by E. R. Frank
“You don’t know shit, motherfucker!”
“Put down your chair, and sit in it now,” Dr. B. goes.
“Not shit!” I go.
“America,” Dr. B. goes.
“I hate you,” I go.
“Put the chair down.”
“I fucking hate you.”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to mess you up good, now, motherfucker.”
“Put the chair down and sit in it.”
“Motherfucking goddamn son of a bitch,” I go, and I make real sure to aim straight for his stupid-ass face.
* * *
It’s not a cool down here. They call it a quiet room. It’s all the same, though. They threw me in here after I did that shit to B. I slept some, and now I’m awake. I stay on the floor. If I stare long enough at the walls it can almost be like Everest. It’s white and empty except for me. It’s not for real Everest. I’m trying to get there, but I can’t.
* * *
“They’re talking about changing your meds,” Dr. B. says. His cheek is purple, and he has a brown stitch over his eye.
“Don’t touch me,” I tell him.
He’s in here, at the door. It’s closed. The room stays white and empty. Except for him and me. “I’m not going to touch you,” he says. “Can I sit down?”
“Don’t touch me,” I tell him.
He sits down. Right on his ass on the floor because there’s no chairs. “They want me to change your meds.”
“So?”
“They think you might behave violently again.”
“So?”
“If I change your meds, it will be a lot different. You’ll feel slow. You’ll feel out of it.”
“So?”
“I don’t think you want to feel out of it.”
“So?” He knows things. “Don’t touch me, man.”
“I’m not going to touch you,” he says.
“Don’t fuck with me,” I tell him.
“I’m trying my best not to.”
“You fuck with me, and I’ll kill you.”
“I believe you.”
“I killed him.”
“Your uncle.”
“I burned his ass up.”
“Yes. I believe you.”
“People like me shouldn’t be allowed.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t fuck with me, man.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“I want to work in the kitchen.”
“The kitchen?”
“Don’t fuck with me, I said.”
“Why do you want to work in the kitchen?”
“My brother.”
“Your brother?”
“Brooklyn.”
“His name is Brooklyn?”
“He’s got the white pants.”
“J building white pants?”
“He works in the kitchen.”
“I see. Your brother.”
“Brooklyn.”
“What’s making you cry?”
“I’m not crying.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m not fucking crying.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Don’t touch me.”
“I’m not planning to.”
“Don’t.”
“I won’t. I’m just going to sit here for a while. Okay? Okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
* * *
They make him change my meds. I’m gone. I’m not here. I’m not at Everest. I’m not anywhere. Things are far away. I can’t remember the thing I was thinking. I don’t like it, but I keep forgetting that I don’t like it.
* * *
“How long ago was that?” I ask.
“Three weeks,” Dr. B. says. His bruise is gone. His stitch is gone. Now there’s just a Band-Aid. “You turned sixteen.”
“Huh?”
“You had a birthday.” He sits on the floor again. Leans his back up against the wall. Stretches his legs straight out.
“How do you know?”
“It’s in your file.”
“Fuck my file.”
“I have a dilemma, America.”
“Huh?”
“On the one hand, I don’t want to ignore it, and I want to say happy birthday. But on the other hand, I’m not really sure what saying that would mean to you, especially right now.”
“You’ve got too many goddamn hands, doc.”
He stays quiet for a while, and he doesn’t try to touch me. “How do you feel?”
“How do you think?”
“It’s the meds.”
“When is that shit out of my system?”
“Couple more days.”
“You going to put me in jail?”
“For what?”
“For messing your ass up with that chair.”
“Actually, it was my face.”
“What, you’re a comedian now?”
“Hmm.”
“You’re not putting me in jail?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not necessary.”
“What are you going to do to me, then?”
“I don’t know. What do you think we should do?”
“What ‘we,’ man?”
“We. You and me.”
“Fuck we. I want to work in the kitchen.”
“Oh.”
“I’m a good cook.”
“So you’ve said.”
I’m quiet. He’s quiet. We stay quiet. He pulls his feet up and crosses them, like he’s young or something. Like he’s planning on staying awhile.
“It was my uncle.”
“Your uncle?”
“He’s the one who taught me.”
“Taught you what, America?”
“To cook.”
“Oh.”
“Browning. The one I killed.”
“Okay.”
“He was real cool at first.”
He taught me how to read, and he bought me all those Tootsie Rolls and thought I was something, and needed me when he was lonely.
“He was cool.”
He took care of Mrs. Harper and gave out dollars for home runs.
“He was real cool.”
