Now every shiny toy, that at first gives you joy
Will always start to cloy and annoy
Every camera, every phone
All the music that you own
Won’t change the fact you’re all alone
(All Alone!)
“Sick of You” - Cake
4:00am: He gets up, as he always does around this time, to go to the bathroom in the little shack that houses the toilet, outside. Off the mattress, through the house, out the front door and 20 feet over to the toilet. With no moon, he brings a flashlight to cut through the almost total darkness. The sky is alight with stars, the most he’s ever seen in his life, as he’s a lifelong East Coaster without much penchant for remote camping. But as he looks up, the little dots blur and he feels they should be a little brighter. He blames his vision. Damn it I need glasses, he thinks to himself. He goes back inside and back to sleep.
6:30am: Being so close to the equator means that the sun rises and sets at exactly almost the exact same time everyday, so as he groggily opens his eyes at around the time his alarm would normally go off, he assesses the level of sunlight in the room and knows exactly what time it is. He checks his phone for confirmation, rolling over slowly and pulling it from its charger on the nightstand, which is just his smallest chair, pressed into an odd service. 6:30 on the dot, he sees. About the time he would have to get up to go to work on a normal day. But today isn’t a normal day - it’s “Heroes’ Day” in Rwanda, a national holiday which means the Health Center staff is off, or at least the ones deemed “Non Essential”, a category into which volunteers fall squarely. He rolls back over and closes his eyes.
7:05am: The increasing sunshine streaming into his room forces his eyes open. He’s awake, but he's seen enough legal dramas to know that sleeping in when you have no work is an inalienable right provided by the Constitution. He draws his Bed, Bath and Beyond aquamarine colored sleeping mask over his eyes.
7:36am: Trinity, clad in a black leather jumpsuit and pursued by Agents, horizontally dives off the roof of one building and crashes through the window of the adjacent building, tumbling down the stairs. As she comes to rest at the bottom of the landing, she draws her dual Desert Eagle pistols without sparing a second and aims them back up the stairs at the broken window she came from. For a breathless moment she waits for the Agents, guns drawn tautly. After a tense period, she speaks to herself. “Get up Trinity. Get up!”. She sprints off, and the chase continues.
This is the first of a series of movie clips that will play through his mind as the day progresses. Perhaps one of his brain’s best functions is drawing from a trove of movie clips and humorous instances that match contextualized experiences throughout his day. It is not a productive or particularly useful function, but an entertaining one, if nothing else. And now, as he lays in bed, awake but lazily paralyzed for the last 40 minutes, he draws on examples beyond himself for motivation.
If Trinity could get up and keep moving, then he can too, damn it. She could have rolled over and let the Agents capture her, sure. But she got up and kept moving. He’s not going to start his day a quitter, he thinks. And so the first words out of his mouth are uttered, into the void of solitude: “Arrrgghhh, get up you bum!”. He sits up abruptly and flips the bed net over his head. His day has officially begun.
7:37am: The eight foot walk from the bedroom to the main room was trying. He sits down in his comfy chair, and stares out of the open door at the swaying trees that obscure the hills behind them. He understands the implications what he’s facing today. Only in Peace Corps has he known the total solitude like this. The endless void of the Day Off. All of his coworkers are home, not to be bothered with Volunteers for a day. During the weekends he usually has plans to see this or that friend - but the Off Day occurs in the middle of the week when no one is inclined to meet up for a beer or a meal. If there’s no work, no food needed, and no other outstanding obligations, it means spending from sunrise to well after sundown entirely alone…nothing but his overactive mind will be there to keep him company.
