(Tuesday Evening, April 14)
“This whole stinking thing’s a joke!” I yell out loud in my car as I speed out of Bo’s parking lot. I fly down Lincoln, with music on louder than usual, making all the lights. I am so sick of this. Within several minutes I am in the Marriott’s fitness center, replaying this insane last month over and over, underscored by the sound of my feet pounding on a treadmill.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’m trying crap I’d usually mock just to convince my wife that I hear her. For what? I think she’s actually liking that I’m out here in a hotel. Everybody’s winning at my expense. I’m giving a bunch of wannabes a chance to work me over for being successful. Those guys all sit around with free time on a Thursday because they can’t do what I can. And then I let them demean me. “Steven, you’re too proud. Steven, you don’t let anyone in. Steven, you think you’ve got all the answers. Steven, you don’t give permission. Steven, you’re angry.”
How about, “Hank, you’re in a dead-end job. Carlos, you talk too much and you cover for your stupid friend Hank too much. Cynthia, you get too close to people’s faces. Andy… you’re an idiot for selling that car… .”
So, why can’t someone who does things well just be recognized as better? Can’t Tiger Woods admit he’s the best golfer in the world? Would that be too superior? I have to go into therapy because everyone else has issues and I’m supposed to be sensitive to the fact that they’re weaker? Why should I have to pretend I’m a failure like everyone else?
The speed of my argument with myself is matching my increasing speed on the machine. Forty minutes later, I’m still angry and now tired as well. I get off and make my way up to my room.
I find myself sitting on the floor leaning against the front of the bed, pulling off wet socks while positioning a towel between the bed and my head. I am still angry. I eventually get up to look on the counter, hoping to see a new batch of oranges. I think I finished off the last one yesterday. But there’s nothing. Someone even took the bowl away.
Great. I’ve got to work in a new housekeeping team… . I gotta get out of here. I’m obsessing over oranges.
I walk over to my “workstation” and sit down in the ergonomic work chair the hotel is touting these days. I stare out the window at the parking garage that has been my view for the last month. Off in the distance there is the annoying beeping of construction equipment moving back and forth. I have convinced myself I somehow deserve this view.
“Thirty-three days. I’ve been living in a hotel room for thirty-three days.” I am surprised I said those last words out loud. “And who am I talking to? You? Then listen to me. I’m sick of this. I feel like I’m performing for You too, and You’re either not paying attention or You’re siding with Carlos and Hank. And I’m done with it.
“You know what I think about when I lie here in bed and can’t sleep? Of course You do. I’ve been looking over the last decade and asking: Has there been any proof that You’ve helped in anything I’ve accomplished? Anything I couldn’t have done without Your help? Is there any evidence that You’ve caused my success, my promotions, my advancement? I haven’t asked for Your help, and You haven’t given it. But in the one area I’ve asked, my relationship with my wife, You haven’t done squat. You’ve left me out, alone, in a hotel, playing the fool. I know I’m gonna pay for this; I know You hold all the cards. But I gotta say, either this whole God thing has been made up in our heads, or You’re not quite as powerful as You’ve been advertised.”
I get up and walk out of the room and down to my car, to drive to a restaurant so I can, once again, eat alone.