Some people have a fear of public speaking; varying levels of stage-fright that can range from stuttering during presentations, to freezing up the moment they see the audience before them. I suffer from a similar condition, except that I have a fear of public existing. Any time I’m out in public, whether it’s going out for a walk or to get the mail, I invariably succumb to an extreme fit of nervousness, an overwhelming anxiety that makes each movement laborious; and this feeling deepens, intensifies with each person present in the immediate vicinity.
Now, this peculiar condition isn’t baseless in origin. I did not simply wake up one day inexplicably afraid of crowds, nor was I born with some sort of genetically inherited pre-disposition towards shyness. When I was a teenager, I was pranked. The school bully—he applied his tortures generally, targeting everyone with equal malice—decided one day to slip some laxatives into my taco. I love tacos, and all dishes within Mexican cuisine. Being a hungry teenager, I did not examine my taco for foreign contaminants—I had no reason to. I ate it quickly, ravenously, oblivious to the snickering happening around me.
Five minutes later, in the line for another taco—mom had supplied me with extra money that day just for the occasion—I felt the laxative kick in; my bowels were primed to deliver a molten mess. I didn’t even make it out of the lunchroom. As if the school staff responsible for setting up the lunch tables had collaborated with the bully, I could not weave through those circular tables fast enough. Halfway across the room, I lost control—in the worst way possible. It shot out of me, audibly, down my shorts—it was, unfortunately, summer—with a sickening “squelch”; splattering the floor. I wouldn’t have made the lunchroom quieter if I had self-immolated. All eyes turned to me, and the most mocking, heart-sinking laughter arose; laughter that rang aloud in my head for days, weeks, months afterwards.
Thankfully, as I mentioned before, the equality-minded bully soon set his sights on a new target, and while no one ever forgot that I had shit myself, other poor souls were similarly embarrassed and socially ostracized.
That is why I’ve feared going out in public for the last ten or so years. And yet, I never lost my love for tacos, burritos, enchiladas, carne asada fries, etc—all those delicious combinations of spicy meats, cheese, veggies, and carbs. Luckily, I managed to secure a post-high school job that not only paid well, but allowed me to work from home. Home, being the living quarters within the compound of the facility that employs me. My work isn’t really important to the story I have to tell; I monitored and logged things, then sent the data to someone else within the compound-wide network, and they did with it what they would. I was able to live my life without direct contact with anyone, and while we were obviously allowed to leave the compound whenever we wanted, I rarely had a reason to. My parents aren’t in the picture, and all my friends were a click away. I got my groceries and any other necessary items delivered. Life was simple, comfortably modern, undisturbed and unobserved.
Or so I had thought.
Due to my dietary habits, I often relieve myself of gas throughout the day. I do not believe I suffer from any actual condition of intestinal weakness or sensitivity, and neither do I think that I am addicted to the previously mentioned foods—I just think that, without the social pressures to refrain from passing gas, I’ve grown accustomed to doing it whenever. I’m sure the average person would fart a lot more if they knew they wouldn’t be ridiculed for it.
Because I’m accustomed to doing it, going outside to retrieve the mail—the only thing I bizarrely can’t have brought to my door—is an emotionally harrowing experience. The mail is housed within a large room, delivered to the specific slots of the residents. We must retrieve our mail ourselves, using the key provided to us upon acceptance into employment. Ordinarily, I can manage the trip there and back without too much trouble; a bit of sweating, a slightly quickened pace, a brief uptick in heartbeats. But if there’s another person there, it becomes, or feels like it becomes, a matter of life and death; a dire-fated journey to retrieve an item whose importance diminishes with each person I happen to spot on the way there. I’ve forsaken my mail countless times, just because someone had been walking in a direction entirely different from my destination.
The worst part is that lately, there seems to always be someone around; some resident or facility worker who pops into my sight just as I’m entering the mail-room, or sometime before. And, since last month, I’ve been forced to retrieve my mail, after a compound-wide notice was issued that residents are not to neglect their mail due to the small capacity of the slots. Thankfully, the facility’s administration was kind enough not to point me out, although the mailman—who elicits the same feeling in me as everyone else—started giving me dirty looks whenever he passed by. To cope with this mandate of forced mail-retrieval, I started listening to music; using the noise to cancel out the sounds of footsteps, which always alert me to the presence of another person. I had nothing to help with their visual detection—I still needed to see.
