Attention. Deficit. Disorder.

by Brad Listi

  Jesus.

  Yeah. It was awful. Never in a million years did I think I would tell her about any of that shit. But then I started talking about it, and it was like I couldn’t stop myself. Yesterday I almost started talking about it with some kid on the subway. I think I have abandonment issues.

  It would make sense.

  I think most kids who are adopted have it on some level. That nagging question of why you were given up, why you weren’t a wanted child. And then, with Rose leaving me, it’s that same kind of thing. And I’m aware of it. That’s what makes it so goddamn maddening. And the irony, of course, is that there I was, divulging all of that bile about Rose to the woman who is the source of my abandonment issues in the first place.

  And so what was her reaction?

  She just sat there with her hands in her lap, kind of nodding along. I think she was kind of stunned that I was getting so personal with her right off the bat. For all I know, it scared the ever-living shit out of her.

  Did she have anything to say about it?

  No. She just kind of stuttered some questions, offered her sympathies, made a few quasi-philosophical remarks about the healing powers of time, and so forth. The fact that Rose left me for some guy she met on the Internet seemed to really fascinate her. So we talked about that for a little while. And then we just kind of gradually moved on to other things. I knew I’d been talking too much, so I tried to keep my mouth shut and let Selma take over for a while.

  So what did she have to say?

  You’ll never fucking believe this.

  What?

  She’s a filmmaker.

  No!

  Yeah. She does documentaries. Right now she’s working with some human rights organization on a propaganda film for Leonard Peltier. She’s trying to get him released from prison.

  So she’s political.

  Heavily.

  And what did she say when you told her about your film work?

  She freaked. Couldn’t believe it. It was a weird moment. She said she wanted to see everything, asking me all about what I’d done, blah, blah, blah. So I told her I’d send her my reel. And then from there, we just kind of talked about our favorite movies for a little while. Which was a nice downshift into triviality.

  A regular conversation.

  Yeah. I found myself relaxing a little once I got past that introductory bullshit, the background stuff, talking about our pasts and whatnot. After that, it was almost like I was meeting somebody on a friendly level. Talking to her wasn’t too difficult, which was a huge relief. She’s pretty friendly, pretty smart. Not too crazy. There was definitely a certain similarity there. There was definitely a tangible sense of commonality or connection or whatever.

  She’s your mother.

  Yeah. On one level. But the truth of the matter is, despite all of the buildup, I didn’t really find myself having any kind of maternal thoughts or feelings about her. Aside from the way she looked, and the knowledge that I have about her being the woman who produced me, she didn’t really seem like my mother. She didn’t really feel like my mother. Jane’s my mother, you know?

  Sure.

  Selma seemed like my friend, or someone I knew from childhood but hadn’t seen in years, or maybe like some kind of older sister, or some distant great-aunt I’d never met before, or something like that.

  She didn’t raise you.

  No. She just gave me her DNA, shat me into the world, and sent me on my way.

  (Laughter.) Is that how you put it to her in the restaurant?

  Exactly. We had a lengthy discussion about how she shat me into the world.

  No wonder you didn’t eat.

  (Laughter.)

  So then what? How did it end? What happens next?

  It ended kind of naturally. Lunch was over. She had to be somewhere—or at least that’s what she said. I told her I had to be somewhere too. We walked outside and said good-bye, great to see you, wonderful to meet you, all that stuff. I gave her my address and phone number in Colorado; she told me to call her whenever I’m in New York. Then I pulled out my camera and knocked on the window of the restaurant and asked Gandhi to snap a photo of us, for the record books. Selma and I sat on a park bench, and he snapped a couple of shots, and then it was good-bye. We hugged again, and then we walked off in opposite directions.

  Wow.

  Yeah.

  So now what?

  So now I’m sitting on this goddamn bench, talking like a goddamn maniac, drinking a shitty beer, trying to figure out what it all means.

  What does it all mean?

