and beat each other up. That’s way more fun.

  Getting dressed in the morning is fun, too. They don’t stand in their closet wondering what goes with what and where they’re headed. They don’t think, “I might have to wear something different for a job interview than I would to the beach.” They get out of bed and put on whatever they find on the floor. Crocs, shorts, shirt, done.

  Maybe they sniff it real quick, not to determine if it’s clean or not but just to enjoy the smell. They don’t worry if they forgot to shower because you can’t worry about something you never thought about in the first place.

  There are lots of successful dumb people. A lot of athletes are dumb in the best way. You can’t be out there worrying about what’s going to happen if you throw the wrong pitch. You just spit on the ground, rub your hand on your nuts, grip the ball, and throw it with all your might. They don’t overthink, they carry on.

  Being dumb keeps your mind clear and can help you be a great actor, a politician, or president of the United States.

  If I’m going to be the new Dalai Lama, I’m going to have to teach people to live in the moment if we are going to get the most out of life. Well, who is more capable of doing that? Someone whose brain is filled with facts or someone whose brain is filled with Silly Putty?

  The next time you’re talking to someone and they toss out some statistics about global economics, don’t feel bad about yourself. You’re not inadequate or uneducated. You’re not lazy and incompetent. You are Zen.

  Om.

  LET’S GO BACK

  Let’s go back to that big house we had off campus. The one hidden off the main road by the tall pine trees. Where the cars behind us had no idea why we were stopping and would honk at us every time we pulled into the driveway.

  Let’s park by the garage off the back of the house and walk across the concrete patio filled with firewood, empty beer cans, and pizza boxes, through the broken screen door, into the kitchen. Do you remember that old kitchen? We rarely cooked and yet there was still a permanent stack of horrid dishes in the sink and empty glasses stuck to the counter.

  Let’s go back to that old Victorian house with the oddly placed fireplaces and the added-on sunroom. I always thought that it would’ve been nice for a family, but looking back, I realize we were just a different kind of family. We were a family of college kids fueled by marijuana, beer, and freedom. It was an organic frat house put together by nothing more than friendship, without any affiliation to anything or anyone but ourselves.

  This wasn’t a house in a row of college dwellings. This small New Jersey school didn’t spread out into the neighborhood. We had to seek this spot out, a good fifteen minutes away from campus where normal suburban people lived. We weren’t so normal.

  Let’s go back.

  Let’s go back to choosing one of the four proper bedrooms or the makeshift few in the basement, depending on who needed a place to stay. We got the good rooms, across from each other, upstairs away from the scrum.

  Do you remember our landlords? The two middle-aged sisters living next door with their mother? They didn’t bother us much but they must have known what we were up to. I think they just liked having young men around or they would have complained about the loud music and the constant smell of marijuana.

  There was so much weed. Always weed. It seemed like every discussion had something to do with who had time to smoke, who wanted to smoke, or who had any smoke. Remember when Dan decided we should grow our own upstairs in the large closet off the bathroom? It worked, but what were we thinking? It was New Jersey. In 1988. One visit from the police and we were done. I guess we weren’t thinking much at all and that’s why it was so much fun.

  Let’s go back to all that laughter. Hard, constant laughter. The never-ending jokes and friendly abuse and comedies on TV and videocassette. Pryor, Carlin, and Kinison. Caddyshack, The Blues Brothers, and Raising Arizona. We stretched out around the living room on couches and the floor, surrounding the coffee table that was overflowing with cigarettes, food con
tainers, and empty cans. Discarded bills and books were buried under mountains of stems and seeds.

  Do you remember how little money we had? How with all those people there were times when we still couldn’t come up with enough to buy food? And still we made do. Like the winter when we had nothing but a bag of onions and found, from a book called The Frugal Gourmet, a recipe for “onion cinders,” which consisted of rolling an onion in tinfoil and putting it in the embers in the fireplace. It was so awful and so oddly great.

  You always sat in your favorite seat on the end of the sofa under the antique lamp. You were stronger than all the others, even though you were half their size. No one dared take your spot. You were the arbiter of cool in a group of insecure wanderers. We always looked to you to figure out what movies were truly good, what comedians were breaking new ground, and of course the music.

  Jerry Garcia, Jorma, and Joni Mitchell. Public Enemy, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and the mighty Neil Young. And Bob Marley, always Bob Marley floating through the hallways, mixing and spinning and harmonizing with the soundtrack of our laughter as you scanned The Village Voice and made plans for what concert we would be seeing next.

  Let’s go back to the night we saw the Grateful Dead in Hartford and Mike’s friend couldn’t get into the show. Remember when he came back to the hotel room at three in the morning and told us that Jesus had given him a car?

  He wandered the city high on mushrooms until a valet pulled up with a car and mistook him for the owner. Not understanding what was happening, he simply said, “Thank you,” got in the car, and drove away.

  We thought his story was crazy until we walked him to the parking lot to put the keys in the glove box and call the owner and the only thing in the car was a crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror and a religious cassette playing through the speakers. Suddenly, Jesus giving him a car wasn’t so unlikely.

  Let’s go back.

  Let’s go back and see the girls. The beautiful girls. Mine was a brown-eyed freshman acting student, while you fell for Jen. The other guys didn’t understand, they saw a potential girlfriend as an intruder who would ruin our camaraderie. While they weren’t entirely wrong, who could deny their friend an experience like that?