DAY THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SIX - 4/12/2020
“THE SUNDAY SERMON: A NEW ME FOR 2020” by DJS
Easter, a day for resurrections.
As I approach the end of this blog, with only nine more entries to go, I thought it only fitting that we have a last visit with Edgar. Like all the other Sunday Sermons, this one was first written by hand, then typed up, with very little altered or edited during the process of transcribing. With Edgar, what you see is what you get, warts and all, and that extends to the creative process. So, while I won’t miss his despicable character, I will miss the freedom writing him granted me.
Thanks, Edgar. Now fuck off.
(Edgar’s apartment bedroom. A Saturday afternoon in May. There’s been an attempt made at better housekeeping. The bed, while not perfectly made, has at least been tidied up. And there’s a laundry basket full of CLEAN laundry waiting to be folded and put away. Signs like these. Right now the house is quiet; no one home. Hold for a moment, then we hear the apartment door being unlocked and someone coming in. Sounds of off-stage action: cabinet opening in the kitchen, running water, someone coming down the hall, approaching the door, which is ajar. Edgar comes in with a glass of water. He is 39 years old, red faced and sweating profusely, in workout attire. He stops just inside the room, chugs the water straight down, and finishes with a satisfied gasp. He sets the empty glass on the dresser next to another empty glass. Crossing the room towards the attached bath, he notices the audience for the first time and says:)
Hey. Just got back from a run. Five miles or something like that. I don’t have one of those apps on my phone that tells you, but my heart. I can feel it. Like it’s not going to stop. Which is a good thing, I guess, it’s what you want. But at the same time you have... (Kicks off his shoes.) It’s disconcerting. Like you don’t actually want to feel your heart have to put out all this effort, feeling like it’s working overtime, you just want this silent working system that you don’t ever even really notice; you only notice it when something’s wrong. (Retrieves his empty water glass, refills it from the bathroom sink, keeps talking.) Organs in general, we take them for granted, if nothing feels off then it must be all good, right? Then you get a weird pain in your side or your chest seems to clench or like there’s a little shock in there, or your knee will out of nowhere buckle that you get this kind of shock like “where did that come from?” I was feeling fine two seconds ago, now why suddenly does my knee hurt or I have this cramping in my side - Is it my kidneys? That’s where your kidneys are, right? ‘Do I need to go to the doctor?” Then you go to the doctor and you try to describe this mystery pain, like a sharpness in your whatever, only you can’t ever really do it justice explaining it – if only it could actually happen IN THE MOMENT when you’re with him, at the appointment, it just makes pinpointing anything or getting to a root cause almost feel like it’s impossible and you’re just wasting all of your time trying to diagnose this phantom thing/problem.
(He takes off his shirt, wipes under his arms with it. Tosses it across room into hamper.)
And yet what we never even seem to care about... are headaches. Actual physical pain INSIDE OUR HEADS, the brain that tells everything else what to do, the master controls if you will, if it goes you’re fucked. Well no one goes in for a headache, we just take those as doing business, pop a couple ibuprofen, it goes away and you don’t think about, till it happens again, and happens over and over again.
(He goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower.)
The thing that really scares me though is brain aneurysms, because it just seems like there’s no way of stopping them, they’re unpreventable. If it’s gonna happen to you it’s gonna happen. One minute fine, the next Ow, I’m dead.
(Takes off his shorts. Tosses them across room into hamper.)
You hear about it happening it always comes as a shock, (Sits on bed to remove his socks, picks at lint between toes.) unlike a heart attack or even strokes, those are lifestyle, and also not always a strict death sentence. But with aneurysms it’s just like there’s nothing you could, that anyone could – you're just unlucky. And it sucks.
(He rises, takes off his underwear, fully naked now. Tosses underwear but misses hamper this time, shrugs.)
I’m gonna hop in the shower. But don’t worry I think you’ll still probably be able to hear me in there. I’ll talk loud.
(Edgar gets into the shower. We can barely hear him over the streaming water, his voice cuts in and out.)
It’s thoughts like this that’ve made me think differently about my life, sort of reevaluating. It was time I guess. I don’t know, I got divorced five years ago, about five years ago and it wasn’t really... But I had let myself go so long before that that when I eventually moved out and started living on my own again my basic functioning was just... Well, it was just very basic. Work, sleep, eat, watch TV, the only real entertainment – try to get laid. I’d meet women try to convince them to go out with me. You find the right kind of woman, she’s lonely, depressed, doesn’t have a lot of self-esteem. She works in a dentist office, she works long hours, she doesn’t care too much about how those free hours are spent, she goes home, she immediately changes out of her work whatever, she microwaves a meal or does something easy like salad, parks herself on the couch. I take the bus to work so this is the kind of woman I’d come across, sitting next to, ask how her day was – always at the end of the day too, never the start, never before work, because despite us knowing better we still, people still get this irrational feeling of hope that today’s gonna be better, or different at least – combined with the fact that everyone just woke up, they’re still tired and not really conducive to conversation that early in the morning – but what was I saying? You ask how their day was – or you don’t. Instead you say something like “Long day huh?” implying that you already know they had a shitty day and you are in fact commiserating cause you had a shitty day too. It’s something you can agree on.
