Mia

15

The sun rose and everything fell. And each day as the sun did it's thing, Alex would wake up to his alarm, set to the same elevator jazz music that nobody would admit they liked, and open his eyes on the count of twelve. He would sit up, hum for a bit to the alarm and sharply put the machine back to sleep with a quick and fatal tap. Standing up, he would put on his favorite suit with a checkered button shirt, and comb his hair back over his sweaty bald head. Alex was ordinary. He was bland like the white toast with cream cheese and unsweetened green tea he had every morning. It could have been monday or saturday or any other day and there would be no discernible difference- he even played a recording of a 1996 radio broadcast every morning instead of listening to current events. By all accounts Alex was destined to the kind of life that the majority of people live, one that began with a panic as his parents discovered that they had birthed a son and that the name Sylvia wasn’t going to work, (they choose Alex in 2.5 seconds after looking at the first name in a baby book and alerted the doctor so they seemed prepared and competent, a ruse that unraveled pretty much the first time Alex needed a changing), and that ended with a funeral congregation of his office mates who still, STILL, called him Alec, and was only punctuated by the occasional tragedy. Tragedy, it seems, always makes a person feel special, and that's exactly what it did to Alex.
After his Grandfather Holstine passed, which of course felt to Alex like the first passing in all of history, Alex felt unique in his sorrow, alone in his wallowing pit of depression, and special in a dark sort of way. It made him overlook his life, that so far, statistically, would mean waving good bye to his hair by 35, a divorce, 2.5 kids that he loathed but would battle for in a heated custody debate, a heart attack before he was 60, and a hidden erectile dysfunction problem that he would not be able to recognize due his way above average dry spell. This taste of perceived individuality was like the first drop of blood to a vampire, or a vampire to a squadron of teenage girls, and set him on a full scale rampage to discern himself from the crowd. He would get rid of the thin, old microwave smell of “statistically average” if it killed him (before, probably, heart disease did.) He would find himself, and hopefully, like that guy better.
He tried everything. He attempted being political, but the fact that he thought ‘thats what she said’ was a campaign slogan for Hillary Clinton got in the way. He tried being funny, but ended up being the first person to ruin a Monica Lewinsky joke. He tried self deprecation, but everyone just thought he was venting and suggested a sabbatical. He tried becoming a woman and agreed that athletic leggings used solely for leisure purposes was a great idea, but decided it wasn’t really for him. He tried flirting, but had a knack for choosing prostitutes every single time. He went backpacking in Europe and said things like “dude my blood blisters will be so worth it when I climb this mountain” even though all mountains look the same and the view is pretty much the same and nothing is ever really worth a blood blister. He tried hanging out in hipster coffee shops and having intellectual discussions, not once allowing himself to order a green tea, but had to bail when for the millionth time the conversation turned to the merits of Nietzsche. Not everything is Nietzsche. He played competitive ping pong. He wrote slam poetry. He spoke exclusively in metered rhyme. He went to jail. He decided that orange is not the new black. He found Jesus. He lost Jesus. He realized playing hide and seek with Jesus was a super rigged game.
Years of trying to carve himself out of the lumpy, unexceptional, bargain brand stone that was his personality, eventually lead him to a carnival in the midwest. The smell of rotating, heat lamp hot dogs and funnel cake combined with the symphony of electronic scooters sighing under the weight of too heavy mothers pulling their children by leashes, was promising. Alex saw in the distance, past the cheap machinery and 40 year old, recently paroled clowns, a clear glass house. He walked up to it, finding that, like most things, it was just what it was: a glass house and nothing more. “Say, what’s inside this glass house,” Alex asked, certain that a carnival oddity would have something to it. The stoned, gangly, red haired teenager in a green and yellow striped bowling shirt selling tickets to the thing sighed. “Dude,” he groaned, “It's a glass house. You can see through it. There’s nothing in it. It's just a glass house.” Alex, flustered, furrowed his eyebrows and quizzed the boy, “Then why would anyone want to pay,” pausing as he glanced down at the ticket price, “this exorbitant amount to go inside.” The teenager, taking another puff of his joint, replied, “I dunno man, but you seem pretty interested in it.”
Fifty dollars later, he was standing at the very front the massive glass house. He remembered something about how people get stoned in glass houses or something along those lines and mentally prepared himself for more characters like the ticket boy. Maybe, the glass house, and what he was certain was a menagerie of hidden treasures inside of it, would be the definitive thing in making him the exciting, interesting man he was certain he was. He thought about how much more intriguing, smart, and attractive he would be after this, another experience in a long list of swings and misses. But, just as he was about to step into the house, he felt a soft pang at his chest and a profound tiredness in his head. An idea flickered briefly in the front of his skull, and for a moment, he thought that maybe life wasn’t about finding yourself, but instead learning to how to be okay with who you already were. Quickly he shook off the thought, because who was he to say? He was just an ordinary guy. Looking up at the glass house, mansion really, he breathed in deeply. Alex stared at the door handle and slowly turned the knob.