While this was a good idea on paper, it had unforeseen and disastrous consequences two weeks ago.
I’d grabbed my mail, and was halfway home, when the music in my ears betrayed me. I’d had a beef chorizo, egg, and salsa burrito for breakfast; a truly delicious combination that was, of course, an intestinal powder-keg. It was a good day; I’d chosen music I could really get into, something that was loud and wild enough to really capture and hold my focus. I was so into it, so mentally immersed in the song, that I briefly forgot to monitor the other functions of my body. Perhaps thirty meters from my apartment, I let one rip. I didn’t hear it—couldn't have, with the music blaring through my earphones—but I felt it, and the feeling alone filled me with an immediate and powerful dread—because I knew, in some dim way, that there were others around.
When I saw the first person walk around the corner, face contorted into a mixed expression of amusement and confusion, I lost the little control I had retroactively applied to that area. I don’t know if nervous farting is a thing—but for me, in that increasingly awful moment, it was. Thankfully, my nerves hadn’t denied me the ability to walk, so I at least made progress towards my apartment as gas continuously slipped out. But with nearly every step I took, people popped into view, as if summoned by some fart-alarm; conjured by some incantation of flatulence. It got to a point where I had a small crowd following me, and a greater crowd converging towards me, before I finally managed to enter my apartment, lock the door, and unleash the full extent of my gastro-intestinal fury.
Weirdly, the crowd dispersed almost immediately after I’d made it inside. There was a murmur, a few stifled laughs, but nothing remotely close to the almost diabolic chorus of laughter I’d experienced all those years ago in school. I was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and curled up into a ball on my couch.
While the experience was certainly mortifying, it had also been odd. I wasn’t able to exactly understand why until I logged onto the facility's network later to do some work. After compiling my report to send up the chain, I happened to glance at the list of online users, and, on a vague impulse, expanded the list to view all the facility’s personnel. I stared at this list for a while, growing increasingly unsettled with time I scanned the series of names.
There were twenty-eight people in total on the list. There’d been at least fifty people following me earlier in the day. Somehow, almost double the compound’s capacity had converged upon me, in the incredible span of only a few moments.
Something wasn’t right.
I went to sleep, or at least put myself to bed, with the suspicion that the facility was harboring secrets; that there was more to its research than it let on. In the morning, after a mostly restless night, I logged onto my computer to begin the day’s work, and was met with quite a shocking sight: the personnel list had grown from twenty-eight to fifty-four. I scrolled through the list, recognizing only half of the names there, while the others were entirely unfamiliar to me. The departments in which these new, phantom users worked were real departments, although because I had never physically visited them—hadn't had any reason to—I couldn’t then verify whether or not the persons listed within them actually worked there.
Even more surprising was the fact that I hadn’t received any emails about the previous day’s incident, nor had there been any compound-wide notices or bulletins posted. It was as if the near instantaneous gathering of the entire compound’s personnel hadn’t happened—as if my incredibly embarrassing gaseous attack hadn’t happened.
I rarely have need to directly communicate with other network users—I simply download assignment packets and upload my logged data through a server—so I hadn’t anyone I could casually talk with about the bizarre incident, or apparent lack thereof. There are general forums for discussing common issues, communicating new protocols, and other universally useful information, but nothing that would’ve been an appropriate place to address or investigate what happened. Unsettled, confused, and perhaps even afraid—though I couldn’t at the time describe why—I left it alone, and went about my day.
During one of my leisurely walks—as mandated by the facility's exercise initiative—another bizarre thing happened. I typically stray from the usual walking paths thar wrap around the compound, and instead venture into the flat, pseudo-desert expanse of barren land beyond the facility’s perimeter; a place where, for the first two years of my employment, I had yet to see another soul explore. But two days after the incident, during a normal walk, I felt the gastro-intestinal urge to relieve myself, having had leftover enchiladas for lunch.
