End of the World

A certain end-of-the-world aesthetic is characteristic of urban America in the early hours of morning. The long, wide, empty roads seem as paths to various dead ends of a sleepy prison, the fluttering paper bags and newspapers only serving to enhance the loneliness of the scene. The typical American approach to urban planning leaves the far-apart buildings lining these roads out of focus, almost indiscernible, irrelevant and otherwise unwilling to be disturbed. For comfort. Houses, markets, student apartment buildings, all put into separate ziplock bags, not wanting shares of other people’s business. The whole city an old housewife’s fridge, its products zipped and stored neatly. For later use. The street seems to end nowhere. The skyscrapers in the background, dull and gray with humidity in the low morning light, render the place beyond the view-obstructing hill a nightmarish landscape in the passer-by’s mind, instead of a benign curiosity.

American early wakers do their normal business, jogging, going to work, getting the morning groceries. The cold wind renders their countenances more preoccupied, scared and sad than usual. The distances between people are immense in these moments. People in this country, when physically close, are still mentally apart, over the intricacies of daily small talk. The new car, the wife’s job, the kid’s school, the promotion. In this hour, however, even these formalities or lost attempts to intimacy are completely shoved aside. People are further than ever. The jogger will take advantage of the empty streets and sidewalks to shift even further from you if you’re on the same wide sidewalk as her. She has no reason to notice you and wave, no time and too much space.

The cars driving by at the morning rush are the defining image of american business culture. In this end of the world, career and protestant work ethic are the new rebel leaders, brought about after decades, if not centuries of estrangement and personal over-regard, with the promise to render these qualities moral and timeless. This image scares me even more, and quickly, not without some irony, I open the door of the local grocery store, which is the most frequented place in this side of today’s morning Baltimore. Professional how-are-you-today’s and how-may-i-help-you’s are thrown as people line their new future acquisitions on the register, or are confused in the isles over which canned soup will make them happier. Further conversation is not in the job description and is thus strictly prohibited, unless it concerns the weather or the traffic. My attempts to find a kitchen towel are disturbed by a squat, red, mustached man, most likely the manager, who just as likely seems to take a distinct pleasure in what he feels to be an obligation of asking the day’s first customers how they are today, and if they find everything alright. Because he cares. The store’s single kitchen towel is right in front of me, but despite this I still ask if they have kitchen towels, not wanting to disappoint him. He picks it up and asks “Is this what you’re looking for?” I respond with a “Guess it gets the job done”, unsuccessfully trying to adopt his version of friendliness. He turns blank, smiles, and offers to help me if I need anything else. I thank him and slowly head over to the next isle, looking for anything palatable in the huge selection of pastas and sauces.

Mama’s Italian linguine, authentic Italian experience. A taste of Italy in your home. Enriched spaghetti product. Made in X, New Jersey. All rights reserved. Or,

Toscano’s Whole Wheat Penne Rigatte. Authentic Italian product. Enriched wheat spaghetti product. Made in Ohio by WOP industries, ltd.

It’s pointless. I pick up an overpriced pesto sauce, Benelli’s or some other Italian-American’s last name. The dairy section is next. The only brand of milk existant, Margarine’s, dominates the bottom shelf. Low fat, No-fat, skimmed, 2%, half-and-half, full cream. On the cap it says “from cows not treated with growth hormones (Note: there is no evidence of differences between AbCd-treated cows and non-treated)”. I pay and, after an awkward exchange with the student/register woman, head out.

When I step outside, the world is different again. The nightmarish scenery hides itself behind more people, coming out as the day gets older, silently walking to and fro with worried thoughts in their head. Just as hurriedly and worriedly, I walk back to my room, put my new acquisitions away, and have a glass of milk. Margarine’s half-and-half, off-white and with a delicate hint of paint thinner (maybe non-treated cows don’t cut it). I pour it down the sink and go back to sleep.