Hold on. I got some soap in my eye.
(Pause as he rinses it out.)
...to agree on. A basis to start a conversation in the first place, familiarity. Also gives you a chance to gauge their attraction. In my experience if a woman’s not interested she’ll let you know right away, and it’s rarely subtle. It’s not explicit but it’s rarely subtle. It can be the difference between a smirk and a shrug, but when you see it, you know. And I give up right away. I don’t waste my time. Or theirs. Plus if you think about being a woman – and ladies, I know I’m preaching to the converted here but – if you think what it must be like to get hit on all the time, or even just stared at. That’s one of the big problems by the way -
(The shower turns off. Edgar gets out, starts to dry himself with a towel that was hanging on the back of the door.)
If a guy sees a woman look at him, and linger for even a second, even just hesitate, we assume maybe there’s an interest. Because in our minds, if the shoe was on the other foot and we’re staring at some girl we obviously find her attractive and are thinking about sleeping with her. It’s like that thing they’re always saying, a study or something they did that says men think about sex every seven seconds or some crazy number like that, basically all the time. Which I don’t know if it’s true or not, the frequency but, if we do look at you, if we are staring, then it’s pretty much forgone that yes, we are thinking that, we’re thinking about what you would be like in bed, if you’re a slut, if you’d do certain things, if you’d let us cum on your face, or swallow, even better swallow, we look at your butt as you walk away, in your yoga pants and how they really make things prominent, leave little to the imagination, and how that can’t be an accident, and all we want to do is get you on the nearest surface and just get behind you on all fours and pull your hair, we wonder if you like to have your hair pulled, or be bit, or slapped, or choked, and if we really work you up good if you’ll call us Daddy, really striking vivid scenarios pop into our heads in an instant, none faster than the simplest basic most important question: Would I sleep with this woman Yes or No?
The answer is almost invariably yes.
(Pause. Then he rehangs the towel on the back of the door. Edgar puts toothpaste on his toothbrush, looks in the mirror and brushes his teeth.)
I started brushing my teeth in the shower but forgot. I hate when I do that. I made it part of my routine but I guess you guys distracted me. (Spits in sink, rinses toothbrush.) Dental health. I hadn’t been to the dentist in close to ten years when I finally booked an appointment two months ago. I’d brush about once every couple days before that. It wasn’t good and I have no excuse. So the night before I was supposed to go in I thought I should at least floss, get whatever, you know, any big chunks of stuff that’ve might got lodged.
Jesus Christ, the blood. Like my mouth just started, my gums started bleeding like as soon as the floss touched them, like it was razor wire. And I closed my mouth I could taste that irony blood taste and swished around and spit into the sink – you would’ve thought I’d just been in a fight and got my ass kicked. Just spitting up blood. Well, I warned the dentist the next day before he even went near me; “My gums might be a little sensitive doc, so just be warned.” Turns out I only had a couple cavities, a couple fillings, miraculously. Go figure. Just a man with a good set of choppers I guess.
(He goes through the laundry basket of clean clothes, finds socks, underwear, etc.)
But it was all part of my plan to start turning things around in my life. (Putting on underwear.) I realized what I think are a couple of very important things. The first was I only have one body. So I better take care of it, cause it’s gonna have to last me awhile.
And just so you’re not under any delusion, as much as these might sound like New Years’ resolutions but I didn’t come around to most of this stuff until February.
(He sits on the bed to put on his socks.)
You only have ONE body, so you better take care of it. That meant actually putting some thought into things, planning, which has never been my forte. Eating, how do you eat, what do you eat, when do you eat it, how do you prepare it. Well, you plan every day, every meal. You make lunches to take the next day, you actually plan ahead. You make a grocery list for God’s sake and you go to the store and you buy what’s on it. You don’t stop at the deli counter and impulse buy fried chicken just because it’d be easier than making dinner tonight. You don’t let yourself do that. It’s overcoming a lot of weakness really. You’re tired, it’s after work, so you indulge yourself. You have the money so you indulge yourself. And why not? It’s not like you’re some expert chef anyway. When you can get takeout - you can just order a pizza. But that hour you spend waiting for it to get delivered, that’s what they throw in your face, like “think about what you could’ve done in that hour, think of all the stuff you could’ve made, better for you too and probably would’ve spent less money than ordering Dominos again.” And it took me a while to realize that yes, those people are assholes who should mind their own business, but they’re also NOT WRONG. Because it’s about discipline.
