The Novel

Chapter Four

In Kafka's The Metamorphosis, the main character, Gregor Samsa, woke up the next morning only to find out that he was an insect-like creature, some say a beetle, some say a cockroach. In case you haven't read it, or in case you're unfamiliar with it, The Metamorphosis is one of Kafka's most seminal works, and is considered to be one of the greatest novels of the 20th century. Personally, it is one of my most favorite books but because of Dostoyevsky, I tend to be inclined to other works of fiction as well. But take time to imagine you're in Gregor Samsa's place. What would you do if you wake up one day as a huge monstrous beetle? 

I know how you'd reply. You'd say it's not possible, you'd say it's highly unlikely, you'd say it's just a book. Well, screw you, then. I was merely asking a question. It was a what if question! No matter how unlikely, it must be answered! The trolley problem was another unlikely thing to happen but it had answers offered. How is this any different? But before I get pissed off, let me just jump back a bit.

A day after my college graduation, I woke up, feeling a bit queasy and tired and lazy. I looked at the wall clock. It was 4 PM. I must've overslept. My head hurt, which made me recall of last night's party. What I've been experiencing was a hangover. I grasped my head because of the pain, it was severe. I am never drinking that much again, I promised to myself. It was the last college party we'll ever have. There were tears, emotions, there were bitter-sweet goodbyes since we might not be seeing each other again. I barely had anybody crying for me. I never had any close friends, after all. So in that party, I just drank and drank, watching people cry for each other, watching my schoolmates, my college mates, say their tearful farewells.

Sitting there in my bed, I recalled why I drank so much. I drank lots of alcohol because I felt the anxiety. I felt that I was about to enter the adult world, something I wasn't prepared to enter just yet. From now on I will be having my own job, my own bank account, my own apartment, my own allowance, my own bills and taxes. I didn't expect adulthood would be this difficult. So waking up, I felt like Gregor Samsa in Kafka's magnum opus. I felt like a beetle, knowing I have to deal with this new form of mine—being an adult in the real world. I hated to even think of it. If I didn't have that painful headache, I would probably chug more beer just to distract myself from the future responsibilities I have yet to encounter. It happened so fast for me. One minute I was just sitting in my political theory classroom, reciting a page from Jean-Jacques Rousseau's Discourse on Inequality, next minute I was looking for an employment in various places all at once under the pressure of my aging, bourgeois parents. My dad had lung cancer so he couldn't work. He expected more from me. Too bad he didn't get to witness me rise up as a writer because he died. Too fucking bad I wouldn't get to rub that on his face. Well, I could always dig up his grave just to show his rotting eyeballs that I am now a critically acclaimed writer. Next thing you know, dad, I'm a Nobel prize laureate! Even Tolstoy didn't win that.

So it was important for me to get a job as soon as possible. Why? Well, just because! I kept searching here and there, passing out resumes whenever I could. Waiter in a restaurant, janitor in an elementary school, wherever, whatever, I didn't care, I just needed a job, that's all. Having a philosophy degree is no use in the real world. I got rejected. Yes, in all of these job interviews I've been through. Each application I did, I got rejected but I didn't mind. I just smiled and left without a stain of disappointment across my face. The only way to deal with life is never taking it seriously.

Out of luck in getting a job, I decided to rest for a little. I told my mom, just for a month then I'll get back on my feet. She got disappointed but at last she agreed. This moment I had my own apartment, though it was small and crummy, and I also had a roommate. His name is Jack Trades, a junkie lowlife, my favorite type of person. He's seven years older than me. He works in a car wash then earns a little on the side through favors, mostly involving drugs. Jack had been one of those people I've been forced to be friends with. I mean, he was my roommate so I knew I had to strike a rapport somehow to fit the norm.