Tales from the Call Center: A Night in the Life

At 4:59 pm EST, I shuffle into Data Solutions*, careful to dodge the two middle-aged ladies who stand inconveniently close to the doorway.

"Oh my god!" "Oh my GOOOOOOD!" they exclaim to each other, embracing each other tightly.

"I haven't seen you in weeks!"

"I know, I haven't been working lately, my daughter just had her second baby."

I maneuver my way around the couple and head to the schedule board, thinking, Why would you want to come back here? Go, before it's too late.

A gaggle of Research Specialists congregate around the schedule board, looking up their survey assignment for the day.

"Fuck," one woman swears under her breath.

"Hmm?" I look for my own name.

She points to her name on the spreadsheet, her finger smacking the paper. Oh dear. She's on the West Virginia hospital research survey. It's twenty minutes long, which means hardly anyone gets a complete throughout the night.

"Might as well go home right now," she mutters, walking to her cubicle.

I find my name. I'm on a political survey of residents in Alabama. My cubicle is in the middle of the server room, which distresses me, because I prefer a quiet seat in the back, where I don't have to scream over fellow researchers who do not realize the volume of their own voices. I sigh, and make my way to my seat.

It's 5:01 pm, which means I'm technically late. I pull the office chair out from cubicle 83, and inspect it. A screeching horror movie soundbite plays in my mind, as I gaze upon the tattered fabric, stained with a suspicious brown outline in the center of the seat. I look around for a better chair, but unfortunately there are no open ones in this aisle. I'm not even sure if I'm allowed to switch.

I clock in quickly. Heading to the briefing room, I make sure to utilize the numerous hand sanitizer dispensers posted around the area. That chair has been through something, I think. Something unspeakable. And my germ-phobic, hypochondriac ass is going to be sitting in it for the next five hours.

The conference table in Briefing Room #2 is surrounded by women, about eight to ten, all different races and ages, from varying walks of life. Most of us look like we've just came from work, and we've all got beverage cups from assorted fast food restaurants.

Alan, one of the Quality Assurance supervisors, pulls up a chair beside me, and sits in it backwards, his arms hanging over the back of the chair. He flips through the survey packet.

"Alright, this one's really easy, guys. It's about fifteen questions and none of them are open-ended, which is great. It's a survey of residents of this county in Alabama about their local governments, so people are going to be pretty opinionated, but make sure you stick to the script. When you ask them if they "support or oppose" something, make sure they say one of those, not go off on a tangent."

One older white lady in the back is confused by the questions about trash pickup. Another woman answers her, somewhat condescendingly, implying that this is a really simple question and she should know what it means. Alan is more understanding, and is patient with the first woman and her questions. I could never be a supervisor. And I hope I'm not here long enough to where that becomes an option.

Finally, we disperse, making our way back to our assigned cubicles. I click my way through the sample survey, white letters on a black screen. Finally, I slip on my headset, and begin dialing.

The average completed survey amount for this project is two per hour. I get my first complete within five minutes. It seems fairly easy. I relax.

I dial the next number that pops up on the screen.

A scratchy male voice answers on the other end. "Hello?"

"Hi, my name is Marie, I'm calling from Data Solutions. We're conducting a survey of residents in Baldwin County about issues that affect your community. I promise we're not selling anything, we just want your opinion. Are you a registered voter?"

"What the fuck? I don't live in Baldwin County."

Oh good.

"How did you get my number?"

"Our research company provides us with them." I reply.

"Well they're idiots. I don't even live in Baldwin County. I live in Jefferson County!"

"My apologies sir, have a good night." I end the call quickly.

It turns out a lot of these numbers are incorrect, so I get this response more than once, albeit not always as irate.

The next couple hours are spent listening mostly to peoples' voicemails. I get a couple completes an hour, and soon I grow tired. My tailbone hurts from sitting, and this chair isn't the kind you can lean back in, it's incredibly uncomfortable.

I pop an anti-anxiety pill. Let's try to make this night just a little more enjoyable.

The med just makes me more sleepy.

I dial a number.

"Please enjoy this Verizon playback tone while your party is being reached."

Oh fuck. OH FUCK!

Sooner than I can react, the sounds of a Bruno Mars tune blast through my headset and effectively destroy what hearing I have left.

Disoriented by the cacophony, I fumble for the keyboard. I code the call as "no answer," even though it's only been connected for about five seconds. My heart pounds, Bruno wails through my headset, and a moment later I successfully end the call.

Why in the world do people have that on their phones? It's a nightmare to listen to. I'm traumatized.

On my next call, I successfully get another complete. I'm happy with my average. It ensures that I might someday end up rising in the pay matrix and make that coveted $11 an hour.

Moments after that, Alan the QA visits me at my cubicle.

"Mariah?"

"Maria."

"Sorry. Anyway, here's an evaluation from your last call."

I look up in the corner. It's a 4.0 out of 5, a bit lower than I was expecting.

"So, good rapport, very good delivery. You always sound very polite. A few problems with reading the script verbatim, though, you changed some words and made a couple sentences shorter. Just try to work on that next time."

"Okay."

"Oh, and uh, you sneezed."

"Excuse me?"

"You sneezed, and you were sniffling throughout the survey after."

I blink at him. "I sneezed."

"It just sounded unprofessional."

"I'm getting marked down for sneezing?" Which, of course, I cannot control.

The QA hands me the paper to sign, and I reluctantly scribble my signature. Whatever.

"Good! I'll let you get back to it."

I slide my headset back on, and pull my hood up. It's freezing in here. The monotony of survey interviewing envelops me again like a grey, fuzzy cloud, as I continue my torture.

"Hello? HELLO?!"

I'm startled. I glance to my right; it's Wendy. She's been getting lots of completes all night, which I don't fully understand, because her delivery is very sharp, almost rude. I wouldn't want to be on the phone with her very long, but some people must, because she's got five completes an hour at this pace.

"Sir. SIR. My name is Wendy. I'm calling from Southwest Research. RESEARCH. We're doing a survey." She continues with the script.

I probably would have hung up on her by now. People hang up on me all the time, and I'm usually very polite, but it's normal. It doesn't bother me. But I'm confused by Wendy's mysterious charm.

She ends up getting another complete. Damn, she's gonna hit that maximum hourly pay for sure. I peek around her booth. Wendy sits in her FedEx uniform, tapping her long, red nails against the desk. She glances back at me, raising an eyebrow.

"The fuck you looking at?"

I quickly jerk back behind to my cubicle.

I dial countless more numbers in the Jefferson County area code. I am aware of the pungent smell of Doritos emanating from somewhere in this aisle. I want Doritos. I glance around, but the culprit cannot be located. I suspect it's a girl with long, greasy hair and a grey flannel a few seats down, as I hear her belch once or twice, but I cannot be sure.

I sneak a peek back at her every so often, watching her converse with her neighbor, a guy with a beanie and blue jacket. Neither of them appear to be dialing, and from what I can hear, the conversation may be a potential drug deal.

Beanie Boy leans in conspiratorially to Grease Flannel. "You know, I got that loud if you're interested."

