My Envy

About a week ago I was waiting for my bus, anxious to assemble my new coffee table, which I had hauled all the way from Ikea via public transportation, not a pleasant or timely task. A trio of Chinese students walk by, two males and one female. The girl throws her head back and releases a laugh that can only be invoked by an artfully timed punchline following a particularly comical anecdote, possibly delivered by one of her male companions. The boys laugh in turn and some post-joke discussion follows. While waiting for the crosswalk to signal a safe passage, they continue discussing whatever it is that was so damn funny. They finally cross and as they step onto the opposite sidewalk, they cross paths with a blond girl who just misses the signal to traverse in the opposing direction. Traffic comes to a halt and she begins to walk, until she is hailed by one of the stopped drivers. She waves back in excitement at the familiar face and the driver motions for her to get in the car. Skipping across the road, she hurriedly positions herself in the passenger seat for fear of the light turning green which, naturally, would result in a choir of angry honks, or worse, dismemberment. After they leave I turn my head to the right and notice a couple coming towards me. They move with a blatant air of carelessness, as if to proclaim, "Yes, we are walking and we have no particular destination. But as long as this person is walking beside me, I couldn't fucking care less." I watch their unconnected hands, like two magnets desperately gravitating towards each other, but being held back by some invisible force. Every few steps their palms would sway closer and shy away at the last moment, a spectacle of suspense. They pass me, engrossed in smiling and conversation and I maintain focus on their hands. Not more than 30 seconds later a cyclist comes hurtling behind the unwitting girl and applies his breaks enough to avoid colliding with her. The boy notices and pulls her to safety. And there it was, forced by a reckless cyclist riding illegally on the sidewalk. Their hands finally found each other, a destined union written in the stars, I'm sure. I find myself mimicking their interlaced fingers with my own. My heart races for them as I imagine what they are both thinking, "The suspense is over, just don't let go, please".

It is these common to intimate interactions that my experiences have been devoid of. I miss being able to tell dead baby jokes and share racially offensive humor without getting the 'wtf?' look. And racist dead baby jokes?...Forget about it! I miss being comfortable enough in a crowd to drink. The source of this comfort was once the knowledge that someone will ultimately take care of me and make sure I don't pull a Hasselhoff, or that if I do, they won't take offense to the deluge of fuckwords that may slur out of my noise hole. Not that I ever consciously placed that burden on anyone, but the subconscious comfort allowed me to order that last glass of Scotch that would make my night a little more magical, and my morning a little more painful. Lastly, I miss being able to pick up the phone knowing whoever is on the other end will be down to hang out, be it at a quiet cafe, a familiar household, or a dank dive bar. God, I miss the dank.

As a natural introvert without these interactions, I've resorted to my default wallflower mode. Witnessing others take advantage of and perhaps take for granted the privilege of being truly connected with someone has been a slightly painful sight to witness. I can't help but think, "I once had that. I once was an insider on inside jokes. I used to connect with someone (several someones, as a matter of fact) at a level that seems dizzying now. Most importantly... I used to belong." I'm completely aware that those relationships take time, which makes the situation even more hopeless as I have gotten almost nowhere in a year and have another year left of nowhere-getting ahead. And sometimes, as awful as this may sound, it's comforting to know that I'm not completely alone in this struggle.

It's come to my attention that I am not the only nor the last Las Vegan to embark on this tortuous self-exile. The reasons for exile are generally similar: "I have to leave before Vegas eats my soul. I have to leave because there's a bigger world out there." What's funny is that none of us (I think) foresaw this inundation of loneliness and homesickness, despite it being glaringly obvious in retrospect. We have each dealt with this beast in our own ways. Some have resorted to cardboard cats to provide companionship in lieu of a more fleshy feline. Some have relied on the relentless exploration of their surroundings as if new ground was an infinite resource. Some are fortunate enough to interchangeably use the words 'coworker' and 'friend' . Some are too busy staying afloat in a foreign culture and language to worry too much about exile. Still there are others, like me, who continue to struggle to find that niche, that perfect fit, that groove on which we will ultimately find the justification for what we've done to ourselves. If we are diligent and (more importantly) lucky, we will find those laughs and inside jokes to share with those familiar faces. And if we're really lucky, we will find those hands that allow us to proclaim, "I couldn't fucking care less."