Pushed To The Brink Of Comfort

There are all these schools of thoughts on change in humans. Evolution. Adaptation. Improvisation. Survival of the fittest. Education. But they all center around one assumption: that people can change. That they can overcome who they are, what they are, where they’re from, the people that raised them, the time period that molded them, and the reasons and circumstances that brought them to their present. And I say overcome for all people, because all people come about with something in them that digs at them, begging to be fixed or improved. But it doesn’t matter if people improve or not, because it all boils down to the same thing: it’s not just CAN you change, it’s WILL you change. Will you be the thing or the person that you’re able to be or will you spend the rest of your life wondering if you could really do it? Will you take a chance and fail, but feel better because at least you know that didn’t have it in you, didn’t have what was necessary to make real what was in your head? Will you be able to live your life, looking yourself in the mirror every day, knowing that you haven’t made it, or knowing that you haven’t made it yet, or knowing that you’ve already made it?

It feels unnatural at times, the path that we’re on. The things we’re just doing, or trying to do, or even trying not to do. The habits, the tasks, the responsibilities that start as a hassle and that become normal. And in some ways we have to push ourselves to accept each new reality for us. I can think of so many little things in my life that I had to develop a habit of accepting, things that are now just normal, just expected, that another person may find to be mind-boggling and out of nowhere. Like the way a certain door squeaks when you open it slow enough. Neighbors that always fight on Thursdays. AM traffic followed up by PM traffic. A boss that never wants to talk to you. Having to get used to a new type of deli meat. Mental adjustments to these things on a daily basis happen, and we constantly wrestle with if it’s a big deal or not. In the grand scheme of things, of course it’s not a big deal. But it’s your life, so to you, each are something you deal with, something you expect to be one way and then it’s slightly different, and in your mind, everything else has the capability of changing now.

And yet, given enough time, that’s now the new normal. That’s now what you expect, what you rely on, hell, that’s what you want:

You want to hear that door squeak, or maybe you just get used to opening the door up faster. If it doesn’t, you might actually open it a few more times now, just to see what’s up with the squeak. Where’d it go? What the hell happened to the door? Did you fix the door? I didn’t fix this door? Is someone fixing stuff in this house and not telling anyone?

The neighbors aren’t fighting this Thursday? That’s weird, right? They’re always crashing dishes and slamming doors right about- Oh shit, did Kevin finally kill Barbara? Did he strangle her at the dinner table?! I didn’t think it had gotten this bad, I thought she’d just leave him. Are both of their cars still in the driveway? You check, I’ll see if I can find any signs of struggle from the upstairs window.

Traffic doesn’t happen in the AM once, and you’re happy, but you might also be confused. You’re psyched, but at the same time, you’re secretly hoping there isn’t some huge thing that happened or is happening, and you are one of few idiots that doesn’t know about it. Like you turn on the news radio, and there’s some horrible shootout going on and the cops are trying to block people off of the road that you’re still on.

And your boss suddenly wants to start trying to speak with you and it CREEPS YOU OUT. He just wants to bring you into his office to tell you how well you are doing, and you feel like he’s about to straight up fire your ass, you start sweating and mentally preparing your defense of why your numbers a little down and you made that questionable comment to the girl in marketing last month. Or you get ready to go in there and cuss him out, turn his table over and storm out.

I used to be accustomed to working 60 hours a week. It felt like I was just working and sleeping. I had this year not too long ago that I couldn’t find a job and wasn’t really qualified to do anything, and I had to scrape together hours from two, at times three, jobs at once. All different locations, schedules, bosses, coworkers, tasks to complete. It was a task to keep it all straight and remember where I would need to be on which days and how much time I would need to get from one place to another, and in a way, it felt good to be that busy. Not just so that I could finally pay for everything I needed to have going (for a little while, anyway) but I felt tested by it and it was nice to actually have something that was demanding real effort from me. I won’t go into detail, but the jobs themselves were not high level occupations, and the tasks were monotonous and menial. I’m not even going to describe who I was working with, because a lot of those people were also way above the jobs we were doing.

