“You okay buddy?” it says.
I am startled by the question’s sincerity.
“Are you talking to me?” I manage to respond.
“Actually no. I was talking to the schizo behind you.”
I turn around to check.
“Dude I’m kidding! Did you bump your head or something?”
It’s a good question. I rub my tongue over the front my teeth. I can taste the blood, but the rest of me feels pretty much intact.
“I don’t think so. Just need to get my bearings.”
The kind face offers a hand and I rise to my knees. Through a semi-conscious fog, I can only make out a few slight details. There’s designer stubble, slick blonde hair, and the flash of a Ray Ban logo.
“That was intense, man!” he says with a crooked smirk. “Good way to freak out the girls!”
His sudden delight concerns me. I think he’s messing with me. Better play it cool.
“It’s nothing. Guess I’m just allergic to study.”
The kind face laughs. “I know the feeling! But seriously, are you okay?”
There’s that question again. How am I supposed to answer? Does he even care? Why is he still here?
“I don’t need to call you an ambulance, do I?” he continues.
He says it half-concerned, half-jokingly, yet somehow non-dismissive. What the hell? I can’t read this guy. I’m usually good at this. My throat fills with awkward dread. Do I answer him seriously? Or do I follow up with another sarcastic line? How do you sound or look cool when your words are literally dribbling over yourself? I wipe my face and return to my seat.
The designer face repeats, “are you okay?”
I coolly return, “I don’t need an ambulance. I’m not a homo.”
What the…? Why would you say that James? You’re an idiot. Just bash your head against the desk again and stop talking! The stranger’s designer eyebrows raise with shock.
“Um, okay. Well, that was inappropriate. But I’m glad you’re alright, I guess…”
The last part trails off, sounding like a question. He must be waiting for an explanation to my previous outburst. Rescue the conversation James. Say something. Say anything!
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t implying that you were gay.”
Great start James.
“I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with the gays.”
Oh god. I can’t stop myself.
“I actually really like the gays.”
This, is officially, a train wreck.
“I mean, I’m not like, in love with the gays. I mean, no, I don’t need an ambulance.”
The words disobey my thoughts. Dribble turns to vomit. The kind face’s blue stare locks onto mine. He thinks I’m special. I’ve blown it. There’s quite a long pause as he sizes me up from head to toe.
“You’re kinda weird man.”
And there it is.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
My shoulders sulk. I lean down to retrieve my backpack. Suddenly his movements become more animated.
“No dude, I didn’t mean it to be an insult. Well kind of, but not really.”
Call me crazy but I’m still not yet convinced. I turn to walk away, and he puts a hand out to stop me. I escape the advance. He notices and quickly steps back.
“My cousin Steve’s an epileptic. He was in most of my classes in high school.”
His cousin Steve? That’s definitely made up. Is he screwing with me? Wait, is he still talking?
“I’d have to move all the furniture away so he wouldn’t smash his head on anything. One day I was sick and stayed home.”
I put my backpack down. He’s not done yet.
“He had this really bad seizure and no one thought to move the chairs. Crazy, right? The morons just let him go! So anyway, five stitches and one black eye later. Could’ve been a whole lot worse actually.”
He’s done? Is it my turn to talk yet? Nope.
“I just know what it’s like, you know. Everyone freaks out and gawks like a retard when you’re in trouble. But no one actually does anything to help. Where’s a friend when you need one, right? Anyway, you’re lucky I was sitting right behind you. I just saved your life man. You owe me a beer!”
Finally, I can say something. Wait, did he really just say that? That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Literally, the nicest.
“Thanks,” I cautiously respond. “But, I don’t have Epilepsy.”
“You don’t? Well then, I guess you are weird.”
This time the rest of me sulks.
“I’m sorry,” I squeeze out.
The kind face laughs at me.
“Dude! Stop being so god damn agreeable!” he semi-shouts.
I try to frame my response but my lips just flap about and offer nothing of substance.
“Um, okay.”
The kind face laughs at me again.
“Jesus Christ man, it’s like you can’t even help it!” he semi-shouts again.
I’m confused. Is he insulting me or being nice? I don’t get it.
“I’m done for the day. You?”
The most surprising question thus far.
“Um, ah, yeah I am,” I stutter through my bloodied palette.
“Um, ah, err, okay.”
Great. Now he’s just mocking me. Time to go. As I pick up my backpack he quickly interjects.
“So how about that beer then?”
No way. Now I know he’s messing with me. I pause to assess my surroundings. To my surprise there’s no strangers giggling at my expense. This is some practical joke, right? No one ever invites me for a beer. No one even wants to be seen with me. In the high school yearbook, the kids either side of me look embarrassed to even have their pictures so close to mine. Why does Designer Stubble want to have a beer with me? Is he gay? He doesn’t look gay. Though he did seem a little offended when I used the word homo.
“Yo, Silent Sally? You do drink beer, right?”
“I don’t drink at all.”
“Why? What are you, a homo?”
He extends his hand towards mine.
“My friends call me Dale. How ’bout you?”
I stop to consider my answer, as if a better option will spring to mind. Then I finally submit to his advances.
