who happens to be passing by. Break it
up, Mistah Turnah. This isn’t HBO.
“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. As you
know, self-control isn’t my forte.”
Yes, well, work on that. Some things
are best done in private. That is all.
Arm Still Firmly Wrapped
Around Hayden’s waist, I steer her
to a more private place—a table way
in the back of the room. As we pass
the deli cart, I grab a ham sandwich.
“Want something?” Who says chivalry
is dead? But Hayden shakes her head.
I’m eliminating carbs for a while.
Don’t be ridiculous. That’s what
I really want to say. Instead, I go
with a much more generic “Why?”
Prom’s coming up. I want to fit
in the dress I bought. We are going?
What kind of an idiot boyfriend
would say no, even if he quite
reasonably thought prom was nothing
but a money-sucking nightmare?
“Of course. Can’t wait.” We sit
and Hayden watches me unwrap
my approximation of a delicious meal.
Rather than have her stare as I scarf
it down, I direct her attention back
toward the Bible-thumpers’ table,
where Jocelyn and friends seem
to be in deep discussion. “What’s up
with them? Have they discovered
a lost gnostic gospel or something?”
She smiles.
That’s good.
I think.
In the last five minutes? Don’t think
so. No, they’re planning our spring
break retreat. We’re staying at a hostel. . . .
Spring break.
Retreat.
Hostel.
And . . .
“Don’t tell me. Judah is going.”
Suddenly my lunch is flavorless.
Well, of course. It was his idea.
A week of meditation, communion,
and spiritual awakening. Don’t
look at me like that, Matt.
Don’t Look at Her
Don’t say a damn thing. Spring break
is still weeks away. Who knows what
might happen by then? I bite into
my cardboard sandwich, concentrate
on the tabletop. “I can’t give you a ride
home today. I have to see my therapist.”
Mom made the appointment, insisted
I show up, No matter what, no excuses.
I could blow it off anyway, except
it might do me good to talk about this
crap with Hayden. I sure as hell
can’t talk to her about it. She’s dug in.
That’s okay. I can ride with Joce.
What about the game tonight?
I’ve only gone to a couple, and there
are only a few weeks left until
the play-offs. I shrug. “If you’re going
I guess I will, too.” Better to kiss a little
butt than reevaluate our relationship.
“Will you wear that green sweater?”
My Therapist’s Lair
Is in a modern building with a big,
sunny atrium smack in the middle,
circled by brightly painted offices,
all designed to fool patients into
believing things are better than they
seem. But let’s face it. Body-sick
or brain-sick, we’re all here because
it pretty much sucks being us.
I arrive five minutes late, still have
to wait another ten because I’m unlucky
enough to have the only therapist
on earth who’s willing to go fifteen
minutes over, to be absolutely certain
her clients will make it through
the week without overdosing or parking
on the tracks, waiting for a train
to oblivion. I read about a California
town where suicide-by-train was almost
like a party game for a while. Four kids,
separate occasions, jumped right in front
of moving commuters. Ask me, that’s
a seriously messed-up way to go out.
Then again, so is a rope around the neck.
At 4:16
The door opens and out comes a girl,
maybe thirteen, and the kind of thin
that can rarely be accomplished without
an eating disorder. Martha tells her
she’ll see her next week, then invites
me into her den with a jerk of her head.
How are you doing? She steps back
to let me by. It’s been a while.
Several weeks, in fact. I canceled
a few. “Forgot” a few more. Poor
excuses, as Mom would say. “I think
I’m solid, but apparently my parents
are worried about my currrent stability
because of an essay I wrote for school.”
She gestures for me to sit, goes
around to the far side of her desk
and extracts some papers from a pile.
You mean this. Your mom faxed it.
“Why don’t they just put it up on
a billboard and let the whole damn
town see it? Anyway, it’s not so awful.
I don’t get why it’s making people nervous.”
Martha Reminds Me
Of Mrs. Claus, or would, if I were
to believe the North Pole lore.
She clears her throat. I can understand
their concern, Matt, although it seems
to me there must have been a fair amount
of catharsis in what you wrote about Luke. . . .
I loved my brother more than anyone in the world. He was this amazing little person, dropped into my life by accident. Neither Mom nor Dad wanted another child, and I have no idea what random series of events created Luke, but I was the happiest kid ever when he came along. I’ve always had to work hard at keeping friends. I’m a smart-ass by nature and always manage to say the wrong thing. But no matter what words came out of my mouth, Luke was always there for me. Until he wasn’t.
Like most guys my age, I never really thought about what it meant to be gay, other than it was something shameful, something I sure as hell wouldn’t ever want to be. So when Luke first started talking about his sexuality, I thought he was putting me on. Luke was one hell of an athlete, and a primo basketball player. No way could he be gay; that’s what I believed. His wrists were anything but limp; they could throw three-pointers and layups all day.
All I knew was the usual stereotypical misinformation. And I was the only person Luke felt safe confessing to. So how did I react? “Don’t joke about shit like that,” I told him enough times so he went silent. But eventually, it became clear he wasn’t joking. Once I knew it was true, it vexed me at first. Then I got scared. For him, and for me. But the thing was, nothing had changed. Luke was the same brother he’d always been. It took a little time to understand that, a little longer to accept it.
It was a lot harder for my parents. One of the things I’ve always hated about jocks is the way they pick on kids who are weaker, and that is the general perception of homosexuals. My dad is a jock through and through. The idea of his son being gay totally messed with his head. What a waste, is what Dad thought, and, How could you do this to me? You could see it in his eyes when he looked at Luke. That pissed me off.
