Nothing prepared me for the sheer insanity of my nearly unrecognizable wife with eyes bulging in her purple face, pushing a baby out from between her legs. For nine months I'd deluded myself into believing that I was ready. How can anything equip you for this? The Obstetrician cuts the umbilical cord and lays our baby daughter on Megan's chest. And then we cry. All three of us.

Once the terror subsides, it hits me like a cement truck. Life is a great gift. Yet every day since Jillian was born I've been letting my life slip away.

I swore I'd never forget that feeling. But I have. It's buried deep inside somewhere. And every once in a while I dust it off and try to revive it. But like so many other reminders that I really am alive, I push it aside so I can remember to take out the garbage. Or put new tires on the car. Or replace the batteries in the smoke detector. All the meaningless crap that's become my life during these past seven years.

Life. There's got to be a better word for it.

6:15. The alarm goes off.

6:40. I'm out of the shower. While brushing my teeth, I look in the mirror at the shell of a human being that I've become. I've never actually counted, but I'll bet it's the same number of toothbrushing strokes every morning.

7:05. I select a necktie.

By 7:15, I'm dressed and staring at the toaster, waiting. When the Pop-Tart jumps up I say something clever like "Agh," when it burns my fingers.

7:20. I kiss my pretty wife, Megs, on her soft cheek and I'm out the door.

By 7:35, I'm sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic inching along with all the other coffee-slurping, drowsy-eyed work droids.

The digital clock on the dashboard catches my eye as it jumps from 7:43 to 7:44. Each moment passing and wasted. Each moment gone forever. And one-by-one I let them fade away in favor of the dull, lifeless routine of doing nothing.

By 8:30, I'm in the conference room with my boss, Carl Dunning. Carl is at least twenty pounds overweight. He'd put on the weight when he quit cigarettes after his first major heart attack. The way he gulps gallons of coffee all day long, he'll be lucky to make it to the end of the year. 

The Admin, Wren, ushers our client, Vern Tattersal, into the room. Every time I see Vern I can't stop thinking of that cartoon turkey on a package of sausage. His narrow eyes struggle to see around his beak and so he cranes his long turkey neck to get a better look. Carl fawns all over Vern, complimenting his suit, opening a bottle of water for him, and chuckling like an idiot at every sentence fragment that slips out of Vern's turkey mouth.

"Phil," he says to me. "I think we're just about ready."

I slide the tripod a little closer to Vern once he takes a seat and I adjust the video camera. Sorry. I forgot to mention that I work for Dunning and Brannigan, a Public Relations firm. Carl and I specialize in teaching people how to say nothing. But in a way that almost sounds like they're saying something. I cultivated this skill at college and through accredited continuing education classes but most of my practical knowledge has come from watching Carl in action. And it's come in handy. I've carefully selected meaningless phrases, tacked them together and issued press statements like the one that implied that XYZ Construction Company did the community a huge favor by accidentally setting the daycare center on fire.

I turn on the video camera and speak into the mic, "Vern Tattersal, October fourteen."

Vern's eyes bulge and blotches begin forming on his turkey neck.

"Go ahead." Carl grins and nods at Vern.

To fully appreciate Vern's voice, imagine the sound of a heavy metal chair as it's dragged across concrete pavement.

"Since 1987," Vern rasps, "Trollamex has distinguished itself as a top ten customer-oriented organization and rates among the top five in world-class service select disciplines."

"Maintain that eye contact," Carl coaches.

Once Vern's neck has become sufficiently blotchy, the awkward hand gestures begin. He strains like a constipated donkey to retrieve the words from some series of folds in his brain.

"Independent studies have indicated that many... that the majority of our alleged dissatisfied customers - and let me insure you this is a relatively small number - have not had the opportunity to fully appreciate the capacity to which our company continues to aspire."

It's time to flex my expertise. "Let me assure you, not insure you. Keep those hands clasped."

"Was I doing it again?" He cranes his neck toward me. I smile despite feeling like I swallowed a hammer.

Carl makes a circular motion with his finger to indicate "Let's keep going."

Vern intertwines his spidery fingers and soldiers on.

"No one is more remorseful than I that a small number of consumers have in-in-invested valuable time into bringing these matters...this matter up to my attention."

"The conviction in your voice was excellent! Just excellent!" gushes Carl as though Vern had just discovered a cure for cancer. "Let's parking lot this for now."

So, for the last six years, that's how I've been making my living. There's a science to draining meaning out of language and, maybe because I've been doing it for so long, I've been draining meaning out of my life.

                                                                                    ######

When I enter my therapist's waiting room - that's right, I said therapist - I sit across from a familiar fidgety man whose eyes are glued to a paperback. He glances up at me.

"How you doing?" I smile.

"Just reading about this guy. Normal guy with a normal family in a normal neighborhood. Got dressed for work one morning, kissed the wife and kids good-bye, and drove off. Never came back."

"Really?"

"They found him twelve years later renting fishing boats someplace in the Keys. When they asked him why he ran away he said he just couldn't do it one more day."

"Do what?" I ask. He shrugs.

My therapist, George Lindbrutten, pokes his head into the waiting room. "Mr. Robiski," he calls quietly, waving me into his office.

I take my usual seat in an upholstered chair across from Dr. Lindbrutten, a large helping of human being, who strains the seams of a well-worn argyle sweater. He flips the yellow pages of a legal pad while holding a pen in his teeth.

"Uh, here we are," he mumbles before removing the pen from his mouth. "So..."

This is the doctor's classic session starter. "So" followed by a long pause. I'm not sure what they taught him in psychiatry school about this technique, but if it's designed to raise my anxiety level, it's working.

"Mmmmm hmmmmm," he reads his notes while tapping his saliva-coated pen on his thigh. Finally, his eyes meet mine. "You said that no one around you seems to display any genuine emotions."

"Anger," I reply. "I see a lot of angry people. But besides that..."

"But other than Jillian and your wife, Megan, when people interface with you, they take on some sort of robotic behavior. Like they're just going through the motions. Is that it?"

"It's not just me. They seem mechanical with other people, too."

"Have you heard of what we psychologists refer to as "the observer-expectancy effect"? How people change their behavior when they are aware of being observed?"

"Why would people behave like robots when they see me watching them?"

Now, the dreaded silent stare. The pen that moments ago tapped his thigh goes still.

"Mr. Robiski, have you ever heard the expression, 'If the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail'?"

"Yeah?"

"Drawing any parallels?"

"Between the hammer and the robotic people? Or are you talking about the nail?"

"Let's forget about the hammer analogy for now. Is it possible that people are reacting to you in the manner you describe because of the way you interact with them?"

"I guess that's possible."

"Are you aware of the level of hostility in your voice?"

"I'm not angry, Doc. I'm down. Worried. Depressed."

"What did we say about self-diagnosis?"