I’ve always had an unwavering premonition that when my time comes, I’m going to die by electrocution. I don’t know exactly how it’s going to happen (perhaps I fall into the house’s power feed when getting the kids’ frisbee off the roof for the umpteenth time, or maybe I fall victim to a horrible mistake in our justice system and get sent up for the death penalty, or—perhaps the most likely— Maia simply runs up and amiably throws a toaster into my bathwater while requesting an Eggo waffle) but however the fatal shock is delivered, it’s there, lurking in the shadows of my future.
I’ve been terrified of electricity since I was a very young boy. This is probably because I spent the first seven
years of my life on a farm alongside a hot-wire fence. I also spent that time with an older brother who ensured my education with the aforementioned electric fence was exhaustive. I can still hear Matt’s cunning plots: “Don’t worry, Adam, I’ll go turn it off for you! OK! (mwaahhh haaa haa) It’s ready!”; or “It won’t shock you if you just touch it with this wire hanger.”; and, of course: “If you get it wet first, it will put out the electricity. Try peeing on it!”
To make matters worse, Saturday Morning cartoons featured some very startling public service announcements about power line safety. The first of the two main spots that I can remember, showed a small boy climbing a tree, then grabbing the wrong thing and the screen went all fuzzy while a strange sizzling sound echoed out of the T.V.’s speakers. I would sit wide-eyed in front of the television, rocking back & forth and hugging myself.
And, as if that wasn’t fucked-up enough, another commercial was sure to make its appearance within the hour. The Kite-man. A mustached, middle-aged man wearing a gigantic kite costume walking through the park and met a bunch of kids.
Kids (in unison):
It’s the Kite-man!!!!!
Kite-man:
Is a safe kite made of metal?
[The kids seated around him shook their heads vigorously.]
Kite-man:
Wire or wet string?
Kids (in unison):
Never!
Kite-man (randomly):
What about frogs?
Single girl amongst the children:
I like frogs.
Kite-man:
What if your kite winds [rolls his eyes wildly for effect] around a powerline?”
Kids (excitedly in unison):
Call the Kite-man!
In order to get away from these hideous visualizations, I would change the channel to public broadcasting and watch The Electric Company (“Heeeyyyyyy Yoooouuuuu Guuuuuuuyyyyyssss!!!!!!).
Seeing that I have a long history of bad association with electricity, it should be easy to chalk-up my premonitions to simple irrational fears. Unfortunately I don’t think that’s the case here. I also have irrational fears of clowns, sharks, & jittery old cartoons (particularly those with pie-slice eyes); yet, my foresight does not show me being killed by a shark-riding clown carrying a vintage Steamboat Willie cattle prod. No, I die by electricity alone.
I think it might be karma. A few years ago, while I was fixing a printer, a co-worker nagged at me for repairing it while it was still plugged in. The next evening, I brought an old-fashioned camera flash into work with me, and set it off while doing much the same thing. I fell limply to the floor and my co-worker thought I’d killed myself. She was outraged when she discovered that I had tricked her, but I knew she realized this was a stroke of brilliance. I knew this because mere minutes after I’d terrified her, she was plotting with me on who we should get next. Within days, we—and our growing number of cohorts—had tricked everyone in the entire office (setting off the flash after noticing & attempting to fix a loose wire on their computer monitor), until we simply ran out of victims.
I can’t decide whether these are the sorts of things you have to do to keep from going crazy when working in an office, or if this is what you do after you go crazy. There’s no denying that I sometimes find working at a desk rather tedious. And boredom notwithstanding, one might think—what with all my horrible premonitions—that I would have perhaps chosen a career that involved fewer electronic devices: an Amish ox driver, perhaps.
The same co-worker who inspired my series of faux-electrocutions once told me that I should be thankful for my cushy desk-job. She ensured me that a life without hard-labor was sure to be kind to my body. Her husband was a stone mason & they sometimes worried about the toll the job takes on his physical being.
Unfortunately, I don’t seem to have slid under the radar. My back has gone out twice already this year, and I’m currently in physical therapy trying to prevent a third injury.
Ironically, one of my main courses of treatment is electrical stimulation therapy. They place small adhesive electrodes on my lower back which are connected to wires that run an electric current through the area of pain. The current pulses and contracts the muscles briefly, then allows them to relax again. It’s supposedly like a massage.
Electricity as a path to healing: this was a new concept for me. I’ve always regarded this force as harmful. Even shock therapy given to medical patients is something that has always seemed like a bad idea to me. I was wary.
After they connected me to this machine, I was instructed to turn the current up as high as I could without it becoming uncomfortable. I worried a bit about this: that I would accidentally set it one setting to high and electricity would rack through my body, my thrashings would inadvertently leave my jolting finger continually pressing the voltage higher & higher and by the time my 15 minutes were up, the assistant would re-enter the room to find only a grisly, smoldering corpse on the table.
Needless to say, I took it pretty slow. By the time my treatment was over, I had reached a setting of 14. When the assistant came to disconnect me, I fought the urge to ask: “So… what’s the record? How high has anyone cranked one of these babies?”
I decided not to ask this for a couple of reasons… the first: though I might suffer from insecurity, but I’m pretty good about not letting it show. I can usually sense when a question is going to come across as pathetic.
But, in addition to trying to save my dignity, I also was pretty sure I wouldn’t like his answer. I wanted to hear: “Oh my GOD! You had it up to 14!!! You must have an amazing pain threshold! Most men break into tears if they turn it up to 2!” But I’m pretty sure the answer was going to be on the other end of the spectrum: “Old Mrs. Withers had this cranked up to 7,292,386 earlier today… she was feeling a bit sensitive and didn’t want to break her usual 10-mil. But you had it at—” checks the machine “—oh, 14? Well… you know… that’s… pretty good too.” He coughs. “AHEM! Pussy!“
I have an appointment again later this week. I’m hoping to up my score a couple more notches. I’m hoping that maybe electricity is something that I can build an immunity to. By the end of my therapy, perhaps they’ll have to forgo the electrodes & start using a taser to administer the treatment.
With any luck, when my number is up and that fateful power line falls into the puddle where I’m standing, the shock will be far from fatal. Maybe it will even heal my ingrown toenail.
Unfortunately, I still see into this future and can foretell that electricity will have the last laugh. I see myself, lying lifeless on a hospital gurney while doctors and nurses try desperately and unsuccessfully to resuscitate me. …Alas. I’m invulnerable to the defibrillator.
A couple of my friends are very gracious with their flattery toward me. A little too generous, in fact. I’d think they were trying to butter me up, but they know I have nothing to offer. I have to assume, then, that they simply want me to feel good about myself, as implausible a goal as that may seem.
Acting quickly, I uploaded a photo of mine, and within moments, received a list of 9 famous faces which the engine deemed most resembled me. Oddly though, neither Cusack nor Wyle appeared on the list. My top match, according to the program, was Nicholas Brendon, with whom I’m not familiar. Nevertheless, while I don’t get a sensation of looking in the mirror, he’s a perfectly acceptable dopelgänger.
Then came David Beckham. OK.
Frere Roger!