7:45am: Still sitting, he picks up his phone for his first real dive into his text conversations and social media. Starting the first trance-like dive of the day always makes him consider his tenuous relationship with the device. Especially on days like today - when he has nothing planned, and is staring at the expanse of time that is The Day Off - the phone offers the paradox of both Trap and Escape. For there is nothing more constricting, or in his mind pathetic, than being in a foreign country and succumbing to the compulsion to check the screen’s Everglow - but at the same time, how else can he talk to friends, read news and enjoy pictures from back home? There’s no TV and there’s no where to go. And plus, when one considers it, is it not incumbent on each per- oh cool art instagram picture. Tight lax clip brooo! Sick guitar! You know, I’m really coming around to the D’Angelico’s these days…need to get a Les Paul first though I really need that humbucker sound if I’m REALLY gonna start jamming…
8:30am: Hunger pulls him out of the phone spiral. In America he would have his choice of meal for breakfast, but not here. He doesn’t view his restriction in choice as a detriment, however, but rather as a triumph. The maxim “innovation is bred of necessity” is proved true once again in the Rwandan home of Alex Jones. His necessity is food, and his streamlined food operation is a monument to his effort. Like any private company worth it’s salt, his business of eating requires a well thought out and steady supply chain, and a minimization of capital investment (preparation/cooking time) that yields a maximum of return (edible meals). With a half kilogram of meat, and a combined 2 kilograms of assorted vegetables, he sustains his days with a deeply cooked mushy meat stew that he eats in combination with any other supplement, like rice, bread, or eggs. This is his priority. In every other respect he lives like Cro-Magnon Man - his mattress lays bare on the cement floor, and he owns three chairs (one of which, noted above, serves half of its time as a bedside table), and a single pillow, but his paper bags are well stocked with food and, somehow, this is the only thing that seems to matter to him.
8:50am: With some wistful jazz from his favorite singer, Cecile McLorin Salvant (sometimes he says her name out loud to himself and can feel his income increasing - go ahead, give it a try) he eats his stew and egg breakfast. The lyrics speak to him when he’s tired “Will it be? Yes it will…maybe just by holding still…it’ll be there…” He tries to emulate her widely ranging and sultry tones. He has no problem singing like a girl, even with his deep voice - he is alone afterall, what's the use in feeling ashamed? (This justification informs much of his odd and alarming behavior when he’s alone).
9:30am: He’s standing in the doorway, just looking outside. Not really thinking. Just looking. There are things he know he should be doing. But for now he just stares. Perhaps its the odd feeling of preemptive nostalgia for this calm moments of just being able to stare at hills that compels him to do this. But then the village kids come by, and he has to close the door.
9:41am: Given the impermanence of his thought process, he has taken to writing a To-Do list at the beginning of every single day. The lists are usually the same, as he often needs to do the exact same things every day. And he would think, given this fact, that he doesn’t really need to write them down everyday. But he continues to astonish himself with his garbled thought processes, lazy justifications, and chronic forgetfulness. So he sits down to write them on his sticky pad. Feb 8, he underlines. Cook food. Clean up a bit. Read. Workout? Verbal Review. New Blog Post. Math Set. He read somewhere that when setting goals, you should keep them reasonable and attainable so that you can reward yourself with their completion. And so it is that everyday, he writes down simple things that he must or knows he is invariably going to do - things are enjoyable like reading, or necessary for the continuation of life like cooking food. He does this just for the sake of being able to revel in their crossing off. But if he crosses the same thing off every day, does it have any meaning? Not important, he thinks.
As for the thing that makes his soul groan out in a gurgling, guttural manner that God himself can surely hear - Math Set - its left at the bottom of the list. GMAT math studying haunts his days as an ever present specter, looking at him with dead eyes adorned with smug eyeglasses. It talks to him: Erm, Alex. Alex? Yeaaaah you have to solve for X in terms of G but only when it’s G-sub-N. Yeaaa so that makes statement two, like, not sufficient? I mean duh, right! No math is easy, you’re just not trying hard enough! LOL *Sniffs and pushes glasses back up his nose with his pointer finger*. If “Math Set” will receive its crossing off occurs to him as a matter of divine intervention rather than conscious intention. “We’ll see if I can get to it”, he says, in what he knows is a utter lie, to no one. He has over 12 hours of uninterrupted time to get to it. It’s too early to go into now, he thinks to himself. Oh, of course it is.