(He stands up, then comes downstage a little towards the audience.)
You think that guy you see running every morning when you walk out to your car does it cause he just loves the fresh air? You think he wants to get up at 7:30 and spend an hour in the freezing cold, his chest feeling like it’s going to explode out his – thighs rubbing together, itching – because that’s his true passion in life? Of course not. But he knows it’s good for him. He knows if he does it every day, if he builds it into his schedule every day, occupying the same space of time, that he has to hold himself to -
Because discipline a lot of us just don’t have. As a trait, I mean, you’re rare to just be born with it. Why so many people suffer from procrastination – it's not ingrained. Most of us, most humans, are just basically lazy. Or not lazy, but we like being content, we don’t need to go out of the way to tax ourselves. That’s our default. So you live 20, 30 years by that model and effecting any real change becomes close to impossible. I had the same outlook. If I’m already at this point, if I’ve reached it, well it’s essentially too late. And what’s more I can keep going just like this and eek out another 20 or 30 years, and be relatively happy, and enjoy life, eat whatever I want, sleep with people that don’t find me too disgusting, and I them, embrace an increasing limited mobility, and most of all, any symptoms, any alarm bells I might perceive, ignore them, pretend nothing is off or wrong or happening. And I thought, this is a life at peace, even of acceptance. Very zen or however they describe it.
(A moment where Edgar lets that thought percolate. Then:)
Then I had this weird – it was like pinching, a pinching in my left armpit. Out of nowhere. It went on for about a minute. I was just sitting on the couch eating dinner. Corndogs, from the deli at Safeway. I was pretty hungry so it was three corndogs that night. I remember even being full after the second one, full but I knew it would still taste good, you know, and I’d already – I'd bit into it, so might as well... And I was chewing off the hard gristly bit of dough at the bottom of the stick when the pinching started. It was in my armpit but I could feel so clearly that it connected right directly to my heart. Like I said it lasted about a minute. I rubbed at the spot where it hurt and it just sort of went away. I breathed. I mean I took a breath. Heart seemed fine. Then I reached out for the can of Barq’s root beer I was drinking and it was as I was going for it that my hand just STOPPED. NO. No I thought.
No, don’t drink that. No it’s poison. You’re killing yourself. BEEN killing yourself. You put that stuff, ingest that, it’s gonna flow right through your veins, sticky pop mess coursing through your whole body, replacing your blood, gumming up the whole works. Is that what you want? Huh? You’re a fucking asshole, must be fucking retarded to have put that shit in your body thirty fucking years or more. You’ve had a death wish since age seven. I mean THREE FUCKING CORNDOGS? You’re not at the county fair! Don’t you want to live to see fifty?! This isn’t a special occasion you gluttonous fuck! There’s a REASON they WARN AGAINST this shit IN THE BIBLE!
I threw it out. Everything – not just the soda, practically everything in my fridge and cupboards. Snacks, chips, cookies, Oreos, Double Stuffed Oreos, the freezer, frozen pizzas, Snickers ice cream bars, Ben and Jerry’s - filled up three garbage bags and straight to the dumpster. I was like I was possessed, in fact I never felt or experienced anything like that in my life, just total resolution. Resolve? I don’t know. I don’t, but it felt GOOD. I even put on music. Eye of the Tiger. A little trite, but hey! Discipline, motivation, discipline, motivation: it’s a cycle. But one where you keep actual rewards to a minimum.
(He puts on a pair of nice pants, along with a belt.)
I started with water. Building block of life, right? How many glasses are you supposed to drink a day, like eight? I was a few short. Try zero. Zero glasses a day, I was drinking no water. I think, you know, I really must’ve had hated myself.
(He goes into the bathroom to apply deodorant.)
‘Nother crazy thing about water, think about it – is there A) any beverage better for your than plain old water? And B) anything more plentiful and at the same time less expensive? Water’s cheap cheap cheap, practically free - and it’s the best fucking shit you can put in you. (Fixes his hair in the mirror; not an elaborate process.) So I got a water bottle and just started carrying it with me everywhere. Work, water bottle, it gets empty, you immediately refill it. Home, same thing. That bottle becomes like a tether to me, my constant companion. Till I forgot it on the bus one day a couple weeks ago. But by that point it didn’t matter, I’d trained myself. More n’ that, I’d broken myself of the habit of craving all that other stuff. Pop, juice, even coffee – cept every other Friday on payday when I treat myself to a latte. Well it’s ice coffee now as it’s starting to get warmer.