"Yeah?" Grease Flannel says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Give me your number," she hands her phone to him.

Beanie Boy keys his number in. "Or, you know, we could just go blaze in my Jeep after work."

A supervisor walks by, somehow ignoring the cell phone openly being used in the server room and discussion of "loud," whatever that is.

I'm perplexed.

I'm dialing and hanging up all this time. Mostly answering machines, as the night wears on.

Suddenly, "Yeh-llo?" from the other end.

I launch into my script.

We get through a few intro questions.

The respondent interrupts me. "What's your name again?"

"Marie."

He chuckles. "What are you wearing, Marie?"

I groan. "Really, dude?"

The respondent laughs.

I end the call. Will I ever escape this Hell?

About an hour later, I get a complete, despite a fumble where I accidentally skipped over a couple questions.

A purple-haired QA comes to my cubicle to give me another eval.

"Hey, Maria?"

"Yep."

She leans over, showing me the paper. 5.0. Nice.

"I just listened to your last call. Great job, you did really well, you stuck to the script, didn't take no for an answer. Good control of the respondent."

"I accidentally skipped a couple questions in there."

She hesitates, then laughs. "Oh, well, thanks for being honest! I came in about halfway through, but it sounded great to me!"

A wave of relief floods over me.

"You're doing a really good job. Keep it up."

I sign the paper, and she leaves.

I feel better about this situation. Maybe it's not so terrible, working here. Maybe this situation was attracted into my life for a reason. I think of the things I could do, the freedom I can have, with eleven dollars an hour. Possibilities flood into my mind; expensive food, better internet, a motor home. Joy fills my soul, and I thank the Lord for my purple-haired angel.

I hear a fart from the cubicle on my left. The scent emanates from the booth, sneaking around the wall.

Maybe not.

Around 9:50 pm, I finally rise from my chair. Lots have people have gone home by now, but I opted to stay until ten, as usual. I'm excited to go home. I'm hungry, and the stench of Doritos in my aisle has not dissipated.

I clock out, and avoid looking down again at my stained chair before making my way to the restroom before I leave.

Opening the restroom door, I hear singing. I lock myself into the handicap stall (the best one, in my opinion). It's Wendy, in the stall next to me, and I can't tell if she's on the phone or just insane.

"Thank the Lord, this night is over," she sings.

Ah, Wendy. How naive you are. There will be another, tomorrow. "Indeed," I say.

A couple minutes later, I make my way out through the emptying server room. The sensation of walking towards the door is glorious; I feel that I am strolling down a red carpet, into freedom. I stick my fingers under every hand sanitizing dispenser I meet, as though I am shaking the hands of my admirers.





*Names and details have been altered

Very accurate visual representation of me at work.

I Interviewed With a Christian NPO and This Is What It Made Me Think About

I don't have a fun or creepy story for you all today. Sorry! I've been so busy writing for school and working on a lengthy personal project that my short story well is pretty dry right now. I promise I'll deliver something ridiculous soon.

I interviewed for a development position at a faith-based nonprofit in Grand Rapids (I mean, are there any other kind here?) this morning. Getting the call for a job was pretty awesome, but then the panic quickly unfurled itself in my barely-awake mind. I believe I'm qualified for the position itself, surely, and I want to continue working in my field, but...oh shit- am I really qualified enough to work for a Christian charity?

Oh, well, I've been to thirteen years of Catholic school, and went to church twice a week for most of my life. I've studied religion and theology in college as well. I should be fine, right? Well, one of the first questions this woman asked me on the phone was if I had accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. I choked a bit after that.

I wanted a job pretty badly, and I figured this one was in my field, so, as good as any. I even looked up popular bible verses just in case she asked me my favorite one was (I liked the ones I found about anxiety disorders, actually). I'm guessing mainstream Christians are big on reciting bible verses- I know they like churches that look like movie theatres and really upbeat songs with clapping. Catholics, as far as I know, are about saying Hail Marys obsessively, judging heathens who clap in church, and hating ourselves.

The experience made me wonder about what sort of faith I have in my life. I'm not an atheist, although my frequently nihilistic rhetoric may suggest otherwise. I'm a pretty bad Catholic, though, that's for sure, in terms of the regular churchgoing and not taking contraceptives. In terms of getting pissed off when alcohol at weddings isn't free, having crucifixes all over my apartment to ward off the devil, and self-loathing, I'm good there.

One of my former bosses at a museum I worked at told me once, "The Earth is my church."

I think that's what I identify with the most. I feel most connected in some spiritual way when I'm in nature. If there's some sort of divine power, I feel it in the woods. That's why Mackinac is such a sacred place, to me, to the people that have called it home forever, to anyone who's spent a good amount of time there. Is that feeling we have, leaping off the dock into the sparkling blue Lake, climbing to Fort Holmes on an indigo night, the stars scattered across the sky, sitting on the soft floor of the evergreen forest with your best friends...what is that feeling? Surely these experiences make people wonder about the existence of something to have faith in, surely they're something to give thanks for- whoever you'd like to thank.

But that feeling of fullness in my heart, that pure, perfect love...that's where I feel it. No deity in particular comes to mind, but I feel something, when I'm in the forest. I felt closer to a universal consciousness, some sort of spiritual presence, when I ran through the trails every day after school, than when I was in church. Being around life, being around something so good and so pure, that's what makes me feel alive, and that's what makes me feel like I've got something worth believing in.

I've got faith in the natural order of things. I've got faith that there's some pattern, some sacred essence that ties everything together. I have faith in the good of people. I like to pray, in a sense, maybe not with words, with a quiet hope, trusting that the universe will guide me to success, and giving thanks to the universe when good things come into my life, that's faith to me. If there's a God, I see them in the kindness and love my friends and family have for each other, and in the vibrant beauty of the Earth.

I've got faith that we can make things better. I'm thankful that we've come so far, but lately, with what's been going on here at home, it's difficult to think positively. Everyone obviously knows how I feel about the current state of affairs in the U.S. But I have faith that we'll work towards greater progress.

That's going to take awhile, we all know that. I know that time will come, and I know we'll claw and kick as hard as we can to get there.

Until then, when I'm not out there trying to fight that fight, you can find me in the forest. It'll answer to you in the way that you call to it.

One of Us Is Confused, and It's Not Me

Today I was discussing, I don't know, gay stuff, with someone, and they made the remark that they don't think I will ever be with a woman again. Although this person was probably just making a casual and totally non-confrontational observation, I felt the need to get a little defensive of my sexuality. I'm not sure why- I guess conveying tone through text messaging is challenging without emojis (I prefer the poop/sunglasses emojis to convey most of my sentiments, but neither seemed appropriate here). So I essentially started overstating my case because as someone who is incredibly egotistical and type-A, I do not like to be questioned or criticized. But I got over it pretty quickly.

Then I started thinking about it a little- not that I don't ponder queer issues every day of my life, but this convo incited some deeper thoughts about sexual identity and fluidity.