9:50am: His brain isn’t working well enough to do anything of substance so he figures he can knock out the first thing on his list. He walks over to his landlady’s house - which is an inexplicably massive, pink mansion, and asks for her broom. He comes back and starts sweeping.
10:15am: He crosses off Clean Up a Bit off the To-Do list. He’s crushing it today already! Anything is possible, he thinks to himself. This is what he came here for, to take advantage of the time. This is the dawn of a new era, an era of hyper productivity! Joe Rogan would be proud.
10:16am: He’s laying down in bed. But he brought his kindle in with him, convinced that he’s going to read.
11:00am: After reading a few kindle flips, which is the equivalent of half a real book page, he finally gets back up out of bed and into the chair to continue.
11:45am: This book on WWI history is interesting but after awhile his brain fills up with its intricate details and technicalities. When he starts talking out loud to keep the details straight, thats when its over. “Wait so the 5th Army is in the West? Why would they number it that way? Where is Liege? Is the OHL the German war headquarters or the French?”. Brain full, that’s enough. He puts it down.
12:30pm: He’s randomly staring outside again. Villagers stare at things. So does he now. He supposes this is his way of integrating.
1:15pm. It’s time to do some studying, he thinks. He’s been messing around all day and he's gonna sit right down and start just doing it. The morning is gone for god sakes, where did it go! Here he goes. This is it. He’s got his books on the table. He has to log the problems he got wrong and really think them through carefully so he stops making the same silly mistakes. Full brainpower, no distractions. Well, he thinks, music isn’t a distraction - music is his favorite. Error Logging is nothing that he can’t do without a bit of music to ease the pain of constantly miring himself in his failures. But what to choose? This Best Of Led Zeppelin album would be good. I have a lot of energy, so it’ll match that and keep me snappy and focused - I’ll enjoy that.
2:00pm: “AAaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAHHHHH! AAaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAHHHHH! Come to the land of the ice and snow, from the midnight sun, where hot springs FLOW!!” Wielding two Pilot G2 pens as drumsticks, the study room has transformed into the rock amphitheater of Valhalla. He rips what he thinks are perfect Jon Bonham drum fills, but are really off timed hacks covered up by crude drum noises from his mouth. The two sides of the notebook are his snares, his can of old bay seasoning is the high hat and his tea cup is the top cymbal. It’s no Ludwig kit, but it does the job. Pap-pap-pap-pap-chssssshhhh! Prrrrrat badoom doom doom chsssshhh! Why the hell is he studying for business school when he’s destined for rock greatness?
2:15pm: Ok, Ok. That got out of hand. He knows that. He jammed too hard and for too long. He forgot that all those songs are multi-part, heavily intensive, 6-8 minute rippers. But he’s so hungry now. He can’t study (or do anything) when he’s hungry. He resolves that after he eats a bit, and lets the food digest, he’ll get right back to the studying with clear mind.
2:40pm: With tea made he sits down with his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pops in his headphones, and opens up his podcasts. He hits play, and speaks aloud with the recording in well-practiced unison. “Heeey it’s Bill Burr and its time for the Thursday Afternoon just before Friday, Monday Morning podcast and I’m just checkin in on ya!” Bill Burr is one of his favorite comedians and he's a regular listener of his podcast which is quite literally his stream of consciousness ramblings. But he finds Bill hilarious, and he’s been listening long enough to be convinced that not only does he know his real personality, but that he's a good dude. Such are the pitfalls of modern entertainment.
3:20pm: Back in his big chair, Bill is still rambling on about this or the other thing, so he listens idly and picks up his electric guitar. This has come to be his afternoon routine - comedy podcasts and guitar picking. The first day he met everyone in his Peace Corps group, they played a icebreaker game where everyone talked about the dumbest thing they packed in their bags. He said that his was his electric guitar because he knew full well he would never have a chance to plug it in. How ridiculous of him to say that, he thinks to himself now. How could he have not brought the guitar along? He’s got to jam one day! And practice is the only way to get better at something. The irony falls to the floor, unnoticed, as his GMAT book sits unopened on the desk.