“James?” I accidentally inflect as a question.
“James?” he ponders for a moment. “James from the real world.”
I shift a little on my feet. My hands twitch.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your notebook dude? It had a bunch of dot points about the real world?”
My hands settle and I snap the notebook shut. For a second I thought this guy was a mind reader. Turns out he’s just nosy.
“Just class notes,” I coolly counter.
“On the cannibalistic rituals of New Guinean tribesmen?” he responds.
I shrug in defeat. I am indeed special. Surely now I’ve blown it.
“Well that settles it James, you are a complete weirdo. Grab your notes. We are going to the bar!”
There’s not much said between theatre and bar. The college grounds are empty, save for the odd freshman still using their introductory map to navigate to the next class. Despite the lack of words, the walk is not so awkward. We reach the bar. Dale orders two beers. They are served in plastic cups which seem far too big for a standard unit of alcohol. Is this the norm? I don’t see this day ending well. The interior of the bar is even more eerily quiet. Not surprising given that it’s 3pm. We pick an empty table and sit across from each other. Now it feels awkward. I guess this is the part where I drink. An exuberant swig of Bud Light meets with my gag reflex. Oh my god, that’s gross! How do people drink this crap? Beer is so unexplainably bad the first time you taste it. My child-like repulsion causes Dale to laugh. I’m insulted a little, but I can tell his intentions were not to hurt my feelings. So far, so good.
I never usually care what people think of me. Actually, that’s a li
e. I totally care what people think of me. I act like I don’t care. But for some reason I need Dale’s approval more than I do with others. It’s pathetic. I feel it necessary to justify his interest in me. I guess secretly I’m desperate for a friend. I’ve had friends before. Never a best friend. Dale must have a ton of friends. Maybe he’s killing time, or avoiding study altogether. Am I just his drinking buddy? That’s a thing, right? I can’t see why he’d choose me. A seizure-prone, girl-scaring, beer virgin like me doesn’t make for great company. Maybe he genuinely likes me. Maybe not.
In any case, he seems way too cool and held together to find me interesting. He looks like a billboard for Christ sake. He’s the exact person I’d change myself into if I had the power to do so. That totally sounds weird. He just reeks of confidence is what I’m saying. God, that sounds even worse. But it’s true. I feel cooler just being around him. It’s like he says all the things my filter wouldn’t allow me to say.
Now before you jump to conclusions, let me rule something out. I can see this scene developing in your head. It’s similar to a certain late 90’s film. You know the one. Two strangers meet by chance on an aeroplane and one of them blows up his apartment. They meet up in a seedy dive bar, discuss the meaning of a duvet over several pitchers of beer, and proceed to beat the shit out of each other in the parking lot. No, this is not the same as that story. For the record, Dale is not my Tyler Durden. He is entirely real. I’m enough in touch with my own nihilism not to project upon others.
“So, whereabouts in the real world are you from James?”
“Um, Greensboro. You?”
“High Point. So, you couldn’t escape either, huh?”
I eye off my beer again. This time it’s a more careful sip.
“Guess not.”
“All good. Now I live in New Garden. Moving up in the world bitches!”
Dale takes a gigantic gulp of his drink, barely slamming the cup back down before continuing.
“Did you get bad grades, or are you a burnout like me?”
“What did you say?” I retort with the appropriate amount of disdain. “I am not some stupid stoner, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m just kidding, James.”
I cross my arms, and shuffle forward on my stool.
“Well you need to work on your jokes.”
“Dude, are you always this uptight? You’re a little touchy.”
“Why did you ask me here then?”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“I don’t even know you Dale. Isn’t it weird to ask someone you just met to go to a bar with you?”
Even I’m surprised by my paranoid inquest.
“Just being a friendly stranger is all.”
“Please don’t say that. It sounds gay.”
“James, what’s your deal?”
“I don’t have a deal. I just like being careful.”
I don’t like this conversation. It needs to stop.
“Maybe that’s your problem James. Maybe you’re too careful.”
“You can never be too careful” I effortlessly respond. “And why do you keep saying my name?”
“Because. James. I. Am. A. Robot. Sent. Back. In. Time. To. Murder. You.”
He does a stupid robot dance to match the mechanical voice. It is kind of funny. He looks like a complete idiot but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s annoyingly likable. Now I’m intrigued.
“Is this how you act around all your friends?” I ask.
“Only. The. Ones. I. Don’t. Kill.”
Avoidance masked by humour. Interesting. I’ve tried the technique myself. Unfortunately, it only works if you’re funny.
“Truthfully Dale, you asked me so now I’m asking you. What’s your deal?”
Another mouthful of beer and he empties the cup. He twists the empty vessel in his hand, watching the foam swirl its way to the bottom. Instinctively my eyes follow too.
“I don’t know man. I don’t really take anything too seriously. I like to have fun. And my dance moves are sick!”
At last an honest answer. Aside from the last part.
“Your dance moves are gay, Dale.”
He scrunches up his nose, before looking me dead in the eye. Oh shit, eye contact.
