Broken People

by Scott Hildreth

  In my more recent years of living, I have developed a trait of being critical of others. Male and female. I secretly used to pick people apart, their clothing, mannerisms, comments, and beliefs. Recently, I have begun to pick them apart in the presence of my friends that may be within eye or earshot. It has become a part of who I am to be critical of others. All of my friends have come to expect it, and I will be critical of all people that I encounter. I cannot help but wonder whether or not this is some reaction to me feeling as if I am being held under some form of microscope. These people, under my microscope, are under a great degree of scrutiny. Whatever portions of them that they allow me to see, I will be critical of. Some people appear, by my observations, to be valuable to me. I set those people aside, Group number one, and I keep them. Others have so few qualities that I prefer, that I set them aside, as Group number two. This group is on the side of failure. Failure of my personal testing for my expressed purposes of value, enjoyment or satisfaction. People, in general, have so many layers. Determining who they are is like peeling an onion. Each portion doesn’t make the person, but when combined, those layers make them who they are.

  With Kid, each layer that I peeled back interested me. I found him to be a complex person. A person, at least in his own opinion, that had tremendous moral fiber. A complex person that lived a simple life. For me to be critical of him, and find something that he didn’t already know, would be nearly impossible. Kid was his own worst critic. He was conscious of his shortcomings and character defects. He did, at times, need a little direction, or another point of view on some matters. For the most part, however, he was aware of his faults, whether he admitted it or not. David, on the other hand, had proven to be nothing short of an accident waiting to happen. This new revelation of his heterosexuality had me excited. Not for reasons of developing a relationship, but for the satisfaction of revealing it to him, and the possibility of helping him to accept it. Accepting the fact that he was heterosexual. A new beginning, if you will. David was intelligent, and had an open view on life, and was quite a vivid person. His intelligence, good looks, and personality would afford him almost any girl that he wanted, and I was anxious to open this layer of his personality, and hold it under his nose. I derived a great degree of personal satisfaction from helping and healing people of whatever it was that caused them harm or discomfort. This was in part, or totally, what made me migrate to the medical field. The thought of exposing David to himself, and having him, at some point in time, agree that I was correct, would potentially provide me with satisfaction for a lifetime. I am a selfless person, and live a selfless life, but in this regard, I am selfish.

  Finishing my yogurt, and standing to place my cup in the trash, I heard a scream. I had not even noticed anyone entering the store, but the scream itself startled me, and when I looked up, I realized that the store had filled with people while I was daydreaming about David and Kid.

  “Michelle!” screamed David at the top of his lungs. The entire store looked at him, and then turned and looked at me. He stood, in Khaki pants and a dress shirt, with his arms outstretched, and parallel with the floor. He was headed my direction, and doing so at a rapid pace.

  “Dude, slow down,” I said as he got within ten feet of me. I held my arms out to give him a hug, knowing his fondness for hugs.

  We embraced, and he laid his head on my shoulder as we hugged. Leaning back away from my body, but with his hands on my shoulders, he spoke, almost breathless.

  “So, I got your text, and I thought, I bet Michelle is going to Cups. So, hoping you’d be here, I drove here as a surprise. Well, not a surprise, but a surprise of sorts. I’m so happy to see you,” he said as he let go of my shoulders and pulled each side of his pants, making his pants pulling face as he tugged at them.

  David probably, in an hour long period of time, subconsciously, pulled or tugged at his pants twenty times, about every two or three minutes. When he did, he made an awful face, as if he were playing tug-of-war, and was about to be pulled into the mud pit. I had never asked him about it, because I was sure he was self-conscious about it. At first, I thought it was cute, but as time passed, it became something odd that he did. Not necessarily annoying, but odd.

  “I’m happy to see you as well, David. Sit down, we need to talk,” I said, motioning to a chair at the table. “I need to throw this away, and when I get back, we can talk,” I reached to the table to get the empty yogurt cup.

  “No, let me get that. I need to get a yogurt anyway,” he said, reaching for the cup.

