MARASCO: Stress

I gave someone the finger the other day. I was asked to run all over town during rush hour, and was not given nearly enough time to do it. Hazard lights flashing, I pulled up outside one of CBS’s 5,000 buildings to drop off a package. I left the car running, jumped out and handed the doorman the item. As I turned to get back in my car, I realized I was being given a parking ticket.

“I was just pulling up for a second,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“The engine is still running,” I pleaded.

“Doesn’t matter.”

I could feel the anger bubbling up inside me for the next few minutes. I opened up the sunroof and popped my middle finger through as I drove away. Yeah. That’ll show ‘em.

It was the first time I’d ever given the finger in a non-ironic way. I couldn’t help but laugh at myself a few moments later. What a stupid thing to do.

But after the laughter subsided, I caught a glimpse of myself in my rear-view mirror. Wait a second, I’m not supposed to be this guy. I’m supposed to be the one who pokes fun at the middle-finger guy. Why had I become such a tool? Were all the warnings about Los Angeles true? Was my soul fading away?

When living in Florida, I used to joke with friends on our trips to Disney World that it was actually the most “miserable place on earth” despite its moniker as the most “magical place on earth.” It was because we would see yelling, whining and tears in every corner of the different parks. There were upset children and angry fathers around every turn.

I want to go on the OTHER ride! I want a DIFFERENT toy! This line is TOO LONG! SHUT UP!

In this amazing place with teacups, roller coasters, fairy godmothers and sunshine, so many people would find so many reasons to be miserable. It was always a little off putting. “It shouldn’t be like this,” I would think.

Sometimes I can’t help but see this same unattractive quality in LA. On the surface, it’s so glamorous — beaches, movie stars, red carpets. But if you look carefully, you can find a stressed-out intern in a crappy car giving a parking enforcement officer the finger around every turn.

People in LA are stressed. I mean really stressed. I don’t think I’ve gone a single day without having someone yell at me through a car window. People walk disturbingly fast. Everyone is way too particular about their lunch orders. “Spicy salmon California salad roll? I can’t eat this! I SAID SPICY SALMON PACIFIC SALAD ROLL.”

Much like Disney World, it’s a little ironic. It’s a bit off- putting.

It has rained once since I moved here. There’s no snow on the way, either. Ever. It’s 83 degrees and zero humidity today, and it’s November. People are making movies for a living. Everyone is pretty. And tan. I’m neither, actually, but I still get to look at all the people who are. Shouldn’t that make us happy?

Are we spoiled? Once we’ve taken the weather, the beaches, and In-N-Out Burger for granted, we find things to stress about. Maybe, like Disney World, being in a place such as this makes us expect every little thing to be perfect. When that expectation inevitably falls apart, we do as well.

Maybe that surface-level perfection we see deludes our perception of reality. Do we start thinking we’re above things like California salad or parking tickets? Maybe that’s how so many people supposedly end up losing their soul out here.

So how do I keep mine?

I wrote an apology note to that parking enforcer and taped it to the curb in the place where I flipped him off. I guess he probably won’t end up seeing it, or reading it. But he might. I’ll hold out hope.

I haven’t felt much stress at all since leaving that note. Maybe it made me step back a little and remember what really matters — being a decent person.

I like LA, but I don’t like the idea of becoming the guy who gives people the finger or sends back his lunch. I’ll hold out hope that being here and being that guy are not mutually exclusive. I firmly believe it’s possible to go to Disney World and just have a good time.

Frank Marasco is a first-year graduate student in Los Angeles. He can be reached at fcm820@bu.edu.