Brandon Scott Gorrell, the Electrowars and the New Sincerity (Part II of III)

I made up my mind to have the worst St. Patrick's Day of all time last week. I walked home from work and decided that everyone who passed me was a Norm/ future junk bond lord/ a Greek life kid/ [stereotypical idea here]. I scowled at their appropriately green outerwear while secretly admiring their ability to believe in these types of traditions without rancor.

Some of this, I think, was in preparation for the near future when I plan to move away from the University town where I've lived for the past five years. But, I'm also twenty-two and I know that these plans might only be suppositions or daydreams. The thing is that I'm at the age where you just don't know. I'd also had a bad night. My jeep, aka 'The Beast,' broke down in the express lane of I-96 the day before St. Patrick's day.

The evening had started out innocuously, even hopefully, enough. The weather was the first balmy, spring day of the year. When I was little, it would have been one of those days I savored in fourth grade. I would have worn a mesh-y green jacket and cranked out my bike with the banana seat. When you're an adult you sort of think that having joy for warm days is beyond you, but it's merely translated into other experiences of time.

Eric and I were sitting on the porch. I was actually wearing far too little clothing for the weather. It could have been some sort of nod to times past and notions of freedom based upon the degree of my neckline. Eric was wearing a tweed jacket. We were sitting, bored, on the porch. We decided to head to Mexicantown in Detroit, somewhere close, but far enough to feel far away.

Eric was driving because I'm afraid of the noises The Beast makes. The Beast makes this chronic little rattling noise whenever you happen to accelerate while traveling at thrilling speeds over thirty-five. In the middle of downtown Detroit, the temp gauge began to spiral out of control. Yellow condensation started hitting the windshield and I'm freaking out. Meanwhile, Eric adopted this manner of nonchalance in direct opposition to my increasing panic. He just said something like, "Don't worry. The temperature's in the middle of the red zone, not the edge-edge of it so it can't be that bad." Conversely, I replied something akin to, "We're going to die. Fuck, this is how I'm going to die."

"If it gets to the edge-edge of the red, I'll pull over."

Plumes of smoke started billowing out of the hood. I don't say anything, but we pull over. I call AAA and wait for our ride to take us back to Ann Arbor.

Every car that passes on the freeway shakes The Beast like a matchbox car. I think we both felt like we were going to die or something, but didn't want to admit it to each other. I told Eric to go sit in the backseat on the right side. Eric declines and says that we should actually get out of the car because if we get hit, we're going to be smashed into the concrete like bugs on the windshield. We decide to get out of The Beast, stand behind it and sort of shiver in the cold without our jackets for a few minutes. At one point, another car careens off the highway.

It's a barracuda. It's loud, even on the interstate with hundreds of other cars. They go in reverse along the shoulder for about a 1/2 mile. A guy gets out of the car and we sort of wonder what's he doing. I stiffen. Eric mentions getting robbed. He ends up just offering to give us a ride somewhere. Eric suggests that he might have offered us a ride with the intent of robbing us. I don't want to believe this about people. Eventually, the tow truck gets there. I climb in and the driver's listening to MJ's "You Are Not Alone." Adiós flan. Adiós tacos. Adiós Mexican coke.

After the jeep went into the shop with mysterious engine problems, I decided that it might be St. Patrick's Day, the holiday of merriment and expected carousing with one's peer group, but I was not fucking participating. I was going to sit quietly somewhere and wait to hear the status of said fucked-upness of The Beast. The problem was, that I didn't know what to do with myself. I never know what to do with my physical presence when I feel alone.

I crack open a Fin du Monde.

I start doing my laundry with vehemence.

I go to sit on the porch.

I see people on the porch.

I know it's not time for me to be around people. I say something maladaptive like, "People. God. Fuck. Fuck can't socialize. Fuck fuck fuck."

I turn to head inside, but not before first noticing a small package in the mailbox. This package is addressed to me and the return address is from Seattle. I smile a little before I forget how I'm 'supposed' to be in a bad mood; I forget about a certain pettiness that had characterized my mood. I know exactly how I'm going to spend an evening toute seule. Brandon Scott Gorrell's During My Nervous Breakdown I Want to Have a Biographer Present (2009) could not have been a book more aptly suited to staying in.