The Big Bad Wolf

(A story)

I’m a neurotic person and I have undiagnosed mental and physical ailments, of that I’m sure. My understanding of existence is a complicated squiggle for other people; it's straight, parallel lines. 

But thank God for my shrink. I should watch out, thanking God like that isn’t like me. Anyways, I’m thankful for my psychiatrist because he keeps the big bad wolf away from the door. Well, he keeps it away for as long as it can be kept away because that isn’t of course for forever. Sooner or later the big bad wolf will come to gobble us all up. 

My psychiatrist asked me to keep a diary of my day so this will be the first entry. I’m writing now at 8:30 pm, 1987. It’s dark outside but the sun has just gone down on a beautiful spring day in San Francisco, wow doesn’t that sound poetic? I’m a lucky man to live in San Francisco. 

Life my friend isn’t a story like the cinemas or even the books. It’s just life. It doesn’t really tell a story with a real beginning and an end. Sure I began to live at some point back in 1938. Isn’t that hard to believe? I’m already 49 years old. Good lord. I’m as old as my father was when he moved to Anaheim, California, to work in the hospital as a top surgeon. My father didn’t worry. He just did. Well, he did worry. We all knew he worried but he wouldn’t talk about it. Towards the end of his life, he talked a little more though.  

He and my mother both died young. He died suddenly at 62 from a stroke and she died just five years later but even younger because she was younger than him. I don’t think she was happy. I think she was afraid of the big bad wolf, and I’m pretty sure I got some of that fear. She didn’t talk much about it either. My parents were from the generation in which you didn’t talk about things. They’d have laughed at me for going to a psychiatrist, but I go partly because there’s no one left to talk to. I suppose I could talk to my brother, but he’s a zealot Christian and I don’t want to have anything to do with God or as little as possible for now. I suppose if I’m dead in 13 years like my father, I might have to reckon with God pretty soon. My father didn’t believe in God, so I’m really not sure where my brother’s conversion came from, but anyway, I think I find myself in the habit of writing out a stream of consciousness and that’s probably because I’m getting older and my mind wanders. I’m going to try to keep a diary of the day. 

So, let’s see, as I said I don’t think my day is very interesting or my life for that matter, but here it goes. I got up at 8:30 am. That’s pretty late I know but I don’t have to be at the paper until 9:30 am. I think I’d had a dream about something nice because I felt happy when I got out of bed but I couldn’t think why. Anyways, I brushed my teeth and got dressed. Then I got on the cable car which is always pretty cramped at 9:15 and rode it a short distance to the office. 

When I got to the office building, I felt extremely dizzy and lightheaded from being in such a crowded space. I had to sit on the stairs for a while until someone said something to me. I got up, took some deep breaths and a drink of water from the water bottle in my briefcase, and went inside. The big bad wolf hadn’t gotten me yet. I was still alive. 

My boss wanted to see me about a story they had been working on. Something to do with the overcrowding of cable cars, I think in fact. I went in to talk to him and I was immediately distracted by the odd rash on his chin that hadn’t been there before. How had he gotten it, I wondered. Was it really a rash or was it a bruise? Had his wife hit him? Suddenly, he stopped talking and said “I can tell you’re not paying any attention to me, are you looking at this?’ He pointed to his chin. I admitted I was distracted by it. “Oh, it’s nothing. It’s most likely from this new shaving cream but to be safe, I’m going to the doctor today, so I am really counting on you to get this paper out.” I nodded, “You can count on me.”

While he was at the doctor later that afternoon I was trying to work on writing about the crowded cable cars, but I was feeling very apprehensive about the situation. I asked someone at work if they had heard anything like this before. He agreed that it was a very strange situation. He’d never seen a bruise like that, and he figured it could be serious. He suggested it might be an infection of the mandible or a rare type of cancer. Neither of us really was interested in working so the conversation went on for a longer time than it should have. Then I looked at my watch and panicked because I realized that very soon my boss would most likely be back--I say most likely be back because I was estimating how long it might take in the hospital; he might have been gone the whole day for all I knew. That was possible if the doctor wanted all sorts of scans, but I was going to work, work, work. 

So, cable cars and overcrowding. What was I supposed to say anyway? Start with my own life experience. I started typing, “This morning, I took the cable car and nearly fainted afterward from the exhaustion of it.” That was probably too dramatic and not the kind of thing that you wanted to hear from your editorial writers. They were supposed to be cool as cucumbers. Okay, let’s try this again, I said to myself. “You may notice that your ride to work has become quite crowded lately.” I played with the sentence a few times in my head, saying it to myself aloud with and without the quite. I couldn’t decide. I decided to ask my companion for his opinion. That resulted in me taking out the quite. I felt a little neurotic for making such a big deal about it and resolved to write the next paragraphs of my essay without more self-doubt. 

My boss had left me some statistics and figures about the rising number of people in the subway cars and I had to weave them in. I’ve always been a decent writer when I’m quoting other people and so it wasn’t very hard for me to get two paragraphs out. So, I had three paragraphs when my boss came back from the hospital rubbing lotion on his jaw and telling me that he wanted me to finish the article in the next twenty minutes. This made it nearly impossible to write anymore. I needed five hundred more words but I couldn’t think of anything else to add and I don’t think well under pressure. Finally, in the last two minutes, it hit me that I could get my last few hundred words by describing my time in the subway. Okay, so how not to sound overly panicked. Well, miraculously, I got it out and handed it to my boss who read it, made a couple of quick x’s on it, and gave it to me again saying “cut some of the personal.”

