The Chip that Makes You Otle
Bad days aren’t actually that bad these days. They’re slouchy, slippery things, in which I slide through the tasks that need to happen without catching on anything. On those days, my mind feels like like an oily bar of metal, grinding the rail of routines and work, everything frictionlessly sloughing off, nothing jolting it into alertness or engagement. It’s not altogether unpleasant, nothing like the actual boom/bust emotional and physical cycles experienced by most people on earth—just tiring in its sameness, tiring in its familiarity, and devoid of any sort of immediate pleasure or reminder of life.
On these days, I have a habit—I leave the office in Flatiron and head straight to the 6th ave Chipotle. Load up, tortilla on the side. Train home, the weight of the specially requested “bag with handles” digging into my palm. Three pounds of specially crafted sodium slop, ready to be shoveled directly into my yawing maw while watching mewing yew(tube) (tutorial videos). No hesitation. Afterwards, immediately to bed, for the unhealthiest and most fitful sleep of my life. Just a way to pass the time as someone with no ambitions, goals, interests, or personality. Just a way to get through a bad day.
On this particular bad day, I push through the heavy double doors to find myself seventh in line to order. Longer than usual, but that’s okay. I spend the time reading a subreddit for people who have narcissistic parents. I don’t have narcissistic parents, but I like to read it sometimes anyway. I notice a few cops walking in. It’s New York. Normal. I pay them no mind. I move up two spots in line, two people walk out with bags—but the cops stop them. Quiet, hushed tones. A hand on the arm. Two Indian guys, or South Asian looking guys. Hand on the arm, led out. Weird. No cop’s ever touched me before. I don’t think I’d like it.
I look out. Cops past the door. And the two guys are being put into a cop car. And there’s more cops inside now. Waiting. Hushed. I tap the person ahead of me (Indian guy).
“Hey, what’s up with all the cops in here?”
He pulls out an Airpod. Listening to Andrew Bird. Interesting. He didn’t hear me.
“The cops,” I say again.
“Ask her,” he says with a shrug, pointing to the line worker. Two people ahead of me now. Another Indian guy getting stopped. Pulled away. I sidle up to the employee putting the tortillas in the tortilla warmer machine.
“Hey, what’s up with all the cops?”
She looks around. Furtive mode. Secretive mode. Conspiratorial mode. She leans closer to me.
“I’m not supposed to tell you this,” she starts, “but you ever heard of the Middler?”
The Middler. I suppress my gag reflex.
“Who’s that?” I lie.
“Yo, it’s this guy—like—he basically has no interiority or personality. It’s fucking weird, man. No hobbies or special interests. Completely dead intellectual life. Barely getting through it every day. Could you fucking imagine? He’s kind of an urban legend. Yo, but guess what. Turns out, he’s supposed to be here. Right now. Today. The cops set all this up to catch him. Whoever he is, he’s not getting out of this Chipotle without getting caught.” She shrugs. “Guess everyone in this city of people with real personalities, interests, and originality got tired of living with this fucking faker around. Everyone can probably tell this guy is faking a rich inner life.”
“Whoa, that’s crazy,” I say, spinning.
“I know, man. Like, I have my DJ life, and then I’m at this cool new pottery studio. I also learned an ancient floral arranging art from this cool old tome that I found through a magical coincidence, so that’s my side hustle. Love this city dude, everyone’s doing something so real. Even those finance guys have such grit, and they get so into the details of their work. It’s that engagement that makes people real. I can’t imagine just sort of getting by to get by. That’s not for us, not here in this city.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s so great.”
“Yeah, and even all the locals, the people born and raised here—like, this is their home. The memories of childhood and their family dynamics suffuse their lives, adding emotional color and a unique cadence to their day. They’re the realest of us all.”
“Hm”, I squeak. “Hey, can I get a fresh tortilla bag? Just have a thing about that.”
“I’ll have to get it from the back,” she replies cheerily.
“Can I come?”
“That’s pretty weird, dude,” she says. “But sure. As long as you don’t, y’know, try anything.”
I instantly put both hands on the counter and attempt to vault over the glass separating me from the employee. My leg hits the glass. It shatters immediately into millions of tiny pointed shards. My leg feels numb, then hot. I look down—I’ve been lacerated to shreds by the glass wall. Everything is slowing down now. Why did I do that? The cops have drawn their guns and are running. I feint backwards—no, I faint backwards. I go down hard. The world turns black for a second. There’s screaming, and everyone’s staring at me in shock and horror. The cops lift me up. Why did I do that? Vault over the glass? I’ve never done anything like that before. Why did I think it was possible for me? They’re carrying me out. I’m laid in the backseat of a cop car. A face swims into my view. I grab the wrist.
“You got me,” I croak through the pain.
“What?” says the cop.
“I’m the guy. The guy you’re looking for. The Middler. The guy with no inner life. The guy with no plans or ambitions or interests. The employee inside told me all about your search. And I fit the profile—that’s why you’ve been arresting all those Indian guys.”
“Dude, I think that employee was just bored and messing with you. That’s not what we’re doing. Indians? We’re not arresting people for being Indian. We’re just arresting anyone we find that’s too horny to be in public. We drop ‘em in the horny tank and let them have their lascivious fantasies until they calm down and can be released into normal society. Anyway, messing with a Chipotle is a felony. You’re fucking done, kiddo.”
Nabeel’s Footnote
Stuff like this doesn’t occur to me. Idk. I don’t think of stuff like this in my head, just when I’m walking around. Kind of feel bad for Ritam.