  Fuck if I know.

  Are you glad you did it?

  Sure. Why not? It’s a weight off my back. The mystery’s dead, in a certain sense. Now I know. I’m sure that counts for something.

  It has to.

  Let’s get the fuck out of here. My foot’s falling asleep.

  Which one?

  The left one.

  Okay.

  Make sure you push the red button.

  Right.

  5.

  The following day was my birthday, August 1. It was a strange day, a murky day, a day of melancholy and fatigue. I spent the afternoon in the East Village, wandering around. Had some lunch. Bought some clothes at a thrift store. And then that night Lynch and Henry took me out on the town. I was feeling out of sorts. Not quite myself. For the first time in my life, it felt depressing to be celebrating a birthday. I knew that I was still young, but I felt like I was getting old. I got the sense that my life was flying by and I wasn’t making any progress.

  Lynch and Henry made dinner reservations at the Tribeca Grill. They wanted to take me out to celebrate. I didn’t feel like celebrating, but backing out would have been rude. I felt like I had to go and I had to have a good time. It was my birthday, after all. I wasn’t allowed to be blue. With that in mind, I decided to get drunk and do my best to forget about it. We ate like kings and drank three bottles of wine at the table. Then there were some tequila shots. Henry bought a round in honor of my birthday, then Lynch bought another round in honor of the first round. By the time dinner ended, we were annihilated. Lynch and Henry were hitting on our waitress, trying to get her to come out with us. I kept talking about women, urging Lynch and Henry to take me to another bar. “Let’s go find some women,” I kept saying. “Let’s go out to another bar.”

  I hadn’t said anything like that in a long time.

  A little while later, Lynch took us to one of his favorite pubs somewhere across town. I forget the name of it. I didn’t even bother to look. All I know is that it was dark and crowded and it had a pinball machine inside. Lynch and Henry were wagering money on who could beat the other guy at pinball. They both claimed to be experts.

  The place was a madhouse. We walked inside, and it was body to body. Lynch and Henry muscled their way in and made a beeline for the pinball machine in the back. I decided to head up to the bar and buy a round of drinks. Lynch and Henry tried to hand me money, but I fended them off. They’d picked up the tab at dinner. I wanted to buy them a round.

  Up at the bar, I noticed two girls standing off to the side, talking to each other. One of them was beautiful. She had long, honey-colored hair, beautiful skin, and feline eyes. I walked right up to her and started talking. Liquid courage. Not a moment of hesitation.

  “Ladies,” I said. “Sorry I’m late….”

  I put my arm around the pretty one. I never did things like that. The girls looked at each other and laughed. Neither of them seemed drunk. I told them how beautiful they were. I told them I’d been in the woods all summer. I was standing there in thrift-store clothes with my big beard. I told them that seeing the two of them on the heels of a summer alone in the wilderness was miraculous, like some kind of magical dream. I was completely full of shit, an absolute moron. I asked them what their names were, where they were from. The pretty girl’s name was Felicia. She was from Texas. I forget what the other girl’s name was. I think it might have been Eve.
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  As it turned out, Felicia had a boyfriend. He’d been in the bathroom when I made my initial approach. On returning to the bar, he found me standing there with my arm around his girl. He came up behind us, and I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I turned around, and there he was, staring at me. He was a big guy, a good-looking guy, an Ivy League guy. Big shoulders. Big jaw. Polished. Groomed. Texan. He looked like he worked out.

  I found him offensive.

  “Easy there,” he said to me. “That’s my girlfriend you’re hanging on to.”

