What Is It About Tuesday?

Everybody laughs when I say that my life is a sitcom. But I'm not kidding about this—I completely understand where Seinfeld was coming from. Today, for example, was a typically normal yet odd day. I think it has something to do with Tuesdays. I just scanned through old posts, looking for potential writing samples (I picked "Eulogy for the Post That Never Was," because Dahlgren gave it high praise), when I realized that most of my zanier posts are the result of strange things happening on Tuesday. This Tuesday was packed with the ordinary and the extraordinary, keeping with the trend.

I woke up and applied to a bunch of jobs, none of which I expect to hear back about. It's a miserable feeling, knowing that you don’t have any choice but to put time into a letter that will probably be instantly deleted. My cover letters have become more and more desperate as the months past. At this point I feel like writing, "I am offering the rights to my future children if you let me come and toil away for free." What more can I do, honestly? It’s not a matter of trying; it’s a matter of timing. I can’t do much about it.

My brother came over at about 11 to eat lunch and nap before going to work. He and I started discussing my sister and her boyfriend. Why this was the chosen topic of conversation for the day? He brought it up out of the blue. I should have sensed the set up and found something else to do, but I walked right into it.

He asked if I thought they were going to get married, and I said I hoped so. He asked me why. I told him that they seemed to share a real respect and affection for one another; that he had gone to great schools and done extremely well; that his family members to whom I've been introduced seem extraordinarily nice; that he was very easy going and very respectful to my grandparents and other family members; on and on like that, listing about fifty good reasons why I hoped she would wind up with him. At the end of it, I expressed an opinion that that the two of us have shared at least a million times, "I have long been terrified that she'd marry someone we didn’t like, and we'd be stuck hanging out with him for the rest of our lives. But this guy is really awesome."

Then he lashed out at me and yelled, "You're so self-centered. What's your problem? Why does everything have to be about you? Jesus, Pat, grow up!"I was stunned. Fifty-one points, one of which was a personal opinion, and that makes me some self-centered egomaniac. I was missing something.

"Well," I quickly retorted, "you asked me my opinion. Sorry I don't know your opinion, or anyone else’s. Sorry all I have the right to say is what I think about the situation. Sorry I couldn't give you the results of some 'perfect relationship formula' that doesn't exist. You know we don’t have the kind of relationship where she’d sit me down and say, ‘I really love this guy; I hope we get married.’ If you ask me an opinion about something, of course I'm going to include how it might affect me, because all I really know for 100% certain is how I think something might affect me. So, blow me, dude."

At that biting retort, he pounced back with a diatribe about how ignorant I am in the proper use of language, and how I typically construct sentences poorly because I don't put enough effort into putting forth my ideas. Would you, my dedicated readers, say that I have communication issues? I hear compliments like, “You make me laugh my ass off,” or, “Your take on the world is pretty unique.” Never once have I heard, “There’s a much better way to get that idea across,” or “That was a really great story until you completely dropped the ball at the end.” Give me a break. I'm a damn good communicator. Communicating is what I do best, for crap’s sake, or at least I think it is. Maybe I’m wrong. The conversation continued.

After levying this totally incorrect assessment on me, he finished with a comment along the lines of, "Dad has always liked me more than you." Okay, so what? Big deal. Pat takes a lot of crap. Thanks for the newsflash—from 1990. Given the random assortment of senseless arguments being hurled about, I knew he was getting at something. What was it?

In between stabs at me, he repeatedly went back to the topic of my sister's boyfriend, and how he thought it was bogus that my dad was helping him to find a great job for after his graduation this spring. He expressed concern that my father would use up all of his networking capital trying to hook up a non-family member, when my brother would need the same help in two years' time. Now, I know this to be ridiculous. There is, to the best of my knowledge, no set quota for the permissible letters of introduction one might write, or a limit to the number of favors one might seek, especially when it comes to my father helping us in a time of need. But, my brother is no idiot; he knows he was wrong, but he was just in a sour mood. When he lashes out at those closest to him, it is never because they did something to wrong him. Without exception, he lashes out because he did something wrong, and he needs to get angry at somebody else in order to make himself feel better about what he did wrong. It’s confusing, but that’s how it is.

