Later that same day, just as I was about ready to leave the Shop, two middle-aged men came in bickering about something or other. As they approached the bar one stopped and looked up at the menu while the other kept on talking. The first one then held his hand out so as to say, “Stop for a minute, what hot beverage do you want to imbibe?” The second one, who I might say was very rotund, told the semi-hippy girl what he wanted. He wasn’t fat. He was rotund. He was kind of short, with baldness (With baldness?). He wore a forgettable red sweater with a tan collar and khaki trousers. His friend was lean for that age, with a little mustache. He wore khaki trousers as well, with loafers, a pink button up and brown jacket. For him life seemed much more casual than for the other. Anyway, they ordered and went to sit at the bar, but as the rotund one moved his belt caught the end of table and snapped. Almost instantly one end of his belt stayed knotted to the table, the other slipped out of his rapidly falling khakis and he began to sweat even more than before.
“Harold, help me.”
“What shall I do?”
“Pull up my trousers.”
By this time they were around his ankles, his belt still impaled on the counter, and his over-sized, stained boxer shorts glimmered under the neon glow of the bar lights. Harold looked at him in disbelief trying to figure out if he really wanted to pull up the Rotund One’s trousers. He looked at him, paused, and then silently walked out the door. Stunned, the Rotund One stood there embarrassed. However, instead of stopping and pulling up his trousers, he made a fateful mistake: Looking up frantically for help and finding none, he tried to walk out quickly—to just escape. Well, being rotund and having his trousers around his ankles, he couldn't really walk. He took one step and tripped. As he fell, his face hit the floor and his nose burst with a flow of blood. Escaping isn't easy when your trousers are around your ankles, someone should have taught him that long before his poor belt snapped. At this point, a shiny woman walked in with her two young children and screamed. The children started crying as the Rotund One tried to get himself off the floor. This was all a bit much.
I laughed out loud a bit. I didn’t laugh at the Rotund One. I don’t think so at least. I think I was just laughing at the whole incident—the helplessness and helpfulness and the unexpected, unpredictable part of the whole thing. Trousers, boxer shorts, hot drinks—all of this was comical. I didn’t laugh because he was less or worse; only because such a situation was possible at all. I mean he was trying his best, just like all of us. Most of the time trying means embarrassment. Living is embarrassing. This fat fucker didn't know what to do. He really was just doing his best. Breathing means trying everyday to do things you have no idea how to do. It means not letting the fact that you had no choice about showing up here and no choice about when or how you will leave get to you. It means hoping others don't see that most of the time you have absolutely no idea what you are doing. Living is embarrassing, because living is a circular race none of us wins. It made me thankful for the chance to remain mired in smoke and text. No one asked for reports; there were no staff meetings; I had no appointments to make, or people to please. I hope that rotund old man feels good about himself somehow. I hope he is good at darts or bowling or fucking his wife—you know? I hope he goes to bed thinking about something else than being embarrassed for breathing. He probably doesn't. He probably falls asleep on the couch to some reality show, or to re-runs of the Simpsons. Whatever. When I saw him, he was just doing his best like all of us.
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