3:50pm: “Got me doin errthang for you! Even took you on a date!” He’s been playing for well over 30 minutes. The podcast has given way to the songs he likes to play along to. So he threw the strap over his head and is standing in the middle of the main room with an unplugged guitar plucking notes along with the beat. “Got the Powa! PTP!”. Most of the time he can’t even hear what notes he's playing above the speakers. Doesn’t matter in his world, just let the man jam.
4:15pm: Ok! That’s enough! Its time to get to it! Then, he hears a ding and a vibration in his pocket. Look at all the texts he’s missed!
4:39pm: Siiiick lax clip. Ugh the Red Sox are gonna sign JD Martinez and they’re just gonna destroy the O’s all season. The Yankees too, those bastards. How can you root for the Yankees, how do they have a fan base? They should be ashamed of themselves, the lot of them. WHY DIDN’T WE TRADE MANNY MACHADO. Phone spirals are an ugly beast.
5:00pm: Ok if I eat a bit now I’ll be able to workout around six. That’ll work. But should I even work out? It’s such a time eater and I straight up haven’t done anything at all today. But what, am I just gonna sit in the house all day, going crazy? I need fresh air and exercise! Gotta stay in shape! Run with the kids! I’m Coach Alexi damn it, I have to set an example!
5:48pm: He doesn’t feel like running, but he knows he has to. Luckily he’s got the ace up his sleeve, the guaranteed motivator. While he starts his days with a nice soft, gentle jazz in the morning, when it comes to working out he’s been raised on a steady diet of insane heavy metal. While some people genuinely enjoy going for runs and can motivate themselves, he needs the shouting of lunatics and screaming guitars in his ears to keep himself going. If only the giggling village kids who run with him knew the truth. He’s sure that a good System of a Down song - the screaming mania of random white men - would baffle and then terrify their little village minds.
6:40pm: Sweaty and exhausted, he returns. And the kids have returned with him. They stare at him in total silence, and occasionally - for some reason - touch his leg hair, fascinated as they are with it. Stop It! he yells at them in Kinyarwanda. They laugh and scurry. He goes inside to further cool off. Might as well watch a couple episodes of Community, what else can he do?
7:00pm: Can’t do work all sweaty - got to shower! He goes out to the outside shower and washes off in ice cold water in total darkness. The only signs that someone could be in there at this late hour are the labored breathing and groaning coming from his immersion in the freezing stream of water.
7:40pm. Can’t work on an empty stomach - got to eat again! He did work out after all. Not the kind of work he’s needed to do all day, but a type of work nonetheless. He heats up some rice.
8:20pm: He finally sits down, puts away his computer, puts away his empty plate, and pulls out his book. Time for some math. He looks at the last set he did - almost all of them wrong, again. The pity party begins: Why am I doing this? I’m terrible at math! This whining voice chirps in the back of his mind, undergirding his GMAT studying experience every time he cracks the book. It goes on like this, pathetically, for some time.
9:30pm: A little over an hour later, he relents. Even though he knows full well that it isn’t nearly enough, with an hour of work he can cross “Math Set” off his To-Do list in relatively good conscience. With an assessment of his day he can see that of the seven things he wrote, he did five. Not bad, he thinks to himself. Time to get ready for bed, do a little more reading, and call it a day.
10:00pm. He finally turns off all the lights, kneels down to get onto his bed (which again, lays on the bare floor), and slips the mosquito net over his head. Time for sleep. As he lays and stares in the pitch black darkness, waiting for his brain to slow down, he recounts his day. Why wasn’t he more productive? He woke up, did some stuff, then what? What did he do, where did the time go? A whole day passed, just like that? Oh well. On the next Off Day, he’ll really crush it, he thinks. It’s nice to have these days alone. Only in Peace Corps could he spend such a day, uninterrupted. Only in small doses though, too much of this and he would surely lose his mind. He might even end up writing about it, thinking to himself that it would be funny. No, he thinks, hopefully it wouldn’t ever come to that. Then, after some time, sleep finds him - finally.