I've never not known that I was attracted to girls and guys. If this is news to you, well, surprise. Anyway, like, it wasn't even something I ever questioned, and it's never been something I've struggled with. I never had the painful, soul-searching dilemma that a lot of kids have when they go through that realization, so it's not that I didn't come out earlier because I was scared- I just didn't care. The first year of college was technically when I came out and faced all the real issues that come along with this, but the only time I ever felt any sort of struggle is when people questioned that I was queer at all.

In lieu of explaining the complexities of my sexuality, I often straight-up just said I was gay as hell to avoid further questions. Because, and I think this is something that few people understand, there really is some kind of struggle with being bisexual (or pansexual, if that's how you'd like to define yourself) in that no matter which gender you are dating, which group you're in, people will always question that you're actually who you say you are.

This is the issue I have with ~society~: the image associated with bisexuality is one of a promiscuous college girl who makes out with her best friend for attention, of someone who is looking to experiment, a porn actress, or someone who has one toe out of the closet and is terrified to open the door all the way.

My freshman year roommate in college (that whole experience is an incredible story that I can't wait to blog about someday- ever seen The Roommate? It was like that, minus the kitten slaughtering) would often tell me that I had to choose: "You can't have both, Maria. You have to pick a side. I don't want to have to compete with you." Although I can now see the logical fallacies in that argument and have the common sense to ask, "Oh really? Who says?", back then, it bothered me a great deal and gave me a lot of anxiety. I had multiple friends make the same sort of accusation to me again and again, despite the fact that throughout the years I have dated men and women and had equally fulfilling relationships with both.

Unfortunately, this dilemma was often present within these relationships as well. My girlfriends would accuse me of being straight. My boyfriends have always joked that I'm really a lesbian. It has taken a lot of patient explaining on my part to get past these issues. I have had serious, often intense relationships with girls and guys, and when I look back on my experiences with these people, the idea that they were either heterosexual or homosexual relationships rarely crosses my mind- they were just people, and I felt some kind of way about them.

I love my boyfriend, but that doesn't mean that I'm no longer attracted to girls, that I don't appreciate them. And that there doesn't mean that I'm looking to go out and find a girl to meet whatever emotional or whatever sort of needs can't be met by a man- I think the argument that bisexuals are always missing something in their relationships is lazy. It implies that someone of one gender cannot be sexually or romantically as fulfilling as the other, and reduces bisexual individuals to people who are focused only on sex in their pursuit of a partner. It reinforces an idea that queer people already try so hard to dispel- that one can only be satisfied by someone of the opposite sex, or that there is only one right way to experience intimacy with another person, or that identities are ironclad into two separate categories: gay or straight. This is especially troubling when it comes from within the LGBTQ community. When someone finds out you are bisexual, the assumption is often that you are not queer "enough."

I think bi erasure is a problem that isn't discussed as much as it should be in queer circles. Just because I'm dating a man doesn't mean I'm a hundred percent straight. And when I'm with a woman, that doesn't mean I'm entirely a lesbian. I think sexuality is fluid, and I fall in love with someone based on who they are as a person. I'm never looking to date a girl, or find a man; if it happens, it happens. I have always been a hundred percent fine with my sexuality, and I've never let societal standards hold me back from loving who I want to, so I don't think anyone else should either.  That's something I felt the need to clarify, for whoever still holds any sort of biphobic sentiments as gospel. It's just something to consider. We've come pretty far, but I hope that soon, all queer identities are treated equally and accepted by everyone.

Kevin: A Day In The Life of An Island Worker Part I (fiction)

Kevin has worked on Mackinac Island for two years. In his mind, it feels like much longer than that, because he does not perceive time the way that most of us do. Kevin is strong, prideful, and hardworking. His days are long, and he often does not have time to rest. He doesn't mind, though.

Our protagonist comes from a long line of Islanders; his father worked here many years ago, as did his father before him. Kevin's father relayed tales of how the Great Turtle changed over the years, how more and more people swarmed the streets, strange and colorful shops popped up in every empty storefront, but the overall scene remained the same: historic buildings still standing, rifles firing from the top of the hill, ships sailing to and from the harbor, horses pulling carriages through the streets, and the music of their hooves can be heard around every corner.

This place, Kevin's father told him, will retain its magic until the end of time. We have been here since the beginning, and we will be here to the end. The men on this Island will always ensure that we will have a place here, because we are the backbone of its great legacy.

Kevin spends every morning in the field, eating his breakfast lazily. His friends lumber around him, grumbling about the long hours they worked last night. They tell stories about the ridiculous drunk tourists stumbling out of bars, scrambling for pictures with Kevin's coworkers.

They're obnoxious, his friends say, they're always getting in our personal space.

Kevin thinks, I can't wait to suit up and deal with these idiots all night. Fortunately, he's got a few more hours of freedom. Kevin works the late shift.

Early in the afternoon, Kevin's carriage driver, Dave, leads him to the stable, where he is put into his harness for the day. Kevin waits patiently, chewing calmly on a Honeycrisp apple that Dave brought him as a treat.

Kevin is a good employee, he does his job well without much complaint. Today he was especially agreeable, so that's why Dave brought him the apple. Kevin's partner, Toby, is a different story. Toby is young and arrogant, and does not seem to grasp the responsibilities of the privileged position that he has lucked into. He fights Dave incessantly about the harness, complaining that it is too tight, too small, with frustrated snorts from his long snout. He's a much bigger, stronger horse, he maintains, he needs more room than little Kevin. Once Dave wrestles Toby into his harness, Toby stands there, defeated, yet still stamping his hind hoof impatiently. Toby does not get an apple.

The shift on the late taxi begins at three. Kevin and Toby pull the carriage out of the MICT stable and downtown to the Mackinac Island Taxi dispatch. It does not take long before Dave's taxi is dispatched to Stonecliffe to pick up a tourist couple. Kevin grumbles. It is a long way to the hotel up in the center of the island, far from the hustle of Main Street. Lazy fudge gobblers, Toby muses to Kevin.

Boys, get up, Dave commands, clicking his tongue, and the two horses move along. They begin the trek up Grand Hill. Kevin can only see where they are headed out of the corner of his eye, but in this moment, he is thankful for that. It is always daunting to see the expanse of rising road in front of them, stretching past the enormous white hotel, into the trees of the Village. This is especially tough when one is pulling a carriage.

At the steeper incline past the Jockey Club, Toby lags a bit. Stupid, he complains, all this way up for two people. I hate them all. We walk everywhere, why can't they?

The hairless beings are fragile, Tobias, Kevin reminds him, they aren't strong and powerful like us. Sometimes, they need our help. The carriage jerks forward up the hill to Four Corners, as people on bikes whiz by.

We have a very important job, you and I, Kevin continues.

Shut up, Kevin, Toby snorts.

Dave jerks the reins a little. He clicks his tongue. Get up, Toby, he says.

Toby picks up the pace reluctantly. He stumbles a bit and bumps into Kevin as they turn left to go towards the Annex.

Toby, you foolish oaf, Kevin thinks. He cannot wait to finish this night and get back to the stable, where surely, another apple awaits him if he does his job well.

At Stonecliffe, the passengers wait for the taxi on the steps of the hotel, which was once a family's mansion. The couple are rotund and obese, clearly well-fed, Kevin observes. They will weigh the same as four passengers. Toby snorts in exasperation.

