The Man Who Cancelled Himself

by David Handler

  “What was that like?”

  “They were both with me. Must have closed the store for the day. Took me to the child guidance center at the children’s hospital in Central Islip. Got me checked out, top to bottom. For hyperactivity—not. For brain damage—not. They gave me all of these tests—IQ, Rorschach. Know what they figured out? I was a fucking genius. My IQ was like a hundred and ninety-something. That’s what was ‘wrong’ with me. I was too fucking smart for my age. They figured once I started school and had a way to channel myself, I’d be cool. They attributed my problem to frustration.”

  “And to what do you attribute your problem?”

  “I had no problem,” he snarled. “They had the problem.”

  Whoops of laughter came from the direction of The Boys’ office. They were still in there working on rewrites with The Kids and Lulu. Lyle glanced at the wall, clearly hankering to run into Katrina’s office so he could stick his Super Ear against the wall and hear what they were saying about him. Instead he stuck a huge, fat foot up on the coffee table and crossed his arms tightly against his chest.

  “How did you do once you started school?”

  “Shitty,” he snapped. “Academically, I was fine. Straight A’s. But I just couldn’t stand it, having to sit there all of those hours, doing what I was told. So I’d make ’em pay. If there were guinea pigs in a cage, I’d let ’em out. If there were pots of paint, I’d pour ’em out. If they said to draw an apple, I’d draw a car. I was a contrary fucking rockhead. I remember one time my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Kellam, told me to close the window. I said no, I was hot. She said close it or she’d send me to the principal’s office. So I closed it. And then I put my fist through it. Took twenty-seven stitches to close me up.” He showed me the faint white scars across the knuckles of his right hand, proudly, as if they were earned in battle.

  “Did you get along better with the other kids?”

  “Didn’t want to,” he sniffed. “They were brainless sheep. Didn’t interest me, except to pick on. If they were playing dodgeball at recess I’d take their ball away, to piss ’em off. I remember there was this one little goody-goody, Nancy Linden. A real teacher’s pet, y’know? She called me a ‘big penis’ for spoiling everyone else’s fun. So I spit on her, just to see what she’d do.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Wimped out. Told the teacher on me, who told the principal, who called my parents to come get me. They were always coming to get me. My behavior was a source of great shame to them.”

  “Is that why you kept doing it?”

  He grinned at me. “Maybe.”

  “That’s not a strong enough answer, Lyle.”

  He snorted. “You sound just like God sometimes.”

  “Your readers want to understand you. Help them out. Tell them what was going on inside your head.”

  He heaved a big sigh. “I don’t know if I can, Hoagy. I just had this … this energy boiling inside me. Remember when you were a little kid sitting in church, squirming, bored to death, choking from your necktie, ready to run screaming up the aisle? Well, I felt that way all the time. At school, at home, everywhere. I felt trapped. I felt like I was gonna go crazy if I had to keep quiet for one more second. I had to do something. Make some noise. There was never a time I didn’t feel that way—except for when I was acting up, making a scene. A born rebel, like I said.”

  “And a born performer.”

  “You got that right.” His eyes twinkled at me. “Sometimes I’d just escape. Take off from school at recess and not come back. Scared the shit out of the big people, which was part of the fun, no question. I’d prowl around town on my bike. Go down to the beach, or the movies. I loved to sit in movie theaters by myself. Didn’t care what the movie was. It was the dark that drew me, the images of somewhere else, anywhere else, flickering away up on the screen. I felt swallowed up by it. I felt free.”

  “Is that how you felt that day in the Deuce Theater?”

  He stared at me. “Christ, Hoagy,” he said hoarsely. “You’re absolutely right. That was me doing just what I did when I cut school thirty years ago. And for basically the same reason. Wow, that’s twisted, really bent. Let’s put it in the book.”

  “It’s in.”

  He rubbed a gloved hand over his round moon-face. His whole face seemed to be made of rubber when he did that. “Since my IQ was so high, the school figured my ‘problem’ was I wasn’t being challenged enough by the curriculum. So they tried skipping me a year, directly to the fourth grade. But I fooled ’em. I was still the same old rockhead, nuttin’ but trouble. So they called in Herb and Aileen and said, hey, do something with this kid. We can’t handle him anymore. He needs too much attention. Not fair to the other kids. Which meant another trip to the child guidance center, and more tests. And guess what they discovered? I had trouble interacting with people—particularly my parents.”

