by Adam Ellis
“It’s Saturday,” she told me plainly. “Do you not know your days of the week, Adam? I wish you’d told me sooner, there are a ton of tax credits for hiring people with special needs.”
“I guess I got mixed up,” I said, embarrassed. I usually calculate what day it is by referencing whatever TV show was on the night before, but somehow the days had started blurring together for me.
“I’ll clear out,” I said and began stuffing papers into my backpack.
“Well, you’re already here,” Patricia said. She paused for a second and returned to the bathroom to spit out her toothpaste and gargle some mouthwash before returning and continuing her thought. “I just bought a Wii and I can’t figure it out. Wanna set it up for me? I’ll pay you for the time you’re here.”
I zipped up my backpack. “Yeah, that won’t take long. Welcome to this century, by the way.”
She smiled. I removed the Wii from the box and had it hooked up to the television in a matter of minutes. I directed her through the on-screen menus and loaded up a game for us to play. She learned the mechanics of it quickly and promptly kicked my butt. Granted, I was impaired by Evita trying to chomp my ankles. I would have called interference, but after a year of creating spreadsheets that amounted to nothing, color-correcting nonsensical brochures, and endlessly filing things I knew would never be retrieved, it felt good to be accomplishing something worthwhile, even if it was just as simple as helping Patricia indulge herself in Wii Boxing.
NIGHT PEOPLE
One of my most vivid early memories might not actually be my own. It feels like mine and I’m mostly certain it is, but I wouldn’t bet my life on it. It might be a false memory, and were that proven to be the case, I wouldn’t be surprised. After all, I’ve always found the line between fantasy and reality to be fuzzy at best. For a number of years I believed Geena Davis and my mother were the same person, due to their similar appearances, and that our VHS copy of Beetlejuice was unique to our household. Likewise, I distinctly remember loving peanut-butter-and-onion sandwiches as a kid, but then I caught the beginning of the movie Little Monsters on cable one night in college and realized I’d adopted that particular memory from Fred Savage’s character. In the grand scheme of things it probably doesn’t matter. Man’s memory is his own private literature, and so what if mine happens to have a healthy dose of fiction?
In this probably-real-but-possibly-fake early memory, I’m standing on a beach in California late at night. The weather is warm and somewhere nearby there’s an arcade where I can hear the ambient sounds of people yelling and laughing while music echoes out toward the ocean. The beach is mostly empty except for me and a few other idle stragglers. It’s peaceful, yet the night seems electric and alive. The details surrounding how I ended up on a beach in the middle of the night as a child aren’t apparent to me. I know that at some point during my childhood I went on vacation to California, but I don’t know why my mother would allow me to stay up so late or wander the beach alone. The other, more likely scenario is that I assumed the memory from someone or something else, most likely a forgotten, decades-old teen movie with a name like Valley Girl Robot Surfers. Real or not, this memory stands out in my mind as a critical factor in shaping my eventual personality. It’s when I realized I was fonder of the nighttime than the daytime, and it’s how I began my problematic life as a night owl.
Since then, I have frequently found myself at odds with the rest of the world, as society does not cater to those who creep in the shadows and slumber away the daylight hours. I try to blame some imaginary internal clock for my vampiric ways, but in actuality I simply choose to be awake at night whenever the situation allows. I feel more productive after the sun has set. There are fewer distractions at night, and it’s easier for me to clear my head. I jog at night, and I’ve only once been mistaken for a rapist—but then again, if you saw a tall bearded figure hurtling toward you at 2 a.m., you’d probably fear for your life too.
I prefer nighttime because a new society emerges after dark and it’s always unique and unpredictable. It’s one I’ve grown more and more familiar with in recent years, but it’s a strange group. Once, during my nightly walk home from the 24 Hour Fitness in the Pearl District, I stumbled across a couple of homeless ladies engaged in the most fervent grind session I’ve ever witnessed (granted, it was my first time seeing homeless women scissor each other and I haven’t observed it since, but the enthusiasm they displayed was astounding nonetheless). I halted in my tracks, dumbstruck, and when they noticed me standing there a moment later, the awkward silence that blanketed us seemed to last for an eternity.