Fudgies, he says to Kevin, who nods knowingly.

The woman exclaims when she sees the carriage, commenting on how beautiful the pair of horses are, Toby, with his long black mane, and Kevin, with his silver dappled fur. She must have a picture with them, she insists to her husband, her dress matches the horses' coloring. Much to taxi driver Dave's consternation, the fat woman gets a bit too close to the horses, standing in front of them, where her long, hay-colored curly hair is just waiting to be chewed by Toby. Toby is a notorious hair chewer.

Fortunately, the woman and her husband toddle back to the taxi and climb in. Dave commands the two horses to continue on their journey, and Kevin feels the weight of the carriage increase significantly.

Where to? Dave asks the couple.

The woman looks at her husband. Oh, what was the place called? The restaurant. The Buggy Barn? 

The Carriage House, the husband replies, looking at Dave.

The woman waves her hand dismissively. Whatever, it was something with a carriage in it.

Dave glances back at them in the rear view mirror. It's the best place to eat on the island, if you ask me, he says.

Better than the Grand? The husband counters.

Dave shrugs. I've never really liked the Grand.

Kevin has never really liked the Grand, either- at least, he's never liked their staff, the towering grey Percheron horses. On the way back down the hill, nearing the Gatehouse, the taxi passes one of the maroon and black Grand Hotel carriages, driven by a man in a tall black hat and tall black boots. The Percherons are snobby and entitled. They pull the carriage up the hill towards the big hotel, ignoring Kevin and Toby as they pass.

I hate those assholes, says Toby.

The taxi arrives at the restaurant downtown. The streets are still busy in the early evening, when the weather is warm and the scent of fudge wafts from the shop fronts. Kevin watches the hairless beings toddle across the streets and down the crowded sidewalks, wearing tacky screenprinted t-shirts, carrying wrapped boxes full of rich chocolate blocks. They mill in and out of stores, buying candy, chocolates, knick knacks, expensive wine, overpriced shoes. Their fat stomachs billow over their tight waistbands, chubby legs squeezed into leggings like sausage in its casing. They snap photos with cameras at the end of long sticks, and squeal with delight when they see a tall bike or hear the boat horns.

Now, the large couple descends from the taxi, and head into the restaurant, where they will inevitably stuff their faces with steak and white fish. Dave waits to receive his next call, and the taxi stands idly at the side of the road. Kevin observes a small crowd of fudgies, shuffling across the street, oblivious to the traffic around them. Toby eyes the little Jack Russell terrier that trails behind the herd.

Don't be afraid, Kevin tells him gently.

Toby nervously regards the fearsome beast in front of him, who looks inquisitively at the two horses. The giant, black draft horse will not admit his crippling fear of tiny dogs, but Kevin knows his secret. Toby's arch nemesis is a small brown Pomeranian owned by an Islander woman. She frequents the tavern known as the Village Inn, and wears a long blue coat, which frightens Toby enough already, but the dog itself strikes a deep and pervasive terror into Toby's heart. He abhors that beast, shaking whenever it nears the taxi, causing him to attempt to rear up in defense. Fortunately, Dave is usually able to calm the horse with a carrot or two.

Can he see me? Maybe if I don't move, he won't see me, Toby panics, referring to the Jack Russell.

Kevin sighs and hangs his head. Fear not, Tobias. He won't come this way.

He continues to watch the hairless beings on the main street. Kevin feels frustrated with their laziness. He thinks, if only they would see that the Great Turtle has so much more to offer than what can be seen on these main streets. Most of the fudgies do not think to venture past Market Street, preferring to confine themselves to the sights and sounds of the village. When leaving the town, the island becomes considerably quieter.

Kevin thinks of home, of the pasture, surrounded by his friends, eating fresh hay in the sun, listening to the birds and the wind through the old trees. He thinks of the bluff with beautiful cottages, gardens full of colorful plants that he wishes he could eat but knows he cannot. Sometimes, Dave will drive the carriage on a special route, up into the heart of the island. The road passes through forests, where sunlight dapples the ground through thick boughs of leaves, and the carpets of trillium are illuminated. Emerging from the forest, Kevin sees a vast field, where strange iron machines zip across a little road and ascend into the sky, roaring with power. He likes to watch them take off and land, bringing people to and from the Great Turtle.

The carriage will pass through tunnels of pine trees, down a hill, past swamps and small streams. Kevin always looks forward to reaching the bottom of the hill, where the road intersects with the highway that runs the perimeter of the island. Here, silver waves crash upon a shore with millions of tiny rocks, and across the water, a tall structure glitters in the afternoon sun. A faraway road suspending by two towering beams, crossing the Strait. It is a marvelous sight.

If only they would take the time to visit those parts of the island, to climb the hills and bike down the winding roads, Kevin thinks. Perhaps they wouldn't be so fat. 

Suddenly, he feels the touch of a tiny hand upon his face. He glances down to see a small child, maybe five or six, standing at his side. She gazes up at him in awe.

Can she pet him? The girl's mother asks.

Sure, but be careful. He's been known to bite, Dave replies.

It is true that Kevin harbors little affection for the hairless beings, but he loves all small creatures. The tiny human will not do him any harm. She is only curious.

Kevin lowers his head a little more, allowing the child to pet his soft, velvety snout. Often times, the children are afraid of the big horses. Kevin wants to show them that they do not have to be afraid. He pushes his nose into the girl's hand, who smiles excitedly. She stares up into Kevin's eyes, gazing with wonderment and joy.

Dave, pleased with Kevin's good behavior, asks the girl's mother if she would like to feed the horse a Honeycrisp apple. He hands the child two slices of an apple, and shows her how to feed Kevin, with her palm open, the apple resting on her flat hand. She walks back to Kevin, and offers him the fruit. Kevin eagerly slurps the two halves of apple into his mouth in one swift motion, and the girl laughs happily.

Soon after, the girl's mother leads her away. Kevin remembers then why he loves his job. Although many of the humans can be cruel and stupid, there are a few good ones. If he is kind to the small ones, they will grow up to love animals, to be compassionate and kind. They will come to the island and appreciate its rich traditions, especially the heroes, the horses.

I hate those tiny fudge gobblers, Toby says.

They're not so bad, Kevin replies. Not all the time.

Dave clicks his tongue to let the horses know that they must begin moving. Kevin and Toby pull the taxi through town, on their way to pick up more passengers.

The smell of fudge isn't so terrible, today, Kevin thinks. The breeze is cool, and he can smell the fresh water. It's a beautiful evening, and soon enough, he will get to go back to the barn, where Dave will brush the mud from his fur, and whisper words of thanks to Kevin, maybe feed him another apple. There will always be apples, and this makes him happy. Bike chimes from all around accompany the beat of horses' hooves, creating a symphony that feels like something from another era, and the night continues.

Michigan Gothic: Vignettes (fiction)

You are out alone in the snow behind your apartment complex, four years old. Your dad yells at you to hurry up, we're going to Meijers. You're from the north, you've never been to a Meijers. You try to escape the porcelain drifts, but your tiny feet are stuck. You feel snow leaching into your boots, cold against your ankles, as you drag them out. "We have to go," he yells, and you're crying, because you can't move. You never make it to to the store; there's no "s" at the end of Meijer.

