NervousMan Sits Quietly by Himself and Watches the People go By

NervousMan sat quietly at the tea bar, sipping a Taro Milk tea, watching the people go by.

He felt dazed by his experience in the Cosmos room. But that Molly woman had let him out so he could go to the bathroom before the show had ended. She seemed concerned and scowled as NervousMan ran past her.

Molly seemed like a nice person. NervousMan wondered what her life was like, working at the library all day long.

Cotton, NervousMan thought. His head felt like it was full of the sort of cotton you pull out of a medicine bottle. That, and coffee grounds. NervousMan pictured a sea full of coffee grounds.

Perhaps he was drowning in this sea, he thought.

Back and forth the people walked, in both directions.

NervousMan saw a nice looking couple walk into the tea bar. A young Asian man who had a sparse goatee and a girl who looked to be around his age. Ever so briefly, they glanced at NervousMan as they entered and then looked away.

"Perhaps I should say hi," thought NervousMan.

But the thought of doing so made NervousMan nervous.

What would they say to him? What if they started asking questions. Or what if they did not say hi back to NervousMan. Then, NervousMan would feel rejected, as well as nervous.

As the young Asian man opened the door, NervousMan could see that he had some sort of device on his belt, in a dark carrying case.

"How many of them have some sort of device?" NervousMan thought to himself. Perhaps he could play a little game and see.

Here was a woman in flip-flops, and a pair of cut off jeans walking away. She was wearing a white tank top. She was wearing one of the pod things, the long white cords trailing from her ears to somewhere in her pocket.

Here, was another man, very tall and young standing by the sandwich shop talking into his cellphone.

For a moment, the young man glanced at NervousMan and frowned, then he looked away and continued talking.

Nearby another woman was walking away, her hand holding a device which was pressed to the side of her face. Another man walked by her and this man had black cords trailing to his side.

For a moment NervousMan thought that perhaps these were all robots and the devices were their power supply. The thing that 'kept them going'. They had to have these devices he thought. Or else they might become nervous.

NervousMan looked across the street and saw a man waiting for the light to change. He too, had a device which was plugged into his left ear. It was purple,

NervousMan could see, even from that distance. He seemed to be talking into the device. NervousMan could see that he was carrying a notebook. Papers were stuffed into the notebook and were poking out of it.

The man continued talking.

After a moment, NervousMan could see one of the papers fall from the man's notebook to the ground. NervousMan looked at the paper, so far away. He wondered if it were something important.

More people came by the man and stood near him, but no one noticed the paper lying on the ground. Another young man, a young asian man talked on a cellphone. He too did not notice the paper lying on the ground.

After a few seconds, the light did change and the group of people came walking across, toward where NervousMan was. The man, who had lost his paper came not 20 feet away from NervousMan. He could hear the conversation.

"Well, why don't you have it delivered to your home?" said the man, talking into the open air. "I mean, why do you have to go to the post office to pick it up?"

NervousMan wondered if he should tell the man that he had dropped his paper before he crossed the street. Perhaps that would be a good deed to do.

But, NervousMan was too nervous. And after a few moments, the man wandered away and passed from NervousMan's sight.

After a few minutes NervousMan found himself getting up to leave and go back to his place. He wasn't as nervous in his place. But he couldn't stay in there all the time.

Perhaps a little bit of nervousness was good, thought NervousMan. But not too much.

Too much nervousness is not a good thing, thought NervousMan, as he walked back home.

NervousMan wondered who he was and why he was here, walking to his place once more. Who am I, he thought. And why is everything I see from my point of view?

Who had made the decision to sit at the tea bar and watch people go by? Who had made the decision to get up and leave? Who made the decision to step now, one foot in front of the other? Was it automatic? Did NervousMan have to think about walking?

No. Perhaps NervousMan was a robot too. A robot without a power supply. Maybe that was why he was so nervous.

Who am I? thought NervousMan again, peering into the darkness of the parking garage he would have to walk through in order to get to the elevator that led up to his place.

I am me. NervousMan answered himself, internally.

I am me. I am me. I am me.

NervousMan, In the Cosmos Exhibit

"Welcome," said the voice.

The voice came from somewhere in the darkness, and yet it seemed to come from all around NervousMan too. There were probably speakers built into the place, hidden from view.

NervousMan could feel cool sweat on his forehead, beading up.

"Where was that Molly person?" he thought suddenly.

NervousMan started to turn around, as if anticipating that she would walk in again, then thought better of it, and resumed his stance on the 'X'.

NervousMan's shoulders slumped. He was resigned to going through with this thing, whatever it was. It would be rude to have Molly stop it at this point.

NervousMan didn't want to be rude.

"Why am I even here, in this thing?" thought NervousMan. "What am I doing here?"

NervousMan blinked, scratched his head and sniffed. He glanced around nervously. He could not tell how big the room was. But it seemed to be a fair size.

