Mixtape for the Apocalypse
Page 19
“I don’t know if I buy that creative stuff,” I said. “Never did me any good before. Is—is that coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Real coffee? Like, with caffeine?”
She squinted at me. “I’ve never seen eyes twinkle like that in real life. Like, little coffee cups with hearts appeared in your eyes. No, you can’t have any. Anyway, I have a cold.”
“Aw, crap.”
“Squire, concentrate. We really don’t have very much time. What kinds of things will make you happy about going home to stay with your mother for a while? You do like your mother, don’t you? You sound like you get along pretty well.”
“Yeah, I love my mom . . . She’s one of my best friends, actually. There’s a lot of good things about living at home. I can read whatever books I want, and I have my own art room, and my mother’s friends are . . . pretty cool, sometimes.” I meant that they gave me free drugs, but I didn’t think it was appropriate to mention that. “All kinds of stuff.”
“And what will you miss about living on your own?”
“. . . I was with Lise.” Sex. Being able to roll over in bed and feel those yards of soft, supple, funky-smelling skin, being able to lick the pheromones directly from her moist armpits, teasing her wet lower lips with the head of my prick. I remembered all these things with a shock of loss.
“What kinds of things will you miss about living with Lise?”
“What—what—what difference does it make?” My face was hot.
“I’d like you to start thinking about it now, when you’re in a position to get help about the way you feel, rather than later, when you might not have that luxury.”
“What difference does it make if I get ‘help’?” I quirked my fingers in the air.
Shandy sat back in her chair and regarded me calmly. “What do you need from me to feel safe?”
“Safe from what?”
“You tell me.”
“I thought you weren’t a psychotherapist,” I muttered.
“Do you want me to stop asking questions? All right, I will. Ask yourself the questions. I want you to start thinking about what kinds of things you want, and don’t want, and what you can stand, and what you can’t. And try some new things. You might be surprised at how easy they are. Like, when was the last time you calmly picked up the telephone and called someone? And talked to them? Do you actually remember?”
“No,” I said.
“See? And I have the feeling you spent a long time thinking that something like that was impossible. It doesn’t matter what methods you use to make yourself feel secure and safe—you can tell yourself you’re Superman, if it makes a difference.”
I snickered.
“What?”
“Superman sucks,” I said.
Shandy shrugged. “Okay, who’s a superhero you can stand? Who’s got some qualities that you can appreciate? And don’t dare say Batman—he’s a pathological case.”
“All superheroes are,” I said. “Every superhero has something seriously wrong with them. If they had superpowers and perfect lives, they’d be totally boring.”
“Exactly. What’s one you identify with?”
I shrugged. “Well, Batman, pretty much,” I mumbled guiltily. Shandy grinned and rolled her eyes. “Maybe one of the X-Men. Nightcrawler. Or Freakshow. I’ve always considered myself something of a mutant.”
“That much is obvious.” She glanced at her wall clock. “I have to see another patient now. What are you going to do?”
“Go back to the common room and see if I can score a crossword puzzle or something,” I said. “Sometimes the Igors forget to steal it out of the paper.”
“‘Igors’? That’s a new way of thinking about it. Lemme see—I have today’s paper, and I’m done with it,” Shandy said. “You want any more of it?”
“Just the crossword. I have enough neurosis inside me without having to look at the world’s problems.”
“Very astute.” She tore out the page with the crossword and the comics and the TV schedule on it. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get a pencil from the nurses’ station. And expect them to watch you like a hawk so that you don’t do anything, you know, crazy.”
I saluted her. “Scout’s honor, ma’am.”
“Oh, bullshit. See you tomorrow. You’re doing great. Let DeShawn or Annette know if you need anything today.” She smiled and shook her head, returning to the pile of paperwork on her desk. I gave her a little wave as soon as I thought she couldn’t see me.
The next morning I went to Shandy’s office again. I had looked forward to it since yesterday. She had her hair down; it was very long and I saw that the red was a very artificial color with dull blonde roots. She wore a black cardigan over a white t-shirt and grey jeans and no makeup at all. “Hi, Squire,” she said.
“You look pretty,” I said.
“Really? Thanks.”
“Do you get patients falling in love with you all the time?”
“Usually not—I’ve been doing inpatient assessment for most of my career, which means I don’t see very many patients more than once. If they’re going to be around for a long time, they end up going to the state hospital or a group home—we don’t have facilities for more than twenty patients at a time. You get to go home very soon, which is great, and I am very impressed. You turned in a relatively lucid and honest questionnaire yesterday, and I can literally see the improvement in you. You have good ‘affect’, as we call it.”
“It’s probably because I used conditioner on my hair today,” I said. “It has body, shine, and good affect.”
“Very funny. I bet you’re itchin’ to get out of here, huh? Your mom will be here in a little while; I’d like to talk to both of you together for a while, then her by herself, while you’re getting your stuff together. Is that going to be okay?”
“Sure it is. If I don’t get away from Joker’s Wild reruns, I really will end up in the loony bin.”
