The Lion's Den: A Move Towards Adjustment

7-8-05

Outside a storm is beginning to brew. Not one of those delicate Michigan drizzles or soft watery advances that form over the lake, but a true Oklahoma storm – born fierce, another shining token to the less congenial effects of mother natures personality. Outside, bugs of such abnormal variety stretch their hardened appendages, staring, shrieking, catching glimpses of the giant water pools that are beginning to drop before their eyes. Outside, the scorched red-hued earth cracked and desiccated by the unchallenged sun breathlessly waits for the skies long belated embrace.

Tucked away from the storm, a man sits beneath the 2 by 4 backbone of an unfinished attic roof, surrounded by the chaotic adornments of the construction site that has now become his home. Boxes, clothes, and all manner of personal effects lie strewn about the crawlspace, barring access to a bed at one corner of the room and the toilet at the far end of the other.

Head bent and shoulders drooped, the man sighs, burdened by the disparity of his new surroundings, lost in a transition born of circumstance and not by choice. A gloom ridden reflection of the approaching storm, he lets himself descend.

Ready to decant he reaches for a key.

* * *

Leisure, recreation, fun—these are words that seem to have withered away from my vocabulary. Now that I am nearing the apex of my mid-twenties, I am beginning to inherit the true meaning of the word adult. It’s a strange phenomenon really. The taller you grow, the older you become, the more life equals work. It seems, in fact, that the word adult is a synonym for the word labor, for the word toil, and for all other actions that bring sweat to the brow. Sometimes, after a hard day as an adult, with aching muscles and tired limbs, I shake my fists at the sky and scream: “Nooooo! I don’t want grow up, I’m a Toys R Us kid!”. This never seems to have any affect, and I wake up the next morning one step closer to complete adultdom, or workdom, or whatever.

The move down from Michigan to Oklahoma was just that—a lot of darn work. It all started July 3^rd, when my good pal Eric and I decided to entertain ourselves by playing Tetris with my belongings. Skillfully we placed my furniture and boxed items into a 14’ Uhaul truck—a true beast of a vehicle that we christened Goliath or Big G in times of duress. Referred to by a Uhaul representative as “an older model”, Big G had all the amenities of aged transport, including a faulty AC system, no tape player, and a steering wheel that had to be cocked five inches off center to keep the truck straight on the road. As if this wasn’t bad enough, we decided to tug my Neon along with a trailer hitch, adding a good 14 additional feet to an already precarious ride.

On the night of the 4^th, at the early hour of 3:30 in the morning, Eric and I awoke sluggishly, and with sharp little sherikens still crusted to our eyes, we made our way out of Kalamazoo. After cautiously navigating the frenzied mess that is Chicago, we journeyed into breadbasket country, there witnessing the hypnotic green crop linings that characterizes the American Midwest. As Eric drove, I marveled sleepily at the expanse of this incredible area, once virgin forest, broken by the axe of settlement, reprogrammed for agriculture, a breeding utopia of corn and beans that stretches as far as the eye can see.

Goliath, it soon turned out, stayed true to his outsized persona, guzzling gas almost faster than we would fill. The beast seemed to prefer his last portion over all others, hastily consuming the final quarter of the tank, and on more than one occasion, Eric and I found ourselves franticly surveying the roadside causeways for some semblance of a station. For future reference, stay clear of Elkhart Illinois, population 500, when in desperate search for fuel. Apparently, people in Elkhart dislike gas stations as much as they dislike strangers, and our visit there can be best summed up with a resounding raspberry and thumb to the floor.

Past the silver arch of St. Louis over the Ozarks and through the woods to grandma’s house we went. We survived the final leg of the trip by filling out crossword puzzles. This proved rather difficult after we passed the Oklahoma state line, for with one last raspy breath our AC went out completely and we had to open our windows to stay cool.

I don’t recommend co-piloting a game of crossword puzzle in a noisy environment—it can lead to some rather disastrous misinterpretations.

Finally, with bloodshot eyes and overripe brains, seventeen hours after takeoff, we landed at my grandmother’s estate in Lawton Oklahoma.

* * *

Try this. Go outside and find yourself a nice busy anthill. Cautiously approach the mound and observe the ordered procession of insects going about their day. Be sure to note the purposeful movement of each worker drone, scurrying about on some constructive task, small but essential characters in the development of the hive. Now, after enjoying this ordered symphony, I want you take a moment to collect yourself. Fill your mind with all of the hurtful and vindictive things other people have done to you. When your emotions have reached their proper crescendo, take your foot, raise into the air, and drive into the anthill. Notice the chaos that ensues. Notice the bewildered intensity of the ants, directionless and lost, enraged over a pile of scattered soil.

I am the ant, and this is my metaphor. Undirected intensity, with a good shot of bewilderment—this aptly characterizes my first couple weeks in Oklahoma.

Eric stayed out the week, helping me put all of my stuff in storage, return the Uhaul truck, and get moved in to my parents place. Their new home, or construction site rather, is about fifty minutes out of Lawton, in a rocky savannah like area called the Black Rocks [a description of this rich an interesting local will come in the next journal entry].

They are currently raising two buildings there: a large garage/shop/living quarters, and a stained glass studio for my mom (the attic of which is my new home). It is in and from this den of chaos that I will find work, and hopefully draw enough funds for my trip to Brazil.

I have thus far succeeded on the work front, beating my ass into the proverbial grindstone, enjoying the fruits of my labor under the sweltering Oklahoma sun (fruits=sweat and cancer). Over the weekend, I worked ten-hour shifts for my dad, moving dirt and boulders in an attempt to beautify the BR property. He then left for Detroit the following week, so I decided to seek supplementary hours in Lawton by joining a landscaping crew. The crew turned out to be five illegal immigrant Mexicans who somehow found the energy to work twelve hour shifts six days a week. To add to this misery, the temperature stayed close to the one hundred mark, with atypical humidity and no wind. Never have I been more dirty or tired (you Museum people with your AC and comfortable high backed chairs can shove it…hehe!)

Now, throw in a bit of emotional duress, adjustment stress, and no friends—makes you wonder if the devil enjoys torturing some over others. My aunt commented on this very thing, saying, “Life can only get better”.

On some level she must be correct.

Mustn’t she?

[cue the cricket chirp]

Anyone?

[tweet…tweet]

Bye-Bye Museum, Apartment, Kalamazoo