At one point, I was working as a Customer Service Rep on the west side of Madison (doesn’t matter where), and a temp job at a production plant on the North side, and a night time job downtown, near my apartment. Back and forth, start and stop, sprint to, rest up, sprint back. This was my life, for months. But I got used to it all. The schedule got to the point that I developed this feeling when I was about to be double booked, and I could reliably check all of my schedules and find the thing that didn’t fit with what I was about to commit to. And I managed somehow to still drink myself silly a few nights a week. And maybe it didn’t hurt that I was willing to risk a wicked hangover at any of these jobs because I thought having a good time where I could fit it was worth it, but I know that I was a wreck, looking back. But again, that was the norm.

Then I left one position. The customer service position was no longer worth it, and I stopped it. But mentally, I was still used to functioning on that same level of activity. I won’t lie, I went a little stir crazy for a bit, trying to adjust back to having more than no free time (I was still working between 50 and 60 hours a week). I remember I would be at home, and I’d get the same rush of panic that I was supposed to be somewhere, and I would feel more panic when I could not locate what it was I was missing. I came a button push away from calling the place that I had quit, 2 weeks after my last shift, to make sure I hadn’t rescheduled myself. And that was weird to me, having to readjust to a less chaotic existence, after chaos had become regular.

My point in mentioning this, I guess, is not so much that you should or should not have a chaotic life. Some people I know NEED to be busy, they need to always be working towards something, building something, learning or teaching something, all-the-God-damn-time. I know people that can’t stop watching and following sports, people that are unable to stop reading, people that play and write and listen to and go watch music like it’s a crack addiction. I know a woman from college who is basically hooked on learning new languages. She’s up to like 12. All of these people are in a ridiculous pattern that they can’t easily get out of and can’t explain but it somehow works for them. And as long as what you’re doing and are used to doing, as long as that works for you, then by all means, keep on keeping on.

Just make sure that it works for you.

Just make sure that you haven’t fallen into your current pattern strictly out of perceived necessity. Sometimes we do things because we tell ourselves that there’s no other way, and it’s that we don’t want to change. Or that we just don’t know how, or don’t think we can. Don’t do that. Don’t get in the habit of something because it’s what you’re told to do, just because you don’t know what else you’d do. Take a look at the path as you’re walking down it. If you don’t like what you’re seeing on the path, you have options. Go back, walk off the path and make a better path, start running down the path to get through it faster, hell, you can just lie down and take a nap on the path. We never talk about naps as options, they exist. But realize your options while you have them, instead of just shrugging and going with the thing that seems to be already happening anyway.

Seriously though, check on your neighbors if you haven’t heard them in a while. Crazy shit Like that happens.

Guilty Conscience

Everyone that I know has terrible ideas.

There, I finally got started. I didn't know how to start this thought and I kept trying different ways and nothing really seemed to dive into the concept so I chose this phrase, that has almost nothing to do with what I'm saying but that's where we're starting this.

So now what I actually mean is that everyone has terrible ideas. Like, weird impulses that come and go and have to be filtered through. I think everyone has these, and its just some people deny them and claim to have normal minds and others acknowledge and give attention to them and then another group of people actually act on them and try to recreate or discover something based on them. And you can be part of any of these groups and it's totally up to you how you approach those weird, awful ideas in your head, but I do think that everyone has some form of them.

Now, because I'm never going to actually be in anyone else's head, I have nothing to seriously support this idea. I mean, I've talked to others that have echoed this thought, and many of those people have also claimed, "Oh, for sure, everyone has thoughts like these, it's perfectly natural." But I have no actual idea how many of those people are just shitty liars who were trying to make me (or themselves) feel better. That's a part of the equation here that is somewhat left open. But the point is, at least for the sake of my argument, that everyone has a mind and has these thoughts running around and there are different ways to go about dealing with them, and how we deal with them actually makes a big difference in how we live our lives.

Now, I have always felt that the bad ideas are what fuels creativity. Everyone has bad ideas. Especially creative people. Think of any musician you ever heard of. Did you hear them when they first started? Well, I guarantee he or she sucked. They were awful for a long time. They were either trying to be just like someone else and emulate something they didn't make, or they tried to make something new and it didn't work for a long time. And then they kept trying and kept working, and they got better, and they started to actually learn from their mistakes and build from them and build something really special. To me, creativity is keeping that stream going, and not shutting off the spout before the good stuff comes out. You gotta push through the crappy stuff and get to the realness that lies within, the stuff you have to work for and develop.