"Ah," I thought to myself as it all dawned on me, "you got a so-so grade on a legal writing project that could have been much better, so you came over here to ruin my day." Situations like this are exactly why I read Sherlock Holmes—sometimes you have to read clues backwards to forwards to know what’s going on, especially with this guy. I try to take it in stride, and I never hold it against him. I love him too much to lash back, so I just let it go.

Just then the phone rang, and it was a headhunter. We had a conversation that was great in two ways. First, and most importantly, I think she's going to get me in somewhere. She seems pretty well connected in Chicago, and she has former colleagues at an awesome company that happens to be actively hiring. Second, the call was of a length such that my brother had to leave before we finished the conversation. I've been in too good a mood lately to offer myself as a punching bag for an emotional infant. So, thank God on both counts.

When I wrapped up the headhunter conversation, I fired off several more emails. My dad wanted me to stop by his office, but not until tomorrow afternoon. I read The Economist. I watched “Around the Horn” and “PTI.” I read a long article about some minute detail about analyzing a baseball player’s range factor. I set up a few equity valuation spreadsheets, just for fun. Let me tell you: Time flies by when you have nothing to do.

At about 3, I got a call from the doorman. Usually this means that someone is on their way up—a friend, the cleaning ladies, a delivery guy, etc. This was not the case this time. The conversation went as follows:

Him: "Hi, Patrick?"

Me: "Yeah, hey, what's up?"

Him: "Hey, it's Mohammed, downstairs."

Me: "Hey, Mohammed, how goes it?"

Him: "Good, good. Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?"

Me: "Yeah, yeah, it was good. You know, a lot of eating, a lot of shouting, never long enough, all of that. How about you?"

Him: "Great. I had a very nice time, thanks for asking. (Pause.) Okay, see you later."

Me: "Take care, Mohammed."

I stared out of my window, as confused as I’d ever been. What the hell was that? Have you ever heard of anything like this before? I mean, the doorman just tossed out a random “what’s up” chat call. He thought, “I want to see how someone’s Thanksgiving was. I think I’ll call Pat.” He’s my sixty-year old doorman from a small island in the Indian Ocean, and he is named Mohammed. I’m nice to him and all, but it’s not like I’m particularly friendly with the guy. Why does weird crap like that always happen to me?

Am I just being self-centered? Whatever, I know I’m self-centered, but I’m not really sure of any other way to be. Everybody is, when you get down to it. Isn’t that the natural (as in, according to the laws of nature) way to be? Have you ever read Ayn Rand? Ah, let’s just drop it.

Confused by the chat with the doorman, I took a shower and got dressed. It was really nice here over the last two days, but the wind and cold ploughed back with full force today. I bundled up sufficiently.

Just then Seamus came up and said he would kill for a ride home. He forgot to grab his U-Pass (a card that gives free rides on the CTA, costs included in his tuition bill). He didn’t feel like taking a cab or walking. Having nothing better to do, I was happy to oblige.

We got into the car, and immediately the gas warning binged.

Gas, of all things, has set the table for a brutal struggle between my siblings and me for quite some time now. No matter how often or loudly or publicly I complain about the problem, they never take action to do anything about it, and I’m past the boiling point.

I live across the street from my sister, and my brother is a mere five-minute walk away, so we share a car to cut down on parking costs. Living in the heart of the city, I take a hundred walks, cabs, or trains for every one time I need to use the car. It’s insane to drive around downtown to accomplish daily tasks, because you could most likely walk there in half the time it takes to find parking.