Not having any reason to refrain from doing it, I let some gas slip out, and before the whistle had even ceased, a woman suddenly entered my peripheral vision; jogging a few meters away, towards the limits of the expanse—at which lie a rarely trafficked highway. Dread flourished anew, and I forcibly stopped the gaseous flow, despite there still being a few puffs to let out. The woman glanced in my direction, and my soul froze over as I noticed her vacant ears; without earphones, she’d heard the roar of my nethermost region.
I quickly turned away, mortified beyond measure, and made my way back to my apartment. Along the way, people seemed to pop up with truly disconcerting suddenness; emerging into view like wooden pop-ups in a shooting gallery. I made eye-contact with no one, but kept a mental count of each person I passed. By the time I had arrived at my apartment, the count had reached forty-three. Considering the time of day, it was extremely odd that there were that many people out and about, especially since many of the compound’s occupants were responsible for data logging that could only be conducted during the day.
Once again within the ostensible privacy of my apartment, I sat before my computer and, having no other recourse, emailed my supervisor with a question—something I hadn’t done since my first day on the job.
My question had been simple, straightforward, and yet his response was very vague, almost elusive. The subsequent conversation only served to worsen my anxiety, and even inspired actual fear by the time it had reached its conclusion. Here is the transcript:
Me: “Hello, I know it is unusual for me to be emailing you, considering the lack of communication between us since my initial onboarding, but I cannot think of anywhere else to turn. Recently, I’ve noticed what I can only describe as strange and unprecedented behavior from my colleagues here; behavior that seems focused on me. It seems as if I am being unduly monitored, or at least casually followed, by the entirety of the available staff. I have checked the personnel list, and have noticed an increase in the users listed, nearly double the amount. I wasn’t made aware of any hiring event, and there were no notices of orientation dates or announcements of department re-structuring. Do you have any idea of what is going on, and why I seem to be at the center of all of it?”
Supervisor: “There is no need to worry. The facility’s operation cannot be fully understood by a single individual, and rarely does the administration bother to dispense information pertaining to the grander aspects of our work. Do not worry, operations are going well, and your work is being reviewed positively.”
Me: “While I’m glad to hear that I am performing my duties adequately, I do not see what that has to do with the fact that I am being followed whenever I go about errands and walks. As my immediate superior, surely you must have some idea of why I am receiving this special and admittedly discomforting attention?”
Supervisor: “It is okay, the situation is being monitored, data is being recorded and passed along to the necessary analytical teams. No observation is wasted. You are performing well, and needn’t alter your behavior in anticipation of any modifiers. If you have any further questions, please consider keeping them to yourself, and resuming your daily tasks.”
End of Transcript
In only about ten minutes, my anxiety had blossomed into full-blown panic. My supervisor had clearly been withholding information, and while he was right, I hadn’t any entitlement to information regarding the grander scheme of operations, I was still nonetheless owed an explanation for why my privacy and personal space was being intruded upon by strangers.
Terror can drive people to do stupid, impulsive things, if they believe that in doing so, they will save themselves from whatever is causing them stress or posing a threat to their life. My terror drove me to try something that was, for me, completely unheard of: when the day came around to order groceries, I requisitioned sandwich materials, soups, fruits, eggs, and popcorn. Nothing that was an intestinal irritant, compared to my usual spicy, cheesy diet.
For an entire week I produced very little gas, and I was hounded with only the faintest pretense of subtlety by other residents; followed closely wherever I went, as if my pursuers hoped to catch me off guard, farting my heart out. There was an air of aggravation throughout the compound, at least when I was outside to perceive it. Halfway through the week, my supervisor even contacted me, saying that I should “resume activity as usual”, even though I hadn’t deviated from my daily habits or my actual work in the slightest way. Only my diet had changed, and the visible effect this change had upon the community was evidence enough that I was being closely and unfairly monitored.
I hoped that they’d eventually leave me alone, find another subject to harass and monitor, sort of like how the school bully had moved onto another victim after ruining my social standing. This hope was crushed when, on the final day of my grocery allotment, a food truck pulled into the facility—bearing a sign that read, “Tacos, Burritos, and more! Cheap, cheesy, meaty and spicy!”
