“It’ll be easier once he’s dead,” my brother said morosely.
My brother would have been at home in a thirteenth-century monastery, bent over a manuscript in a blister of candlelight, ennobling the words with his attention. His melancholy promoted from illness to calling.
Owen Peck gets us to introduce ourselves, then, pacing, launches into a speech: “When I say Energy Vampire, I’m not talking the sexy times kind of vampire. Don’t get me wrong! I like a lady vampire in a corset as much as the next guy. No, when I say Energy Vampire, I’m talking a fat tick burying its fat face into your flesh. You know? I’m talking a slimy leech pumping blood like its leechy life depends on it, which I guess it does. But in this metaphor your blood isn’t your blood. What is it?”
“Power?” Glen from accounting says.
“Close.” Owen nods.
“Energy,” Roman says.
“Exactly! It’s your energy.” Owen leaps into the air and does a little spin on the spot. He starts circling us, faster now. He is exhausting me. Everyone is whipping their heads to keep up, but I’m staring straight ahead, imagining the dense, grey cocoon of my duvet.
“Your zest. Your flow. Your primal spirit. And Energy Vampires are people who want to squeeze all that joy juice out of you. People who take, take, take. People who are just one long.” Here, he stops and lets out an extended sigh.
The circle snickers. I try and fail to get Marian’s attention. Is she buying into this?
“People who whine, complain, mooch, nag. Debbie Downers and Peter Passive Aggressives. You hear me?”
Everyone nods. So I do, too, even though this spiel is grating.
“People who never, ever seem to get the job done.”
Owen stops in front of the projector. His shadow looms on the white wall, obscuring the mantra. “These are the people we need to exorcize from our lives.”
My brother never managed to keep any job for long, not a job that paid anyway. My parents supported him. They were not people who could rid themselves of Downers. They tried once or twice, through threats or ultimatums, but one or the other would inevitably back down. After a while they accepted that he would never work.
Although he rarely expressed it, I knew my brother disapproved of my career. While I always made a point to ask about his Wikipedia entries and to feign interest in his responses, he never asked about my job. It was the elephant in the Incubator. Staggering now to think of it that way. My brother was dependent on my parents for survival, he had few friends and no girlfriend, as far as I know he was a virgin and yet by some strange logic I was made to feel like the pathetic one. When I was around him I often sensed the whole shining narrative of my life—business school, promotions, Liberty Village condo—snarl into a tarnished knot, worthy of nothing but scorn.
“Don’t you think you should actually be contributing in some way?” he asked when I first told him about my decision to go to business school. “Instead of scavenging?”
“Why can’t you just be happy for me?” I said, on the verge of tears.
He shook his head. “I think you could do better.”
His disapproval was hard to take. As much as I desired his admiration, I needed the world’s admiration more, and my young affluence was, I felt, the surest way to secure it.
As the session continues, I realize that Owen Peck is a kind of Deletionist himself, though my brother and his Wikipedia pals would surely abhor his criteria of notability. According to Owen Peck, we should surround ourselves exclusively with Energy Injectors, which he defines as people who have an infectious peppiness.
Beside me, Marian nods vigorously. So there must be something to this, I reason, if Marian agrees with him. I need to concentrate. Be attentive not mocking. Maybe Owen Peck can actually teach me something.
“People who think, how can I help this company? Who think, how can I improve myself and the people around me? How can I make someone’s day? Those are the office cheerleaders!”
Owen Peck is describing the old me. The me who volunteered to take minutes at the meeting, to go on coffee runs, to come in early and stay late, to give up holidays, to cover people’s work when they were sick or even just hungover; the me before Devon died and made everything pointless. There you go again, I admonish myself. Be positive, be proactive. Try harder.
As the afternoon wears on, he has us play a game of broken telephone. The original sentence, “I am not going to let anyone steal my life force,” morphs into “I’m not gonna staple lettuce.” I try to make eye contact with Marian as the group giggles, but she won’t look at me.