* * *
I don’t talk about it all that much, really. I tell it in pieces. Little bits about Mrs. Harper and Clark Poignant. Liza. Kyle and Lyle and Brooklyn. Browning. Sometimes we go weeks without me telling him shit. We just play Uno and War or stay quiet. Sometimes I flash up to Everest, but I do it fast and come back quick, so Dr. B. doesn’t even know.
I don’t tell him, either.
Sixteen Years Old
“I KNOW THIS kid who used to jerk off all the time.”
“Hmm.”
“What, hmm? I just told you I know this kid who used to jerk off all the time.”
“What reaction did you want me to have?”
“I don’t know, man. Something besides that damn hmm.”
“People masturbate. It’s natural. I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“Yeah, well. The way this kid did it, it wasn’t anything natural.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right, man.”
“What was unnatural about it?”
“What he thought about, man. You wouldn’t believe the shit he thought about.”
“What was that?”
“Dicks. Dicks and tits. At the same time.”
“Really.”
“Pretty sick kid, right?”
“You seem to think so.”
“He’s a fag, right?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? He thought about dicks, man!”
“People think all kinds of things while they masturbate. It doesn’t necessarily define their sexual identity.”
“He’s a fag, man. I’m telling you.”
“What if he is?”
“Huh?”
“What if he is gay? What does that mean, e
xactly?”
“That shit is wrong.”
“Being gay is wrong?”
“Faggots.”
“Hmm.”
“There you go again.”
“You say this boy thought about girls, too?”
“Yup.”
“Maybe this boy is confused about what arouses him. Maybe sometimes something about boys arouses him, and other times something about girls does.”
“Can you stop with that arouse shit?” I go. “That word creeps me out, man.”
“What would you prefer?” Dr. B. goes. He’s so damn serious all the time.
“Whatever,” I say. “Doesn’t matter what word you use. This kid is still a freak, right?”
“Sometimes when kids have had sexual experiences while they were still very young, it affects what turns them on. And that’s confusing and upsetting for them. Maybe if you ever talked to this kid again, you could let him know that you heard it’s okay to have different kinds of things that turn him on. As long as nobody is engaging in sexual activity with a child or forcing sexual activity on anyone else and as long as nobody’s getting hurt, it’s okay. It’s okay to think different things and it’s okay to do different things.”
“I’m never seeing that kid again, man. That kid is history.”
* * *
I’m back on the regular meds. The stretched ovals. The yellow ones. Canary.
* * *
“Does Brooklyn get therapy?”
“Yes.”
“You know him?”
“I didn’t before you told me who he was.”
“Who does he see?”
“He sees someone individually. And he has a lot of groups, like you have.”
I don’t even remember my groups. I used to watch that TV crack in the wall, and then I listened for a while, and then I just started floating and that’s what I still do. Stupid groups.
“What was he on?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“He was an alcoholic?”
“What do you think?”
“I hate that shit.”
“What?”
“Alcohol.”
“Hmm.”
“Browning used to give it to me.”
“Your uncle.”
“He used to tell me it helped me relax.”
“Did it?”
“It makes you all warm.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“I liked it at first. Just like I liked the other stuff.”
“He made you feel special.”
“Whatever.”
“You were a little boy, and all kids need to feel special, and he made you feel special.”
“Whatever.”
“It’s okay for kids to like things that make them feel special.”
“Time up?”
“It’s not okay for adults to break the rules.”
“I said, is time up?”
“You know it’s not.”
Dear Ernie,
I’m okay. I’m not going to do anything stupid again. Tell everybody I say hey. Tell everybody I say thanks for saving my life and all that shit. Tell Marshall I say he ought to get his other shoulder done. Tell Wick Shiri was over here sucking everybody off all over the place. Just playing. I never killed anybody, Ernie. That time when we were talking about that kid in group, I know what I let you think, and it’s not true. I wanted to kill somebody once, but I didn’t do it. Don’t think I did it. Cool?
America
“Are you going to get Applegate to break that age rule and take me back?”
“Do you want to go back there?”
“Whatever.”
“What would you want?”
“Whatever.”
“You feel like you want to get out of here.”
“Nah.”
“What would it be like to stay?”
“Boring.”
“What would it be like to leave?”
“Whatever.”
“Sometimes it’s frightening for people to leave after they’ve been here awhile.”
“There you go again with that shit.”
“What shit.”
“That scary shit.”
“Hmm.”
“You’re scared of your own shadow.”
“Really?”
“Yup.”
“What are you scared of?”
“Huh?”
“What are you scared of, America?”