Shandy smiled. “You are in the loony bin,” she reminded me.
“I’m talking about the long-term loony bin.”
“There is a big difference,” she nodded, blowing her nose on a pink tissue. “For example, it’s pretty easy to get out of here. It’s hard to get out of there. And, Squire, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I really hope I don’t hear about you being in there. It is possible to do something about your issues—I’m not one of those psychiatrists who thinks that every kind of emotional disturbance is caused by an imbalance of chemicals. I believe you have some measure of control over what you do when people are shitty to you—and they often are. Other people are assholes, but they have their own problems to deal with, and sometimes they say and do things that are hurtful, but not out of malice. In your case, I really think you are able to strike some kind of balance between thinking you’re God, and thinking you’re Satan. You’re just a person. You have thoughts, and feelings, and impulses that other people just don’t understand. And that’s okay.”
I had the tremendous urge to pick my nose. Instead I shrugged and looked out the window. “Yeah, I know,” I acknowledged.
“Just think, you can have coffee in about two hours!” Shandy said. She reached behind her desk and rifled around in her Guatemalan hippie purse. “I made you a mix tape,” she added, sliding it across the desk calendar at me. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“What is it, subliminal self-esteem stuff?”
“No, it’s just plain music. It’s got some Pixies, and some Eurythmics; a new Björk track, some Echo and the Bunnymen—”
“Bunnymen?” My voice was a broken, desperate whisper.
She smiled a beautiful smile. “I love Echo and the Bunnymen. They were my favorite band when I was in high school.”
“Can I be trusted with that?” I was kidding, but not.
“It’s just music, Squire,” Shandy said. “It’s just one track.”
“Which one?”
“‘Ocean Rain.’ It’s soothing.”
“Music is good,” she said. “I know how important it is to you.”
“Thank you,” I said. She gave a single nod. “No, really. I don’t have anything anymore. I sold it all.” I rolled my eyes, groaning at the memory, but she didn’t seem fazed by that statement.
“You were manic,” she explained. “I’m sure it seemed like a good idea at the time. Now you can listen to the tape, and write back to me, and tell me which ones you like. Might give you some ideas about rebuilding your collection.”
The tape case had a magazine clipping of an unhappy-wet-diaper-baby advertisement. I loved it. I asked, “So who’s your favorite band?”
She smiled. “Pussy Galore. I also really like Mr. Bungle.”
I gaped. “Where did you come from?”
“I’m just a white suburban punk,” she replied calmly, “just like you.”
A knock came at the door before I could leap over the desk and start kissing Shandy passionately. It was DeShawn, which went a long way towards helping put my heart back in my chest and my libido back in my jeans. Shandy called for him to come in; the orderly poked his head in and smiled at us. “Mrs. Fortensky is here,” he said.
“It’s Ms.,” I corrected compulsively.
“Let it go, Squire,” Shandy said softly. “So,” she said, her voice louder and firmer, “are you ready?”
We went to the main social room, which was empty except for DeShawn and my mother. She turned and spotted me. “Hi,” she announced. I stopped short at the sight of her, so unchanged—my usual typical Mom, wearing an Army-surplus parka and a dark-brown corduroy jumper and hiking boots. Her hair was frizzy and her eyeglasses were smudged. She looked amazing. And she just smiled at me like I’d won a prize. And yet at the same time I didn’t feel anything. It didn’t seem real. Maybe I had just dreamt the whole thing.
She came in, and shook Shandy’s hand. “Hi. Marion.”
“Shandy.”
“Very nice to meet you.” Mom turned to me at last, and hugged me very quickly and kissed the top of my head.
“You doing okay, baby?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
I was discharged after a ton of paperwork, bearing a grocery sack rattling with pill bottles. Mom and I walked with great purpose towards the nearest CoffeeFolks, which was less than two blocks from the hospital. It was bitter cold and damp outside—perfect coffee weather. The snow had become gray slush.
“Coffee, coffee, coffee, hooray. Oh, yeah! I almost forgot—I brought you your Christmas presents,” Mom said, poking me in the shoulder.
“Cool!”
“I have your stuff from the apartment in my car.”
“Yeah . . . okay.” Oh, God. My life. It was gone. Not over, though, which was even more surreal.
“Do you have any cash?” Mom asked.
“Not on me.” I had no idea how much I might have in the bank.
“Okay, I’ll buy you coffee.”
I almost burnt my tongue on the hot coffee, I was so eager to drink it, and blew the warm sweet steam in a cloud around my face. Mom sat down by the window and cautiously stirred her own drink. “Honey, don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit. How do you feel?”
“Hungry.”
“You got a headache, or anything?”
I shook my head. “I just need the coffee,” I said. “And can we go to Taco Bell?”
Mom grimaced. “If that’s what you want. I think it’s gross, but . . .”
“Craving, Mom; wicked craving.”
In the car, the stereo played Jeff Buckley. She lit cigarettes for both of us. I brushed Taco Bell shredded cheese food off the new, crisp gray wool trousers she’d brought me, and accepted the cigarette. “When did you start smoking again?” I asked.