Here's the thing: you have to take a chance with what you're doing. It's not enough to just have the idea, you have to actually pursue the concept that you build. And if you're like me, you probably don't remember every great idea that you have. You might not remember all of the bad ideas that you have. But if you act upon the good idea or the bad idea, it just might stick in your mind for a bit longer. Or forever.

Case in point: I used to play organized basketball when I was a kid. We lived in a pretty small town in Texas, so it wasn't the top notch competition or anything, but it was fun, and there were a few good teams and I was on one of them. It was my dad and another guy who were the main coaches, and they both had sons on the team. I don't want to say the other kid's name or his dad's name, and you'll probably get why in a second, but we'll call them the Stanley's, and we were very good friends with their family. I was close with the kid, my dad was close with the other coach, they had younger kids and my mom liked their mom, we were all very happy and we were a good team and we lived close to one another and it was cool. 

So you can understand that I had a lot against me making it awkward for the two families. But I was up to the challenge.

It was late in a game, and it was very close score and I think we were up by a few points. It was in a timeout and the other coach, Mr. Stanley, was telling us what to do. Now I had been in the game, and my adrenaline must have been high, because I remember I was excited and energetic and I couldn't concentrate. So it was like basically every moment of my childhood, all energy and no logic for anything. So Mr. Stanley is talking to us, and he's going in great detail on what we should do when we come out of the timeout, and for whatever reason, I can't stop focusing on the ball. See, he's holding the basketball while he's talking, and I can't focus on his words because I'm just looking at the ball. And for a reason that I, to this day, cannot even begin to explain, one of these terrible ideas that I've been talking about popped into my head:

Victor, you should totally slap the ball out of his hand.

Again, I don't know why. But that was the thought that decided to grow in my head. And I remember it so specifically, because it's the first time I ever remember having my inner conscience go through kind of an argument in my head, almost like a review process of this idea. It went something like this:

Side 2: Well, no. I'm not gonna slap the ball out of my coach's hand. That's crazy. Why the hell would I do that?

Side 1: Dude, slap the ball out of his hand. This is what he really wants one of the kids to do.

Side 2: Why would he want that?

Side 1: It'll show how focused you are.

Side 2: No it won't. In fact, if I was focused, I would be listening to him right now.

Side 1: You are listening though.

Side 2: No I'm not. I have no idea what he's saying, and I think he just said something to me directly.

Side 1: So slap the ball then. That will fix it.

Side 2: That doesn't make sense.

Side 1: So what? You know you want to.

Side 2: Of course I want to, but I shouldn't, right?

Side 1: Just do it anyways.

Side 2: Okay, screw it.

I don't know that it went exactly like that in my head, but basically that's how I came up with the conclusion that I should slap the ball out of his hand. This back-and-forth, conversation with my subconscious that resembles a Dr. Dre and Eminem song, Guilty Conscience. So long story short, this all takes places in my head during the timeout, and I ended up going with Side 1. I slapped the ball out of his hand while he was coaching us on what to do in the game.

The next thing I realized was I was bent over backwards, with Mr. Stanley's hands clasped tightly around my head, similarly to how the ball was being gripped. For real, I don't remember him lunging at me or actually grasping me, it was a literal flash of light and we were there, in that stance. And he was almost holding his breath he was so furious, and he was locking eyes with me, and I can still see his facial expression, this look of pure rage, like he was saying in his head, "Not a jury in the world would convict me. No one would hold me responsible for killing this kid if they knew, if the KNEW how infuriating this kid is."

Now, after the initial realization of what had to have happened, I felt incredible embarrassment for myself, having listened to my own head on one of the worst ideas I think I've ever had. Then, I feel the same amount of shame for him, having been put into a situation like this and not showing more restraint. Then, I feel embarrassed for my dad and for Mr. Stanley's son, both of whom are right there in the huddle with us. Then I feel bad for both of our families, who were across the gym, watching all of this and probably not understanding very much of what was happening. Then a little bit more shame on behalf of the team, because both the refs and the other team and all of their families are looking over too, now. They thought I had a seizure or something, the ref actually stopped the game to check on us. Then I feel one more pang of embarrassment for having embarrassed everybody involved.