“Gay this, gay that. Why is everything gay with you James? You don’t seem like a homophobe. I mean, what did the gays ever do to you?”
What? What does he mean? I thought that’s what people said when they didn’t like something.
“I’m sorry, it’s just an expression. I didn’t…”
“Wait,” he interjects. “I think I get it. Did you get doggy piled by the high school football team? It’s alright, you can tell me. Did they finger you?”
“Dude, please shut up! You’re a friggin’ idiot!”
I act like I’m angry, but I can’t help laughing.
“Do you need a hug from a friendly robot, James? I promise I won’t finger you.”
Success! He laughed. You laughed. End this thing on a high.
“Sorry Dale, I have to go. I’ve got work to do, and it’s too loud in here.”
He’s thrown by my sudden backflip as he studies the near-empty bar. Slowly he faces back towards me with a knowing smile.
“I think you’re right, James. I can barely hear myself think.”
A part of me wants to stay. But a bigger part says I’ll sabotage anything gained form the interaction. My legs drag me out the door. I turn back to at least offer a pathetic wave. Dale leans across the table, retrieves my half-finished beer, and toasts my exit.
“More beer for me!” he emphatically full-shouts to no one. He sinks into his stool and that’s the last I see of him. For now.
CHAPTER 3: Therapy
Dr Shaw looks amazing today. Scratch that. Her breasts look amazing. She must be in a good mood. She always dresses up when she’s feeling chirpy. She never seems to notice my intruding glances. I barely make eye contact during our sessions. The way I figure is her boobs can't stare back or judge me. I don't like faces. They're so complicated. Too many subtle little differences to decipher; a button nose, some acne scarring, a cleft palette. Too real, too ugly. I don’t have time for those types of nitty-gritty details. For breasts however, I have all the time in the world.
Dr Shaw opens her notebook, adjusting her Armani glasses as she finds a blank page. Everyone seems to wear designer glasses. Everyone wears designer everything. Her bra must be designer too. No Kmart bra could possibly make middle-aged breasts look so good. Is it weird I call them breasts? Calling them tits just sounds so vulgar. Even though that’s what I’m supposed to say. I think I’ll go with boobs. I have thought of nothing but boobs all through Dr Shaw’s introduction. She creates these little exercises to express myself. Just your typical stuff. How am I feeling? How was my day? Am I real or do I just think I’m real? Okay, maybe that last one was mine. Sometimes I write a short sentence. Sometimes she uses flash cards. Sometimes, I use my actual words to tell her about it. Those are the best sessions because they are over so quick. Today is not one of those days. She makes me draw a picture. I close my eyes, and I am not allowed to lift my pencil off the page until she says stop. All of this for $90 an hour. Dad should’ve sent me to Art Express.
“Pencil down now. Before you open your eyes, I want you to turn over your picture so it is face down. Fold it in half and try not to look at it.”
I do as requested.
“Good. Now hand it to me James. I am going to put it into an envelope. You are not to open it until our next session. I am going to seal it so I will know if you cheat.”
“Don’t you want to see what I drew?”
“Not yet James.”
The thing about therapy is it’s never as you picture it. I mean, there is a leather couch. There are gold plated credentials on the wall. In the far corner sits is an immaculate red-timber shelf containing books and journals of medical conditions whose names I cannot possibly pronounce. Come to think of it, therapy is
exactly as you would picture it. Why do doctors give such complicated names for conditions which are already so confusing? It makes being insane all the more difficult. Why can’t schizophreniform be renamed crazy flu? I’d be happy to admit I’m crazy, and I’d rather be less tongue-tied.
“How was your week James?”
“Good.”
“Remember what we said. No one word answers.”
She always says this. Yet her questions are so close-ended and non-committal that I’ve not much else to offer.
“Extremely good?”
She raises her head slightly. I can tell from her expression that she’s slightly pissed, yet slightly humoured. Dr Shaw is like that. She’s always conflicted. It’s like she wants to be my friend, but she knows she has a job to do. It’s what keeps me from hating her altogether. That coupled with the fact that she has exceptional boobs. I realise that me being here pays for the expensive bras that maintain her busty presence. Even if she was my friend, she gets paid to do it. That prevents me from trusting her completely.
I continue, “I think I made a friend.” The last word makes me stop to reconsider. “Well, sort of.”
“That’s great James. Is it a guy or a girl?”
“A guy. His name is Dale.”
“And he’s…”
“Real? Yes, he’s real.”
“Well this is fantastic news James. Tell me about Dale. What does he do?”
Why’s that always the first thing people ask? What does it even mean? What do we do? We’re in college for Christ sake. All we do is watch porn and procrastinate. I think this to myself, but I don’t dare say it.
“He does Social Anthropology with me. I’m not sure what he majors in.”
“So, you met Dale in class?”
“We met in a lecture, I fell asleep and had a nightmare, and then I had a seizure. He stopped me from hurting myself so I owed him a beer, so we went to the bar, and I drank half a beer with him, and then I went home.”
She completely glosses over the lunacy of my scenario, perking up as she sits forward in her seat.
James in the Real World Page 3