Briefly, I wondered how uncontrollably aroused one would have to be to deem the 405 underpass suitable for sex, but then I gathered myself and apologized for intruding.
In retrospect, I suppose it’s uplifting to know that even exhibitionist lady-bums with no shame can find love. It was almost heartwarming in a way, but not three days later when I stumbled upon a similar sight beneath the exact same underpass. This time, a young woman stood on a waist-high concrete wall, holding a lit cigarette in one hand and lifting her skirt with the other. A man stood in front of her, his face buried in her crotch. He, too, had a lit cigarette. It struck me as odd for them to both have lit cigarettes, given the nature of their intimacy. The girl noticed me walking and made no effort to halt the act; in fact she seemed entirely uninterested in what was happening to her lower half.
I kept my head down and hurried past them, making a mental note to find a new route home in the future.
Creepy late-night sex acts aside, I find the nighttime pleasant and peaceful. Were it easier for me to get the things I want at night, namely food, I fear I’d never see the light of day again. When I lived in Northwest Portland, the only things near me that were open all night were a small sandwich deli and a tiny convenience store that mostly sold cat food and pints of ice cream, oftentimes past their expiration dates. There was also a Taco Bell a block from the sandwich place, but my frequency at that establishment was becoming problematic. I like to pretend Taco Bell is for special occasions, like weddings and bar mitzvahs and Saturday nights when you’ve had nineteen shots of Jose Cuervo, but in recent weeks any occasion was special enough for a Taco Bell run. Because I find it impossible to think ahead and keep my fridge stocked with food, most nights I’d find myself starving with the only viable options for nourishment being cat food and bland subs. After a while I grew tired of eating Fancy Feast and reluctantly became a regular at the sandwich place.
It was a small, narrow deli with harsh fluorescent lighting—a place whose clientele seemed to consist solely of late-night drunks and insomnia-stricken weirdos. I suppose I fell into the latter category. Not once in over a year did I get a sandwich as I had ordered it, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers. Usually my meal was simply missing a key ingredient or two, or maybe the cucumbers had frozen in the storage fridge and crunched when I bit into them. One time, I almost received the perfect sandwich, but at the last moment the guy behind the counter squirted so much sauce that my sandwich became almost inedible.
One night while I was paying for my sandwich at the register, a scruffy-looking homeless man appeared at the door and shuffled up to the ordering counter. In his hand he clutched three wadded-up bills. “What can I get for this?” he mumbled to the sandwich maker and presented his three wrinkled singles.
“Nothing,” said the kid behind the counter. “The cheapest thing we got’s the veggie sub. That’s five.” The man with the bills looked frustrated. He let out a sigh. I felt bad for him.
I figured I might be able to help, but I didn’t want to embarrass the guy, so as I paid for my own sandwich I quietly slid the cashier a couple of extra dollars and nodded toward the homeless guy, hoping the cashier would understand I meant to help pay for his sandwich. I hoped my gesture would go unnoticed and I’d be able to slip out the door undetected, but the homeless man apparently picked up on the exchange that had just occurred. He looked at
me, cocking his head a little. I opened my mouth, intending to tell him it was no problem, that I was going to leave a couple of bucks as a tip anyway, but before I could say anything, the homeless man made his feelings on the matter clearly known.
“It’s fine, really,” I said, gathering my sandwich and drink. I averted my eyes and turned to leave, desperate to avoid confrontation, but the homeless man closed in on me.
“I don’t need nobody to take care of me!” he loudly informed me. “I’m a goddamn veteran, you hear? You owe me your life!”
Still trying to inch away, I feebly tried to make conversation and alleviate the situation. I asked what war he served in, expecting the answer to be Vietnam, or maybe Iraq. The only other wars I could think of off the top of my head were either before his time or fictional battles from movies. His answer surprised me.
