The Unnoticeables

by Robert Brockway

To everybody who told me I was wasting my teenage years by drinking, going to punk shows, and reading comic books: Thank you for being so hilariously wrong.

met my guardian angel today. She shot me in the face. I’m not much for metaphor. So when I say “guardian angel,” I don’t mean some girl with big eyes and swiveling hips who I put on a ridiculous pedestal. I mean that she was an otherworldly being assigned by some higher power to watch over me. And when I say “shot me in the face,” I don’t mean she “blew me away” or “took me by surprise.” I mean she manifested a hand of pure, brilliant white energy, pulled out an old weather-beaten Colt Navy revolver, and put a bullet through my left eyeball. I am not dead. I am something far, far worse than dead. Or at least I’m turning into it. Here’s something I found out recently: The universe is a problem. Again, I’m not much for metaphor. I meant what I said: The universe and everything that lies within it is a problem, in the very technical sense of the word. There are many parts to the universe—too many, in fact—which means that there is a simpler way to express the concept of “universe.” There are extraneous parts in every single object in existence, and to do away with them is to compact the essence of the universe into something leaner and more efficient. The universe and everything in it is a problem. And that means that the universe and everything in it has a solution. Humans also have extraneous parts: Think of the appendix, the wisdom teeth, the occasional vestigial tail—there are parts of us that we simply don’t need. They clutter us. We can be rid of them altogether. But th...

First, when you put up an apathetic, angry shell for long enough, the behaviors you thought were mostly an act start to become your reality. In other words: If you train yourself to respond like a dickhead in most situations, you find yourself responding like a dickhead in most situations.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You could always pay for your own beer,” Thing 1 said, sitting cross-legged on top of our wobbly avocado-green fridge. She took a gentle sip of her own drink, by way of demonstration. “Do I look like a brother who’s got money?” Matt asked, gesturing to his scuffed high-tops and torn jeans. “You could just not drink,” Thing 2 offered from the living room. We all stared at her like she’d opened her mouth and a bunch of snakes had come flying out. “Life is a series of choices,” Wash explained to her, patiently; “that is not one of them.” They were getting along pretty well, Wash and Thing 2. I say that because I’ve seen all of the signs—the subtle touches of the hand, the lingering smiles, the furtive glances, and the time I walked in on her jacking him off in the bathroom. I’m very observant.

This was punk-rock courtship: Paying for somebody’s drunk was like giving them flowers dipped in chocolate.

We are code. A program that is constantly evolving, but a program nonetheless. Our actions, thought patterns, ideas, and emotions repeat. It is what we call a personality. It is simply an algorithm. One that is often too complex for the function it purports to serve. Wasteful and inelegant. It is just a matter of simplifying the algorithm to free up excess energies that can …

I couldn’t believe I still had to work today. Your whole world can fall apart on you—everything you know can be called into question while some sick inhuman thing steals part of your soul—and when you wake up the next morning, your boss will still yell at you for not smiling at the customers.

Only when his presence is yanked away from me do I actually understand the purpose that God served for humanity: He was the knife in our soul. We think the blade hurts us, but remove it and there is only emptiness left. We bleed from the holes in our understanding and we shrivel and we die. I did not know that God was with me until he left. Now the wound has opened, and I have never known a colder place than here, in the shadow of his absence.

Survival finally won out over fear, and my legs freed themselves. I bolted for the door, stupidly yanking at the handle. I could see it was locked, but it was like panic lived in my fingers now. I willed them to stop scrabbling uselessly at the handle and to just twist the little switch, but they wouldn’t. They would only pull and pull and pull. “She tries to flee,” a voice droned behind me, each word punctuated by the slap of skin on skin. “She thinks there is somewhere to flee to,” the other voice answered. “Does she know we have a role for her.” The slapping increased in tempo. “Perfect casting. She was born for it.” “Like fuel is born for fire.” “She comes to us freely, as they all do.” The slapping came faster and faster. There was a sound like wet paper tearing. I pried my hands from the handle. Held them out in front of me. Focused on making them still. “Yet they wonder why they are here.” “They are drawn to this place. They are flawed, weak, and stupid. They are human. Yet through systematic degradation and avarice, they are reduced. Cleared of pretension.” “And here, at last and for the first time, they are rendered useful.” “They walk proudly into this place. They speak of it in hushed and optimistic tones. They dream all their lives of the refinery.” “And still wonder why we burn them when they arrive.”

But man, you have to put up the effort. That’s part of being human: That arrogant little part of you that says you’re special, that you can beat it, that when the time comes, it won’t happen to you—you and you alone are immune! We all have that delusion. It’s one of the core concepts of humanity, as a species. And it’s hardly ever correct. But at least I’d spent twenty years preparing to be wrong. Two decades stitching one very simple, fundamental idea into my being—and then systematically erasing every part that even remembered why.