After I lost my son and house in the divorce, I decided to travel. I needed some time alone, and I hoped to find a new muse. That was what I told everyone because saying that I was trying to find something I didn’t hate about myself didn’t sound as good.

I drove to all the national monuments that I’d never managed to see: The Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore, and all those memorials in DC. I figured since everybody else seemed to find them inspirational, maybe I would too. I slept in my car and ate fast food, and it didn’t take long before my body reminded me that I wasn’t twenty anymore. The bouts of nausea and diarrhea that followed reminded me that I wasn’t thirty anymore either.

I pushed on until I ended up in New York and saw the Statue of Liberty. It left me feeling empty. People talked about how incredible the sights were, how good the food was, and how seeing it all brought them so much hope. But it was just another cityscape filled with people as selfish and stupid as me.

I was so frustrated that I drunk-called my mother. She ranted about how she had solved her own midlife crisis by immersing herself in what I found to be a confusing combination of hinduism, martial arts, and yoga. She suggested I do the same. It didn’t interest me this time anymore than the last ten times she’d recommended it. Despite that, the next day I ended up in Chinatown, wandering the streets like a lonely, homeless-looking idiot.

After far too long of staring at random nick-nacks and steaming noodle dishes in the sickening heat, I found what appeared to be a little family-owned bookshop. I couldn’t read the name, but I stepped inside because it seemed like something new. The already cramped space was filled with stacks of books. I stepped around a few and glanced at the covers: all of them were predictably in an asian language I didn’t know.

A little disappointed, I tried to find something I could read before realizing that a man watched me curiously from a second-story balcony. I found myself drawn to him and climbed a ladder to reach him. He was a wizard of a man with a long wispy beard, wrapped in a worn red blanket, and seated cross-legged on a mat. Three piles of books towered around him. He was surprisingly tall, and nothing but skin and bone.

“Have you read all these?” I gestured to the books, not expecting a reply.

He cocked his head at me, chewed with his mouth closed, and glanced at where I had pointed. Then he slid a book off the top of a tower and held it out to me. I took it graciously and a small hope blossomed that perhaps this would somehow answer my question. But it was in another language I could not read. I deflated, realizing how silly this whole quest had been. Maybe I would buy the book anyway.

He picked up a second book and raised it as if to salute. Then he opened his mouth as if to read. To my shock, he ripped out a page, stuffed it into his mouth, and began to chew. I stared in horrified fascination. He gestured again to the book I held. Perhaps this was his way of gaining knowledge, I thought and slowly opened the book.

I tore out a page of the handwritten script with a satisfying rip. Then I took a bite and looked back at the old man for his approval. He smiled with his teeth in a way that made me feel like he was laughing at me. As I chewed, I imagined gaining insight and hidden knowledge, but all I tasted was paper.

My Favorite Absurdity in This Collection