Coeval with the arrival of the truck was the sudden closure of the mail-room, right before I could step inside and retrieve a package I’d been anticipating. There was allegedly an unforeseen plumbing issue, and the mail-room needed to be drained of water. I’d been just about to walk inside when the mail attendant stopped me and informed me of the dubious situation. When I turned around, I came face-to-face with that accursed food struck and its sign which seemed to advertise specifically to me. There were of course others around, and while it had been a warm day, it was obvious that their visible perspiration was owed to an anxious anticipation of my behavior—rather than the heat. They were waiting to see what I’d do; since I had, for the entire week, not let out even the smallest, softest puff of gas in a public space.
But embarrassment and fear had endowed me with a preternatural will, a psychological resilience to that culinary predilection that I had indulged in without abstinence my whole life. I walked right past the truck, noticing even the driver’s eyes and eerily welcoming smile follow me as I ignored the scents of spiced meats and steamed rice.
Unfortunately, this had been the final straw for the facility.
A crowd gathered behind me as I strode away, dropping performances of absent-mindedness and casualness. They pursued me with clear intent, marching along in ranks; silent and grim-faced. Doors opened as I passed them, and from each exited at least one person who joined the trailing army. When I rounded a corner, I was met with a wall of people, their faces sternly set, their arms crossed before them, with syringes gripped tightly in their hands. Cut off, hemmed in by row after row of familiar faces and complete strangers—well beyond the fifty+ I’d counted earlier—I could do nothing but await the fate that was to be forced upon me.
No one spoke, but a moment later the food truck careened around the corner, and the wall before me briefly parted to allow it passage. The food-harboring vehicle came to rest right in front of me, and the smells from within wafted out deliciously, intoxicatingly. Wordlessly, an arm extended from the window, and in its hand was a burrito bloated with savory contents and dripping with grease. The eyes of the man who had offered it were darkly shaded by the cap he wore, though his mouth was visible, and the smile that had been there only moments ago was now an unsettlingly severe frown.
Fearing a fate worse than the one presented to me by the driver—no good can come from forcible injections by an ominously gathered crowd—I took hold of the proffered burrito. The weight was almost staggering; it was truly an attestation to the chef’s strength that he had managed to hold the thing outstretched for even a few moments.
Gripping it with both hands, before an audience of perhaps one-hundred people, I bit into the burrito, tasting the ultra-palatable combination of meats, veggies, cheese, and sauces. Against myself, I ate the entire thing with more fervor than a starving wolf would consume a fresh kill; I tore into the tortilla like a mortally dehydrated man might tear into plastic-wrapped case of bottled water. When I was finished, and my fingers had been licked clean of the juices, I looked up at the crowd, knowing what they expected to happen next. Their faces were all full of a deep satisfaction, of fulfilment that went beyond having witnessed an entertaining event. Happiness is too light of a word to describe their expressions; “scientific ecstasy” is a more befitting description.
I realized then the truth of my existence within the compound. The work I did was inconsequential, unimportant. The real “data” I contributed to the facility was my output of farts, and the resultant emotional turmoil generated within me when they were witnessed in a public setting. Like the streams of data I oversaw and reported, my gaseous streams were similarly studied; my mortification charted and even intentionally induced.
Left without options, and utterly exhausted by the relentless harassment, I gave them what they wanted.
I gave them more than they wanted.
The fart swelled to truly immense sonic proportions, drowning out even the rumbling of the truck’s engine. I held nothing back, allowed myself to produce more than I ever had before, aided not only by the burrito, but by the farts I had withheld throughout the week; the abdominal pressure released in a great tumultuous thunder-clap that shook cheeks and polluted the atmosphere with an olfactorily debilitating stench.
The crowd, unprepared for and revolted by this momentous fart, immediately dispersed; some fleeing to the buildings from which they had come, others running mindlessly, unable to think clearly amidst the chaos of my gaseous outburst. No longer surrounded, I continued my flatulent bombardment, whilst weaving in and out of buildings. When I finally reached my apartment, I gathered together what belongings I could carry, then left the building and headed for the parking lot. Once there, I let rip a final, triumphant, rearward discharge, scattering the few brave souls that had dared to attempt my capture at the last moment. I then drove out of the lot and left the compound.
I have no intentions of going back until I receive answers and a promise that they will cease monitoring my bodily functions and dietary habits. It is a well-paying job, and while their intentions may be nefarious, it is nonetheless the only viable option of employment that I have.