* * *
I watch them play. That damn ball is one pain in the ass when it goes off the table. Bouncing all over the place. Impossible to catch hold of. What am I scared of?
* * *
“They hate me.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m scared they hate me.”
I’m way up high.
“Who?”
I’m back.
“Brooklyn. Liza. Mrs. Harper.”
“What would it mean, if they hated you?”
“Wouldn’t mean shit. Would just feel like shit.”
“What would make them hate you?”
“I’m a freak.”
“Hmm.”
“And a murderer.”
“Hmm.”
“I’m bad, man.”
“Bad is complicated.”
“You think I’m bad?”
“Do you think I think you’re bad?”
“I knew you’d do that shit.”
“Does it matter what I think?”
“Motherfucker.”
“What does that mean?”
“It matters what you think, man. Stupid.”
“Why does it matter?”
“You know why.”
“Tell me.”
“Step off.”
“Tell me why it matters.”
“Whatever.”
“Okay I’ll guess.”
“Huh.”
“It matters because we have a relationship.”
Up high and peaceful. Cold and white.
I’m back.
“And when we’re attached to another person, we care how they feel about us. We care how they view us.”
“So?”
“So. You did a bad thing when you killed your uncle. It was a bad thing, and there is no other way to see it.”
“Told you.”
“Let me finish.”
“For what?”
“I don’t think you are bad.”
“That’s playing. Doing a bad thing and being bad are the same. Everybody knows it.”
“No.”
“Yuh-huh.”
“That’s not what I believe.”
“Well, you’re stupid.”
“Then I’m stupid.”
“You are.”
“Fine.”
* * *
“Broccoli or cauliflower?”
“Meet me in the courtyard in front of C building.”
“Broccoli or cauliflower, man?”
“By the fountain. Five o’clock, morning.” He dumps broccoli on my plate. “Be there, Brooklyn. I want to talk to you.”
Dear America,
Thanks for your letter. It was neat to hear from you, and I’m glad you’re not going to do anything stupid again. Everyone says hi except for Wick. His grandfather took him right after you left. We have a new kid now. His name is Allen, but everybody calls him Tweezers because he’s got one eyebrow all the way across his forehead. Do you know a girl named Liza? Tom said she called here looking for you. I know you’re lying about what you let me think. You did it, right? I know everyone thinks I’m dumb, but I can tell you did it. Don’t worry about it, though, because I know you’re a good person. They would have put you in jail already if it was just because you’re bad. I won’t tell anybody, though, because it’s probably pretty personal. You should pray, maybe. I’m not a Jesus freak, or anything, but I think if you killed someone, it’s probably a good idea to pray. I told Tom I was writing to you, and he says hi, and he hopes you’r
e feeling better. You are feeling better, right?
Sincerely, your friend,
Ernie
“You believe in God?” I go.
“What do you think?” B. goes.
“What do you think I think?” I go back.
“Clever.”
“Hmm,” I go. I even raise my eyebrows. Just the way he’s always doing.
“Cleverer,” he goes.
“Come on, man. Can’t you just answer anything straight.”
“I’ve explained this before.”
“So.”
“Sometimes I want to answer you directly, but I feel it’s first more important to know what the meaning of my answers might be for you.”
“It’s just a question.”
“Maybe.”
“So you don’t believe in God.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“So you do.”
“Do you?”
“I’m not saying until you say, B.”
“What would it mean to you if I did?”
“If you did tell me or if you did believe?”
“Ah.”
“Stop looking at me like that, man.”
“Like what?”
Empty and sky and ice. Safe from anybody looking at me like that.
“America!”
No.
“America!”
No.
“America!”
“What!”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I scared you, and you went away.”
“Nah, you didn’t.”
“I did, and I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t scare me, man.”
“Hmm.”
“You didn’t.”
“Uh-huh.”
We get quiet after that.
“God,” I say, after a while. “God can kiss my ass.”
* * *
It’s dark, and it’s cold, and the fountain isn’t even running, and he’s here.
“What you want?” he goes. He’s smoking a blunt.
“Where’d you get that?” I go.
“Why? You want some?”
“Thought you were getting clean over there in J building.”
“I am. Haven’t had a drink in four months, three days, twelve hours, and forty-two minutes.”
“Oh.”
“Yup.”
“Didn’t think you’d come.”
“Whatever.”
“So what happened? Whatever happened to you?”
“You tripping?” He says it, holding all that weed in. It makes his voice real little and stuck.
“Nah.”
“What happened?” Now he lets it blow straight out.
“Whatever.”
“You got me out here, five in the fucking a.m., so you could be all what happened ?”