The Witty Gritty

February 26, 2013 · 9:16 AM

No Kids to Bathe

The only thing more hopeless than choking on a peanut butter cracker alone in my apartment was the realization that I was choking on a peanut butter cracker alone in my apartment.

Contrary to how I’ve imagined myself behaving in an emergency, I panicked. While I had accepted the fact I was going to die, I knew that I had precious little time to prepare my apartment for those that would find my body.

Do I make the bed? Empty the dishwasher?

My throat closed and my eyes watered, but from the floor all I noticed were collections of wine corks and unpaid bills. I rolled on my back and all I saw were dusty corners and smudged windowpanes. From my knees I spied a hamper too full and a refrigerator too empty.

How would they think I lived when I died?

The choking stopped as I was straightening my bookshelf, but the concern lingered. I realized that living alone past a certain age required the acceptance of some rather gruesome realities, chief among them being that I may very well choke on a peanut butter cracker and die at any moment. While that would be unfortunate, more unfortunate would be that no one would find my body for a few days, thus adding unnecessary embarrassment to my untimely demise.

It might be time to stop living alone, if only so that someone will scream when they discover my corpse. That’s all anybody can hope for, right? All we can expect from living alone is the sigh of an overworked detective as he pulls away his cigarette long enough to say, “Found him in the bathroom.”

While I’ve never heard wedding vows mention corpse discovery as a motivating factor behind their betrothal, I have to believe that it’s one of the unspoken perks of marriage, much like split utilities and the option of throwing your spouse in front of a burglar.

The alternative would be getting some sort of pet, ideally one that’s been on the news for having dialed the police to save its owner. I’d opt for a dog, an animal that signals your desire for a loyal companion; instead of a cat, an animal that signals you’re one missed episode of Dateline away from an exhaust fume sauna. But pets, like prostitutes, are expensive and eventually need to be buried in your yard.

One evening, not too long after the choking incident, I was flipping around on the TV and came across a commercial for Life Alert, the medical alert system specifically designed to protect senior citizens during a home health emergency. Their original tagline – “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” – had evolved into:

“Thanks to Life Alert, you can live alone without ever being alone.”

I sat cross legged, inches from the screen. Live alone without ever being alone? How did they reach inside my brain? Sure, the device was marketed exclusively to the elderly, but something about knowing help was as easy as mashing down one button (instead of going through the trouble of hitting three) was oddly comforting. Online dating websites offered a mere chance of salvation – this gave me a guarantee!

“You didn’t call them, did you?”

My mom didn’t seem as excited about my news.

“Of course I called them. They’re sending a pamphlet!”

(sigh) “This is silly. If you’re in trouble, why don’t you just go across the hall and knock on your neighbor’s door?”

“I don’t want to talk to that freak.”

“Even when you’re dying?”

“Especially then.”

I pictured what I would do if someone pounded on my door in need of help. A few months ago someone unexpectedly knocked on my door and my entire world imploded. I put the TV on mute and for some reason slid off the couch onto the floor, lying very still.

“Hello?”

It was a woman, which meant she was clearly lost.

“Hello? I know someone is in there, I heard the TV on.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to come out!”

My reasoning did little to convince the woman that the apartment was vacant.

“There’s water leaking through the ceiling into my place. Were your kids taking a bath or something?”

Her assumption I had a family flattered me, though the absence of naked children would ironically be a problem if she somehow happened to gain entry. Assuming I needed to look more parental, I went to the bedroom and put on a shirt and tie before opening the door.

“Nope, no kids to bathe. Sorry.”

I straightened my tie and smiled, the word “sorry” hanging in the air between us.

“Okay, well I called the super so I might be knocking again later.”

“Good luck!”

I slowly shut the door, leaving her confused as to whether that had been a farewell, or a challenge.

While no one has knocked on my door since, I imagine it will be her that the reporters interview when my body is discovered years from now by Life Alert responders – bed made and dishwasher emptied, floors scrubbed and corners dusted – just me and a half-eaten peanut butter cracker. And maybe a cat.

