It was bound to happen eventually.
Saturday, the latest in a string of early risings, only this time for no reason. Last year I watched dozens of racing bikes hum down an ill-advised hill at an even more ill-advised speed. There were no crashes. But we were there. This time there were no crashes (as far as I know), but we were not there since the rest of the crew didn't show. My powers of invisibility were great yesterday, my questions met with shrugs and blank stares, turning away to more interesting conversation, punctuated by the occasional unreturned phone call. I completed some other tasks as the darkness descended. I was angry, but not because of this. It was time to go home. I had to walk a few blocks through merriment I wanted no part of just to find the person who had parked me in.
I hate people, I thought.
I tasted that thought, contemplative, settling into it like an ominous easy chair, pressing my shoulder blades into its sumptuous upholstery, my elbows resting on its portentous girth.
I don't know what other people do when they feel this way. Actually, I take that back. I do know what they do. They drink and fight and fall down and take things they shouldn't or buy things they shouldn't or otherwise do what they shouldn't to avoid the feeling, push back the sucking dark. Sometimes we have to go after them, get them out, wrap them up and strap them down, feeling for damage while they search our faces with anxious eyes, attempting hope and excuses for trying and failing to ride the tide. I opted to hide in the house. Hating people pretty much means you should avoid them for a little while. It definitely implies that, at least in the short term, you should probably not attempt to render quality emergency medical service. I ignored a text for a transfer, knowing no drivers were available anyway. I pulled my pager out of my waistband and shoved it in my purse, thumbing it off as it went. Off went the phone. 1R-259 is OOS, I wanted to write on the whiteboard in the garage. Only I have to do my own warranty work.
Today may be better only because I'm still in the house. But its better. One by one necessary chores get done. I'm at least willing to look out the window, and I may even go out there, soon. I know this sabbatical is short, no more than a day. There are things to do, you see. Obligations to the family I adopted and persuaded to set a place for me, the brothers, the sisters (maybe), the God who watches over us, shaking His head, protecting what we do not treasure.