I got benched for the rest of the game. I honestly don't remember if we won or not.

My dad and Mr. Stanley had words about this incident later, I was told. They did not give me details, but I can imagine there was an aspect of "he's my son, I know how much he can drive people crazy" and an aspect of "he's my son, don't ever do that shit again." The relationship was strained between our families for a little bit, but it got better after a few weeks. I think a big part of it was that I almost immediately put the incident behind me, I seriously think I forgot about it by the time we got home that night. For real, I think I asked if Mr. Stanley's son could sleep over that night, I was that aloof to it. 

Speaking of which, I should say this real quick because I never got a chance to any other time. From then on, I don't think I ever once looked at Mr. Stanley and thought of that incident. Truth is, I wouldn't have blamed him if he had gave me a spanking there, in front of my own father. Not that my dad was soft on discipline either, I'm just saying, I didn't blame Mr. Stanley for what happened. Still basically don't. If he ever reads this (and he'll know who he is) let me say this again: I DO NOT BLAME YOU ONE BIT. I hope you don't still think about this moment as much as I do. As much as you can make the claim that Mr. Stanley made his own terrible decision, I feel his reaction was natural and understandable, and I hope that he's doing well.

Back to the fact that I caused this whole issue. Me. I did that. Wasn't that bad idea? Shouldn't I have listened to side 2 of my mind? That's a moment I will probably never fully live down, and I've tried really hard. But a lot of great things have come out of me and my wandering mind in the future. I'm glad I did not shut my wacky side down over the years, because it's the who and how I am and love that part of my self. That's my point in all this. Love your faults, your crutches, your silly moments, even your epic failures. Don't have a guilty conscience about it. Build from it, learn from it, share it to others and laugh about it. Let your mind wander here and there, and enjoy the ride. Hell, piss some people off here and there. 

Honestly, who else even remembers this shit, right?

My Obama Story

I wasn’t always politically aware. I went a long time making people think I was political when I couldn’t have cared less.That changed in the summer of 2007 when my dad asked me for a favor. I was irrevocably thrown into the mix of the world in August of that year by showing up to something I had no business being at and basically getting a story I couldn’t quite make up if I really wanted to.

I preface this by saying, quite frankly, that I don’t care even a little bit if you believe me or not.

In case I haven’t mentioned it before, I am the third in my family. Meaning Victor Joseph Dupuy, III. Usually I don’t like saying my full name because it sounds snobby. It makes me sound proper and aristocratic. But the name has benefited me in a few ways over the years. My father has always had a good reputation in my hometown and surrounding area, so I get looked upon with the same basic good standing. My dad travels a fair amount for business, so I get to use his frequent flyer miles at times. I get his hotel points occasionally. One time I almost tried to use his global entry ID at the airport, though it wouldn’t have been worth it if I’d gotten caught (and prosecuted).

So in 2007, when my dad made a contribution to Barack Obama’s political campaign, he was invited to a dinner in Dallas where Barack was to speak to the group. My dad had a business trip he needed to go on, so he asked if I could sit in for him. You know, so it could be on record that Victor Joseph Dupuy attended the event.

I was hesitant to agree to this. I was not political. At 20, I did everything I could to avoid discussing the subject in most cases. I didn’t care, most of the time. I usually just assumed either party would get about the same amount done: not too much. But I knew who Barack was. I had studied a speech of his in a college course the year before. I didn’t idolize him or anything, but he seemed like a good guy. I understood him to be a sports fan, to know much about coming up in a mixed background, and to be willing to try something different that others hadn’t. Regardless, I was just in no rush to meet him. I was still very happy with apathy.

On the other hand, it was a free meal, a relief of boredom, and it meant I got to cruise around a big city in my dad’s Benz. So I said, screw it, let’s head up to Dallas for the afternoon.

I was supposed to meet one of my dad’s friends, who we'll call Charlie Nantucket. Sure, why not?. Mr. Nantucket was my dad’s age, lived in the next town, had the same basic spot in life as my dad. Main difference is that Charlie had 2 sons a few years younger than me. By and large, my dad and Charlie competed with each other all the time about stupid things. And one of the competing factors were his sons vs. me, my dad’s son. Who’s the better athlete? Who’s the better student? Who’s gonna go farther faster? Blah. To be honest, I didn’t like Mr. Nantucket at this point, he always critical of me, like he had to demonstrate how I was overrated for one thing or another. But I’ll get to that in a second.

