chapter 1: the man in the brown hat

the man in the brown hat.

The man in the brown hat is outside of my house again. I am looking out my window between two black-out curtains, like some sort of nosy housewife. He’s sitting in front of the house across the road from mine in what appears to be some type of convertible from the 1950s. I don’t know anything about cars. Never have. It looks like a Cadillac I guess. That’s the brand name that pops into my head. I can tell his face is pointed toward my window, and he’s looking out from under a brown fedora. He looks like a relic from the past. Someone from a time that might not have really existed, but has found a home in the nostalgic sphere of our minds. A time in a Norman Rockwell painting when children sat at the counters in drugstores and sipped soda out of a straw. Sipping soda while their father with a crewcut flattop drove a Cadillac convertible to an office job where he joked around with his office friends before returning home just as his wife was pulling dinner out of the oven. She would be wearing some sort of apron, and grabbing a casserole with large brown oven mitts. Smiling as her husband returned home from work. Just as her son arrived home on his bicycle. After he had paid the drugstore man 25 cents for his four malt sodas. Like a scene in Leave it to Beaver or Happy Days, a time that makes us all feel happy. Nostalgia. A warm fuzzy blanket we have all forgotten is riddled with fleas.

If I’m completely honest with myself, the idea of a 1950s father scares me way more than the fact (??) that a man is watching me. Fathers from this decade are notoriously callous men. They beat their wife and sons behind closed doors, and shake hands with barrel shaped men they served with in the navy. Despite my fears, the man is still there. When you think of a vision a crazy person has it is usually some sort of generic figure watching them from afar. A man in a suit with a briefcase. He’s usually wearing a hat. Have I become a stereotypical crazy person? There is no good way to tell if you are crazy. When you are paranoid you see patterns and shapes that only exist to yourself. This does not necessarily mean that they do not exist. It just means no one else sees them. Is paranoia just a hyper awareness of your surroundings? Is it an intuition that is lost on most people as they focus on what they are going to have for lunch? Is paranoia a superpower? Who would the villain be? A sneering lunch menu?

I’ve always been paranoid. Not like in the movies when a schizophrenic person thinks the Russians are beaming their thoughts to the Kremlin. I do not fear aliens, the government, the illuminati, lizards, and I’m not a Republican. No, I’m not paranoid like that. I’m paranoid in a very modern way. Paranoid none of my friends actually like me. Paranoid that everyone knows what a fraud I really am. That they pretend I am funny. That they pretend to laugh because they feel bad for me. That the second I leave the room they turn to a friend and roll their eyes. That they hope one day I will catch the hints that are obvious to everyone except for me. That I will just go away. I’m paranoid that they will find out I am just pretending to be funny, cute, and in control. That deep down inside I’m a complete disaster. A nervous ball of bright white energy simmering just below my skin, waiting to leak out of my pores as my hairline slowly dissolves into nothingness. Paranoid I have made some terrible mistake. Paranoid I forgot something important. Paranoid that someone or something from my past will surface. That the life I have grown accustomed to, a life of moderate comfort and well-being will simply cease to exist. Paranoid that the person I secretly know I am inside, will be broadcast to the outside world. But maybe they’ve seen that person all along, and I’m the only one who is not in on the big joke that is my life. I’m paranoid that the careful darkness I keep in my mind and in my home will disappear. The darkness that eases the dull ache of my brain and hides the blemishes of my body will be wiped out by a bright, white, blinking neon light, exposing every square inch of my existence as it slowly travels straight into my pupils. Paranoid that I will be thrown naked in front of a national audience I never knew existed. I guess those are the ways in which I am paranoid. The normal forms of paranoia that every human (I’m assuming) shakes from their minds, the second they wake up, in the battle to take a step out of their front door. Maybe I’m the only one who feels this way. Now I’m really sounding paranoid.

I fear my paranoia might be escalating beyond the normal human experience. Am I hallucinating? Am I actually going crazy? My paranoia has only ever pertained to myself, but now there is another man. A living (??) breathing (??) human being. As I look out my window the man is still there staring back at me. I wait. I pace around my living room. Ten minutes pass. Fifteen minutes. A half hour. I look back at the clock. It has only been five minutes. The only time that time moves slowly is when you are conscious that time exists. A watched clock moves slower than one that is hidden away. I look back out the window and I see the convertible driving off. The wide curvature of the rear fender slowly disappears down my street.. They say car companies in the 1950s wanted their cars to mimic the curves of a woman. That if men thought cars were women, then some primal reaction would occur, and before the man knew what had happened he would have ejaculated and purchased a new car. What a stupid idea. What does that mean about modern cars? I don’t want to fuck a Prius, but I bought one anyway. I bought one because it was the fiscal and environmentally responsible thing to do. Driving my car doesn’t make me horny. It doesn’t make me feel like a man. It is just a way of getting from one place to another. Men used to be such good consumers. The things they bought were beautiful like women. If they had enough beautiful things in and around their homes then a beautiful woman would come and live in that home forever. Cars had big fat beautiful asses, and the asses followed men around wherever they went.

I’m pacing nervously around my house as I draw the front curtains completely closed. What kind of man am I? I’m definitely not like a man from the 1950s. A man who took whatever he wanted and thought only of forward progress. From the time men stepped foot onto American soil they have moved forward. Up until now. Now I barely move at all. My cats don’t even respect me. They manipulate me. I used to give them treats once a day. It was special and they loved me for it. When they continued to beg I just kept giving them more treats. I have no spine. I’ll agree to almost anything if it makes someone like me more. I spend almost all my daily energy trying to make sure I don’t hurt someone’s feelings or say the wrong thing. My cats love me less and less the more treats I give them. That is how life works. The more you give someone, the more they want from you. The people who are the most aloof are those whose opinion you hold in the highest regard. Artists have made entire careers out of simply being aloof. I spend all kinds of energy trying to catch the attention of people who don’t even know I exist.

The man in the brown hat is gone, which makes me feel better, but in a strange way I long to see him again. It’s not that complicated. I feel at ease when he is gone, but there is no thrill or excitement when he is away. The overwhelming dread that comes with the man breaks up the monotony that comes with being awake. I turn on the tv. Baseball comes on. I hate baseball, which is perfect. I let my mind slowly shut down, and before long I know I will fall asleep. The best part of my day.