Hamlet-Personal Narrative

I was looking at my reflection in a window when a bird defecated on me. It’s a curious thing, being defecated on, in that it’s nearly impossible to maintain your cool. In that moment, I began to make some noises that one might hear in a zoo or crowded bar. I can only assume this is what alerted the man residing behind the window of my existence within his vicinity. My old English professor opened the door. He glanced at the excrement atop my head, into my eyes, and then continued in a flickering pattern. “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” he said. “And what is a bird on the head worth?” “Your dignity, perhaps.” “You can’t lose something you’ve already lost. Anyway, how is your wife?” “Dead, as far as
I’m concerned.” “Ah. So it goes. Your mother?” “So it goes indeed,” he said, “she’s the same as before.” “A terrible thing it is to be like that. Someday when I’m old I’ll be crazy, too.” “Probably.” “Yes. Probably.” We walked side by side in silence. His hand brushed against mine. It was weird, but I didn’t say anything because saying something would make it weirder. “How do you feel about it?” I asked. “About the hands?” “No. No, not about the hands, about your mother?” “Well, she believes she is a notable figure in society and that the hospital staff is out to get her. She thinks they want to ruin her reputation. She thinks they bugged her room.” “Yes. She is clearly insane, but how do you feel about it?” “An old woman in the hospital is worth two in my house.” “No, an old woman in the hospital is worth whatever the medical bill says she’s worth. I think you misplaced that turn of phrase.” “You think?” “The government has been known to put price tags on life.” “No, about the turn of phrase.” “Yes.” We arrived at our seats in the theater.
We watched the local college group perform their rendition of Hamlet. This theater was musty and cold. The air inside turned my fingertips a shade of pink and ivory, sort of like those pretty flowers in shop windows. I’ve always found that funny. His knee was touching mine the entirety of the show, but I didn’t move away. I didn’t want to. It was the only point of heat in the whole building. He leaned over to whisper something in my ear, but I didn’t quite hear it. Instead, I nodded and made vague humming noises to assure him that I did, in fact, hear and agree with whatever it was he felt compelled to say. His breath was hot and smelled like something from my mercifully brief childhood. A large woman found her way to the exact seat necessary to obstruct my view, but before I could think up a polite form of protest the woman turned and asked if she was in my way. I told her she was fine. Conflict was the last thing I was searching for. For much of the show, he was trying to discuss the relationship between Ophelia and Hamlet. What was there to discuss? When love is forbidden by society everybody dies, or at least that’s what I learned from Shakespeare. I wanted to talk about Heinrich von Kleist and the marionette theater. He did not. “Do you think Hamlet was really insane?” he
asked. “I’m not sure.” “How do you feel about it?” “I thought the performance was-” “No, I meant about the insane part.” “Well,” I said, “I think I am insane myself. Do you ever feel different? Does my self-proclaimed pseudo-intelligence create delusion or clarity? Perhaps I spend too much time in my head instead of living, but what is defined as “living”? What is normal? I want to be normal, but I also want to be an omniscient being. I want to be God. There’s this unnerving desire to be something more than human, and it frightens me. I want experience to shape me into something worth being, but I’m just a dumb kid. More than anything I want to be deep, intelligent, and important, but that’s such a shallow desire. It’s that very reason that I will never be who I want to be, and I’m a mess about it all. I can never be anything more than myself, and quite frankly, I don’t enjoy my own company. I can’t stop thinking. I’m catatonic from thought.So, yeah, I’m probably insane myself.” He looked at the now completely dried excrement on my head, and then into my eyes. “Hm. That’s interesting to want two different things at the same time, but I find that to be normal. Well, I relate anyway. Is being insane a bad thing?” “I’m afraid to be insane because then I wouldn’t be normal.” “You’re a Hemingway,” he said. “I know. I’d sooner be shot for cowardice than honored with a medal, and I’d be six feet under before ever being called a romantic. I’m sorry for that. You’re a Fitzgerald.” “That was supposed to be an innocuous reference to your character amongst other things, and why it shouldn’t work, not that it doesn’t. Some people are crazy and others walk that borderline. Some folks dip a toe in the water while others dive head first. What I mean is, insanity is a human condition, and that in and of itself makes it normal. They are not separate entities. We humans are all insane in our own way with some forms of expression being more socially acceptable. Anyway, It was good seeing you again. I've got to run.” “Where are you going?” “To visit my mother.”