"Since ever there have been humans, we have looked to the skies."

NervousMan noticed that the voice was deep and resonant. Pleasant in sound quality, but slightly menacing in tone.

NervousMan felt small.

For a moment, he could see the movie, or room, or movie projected onto the room, or whatever it was. It was large and circular. He was in some sort of 'observatarium' perhaps they were called.

The scene faded, and changed.

NervousMan looked up. Now it was a sunrise he was beholding. Perhaps he was supposed to be now on some African plain. He could even feel a breeze, slightly, blow against his forehead. As if it were coming from a vent somewhere.

NervousMan shivered.

At one end of the round room, NervousMan could see the 'sun' projected in the 'distance' of its forced perspective. It burned and flickered slightly, like fire, and seemed to be miles away.

NervousMan squinted at the makeshift sun.

Birds, projected on the wall, flew by. From somewhere, flutes played, and below, in the music, the infrequent yet sharp timpani of a small drum.

NervousMan felt dreamy. His eye followed one of the birds, down, down, down the sky, flying away from him, until it's merest wingtip was silhouetted by the projected sun.

Then, the scene faded and changed.

"...as the modern age approached, through the middle ages and the Renaissance, we continued to watch the skies".

NervousMan saw now a projected jet airplane cross the dusky 'sky' around him. It disappeared somewhere above his head. A rumbling engine sound followed it. He breathed.

NervousMan's eyes focused on the middle of the room again. Something resembling a satellite faded into view, drifting through the inky blackness. Almost the shape of an energy drink can, with an elaborate series of antenna about it, and a dish, the satellite loomed closer. It almost seemed to be really there.

NervousMan was starting to feel nervous. He should have asked the woman out there what this was all about. But he had been too nervous to even broach the subject. She might have thought him strange.

"...what you are about to see, are the greatest views of the sky that have ever been taken. From views of Mars... to the horsehead nebula... to the farthest reaches of our universe".

The looming satellite faded, and now it was all stars again.

Why am I here? thought NervousMan again.

And from deep within him, came another thought to counter this:

Why is anything here?

The 'satellite' faded, the music taking on a more ominous and bassy tone. The light of the stars grew together quickly as if all expanding at once, until all the corners touched and the room was bathed in light.

The music swelled, reaching a dramatic climax. NervousMan winced.

Before he knew it, the room again plunged into darkness.

Now it seemed like NervousMan was falling through space itself. He could see little pieces of space debree rushing past him. His point of view was being swept through all manner of cosmic structures now, both dark and illuminated.

Light and shadow danced before NervousMan wildly.

For a moment, he really had the sense of flying through space. Towering nebulae loomed and then he passed through them.

"Mercury," thought NervousMan, almost non-sensically.

Spiral galaxies passed overhead. Ringed planets passed on his left and right, accompanied by electronic 'wooshes' from the soundtrack. He felt like he was falling into the stars. Falling into darkness. An endless abyss. Would it crush him? Would it destroy him?

NervousMan looked at his feet, to the X beneath his feet.

No, this is just a simulation, remembered NervousMan. A simulation. Not real.

"I am standing in a room," he thought. He shifted his feet.

A planet was looming up ahead on the invisible wall, growing to envelope NervousMan's field of vision.

Blue and green, it now dwarfed the sky.

NervousMan could not tell now if he was falling up into its heavens, or plummeting toward its surface. He shifted his feet, again, and bit his lip. He glanced behind him but could see nothing. NervousMan nervously rubbed the back of his neck. The soundtrack thrummed.

The planet became everything now. And even though NervousMan was looking up at it, he had the sense of looking down on it. He was looking down on clouds which were usually in the sky. And now he saw canyons and rivers. Far off in the distance he could see a large body of water rapidly approaching. The projected sun glinting off of its surface.


NervousMan started to realize that he really needed to go to the bathroom.

NervousMan in the Darkness

NervousMan turned to see the an older woman standing to his left, smiling.

He could smell her perfume. It had the faintest tinge of talcum powder in it, NervousMan recognized. A gray perm wreathed the woman's lined face, its frizzy dominance offset by her large turtle shell glasses.

The woman blinked at NervousMan.

NerouvsMan blinked back.

NervousMan looked down. He could see the woman holding a number of books against her chest. One of them was something about an 'Anne Frank,' NervousMan could see.

Dangling in front of the book, was what looked to be a badge with the name 'Molly Ingrams' around her neck and the words 'Library Staff'.

"Did you want to see The Cosmos Exhibit?" the woman asked NervousMan.

"Is this it?" he said. NervousMan felt dazed.

The woman smiled warmly and cocked her head.

"I'll show you," she said. "If you'll follow me?"

The nice lady turned and began to walk, and NervousMan walked softly behind wondering where they were going.