(He crosses to closet, opens it, and spends about a minute trying to pick out the right shirt.)
So water’s one thing, the first item on my hit list. But I gotta eat better in general. Problem is I hate cooking. I even hate people cooking for me; I mean in a domestic setting, not at a restaurant or takeout or something. It’s just the waiting thing, having to wait.
(Edgar selects a shirt, but stands there bare chested for a while longer.)
Thanksgiving, you know? That’s a bad example because the whole point is you make this big meal – not that I ever, that I was ever responsible – but it takes all day. But by the end of it you’re just starving. And no amount of peanut butter on celery or black olives is going to satisfy you when you want to be eating stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy. It was the damn turkey, if you didn’t have to wait for anything else -
But I get the same feeling now. Impatience. Are we there yet?
(He starts to put on his shirt, then stops.)
I had a couple girlfriends tried to make this really special, like candlelight, tablecloth, dinner for me, and all I can remember about it is sitting on the couch, my stomach continuously growling, just getting more and more irritated. Like did she have to make the pasta from hand? Make her own bread? Because I’m not going to be able to tell the difference so really what’s the - (Pulls shirt over his head.) But the point, as we all know, is to impress you – endear themselves, herself, to you. Because as, again, we all know, the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach for some reason.
And for all the women in the audience let me disabuse you of that notion right now. And it’s not what you’re thinking either – sex. It’s not sex. Sex is like dessert, not to mix my food metaphors. It’s good, great even, but you also don’t need it every night, it CAN, and probably SHOULD, remain this special thing, if possible. Sex is not the way to a man’s heart, no. The way to a man’s heart is Obedience.
I know how that sounds, like some caveman bullshit, but hear me out, ok? We just... There’s a time and a place for everything. Most things anyway – and the woman who understands, who gets that theory, who can just let shit lie, that you can just sit with, the ability to just sit with something, not forever but just, for the time being... This is who’s going to get the man.
Does that make sense? I know I’ve gotten off topic but -
And it’s only in recent years that I’ve come to this crystalizing... you know, just very clear and straightforward conclusions about What I Want, What I Need out of life.
And if you’re thinking “Well good luck finding it, her, a woman who’ll just shut up you’re not even have to telling her to” - yeah I know that already, thanks, I know it’s gonna be a challenge, cause I haven’t found her yet.
Also you’re really oversimplifying my point if you think that. Because I’ll admit men are just as bad as women – or close – about the whole just shutting up thing. Because it’s about communication styles. Love languages, right? This may surprise and startle our Viewers out there – but I fully subscribe to ALL that shit. For instance, I can’t take a compliment to save my fucking life. I physically tense up. But Acts of Service – you flip my laundry or fill up the gas tank – and I am yours. On my hands and knees baby. Just how you like it.
(Edgar winks, then gestures like it was just a joke. He puts on his shoes.)
But Acts of Service; yes. And recognizing that in other people, getting to know and learn what works best for them. It’s like a key, it don’t all work in the same lock. We are mysteries, even onto ourselves.
That’s what this year’s been about so far for me. Making sense of shit. Prioritizing. What do I want. What kind of life -
(He grabs his phone and his wallet. Then his keys.)
I been going out a couple times a week, on dates, different women.
Thirty-nine’s not too old to be on Tinder... (Grins, lots of teeth.) Right?
I tell you one thing, I am seeing a difference. I can see the change; it’s tangible. In the past month and a half, since I started working out in earnest, I’ve dropped over 30 pounds, mostly from the gut region. I’m down under 200 again. It’s frickin crazy. All this improvement is such a short time. You gotta be proud of that too, personally, cause no one else is really gonna give a fuck. No one really cares about you bettering yourself. I don’t. I mean if you wanta eat a box of Krispy Kreams once a day then by all means. If you wanna stay up late every night deprive yourself of a good night’s sleep, your choice. We’re responsible to ourselves ultimately. And God I guess. But what does He give a fuck whether you binge Mickey D’s every night or starve yourself to death like Ghandi? He doesn’t. So you shouldn’t either.
Stay out of other people’s business is the hardest lesson some people have to learn. For others it just comes natural.
(Edgar does a final check in the bathroom mirror: hair, teeth, etc.)
Don’t care. Or try not to care too much at least.
(He nods, satisfied with his appearance. Then he turns off the bathroom light and crosses to the door. He stops just before exiting. He smiles hugely, proud.)
I’m in the best shape of my life.
(Edgar leaves. We hear the door slam off. Blackout.)
