Act I
I’m on the train. It’s an overnight trip, and getting near beadtime. I’m planning to brush my teeth, wash my face, and change into pajamas. As I stand up and reach for my duffel bag from the overhead rack, I notice heads in several of the rows behind me swivel up toward the rack. As I pull the bag down and place it on my seat, the heads swing down. As I remove each necessary item, the heads follow my every move. It’s like they’re watching a tennis match, and I’m the tennis ball.
The same thing happens when I return to my seat and put each item away. In the morning, we repeat the same routine.
I want to draw a big star in the air, just to see if the heads would follow. Would they realize I was poking fun at them? Would they become self-conscious and look away? I don’t try it; I’m too ‘nice.’
I want to say, “If me taking my toothbrush out of my duffel bag is your entertainment, you are in for a pretty pathetic night.”
Act II
I’m waiting in the airport. It’s a couple hours until my connecting flight. I’ve bought one of those yogurt-fresh fruit-granola combos from a snack cart. I’ve bought them before. Usually, the fruit and yogurt are in a cup, and the granola is housed in a separate compartment built into the lid, to keep it crunchy. There might be a thin plastic film you remove or a top you take off to get to the granola. Well, on this particular cup, the top portion seems to be made of two pieces of hard plastic fused together.
The three of four people sitting across from me are staring at this plastic container as I turn it over in my hands, try and pry it apart, try to twist the halves away from each other, and bash it with the end of the accompanying plastic spoon. I’m a TV channel, like the one blaring at the other end of the terminal.
If you knew you’d be waiting in an airport for hours, wouldn’t you at least bring a book with you? The people across from me didn’t think so. Why bother, when you can spend the time staring mercilessly at other passengers?
I’m so embarrassed. I can’t figure out how to open the container. (At least, not without a sharp knife or other tool that is now banned from air travel.) I throw the top in the trash. My audience watches as I spoon fruit and yogurt into my mouth.
I’d like to give them a line made popular in the 80s: “Why don’t you take a picture? It’ll last longer.” But I don’t want to be that immature. Or that 80s.
Act III
I’ve just arrived at a campground and pull into my designated site. A couple, stationed in lawn chairs outside of their RV, watches me like the prime time movie that comes on after the news: I just happen to be in their line of sight.
To be fair, they’re wearing sunglasses and could be asleep for all I know. They sit stadium style, facing me with huge, unblinking insect eyes, staring as I set up my tent, pore over the atlas, eat an apple, and carry my dirty clothes to the laundry room.
I feel like I should invent some flashy moves, twirl my tent posts or juggle tent stakes, the way a hibachi chef turns chopping and frying into performance art. But then, I already have a rapt audience, so the fanfare seems unnecessary.
What would these people do if I set up a chair and stared right back at them?
*****
Since I’ve stayed mostly at campgrounds and RV parks on this trip, I’ve encountered Act Three many, many times recently. If I ever become a celebrity, I can look back and figure that this was all practice for dealing with voyeuristic fans. But if not, or in the meantime, it’s disconcerting, especially for someone who doesn’t like being the center of attention.
Did people always act this way? Or are we so used to staring at the internet, our phones, TV, Facebook, YouTube, that we can’t tell the difference between that and real life?
As long as we are actors, writers, directors, and other moviemakers, maybe it’s not that bad. The problem is when we become spectators in our own lives.