The room they walked into was dark as midnight at the bottom of a well. As NervousMan's eyes adjusted to the light, he began to see a field of small points of light slowly coming lighter and brighter before and all around him.

NervousMan's eyes widened, but he did not feel nervous.

"Stand right here on this X," the lady said nicely, pointing down to the floor.

NervousMan looked down and could make out a dark gray 'X' on the floor in front of him. The X seemed to swim in the darkness around his feet.

"Around my feet? Darkness..." thought NervousMan.

"Why..." he whispered, almost mindlessly, his lips slipped slightly apart without a sound.

"I'll start the show in 30 seconds," the woman told NervousMan. He could hear the smile in her voice, and could hear her feet stepping over the hard floor and exit the door behind him.

NervousMan heard a sharp clack, and for a few timeless moments he stood alone in the darkness, softly illuminated by the points of light around him.

The lights seemed to be moving. Or was it NervousMan who was moving?

A voice come out of the darkness.

"Welcome," it said.

NervousMan stops and thinks for just a moment...

Life had outpaced NervousMan
it had gotten far ahead

NervousMan felt that somehow
he needed to catch up to it

Was there a way,
NervousMan thought,
to slow down life
long enough for him
to catch up?

NervousMan didn't know.

And while he was thinking
this:

Life inched forward
just a little bit more.

NervousMan had a feeling
vague as it was
that he was looking
for something
except
he couldn't remember
what he had in mind

If only I could remember
what it is I am looking
for


thought NervousMan


Maybe I would stand a
better chance
of finding it

Perhaps
he was looking for
the ocean
with its waves
of salty brine
and gulls
and sunshine

He could almost
feel the cool
water running
over his naked
body
the wet sand
underneath his
back

But there is
no ocean in this
place
NervousMan saw

only sidewalks
and ambulances
and people
who look away
at the last
moment

NervousMan
remembered
someone
somewhere
who was weeping
he couldn't
remember who
exactly

Perhaps it was
him
he thought
to himself

But this was
a strange
thought
which he pushed
from his mind

NervousMan hadn't
cried in a long
long time
longer than he
could remember

Wearily, he walked
on past displays
of astronomy
and cosmology
and pictures
of starfields
and galaxies

For some reason
he began to feel
very very small
as if
in some sense
just beyond his
grasp
he did not even
exist
at all.

It is strange to
think this way

thought NervousMan

and yet
he didn't mind

NervousMan stopped

in front of a picture
of an old lithograph
showing a man poking
his head through
the dome of a fake sky
and looking around

NervousMan could not
see
the cartoon's man's
face
which was in a half
profile

but it must have
been
one of astonishment
and wonder

NervousMan breathed

He is looking for
something
thought NervousMan
this cartoon man
who did not exist


He is looking for
something



And then
from somewhere
very far away
he heard the words

"May I help you?"

'Roger the Rager' and Mr. Weepy

Roger was pissed. As usual.

Just that morning he got another telemarketing call, waking him up half an hour before the alarm.

He had been in the middle of a great fucking dream where he was riding Jennifer Lopez doggie style, his strong musclebound hands pulling her hair back like the reins of a bucking bronco and giving it to her good.

"Fuck me! Fuck me harder!" the dream-Jennifer screamed.

"Ride me, you HARD STUD!!!"

And then.... BBBRRRRRRRRING!!!!!

Roger was awake, instantly, muttering curse words under his breath and rubbing his eyes.

Before the phone had rung a second time, Roger, snapped it up quickly.

Roger heard, "Hello," from an automated voice.

"YOU have just won a free all-expense paid trip to Las Vegas. Press one now to claim your prize!".

Roger pressed the number one. Hard.

After a few seconds, the operator answered.

"Hello. Can I have your first name please?" a bright and happy voice said on the other end of the line.

"Yes my first name is Stick-It-Up-Your-Ass," said Roger bright and with mock enthusiasm.

"Oh, very good sir," the operator said, the professional tone a little more dark.

"I thought you'd like it, you cunt," Roger spat into the receiver before slamming the phone down in its cradle.

Roger hated his job, which was actually that of a telemarketer as well. But then, Roger hated everything. And everyone. And he made no exception to himself, either. Roger hated himself too.

There were times, oh yes, that Roger even hated the fucking sun for shining.

Roger had what might be called an 'anger problem' by people of a more professional bent.

Over the course of his life he had had 3 ulcers and he was nursing a fourth. One of them was when he was a kid, two more in his twenties. He had been in jail more times than he could remember, and less times than he probably deserved to be.

Roger was a 34 year old white man standing a modest 5'10, had a dark unkempt beard, and was built like a linebacker. He almost never smiled. When he walked down the street, people instinctively got out of his way. Roger almost hoped that they didn't so that he would have an excuse to beat the living hell out of them.

