Weighing In

I live in a surreal world.

My family believes that I criss-cross between this world and my “real” world, some kind of parallel universe. That explains a lot. I am not so much the black sheep of my family as the odd duck. They love me in the way you might love ET. Or your crazy Aunt Flo.

They call me The Nut Magnet. Extreme personalities gravitate to me. Sometimes they want to love me, sometimes they want to kill me. Sometimes they want to tell me things, give me messages to pass on to this world. A friend once introduced me to an old geezer who lived in the mountains with a dingo for a pet. Untamed. It tore at the tires with its teeth as we drove across the field to the house. Every room was wired with old stereo equipment--turntables, receivers, amplifiers--to receive messages from outer space. He explained it in detail; he was particularly troubled by the difficulties of translation. The problem, he explained, was that he was all conduit; he needed a translator. It would be a simple matter to insert me into the rigging. He showed me where: between a receiver and amplifier. Needles and wire nuts would be involved.

Once I was once rescued from a gang attack by a silent white dog that appeared and then vanished. Once I saw a unicorn. Once I saw the northern lights. Once I went for a walk outside my office. I walked around the block—right turn, right turn, right turn—and ended up two blocks away. Once a man said to me, “I can turn into a cat. I killed my roommate’s girlfriend because she didn’t believe me. I still have the gun in my pocket.” Once I saw my best friend as a ghost, and then she died. She has not spoken to me since.

What will the scale say to me today? I approached with trepidation, chanting 120. It cannot say less. Drastic measures—I can’t imagine what—will be called for. Yesterday I ate like a pig: miso soup, pizza, V-8. I came home from tango and snacked on nuts until midnight. I feel heavy and bloated. It cannot say less than 120.

I walked to the clubhouse, to the exercise room. I took off my shoes, my jacket. Stepped onto the scale. My number is up. It said: Low.