The only way to coax my brother from his Idea Incubator was to suggest a nature walk. My mother, worried that Devon and I were drifting apart, sometimes called to suggest I take him out: I know you’re busy, honey, but a little vitamin D, some exercise, would do him good. If he wasn’t incubating some new entry, he always agreed. Without talking much we would stroll through the Don Valley Ravine or High Park. Last summer we drove down to Turkey Point Provincial Park, just the two of us, his—not my mother’s—idea.
Ten minutes into our walk, a family stopped us and asked if we could take their picture. I agreed and twenty say cheeses later—they had wanted every possible configuration: father and son; mother, son and daughter; mother, father, daughter and chipmunk—they thanked me and ambled away.
I was expecting Devon to make fun of them, but instead he said, “You’re so good with people. You have social grace. I’ve always admired that about you.”
This compliment startled me. Couldn’t he tell that it wasn’t grace that compelled me, but a need to be liked? I mumbled, “Thanks.”
“Too bad you don’t get to use those skills much,” he said. “Not in your line of work.”
Of course, there was a loophole in the compliment.
“Get a load of that robin!” Devon pointed at a blue bird perched nearby; it jerked and cocked its head inquisitively before bursting into flight. An apt image now. My brother, a bird soaring. Me, a velvet-crested bulrush left wobbling after the hard takeoff.
“Okay, everyone,” Owen said. “It’s time to boogie. Everybody on your feet.”
I stand and reach my hand out to Marian, but she pushes herself up on her own. My legs tingle and I slap them vigorously to get the feeling back.
“Role play!” Owen steps into the middle of the circle. “We need to work on some tactics to expel Energy Vampires from our lives. The best way to learn is to do. Volunteers?”
Marian grabs Roman’s hand and raises them both.
“Great,” Owen says as Roman glares at Marian. “A real power couple! Get in here.”
When Marian advances into the ring, I notice how skinny she looks, almost haggard. Her silky peach blouse hangs slack and her cheekbones, exaggerated with blush, sharpen her already angular face. It reminds me, yet again, of Devon. Despite never exercising, he was always lanky. The draw cord on his favourite pair of sweatpants was always pulled as tight as possible, but it still couldn’t keep them from falling down and he was perpetually yanking them back in place.
“Okay people,” Owen says. “Here’s how it’s going to go down. These two folks are going to role-play. She…” Owen places his hand on Marian’s shoulders. “…is playing the role of Energy Vampire, and he is the Vampire Slayer! We’ll just let them freestyle for a couple minutes, then I’ll cut them off and we can discuss what happened. Sound good?”
“Yes,” everyone says in unison, with my “yes” trailing behind like a younger sibling trying to catch up.
Roman stands for a moment, dazed. “What should I say?”
Owen nods. “Maybe ask her something to get the scene rolling.”
“Okay.” Roman bites his lip, thinking. “Can you finish your section of the report by tomorrow? I want to get started on mine.”
Marian slumps her shoulders and stares blankly at him. The circle titters.
“Did you hear me?” Roman sounds genuinely confused.
Cocking
her head, Marian blinks at him. “Yeah.”
“And?” Roman, now enjoying the attention, has shed his initial nervousness.
Marian sighs. “What’s the point? No one will read it. It’s all just shuffling jargon around. Might as well save some trees.”
“Oh boy,” Owen shouts. “Classic Pessimistic Patty.”
“Marian,” starts Roman, putting his hand on his heart, now really enjoying himself. “Your contribution is always valuable, but if you’re saying you don’t want to do your part then you should just be honest.”
“I can do it,” she says. “If it’s that important to you. Personally I don’t place much importance on outward symbols of productivity, but if you do…”
For the first time that afternoon, I smile. Devon and Marian only met once, and yet here she is doing a bang on rendition of him. Although I feel a twinge of sisterly indignation, I try my best to suppress it. I had forgotten how funny Marian could be.
“Nope,” Roman says. “Stop right there. I won’t let you drag me down into your negativity. I enjoy my job and I’m proud of myself, and I can’t listen to one second more of your negativity.”