In elementary school, before he was sent to the 'special school', he was called 'Roger the Rager', or sometimes just 'Rager'. But not many kids called him that more than once and kept all their teeth.

Today, Roger felt just like he had on the day of his last anger management group that he went to, by court order. It just hadn't worked out.

He had 'threatened' someone, they said.

NO he hadn't!

He was in denial they said!

No he wasn't!

Roger disagreed with their assessment of him. And he told them so in no uncertain terms, throwing one of their chairs through one of the stucco walls of the meeting room in the process.

"Assessment," Roger thought, rolling it over in his mind like a piece of bitter candy.

Yes, ASSSSS-essment.

How many 'assssessments' had there been in his life? How many ASS-essor ASS-hole ASSistants had ASSESSED him half-ASSedly, sitting across from them on their ASSES in their immaculate ASS offices; their polished, manicured nails held together oh-so-sagely with their goddamn stupid smug and condescending professional smirks?

Roger’s jaw tightened at the thought.

Roger's only goddamn wish was that all of them had one goddamn neck. And that his hands were around it.

On his way to work that morning, someone in a Toyota had cut him off in traffic and Roger quashed the sharp impulse to ram his car into the stupid asshole's back-end, gripping the wheel tightly with white knuckles and gritting his teeth hard as he stomped the brake like killing a giant bug.

'COCKSUCCCKERRRRR!!!!' Roger fumed.

"It's okay," thought Roger. "Today I'll treat myself to a good lunch. As a reward for not going on a shooting rampage. I'll get Marian Berry Creme Cheese at the library cafe. I like that".

But then, at lunch, the sandwich lady at the counter screwed up his order.

Roger had come all the way down to the library cafe specifically so he could enjoy one of their Washington Square sandwiches on sourdough bread with a simple fucking substitution of Marian Berry Creme Cheese (instead of chipotle like it came with) like he usually has on Thursdays.

Lifting the bread he looked again at the wet beige sauce of the chipotle.

"I fucking knew it," he muttered under his breath. "I specifically asked for Marian Berry Creme cheese!"

SON OF A BITCH!!

Roger could feel his jaw tighten and ache now as he closed his eyes in frustration.

"FUUU-UHCK" he said softly.

He could feel the anger starting to rise inside like a venom-filled spider coming out of its hole. He had been waiting for the taste of that Marian Berry Creme Cheese all day long and now it was spicy chipotle he found instead on his sandwich.

"Am I going to kill someone?" he thought to himself opening his eyes.

Roger felt almost giddy, lightheaded.

"Am I going to kill someone today?" he thought again.

Another part of him said "count to ten". Because that's what he was always taught.

'Count to 10'

Roger sighed.

"1---2---3---"

Roger took a sip of the strawberry milk. It would calm his stomach. It almost tasted like the Marion Berry creme cheese.

Suddenly a gnat flew in Roger's face.

Jesus Christ!

Roger batted it away. He could sense someone out of the corner of his eye glancing at him, warily.

Roger ignored the look and closed his eyes.

"Okay, 1--2--3---"

"Okay take a deep breath now"

"4---5---6".

Gradually, Roger felt himself start to calm down a little. Maybe things weren't so bad.

Later, he could go home and jerk off or something. Maybe punch the punching bag at the gym. Or walk. Those were 'positive' outlets, he thought.

"7--8--9--"

That's when the man who looked like an overgrown twit started blubbering like some kind of simpering girl over some sodden newspaper article he was holding.

"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH HAH HAH HAH HAH!" the man wailed.

"Jesus fucking feathery Christ on 10 rubber crutches!! Can't I just enjoy one goddamn SANDWICH in my LIFE??" Roger thought to himself, almost saying it out loud.

He had lost count. Where was he? 6 or 7. 8?

GODDAMMIT!!!!!

Roger watched the crying man, his face a twisted mask of contempt and disdain and almost disbelief that any 'MAN' could be such a fucking WIMP.

Madly, suddenly, he despised the man. He despised his weakness. He despised any world that would create such a fucking sobbing little pussy of an excuse for a human being.

Roger hated the crying man with every molecule of his being. Whoever he was. Whatever he was crying about. He didn't care. Roger hated him. And the hate felt... good. Very very good. Cleansing really.

"That man should be dead," Roger thought suddenly. "Fucking DEAD".

NO ONE should cry and carry on like that in a public place. No one! Unless they were some kind of goddamn coward. Some kind of twisted fucking retarded pussified freak!

The man sobbed even louder. Now Roger could see somebody asking the man if he were allright.

Roger heard the word 'ambulance' being used.

"He's not going to be all right," said Roger under his breath, and frowned.

And then it hit him like a monster of energy exploding in his mind.

Roger was going to kill that crying man. If it was the last fucking thing he ever did.

Whoever he was, whatever it was about. The crying man had laid down the last straw on Roger's back, and this was it.