The Cockpit

You’ve noticed it in grocery stores, banks, train platforms and airports – people can’t stand being alone with themselves. Any time someone is forced to wait they whip out their phone and mindlessly scroll, looking for company. They’re surrounded by others waiting but feel self-conscious about their own lack of motion, ironically comforted by updating their Facebook status to say that they are waiting.

While I’m at the airport, I do the opposite. I sit, and I stare. I observe. One game I like to play is that I tell myself I’ll have to marry the third woman that walks by. I get three passes, for those of a particular heinous variety, but must use them wisely because when they’re up, that’s my bride. If you’re walking through an airport and see a man looking at you with his head cocked, that’s me. And I’m imagining our life together.

I had never flown Southwest Airlines and heard that there were no assigned seats; just a number you were given that dictated the order in which you boarded the plane, like an airborne deli counter. It would be chaos, anarchy, people needed control. When that door opened on the plane I pictured a mass scramble, hair pulling, eye gouging, shin kicking. I looked for who I’d hit first and realized that others were probably thinking the same thing. The man next to me fidgeted and I balled my fist.

When someone is departing for a trip most say, “Have a safe flight!” As if the person’s actions could possibly play a role in the safety of the journey. You are herded into a metal tube, sealed in a pressurized cabin and launched 40,000 feet into the air. Once you sit down and that door closes, you have two options: you’re going to live, or you’re going to die. That’s why instead of telling people to be safe I say, “I hope your plane doesn’t crash!” It’s the only sincere notion you can really offer, isn’t it?

“Welcome aboard Southwest Airlines, how are you today?”

I glared at her and elbowed my way past. I don’t appreciate the power flight attendants wield over the passengers and find their bipolar method of doling out treats and issuing random edicts to be unnerving. In the event of a water landing, I will damn well do whatever I want. I wish they’d just be honest with us.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, if you’ll kindly direct your attention to the front of the plane you’ll notice our flight attendant Julian demonstrating the proper way to crap your pants in the event of an emergency. There are two exits here, and two in the rear, neither of which you’ll get to use because the plane will be falling from the sky at 600 mph and will likely break apart. Please take a moment to look at the person next to you, as you’ll be confessing weird sexual stuff to them seconds before your violent death. And don’t bother with those life vests, this isn’t a boat. They’re just meant to distract you and ensure your final moments are ones of confused horror. Thanks for choosing Southwest!”

As the pilots settled into their seats, I considered that the cockpit would make an excellent name for a gay bar. I jotted it down on a napkin. “The Cock Pit.” I chuckled and the man next to me glanced down at what I’d written. Any plans he had to speak to me during the flight were quickly abandoned.

We had barely pulled away from the gate when a baby started screaming a few seats behind me. I had seen them boarding, the pregnant mother and two small children, and though I despised them, part of me also felt bad. Boarding a plane with a small child is similar to a black student integrating a school in the 1960s Deep South. They walk down the aisle to eyes filled with hate and rage.

“Look at them. On OUR flight. I hope they don’t think they’re sitting next to me. They should have their own plane.”

Forty minutes later, the baby was still screaming and sympathy turned to disgust. I fantasized about standing, picking up the child, walking to the bathroom and flushing it out of the plane. The fantasies got even more twisted and morphed into me dangling the child over the toilet as the cabin chanted, “Flush it! Flush it!” I imagined a makeshift coliseum built from tray tables and the two children being forced to fight each other to the death, given tiny spears and nets, surrounded by the rest of the passengers smoking cigars and placing bets.

I could tell we were all thinking the same thing:

Who is this mother, and why is she unable to control her offspring? Who is this child, and why are they so undisciplined? I was never this way as a baby. I would sit reading the Wall Street Journal and if I had concerns I would voice them quietly. This is just bad parenting. Where is their father? She’s probably not even married. The whore. I should say something.

But no one does. The most you can do is raise an eyebrow to the person across the aisle, mouthing the words, “Can you believe this?” It will be returned with a wan smile and an equally exasperated mouthing of, “I know!” You’ll snap your newspapers loudly, shake your heads and go back to being silent martyrs.

At one point the child started violently coughing and I could sense hope rising among the rest of the passengers. We were disappointed when the coughing ceased without finishing the job.