  “Did you hate your parents?”

  He turned evasive. “Not then, no.”

  “Did you love them?”

  “They were there, that’s all.”

  “Did you think they loved you?”

  “I had no idea. I didn’t know what love was.”

  “Did you blame them?”

  “For what?”

  “For how you were.”

  He scratched his head. “Lemme think about that one.”

  “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He gazed out the window. The pigeons were gone, and it was getting dark. Lights were on in the windows across the air shaft. “I accepted the way I was,” he said slowly. “I liked the way I was. The only thing I didn’t get was how come I was never happy.”

  “Happy how?”

  “I never laughed when I was a little kid,” he confided. “Not ever. I had no comprehension of humor.”

  Still don’t, I could almost hear Tommy Meyer crack. The man’s nasty wit was contagious.

  “It was years before I learned how to laugh,” Lyle confessed. “Maybe that’s why it means so damned much to me, now to make kids happy. Because I wasn’t.” He reddened. His intimacy had made him uncomfortable. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to turn corny on you.”

  “You can turn any way you want on me, Lyle. I’m your collaborator, not your audience.”

  “Thanks, Hoagy. That’s nice of you to say.” He coughed and cleared his throat. “The shrinks said I should start therapy. They would, being shrinks.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And how did your parents react to that?”

  “They freaked. Working people didn’t go to shrinks, not in those days. Especially not ten-year-old kids. Not unless they were fucked-up big-time. To the parents, it was like there was some stigma attached to it. Shame. Me, I thought it was a complete bust. Twice a week Aileen would take me to some doctor’s office. He’d ask me a bunch of stupid questions, like what I did that day and how I liked it and what I dreamt about. He was a total bozo. His glasses were crooked, and he smelled like rotten eggs. I called him Doctor Buttwipe. Once a week all three of us had to go see him together after dinner. Family therapy, they called it. Doctor Buttwipe would tell us all to be more patient with each other and communicate our feelings better. Aileen would get real defensive, like he was judging her or something. Herb would hardly say a word. Although I think Buttwipe must have told him to do more things with me. Because he was suddenly in my face a lot.”

  “In your face how?”

  “Herb’s big thing was tinkering. Man was a major do-it-yourselfer. He was always installing his own lawn sprinklers or putting together a hi-fi or fucking around under the hood of the car. All of which I hated. Still do. Can’t stand any of that suburban handyman shit. Won’t touch a screwdriver.” He gulped down some more mineral water, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his caftan. “Plus I got zero aptitude for it.”

  “We tend not to be good at things we don’t want to be good at.”

  “Not true.” He grinned at me
. “You’re good at TV.”

  “I asked you not to remind me.”

  “I’m pleased. Can’t I be pleased?”

  “You can be anything you want. It’s your show.”

  “You got that right,” he said defiantly. “All I wanted to do was read comic books and eat Fudgsicles, but suddenly Herb wouldn’t leave me the fuck alone. He even started dragging me out to his ham shack. He was one of them ham radio enthusiasts. Built his own Heathkit shortwave. Converted part of the garage into his workshop. He’d lock himself in there after dinner, talk to his ham radio buddies all over the free world. I guess it was his way of getting away from Aileen.”

  “And what was she doing with herself?”

  Lyle tugged at his fleshy lower lip. “To tell ya the truth, I don’t have much memory of what Aileen was up to. Other than staring at the TV. She always went to bed early, I remember. She got tired. ‘Your mom’s not strong, Lyle,’ Herb would say to me. ‘Not like we are.’ He bought me a Heathkit of my very own for the two of us to build together. Tell me, did yours ever pull that gung ho father-son shit on you?”

  “He tried.”

  Lyle raised his chin. “You two get along?”

  “Not yet.”

  He nodded approvingly. “My fingers were so thick and clumsy, and I had zero patience for reading all of those stupid directions. I mean, none. Finally one night I just swept the whole damned thing off the workbench onto the floor and stormed into my bedroom. Herb followed me right in there and said, ‘You will build this radio with me, Lyle.’ He turned it into a real battle of wills, which was a major mistake. He wasn’t in my league. No way. I won hands down.”