• 
  

When you move to your new home, you and your younger brother meet the two children whose grandparents live across the street. They are from the country, and they don't talk like anyone you've ever met. In the summer, they pluck strips of tar from the road in front of your house, and chew them like candy. They smile at you, and their teeth are black. You glance at your brother, who looks to you, bewildered. "Come on," they say. "It's just like tobacco." The sun beats down, mirages ripple along the horizon. Brown liquid drips from the children's mouths, and steams as it hits the hot pavement.

• 
  

You drive to the southeast side of the state often. Sometimes, it feels like every weekend, and as you get older, it's not as often. Driving through Flint, you observe seas of cars in a lot as far as the eye can see. The railroad moves. Every weekend, for years. One day, all the cars are gone. The train tracks are abandoned.

• 
  

Northern Michigan is desolate in the winter. Your family drives along the vast, white expanse of beach on US-2. You are not sure how long you've been driving. Your father is pulled over for speeding. The cop has a thick accent. People here speak the language of the moose. The road is covered with snow, the beach is covered in snow, the dunes are covered in snow, the people are covered in snow.

• 
  

When you're fourteen, your cross country team camps in this same north. "It's moose country, up here," your coach says. "Twenty dollars to the first person who spots one." A group of you runs through the trails next to Tahquamenon Falls, through the woods, over rocks and roots sticking out from the dry dirt, past thick stands of white pine and spruce, to the next waterfall in the river five miles south. Out here, it is quiet. There are predators in these woods, black ones, with giant paws, and silent ones with pointed noses and yellow eyes. They all have teeth, but the ones you're afraid of stand ten feet tall, with crowns of bone. You don't see them, but you swear you can hear them, snorting in the woods; large, hot breaths steaming from their velvet snouts as they watch you from the trees.

• 
  

You've thumbed through pages of books about your haunted state, about the abandoned buildings, about the ghost towns. What town isn't a ghost, here? you think, as you flip through the guides. You travel to Fayette, on Big Bay de Noc. You walk through the furnace building, past wind-worn houses. The structures are hollow, skeletons of a mining boom. The parking lot was full, but you and your family seem to be the only ones in the town. You hear waves crash upon the rotted posts from old docks. The dolomite cliffs loom across the harbor, and you can almost smell the faint, bloody scent of iron on the air.

• 
  

In your town, it's a rite of passage to Tube on the Chip River. Teenagers and college students lash their tires together. In the July heat, you dangle your toes into the brown water. You pass a sludge-covered river beach, where a group of townies grill meat on an upturned shopping cart, over an open flame. They wear cutoff t-shirts and rebel flag bikinis. The smell of sizzling flesh floats over the water towards you. You paddle a little faster, escaping the staticky country music pouring out of radios. You continue to slide your fingers into the water, pulling them back out when you remember the reports of e. coli. It's bad, this summer. It's bad, every summer. The river swallows everything the town spits out. The dead fish are bloated, and some have extra fins.

• 
  

On Mackinac Island, you live in a hotel, white, sprawling, with holes in the roof. It should be condemned, but every year, the state packs its halls full of workers. On the island, it feels as though you exist in two separate dimensions. The horses are the same ones that have been here since the beginning of time. Costumed cyclists in tall bikes roll through the main street, ancient spokes clicking. Tourists paw at their smart phones, stinking of fudge. You merge through the flow of people, and no one seems to notice you're there. The island is full of ghosts, they say, and you're not sure you haven't become one. The blacksmith tells you of a demon that lives on Rifle Range trail, who pulls your hair as you trek toward Fort Holmes at night. You roommate tells you of a man in a cowboy hat who comes at night to rearrange her towels. On one of your first nights, another resident takes you and a couple friends on a tour of the basement. This is where they kept the children with tuberculosis, he says, and they all died here. In the corridor, there's a circle of chairs, under a bare bulb. He pauses. "That wasn't here when I left," he whispers.

• 
  

One autumn, you go to deer camp with some friends. In a field, you're laying in the grass, an old bolt-action rifle nestled into your shoulder. There's a container of tannerite in the trees a few yards away, and you're going to shoot it. Three jars for the three of you. Yours is the first to explode. The sound echoes across the farmlands. When it quiets, you realize you can't hear any birds, any of the cows that were in the field one over. In fact, you haven't heard any other sounds for days, and no cars have driven past the farm. At night, you have to park your vehicle far from the little white house. "Why?" you ask. "The cows will come to lick your windows at night," your friend says. In the middle of the night, when you go outside to pee, you glance over at your car. The cows stand around it, silent, unmoving.

• 
  

Since you were young, you've heard stories of the End of the World. They've all been different, but they were all strange. Cars dying on the way into the woods, rabid dogs, roads in dense forests that go in circles, villagers living in tiny huts. You're not sure which road it's at the end of, but you know it's north of town. You drive out there with some friends one night, in an old beater. The driver swears you're on the right road. The cornfields are covered with fog. You drive north for what feels like hours. The same white farmhouse, over and over. The same mud-covered cows. Eventually you decide to turn around, your friend says it's because you'll never find it, but you know, it's because the forest will not reveal itself to you in the way you want, tonight. At the crossroads to get back into town, you can't remember where you turned. The moon is obscured by clouds, and the cornfields are the same in all directions.

• 
  

You're driving around the reservation with your best friend. It is fall, and the smell of burning trash wafts through your cracked car window, in the otherwise clear night. You stop in the middle of a housing development north of town. Unlike the ones in the city, there are no lights shining from inside these houses. Dark skeletons, their bones indigo in the shadows of the moonlight. You smoke cigarettes in the empty culdesac. They keep building these houses, all over town. Apartments too. No one lives in them; hollow, cavernous structures fanning out around the city. People will come to fill them, in time, they say. But every year, more people leave, and the empty buildings are left to rot.

• 
  

Grand Marais lies on the shore of Lake Superior. You drive north one fall day, on a whim. The town appears as you emerge from the forest, towards the open water. A bay, some cottages, a pickle barrel. A lone brewery, far from any real civilization. There's nothing here, but somehow, the town still thrives. You walk through the streets, and no one speaks to you. They only stare. The bartender smiles wide, pushing a blueberry lager towards you. The beer is supposed to be sweet, but you only taste the fishy swill of the inland sea. The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald plays softly in the distance, and you realize, it's always been playing, and always will.

• 
  

A freighter runs aground in the straits one afternoon, while you're at work. "How long has it been there?" people keep asking. The thousand-foot ship stands still, cocked to one side. You can't remember when it came. No one remembers seeing it hit the rocky bottom of Lake Huron and slow to a stop. "Forever," someone says. Under the silver waves, the wrecks loom, sleeping.