In all fairness, I might have misheard. His speech was somewhat slurred, and he could have said something else entirely. He might have said Great War, which would have made him a very young-looking 102-year-old. He also might have said race war, which would’ve taken the situation to an entirely more alarming level. Given the pace of modern technology and my relaxed understanding of science in general, Space War wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility, and it’s what I heard.
“Well, thank you for your service,” I said awkwardly, edging a little more intently toward the door. The homeless man had embarked on a tangent by this point, and my desire to avoid a tense situation was a lost cause. The man began yelling—at me, at the deli employees, at the world. Unsure of how to deal with his outburst, I simply turned and left, praying he wouldn’t follow me, but luck was not on my side this night. He clamored after me, screaming about nothing in particular, causing a ruckus behind me as I made my way down the sidewalk. He stomped and jabbered so rapidly I couldn’t make out much of what he was saying. I caught bits about wormholes in space and evil beings hiding behind planets, but I was too focused on trying to lose him to make sense of his speech. I walked briskly, but I didn’t want to give the impression I was trying to escape, which was exactly what I was doing. I figured running would make me seem vulnerable, so I tried to keep my cool.
When I reached my apartment building, I purposefully kept walking, keen on keeping my address a secret from my pursuer. I had no real plan of action, but I hoped that he’d lose interest shortly. My brain was preoccupied listing hypothetical places I might find sanctuary. The twenty-four-hour sex store was just a couple of blocks away, and that seemed like as good an option as any… Perhaps I could lose him among the sticky DVD cases and oversize vibrators. But as I turned the corner with my head partly twisted behind me to monitor my follower, I unknowingly began to veer off the sidewalk. Had I been paying attention, I would have noticed the large cardboard box I was heading toward. Instead I collided with it and tripped, losing control of my sandwich and drink. My dinner flew out of my hands as I toppled. The box barely moved and as I fell, I realized with horror that it wasn’t empty. Someone had been sleeping inside it, and the impact woke him with a start.
I landed on the ground next to the box. It wasn’t a violent fall, and besides the momentary shock of tripping, I wasn’t hurt save for the stinging palms I’d used to land. But then I noticed a rustling. The man inside roused angrily. Cursing, he scrambled out of the box and rose to his feet. Great, I thought. Now I’ll have two of them after me. There’s no way I can lose both of them. I’m done for! But I was wrong; on the contrary, the man who’d been asleep didn’t so much as look at me, instead turning his sole attention to the man who’d been following me, believing him to be the cause of the disturbance. The two men scowled at each other. Suddenly I was no longer of importance, simply a spectator at the unfolding battle between Box Guy and Sandwich Guy. As quietly as possible, I stood and watched the scene unfold. The men hollered at each other for a few minutes, but with an odd sort of intimacy that led me to believe they’d argued like this before. This would explain why I’d so abruptly become insignificant to them. At first, no punches were thrown, just wild insults followed by a lot of posturing. Sandwich Guy said something; I couldn’t hear it clearly, but it incensed Box Guy. His eyes widened, as if he couldn’t believe the nerve of his opponent. He scowled and kicked his foot forward angrily, sending up a flurry of dead leaves toward Sandwich Guy.
I found the action to be almost comical, but Sandwich Guy reacted as if the leaves were made of fire and he was in real danger.
Sandwich Guy shot his opponent a look of pure contempt and clenched his hands into tight fists. Noticing this, Box Guy did the same, and they both shifted into defensive stances. They snarled at each other angrily, and I felt my body tense up in preparation for what would surely be a brutal fight. For a moment neither of them moved, both seemingly waiting for the other to attack. Then, as if on cue, they simultaneously launched at each other, arms waving fanatically. The ensuing skirmish was a chaotic frenzy of growls and tangled limbs, though surprisingly nonviolent for such a passionate dispute. Though they fought with enthusiasm, both displayed a remarkable lack of skill. They flailed about, slapping each other like two drunk, boneless children having seizures.