This conflict does not pertain to usage, but rather to an utter lack of courtesy on their part. My sister took the car to go out to the suburbs a couple of times this weekend. Not a problem; didn’t put me out any; with the exception of Thursday, I stayed downtown all weekend. But, do you think she could have put twenty bucks worth of gas in the car? Follow along, because I think this is how she (and, also, my brother) rationalize the gas situation: “The car is only one-third my responsibility, which means it’s mostly not my problem. Since someone else will probably need it before I do, they’re going to be the ones needing the gas, so they can go buy it themselves.” And I’m self-centered. They never seem to notice that I’m the dope who puts the gas in the tank in the first place. I know what I’m going to get them for Christmas: Directly from a secret world of fantastic wonders, a magical gas tank that miraculously fills itself up, but only when you yourself need the car. I’m apparently the only one who doesn’t feel right about leaving the car 4 miles from empty, and that’s just nonsense. Here’s to them for calling in sick on the day in kindergarten when the teacher talked about sharing.

Actually, the car shows no signs of being two-thirds their responsibility. As I feared, the real rent on my apartment has increased by $190 a month once we moved the car to my building. We only share the car in the true sense of the word 29 days out of the month, because when I call them to collect on their share of the costs at the end of the month, all I hear is, “I bought you dinner last week,” or “Remember those shots Friday night?” or “I gave you Cubs tickets back in May.” I’m glad that they think bullshit is a currency, but my landlord expects a check for actual U.S. dollars. Maybe if I wrote up this point in the proper brief form, the two wise-ass attorneys might finally get this tremendously difficult concept through their legalistic skulls.

So, back to the drive, we made our way up toward Lincoln Park, and I pointed out the building that serves as the exterior of Pruitt’s old employer. Seamus looked confused when I tried to explain the significance of it, so I eventually gave up and told him he’d get it once I let him read it. Getting back to the gas issue, he said he thought I was in a crap situation, so he offered me some money to pay for the many rides I’ve given him since he moved downtown. It was a nice gesture that I would normally turn away, but this time I accepted. Why? For one, I’m broke. And for another, well, I’m broke, that’s all.

I dropped him off and drove to the BP at LaSalle and Clark. I put exactly $5 in the tank, in case of an emergency. I’m not filling up the goddamn gas tank remainder of the winter, period. I’m angry to the point that I would rather attempt walking to Florida than drive away from an apocalyptic blizzard. I’m not kidding. It really pisses me off.

Thoughts of the perfect storm roiling around my mind, I ditched the car and went downstairs. Though it was cold and windy, I hit up Starbucks and went out on my daily walk.

As you know, I usually like to head up to the Lincoln Park Zoo, but every once in a while I like to meander east and south. I go along in that general direction because Streeterville, as the area east of the Magnificent Mile is known, seems to be in desperate need of warm bodies. It's very nice over there, with new buildings and cool stores and restaurants and such, but there never seems to be enough foot traffic. So I occasionally like to wander through there, in the hopes that the random occurrences following me like ghosts might rub off on this neighborhood almost utterly lacking in human vitality.

On my way to Streeterville, at the corner of Chestnut and Michigan, a tall black guy asked me for a smoke. I reached into my pocket and extracted one.

"Here," I said, offering him a cigarette.

He stopped and said, "Really? You'd just give it to me? Just like that?"

"Yeah, I said, "What's the big deal?"

And he said, "Ah, man, I don't even smoke. I just ask people that to see if they're nice."

"That's kind of weird," I said, barely slowing down.

"Yeah. Hey," he said, pointing to my earphones, "what are you listening to?"

"Zeppelin," came my reply.

"Really? 'Oh let the sun beat down upon my face!’ Yeah, that's cool, man!" he intoned with great exuberance.

"Yeah," I said. What the hell was this? Was he going to ask me for money or try to sell me something?

"Hey, you seem like a pretty cool dude."

"Sure," I said, hoping he’d go away. He clearly wasn’t homeless or explicitly crazy, so maybe he was just hitting on me, or has an odd way of making friends.

