A few weeks ago, the inevitable occurred and my laptop fell victim to a virus. Until that moment, I had been cruising around the internet and opening countless emails on a computer that was not protected with any kind of firewall or security countermeasures. I explained this to one of the workers of a computer store staffed exclusively with pale men in ponytails and Led Zeppelin t-shirts. He then explained to me this is the electronic equivalent to having unprotected sex with a Haitian prostitute. A week-and-a-half later, I would have my computer back but without any of the stuff I mindlessly piled on it. No pictures, documents, or music. Crap! I just remembered the music. Anyway, it was like a loved one coming home from the hospital with a clean bill of health and no memory of owing you $200 to make their rent payment that one time. Heartbreaking.
I really didn’t think the wiping of it’s memory. or even being without it, would be that big a deal for me. I’m not technically savvy or even like the thing that much. To me, adding a document to an email is how a normal person must view hacking into the Pentagon. Also, I have a computer at work and a phone with literally more computing power than an Apollo spacecraft. Surely, that would be enough to check my email, look at risqué pictures of Jennifer Aniston, and drunkenly Google the name of the big, white dog thing in “The Never Ending Story.” As it turned out, I missed my computer greatly… Also, Germans think “luck dragons” look like albino Saint Bernards.
I don’t know why my longing for my computer surprised me so much. I guess I believed that I wouldn’t miss something I had no talent for. However, this really got me thinking. One of the few things I am good at, besides Trivial Pursuit and drinking rum, is talking to people and I have real qualms with doing that. Despite once being paid to speak to crowds of thousands at a time, I have gone to great lengths of near “Three’s Company” proportions to avoid talking to individual people before. One of the best examples happened when I was just seven years old. I was throwing a tennis ball against the side of my house and catching it in my baseball mitt. I loved doing this because I could imagine any number of game 7 scenarios which I would inevitably become the hero.
As I reared back to throw an assured third strike to a hated Yankee to win the World Series and the undying affection of Erin Gray from Silver Spoons, I noticed this kid named Chris franticly peddling his Schwinn in my direction. He was an okay kid, with a couple of older brothers, and glasses that had the kind of lenses one rarely sees outside of major university observatories. He would also constantly remind me that I had a brother named Chris. However, it wasn’t done in a joking or matter-of-fact way. His tone was always of a sincere reminder like your Mom might remind you to do your homework or go to the bathroom before a prolonged car ride.
Because of this small annoyance, I decided he should be avoided if the opportunity presented itself. However, it rarely did. These days, it’s easy to forget how small my world was back then. Going down the street seemed like going on vacation. And, going to the next block was more like a polar expedition which may require snacks and juice boxes. So, you were bound to see the same kids over and over again. It was unavoidable. So, as Chris stood on his pedals, sloshing from side to side as he biked up the hill, I decided to run.
I should probably reiterate here that this kid was not a bully or even a jerk. There were no “Indian Sun Burns” or any “Two For Flinching” type situations. I even knew the constant reminders of his and my brother’s shared name were meant to be ingratiating. He was a nice kid, who liked me, and whom I would stop at nothing to avoid. Therefore, I desperately ran around the side of my house, throwing my mitt over the chain link fence as I ran toward it. The toe of my right sneaker jammed into one of the diamond-shaped chinks in the fence and vaulted me up. My left toe grabbed another near the top because I was too small to just go over like my bigger brothers. And, as I reached the apex of my jump and easily cleared the fence, time froze. It was in this, what had to be the most imperceptible of moments, that I realized that my left foot was still stuck in the fence.
As I began my descent, my toe came free. However, I landed so awkwardly my leg still broke and buckled under me. Our dogs, Muggs and Pepper, found me writhing on the grass. Understanding the gravity of the situation their beloved master was in, they jumped into action and instinctively began to lick themselves. My screams would alert my friend Kevin across the street and he would tell my parents. And, as I lay there holding the pieces of my left leg, I learned the invaluable lesson of “It happens to you.” After that, I didn’t need to be told to “buckle up,” “look both ways,” or “for God’s sake, don’t jump off the roof like your damn brother Chris.” Suddenly, horrible things weren’t the misfortunes of exclusively other people. They were just the misfortunes of people… People I still didn’t want to talk to.
A month later, I was still in pain. They told us the leg wasn’t healing properly and had to be rebroken. “Rebroken?!” I wanted to tell them they could go screw and then rescrew themselves, but I was only seven and didn’t talk like that. So, they gave me a general anesthesia (which is from the Greek word meaning “Huge Fucking Headache”) and that was that. My head pounded so violently even the lights hurt. All of a sudden, I understood how primitive people may have thought that headaches were caused by gnomes or, at the very least, a miniature percussion section living in their heads.
Later, while in a fitful sleep, I accidentally pulled the IV from my arm. Rather than be bothered with calling the nurse, to her horror, I deliriously reinserted it myself. When she came back to check on me, she asked me what nurse had done this. I told her what happened, she fixed it, and told me not to be so crazy in her absence. I agreed, sipped some Shasta, and passed back out. Presumably, not from the Shasta.
While it seems that I have gotten off track from my original point with this whole leg business, I wanted to illustrate the lengths I will go to in order to avoid talking to certain people. Of course, I didn’t know back then I would break a leg, but the point is I wouldn’t have thought about it before I acted. This instinct has caused me to quietly marine crawl out of a room when someone knocked on my door. One time, I was visiting my friend Andy, and I pretended to be asleep on the couch rather than meet his future wife and one of my eventual closest friends. You would think I would learn from this and all the other instances where I have been forced to get out and meet people.
And, it is just that. It is a matter of learning. This isn’t some agoraphobic response to uncontrolled social situations. It’s more of a “Son of a bitch. I got to talk to this guy?” disorder. Hopefully, I can overcome this before I begin to harangue neighbor children to keep off my lawn. But, I’m not hopeful. And, as I just found out moments ago, my orneriness has been unchanged for 28 years like the damn Shasta jingle. Hopefully, we both can make some changes in the next 28.