Roger's mouth gaped and his eyes were wide with the stark realization of the sudden epiphany.

I. Am. Going. To. Kill. Him.

Wow.

Kill. As in, not as a metaphor not as an idle threat or a fantasy. This time Roger, somehow, was going to commit murder. Maybe it wouldn't be today, or tomorrow. He didn't know how. But eventually, their paths would cross. He would find a way.

Even if he got caught, even if he went to jail, he would be comforted for the rest of his life by the memory of looking into that sobbing idiotic twit's dying eyes, and that the last thing that sobbering cretin would see would be the look of satisfaction on his face. .

He could see it, he knew it, he could visualize it taking place. He knew it with absolute hundred percent certainty.

In fact, he could even taste it.

Roger took a bite of his sandwich, tasting the sharp tanginess of the hot chipotle spill pour over his tastebuds, mixed in with the sprouts and cucumbers. His nostrils flared.

"Yeah motherfucker, keep crying. Keep crying. Cuz I'm gonna give you something to cry about, allright. Something you will cry about for the rest of your miserable days", Roger thought.

"No doubt".

Roger took another bite of his sandwich feeling the slight burn of the chipotle as he swallowed.

He watched the man cry and whimper and sniff and sob.

Gingerly, almost dapperly, Roger dabbed his napkin against the side of his mouth.

And then slowly, and very very wrongly, Roger began to smile.

NervousMan and Wheetmort at the Library Cafe

Friday, NervousMan was in one of his 'dark' moods.

As he sat outside, at the cafe next to the library, NervousMan looked at the remnants of his sandwich.

NervousMan's clothes clung to him in an unappealing way. His shoe had a hole in it. His underwear was at least 3 days old. It was his last clean pair. He knew he needed to do his laundry. But he seemed to always need to do his laundry, or clean the carpet, or the bathroom, or wash the dishes.

Forever, it seemed, NervousMan was faced with an endless list of chores that had to be done.

NervousMan sighed.

Suddenly, from somewhere behind, NervousMan heard a sound that sounded somewhere between a hack and a sniffle.

'Hitching sob' were the words that went through NervousMan's head before he pushed them out and resumed thinking about his imminent, endless, chores.

NervousMan heard the incomprehensible jabber of patrons around him. They had grown somewhat quieter since the loud noise had come from somewhere behind him.

NervousMan looked out of the window of the cafe.

The spring months are starting now, NervousMan thought. The sun would come out, and be out longer, making NervousMan even more nervous. For a moment, he regarded the sunny day that lay beyond, and felt the bass hum and the intermittent 'woosh'es of traffic going by outside.

"I need to buy toilet paper" NervousMan thought.

After being out, for almost an hour, NervousMan was sure that he would want to rest when he got home. Why had he gone out anyway? Oh yes, to get out. Now, perhaps, he needed to go back.

Life, it seemed, was an endless alternating sequence of 'going out' and 'going back'. And chores in between.

NervousMan looked down at the plastic, or wood, or whatever is was, that made up the black tabletop in front of him. His palm rested against the coolness of the table.

"I want to rest," NervousMan thought to himself, which, of course, was his favorite way of doing so. "At home".

Again, the sound came from behind him.

NervousMan winced.

"I have to take a shower" said NervousMan, very very softly. So that even the person sitting next to him wouldn't be able to hear. He looked up and saw a man standing at the counter talking to the cashier. The man had to weigh at least 500 pounds, NervousMan thought. The man was buying some doughnuts.

NervousMan looked back outside. He frowned, and considered the prospect of going home and taking a shower. Perhaps, even doing his laundry.

NervousMan felt tired.

'I don't want to start in on a bunch of other stuff," he thought..

Perhaps NervousMan should go home and take a nap. That sounded easy enough.

NervousMan let out a deep sigh and then began to gather the various napkins and wrappers on the table, methodically putting them, one by one, onto the tray in front of him.

If he took a shower, NervousMan thought, he would only get dirty again shortly after taking the shower, eventually. So, logically there was no point in taking a shower. It was an exercise in futility. Utterly pointless.

"Stupid," said NervousMan, very softly as he placed an empty and torn packet of sugar, the last item, onto the tray.

NervousMan froze as the sound came from behind him again. This time it was definitely a sob.

"Oh god," NervousMan thought to himself, "Someone is losing it, behind me". Maybe it was someone who had a loved one die recently, he thought.

NervousMan was nervous. He began looking around, plotting to make his exit smoothly and cleanly. NervousMan could sense people around him fidgeting now, and glancing at the person behind him, someone that NervousMan could still not see.

Not that he wanted to.

....

Mr. Weepy was aware of everyone looking at him, but he didn't care. Mr. Weepy just couldn't keep the tears inside anymore.

As if Mr. Weepy ever could.

Mr. Weepy watched the tears fall one by one into the cup of hot chocolate in front of him. He wiped his eyes again with the side of his wrist. "My eyes are becoming stingy", he thought to himself.