  “How?”

  “I burned down the ham shack,” he replied, cackling proudly. “Right to the ground. Got me some lighter fluid, some crumpled newspapers, and wham! Whole fucking garage went up like kindling—with our car inside. It blew up. Neighbor’s porch caught on fire. I practically torched the whole neighborhood. Ya shoulda seen it. Took three fire trucks to put the thing out.”

  “Why did you do it, Lyle?”

  He stared at me blankly. “To get my way, of course. I think that was the first time Herb and Aileen realized that they couldn’t control me.”

  “And what did you realize?”

  “The true definition of power.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Make people realize you’re dangerous if you don’t get your way,” he replied, with an eerie calm that made my stomach muscles tighten. “Doctor Buttwipe’s response was to put me on Thorazine, which is probably my biggest problem in life, Hoagy. Because every time I didn’t toe the line, every time I got a little uppity, they’d solve it by doping me. Doctors have been getting me stoned forever. You name it, I’ve been on it—Thorazine, lithium, Prozac. I’ve had ’em all. I’m a really addictive personality, okay? I can get hooked on work, food, sex. They got me hooked on drugs. They always doped me. Always.” He was getting louder now, and waving his arms. “When I got old enough, I just went right ahead and doped myself. Any kind of dope I could get my hands on. Alcohol, grass, hash, coke … That’s what I was conditioned to do. The Deuce Theater, that was me not drugging. Finding a positive way of dealing with my anxiety. At least compared to drugs it was. I didn’t hurt myself. I didn’t hurt anyone else. But did anyone understand that?”

  “Did you honestly expect they would?”

  That caught him short. He glared at me angrily. “I expected them to try.” He heaved a sigh, calmed himself. “They checked me into a psychiatric hospital after that little incident. The bin. Spent two weeks there in a dormitory with a bunch of other rockheads. They gave me the usual tests. Then they stroked their beards and told the parents that maybe I belonged in some kind of full-time residential treatment facility—a boarding school for wackoes. Now this really appealed to Herb and Aileen,” he recalled sardonically. “Because it meant they could get me the hell away and do it with a clean conscience. For my own good, was how they put it. Bullshit. They wanted me gone. No matter the price. And it wasn’t cheap. We’re talking ten, fifteen thou a year. Major bucks in those days. They didn’t care. No price was too high. They wanted me away.” His voice was husky now, his eyes remote. “They tried to make me into somebody I wasn’t. They couldn’t. I was too tough for ’em. So they threw me in a dungeon.”

  “Is that why you hate them?”

  He let out a short, harsh laugh. “I ain’t even getting warmed up yet.” He broke off. “You were asking me before about love. I’m sure, in their own sick way, Herb and Aileen thought they loved me.” He kept speaking of them in the past tense, as if they were dead. I had to keep reminding myself they weren’t. “But they didn’t. They were ashamed of me, Hoagy. Ashamed of what I represented—their own failure as parents. If they’d really loved me they would have accepted me for who I was. Instead, they bailed out on me. Sent me far, far away. That’s not what love is. Love is Katrina telling me, ‘Don’t you eat the food, Pinky.’ That’s what love is. Love is …” Lyle’s eyes widened. He struggled to his feet, towering over me. “Geez, we gotta hear that!” And with that he went barreling out the door. I followed.

  He made straight for The Boys’ office, burst inside, and roared, “We need it in the script! We need to hear him say, ‘Don’t you eat the food, Pinky’!”

  There was very little reaction to this pronouncement. The Boys just kept right on gazing at their computer screen, Marty seated at the keyboard, Tommy perched on his right shoulder with a pencil between his teeth. Bobby kept right on pacing. Annabelle, who was stretched out on the sofa, kept right on scribbling on a yellow legal pad. Lulu, who was curled up at her feet, didn’t so much as stir.

  “Don’t eat which food, Lyle?” Tommy finally asked, wearily, after several long seconds of silence.

  “When Rob and Chubby are fixing the dishwasher,” Lyle explained excitedly, waving his arms for emphasis. “And they’re talking about why he’s not married. We need to say—”

  “ ‘Don’t you eat the food, Pinky’?” Marty quoted, mystified.