I watched, speechless, from the sidelines; my jaw slack. I was just about to slip away unnoticed when a new presence made itself known. From across the street I heard a booming voice. I turned my attention toward it and was surprised to see a colossal woman marching toward us. She wore a stretchy gold tube top and a tight white pleather miniskirt. Her gold belt and hoop earrings matched her long, shimmery press-on nails. Her hair was so large I could’ve climbed inside it to hide from the homeless guys, had that been an option. Clearly she was a prostitute, and strangely, I recognized her.
I’d met her a couple of weeks prior while struggling to parallel-park my car in a tight space. It had been late at night and I’d just returned from a party across the river. Noticing my plight, this working girl had kindly offered her services in the form of standing next to my car and informing me of how much space I had left between my car and the one behind me. I doubt I would have been able to park without her help, and afterward she didn’t even solicit me for sex. Because she was classy. Now, in the midst of witnessing a bum fight unfold, I was stunned to see the exact same hooker advancing toward us, shouting at the top of her lungs.
Upon seeing her, the two men immediately ceased their scuffling. Their hands dropped to their sides and they took a step back from each other, like bickering children on the playground who just got caught by a teacher. The lady of the night, who towered over the three of us, strode up and forcibly separated Box Guy and Sandwich Guy, wasting no time in chastising them like toddlers. I was amazed to discover she knew them both by name.
“Roger! Jeremy! How many times we gotta go through this?” she bellowed. The two men looked at their feet shamefully. She reprimanded them and I watched, astonished that for the second time in as many weeks, I was being rescued by a streetwalker who dwarfed me in size. After a few minutes of thunderous scolding, she sent the two men in opposite directions. Sandwich Guy (I wasn’t sure who was Roger and who was Jeremy) sulked away in the direction of the deli, and Box Guy snatched his box and dragged it off the other way. As quickly as it had started, the bum fight had dissolved into a memory, and suddenly I was standing alone with a gigantic hooker on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Somehow I wasn’t surprised.
FOUR DAYS PRETENDING TO BE A RABBIT
I wish I could justify the decisions I make. I’d like to think of myself as a spontaneous, carefree vagrant, but at this point in my life I think it’s safe to assume the truth is that I’m simply an impressionable ne’er-do-well who lacks impulse control. It’s becoming harder and harder to convince myself otherwise. One look at my bank account and you’d think, This dude clearly has no foresight. That and Did he really eat at Taco Bell four times this week?
One day I was talking to my friend Jeanie on the phone and she started telling me about this all-juice diet sh
e was on. Jeanie is the kind of hippie-dippy gal who makes her own clothes, keeps her own kombucha cultures, and can spend an entire afternoon Dumpster diving. I maintain a sort of polite bewilderment toward Jeanie’s lifestyle, and usually don’t put much stock in her whims, but on this particular day I indulged her.
“That sounds like it would make you shit constantly,” I said.
“Oh yeah,” she replied. “I’m shitting right now.”
She explained to me how juicing would clear out all my toxins. It was clear that neither of us actually knew what toxins were, but that was beside the point. If asked, I’d probably describe toxins thusly: angry cartoon blobs who go around munching on your white blood cells.
Of course, the moment Jeanie mentioned toxins, I could practically feel my body swarming with tiny parasites making me lethargic and cranky. I have so many toxins, I thought. I gotta get rid of all these toxins!
At first, juicing sounded like a lot of work—more work than I was willing to do. There are certain microwave dinners I won’t buy simply because they involve too many steps (“I have to stir it halfway through the cook time? Are they serious?”). The more I thought about it, however, the more appealing it sounded to drink nothing but fresh juice for a whole week. Besides, I thought, taking responsibility for my own health and well-being would be a very mature thing to do. In the closet I had a big hulking juicer I’d received for Christmas and hadn’t put to use yet, so I figured this might be an interesting little experiment.