“Great.” Owen claps his hands. “Just awesome. Way to commit to your characters, guys!”
The actors return to their spots, and for the first time that day, Marian looks directly at me. A blush spreads blotchily across her collarbone, and she quickly averts her eyes. I might be imagining it, but she looks embarrassed. I’m filled with a surprisingly strong need to reassure her. While the others parse the Slayer’s reactions to the Energy Vampire, I lean close. “You were hilarious,” I whisper. “How’s Buster these days?”
“Thanks.” She forces a tight smile. “He had to be put down.”
I place my hand on her shoulder. She glares at the ceiling, blinking back tears, and fidgets with her silver bracelet, tugging at a miniature martini charm embellished with a tiny emerald olive.
“Listen,” she sighs. “I’m sorry if I got a little carried away.”
I swallow and clench my fists, digesting the realization. Here I was starting to feel sorry for her, starting to think about renewing our friendship, and what was she doing? She was impersonating me. But I don’t act like that, do I? Be gracious, I tell myself. You deserve it after the way you treated her. Be understanding. Is everyone at the office laughing at me? Are they in on the joke? Be... oh, screw it! What would Devon do?
I raise my hand. “I think Marian’s character might be going through a tough time. She could feel misunderstood, and she might have some interesting new perspectives to offer. I think empathy would be a more appropriate solution than just cutting off all contact.” Not quite as ballsy as Devon would be, but a start.
“Maybe,” Marian says. “Marian’s character could’ve explained that to Roman’s character, and…”
Owen shakes his head as though we’re grade two students who just guessed that one plus one equals three. “No, no, not Roman’s problem. Marian’s character shouldn’t be burdening other people with her issues. There’s no negotiating with an Energy Vampire. They’ll never change.”
“How reductive,” I snap. “Surely human experience is more than that!”
“Looks like we have an Argumentative Andrea on our hands, people.” Owen looks at everyone but me. They all laugh.
Breaking away from the circle, I head for the door. Maybe Marian will come after me and maybe she won’t. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m exhausted. Before I leave, I yank the projector’s power cord out of the wall. The room dims, but the eyes quickly adjust.
That night I settle down to my penance. The Deletionists probably won’t let it last until sunrise, but at least it will be part of Wikipedia for a few hours. The keys clack reassuringly beneath my fingertips: “A typical Devon enfoodment consisted of a Red Bull and…”
Major Prude
Carla and I wheezed through the same free Zumba class at the community centre on Wednesday afternoons. She couldn’t follow instructions and was constantly cha-cha-cha-ing or grapevine-ing into me. Normally this would piss me off, but Carla’s bouncy charm and gap-toothed grin prevented anyone from staying mad at her. Our ugly-sexy teacher Mario yipped encouragement and placed his hands on her hips, trying to get them to roll to the beat. Every week she got worse.
We bonded in the chlorine-stinking change room over our appendectomy scars and unemployment, and after class we started going for juice and then for coffee and then to the bar and then just straight to the liquor store. Turns out we both exercised to justify, or at least lessen the damage of, the too many beers and bourbons we sucked back. What a relief not to pretend I couldn’t possibly have another! I could have another and another and another until I passed out. We would cut back soon, any day now. In September, maybe. After our thirtieth birthdays, for sure. Besides, it’s not like we drank before two p.m.
Four beers deep into one of these post-Zumba binges, sunlight spilling through the condo windows, Carla told me about her smoothie man.
“He’s the kind of guy who’s never not on his way to a tantric sex workshop. He’s never not comparing eating pussy to drinking kombucha. You know the type? Really boring about how sexually open he is. Going on and on about silicone, about Japanese erotica, about some bondage convention. I mean, it’s fine, but sometimes it’s a bit much at ten a.m. I guess his tactics worked though because he started getting into my head, you know? I’m sure that was the idea. He probably read about it on some discussion board. Say the word ‘sex’ over and over until the woman hears your voice while she’s masturbating. And it’s true I can get pretty horny the day after a bender. The world is all tenderized and porous, and I have this weird pinball of energy bouncing around my clit. Naturally, when I finally went for it, he turned out to be reserved and passive; a total bottom, and not an active one. Just lays there. You know the type? But every so often, it’s nice. Plus, free wheatgrass shots.”
