Do it for The Fat Lady

“Ah, Buddy. It’s Christ Himself. Christ Himself, Buddy.”

- J.D. Salinger

I’ve found myself spending my days like Franny. Pacing my living room, nauseously yelling at my family, repeatedly asking who the fat lady is. They’ve never been able to give an answer. I lie awake, haunting myself.

During the mornings, I distract myself like Holden. Unable to conjure enough courage to face what’s in front of me. So, I count the ducks at Central Park Lagoon and question what the fish do when the water freezes over. I try to figure out how to fight the floods of invading phonies. They act fulfilled, wandering through life, wallowing in the ordinary.

Are they pretending that they’re not lonely? Are they happy and content? Why do they obsess over collecting knowledge like hoarders, to know things, yet are untroubled with not using it?

I tell my family I want to die nobly for the cause rather than living humbly for it. What the hell is the cause? Is anyone sick of not having the courage to be absolutely nothing? They can’t comprehend what I’m going on about.

Holden, Franny, and I share the same circulating thoughts, always asking, “What if.” Only people like Zooey can chime in and help us realize who the fat lady really is. Yet, we will continue pondering life’s questions, drifting closer and closer until we fall from the cliff.