When the screaming resumed I focused my attention out the window, marveling at the fact one could take a shit thousands of feet in the air. As a boy I’d look up with this thought as planes passed overhead, then I’d flee inside for fear of flushing.

By the time we landed in Chicago, the baby had tired of crying and we’d tired of hating. We’d soon be released by the evil flight attendants and permitted to stand whenever we pleased. Others allowed the pregnant woman and her two children off the plane first, many feeling guilty and commenting how they were “little angels,” masking the fact they’d just been wishing for that to literally be true.

As the mother passed, her baby spit up on itself. She was searching for something to wipe its mouth with when I offered my napkin. The mother, overcome by this act of kindness from a stranger, accepted it.

“Thanks so much. And I’m sorry for all the screaming. They’re quite a handful!”

“Don’t mention it. Didn’t hear a thing.”

After all, considering she’d just wiped her baby’s mouth with a napkin that read, “The Cock Pit,” I figured we were even. And off I went into the airport, watching others with their heads buried in their phones as I counted off every third woman, imagining our life together. No way would our kids misbehave on airplanes.

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Tagged as airplane, babies on airplane, blog, Chicago, commute, Facebook, flight attendant, idiots, insane, philadelphia, Sean Carney, Southwest Airlines, writer, writing

December 3, 2012 · 1:52 PM

No Escape

My apartment doesn’t have a fire escape. I noticed this the other day (one year after moving in) when I heard a siren outside my window that seemed close.

Is my building on fire? What should I take with me? What do I value the most?

I’ll be the one on the curb squatting on a microwave, consoling my television set over the loss of our couch.

Whenever there’s a siren, I assume it’s meant for me. The same is true with helicopters.

They found me.

There’s a ski-masked SWAT team outside my door, four of them huddled, more in the stairwell, battering ram half-cocked, waiting for the signal to swarm.

(voice crackles) “Red team holding in position, sir. Little movement all morning. Strange smells. Suspect appears to be repeatedly singing the theme song from Growing Pains.”

I’ve done nothing wrong (that I know of) but hearing a siren creates the same sensation as walking through a metal detector or speaking to anyone at an airport. I immediately feel guilty, culpable.

Suddenly my ass is stuffed with a balloon of heroin and there’s a knife in my pocket. I sweat. I smile at everyone.

Did he smile back? What was that look? What was that mark the woman made on my boarding pass? Are they on to me?

I choose the lane with the security guard I think I can subdue if need be, positioning myself behind a minority. I scan for exits, consider escape routes. I can throw that handicapped woman in front of me to slow them down. That fat man would make a nice shield.

As I start to shuffle through the detector, sideways with my arms raised and butt clenched, I shoot a look over at the woman scanning the bags, waiting for her to twitch. The conveyor belt will stop, an alarm will sound and dogs will appear. All of this will happen. I can see it. Even when I make it through the detector and gather my bags, my pants falling down from lack of belt, I don’t wait to put on my shoes. Instead I run around the corner like a dog that’s just been given food.

My paranoia may have developed in 2004 when I learned I’d been placed on the “Do Not Fly List.” Apparently I had the same name as a man who was wanted for a murder in Arizona. The technology used to distinguish between two different people with the same name was in its infancy, and I’d be stopped for questioning whenever I tried to board an airplane. After the third time, I got frustrated.

“Sir, do you mind coming with me for a moment?”

“Ugh, is this because of that murder in Arizona?”

Yeah. Don’t say that.

Any fugitive, real or imagined, needs a good fire escape. My lack of one is an issue and the matter has been further compounded due to the fact that I ripped the smoke detector off the wall when it began beeping a few weeks ago. There’s another device that looks like a smoke detector on my ceiling, but I can’t be sure. It might just be a sconce or decoration left behind by a former tenant.

Rather than purchase a new battery for the smoke detector that now sits on my desk, I’ve decided it’s much more prudent to visualize how I will leap from my third-floor window. There’s a chain-link fence below, as well as a small sapling of a tree, an abandoned Chevy, a street sign and one, if not three, homeless men. Each object could serve to break my fall, or further complicate it. I’ve envisioned multiple scenarios, most involving backflips.

