NervousMan and the TV That Wasn't There

NervousMan woke up in the morning, at least that's what time he thought it was.

The sunlight cascaded through the window into his bedroom brightening the white walls that surrounded him. He breathed the first awakened breath of the day.

He could vaguely remember his dreams. In them, he seemed to remember, he was searching for something. Slogging through mud puddles somewhere out in the badlands. Searching.

Badlands, thought NervousMan. What were badlands? Lands that were bad? Why had he thought of that?

Motes of dust drifted through the sunbeams. NervousMan blinked at them, and sighed.

NervousMan could hear the sound of cars passing by outside his window, somewhere beyond the trees. A steady woosh woosh like the sound of an ocean. An ocean of tires. A tired ocean. NervousMan felt like a tired ocean. Or a lazy wave thrown finally onto the shore of a new day.

He longed for the world of dreams from which he had just emerged. He wanted to return to them. Anything but facing this nervous day.

NervousMan looked over at the desk in the corner. Years ago someone had given him that desk, but he had forgotten who. On it had set a television set and NervousMan used to watch it. A lot.

But a few years ago he had gotten rid of the TV set, resigning to just be alone with his thoughts. He had just unplugged it, lifted it up and put it out by the trash for someone else to find. The things it showed, the garish parade of atrocities which it offered forth each day at regular feeding hours, made NervousMan's head hurt. So out it went.

NervousMan glanced at the clock radio on the desk, but it's electronic face was dark. He had unplugged it. The sounds that came out of it made NervousMan nervous. But someday, maybe, he would plug it back in. It would be nice to know what time it is.

NervousMan didn't know if it was morning or just past noon. In fact, he was not sure what day it was. Sometime in January, NervousMan thought. Or February. Yes, February that's it. NervousMan had read the headlines about a new president now when he walked passed newspaper kiosks on the street, although NervousMan did not read newspapers.

Sometime, NervousMan would sit in the McDonald's, down the block, eating. Sometimes, out of curiousity, he would watch the TV they had there, just to see what was going on in the world. Often, they would show cartoons. But other times, they showed news.

One time, they were showing something on the news about the war that was going on overseas. On the screen, NervousMan remembered, a man who looked Arabic picked up half of somebody's severed hand out of a dirty gutter and showed it to the news camera. Just, a dirty filth- covered half of a hand. The index finger and the thumb were gone. Blown away.

NervousMan remembered feeling nervous when he saw that, and remembering this, he felt nervous now. He remembered  that at the time, he had looked about at his dining companions who watched the horrific display in dispassionate silence, chewing on their burgers and whatnot.

It was a while before he went back to that McDonald's.

Television is the great 'rhythm-setter' of our nation, thought NervousMan. You're supposed to watch it to get a certain rhythm. You're supposed to listen to the radio too. To get the rhythms. They are the beat that everyone dances to, thinks to, acts to. At work, at play. You can rest on those rhythms, thought NervousMan.

The TV tells us how long to pause before we answer. It tells us what to say. It tells us what's on everyone else's minds. The catch-phrases, the issues of the day. It presents the stories we are all supposed to be thinking about. It's like the guy on the slave ship beating the drum so everyone is synced up in what they are doing, rowing their way through life. 

One of the questions they ask you is 'do you watch TV?' thought NervousMan. But who are 'they'? 'They' are the ones who ask if the TV talks to you. Then, they put you in a room with a TV. To wait. And wait.

NervousMan sighed again and sat on the side of the bed and stared at the floor. He needed to vacuum. Silence.

NervousMan breathed again and looked out the window, his eyes adjusting to the light. His stomach growled.

When you utterly don't watch TV, NervousMan reflected, when you are out of tune with what is going on in the world, and then you go out there, you're just terribly out of sync with everybody around you. People can see it. People can tell. In the way you walk, the way you talk, the way you breathe, the way your eyes go, what you do with your hands. Because you're moving with your own rhythm, your own sync, your own vibration, your own... reality. Which is different from those around you.

After a while, you find yourself trembling and shaking while waiting in a line, or waiting for a light to change, or waiting for your food to arrive. Idle times. Times when you're nervous. And in those idle times, which make up the bulk of your day, or indeed all of it, even while negotiating the purchase of a sandwich, the other people around sense there is 'something wrong with you'. And depending on your size, NervousMan thought, you become either a target, or something to avoid. 

The phone rang.

NervousMan came out of his reverie with a sharp intake of breath.

Who could be calling? Another obscene phone call thought NervousMan, or a telemarketer again. Maybe a wrong number. Those were the only kind of calls NervousMan got.

The phone rang.

Who could be calling? NervousMan was not expecting a call. NervousMan didn't know anybody. Maybe I should answer it, NervousMan thought to himself. After all, people don't 'book' phone calls. They just call.

The phone rang.

NervousMan reached over to his nightstand and lifted the receiver before the answering machine kicked in. He put it to his ear but did not say anything.

"James?" a voice said on the other end of the line. The voice sounded familiar. "James Christansen?"

NervousMan didn't speak.

"Are you there?" the voice said.

NervousMan knew the voice. Nasal. New York. Jewish sounding. Accent, thought NervousMan. He knew the voice from somewhere.

And somehow, he felt that the voice knew him too.

"James, this is Doctor Shelby. Can you hear me?" the voice said.

Instinctively, NervousMan hung up the phone.

NervousMan felt nervous. Somehow, they had found him. The same people who had asked him about the television set. Wasn't it? Could he remember? He had just been thinking about them.

Maybe, thought NervousMan, they had sensed his thoughts about the TV and found him that way.

But NervousMan felt like this idea was, ear... ear rational. Irrational. Isn't that what they told him? He was 'irrational'.

NervousMan considered this for a few seconds, and then pushed such thoughts out of his mind. He got out of bed.

The phone rang again.