This made him cry more.

Mr. Weepy sniffed deeply and looked back at the picture and let out another sob, biting his lower lip as he did so. This sob was more pronounced. Mr. Weepy put a little of his voice into it this time and then punctuated it with a sniffle at the end. He breathed in sharply.

A man wearing a black leather jacket, and a lip-ring, sitting at a nearby table, scowled at Mr. Weepy. People around him bristled. Someone got up to leave.

"Aaaaaah hah hah hah-HAAAAAH!" Mr. Weepy wailed, drawing the mucus back into his sinuses and bowing his head.

Mr. Weepy's real name was Wheetmort Plendergrast, a name he would often have to spell out the letters of, between sobs. He was 53 years old and he had never had a girlfriend. In fact, Mr. Weepy hardly ever had any friends at all.

Wheetmort Plendergrast suffered from a variety of nervous conditions and was well-known by social service personnel in several states. Wheetmort was his actual name and was on his birth certificate. A lot of people had asked him over the years what kind of name 'Wheetmort' was, but this made Mr. Weepy cry even more, and so they stopped asking.

Denizens of the various towns that he had travelled through over the years, came to know him sometimes as The Crying Man, or in some cased 'Mr. Weeple'. But mostly, they knew him as 'Mr. Weepy'.

At six foot three inches tall, Mr. Weepy resembled a larger, more robust version of Mr. Whipple from the old commercials back in the 70's... except Mr. Weepy's face was often crimson and his eyes were red and irritated from weeping hot and bitter tears, usually in public. His soft, fine black hair, what was left of it, often floated around his head as he walked, his face set in a mask of hurt anger.

Mr. Weepy took about 23 pills a day, all told, a regimen made up of vitamins, obscure supplements, and psychiatric medication. He carried his pills around with him in a large plastic sack.

Mr. Weepy had an imposing walk, that said 'don't come near me, don't fuck with me' to the other people around him. Few people who saw Mr. Weepy forgot him anytime soon and while his presence was disturbing to others, few approached him to leave their place of business. But that was okay, cuz Mr. Weepy kept moving around. The pockets of his corduroy slacks bulged with several handkerchiefs that he carried around with him at all times.

Mr. Weepy lived off of social security disability. The question of whether Mr. Weepy could ever hold a job... well... it wasn't even a question, really. Doctors had told Mr. Weepy over the years that his limbic system, in his brain, was constantly working overtime. On the occasion that he got a CAT SCAN, it showed that the activity in this area of the brain, usually there to regulate emotion, was off the charts. He was told he had a genetic condition that one or both parents had as well.

Mr. Weepy never knew his real parents though, and this was one of the things that made Mr. Weepy weep a great deal.

Mr. Weepy had just moved into town and had decided to eat at the library cafe. Looking through the local newspaper, which the cafe provided, he came across an article which talked about a local care center which treated little burned and blind babies. It was called the Infant Trauma Center or ITC. The newspaper story talked at length about it.

"How beautiful," thought Mr. Weepy, as he looked at a grainy black and white picture, of a child in bandages reaching out to a helping hand of someone just out of the frame of the picture. Mr. Weepy had spilled some of his hot chocolate on the picture just a moment before, so startled he was by the article.

"How beautiful," thought Mr. Weepy. He reached out and smoothed the picture lovingly as waves of tears boiled up from deep inside of him and spilled out through his perpetually dilated tear ducts and fell upon the picture. "How beautiful". Under the bandages, you could see the smile of the little child.

The caption read, "Little Mindy Souzan sees the face of her caregiver for the first time".

Mr. Weepy sniffed noisily again and his face was overcome with emotion. Some part of him realized that he was making a bit of a mess, and for the millionth time he saw that everyone in the cafe was looking at him now. Soon, one of the employees would come over and ask in a concerned voice if everything was okay. That sort of thing happened before to Mr. Weepy a lot.

Mr. Weepy looked up and saw the nervous-looking young man in crummy clothes who just getting up to put his tray away.

The nervous man glanced nervously at Mr. Weepy, for a moment, and then away, before he walked to the exit door. For a moment, Mr. Weepy saw the old woman in the pink sweater saying something to the nervous man.

Mr. Weepy looked back at the picture and drew in his breath sharply. A painful, tearful grimace took hold of his features again, this time much stronger. Slowly, sniffing sharply every other second, he began to carefully tear the picture from the page.

When he got home, Mr. Weepy would put it in his collection of beautiful pictures. Beautiful, beautiful pictures.

Fishing in his pocket, Mr. Weepy thought, "How awful, that poor poor nervous man. And his clothes. How awful. What the fuck is wrong with people? How awful.".

Mr. Weepy sought out a dry spot on his third handkerchief of the day.

