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Space, the Final Frontier

Or, “Don’t stand, don’t stand so, don’t stand so close to me.”

One of the most gratifying aspects of my relocation to the Midwest – ten years ago already – was the sheer expanse of it all. I spent the first 28 years of my life in New Jersey, where one’s gaze generally cannot travel more than a hundred yards before it runs smack into a building, tree, hill or other structural/topographical feature.  Nebraska entirely redefined the notion of “available space” for me.   I vividly remember looking out upon the prairie first time, across fields that stretched away toward a horizon that seemed to be endlessly receding. The sky itself was bigger, a vast dome of brilliant blue.

I felt a wave of upward-sweeping vertigo, a sensation I experienced on the observation deck atop the Empire State Building, head craned back and staring at that structure’s spire only a few stories above. Beyond that, nothing between me and the vacuum of space except a few miles of rapidly thinning atmosphere – and the irrational feeling that at any moment one could fall upwards into it and be lost.  Yeah, the prairie was a little like that the first time I really saw it.

So why, my fellow Nebraskans – with all of this glorious expansiveness available to us in the Midwest – why in God’s name is it necessary for you to position yourselves right on top of me in the grocery store?

I can’t figure it out. More and more often, patrons at our local supermarkets are finding new and inventive ways of invading my personal space, despite the remarkably wide aisles and generous floor plans we enjoy in Nebraska’s fine retail establishments.  I first noticed this phenomenon when fellow shoppers – almost always the larger ones, for some reason – began insinuating their fleshy bulk between me and the jars of spaghetti sauce or peanut butter at Super Target – despite the fact that I was standing less than two feet from said items.

Now, I’m not indecisive when it comes to making my selections, so it’s not as if they have to wait patiently while I mull over the competing virtues of Ragu’s  4-Cheese Blend and the pricier Bertolli Mushroom and Roasted Garlic Marinara.  And yet, without warning, excuse or apology, they manage to slip themselves into the scant 18 inches separating me from the shelves, pushing me backwards into the center of the aisle with the gentle but firm pressure of their meaty flanks and buttocks.

It may be somewhat odd that I’m as sensitive to this problem as I seem to be.  Growing up on the east coast, the press of the crowd is a fact of life.  As a child of the 70s and 80s, I’d successfully navigated the chaotic push and pull of sweaty mobs at Van Halen and Aerosmith concerts by the time I was 16.  But as I approached my late 20s, I found that I had less and less tolerance for that sort of thing – until it actually blossomed into a low-level phobia of being hemmed in by human bodies.

Nebraska is, for the most part, a natural fit for me. There’s a lot of space.  Even in “crowded” environments, it’s like living in a depopulated world by New Jersey standards. In my first five years as a Midwesterner, the most serious challenge to my newly developed ochlophobia was my experience of the audience at a James Taylor concert. And I can tell you, the risk of being caught up or trampled in a mob rushing the stage is a lot lower when James launches into “You’ve Got a Friend” than when Eddie and the boys hit the opening chords of “Panama” or “Hot for Teacher.”

So, on the whole, this sort of thing usually isn’t a big issue for me any more in the Midwest.  Except as it pertains to supermarkets.

Recently, the problem has centered on the checkout line.  It is not at all uncommon, as I wait for the cashier to total up my purchases, to sense a looming presence directly behind me.  Oftentimes, I can hear the labored wheeze of breath and even feel the warm, cigarette-soured exhalations on the back of my neck.  If I turn around, they are right there, inches away, watching with unabashed interest as I enter my debit card pin number on the keypad.  God forbid you ask for a little room while you complete your transaction – you’ll only be answered by a look of bovine perplexity and vague, baffled resentment.

My fellow Nebraskans, what’s behind all this?  Is it the allure of the raw animal pheromones I periodically squirt out of my various glands, or the spontaneous pull of my scintillating wit and magnetic personality?   Might it have something to do with the gravitational field naturally generated by high-mass bodies in three-dimensional space?  Perhaps the cause is more psychological than physical.  Perhaps some culturally pervasive atmosphere of Midwestern autophobia – fear of being alone – is to blame.   Whatever the cause, the result is pretty much the same.  I end up involuntarily sharing space with a complete stranger whose physical proximity to me is rather more intimate and unwelcome than one’s encounter with a particularly vicious hemorrhoid.

I beg you – please, please stop.  Back up a few paces.  Take advantage of the breathing room while we still have it in this part of the country.

Incidentally, it’s worth noting that my son, at three years old, is already exhibiting some of his daddy’s quirks.  Given that most toddlers have not yet become sensitized to that part of the social contract that governs sovereignty over personal space, Nathanael can be said to be slightly ahead of the curve.  In principle, I approve of his caution in keeping others at bay.  But I also foresee problems when, inevitably, he must learn to negotiate the ebb and flow of larger crowds of people.  I guess we’ll just have to wait until Van Halen goes on tour again to get him used to it.

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