The Start

When was the last time I actually sprinted? Why the fuck was I even running? Why am I even thinking about this? I was amazed that this was the thought running through my head. I was also strangely impressed by my mind’s ability to drift given the current situation. I was sprinting barefoot down the street I had grown-up on in the pitch-black night. My parent’s house was on a long cul-de-sac in a neighborhood that, due to the developer’s desire for tranquility, had no street lights. At night the only relief from the darkness was provided by the moon or an occasional forgotten porch light.

The voices of everyone following behind me had all merged to form one singular noise. Who is behind me? Why am I running? Are we all running or are they chasing me? I had an empty beer bottle in my hand, the previous contents of which had been sloshed all over my skin and clothes. I was running with excitement, not fear, but still, why the fuck were any of us running? I couldn’t see more that 15 feet in front of me. I began to feel the sting of small cuts opening on the bottom of my feet and could smell the stagnant mud and water ahead of me. There was a big pond at the end of the street. A filthy cesspool I had swum in hundreds of time. When my feet hit grass at the end of the street, I decided to keep heading straight for the water, jumping in, arms and legs flailing like a long-jumper. Three steps from the edge I changed my mind and tried to hold up, digging my heals in desperately trying to stop my momentum. My efforts were futile. Within seconds I was caught in the mob that was now pouring in at full speed…

4:13

Those were the digits displayed against the neon green background as I half-consciously checked my cell phone. This was the third time a dream had jolted me awake this week and I’d lost count of the monthly total. None of the dreams had been scary per se, but they had all ended sharply, and each had been equally random and absurd. The catalyst for the dreams was pretty obvious. My life was about to go through a major change, the fourth of its kind, and my subconscious was rebelling.

I have always felt that other than actual personal tragedy, the two most miserable human experiences are moving and finding a job, and I was about to tackle both. Within one week I was moving to a new city with no job. Simply the thought of loading and unloading a U-haul were enough to give me a headache. I could already picture my father and I, both drenched in sweat from the summer heat, arguing like children, giving in to that unique irritability created when two people attempt to cooperatively move furniture for eight hours. We would have only brief moments of unity when we would both become enraged at my mother’s constant inquiries such as whether to label my bedroom movie collection as “bedroom” or “DVDs/Videos”. The day would be long and painful and would be repeated in reverse order a day or two later when we reach my new quarters. I would hate the whole process, however, it was not what I was dreading the most. The moving would be over and done with in 72 hours. I was concerned with what awaited me after that.

I was dreading finding a new job. The idea of job searching almost made me want to stay. The crap that you go through to find employment is quite torturous. The networking, the coffees, the lunch meetings, the follow-ups, it’s all miserable. I figured it would take a few months to find something so I knew I would have a bit of a break. However, it wouldn’t be the type of break I could really enjoy. In the same way that you can’t really enjoy a night out when you have to get up early the next morning, there would always be that looming feeling of not having a job in the back of my mind, constantly reminding me that I had things to worry about.

I knew how the process would start. I had a few contacts that I would reach out to, meet for coffee, ask for advice, etc. Each would hopefully then give me a few more names to call, I would meet those people for lunch, they would give me more names and the whole thing would spider-web out from there. The conversations would be forced and awkward. It would be like dozens of little, non-formal interviews. As I said, I was dreading it already.