"How awful. How awful How awful!" he thought. And then, looking back at the soiled picture he thought, "How beautiful, how beautiful, how beautiful" and wept some more.

Mr. Weepy's mind foundered in an ocean of stark and poignant emotion, steeped in the sensations of its own raw sensation. He lived on the edge of always being capsized.

"How beautiful," said Mr. Weepy through tear-filled eyes.

Here it was, thought Mr. Weepy. It was already so early in the day, and there was already so much to cry about. Even the sunshine, especially the sunshine, in fact, made Mr. Weepy cry. Because it was so beautiful.

"Is everything... okay? Can I get you anything?" someone said off to his left.

But Mr. Weepy didn't look at the person. He looked at the picture as if the person had never even said anything.

"What... like an ambulance?" asked Mr. Weepy as he sniffed again and wiped his nose.

....


After putting his tray away, NervousMan sighed and made his way toward the exit door. He glanced back at the man crying in the corner. He felt like maybe something was wrong with the poor man. Again, it crossed his mind that the man was in mourning. Some kind of mourning.

Whatever the reason was for the weepy man's outburst, it made NervousMan nervous.

"Mourning" though NervousMan passed the mirrored wall next to the soda fountain, and willed himself not to look at his reflection lest he see his own nervousness.

NervousMan walked on, feeling the muscles in his gut clench his entrails like a stubborn bobcat that did not want to let go of its prey. He came closer to the exit door.

NervousMan felt the raw sunlight streaming through the glass window, and pouring over his face.

NervousMan winced.

NervousMan noticed an old lady in a bright pink sweater and black slacks eating licorice on a chair, sitting at a small table, near the door, waiting for a seat. The woman's hair was dishwater gray and was held together with a black hairnet.

She looked at NervousMan in such a way as if she had been looking at him for a long time. A hint of a smile was on her lips which was neatly adorned with violet lipstick which matched her sweater and set a sharp contrast against the lined age of her face. In her lap was a bag of pink and black licorice. NervousMan noticed quickly that the bag was the same color scheme as the old lady's outfit.

Her aged hands, covered in thick blue and black veins, and almost completely choked with liver spots, gripped solidly the gray handles of the walker in front of her as she leaned forward slightly.

"You're funny," she said to NervousMan giving him a wink and popping a piece of licorce into her mouth.

The old lady smiled.

"I-- I am?" said NervousMan.

"Yes".

NervousMan leaned against the exit door. "And here I thought I was so serious," he said.

"You," the old lady said, "are funny... because you are so serious".

NervousMan blinked.

NervousMan pushed the exit door open and for a moment, everything was in slow motion as he walked out into the sunlight of, what was for all intents and purposes, a bright spring day, NervousMan seemed dazed. It was as if the sun was coating him with mind-altering radiation.

Yes, the sun WAS radiation after all, thought NervousMan. He tasted bitter saliva in his mouth like electric spit, his shoulders slumped as if the sunlight pressed down on him in heavy golden sheets.

NervousMan wanted to sit down. Perhaps he should go over to the library.

Stepping inside of the lobby of the library, NervousMan was momentarily relieved by the shade of the indoor cover. Slightly disoriented, and somewhat blinded by the sudden change in brightness, NervousMan walked steadily inside as his eyes adjusted.

NervousMan had seen the security guard man before. He looked a bit like ... that comedian... Bill Murray was it?. Yes Bill Murray. Or was it his brother? The security guard man sat at his station near the entrance watching NervousMan approach.

NervousMan had seen how clean and impeccable those security uniforms were.

"Impeccable" thought NervousMan. There's a word.

The security guard's eyes seemed to narrow as NervousMan approached the station to pass in front of it. He had seen the security guard man before but had never really looked at him. NervousMan did not want to look at him now, or to be looked at.

NervousMan walked on.

"Hello, how are you?" the security guard said to NervousMan, his tone direct and serious. The man's head seemed to be arched in such a way as to direct NervousMan inside.

"Oh! Hello!" NervousMan said back almost immediately looking at the security guard only in his peripheral vision, but tilting his head somewhat in the security guard man's general direction. "I am FINE! Fine... I am. Thank you. Thank you very much”.

NervousMan offered a tight smile and inwardly rolled his eyes at his own awkwardness.

Had he said 'hello' just a tad too loudly? Oh god! What an idiot he was! Maybe he should have asked the man how HE was too. Maybe even strike up a conversation. Make a new friend.

What was WRONG with NervousMan?

But, no. That kind of person wouldn't want anything to do with NervousMan anyway. That was for sure. Best not try to get to know anybody, NervousMan thought. Besides, how strange would it look to stop and walk back and start chatting. What in the world would he say?

Just the thought of doing something like that made NervousMan nervous.

NervousMan walked on, thinking "I look stupid, I am so stupid, I am stupid, I am so stupid, I seem suspicious," thought NervousMan, again. "I am suspicious. Suspicious and conspicuous. Conscpicuous and Suspicious ... and nervous".