  He took my cup, and carefully placed it in the trash receptacle. When David put things in the trash, he didn’t push them into the receptacle. He opened the trap door with one hand, and reached inside carefully with the other, and placed the trash into the receptacle. It was as if he were throwing away a container of explosives. Watching him, I wondered how many of these idiosyncrasies were a result of his fear of failure. The thought of getting to the bottom of this made me smile.

  David, upon returning with his cup of yogurt, began shoving it into his mouth as fast as he could. He was always careful, and never really made a mess, but he ate it as fast as he could possibly shove it into his mouth. Inevitably, he would develop a headache and act as if this was the very first time it had happened. Since we had met at Cups the first time, we had probably met here no less than fifteen times. Each time, the same things happened.

  Staring at my eyes and smiling, he continued. In between bites of yogurt, he finally spoke, “So, what’s going on, doctor college stuff? Do you have Villanova news?” he asked.

  “No David, something else. You remember my friend, Kid, right?”

  “Oh, yes. The big guy that’s kind of clairvoyant?” he responded, raising both eyebrows. He shoveled another spoon of yogurt into his mouth, waiting for my response.

  “Yes, him. Okay, I have to tell you some things he told me today, but it’s a lot to take in. It’s….,” I didn’t even finish and he interrupted.

  “Is it clairvoyant stuff?” he asked, placing his palms on his cheeks.

  “Yes, it…,” As soon as I started, he interrupted once again.

  “This is so exciting.” He removed his hands from his cheeks, and clapped them together as he spoke.

  “David, stop! Let me tell you what he said. You can nod, or shake your head, and that’s all. No speaking. Okay?’ He nodded as soon as I finished talking.

  “I gave him a picture of you and asked him to read you. He about…,” once again, he interrupted.

  “Oh my God, what did he say!!?” he screamed, literally slapping his palms back to his cheeks.

  “David, stop. Please. This will take forever. Shake or nod, okay?”

  He nodded.

  “I gave him a picture of you and asked him to read it. Read you. He read you, and said a lot, primarily, he said that you were somewhat OCD, and that your father was a very strict man, and that probably, ever since you were young, he would tell you that you were never going to amount to anything,” I paused. David nodded repeatedly.

  I continued, “Additionally, he said this caused fear of failure, which could, and obviously has, caused all kinds of other issues. He gave me the clinical name for fear of failure, but I do not recall what it was, and for the sake of this conversation it is not important.”

  “Then,” I was going to drop the bomb, so I took a breath and continued, quickly, “He said that he was certain that you were not homosexual, and in fact when I asked him a second time he laughed and said he was a hundred percent sure, and that you are definitely not homosexual and that fear of failure has caused you to tell yourself that you are, because you are concerned greatly, probably subconsciously, that you would fail in a relationship, and that your father would be critical of that,” I took a deep breath, and waited. David didn’t nod or shake his head. He just followed my eyes with his, like he was in a trance.

  “David….David!!! DAVID!! Are you still here?” He was just staring into my eyes, his mouth parti
ally open, with his elbows on the table, and his face resting in his palms.

  “Oh. Yes, I am sorry, can I speak?” he asked.

  “Yes, please do,” I responded.

  “Well, I have been wondering about this lately. The homosexual part of me, that is. Because, to be brutally honest, Michelle, since we met, I have become more and more attracted to you, and the attraction has not been a friendly attraction. I have actually, well,” he paused for a moment, and made a strange distorted face, and continued, “I have actually fantasized about you, not sexually, but as a girlfriend, boyfriend type thing.”

  I sat and stared at him, in disbelief. Was this really going to be this easy? Was he aware or second guessing his homosexuality for the last month or two, and saying nothing to me? Obviously so. I was somewhat disappointed that there was less excitement to this revelation, and felt as if someone let the air out of my sails, so to speak. I looked down at the table, rubbed my forehead with my fingertips, and looked up. “David, you’ve been second guessing your homosexuality for the last month or two, since we met, and you haven’t said anything?”