“When I got on the internet,” she said. “It was just so stressful.”
“I heard that,” I said.
The road was slick with icy rain and a deep, bluish fog hung over the farmlands, the sapling farms, the billboards that read “Jesus Christ Died For Your Sins.” Mom sang along with the doomed younger Buckley, hitting the crazy high notes so accurately that she must have sung along to it hundreds of times. I knew she was into the father, Tim Buckley, and had actually met the man, but she’d gotten into Jeff’s music while I was busy looking the other way. Jeff Buckley had died earlier that year, in May, and I had never bothered to listen to his music. And now he was dead, and my mom had memorized every note of “Grace.”
Mom and her dead guys. I wasn’t going to judge. It was a really good song.
On the drive I kept waiting for an overwhelming sense of relief to pour over me, but nothing came—nothing whatsoever. I was a blank slate—or more accurately, a perfect sheet of diamond. I contained nothing, and nothing could make an impression on my surface. I was out there in the fog, with the wooden slats of the signs, with the blades of grass, nodding heavily with droplets of ice. Still waiting to find . . . something.
The first thing I did when I got to Bellingham, besides taking a shit, taking a twenty-minute nap, and staring into the fridge for a while, was to get a new pair of glasses. My trusty black vintage Army-issue frames were a wreck of scratch-fogged lenses and earpieces mended with layers of tape, and my eye prescription had changed, somewhat for the better. Against my mother’s hopes (she favored that Lennon-esque schoolboy wire-rim thing), I got more black plastic frames, these rectangular and vaguely suggesting half-glasses for reading. “Now you look at least eighteen,” said the girl at Binyon’s. She was smiling all over me and twirling her hair around her forefinger. I told her that trichotillomania, the nervous worrying of one’s own hair, was an obsessive-compulsive disorder, and had she considered twenty-five milligrams of Anafranil a day? I tapped a couple out into my palm to show her, and she shivered and went to the back room. “Way to let her know that you’re not interested,” my mother quipped, waiting for her credit card transaction to go through. “It might have been simpler just to tell her you’re gay.”
I had no idea what she was talking about for over an hour.
The second thing I did was to listen to Shandy’s tape. I sat in my childhood bedroom, which was now a sewing/storage/book/guest room, eating slices of bread and brie. It was a great tape, really expertly done. I immediately began thinking of tracks to make a mix in return. I had the address of the hospital on the prescription labels of my various bottles of pills.
At eleven o’clock, my mother sat and watched me take Ativan, Zyprexa, and Lamictal, and watched me get in bed. “Love you, kid,” she said.
“Thank you, Mom,” I said. Through force of will, I did not weep from gratitude, even though it made my eyes hurt to hold back the tears. I didn’t want her to worry.
After a few weeks of slacking, sitting around the house watching cartoons and children’s television, taking walks by myself, and tidying up the apartment, my mother decided that I should work with her in the bookstore. She’d just had to fire some flaky chick who came to work drunk and would berate any man unlucky enough to pass over the threshold. “You’re the perfect employee in a feminist/new age bookstore,” Mom said. “There’s not a woman alive who could possibly be intimidated by you.” I took it as the compliment she intended.
I do the shelving, the receiving, the cash drawer, the vacuuming of Bing-Bing’s hairs off the flat industrial carpet, the wiping of the big glass window that looks out onto the lonesome street by the train tracks, and this summer, I repainted the signs and the façade. No hurry, no pressure.
I found many more pictures of my father than I remembered existed, books and books of them, his fingerprints, his incredibly clumsy watercolors, and his fractured, shattered, b
eautiful poetry. I don’t know if they were individual poems or just stanzas grouped on the page—I read them as one large piece, and as individual poems. They gave me the creeps—stuff like
A SINGLE CURL
SNIPPED FROM THE LIFE
OF A LITTLE GIRL
and
AMARANTH PASSED ON TODAY
AUNTIE WORRIES NOT
SHE’S GOT THE LEASE
TO HER FLAT IN SOUTH KENSINGTON
(31 JAN 68)
In February I cut my hair short, started wearing fuzzy tweed jackets, pleated cotton slacks in muted colors, argyle socks, polished cordovan oxfords, sweater vests—in other words, I bought a bunch of new clothes at the Goodwill that made me look like a sixty-year-old professor. The teenage town girls go wild for a man with corduroy patches on his elbows. No, seriously, they do. I maintain my aloofness, and they just see it as a challenge. I’m getting a bit spoiled by the attention, and I also don’t know what to do with it.
I started painting again. It’s not any good, but it’s something to do.
This spring, as well, my mother stopped leaving me to my own devices and insisted that I get out as much as possible. That’s how I met Larry. There was a morning when I just didn’t really want to be at work. It was a completely dead day, the first sunny day of spring this year, and people were either trapped at work or they were out hiking. My mother was busy decorating frantically for something and I sat on the counter, cleaning my ear with a Q-Tip. She turned around and went completely bonkers, yelling incoherently at me. “What? What did I do?” I begged.