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What's The Worst That Could Happen?

The Mind Can Play Dangerous Games

By Phillip MerrillPublished 4 years ago 8 min read
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What’s The Worst That Could Happen?

Riding the bus to and from work was so routine that the execution of the task was automatic, requiring no thought or attention on my part. I considered my commute as a type of rest time. It existed somewhere on the spectrum of consciousness between sleep and watching television. While it wasn’t as physically beneficial as sleeping, it was still rejuvenating to let my mind go completely blank. Occasionally random bits of conversation from the other passengers on the bus drifted to me out of the ether and I idly contemplated their meaning.

Lately I have been prone to contemplate my life. I have noticed that I increasingly feel unmoored, disconnected. My existence has been static for the past ten years. I work at the same tech support job I took right out of school. Each day is like a carbon copy of the day before: I wake up, go to work, go home, go to sleep, and then do it all over again — over and over again. I keep telling myself that I need to break this routine, try something new. No luck. I feel like I am being p[ulled inexorably forward by some tidal force that won‘t let me deviate from my routine. Sometimes I think that it would take something drastic to free me from this pattern. My chest tightens and I get a desperate feeling like I am drowning. Then the feeling passes, I arrive at home or work and things continue smoothly on until I am left with too much down time and the thoughts come creeping back from the recesses of my mind.

On that particular Tuesday afternoon, I rode home on a bus that was more full than usual because of a big soccer tournament in town. It was always a strange experience to share my daily routine with so many unfamiliar faces; like taking a shower in the middle of the street. This strangeness made my usual level of mental indifference impossible. Instead, I tried to listen in on as many conversations as I could, distracting myself with the interactions between the other passengers. A mother and her young son debated possible dinner alternatives in town. Two elderly gentlemen argued about the effectiveness of various bunion treatments. Between bits of conversation, my mind wandered only to be recaptured by the occasional exclamatory exchange or burst of loud laughter. As the bus turned East on 53rd Street, I knew that my journey was only two stops from completion. I collected myself mentally and got ready to stand and make my way to the exit. Between the Brown Station and my stop, I shuffled along the aisle toward the rear doors. I stood behind a group of young men in their twenties who talked excitedly about possible activities for the evening.

“Oh, come on Jimbo! It’ll be fun, you’ll see,” said one to another. “There’s always something going on in that part of town.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?” pressed a second.

“I don’t know Marty, maybe we could get mugged. That’s a pretty rough neighborhood, especially after dark,” replied the one called Jimbo.

“You worry too much, Jimbo. Doesn’t he worry too much, Bobby?” Chided Marty.

The bus wheezed to a stop and I disembarked with the group. I overheard Jimbo reluctantly agree with his companions’ plans for the evening. I crossed 53rd toward my apartment building and left the trio of twenty-somethings to themselves.

I rode the dingy old elevator up to the seventh floor, silently praying that there would be no stops between the lobby and my floor. The elevator was so worn down after years of use and abuse that every time it stopped it seemed to take a great effort to get moving again. It was such a commonly-held belief that the thing would break down at any minute that some of the more forward-thinking residents had put together an emergency kit of sorts in a rubberized tote. The unorthodox kit contained water, granola bars, a fifth of Jack Daniels, a sleeping bag and some condoms. I arrived at my destination without incident and let myself into apartment 724.

It took me longer than usual to unwind that night because of the overcrowded bus ride home and when I finally sat down to have a drink and watch television the late news had already started. The story being broadcast was about an apparent mugging on the south side of town. The details of the tragedy unfolded before me and the hairs stood up on my goose-pimpled skin as a shiver rose from the base of my spine to the back of my neck. The bodies of three men identified as James Anderson, Robert Sims, and Martin Silva were discovered in an alleyway behind the Aces Pub by an employee taking his smoke break. Eyewitnesses reported seeing the trio leave the bar only an hour earlier. No attack was witnessed by passersby, but the lack of watches or jewelry on the bodies and cash or credit cards in their wallets indicated a violent mugging.

What’s the worst that could happen … We could get mugged … You worry too much. The exchange between Jimbo, Bobby, and Marty replayed itself in my mind.

I switched off the television, rinsed out my glass in the sink, and made my way to the bedroom. I lay in bed waiting for sleep to take me, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the unfortunate trio for whom the worst that could happen actually did happen. I tossed and turned until two or three in the morning before I fell into a fitful sleep filled with dreams of all the worst things that could happen.

In the morning, I awoke unrested and uneasy. In the shower, I couldn’t stop thinking about slipping on the soap and breaking my neck. I would lie in the tub unable to move, eventually drowning. As I shaved, it seemed as if my jugular vein was more pronounced today, making an easy target for the cold razor as I drew it across my neck. I thought about the gush of warm arterial blood that would pump from my ruined throat, coating the mirror and filling the basin. I couldn’t finish shaving because of my shaking hands. I managed to brush my teeth without choking on the toothbrush and looked at myself in the mirror. My grey eyes seemed darker than usual because of the dark circles that evidenced a sleepless night. My sandy, thinning hair was dishevelled and my stubbled half-shaved face made me look like one of the city’s thousands of homeless.

“You can’t go to work like this.” I said to my reflection. My voice seemed strange and unfamiliar as it echoed in the tile-walled bathroom. I went back to the bedroom and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. I dialed the number for the floor supervisor and waited through half a dozen rings.

“Polytech, this is Doug.”

“Doug. This is Tom Harper. I won’t be in today. I’m not feeling well.” I made up some story about a flu bug being passed around my building and tried to sound convincing.

“That’s too bad, Tom. Feel better. I’ll leave a note for your shift supervisor. Good bye.”

I returned my phone to the nightstand and laid back in bed. I wasn’t worried about being reprimanded for taking a sick day. I rarely missed work. I hated coming back after a day off and spending the next week catching back up on all the service calls I missed during that one day. I probably had a year’s worth of sick days and vacation days saved up after working at Polytech for ten years. I stared at the water-stained ceiling and thought about Jimbo, Bobby, and Marty again. Were they really just in the wrong place at the wrong time, or did they jinx themselves somehow by thinking about the worst thing that could happen before they went to that bar? My heart started racing and I could feel sweat beading up along my hairline. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

I wanted to sleep. I needed to sleep after last night. I tried to clear my mind to make room for sleep. It was no good. I couldn’t stop thinking of all the worst things that could happen to me while I was sleeping: if an earthquake hit it would make quick work of my apartment building which was falling apart on its own already, I could have a massive coronary in my sleep, someone could break in and shoot me while I lay defenseless in bed. If I was going to get any sleep, I was going to need help. I had some sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet. Would they be strong enough? I had a brilliant idea. I walked quickly out to the hall and summoned the elevator. I tapped my slippered feet nervously as the car labored up from the lobby. When the doors opened, I ducked inside and rummaged through the “emergency kit”. I was out of the elevator with the Jack Daniels before the doors could slide shut. Back in my room, I poured a mugful of the whiskey and popped a handful of sleeping pills in my mouth. I swallowed and chased them with the whiskey. I laid back on the pillows and as I drifted into unconsciousness I couldn’t suppress a nervous giggle as I thought about my self-medicating and heard myself say, “What’s the worst that could happen…”

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