Well, that just made me feel more panicked again. I sat scratching my head for about ten minutes before my companion next to me who had been overhearing the whole thing suggested in a whisper that I just make a few predictions about the future based on the statistics. This wasn’t too hard to do and so I did it. That was that. I gave the paper to my boss and he told me it was fine and to start writing an editorial piece on the governor’s mandatory water ban. Talk about a boring topic, but I spent the next couple of hours making phone calls to the government’s office and the water department to get comments--for this one I had to do my own research. I got two paragraphs done and my boss told me I could finish tomorrow. That was it. That was my workday, so I went home in the same crowded cable car. 

What else is worth mentioning about my day? Well, the whole way home I worried about what would happen if I lost my job. I mention this because I think it shows that I’m rather psychotic. I mean I’ve worked in this job for years and never once been fired. They know I’m a nervous wreck and they don’t fire me because they like my writing, and I will say I can write when I’m able to do it, but that’s not that often. I have to grab the windows of inspiration and overcome my fear and that takes a lot of work. I also hate looking at comments from readers. I’m modified when people disagree with me and they always do even if it is just about the water ban. Trust me, people always find a way to contradict you. 

Well, back at home I had some cans of beans and some leftover sushi. This was not the ideal dinner. I thought about eating sushi alone, which was probably the best decision I thought at the time. So, I ate it. However, I wondered whether it had gone bad. It wasn’t raw fish, no I’d never eat something like raw food, but what about cucumbers. How long do those last? What should I do? It wasn't that the food tasted bad but who knew whether it had a trace amount of mold. I wished I hadn’t saved the food at all. I wished I’d picked up some food, but now it was probably too late or at least I was too tired. Or was I too tired? That night I didn’t go out. I ate beans but still felt hungry afterward. 

Then just when I’m trying to figure out what to do about dinner, the telephone rings. I assume it’s a solicitor or maybe a doctor’s appointment I forgot about, but it’s my niece who I haven’t talked to in years, the daughter of my brother. Together, they are the two last living relatives I have on earth. My niece never calls me. I’m not the uncle she relies on for everything. Even though she just moved to San Francisco 6 months ago, she hasn’t even stopped to say hello. This has got to be serious. “Hello,” I say, feeling awkward. “Hi,” she says, sounding uncomfortable. “I know we don’t talk but I need your help. I’m in trouble.” Now I’m curious. “Okay, what can I do for you?” “I’m pregnant.” Okay, so is this a wanted or unwanted pregnancy, I’m thinking. “Is that something you’re happy about?” I say trying to stay light, but I can tell from her tone she’s not in a joking mood. “I’m happy about it. I was seeing a guy, now we are breaking up, but neither of us is ready to be parents.” So, I’m thinking to myself. You’re in college; be an adult and figure this out. I don’t want another stressor in my life, especially when I’m just a distant uncle. 

“What can I do to help you here? I’m still not seeing that.”

“There’s an expensive copay with my insurance. Neither of us can really afford it.” She pauses.“I just can’t ask my parents to pay for this. I can’t let them know this has happened.” 

Holy moly! Here comes the big bad wolf. This is really bad news. I feel my blood pressure rising. I am not against abortion, but I’ve always wanted to have as little to do with it as I can. What if someone finds out I’ve paid for my niece’s abortion and I’m vilified by half the people at work who I didn’t know were against abortion. What if? Oh, horrors. My brother was to find out. I’m sure he’s opposed to abortion.

“Well, are you absolutely positive you are pregnant?” I ask. 

“Yes, of course, I am. You’ve got to save me, uncle. I can’t have this baby.”

“Now, look I know what you’re feeling.  I mean more or less. I’ve never been in your shoes, but I’ve seen this kind of thing ruin someone’s life.” Have I seen this kind of thing I wonder? Maybe I haven’t but I’ve heard about it and the thought of someone I love having to suffer through an unwanted pregnancy and then trying to raise a child without the means to do it gives me shivers. 

“Okay,” I say after some rumination, “Where can we meet, so I can write you a check?” 

“Let’s meet at your apartment. I don’t want to have this conversation in a public place.”

“I 100% agree. We need to be absolutely private and delicate about this,” I say, adding, “Any time after 6:00pm works for me.”

“Let’s meet tomorrow at 7pm. But just to warn you, the check is going to before $400. “

“Don’t worry about that. It’s a deal.”

I hang up, my nerves all bent out of shape by this clandestine operation. I’m not hungry anymore. I’ve totally forgotten about that aspect of life. Then comes the part that really proves I’m psychotic. I start worrying about being a bad person even though my whole life I’ve supported Planned parenthood. I get so worked up about it that I’m reaching for the phone to call my niece to tell I can’t help. But aren’t I nuts? I’m doing a good thing and here I’m vilifying myself for it. It’s her life, not my life. I don’t want her to end up a nervous wreck like me, and if she has that baby and drops out of college, she’ll probably get just like me. The strain and pressure of being a single parent or having to parent with someone she really doesn’t love will make her neurotic. 

But my mind circles back around to what’s really worrying me. What if my brother were to find out? Would he consider me a traitor? It occurs to me that religious people might be capable of horrible things. 

I sit on the ground in a lotus pose and try to do some deep breathing. I concentrate on my breath. I breathe in for 20 seconds and out for 20 seconds. Then I try to increase to 25 seconds, and I’m trying for 30 when I freak out and wonder if I’m feeling faint. Am I dying I wonder? I’ve never been through so much in a single evening. No, I’m fine. I’m fine. I just need to write these things down for my shrink. But what about this abortion? Can I even afford it? My mind is starting back up again. No, I’ll take my melatonin and sleep.  The End.