automatic voice

I'm at the Polo Run Clubhouse again. I've made a habit lately of coming here at least once a day to check my e-mail and make my Internet rounds. They have free wi-fi and cookies.

Every time I'm here I have some interesting encounter with members of my apartment community. Last night a woman came in in a dust-faded long blue jacket (the kind that you imagine on a New York hobo or a crazy pigeon lady). She had her dog with her. I was the only other person at the Clubhouse. As soon as she walked into the lobby she started remarking to her dog how pretty the Christmas tree was and just generally describing everything around her. My first thought was: "She's probably blind. She has a dog with her and she's--." Then I was like: "Wait--no. That doesn't make sense. She's describing everything to the dog, so she can obviously see." She hung around the lobby for a good fifteen minutes or so, checking every drawer, cabinet and even the complimentary cookie tray for dog treats. After each place she checked, she'd go: "Nope. No dog treats. No dog treats and no cookies." It was obvious that she was talking to her dog and not just making general commentary or trying to initiate banter with me. When she came in and made the remark about the Christmas tree, I looked up at her and smiled, thinking she wanted me to say: "Oh, yes. Nice, isn't it." Or something like that. But she gave me this look like: "Umm...what are you doing? I'm having a very private conversation with my dog here. Very exclusive. So fuck off." So, I let her be. She circled around the lobby area and bathrooms at least five times or more in her manic quest to find dog treats or cookies before extending her circuit to include the gym and the main office. After each new area she added to her route, she'd come back to the cookie tray and say, panting: "Nope. No dog treats and no cookies."

The whole experience was very surreal. It reminded me of a David Lynch short film. Not one in particular. Just the general feeling of a David Lynch short film--characters acting without motivation, repeating lines and actions without meaning and crazy hobo types talking to pets that can't talk back (I guess it'd be weirder and maybe even more David Lynch-like if they did talk back but...). And, of course, I'd be the one person to witness this.

There's another kid. He usually shows up about an hour after I get here. He's a World of Warcraft type. I mean, he looks like a World of Warcraft type. But he acts like someone with Asperger's and Tourette's (both of them at the same time). He comes in with his laptop and jerks around suddenly and says to no one, in a flat grunt: "huh?" like Robert DeNiro in Taxi Driver. "What the fuck you just say to me?" When he's on his computer he rocks back and forth compulsively and occasionally laughs or starts flapping his hands. I've only looked up at him once. I mean, directly looked up at him. I can sort of see him doing this peripherally. Or from behind when he gets up (which he does) to look out the window or run around the lobby. The latter, he does maybe every fifteen minutes like some sort of cleansing ritual. "Too much computer. Got flap my hands around and expel the evil!" I don't know really what to make of this kid. I've seen his type before. There was a kid on my bus in high school (he was a few grades below me) who did the rocking back and forth thing. He was similarly misanthropic and weird. Had some of the same features, too. The prematurely balding head, the thin-framed glasses that genuine nerds who care nothing about fashion wear and a rabbit-like overbite. He also had the gaunt frame and the hunched posture--though they both look kind of pudgy in the midsection--likely because they don't eat much but what they do eat is crap. Or they drink a lot of soda. Mountain Dew probably. For whatever reason: people like this LOVE Mountain Dew. They like to show snowboarders doing extreme aerobatics off frosty precipices in the commercials, but this is Mountain Dew's true demographic: computer weirdos with the exact opposite of quality social skills and spasmodic tics.

Today at the clubhouse they had some sort of Christmas-themed work party for everyone who works in the office or maintenance. I walked in and they had all the table pulled together, everyone sitting around and the gruff maintenance guys huffing and puffing about the Colts in way that sounded like they were having a heated argument but at the same time you knew they were just theatrically bantering. I don't know why so many blue collar types give a damn about their city's professional sports teams. I've never been able to figure it out. But they do. They all do. They all use pronouns like "we" and "us" when talking about these teams or decisions that the organization needs to make--which players to cut, which strategies to employ, who to play, who to bench, etc. I used to talk the same way when I was younger. But then I realized that these teams and the players who play for them do not in any way represent me or the city I live in. Most of them are bought from other cities. Yes, "bought." They don't want to come here. Because they don't live here (and therefore: how the hell could they represent this city?). But they make the move because the suits dangle hefty sums of money in their faces. "Come. YES. Come to INDIANAPOLIS!" I'm not saying I'm above watching sports now. I still enjoy watching the occasional game on television. But I don't feel any sort of allegiance or loyalty to any one team. And I don't feel like they represent who I am as an individual or who I am as a resident of Indianapolis because...they don't. When they're winning, sure, more people turn up at the games and maybe it brings in more revenue. But I'm pretty sure that all goes back to the players or the team manager or the owner--basically: everyone but the residents of the city. Either way: they had a Christmas party today. I walked in midway through the party and the Asperger's kid came in shortly after that. When they were all finished and ready to return to work they asked me and Aspy (that's probably a really offensive nickname to give someone whether or not they actually have Asperger's) if we wanted any food. Aspy went straight for the meat--all twelve kinds they had laid out on the table. I didn't see much in the way of vegetables so I pocketed a bunch of sweets which I plan to snack on throughout the coming week (because I'm poor as shit and basic sustenance is a luxury in my world). Aspy was finishing up his third plate when some guy in a Colts jersey walked through and commented on whatever it was that was on Aspy's plate. Aspy was rocking back and forth and I don't think the guy knew that Aspy was doing this not because he was headbanging to the most awesome Bon Jovi song playing in his head at the moment but because he might have a serious neurological disorder. So, the guy walking through imitates Aspy's bodyrock. "Hey! Alright! How's that pulled pork?" Aspy gives him a cold dead stare. "It's good," he says. "Yeah. I made it. Choice, right?" Aspy goes back to his computer, not acknowledging the man's smarmy bro-dog attempt at self-congratulation.