• 
  

You move to Grand Rapids, into a house on one of the rolling hills, across the street from an enormous abandoned school. You have neighbors, but you never see them. There is no one walking on your street. Craft breweries dot the landscape, between the bungalow houses and giant trees, hospitals and fair trade coffee shops. Crowds of bearded men and girls in loose sweaters swarm the breweries. "What can I get you?" asks the bartender at your favorite place. You cannot decide. The taps go on forever, stretching across an infinite bar. You want an IPA, but they're all IPAs. Someone whispers about the hops shortage, and the rest silence him. We don't speak of it here, not in Beer City.

i will lead us to the same realm

I wake up from dreams where I'm kissing her, running my hands through my hair, telling her we're going to be fine, and crying.

I'm sorry. I'm so, so, sorry.

I would never do those things with her, though, not in real life. That's not ever what I had with her.

I think when I dream, it's the only way my mind can process that emotion. It's showing her I love her, in the only way it can. I touch her face in my dream, just because I want to be close to her again.

Something big has always been missing, something torn out from inside of me, ever since I can remember. I don't know who took it, but the void was manageable. I could live in symbiosis with my fear, loss, uncertainly about who I am.

However lost I felt, however far from feeling whole, at the very least, I had her. Like a mirror, something to gaze into and see everything I needed to know about myself. Looking at her, I saw calm, and assuredness, the shadow of what I was missing. She was a tourniquet, stopping the bleeding, when she couldn't heal the limb that was barely hanging by a thread.

I don't remember the last time I held her, but when I did, she smelled like years and years ago. She smelled like her bedroom. Incense, clean. A cheap perfume from Rue 21. No matter how old we got, it always brought me back to somewhere safe.

She was the strong one, I think maybe she was always taking care of me. Letting me stay over when I was sad, visiting me when I was sick and curled up on the bathroom floor. There was never a time where I didn't want to see her.

But there was always a tense undercurrent, for years, and maybe sometimes, we were very, very different.

When I left her, I just wanted to have some sort of connection. I'd attach myself to people, around her, near her. I'd get farther and farther away from her, six degrees apart, and I could never let her go. I never, ever wanted to hurt her- I just wanted some semblance of her to hold on to. I had to let go, eventually.

When I did, I kept asking myself what I could have done differently. A word I could keep in my mouth, staying a few minutes extra, listening a little closer. Reading her face. But through a haze of vodka, it was hard to see anything, and it was warm going down my throat; I was burning another bridge.

Maybe, sometimes, there isn't anything that can be done.

After all of this, I felt a string break, and I've never been the same. I go through life much too careful, much to scared. I blamed it on someone else who hurt me then. But I think that losing her made me feel like I wasn't a solid being, like there was no floor under my feet. I wander about, sending silent pleas into the world. I'm looking for a safe face in the crowd, someone to see myself inside.

Was any of it real?

There's not a person in the world who I will ever feel that with again. We will not have grown together, and I don't think I will ever look into someone's eyes and see so many parts of myself, and someone who can feel what I'm thinking so truly.

Have you ever loved someone so much you felt like you were the same person?

I dream that we're on that tattered couch, in the back room of a place we used to visit every day.

The door to the garden full of grass and weeds is open, and the ancient rug feels scratchy under my feet. A fat, white candle burns on an antique tv dinner stand, and there's a small dog sleeping in the corner. I'm wearing the glasses I found at a yard sale, and there's a half eaten tin of cheesecake between us. She made it, brought it from home.

She has a cigarette, and she blows smoke rings. Her hair is long and full, and she's glowing. She's wearing a shirt in an ugly color, but one that I know is her favorite. She smiles when I ask her about her life. I want to know everything about her. I want to extinguish her cigarette, but somehow, I know if I do, I'll wake up. I gently pull it from her hand, and set it in an ashtray.

I pull her face close to mine, and tell her everything I've always wanted to say, but I know, when I look into her eyes, that she knows it already.

I'm stitching us back together, I'll do whatever it takes. She smiles and tells me, we are fine.

In the Land of Endless Treadmills and Bagels: An Adventure to Planet Fitness

This morning, I shuffle into the gym with roughly the energy level of a three-toed sloth. On my way in, a couple that meets the stereotype of my small town push by me: overweight, camo jackets, general standoffish attitude, him carrying keys to a lifted F350, her wearing trashed knockoff Uggs. Yes. I've arrived.

Inside, the girls at the counter are cheerful and kind, and one guy tells me about some ridiculous promotion they're having, while I pretend to listen. I'm eyeing the tanning bed signup sheet, before it gets too full and I have to wait. I do not like to wait. 

Shortly after, I make my way back to the locker room, where there's a white trash mom convention going on. 

I quietly put on my shoes, which are very, very clean- I never wear them outside- and eavesdrop on the conversation. They discuss Midwestern cuisine.

"Karen, how did you like that recipe for tater-tot hotdish I sent you?"

"Oh, the kids absolutely loved it!"

Apropos of nothing, the conversation switches to the allegations that Ted Cruz is the elusive Zodiac Killer.

I scoot out of there before they start singing the praises of Donald Trump, which I know at this point, by their rhinestone-appliquéd jeans, stacked-angled bobs, and backwoods Michigan accent, is inevitable. 

Today, I am going to continue with my typical routine of 3-4 different types of cardio. This is not because I think strength training is useless to me- I just don't know how. In high school sports practices, I spent more time lying on the floor in the weight room and talking shit with whoever was the second-laziest person there or crying on the leg press than actually lifting. Consequently, I never learned. 

I only know how to run, which at one point for me was as easy as breathing, and bike for hours at a time, usually drunk. I'm not allowed to drink in this gym, though. 

I chose this gym because of its price and its many extra perks. I like it so far, but some things about its business model make me nervous. Its purple and yellow prestige and "non-judgmental" atmosphere are well-known, as well as some of its other weekly offerings..

Their efforts to welcome patrons extends to specially designated evenings and some mornings every week where they present a lavish spread of the two foods most conducive to weight loss: pizza and bagels. 

I know this because I the first day I came in was Bagel Tuesday. 

Hopping up on the treadmill, I begin the process of a warmup. As said before, my previous attempts at gym exploits were limited strictly to cardio, but today- today's different. Today I'm about that strength training life.

I enjoy a relatively uneventful fifteen minute run, glancing over frequently at the weights area. "Gymtimidation," that's how this place refers to the feeling I now have studying the P90X bros over there. 

My frequent side-eye attracts the attention of the dude on a the machine next to me. He raises his eyebrows at me. Oh god. Please don't talk to me. I don't care. I'm not looking at you, you crusty beard bear. 

"Hey," he says to me. 

I give him what I realize is an extremely incredulous look, and smack the STOP button on the treadmill. I stick my iPhone in my bra and stomp over to the weight corral. 

The bro population has dwindled to only about three or four, and they are all doing some seriously heavy lifting and making noises that I think they would find incredibly embarrassing if they didn't have their headphones in. I don't think they've noticed me. I won't wake them.

I stare at the free weight rack. I gingerly pick up one dumbbell that's not too heavy (it's definitely not in the double-digit range, I'll say that much), with the care and respect that one might have for a pump-action shotgun. I'd feel more comfortable holding one of those, to be honest- at least I'm confident in my ability to shoot. I don't know what the hell to do with this heavy neoprene contraption.