I strolled in there nervous, because the ride was so much fun but I did have to make this appearance in an atmosphere I really didn’t enjoy. I showed up there already kind of sweating, not wanting to reach or flinch too quickly because secret service would already be around this guy, but I’m there. I showed up, let’s just get it done. And I couldn’t find a parking space for a while, and that was annoying, and then I got in the hotel and it was massive, as in it was unnecessarily big, even in Texas. I remember thinking there was no way that this many people would need to all stay in the same place in Dallas, this was too much. But I finally found the elevators I was looking for, and I entered the place in the hotel I was supposed to go. It was relatively discreet, considering who was appearing. But again, it's 2007. He's on everyone's radar as a candidate but no one knew how serious of a chance he had yet.

Mr. Nantucket was near the front of the foyer area when I got off the elevator, so I walked right up to him. Trying to find a finally familiar face. And this dude, this prick doesn’t even say hello to me, he just starts with, “Victor, you need to go fix your tie.” Now, I had half a mind to kind of get pissed at him right there, just kind of calling me out in front of people I don’t know. I did my best to play it off, but I was miffed. I was in an unfamiliar environment and apparently I hadn’t dressed myself properly for the occasion. Wasn’t a good feeling.

I hurriedly rushed in, looking for the men's bathroom. I probably looked frantic, like I was about to burst open at the bladder. Didn’t care, I just needed to fix this. I was here as a conduit for my dad, I didn’t need him up my ass later about tying ties properly, that was gonna be a lecture I really didn't need.

I find the bathroom and bust in, almost kicking the door open. I mean, I was almost hyped up because I was so angry. I go over to the rows of sinks ahead and find a mirror right in the middle. it’s a dark, elegant looking bathroom with dimmed lights, and in the mirror I can see the stalls behind me have ornate doors to them, the kind you’d find at a dressing room at the Mens Wearhouse. That’s the bathroom setting. So as I’m struggling with this tie, I feel even more out of place than I really need to. The room was empty when I burst in there, or at least I was sure it was. All I could here was my own breathing, myself cussing under my breath, and the sounds that my clothes were making as I struggled back and forth to get this damn thing the right length and style.

Behind me, I hear one of the stalls open. I should be nervous or startled, but I’m so deep in this that i don’t give a fuck. Zero fucks given. I’m still fixing this tie situation, and I’m doing the thing where first the front is way too long, and then the back is just long enough to do it over, and then it’s too long again, then it’s okay but tied incorrectly, I’m doing that thing with my tie. Foot steps behind me up to the sink next to me, I don’t care, I don't even acknowledge them. And a voice says, “Hi there.” And I turn, to be polite, and say, “Hey, what’s up,” and look at the person next to me for a split second before continuing to fix this tie situation. I mean, this is really starting to frustrate me that I can’t just get this damn thing to...wait, wait a second… did i see that right?

I kind of freeze in terror because I’m replaying the image I have mentally of the person that I just saw. I think that’s what Barack Obama would look like up close, in a dimly lit bathroom. I should probably look again, to confirm that was him.

I look back a second time. Yep. That’s him.

This presents a problem. I am next to the potential future president of the United States of America. I could ask him something that would change my life if he gave me the right answer. I could make a mark on him that could shift the world, shift life as we know it here. I could get a little tidbit, some great memory for the rest of my life and my family’s lives. And here I am with this goddamn tie still ruining my life.

So I begin again to fix this thing or hang myself with it, whichever ends up being easier. Now I’m really frustrated and REALLY pissed off at Mr. Nantucket. And suddenly, it seems to come out of nowhere, “Having some trouble there?”

I almost forgot Barack Obama was still there. “Uhh, no, no, it’s just, sometimes I have a little issue with my ties,” I’m reaching for anything plausible to not seem completely helpless right now.

“Well just flip your collar up for a second.”