"What do you do?" he asked.

My mind went through the extensive range of false occupations I sometimes tell complete strangers. “I’m the bullpen catcher for the Seattle Mariners.” “I’m an archaeologist with the Oriental Institute.” “I’m a plastic surgeon from Columbus, in town for a conference.” “I’m a brew master for Miller up in Milwaukee.” And, the big bomb that I occasionally pull off, “I’m an aspiring porn star, but I’d rather not get into it.” This time, however, I decided to tell him the truth.

"Nothing," I said. "Honestly, I don't really do much."

He laughed. "No way! Nothing? That’s some funny shit. Hey, we should hang out some time."

I stopped walking and paused for a second.

"Oh, I thought you were going to ask me for money,” I said.

“No,” he replied, “I’m just out walking around, new here and all.”

"Let me ask you something,” I said, “have you got a girl?"

"Yeah," he said, "but she lives in St. Louis."

"Well,” I said, “what if you called her and said, 'Hey, baby, I randomly met this guy on Michigan Avenue, and now we’ve become great friends'? That'd be a really fucking weird conversation, right?"

He nodded and said, "Yeah."

"Well," I said, starting across Michigan, "good to meet you, then."

My walk continued.

It was a good walk, I suppose. Actually, it was a bit boring. Nothing very cool ever happens in Streeterville. How's this: I saw a bunch of nurses and med students leaving Northwestern Hospital. Three city workers stumbled out of Timothy O'Toole's, as drunk as can be. Two tourists asked me how to get to Saks. A Chinese girl hustled into the U. of C.'s Gleacher Center, probably late for class. It’s just never very exciting over there.

By contrast, on the Gold Coast, there’s always wild things happening. A building fell over at Dearborn and Burton the other day. I’m not kidding. Granted, it was just the shell of an extensive rehab job, but still, the wind blew the damn walls over. Now, that’s something. In Streeterville, however, there’s not even much dog crap to step around. I reminded myself that it was, after all, something of a charity visit to begin with.

I came home via Rush Street and grabbed a gyros and fries from Johnny's. It was really good. They use this awesome seasoning on the fries. It's terrific. When you get a good batch, they might be the best fries in the city. Of course, they won’t tell me what the seasoning is, and I find this completely ridiculous. It’s not like I’ve got a deep fryer in my apartment, and I’m not some chintzy jerk who would use the powder at McDonald’s or some other restaurant just to save a few cents. I’ll always buy fries from the fast-food place downstairs, because I’m just that lazy. They should know this by now. Maybe they will someday.

So that brings me to right now, and I’m not really sure of what to make of things, as per the usual. The headhunter was supposed to call me back this evening, but she must have gotten tied up with her kids or something. That’s all right. I’ll call her first thing in the morning. It’s not like she could make any calls on my behalf in the middle of the night anyway. I'm thinking about calling this girl I've been hooking up with, but I don't really feel like it. She can call me.

One more thing: Who’s ready for ‘Nova’s 2005 national broadcast debut? In case you hadn’t heard, it’s the ESPN game of the week, Saturday night, at Oklahoma. This club is going to be wicked, even without Sumpter. Foye, Ray, Fraser, Nardi—any of the four could be All-American. Preliminary reports on the freshmen are very positive. The bench proved itself last year in the Tournament after Sumpter went down, and most of those role guys are back. And, f UConn! We’ll definitely beat them for the Big East title, and we’ll completely wipe the floor with them if they have the misfortune of crossing us in March. This is the best team we’ve had since the 1985 championship, much better than the Kittles/Williams/Lawson teams of the mid-1990s. I’m desperate for one of my teams to win a championship, damn it! Bring it on!

Also, Dick Vitale can kiss my ass! It’s funny how that guy is named Dick, doesn’t know dick, and is a dick. Think about that the next time you hear him say great things about some overrated media-darling program like ScrewConn or Puke. Let’s Go Nova!