When I'm a walkin, I strut my stuff, and I'm so strung out...

Where to begin? I don’t even know anymore.

Eugene seemed lovely at first. Easy going traffic, joggers littering the cold streets in the dimming light, plenty of trees around to give the city a nice, organic, healthy feel. The receptionist at the hotel was very pleasant, with a baritone voice that conveyed quite a bit of mirth, and not at all business-like, whatever the tie lead you to believe. After a few calls, I leashed up the puppy and decided to do a bit of strolling, since the streets seemed fit for it. Plenty of room, plenty of grass, plenty to see.

Freezing ass cold, but the atmosphere of the place helped warm the heart a bit. A nice, sizeable college town with a pleasant face. Plenty of local businesses along the strip, a nice wide bike path through a park, Eins and I took it all in. People sitting out on their condo’s patio chatting about college and work. Don’t see that often anymore. It was pleasant to eavesdrop and see things through someone else’s eyes for the few minutes we took walking by.

Back in the room, the evening was looking up. The pure pleasantness of the place seemed to open everything up, to invite me around. I assembled Eins’ crate, warmed my hands up a bit, and decided to walk around for some food. A take-out Chinese restaurant was easily found, but I didn’t think much about getting something to drink from them, so I walked on a bit further until I found a grocery store, easily accessible from the main drag, and close by the college. They were sure to have something in store for me.

I walk up and step through the automated doors and am greeted by the warmth of the heaters working their little mechanical selves to death. I smile gently and look around, and everything starts to shrink from me. Classical music playing over the PA system, custom made wooden stock shelves, organic vegetables, high class yuppies strolling along the aisles with their ‘homegrown’ vegetables, their no fat milk, their twenty dollar shakers of spices, college kids decked out in the latest fashions, hair perfectly groomed and patent leather shoes shined, scarves with that ‘casual’ look which probably took an hour to get just right, designer toques, the works. Upscale. Very nice.

I search through the aisles looking for something to drink, and come across the wine section. Might as well see if they have any decent Merlot. As I zigzag my way through the oak cabinets searching for the right section, I can feel the pressure start to build, agitating that little voice in my head. As I try to find a decent wine, it started to increase exponentially.

The force people use to ignore you.

Standing their looking at the bottles, the little voice pipes up and starts to point out things.
Ratty vans that need replaced, slightly worn cargos, carhartts jacket, dirty driving cap, five-o-clock shadow, dry hands, imperfections.

I excuse myself from the wine section and head towards the back, looking for at least a decent beer.

The pressure of the eyes not following me begins to pound a little beat on my brain.

I look around again. Everyone dressed exquisitely, perfectly coordinating their shoes with their pants with their shirt with their fashionably unbuttoned jacket with their perfectly tousled hair. The social elite, the accepted beauty, the American dream.

Then the worst thing happened. The one feeling I loathe, can’t stand, and don’t know how to deal with. I felt embarrassed. Ashamed. It was like I was staying with relatives all over again, or meeting people from high school for the first time in a while. I don’t fit, don’t belong, the hell am I thinking. I feel fucking embarrassed about who I am. Nobody has a fucking right to make me feel that way. The hell is wrong with these people? Maybe it’s all in my head. The hell is wrong with me? I try to keep my hands from shaking and stuff them in my coat pockets and lower my head.
God damnit.

At least they have Spaten here. I snatch two bottles from the show case and head to the checkout. I wait shortly in line behind a middle aged lady with too much makeup and at least ten pounds of jewelry. I slap my two bottles and my ID down on the conveyer belt and try to keep an eye on my toes and the conveyer at the same time.

“Paper or plastic?”
“Paper is fine, thank you.”
I can almost hear the contempt in the air from the entire place. Did they slap a microphone on me or something? I nod to the cashier and try to exit without much haste. I’m not sure I succeeded.

I go back to my room and drop the bag off and check on Eins. Alright, so ya went to a snooty organic market with a few bad eggs, shake it off. You’ve been in these situations before.

I walk back to the restaurant and step inside the doors and look around.

Please wait to be seated.

Well, I don’t want a seat, just want some food at to go. I can hear the chatter of another group of college students as I stand around waiting.

“You can’t fail that, you’re a History major!” says one girl.
“True,” comes from one of the guys.
“Well hell, I’m an English major,” comes from another.

I listen in for about six or seven minutes, sounds like the usual college academic scholar conversation. A couple comes in behind me and I step aside since I’m not exactly looking for a seat. From the corner of my eye as I admired the collection of liquor bottles the restaurant store front had, I see a waitress come up quickly and begin to seat the couple. Eh, I was kinda off to the side, no biggie. I stand around a few more minutes, this time in plain sight of most of the main room, grinding my teeth at every single glance from one of the staff. Finally a man comes out from behind one of the silk screens and I get a menu from him. I spend a few minutes deciding what I want, he comes back out, takes my order and my money, and shuffles off. There’s a waiting room here, done nicely in what seem to be authentic silk prints, and I stow myself in the corner, pointedly putting a dressing screen between myself and the table with the college students.

Another group comes in, five and a kid, and sit around near the waiting room talking until a waitress comes. The same pressure from the store is there. Ignore the bum in the corner. I can almost hear my teeth crack, my hands shake, the sweat start to edge towards my skin…but thank god, there’s my food. I stand quickly and slide into my jacket, thank the pompous little twit sincerely, and make another slow-yet-god-get-me-outta-here exit.

I get back to my room and open my drink via the bathroom counter-top. I take a long drink, break my chopsticks, and begin to work on my fried rice. I can feel a slight burning in my eyes.

Failure.

Such a nice place, beautiful, but why do I feel so out of place in a community of intellectuals and businessmen?

Same reason I feel that burning when I get to tell people I’m a farmhand, a construction worker, that I’m not in college at the moment, that I don’t know how to do something, that ‘Yes, I do plan to go back to college’ answer.

Because I am neither an intellectual or business-like person.

That god damn feeling, when people ask me “Are you really going back to college?”
“What are you going to do with an English major?”
“So where do you work?”
“So what are your grades like?”

I haven’t taken any pictures today. Nothing looks good anymore. This is why I don’t talk to people bro.

S’why I wanna fuckin go home.