  He was talking to me with an authoritative tone, like I was a dog he was trying to train. I told him to relax. Felicia peeled my arm away and introduced him as her boyfriend. I think she said the guy’s name was Pete. In truth, I wasn’t really listening to her. I was focused on Pete for some reason. I was angry for some reason. Something about Pete didn’t agree with me. I told him once again that he needed to relax a little bit. Pete put his hand on my chest, pushed me away lightly, and told me to go get myself another drink. I overreacted and pushed him back. Next thing I knew, we were locked up. Pete put me in a headlock and punched me in the face. I swung back wildly and hit him in the neck. People turned and looked; a crowd fell in around us. He was twice as strong as I was and half as drunk. I tried to push myself free of the headlock. We fell back into the bar and knocked over some glasses. I could hear Felicia and the other girl yelling for help. Pete squeezed my head like a grape and hit me in the face again. Everything went black for a moment. Then I saw stars.

  A couple of seconds later, a bouncer arrived. The bouncer was bald and much larger than Pete. He put me in a full nelson and took me outside. And that was it. That was the end of it. Everything happened fast. A matter of seconds. Next thing I knew, I was standing on the sidewalk with a bleeding nose and a cut lip. Cars were going by, and I was trying to explain to the bouncer that I needed to get back inside and get my friends. The bouncer told me to shut the fuck up and hit the road. I tried to bribe him with cash. He stood there with his arms folded. I told him it was my birthday. He threatened to call the cops.

  I walked.

  I had no idea where I was. I just walked off into the city, dabbing my bloody nose with my new thrift-store shirt, looking for a pay phone. I had tears in my eyes and no real idea where they had come from. I kept on walking, figuring I’d find a phone and call Henry. We’d go someplace else, I’d lick my wounds, and the celebration would continue.

  I walked into a corner store and bought a pack of cigarettes and a beer. My face was a mess. Blood everywhere. The guy at the register looked at me like I was crazy. He took my money, put my beer in a bag, and gave me some change and a couple of Kleenex. I went outside and dialed Henry’s cell phone number, dabbing my face with the Kleenex. It rang four times. Nobody answered. Henry was drunk at the pinball machine. He couldn’t hear the ring. I left a message, then I hung up and tried calling one more time. No answer. So I hung up the phone and started walking again. It was a hot, humid night, and I was sweating through my shirt. I lit a cigarette and drank my beer and kept on walking.

  Lynch had given me a key to his place, so I figured I’d head back over there and wait for him to get home. I walked up to a doorman standing outside of a hotel and asked him for directions to Grand Street. He took a look at my face and asked me if I was all right. I told him I was fine. You don’t look fine, he said. I told him it was my birthday. The guy stared at me for a couple of seconds. Then he shook his head and pointed to his left and rattled off a bunch of directions.

  Somehow I wound up in Union Square. Don’t ask me how I got there. The directions the guy gave me were a lost cause. I was too drunk to remember them. I made a few wrong turns and wandered the city streets until I came out into a clearing. I had no idea where I was. I walked out onto the square, and there were some young kids standing around, teenagers smoking cigarettes. I couldn’t tell if they were hippies or punks. They looked miserable. I lit a cigarette and walked over to them and asked them where Grand Street was. They looked at their shoes and told me to take the subway downtown to Canal Street. I thanked them and walked away.

  The station was dank and empty, and it smelled like urine. I bought a MetroCard at the window from a deliriously tired Puerto Rican girl, and then I walked through the turnstile and found a map on the wall. I studied it until I found my train: the N or the R, downtown to Canal. It wasn’t too far.

  Down on the platform, it was quiet, just a couple of people here and there. Gangsters. Laborers. Overworked investment bankers. There was a homeless guy sitting off to the side with his back against the wall, a fat black guy with an Afro and a silver beard. He was sitting on the platform, and he had a blanket spread out in front of him. He was selling an odd assortment of dry goods—shoes, socks, watches, books, you name it. Everything was spread out on the blanket. There was a sign in his lap that said WILL SIT ON MY ASS FOR FOOD.

  “Hey, brother,” he said to me. “Whatcha say, man?”

  I said hello.

  “Good prices,” the guy said. “Everything’s low. Come on now, brother. Just takes one.”

