Men Looking Down

Something rather peculiar is taking place. Men are looking down. Waiting in line at the cinema they do it, at checkouts all over town, at the gas-station, filling up gas. They’re looking down, assessing the damage around the waist. Sometimes you can see a hand going over the shirt, feeling it out, the bulk, or sort of grabbing hold of a fold of flesh, followed by a slight shake of the head. So much private self-reproach in public, trans-like, hypnotized behaviour.

It’s embarrassing. We used to carry ourselves better, didn’t we? We didn’t care, did we? About all this. But now bellies are sucked in as a matter of fact, causing cramps and constipation.

Like the other day, at Fritz’s 50th birthday. A group of men, all from around here, standing in line at the barbecue, groping across a stretched t-shirt with one hand, holding a plate of potato-salad and gravy in the other. And of course, the light beer, always the light beer from now on. Tastes like nothing, in gallons. Even Fritz, at his own birthday, 50 years on this planet, was looking down, worried about the state of affairs, clutching a Coors Light. He saw me looking at him, and winced, caught in the act of self-obsession. A nation of navel-gazers, shameful without consequences. Looking down, when they should be looking ahead.