Although I did plenty of research before deciding to start lifting, at the moment I can't remember anything I learned. I look at the list of exercises I wrote on my phone, and try to remember what a military curl and press looks like. 

I make it through a few sets of different attempts at exercises, facing the mirrored wall. The fluorescent lights make me look even whiter than I am, although I do look skinnier than I thought I was. 

Any positive sentiment I could have gleaned from that observation dissipates as I understand I am the equivalent to the scrawny nerd in gym class, next to all these giant beef trees. 

Fortunately, no one talks to me, and when I'm finished and my limbs feel like Jello I make my way back to the stationary bikes. I'm happy here. 

The girl next to me is texting and biking like she's pedaling through molasses. I ignore her, and watch primary coverage on the flat-screens above me, but soon my interest is diverted to the elderly couple on the weight machines in front of me. 

The man looks like he's about 80 years old, with a full white beard.

Fuck. If he can come in here and get ripped, there's no reason for me to be so scared of the gym. 

My thoughts are interrupted by a crunch to my left. 

No. This can't be happening. I only saw this in online reviews. I didn't think I ever would in real life. 

The girl next to me, who previously was texting, is now eating chips out of a small bag. I look away quickly- I don't want her to attack me for judging in a gymtimidation-free zone. 

I finish my sober bike ride about twenty minutes later, and return to the treadmill, where I will walk for a bit and get my heart rate back down to something that's not going to terrify me. I head back to the black card members area, where I hear a man who looks somewhat homeless in dirty jeans talking to himself (or singing?) in the hydromassage room. I think I'll skip that room today.

My solace comes within the ultraviolet columns of the Hex tanning booth. 

I used to tan often when I was younger. I really enjoyed looking like a normal human instead of one of those translucent white creatures that live in deep, underwater caves, but my favorite part of this activity was how incredible I felt afterwards.

There's something meditational about tanning in the Hex- standing in a cylinder surrounded by warm blue light, white fan noise and ambient music, closing my eyes and breathing deeply always made me feel at least ten times better than I did when I walked in.

I tend to equate tanning to a religious experience, as I do with many other perfect things in life: 24 hour diners, the high after running, the smell of a forest in Northern Michigan, singing in my car. 

Today, I stand in the Hex and practice long yoga breaths, feeling my heart return to normal. 

I like the gym. I think I will keep coming here, and work on making myself healthy again, amongst the throngs of beefy bros with their strange animal noises and indoor snapbacks, and pudgy cheerful pizza-gobblers, toddling along on the treadmills and dreaming of the tater-tot hotdish and Faygo Red Pop they will inevitably return to when they go home. 

Tonight, I will dream of the smell of yoga mats, girls in horrifically flesh-toned leggings, counting macros, and rows of ellipticals that go on forever. The audio memory of the beef bros' muffled trap music on their Dre beats will lull me to sleep, and I will wake tomorrow, to witness it all again.

Emergency Room Blues: A Personal Narrative

It's one a.m. and I'm driving to the hospital. Actually, I'm casing the place. Driving down Lyon, Bostwick, up Michigan Street, my car almost sliding backwards down the icy hill, again and again, around the block, because I've never been to a hospital in the city and I don't know where to find parking.

There's a drive that goes straight to the entrance to the ER with a valet service, should I just go there? I don't know, I don't think that I'm sick enough to deserve valet service. I feel the squeezing, sharp pain in my side, under my ribs, pangs going up my esophagus. No, I should probably be here.

Fifteen minutes ago I started feeling these awful pains and began to dissociate, I began to panic, I live alone, how far is an ambulance, what if I die here. It's nighttime, everyone's asleep. I'll die alone. I pulled on my boots and galloped down the stairs to my car. I could've called someone, I usually do, but I didn't want anyone to wake up. I don't want them to know that I'm going crazy again.

My left lung feels like it's in a vice grip.

Now, I decide to park on the side street with no name, half a block down from the hospital. I pull my hood over my head and shove my hands into my pockets. The only thing I can hear is the icy wind, freezing my ear drums. I walk past an EMT standing outside an ambulance, smoking. Inside, I'm greeted by more medical professionals.

"Do you have chest pains or any trouble breathing?"

Lucky me, I have both. The single useful part of having a heart condition is you will typically be admitted before anyone else. I surrender my ID and insurance cards.

"Maria? Is that how you say your name?" asks the male nurse at the computer.

"Yeah.."

"And...Katharine?" Oh my god.

"Yep."

"Very nice. That's pretty."

I immediately sneeze; long ropy tendrils of mucus. Gorgeous.

A girl nurse carts me down the hall in a wheelchair, and I keep glancing at the floor. Whenever I look up, people always seem to be staring. I can't figure out why. Maybe it's because I'm not bleeding from the ears, or missing an appendage.

I am delivered to an exam room that has not only a curtain, but its own door. I am not out in the pit, with the rest of the peasants. There is a television here too, like usual, but I don't like to use them. I prefer to pickle in my anxiety.

I take off my coat and shirt and shoes and pull the hospital gown around me. It isn't a triple extra-large this time, which is nice.

The nurse, who looks like Julianne Hough, comes back to hook me up to the heart monitor. "Have you ever had one of these before?"

At least a hundred. I'm shivering, nervous. My hands are trembling, and I'm so aware of the ripping pain in my chest.

Shortly after, my doctor arrives. He's hot. Everyone in this hospital is hot. Well, at least I'm still in full makeup and my hair looks flawless. I'm not going to try to flirt though. I'm wearing a hospital gown, it'll be completely futile.

"Hello Maria, I'm Doctor [some sort of French surname; I immediately peg him as a Canadian]." Perfect. "What brings you here tonight?"

I tell him about the pain, how I can't breathe, how it feels like my ribs are on fire, etc etc. Oh, and I had pains in my legs all day.

"About how long ago did the pain start?" Oh christ. The way he pronounces "about" confirms my suspicions.

I hold back a laugh and tell him the chest pains started about an hour ago. But the leg pains, since I woke up, actually. I'm concerned about blood clots. You know, since I'm on contraception. I don't want to sound like a hypochondriac. Is that what a hypochondriac would say?

The Canadian Doctor nods, and looks up at me. "Yeah, I thought blood clots might be a possibility, actually, when I looked at your chart."

Ha-HA! Knew it. I could be a doctor.

"Well, we'll hook you up to an IV, and we'll get a chest X-ray, do some blood work, rule out the more serious stuff."

My stomach drops when I hear about IVs and needles. Fuck, they're serious. I honestly thought an X-ray would be it, and then I'd get sent off. I hate this. Why did I come here? The pain in my chest is fading, but my heart starts racing instead. I need an Ativan.

The Canadian Doctor does an examination, and comments on the rash that's spread from my chest to my shoulders. Goddammit. "Is that typical for you?"

"Oh, no, it's not. I mean, it usually just happens when I get anxious." It's true. I'm an excellent liar, but the rash is always a dead giveaway. This was unfortunate in high school around people I had a crush on.

He looks at me. "Hey. It's okay. You don't have to be anxious. We'll take good care of you."