  I walked over to the blanket and looked around. Most everything was garbage. The watches were gaudy. The books were tattered, and most of them I’d never even heard of before. There were a couple of neckties. There was an old-fashioned bottle opener.

  For some reason, I found myself staring at a dog-eared paperback copy of Awaken the Giant Within, by peak-performance guru Anthony Robbins. I’d heard of it before. I’d seen the infomercials. There was a photograph of the author on the cover. He was smiling at me in Technicolor. Glowing. Happy. Fulfilled. Mocking me. I bent over and picked it up.

  “Five dollar,” the guy said.

  “Five dollars?”

  “Five dollar.”

  I looked back down at the blanket and saw a used teddy bear sitting off to one side, an old brown bear with a pink ribbon around its neck and one eye missing. It was haggard and worn, lying on its side, arms and legs contorted. It looked lonesome as hell.

  “How much for the bear?” I said.

  “Wilhelmina?” the guy said, pointing.

  “Yeah,” I said. “That one.”

  “Ten dollar.”

  “She’s missing an eye.”

  “Ten dollar.”

  Behind me I could hear the train coming. I turned around and looked and saw the N come rattling out of the tunnel with its light on.

  “Ten bucks, man,” the guy said, rocking back and forth. “Ten for Wilhelmina. You get the book, it’s fifteen. Come on now, brother. You can’t beat that shit.”

  The train slowed down, rolling to a stop. I picked up Wilhelmina, took a twenty out of my wallet, dropped it on the blanket, and told the guy to keep the change. He picked up the bill and shook my hand.

  “Thank you very much,” he said. “God bless you, my brother. Thank you very, very much.”

  “Happy birthday,” I said.

  Then I turned around and got on the train.

  6.

  Anthony Robbins was something of an American icon. I’d seen a documentary about him on television before. He was six foot seven, 265 pounds, and wore a size 16 shoe. He was physically fit and remarkably well groomed. His infomercials had long been standard fare on late-night cable television.

  Robbins was born on Leap Day, February 29, 1960, and raised in Southern California. At the age of seventeen, he was working as a janitor, earning roughly forty dollars per week. He lived in a tiny studio apartment in Venice Beach. The apartment was so small, he had to wash his dishes in the bathtub. It was a depressing time. Robbins was forty pounds overweight and floundering.

  That same year, Robbins attended a seminar by motivational speaker Jim Rohn, and it changed his life forever. He came away inspired. He came away wanting to impact the world. In a moment of delirious ambition, he decided that he wanted to become the president of the United States one day. He then started mapping out the rest of his years on planet Earth in methodical fash
ion, writing down what he would like to accomplish, in ten-year blocks of time. During his twenties, he decided, he wanted to become the foremost one-on-one practitioner of neuro-linguistic programming (NLP), which, roughly defined, amounts to the study of the structure of subjective experience. During his thirties, Robbins envisioned expanding his practice to groups; during his forties, to entire organizations; and during his fifties, to the government level.

  Beyond that, he planned to follow a religious path.

  He graduated high school, bypassed college entirely, and started pursuing his dreams with feverish determination.

  In the intervening years, Robbins went on to become one of the nation’s leading authorities on the psychology of peak performance. He was generally regarded as an expert at the art of personal, professional, and organizational turnaround. He wrote five internationally bestselling books, which were published in fourteen languages. His Personal Power audiotapes sold more than thirty-five million copies worldwide. He provided advice and counsel to numerous entertainment legends, Fortune 500 CEOs, championship coaches, championship athletes, high-profile politicians, and internationally famous medical doctors.

  In addition, Robbins was the chairman of five private companies and the vice chairman of two others. Together these companies generated revenues of approximately $500 million per year. The businesses included an award-winning 300-acre spa and resort in Fiji; a nutraceutical company; a publishing house devoted to health, fitness, and nutrition; and a toy company that specialized in toys of an educational nature.