Given my disorientation upon waking, the presence of a fire escape would be as useful as a helmet to a sky diver whose chute didn’t open. Still, out of sheer curiosity, I asked my management company why my apartment didn’t have one. They told me that in the event of a fire I was to use the “emergency stairwells” located at either end of the hall. Granted, these are only feet from my front door, however they were unable to answer what would happen if the fire was located in the hallway itself. Oh, and the stairwells? They’re made of wood, which I’ve been told, burns.

Most well-adjusted adults return home expecting loved ones. I return home expecting I won’t have one. I round the far bend in the hallway and anticipate seeing my front door kicked in, blackened, with maybe a Post-It note on the outside reading, “Your place burnt down – Fire Dept.”

The follow-up report would note that the fire spread quickly within, exacerbated by exceptionally dirty laundry, half-empty liquor bottles and unpaid utility bills. Fortunately, the report will continue, the blaze was contained only to my unit and, since I was unloved, there was no one inside at the time.

The department recommendation would be that I start taking my life seriously and get a better paying job to purchase better furniture. There will be a portion of the report where the fire fighters will be encouraged to write in and comment on my poor taste in design, literature and art. They will conclude that the cause of the fire was despair.

In the meantime I’ll sit, ears perked to siren wails like an approaching summer storm, waiting for them to close in.

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Tagged as accident, ambulance, apartment, blog, douche, fire escape, heroin, idiots, insane, philadelphia, Sean Carney, smoke detector, SWAT, TSA, twenty-something, writer, writing

August 1, 2012 · 8:05 AM

Food, Faith & Fears

* * *

I’ve found that certain conversation topics inevitably come up during a first date. I call them, “The Three F’s.” Food, Faith & Fears.

The only other thing I’ve learned from a first date is this – be yourself.

(Which is why I usually don’t have many second dates.)

* * *

Food

“So what made you finally ask me out?”

“Huh? Oh, I passed the Chinese food delivery guy the other day on my way home from work and he waved at me. What is that all about, right? Are we friends now? Anyway, I figured I needed to switch things up.”

“Oh, um, okay. Well, you have to try a bite of this. It’s amazing.”

“What is it?”

“Pan seared Corvina with Citrus Butter and Sautéed Swiss Chard.”

“Thanks, but I don’t know what any of those words mean. I’m good with my chicken fingers.”

“Come on, it’s delicious.”

“Nah, words like ‘seared’ or ‘braised’ sound like injuries. And what’s a chard? I think someone called me that in grade school.”

“Swiss Chard is a vegetable, and Corvina is just fish. Try some!”

“No way. I’ve never eaten those things, and for all I know I’m allergic to them and I’ll die.”

“You really live life on the edge, don’t you?”

“Ugh, this ketchup bottle is stuck. Can you flag down that chard waiter of ours?”

“Ketchup is no way to go through life. You have to experience new things, Sean. Were you always this way? What were you like as a kid?”

“Shorter.”

“I’m serious. My mom was such a good cook. She used to make us try everything…after we said grace, of course. Were you religious growing up?”

* * *

Faith

“I felt guilty a lot, if that’s what you mean.”

“Do you know I still go to church every Sunday? I feel like none of my friends do anymore, but I was raised Catholic, so it became a habit.”

“Wouldn’t that be funny?”

“What?”

“If all this time communion wafers had nicotine in them and religion actually is habit forming. Has anyone tested for that?”

“Tested communion wafers?”

“I just think it seems like a waste of time.”

“I agree.”

“No, I mean going to church. I have this theory that the Bible was originally written as a best-selling young-adult novel, like a modern-day Harry Potter. And over the centuries it was mislabeled and now millions of people worship fictional characters from the story.”

“So Harry is Jesus and what, Voldemort is the Devil?”

“Think about it – Jesus is this sexy misunderstood outcast with magical powers who gets bullied and ends up saving the world, right? Teenagers eat that stuff up!”

“You think Jesus is sexy?”