NervousMan sighed.

A young Asian woman behind the information counter seemed to regard NervousMan. NervousMan looked away.

"Oh my god," Nervousman thought, 'what if my fly is open!".

NervousMan realized that he could check to see, with his hand, or by looking at his crotch, but that would only make him look more 'conspicious'.

"Conspicious? Yes, I am 'conspicious'," thought NervousMan.

Steadily, NervousMan walked to the foot of the escalator. Suddenly, he had the strange sensation that his legs weren't long enough to quite reach the ground. That in a moment he would soon just dangle in space moving his legs but not moving anywhere, and then float up, up into the rafters of the building.

People would laugh at NervousMan if that happened!

NervousMan could see in his mind's eye, the security guard looking at the back of his head as he mounted the steps and they pulled him bodily onto the moving metal flight.

"Perhaps he knows what I am thinking", thought NervousMan.

"In that case, he already knows that I know that he knows. And then he knows... THAT. And then he knows... that, too."

"I am 'conspicious'," thought NervousMan as he was pulled upward.

As he rose, NervousMan felt like every person in the library was staring at him. Somehow, they knew his knowing of their knowing his knowing.

Or so it seemed.

NervousMan could feel the glare of dozens and dozens of sets of eyes roaming over and collectively exploring his backside like the pinpoints of hot laser beams.

NervousMan shuddered and gulped hard.

He felt sick.

Don't look back, thought NervousMan, closing his eyes as he ascended, enduring the horrible and withering stares he sensed were coming from all around him.

Somewhere, above him, he heard someone laugh.

Perhaps it was someone looking at him, thought NervousMan.

NervousMan opened his eyes, seeing that he was now arriving at the 2nd floor.

"THE COSMOS EXHIBIT" read a bright red and orange LED sign in front of him surrounded by black and a few hints of decorative lights placed around, like stars. Under this sign, was an arrow pointing off to the right.

"Cosmos", thought NervousMan. Somewhere he had read that God was everything. God was the Cosmos.

"Words," thought NervousMan. Replace Cosmos with God. Who knew what God was anyway?

"God," NervousMan muttered softly to himself, stepping off of the escalator. No one heard him.

The laughter came again, and NervousMan glanced over to see a young man, quite oblivious of NervousMan, happily talking on a cellphone in one ear, and in the other ear listening to one of the headphone wire of his iPod.

NervousMan grimaced and soon found himself shuffling off toward 'THE COSMOS EXHIBIT", following the signs all around him.

NervousMan contemplates getting out of bed

NervousMan woke up in the early evening.

Lately his days had been getting shorter and shorter. But then, NervousMan thought, this happens around this year everytime. Days are short, nights are long.

Soon it will be springtime, thought NervousMan. Then, there will be sunshine filtering down through the green leaves on the trees and there will be butterflies, he thought, and strawberries. But now it is wintertime. And things are cold and wet.

NervousMan's bladder ached for release. He held it back with his will. He looked at the clock across the room. He had slept nearly 10 hours. NervousMan's bed felt nice and warm, but soon, he would have to get out of it to go to the bathroom.

NervousMan rubbed his eyes. He tried to recall what he was dreaming about just a few minutes ago. Was it something to do with horses? Or was he in some kind of a predicament.

Usually, NervousMan's dreams had to do with predicaments. He could imagine himself in bed, sleeping and dreaming, his brow furrowed, his eyes closed tight, dreaming very hard as he tried to figure his way out of the dream-predicament he had gotten himself into.

Suddenly, the phone rang.

NervousMan was startled. Who could it be? NervousMan didn't really know anybody. No one ever called NervousMan except people trying to sell things.

The phone rang again.

Perhaps NervousMan should answer it, he thought to himself.

NervousMan reached over and touched the smooth phone and lifted the receiver, bringing it slowly to his ear.

"H-hello?" said NervousMan, nervously.

"Hello" a gravelly voice said on the other end of the line.

There was a moment of silence where NervousMan tried to figure out what to say next.

"I want to suck you," said the voice, in a deep whisper.

"You do?" said NervousMan, his eyes wide.

Then, the line went dead.

NervousMan hung up the phone, slowly. He wondered who it could be that wanted to 'suck' him.

He didn't know.

NervousMan felt nervous.

Throwing back the covers of the bed, NervousMan walked unevenly toward his bathroom. There he relieved himself, thinking that the bubbling urine looked like little clear yellow marbles, all in a bunch.

He flushed.

And then he thought, "What now?"

NervousMan remembered the warm bed. He could go out, and get something to eat. Or he could go back to bed.

But, thought NervousMan, I have already slept for so long.

Just a little while longer, thought NervousMan. After all, there were so many things outside of the bed that made NervousMan nervous.