We go to sleep to shake a pee
Even if you’re a total recluse like I am, you can’t help but notice it’s a nice day out. The weatherman on TV looking smilingly into the camera and letting you know, “It’s sunny and 65,” which at least here in the icy chasm of upstate, is pretty nice. But weather actually does just exist to give people something to talk about. Even if you put some Christian fundamentalist into a room with a KKK member, they’d end up talking about how nice it is outside. “Oh, yeah: You can’t beat those nice days.” And even I find myself, with the polar cap of my head melted, just telling everyone about it. Say, how about this nice day we’re having? Kind of good Frisbee tossing weather; what about a walk? Oh, god: are we ever alienated from one another. A girl I know has told me that conversation is a lot like keeping a beach ball up in the air, and I guess this is the right weather for it. Or close, anyway.

Don’t mind me, though, because I’m just in a bad mood over the job I have to work at for the next few weeks. The gods have aligned, surely, and have doled it out from the bottom of the deck. Oh, let’s see, this guy, they contemplate: he’s been on unemployment, living off the fat of the land. Didn’t we catch him sitting in a tree last week? Let’s give him this one over here. –That’s cool. I knew in advance it would be this way. Was waiting for it, actually. That’s kind of the thing about expecting the worst, it always leaves room for these totally serendipitous moments to occur, and rarely are you ever let down. But this job seems to have crushed even all of my expectations. What it involves, essentially, is standing in a windowless room and making copies all day. The other portion of my time is spent before a machine named the Microform Duplicator, which a 1950’s style antiquated device for copying microfiche reels. The developing process involves ammonia, and the woman tells me, “You really have to watch out for those fumes.” It’s in a sordid haze that I tell, OK, I will.

The great part about my job, though, is that no one really hides their disdain for the workplace. No one here really seems to be holding on to the notion that this is what they actually wanted to do with their time, and so there’s no need to fake it. We walk around with nasty scowls all day long. I’m actually a little bit surprised that some of these people are even human beings at all, and not some sort of Aldous Huxley-style creations from a test tube. “Don’t look so down,” some woman tells me. “You’re doing a great job, and we really appreciate your help around here.” We talk things over a bit, and when the introductions are over, she imparts the following wisdom: “It’s going to be a nice weekend, at least.” Not exactly beach ball weather, but whatever. “Have a good one,” I tell her. “You too, Ryan!!!” she says. “You, too!”

The limitations are limitless/ they're floating through the air
All kids gravitate towards the snow strewn woods to entertain acts of youthful transgression, like smoking weed and drinking illicitly purchased bottles of gin, procured by a shadowy brother who knows the guy at the convenience mart down the road. That’s just the natural order of things. And so it’s no surprise then, that I’m faced with some such scene while walking McBeans today. Up ahead on the path, I see them before they see me, a phalanx of baggy pants wearing miscreants huddled around one another, exhaling large plumes of smoke into the air. One of them turns and sees me, and they all turn in the opposite direction and start walking. I want to signal out to them, to let them know it’s OK. That I was a teenager once, too. And that it’s “all good.” That we are part of some fraternal brotherhood of messed up-ness, who gravitates towards the woods to do god knows what. I happen to be entertaining the more adult contemporary existential themes of woods dwelling, but it’s cool.



I proceed to walk around, the frozen earth spreading out at my feet, spliced right down the middle by an icy stream. I’m listening to a song on headphones and pretending I’m in some kind of music video. The camera follows me along, with slow contemplative shots. I touch a tree, feel the jagged texture of bark beneath my hand, and then realize that I should climb into the tree, which I do. I reach up to a branch, propelling with my legs, and hoist myself on a limb. McBeans stares up blankly at me from the ground. This is nice, I think to myself. Sitting in a tree, in the frozen forest, with all of the world beneath my feet. This is the kind of thing I should do more often, hanging around in a tree. People would walk by and I’d offer them a prophetic wave, something like that. I am quickly pulled out of my reverie by the phone vibrating in my pocket. Someone would like to speak with me, in the tree in the forest. “Hello?” I say into the phone. The person at the other end erupts into a round of merriment, which is unnerving while sitting in a tree. I look around to make sure I’m not being watched. “—Ryan?” the voice says regaining control. “Yeah, this is Ryan,” I say. “Oh, hey, it’s Kristen from Kelly Services. I just wanted to let you know that we’re still waiting on the background check, so you’re not going to be able to start work tomorrow.” This place really does cover all the angles, I realize. I can’t really say that I blame them, though. I’ve worked with some real weridos, some real class acts. Oh, well: I hope they work it all out.