My heart basically stops as this man reaches out, flips up my collar, turns my body towards him (while only using my collar) and starts tying my tie for me. I am dumbfounded. I have no idea what to do here. I felt like I should be able to tell anyone in this situation, hey, back off, I can tie this damn thing myself. But I don’t want the Secret Service agents to come out of another stall, refer to a code 6, and escort me into a back room somewhere nearby where I am beaten the hell down in the name of national security. So I just kind of stand there, paralyzed, not knowing exactly where to look, not knowing what to do with my hands. Damn sure didn’t know what kind of conversation to try to strike up now. Quickly, I glanced up at him, unsure if he was noting how strange I looked. I think he cracked a quick smile, but I couldn’t be sure.

So he asks me, “What’s your name?”

And I say, “Uh, Victor.”

I then opened my mouth to say the most embarrassing thing I think I could ever say, which was going to be, “What’s yours?” The future president of the United States, and I was an instant from asking him his name. But I caught myself. And part of me wants to know what that would’ve gone like. Part of me wants to know if he would have taken some offense to it, and stepped back and been like, “Fuck you then, fix your own tie,” or if he would just politely say who he was and then not made me feel like a jackass. Maybe he would have looked me dead in my eye and said, “Nigga, please.” Any of them would have been awesome. Anyway, he dropped some knowledge bomb on me about Windsor knots, since it appears that was what I had attempted in my first stab at tying the tie. I’d love to tell you the quote, but I can’t remember. I was way too bewildered. But that’s the subject I spoke with the president-to-be about. Not the economy, not foreign policy, not being perceived by your peers as an outsider who had plans to try things differently, not basketball or college football. Fucking Windsor knots. Dear lord.

He finishes tying the tie, he admires his work, then he slaps me on the right shoulder, announces, “You’re straight, brotha,” and walks out of the room. Couldn’t make that shit up. He slapped me on the shoulder like I was some little kid in his family. I had to fight the urge not to say, “Thanks dad,” as he left the bathroom. After the door closed, I just kind of slumped down onto one of the counters, completely incredulous that anything like that could ever happen to me. I now had to collect myself in this bathroom AGAIN. The luck I have in public bathrooms.

At some point, I straighten up and walk out of there, feeling like I’m fleeing the scene of a crime. I shuffled over to the bar, and grabbed a mimosa, I didn’t care that I was underage, I needed a drink right then and there. A few of the kids my age or younger came over and chatted with me, and I did my best to keep calm. i didn’t share the story with them, didn’t even bother. In fact, Mr. Nantucket came up to me a bit later, asking me where I had been and saying he was going to introduce me to Mr. Obama. I just played it off like, "Oh, man, that's too bad, maybe next time." Little did this guy know he had already set me up for a story I'd never be able to forget, that I hadn’t quite processed myself yet. But again, I just kept that to myself.

Barack Obama worked the room for a little while after that and then got up onto a little makeshift stage to speak to the crowd. I’ll never forget it, as he’s scanning the crowd, while someone else is introducing him, he spots me near the back, finishing my mimosa. He makes eye contact with me, pretends to straighten his tie, and gives me this nod, as if to say, “Man, your tie looks good. Whoever tied that knows a thing or two about ties.”

That was basically the moment when I knew he had my vote. And it was nothing political in this case, I suppose. It was honestly, I felt like I got a glimpse of the actual man, even if it was actually bullshit. In my mind, this wasn’t a guy who needed to sell me on who he was or what he believed in. He was perfectly content with messing with me just a little bit, the way I feel I’ve usually messed with people in my life. But I knew that I would not have the chance to meet other leaders in our country the same way, and I needed to be able to have more to say about politicians I supported than, "that dude knows his Windsor knots."

So from that point on, I tried to make sure I had some sort of idea what I was talking about, politically speaking. I won't say that I'm an expert by any stretch, but I am definitely engaged and willing to discuss the issues with others who can talk about what they want, rather than yell and not listen. I think people should actually seek out at least somepeople with opposing views, to help clarify where they stand, but if you can't talk with those people about the issues, there isn't much of a point, is there. Although I consider myself a moderate, I’ve always had liberal tendencies and I probably always will. But I make it a point to be open to new ideas, new perspectives, experiences, and when necessary, letting someone help you get dressed up for a political party.