I saw a man get punched once—a perfect hook to the cheek on a bone-cold morning near the McCormick Center in Chicago. I was tucked into a corner café, nursing my Kenya AA, and nibbling a scone, gearing up for the tradeshow with the enthusiasm of a cat heading to the vet. The man didn’t yell; he just stood there, stunned, briefcase dangling, rubbing his face and staring at the guy who clocked him. The hitter? He strolled off like it was just another Tuesday.
I felt a quick flicker of empathy followed by a smirk at the absurdity—a reminder that life is full of moments so weird that you just sit there wondering if it really happened. A few seconds later, my mind wandered to bigger things, the kind of grand, existential musings that crop up when the caffeine kicks in—like why I was in that café at all instead of doing something that mattered with my life. Naturally, the moment didn’t last.
A co-worker plopped into the seat next to me, his bloodshot eyes locked onto the server like she was an oasis in a desert of regret. Downtown Chicago cafés were no strangers to hungover businesspeople—mostly men—snapping fingers with the urgency of toddlers needing juice.
“Rough night,” he muttered, squinting at his phone. “How about you?”
I assumed that question was for me since no one else was around, but for a moment I wasn’t sure as his voice trailed off with alcohol fatigue. I thought about inventing something polished and professional because that’s how they all saw me. But they didn’t know me. I either intrigued men or scared them. It took me many years to accept that I would never know why. Then I shrugged to myself. Why bother? I was beginning to become frayed at the edge of this reality—losing interest in maintaining an image.
“About two hours at the Beach Club. Then Excalibur. After a few tequila shots—too many—Jody, Cali, and I ended up dancing on the bar. We caught the attention of some sales guy from Acuson who didn’t know what to make of us. We just wanted to dance but he kept waving around dollar bills, so we bailed.”
For years that was my life—a carousel of tradeshow booths, press conferences, dimly lit client dinners featuring microplaned truffles unpleasantly resting atop perfectly good pasta, and the thankless task of corralling half-drunk sales reps before they torpedoed the pitch. They were occasionally entertaining but always exhausting, preferring to amuse each other with stories of last night’s conquests. Back then, we were selling branded disruptive tech—this time it was telemedicine. This gathering was the RSNA—the Radiology Society of North America—Thanksgiving season’s most profitable event in Chicago, where innovative science met corporate posturing, and doctor’s spouses turned Michigan Avenue into a designer catwalk.
Fast forward a few years. Now, I’m on the Zane Grey Highway outside Pine, Arizona, leaning against my trailer, savoring the dry late-summer air and leftover chicken from my tiny fridge. Two squirrels caught my eye, spiraling around the trunk of a ponderosa pine in a slapstick chase. Then, out of nowhere, they squared off like tiny boxers, furry fists flying.
I should’ve grabbed my camera, but I was spellbound. One second, they were sizing each other up; the next, they were in a full-blown fistfight. It was almost gladiatorial—I half-expected one of them to pull out a miniature sword and shout, “For the realm!” After a lightning-fast tussle, the winner shot up the tree in victory while the loser slunk off into the underbrush. A turf war. Squirrel edition.
Moments like these don’t happen in the middle of a meeting, with your phone silently flashing urgent reminders, or while stuffing leaves into garbage bags on a Saturday. Out here, away from the noise, you get a front-row seat to a world that keeps turning with or without us. A view into something primal, something that keeps us tethered to reality. In these moments, I’m reminded that we aren’t above nature or outside of it—we’re part of it, messy, imperfect, and fully alive.