  He nodded.

  I started to say something, and stopped. I considered that he more than likely did exactly what Kid said. He probably began to feel somewhat attracted to me, and made no outward sign of it, for fear of me rejecting him, and ultimately, him failing. He would rather have me a friend at some level, than lose me altogether. I sat, satisfied, that Kid was right, and that I talked to David about it. As I sat, I began to look at David differently. Not in an, I’m attracted to you manner, but as if he were actually a boy that may be interested in me. This began to make me fractionally uncomfortable. I began to fidget in my seat. The phone ringing broke my concentration. I grabbed it, and began to silence it, and saw that it was Kid.

  “David, it’s Kid, I have to take this, okay? I will make it quick,”

  “Okay, Michelle, that’s fine,” he said, his face still resting in his palms.

  “Hey, Kid, I have a ton of questions for you, but I am with David right now, can I call you back in thirty?” I asked.

  “Yes, Michelle, that’s fine. Did you confront him about his homosexuality?” Kid asked, laughing.

  I looked at David, and smiled. David, with his face in his hands, and his eyes fixed on mine, immediately smiled back. This was beginning to creep me out. “Yes, I did, and it went really well,” I responded.

  “Okay,” Kid said, “Be sure to send me the pic of your crazy friend, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah, I will as soon as we’re done here, okay? I promise,” I said, apologetically.

  “Okay, talk to you soon,”

  “Ok, thirty minutes.” I hung up, and put my phone back into my purse.

  “Sorry David,” I said. He was still staring at me, his face resting in his palms, and his elbows on the table. His face had fallen to a point that he was almost resting his chin on the table. His eyes were glued to mine. I moved my head, side to side. His eyes followed. This was really beginning to creep me out. I decided to make an excuse, and see how he responded.

  “I really need to get home, and get a picture for Kid. I have a friend that is having some serious issues, and he needs a picture of her. I am going to have him read her, and I only have a picture on my computer at home. He’s been asking me to send it to him for days, so I really need to go do that. Can we take this up tomorrow? I am so, so sorry,”

  “Sure Michelle, I understand. This was really unexpected, entirely, but such a delight,” David said, as he stood. He immediately tugged at his pants, and made that ridiculous face. He reached for his yogurt cup, and I followed his hands as he did. The cup was empty. He had shoveled that entire cup into his mouth as we were here talking for ten minutes. What a nut.

  “Give me a hug, David,” I said, knowing this would make him feel better.

  He placed his cup back on the table, and reached around me. We hugged for a moment, and he spoke. “Do you think Coltrane hugged people?”

  “I’m sure he did, David. I am sure he did,” I responded, pushing myself away from David, so he could see my face. I smiled. Staring in my eyes, he smiled in return, and it was creepy. “Okay, I am so sorry, but I have to go do this,” I said as I grabbed my purse.

  “That’s okay, Michelle, go do what you have to do. I am going to throw this away, go to the bathroom, and say hi to Cloe before I go,” he said as he picked up his yogurt cup.

  “Okay. I will see you tomorrow or whatever, okay?”

  “Okay, Bye Michelle.”

  With my purse over my shoulder, and my phone in hand, I walked to my car, thinking of David and his lack of homosexuality.

  Maybe that little bitch does need to go find a job at Barnes and Nobles, before her boob falls out again.

  Chapter 13

  Heart attack

  FAT KID. I stood in line at the grocery store with twelve things in my hand. Twelve chocolate bars, enough to get me by for the day, maybe a day and a half, depending on my activity. I would have willingly bought fifty, but the line to the twelve items or less aisle was short, and the lines in the other available aisles were ten people deep, all of whom had a cart full of food. In the twelve or less aisle, there were three people in front of me, and this was taking forever. Is it just my lack of patience, or do they always place the mentally challenged checkers in the aisles that take twelve items or less? I stood in line, and as I did, the three people ahead of me didn’t budge. The checker was working in slow motion, sliding items across the infrared scanner, and it wasn’t scanning them. She was attempting, for the fourth or fifth time, to get a round bottle of dairy creamer to scan, unsuccessfully. This was becoming ridiculous. Ten minutes into this ordeal, and zero measured progress.

