the spot

steel string tension.

What occured at about 9:45 PM in the lobby of my dorm should never ever happen again to anyone. It should never cause one to question their own sanity.

Yet the orchestration of the events that unfolded in that couch room along with the three-ring circus that my gut and mind were jointly hosting, made for some fireworks. At least from my perception.

I walk down the stairs with my garbage and turn the corner, I notice the light of parked cars in the street and a lady (the resident of the dormitory apartment) is running to prop the door open. Turning away, I catch a glimpse in the opposite door of two dudes hauling in a trapezoid of plywood and old carpet. Probably the most awkward shape made of some of the heaviest material.

So I turn around, and ask if the two guys need help. The volume didn't carry and it was at an inopportune time (they we're right in slipped-disk territory for easing the beast to the floor). Legitimately wanting to help, even more, speaking, offering the faint string of commitment that may or may not be towed in by the recipients. No response, yet recognition that I'm there. The possibility of me being a spectator, a rubber statue with a bag of trash and gassy expression. I stand there. Steel string tension.

And this is the exact point where the right vs. wrong battle ends and the stuff of brain aneurysms begins. Should I stay or go, they may still need help, they may bring in a lead octagon with razor sharp edges this next time. So as they're leaving, I ask again weakly, "Is there any more?"

They walk out.

Life pivots on these sort of things. I felt I had legitimate reason to ponder my entire lifestyle. The fork in the road led to normalcy, the city of wife and kids, or lunacy with TV dinners and seclusion. Yes, wives to TV dinners. Even after the, "it happens to everyone" argument, I still find myself even now wanting to do something physical to jangle loose the gland in my body that makes me prone to "these times", so I can spend time thinking about how to make 7-foot figurative sculptures, or put together a graphic novel, or not be an idiot.

Because I will not 10 years down the road, be pondering whether or not the plywood trapezoid would have been worth walking past.