I blankly watch cars pass up and down a street I don’t know the name of in downtown Lexington, and the thought occurs that none of this feels a lick different than the last decade or so. The fact that I’m in a multi-level patio bar similar to one in my hometown certainly helps the comparison, but this feeling, this decision to stare off at cars passing by in lieu of participating in the evening, is nothing new. A few feet away, a dozen of my closest friends are yelling and cackling with abandon, drunk on rum and the buzz of the evening. It’s the same recantations of Captain’s lore that it’s always been, and it’s not that I disdain that sort of thing, but at the moment I’m not equipped to participate.

But when was I ever? Certainly I’ve eroded to this point – there was a time when I was participating in the moment and not just present in the moment. But as I’m in the midst of a reunion attempting to recapture better times, I’m reflecting on those better times and realizing that back then I’d felt the exact same way; I was just slightly less miserable and therefore possessed more social tact. Or perhaps I wasn’t comfortable enough with these people to openly throw in the towel and gaze off. If there’s a silver lining to this, it’s the comfort I have with these people.

Every single one of us is smart enough to know better. We watch it all pass by and we know that we’re indulging in stupidity or feeding the rumbling stomach of the society we’ve been molded to live in, but we do it anyway, and I imagine my friends can do it because they just don’t think about it so much, but I do, and so therefore I can’t. These are all warm, thoughtful, understanding people, but they still jump through the hoops of it all, and I think that we have to in order to avoid sitting against a brick wall staring at the dull glow of the word ‘TAXI’ until it blurs into one round ball of light.

Why do I fight so hard to adapt to a society that is clearly out of it’s mind? Why do we lay the blame at our own feet, or at the feet of friends and lovers? We’re not the ones who are mad. And if we are, it’s for all of the insanity we’ve had to put up with. The hours of doing make-up in the mirror or acting disinterested or acting overly interested or forcing smiles and hiding ourselves, because we aren’t the people everyone else is, and the only way to fit in with them is to take a needle to yourself and stitch out an indentity that is alright with all of this chaos.

I rejoin the circle and the conversation, doing my best to smile at recantations of sexual escapes and not to frown when we talk about the 9-to-5 lives most of us now lead. Every now and again they take a crack at making me laugh, and they often succeed, as I’m not actively trying to scowl. I don’t think I could explain it to them and if I could I think they’d just tell me to shake it off or get drunk or try to have fun or get laid or take pills or meet new people or see someone or try not to think about it or any number of distractions we look for instead of actually addressing it.

 As the evening comes to a close we throw a few rounds of shots down our throats that none of us need, and all of the girls huddle into the bathroom to discuss the cute guy with the Polo short who likes Valerie, and the guys sit around burning cigarettes in silence save the occasional comment about pizza. Perhaps the rampant consumption of alcohol before last call is just a way to get ready for the madness and idiocy of the next bit – the standing around in line for food with dozens of other twentysomethings barely able to form a coherent sentence – this is where we make decisions that have an inordinate impact on our psyches. These are the people whose actions we have to live with in the morning.

 I hang outside the brimming pizza joint, making eye contact through the window with an overweight employee whose arms are stained with dough. His eyes are weary, and it’s the most knowing glance I exchange all night. I ask Valerie to get me a slice and lean against a parking meter while the Polo shirt guy rests his hand on the small of her back. I watch the parade pass, and I can’t help but feel I live in a world that I feel completely alienated from, and I can’t help but think I’ve always felt that way. Seth and Amber devour a pizza on top of a USA Today stand while I stare down the streets of a town that I know nothing about, but one that feels like every other I’ve ever been in.

“Here you go,” Valerie says with her ever-present giggling smile, handing me a barely cheesed slice that takes two papers plates to cover. It’s nearly impossible to frown when faced with the earnesty and glow of her crystal blue eyes and blushing smile. It is baffling to me how this girl manages to gracefully walk through this world with a pleasant warmth and a caring heart that never wavers. I don’t think there’s much of an angle or an end with Valerie, and that’s something I don’t think I can find anywhere else. She has a resolve I’ve seldom seen, and I often wonder if it’s ever going to get cracked by the rest of us. I hope for the sake of the world that it doesn’t.

“Thanks,” I say, staring off blankly before remembering that I owe her a smile.

“Hey, I don’t really want to go home with that guy, so could you please just rescue me?” Her voice is almost always in a cheery sing-song, and it bothers me to see Polo Shirt in the distance, scanning the crowd for her presence. I’m not jealous of him – my heart and mind are back home – I’m just angry. Angry that he doesn’t see the value of this person in an otherwise bankrupt circus.

“Yeah, no problem…you actually restored my faith in humanity a little.” She laughs at nearly everything anyone says, but does it in a way that doesn’t feel patronizing.

“I don’t know what happened,” she says sheepishly. “He was cute…Amber and Gina were kind of encouraging it…I just don’t want to.”

“That makes sense,” I say, staring off in contemplation of whether I should proceed with the next bit. “I really don’t like any of that…I’m not trying to judge…I just don’t understand why we do things like that.”

“I don’t either.” I put my forehead to hers as Polo Shirt lingers nearby, and I lay a hand at the small of her back, which draws an easy laugh. The two of us are often able to stare into each other’s eyes and smile dreamily for extended periods of time, which effortlessly lends to our performance, although he still hangs around idly as we gasp for air from laughter (which isn’t a part of the act).

I begin to pity him, chasing something so false, while I engage in something so comfortable and real. Most of the time I feel a swirl of envy and disgust for the world around me, but at this moment, I feel solace in the fact that I might have it somewhat right. I can’t do much about the rest of them. Finding joy when one is unable to muster it artifically is perhaps one of the better feelings in life.

He makes a last ditch and pathetic effort to grab her attention, and the girls push her towards him, but in the end I grab her hand and we pile into a cab with a few of the others.

“Thanks for rescuing me,” she whispers as I try to watch the blurred and moving red lights of the fare as it ticks by.

“Thanks for giving me some faith in the world.” We smile at each other in silence, the glow of streetlights passing over her eyes, until a song on the radio catches my attention.

“This is Flock of Seagulls!” I yell with a slur, drunkenly unaware that I’m in a cab and not in the exclusive company of friends. “Turn this shit up, man!” The cab driver turns it up without hesitation, and for a moment all is right in the world.