  The man directly ahead of me was thin and in his early thirties. He wore a baseball cap, black Dickie’s style work pants, slip on sneakers, and a khaki shirt. His hair hung well below his cap, and almost to his shoulder. His eyes told me that he was either drunk or completely lost, mentally. I’ve always said the eyes don’t lie, and his were no exception. All of a sudden, as we stood in line, he decided to spin in circles. He was literally pirouetting in place, on one foot. The two elderly women in front of him, one of which was trying to unsuccessfully buy a bottle of creamer, were turning around and watching him each time he rotated. The woman closest to him, turned and smiled. This, more or less, egged him on. He began to spin more frequently and faster, a sack of baby carrots in one hand, and a jar of peanut butter in the other. This guy was working on the one nerve I had left.

  “Dude, stop. You’re fucking freaking me out. Seriously, stop,” I said quietly, in an almost whisper, and as politely as I could muster.

  “Fuck off, fat ass,” he said, spinning in place.

  “Seriously, fat ass? You’re going to come at me with fat ass?” I slipped the chocolate bars into my left pocket and took two steps back, and spread my stance a little. I didn’t want this guy falling into the elderly ladies when I busted him in the eye.

  “Come here for a minute, I want to talk to you,” I asked, quietly as I motioned with my right hand, the way you would call kids in from the outfield in baseball practice.

  “No!” he said loudly, as he planted one foot, stopped, and then started spinning the other direction.

  Deciding that this lobotomy patient was not worth my potential trip to jail, I tried another means of stopping him from working my nerves. “Look, the lady with the creamer is done. You’re next,” I said, as I pointed toward the checker.

  “So?” he responded, flatly. He planted his feet again, stopped, and made an effort to change directions, all at once. He, in this mentally deranged state, at this juncture, was incapable of performing this change in direction without losing his balance. Halfway through this change in direction, his upper body and his lower body were going in different directions. It proved to be too much for him, and he proceeded to plummet toward the tile floor. As he began to fall, he dropped his cute little sack of carrots
, and his jar of peanut butter. The carrots fell flat on the floor. The peanut butter fell, and rolled across the floor, stopping in front of me. Jiffy. Creamy. Plastic. Perfect.

  He broke his fall as soon as his hands hit the floor, and bounced back up into a standing position, as if it were a break dance move he had just invented. I looked at him, looked down at the peanut butter, and looked back up at him. With my eyes focused on him, I kicked the peanut butter as hard as I could. The jar stayed about two inches above the freshly waxed tile floor for a hundred feet or so, and then slid for the remaining fifty feet, all the way to the produce section, where it hit a display of oranges.

  He looked at me, looked across the store toward the produce aisle, and looked at the carrots. In one fluid motion, he snatched the carrots from the floor, and took off across the store in a dead sprint toward the peanut butter jar. I shook my head, and looked toward the cashier. Splendid, she was caught up.

  I stepped to the aisle, walked in front of her, pulled the candy bars from my pocket, and tossed them on the conveyor. She began to slide them, effortlessly, one at a time, across the scanner. As she did, she asked me about the peanut butter punt.

  “What happened?” she asked without looking up.

  She was unsuccessfully attempting to get one of the bent bars to go through the scanner. I suspect it got smashed in my pocket when I was booting the mentally challenged ballerina’s peanut butter.

  “My capacity to put up with any more bullshit was exceeded by his ability to dish it out,” I answered, smiling.

  “Huh?” she said, looking at me like I had answered her in Latin.

  “Try one of the others,” I said, as her hand continued to wave back and forth over the scanner with a mutilated candy bar in her hand. “Try one of the other ones, one of the ones that you already got to go through,” I said again, pointing at a perfectly flat, unmolested candy bar.