I didn’t know the type, but I laughed and nodded, like of course, totally typical. Men! Truth is I’d only had sex with two people in my life. Truth is it had been four years since the last time. Truth is I was kind of a major prude, the kind of major prude who needs to be plastered just to unclench enough to let someone insert. So I surprised myself by how much I liked hearing Carla talk to me this way, intimately, conspiratorially, as though we were both these carefree sluts slutting around town, trading sex for health food.
I stood up, padding along the thick white carpet—everything in the apartment was white or beige, too sterile for my tastes, but since I wasn’t paying rent it wasn’t my place to complain—and procured two more tall cans from the fridge. Carla opened my laptop and played some Dolly Parton, crooning and swaying along to “Jolene.” She was skinnier than me and got drunk faster. I imagined grabbing her by the waist, imitating Mario, controlling her body so it moved to the slow rhythm. She really was a pathetic dancer. The song ended. I felt dizzy so I sat down and gulped some beer, generic lager, none of that craft hangover-in-a-can stuff.
Carla scrolled through my music library and I heard the door scrape open. The only other person with a key was my roommate Liam, who also happened to be my stepbrother, but he never came home before ten p.m., and often didn’t come home at all, spending the night at his girlfriend’s instead. I yanked Carla’s beer out of her hand and stashed both cans behind the beige leather couch.
“Angela,” he said. “I thought you said you had an interview today.”
“Tomorrow,” I replied, though of course I’d blown it off. “Carla and I were just practising.”
My stepbrother scowled.
Carla pranced over to him and offered her hand for a shake. “Do you want to practice, too? Let’s role-play. What can you offer us that no one else can? Tell us about a time you dealt with an aggressive customer.”
I blushed, assuming my stepbrother would realize we were drunk, but he smiled and shook her hand. Bewitched by Carla, like everyone else.
“And what do you do, Carla?” he asked.
“Consultant.”
“Consultant for what?”
She winked. “Performance enhancement.”
Liam puffed out his chest. Did people actually fall for this stuff? She was practically fellating him right in front of me.
I retrieved my beer and handed Carla’s back to her.
“Don’t I get some?” he said to Carla. “I’m the one who worked hard all day.”
She fetched one out of the fridge and we drank for the rest of the night, and when we ran out of beer, we went to a patio. Just one of those classic spring benders, blooms on all the trees and people in all the bars, newly recharged with vitamin D, letting their beast selves roam. Liam paid for pitcher after pitcher. I’m not sure if it was the booze or what, but he seemed looser than I’d ever seen him. He smiled, he cracked jokes, he forgot to lecture me about mutual funds. When he went to the washroom, Carla leaned so close I could smell her malt-laced breath.
“Isn’t there anyone here you’re into?” She pointed at various men, men with blue hair and gauged ears, men with glasses and punk T-shirts, men in white baseball caps with flat rims. Maybe I could approach one of them, fuck one of them, why not? Being around Carla made me feel powerful and hot but I didn’t want Liam to see me hitting on guys. My face flushed and my throat dried out as I recalled how in high school he would snap my bra straps whenever they were visible beneath a spaghetti-string tank top. How I started wearing T-shirts, long-sleeve shirts, then thick sweaters.
In the morning I found Carla asleep on our couch, still in yesterday’s outfit: a cropped tie-dye t-shirt and brown suede shorts with a tangled fringe hem. Liam handed me a plate of scrambled eggs flecked with green onions and told me he’d broken up with his girlfriend, which explained why he’d come out last night, but also presented some problems. Sure, he’d gotten drunk with us once, but that was an occasion tied to a breakup. I didn’t want him to realize that being awake was enough of an occasion for me.
Difficult People Page 12