  “Don’t ya get it?” whined Lyle, exasperated. “I mean he’s gotta … they gotta … Shit, it made total sense a second ago. Tell ’em, Hoagmeister. Tell ’em what I mean.”

  Great, now I sounded like a home beer-brewing kit. I tugged at my ear. “I think he means that what a man misses when he’s not in a good relationship is someone who’s looking out for him.”

  “Exactly!” cried Lyle.

  “ ‘Don’t you eat the food, Pinky’? ” Tommy repeated, still perplexed. Not that I blamed him.

  Lyle nodded. “Put it in the dishwasher scene,” he commanded. “When we’re talking about finding the perfect girl. Those exact words. And give ’em to Chubby, not Rob. I want Katrina to hear me say ’em. As a gift from me to her. I wanna see her face when I do. Okay?”

  The Boys just stared at him in bewildered silence. All four writers did, Bobby blinking furiously.

  “Aw, Christ,” Lyle growled, stung by their lack of enthusiasm. “Do whatever the fuck you want. We’re going to dinner.”

  “Enjoy,” exclaimed Marty, greatly relieved.

  “I’m, like, yeah,” Annabelle chimed in, happily.

  Lulu yawned and jumped down from the couch, ready for dinner herself. Or maybe she’d just had enough shpritzing for one day.

  “Have you made her laugh yet?” I asked Marty.

  “Not even close.”

  “She’s killing us,” Tommy confessed. “Has she ever laughed?”

  “Never in my presence,” I said. “But we have much different senses of humor. Martin and Lewis, for example.”

  “What about them?” asked Tommy.

  “She doesn’t get them.”

  “This is hopeless,” he muttered. “Totally hopeless.”

  The picketers had gone home for the day. The blue barricades and a lone cop were all that remained. The night air was sticky and still. It smelled like rain. We walked, Lyle waddling along beside me
, sandals clopping, his arms swinging mightily. Lulu ambled along ahead of us, nose to the pavement.

  I suggested Periyali, a Greek place on Twentieth, where it was quiet, and the fried octopus wasn’t terrible.

  Lyle shook his head. “Nah, I’m more in the mood for pasta. Lotsa pasta.”

  I glanced at him. “You’re joining me?”

  “Dinner time, ain’t it? I’m starved.”

  “What about ‘Don’t you eat the food, Pinky’?” I asked.

  “Hey, it’s not like I’m married to the cunt,” he snarled viciously. “And I sure as hell ain’t married to you! So back the fuck off!”

  “My mistake,” I said stiffly.

  “Hey, no sweat,” he said cheerfully. “Can happen to anybody.”

  I suggested Umberto’s on Seventeenth. We walked in silence. I don’t know what he was thinking about. I was thinking what an asshole he was. I was thinking about Herb and Aileen, wondering what they’d done to make him hate them so much. I was thinking. Lulu, she just wanted to get to the restaurant.

  Umberto’s is ultramodern, Milanese sleek. High ceilings. Lots of tile. The dinner crowd was the usual media mix of fashion, publishing, and advertising. Most of the tables were full. We got noticed as we stood there waiting for the ma”tre d’. Lyle was hard to miss. And, as we were led to a nonsmoking table in the back, he got a reaction, too. It started small—a smattering of applause. A few lusty cheers. But it didn’t let up. By the time we reached our table everyone in the restaurant was on their feet cheering Lyle Hudnut. They cheered him because he was a victim. They cheered him because he was a survivor. It was downright stirring to witness, until I recalled that people had also cheered John Gotti, David Begelman, and Ollie North.

  “Never been in this place before in my life,” Lyle blubbered, deeply moved. He blew his nose loudly in his napkin and asked the ma”tre d’ to give every table in the place a bottle of his best wine and to put it on our tab, which came to three thousand and change, in case you’re interested. The show paid for it. I ordered the angel’s hair pasta puttanesca followed by a grilled veal chop. Lulu had fried calamari. Lyle ordered two different bowls of pasta for starters, two more for his main course, and another for a side order. It was the largest quantity of pasta I’ve ever seen an individual shovel away in a single sitting, though I must admit I’ve never eaten Italian with Dom DeLuise. Lyle drank only Pellegrino water, two big bottles. I had a bottle of Chianti Classico.