Oh. Oh. He thinks I'm anxious because I'm in a hospital and I am, ostensibly, suffering a pulmonary embolism. He has no inkling that I'm nervous because I've already married him in my head and named our future children.

The Canadian Doctor leaves and another male nurse comes in to stick a needle into my arm. He's also extremely attractive. Why? And they all look pretty young. It must be a teaching hospital. I wonder what residents do in their spare time, if they have any. Do they drink often? Come to think of it, I think I might've seen Nurse Julianne Hough at Pyramid Scheme the other night.

The male nurse sucks some blood out of my veins, tapes the IV into my arm, and tells me the test results should be back soon. The X-ray technician arrives, and hauls my boat of a bed down the hall to radiology. I sit cross-legged on the bed while he pushes it down the hall, looking ridiculous in my gown, leggings and bright pink socks. The technician takes some pictures of whatever's inside my chest, and we return to my suite.

I lean back and stare at the ceiling. They left one of the lights off, so it's quite dim in here. My chest pain has dissipated for now, and I feel that heavy, depressing feeling return, when I realize that maybe the reason I'm in here again is nothing at all.

I started graduate school three weeks ago, and the stress is already getting to me. I live alone, in a new city, somewhere unfamiliar. I feel fear rather often, sometimes to the point I can't even leave my house. Making it to class is hard enough. Trying to focus on the tedious, tiresome readings is hard enough. Participating in class discussions? Nearly impossible. I have to take anxiety medication before I exit the parking deck, so when I make it into the lecture hall, to my seat, I've glided into some sort of calm. Even then, it's still a struggle. I've always been a nervous person, but a few years ago, things just got so much harder.

I think about this, and I think about the number of times I've been in this situation, terrified, pains shooting through my chest, ribs, jaw, down my arm. I'm short of breath, my heart races and skips, and I'm dizzy. Who wouldn't think it was heart attack? If you've never had a panic attack, it's hard to imagine what it's like. You feel that you may die. Since my diagnosis of an arrhythmia, it's been worse. With everything I've been through, I never want to take a chance.

That's why I'm here tonight. Because it feels real, and I don't know what to do. This pain is different, though, it's sharp, like someone's slicing between my ribs with a knife. Immediately, I assumed there was a blood clot in my lungs, or that I had ebola, or something equally tragic. Plus, you know, the heart attack. If it exists, I have it.

Now, I crane my head back to see the readings from the cardiac monitor on the screen. My blood pressure is low, as usual, from the beta blockers.

My pulse is elevated. I watch the number, and try to lower it. I breathe deeper, in and out. 72...again, in and out. 69. Again, and again. 65. When I reach fifteen breaths, it's down to 62, where it stays. I am ready for sleep.

I hear a knock on the door. A tall, graying man in the white coat comes in, The Canadian Doctor trailing behind him.

"Hello, I'm Doctor [some sort of Polish monstrosity, I'll call him Doctor Pulaski], I'm one of the supervising physicians here. Just wanted to let you know your x-ray came back fine, but we're still waiting on the blood test results, which will tell us for certain if you're experiencing a pulmonary embolism."

"Oh."

"Now, that is probably not be the cause of your pain, but with the symptoms you described, my associate here was concerned that that may be the case," says Doctor Pulaski.

He also tells me I might have a collapsed lung, which causes me to snort in nervous and terrified laughter. Doctor Pulaski is very kind, though, and reassuring. I like this hospital. I hate that I'm probably wasting their time.

I've been to the ER so many times, and most of the time, it's nothing. But it's always the few cases there has been something really, really wrong that leaves me skittish. Sometimes I think if my heart was healthy, I would be fine. If I'm being honest with myself, I know I'd just find something new to worry about anyway.

They leave me alone in my room again, and I continue to ponder my existential struggles. I take a few selfies.

About an hour later, The Canadian Doctor returns, mid-selfie. "How are you feeling?"

I lower my iPhone in shame. He suppresses a grin. I am too basic for The Canadian Doctor; he will never love me the way I love him.

"Fine, I guess."

"Your blood tests came back fine. No blood clot, nothing that would indicate a heart attack either. You can rest assured that's out of the question."

I sigh. "Oh, good. I thought I was going to die."

He smiles at me. "Well, you're not going to die tonight."

"What about the pain? What's causing it?"

"It could be anything, indigestion, something you ate. Could be stress. You're probably feeling physical symptoms of anxiety." Of course I am.

Indigestion sounds likely, though. But does this imply that I can never eat buffalo sauce again? For the first time, I feel a profound loss.

"I was so worried it was something worse."

"Well, you can relax." He is being so nice, so understanding, and I hate it. I don't understand why no one is furious with me. If this is nothing, I feel guilty for being here. I hate myself, and I hate my habit of emergency room visits for sport. Am I malingering? Is this what malingering is?

"We'll send you off with some peace of mind tonight, you can go home, get some sleep. And if any symptoms get worse, or if you're scared something might be wrong again, feel free to come back in, okay?"

Why doesn't he tell me to fuck off? I have Munchausen syndrome, or, more likely, paranoid personality disorder.

"We'll get you through registration, you can be discharged, and we'll send you home in a few minutes here."

The Canadian Doctor opens the door to leave, but turns back to look at me. "Have a good night, Maria," he says, smiling, "It was a pleasure treating you."

Hah. I'm so sure.

I leave soon after, with some printouts on chest pains and anxiety, and a clean bill of health. I'm relieved I'm not dying, but I'm so tired. It's around three thirty in the morning, and the receptionists smile at me as I leave. Is everyone here Canadian? They're crushingly polite.

Outside, the wind has died down. The air is cold and crisp, and slips through my lungs like silver. In the dark, the city lights are clear, and everything seems sharp. I like walking around at night, even if it's winter.

I pass another ambulance parked outside, two men inside it, eating cheeseburgers and laughing. It's just a typical night for them. I think about the people in the buildings around me, working much different hours than everyone else. Hospitals never close. A couple cars drive down Lyon, and I hear bass thumping in the distance. I can smell the McDonald's further down Michigan Street, and I think it's strange that it's right next door to all the medical establishments.

I understand immediately that I am not alone in the world, in this moment. This is the safest I've felt in weeks. I'm often afraid at night, feeling like everyone in the world is asleep but me. I like the early hours, but they're better when you have someone to enjoy them with. I'm scared of crowds, but I need to know that there's people around. I want to know that somewhere, someone else is awake. Tonight, I feel it.

In my car, I crank the heat up high, and turn on the radio. On the rap station, the DJs are making corny jokes about celebrities in the news. They sound like they're having a good time. I think I would like a job where I could stay up all night and talk shit.

I put my car in gear, and head down the road, passing the hospitals, and back down the hill. Before turning onto my street, I spot the 24 hour Grand Coney on the corner of Eastern and Michigan. It looks inviting, so I decide to pull in. I imagine a cup of warm decaf coffee in my hands, and an order of hash browns sizzling away on the flat top.

My heartbeat is steady, and the tension in my stomach is gone. I feel at home in the world, and I'm not afraid to be awake. I think it will be fine, tonight.