“To women, absolutely. Have you even seen a crucifix? Dude had some serious abs. I don’t even think it’s meant to be him dying on a cross. I think he’s mid-workout on some pre-historic Bowflex.”

“I sincerely doubt that millions of people worldwide have been duped by a thousand-year-old young-adult novel.”

“Mark my words, in another thousand years you’ll see a bunch of idiots in a building listening to the first reading from the House of Gryffindor. Not that you’re an idiot.”

“Thanks. And I don’t think everything in the Bible actually happened, but I have to believe there is some sort of meaning to life. Doesn’t the lack of an afterlife scare you?”

“Nope, this life is scary enough.”

“Then what is your biggest fear? Other than my dinner, that is.”

* * *

Fears

“Don’t get me wrong, there is a lot that freaks me out. Like adrenaline. Did you know that adrenaline is some evolutionary response we’ve developed from back when we used to be chased by dinosaurs?”

“Humans and dinosaurs never co-existed. You’re thinking of Land of the Lost.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“Okay, if you’re not going to take this seriously, I’ll start. Since I was little, I’ve always been terrified of clowns. I’m not even joking. If a clown walked in here right now, I’d totally scream.”

“Where are we, at a rodeo? Why would a clown walk in here right now?”

“It’s just an expression.”

“I know, but clowns are a very specific, limited fear. Just avoid the circus. Boom, problem solved.”

“Sure, mock my fears and then don’t tell me yours.”

“Fine, you want a fear? Dying in the bathroom. That’s my fear.”

“That’s it? Are you elderly? And dying is a pretty common fear.”

“No, not death per say – an embarrassing death. Because then the dying would be secondary to some shameful footnote. Like, ‘Hey, did you hear Sean died?’ And sure, people would be devastated, but then the follow-up would be, ‘But did you hear HOW he died?’ And then I’m just a joke.”

“But you’ll be dead. Up in that big Hogwarts in the sky. So what do you care?”

“Because I don’t want the people who find my body to make fun of me. Like, say I’m hiding in the bathroom during a storm and…”

“Wait, you hide? My dog did that.”

“Did your dog also interrupt when you were trying to make a point?”

“I’m sorry, but hiding in the bathroom is weird.”

“No, what’s weird is that we accept the fact that from time-to-time deadly bolts of electricity randomly shoot down from the sky.”

“Accept it?”

“Can I finish? The point is, when I’m hiding in the bathroom, say that nature calls, right? And then while I’m on the toilet a tornado forms outside, hits my apartment and I die with my pants down.”

“There are no tornadoes in Philadelphia. They can only form in wide open areas, like Nebraska or one of those other states that don’t matter.”

“Not true! That’s just a popular myth, like swimming after you eat, or women’s rights.”

“Or normal men.”

“You’re missing the point. When they’re digging through the rubble they’ll find me and the medic will be like, ‘Hey Mike, this guy must have crapped himself when he died. Let’s contact all of his Facebook friends and let them know.’ Can you imagine? So yeah, probably my biggest fear.”

“You’re kind of insane, aren’t you?”

“Depends on perspective. I’d think insane is taking a Xanax just so you can cope with the entertainment selection at a four-year-old’s birthday party. But that’s just me.”

“We should probably get the check.”

“This was fun!”

* * *

Hearing Aid

* * *

No relationship is perfect, and there is often a give and take involved that allows for a balance of expectations and reality. If you ask any elderly couple the secret to their long marriage, the answer will inevitably come back – compromise.

However, there is a predominant stereotype that men are unable to adequately express their emotions, and that most fights emanate from this shortcoming. Not true! The real issue lies with women being unable to hear what men actually mean. But fear not, Sean is here.

If I’ve learned anything over my years, it’s that women love it when men explain things to them. Thus, I’ve taken the liberty of selecting a few choice moments from a relationship and breaking them down so it’s easier to understand.

Ladies, please try to pay attention.

* * *

When we ask you on a date, here is what we mean:

“Would you like to grab a drink sometime? No pressure, but I’d love to hear more about those photography classes. I thought your Instagram photo of the Brooklyn Bridge and that picture of a sunflower really showed a lot of insight. Any place you want and…wow, I have to say it – you’re beautiful.”