But what made me even angrier was how some supposed love-thy-neighbor Christians mocked my brother. A couple of them organized a regular hate campaign, and they were ruthless, relentless pricks. Eighth grade was a nightmare for Luke, who was afraid to go to his locker, where he would be p
ushed, poked, pantsed, and otherwise provoked. They’d follow him down the hall, calling him “fag” or “dick licker.” They’d offer their own dicks for him to lick. Hetero-freaks.
Almost worse was the online harrassment, which was not only cruel, but also deviously creative. You’d think churchy people would be embarrassed to download porn, then Photoshop someone’s face into the pics—that someone being Luke. You’d think they’d have better things to do than to post said pics not only to Luke’s personal social networking pages, but also to the high school basketball team’s Facebook page, which is how Dad first found out. No wonder he took it so personally, huh? Luke was outed to his father and to the entire community at the same time, and in a most humiliating way.
And those troglodytes who orchestrated that claim to serve the architect of love? Where would a true God stand on their actions? Would he actually forgive them on nothing but the strength of a Sunday prayer? No, those dudes are tumbling straight toward a brimstone bubble bath, and if it meant they’d fall in a little sooner, I’d happily give them a push.
God is an invention of mankind, an excuse to exist, and to thrive, in a subhuman state. Government must become and remain a servant of humanity. It cannot, and will not, with a religious figurehead at its helm.
Cathartic?
Up to a point. “Yes, it felt good
to put it down on paper, I guess.”
It would feel better wrapping
the paper around those guys’ heads
and duct taping it really tightly
around their necks so they’d have
reading material on that trip to hell.
But I probably shouldn’t say so.
You don’t see anything in what
you wrote that could make some
people a little nervous about
what you might have planned?
“Planned? Martha, the only thing
I have planned is graduation.
I can’t see a thing beyond June.
Wait. That didn’t come out right.
What I mean is, I’m not sure
about college or a career. But that
has nothing to do with planning
an act of mayhem. I have no desire
to go to prison, or to join Luke,
whever he is or isn’t.” That is sincere,
and I guess that’s how I sound
because she visibly relaxes.
Well, that’s very good to hear.
To be frank, I’m not too concerned
about you planning some vicious
act of revenge. But let me ask you
this. How honest were you? And not
just with your readers. How honest
were you with yourself? In my opinion,
your essay lacks critical truths.
See, This Is Why I Hate Therapy
Everyone else is all worried about
assessing possible outcomes—
seeking the meaning of selected
words as if they’re hieroglyphics.
Martha wants to deconstruct
the storytelling, take it apart until
she exposes the infrastructure
of my psyche. “Like what?”
It’s a challenge, and she’s equal
to it, of course she is. That’s why
my parents pay her the big bucks,
relatively speaking. My parents
are actually pretty damn cheap.
She tilts her silver-tipped head.
First, despite your tendency
toward sarcasm and acerbic
wit, you’ve never exactly been
a loner, have you? From what
I’ve been able to discern,
you’re kind of an A-list kid.
What List?
That was so not the question I expected.
“A-list? On my best year, I doubt
I even approached the B-minus roster.”
She smiles, but I know she’ll keep on
me unless I dig down and unearth
a reasonably honest answer. “Well, sure,
yeah. I have friends. But, you know,
since I got together with Hayden,
I prefer spending time with her.”
But in your essay you said you had to
work to keep friends. Did you perhaps
lose a few when Luke came out?
Oh shit. I see what’s she’s doing.
She’s good. She’s very good. “Come
on, Martha. Why ask questions you
already know the answer to? Besides
our resident Bohemian woods dwellers,
Cottage Grove is a relatively conservative
community. All those factory workers
may love their weed and claim to be all
about equal rights, but let’s face it.
We’re eighty percent white-bread here,
and don’t much talk about which way we
lean, and if you figure high school jocks
into that mix, this wasn’t a great place
for Luke to come into the world gay,
you know? Man, I begged him to play
straight, and he acted the part pretty
well. Whatever his attraction, it’s not like
he was out cruising for boy dates anyway.
He was too young to have the first idea how
to go about such a thing. But then the wrong
person overheard the wrong conversation,
and that person, well, as I’m sure you’ve
already intuited, he was supposed to be
my friend, but that’s how the whole thing
got started and . . .” Vince and I were
pretty great friends growing up, in fact.
We ran in a pack—Marshall, Vince, Doug,
and me. Luke always wanted to tag along,
which would have been okay had I been
in charge. But the other guys didn’t think
he could keep up and were mortified
to have a little kid attached like a tail
whenever there were girls around,
especially since most females found
Luke just “so darn adorable.” Then, as
we got older, my buddies and I were doing
things no younger brother should witness.
“Yeah, I was defriended because of Luke.
Obviously they weren’t very good friends.”
Only Marshall didn’t blink an eye,
mostly because, big confession, his favorite
uncle is gay: Big effing deal. Why should
It’s not like he gives me all the filthy
details. And man, can that Taylor cook!
Tell Luke to be sure and find someone
who knows how to make homemade
pizza. See, that is why I love Marshall.
But I leave that off the table. “Anyway,”
I tell Martha, “I still have decent friends,
not to mention a girlfriend to die for.”
Tongue Slips
Are making this conversation
so tiresome. Martha stares at me
quizzically. “Not literally expire
for. Man, can’t I use a colloquialism
without inspiring paranoia?”
No comment. Instead, she asks,
What about your nightmares?
I could lie, but what’s the point
of therapy if I don’t admit, “I still
have them from time to time. But
not nearly as often as I used to.”
She looks unconvinced. When
was the last time you had one?
Confession, I’ve heard, is good
for the soul. And that’s why I’m here,
isn’t it? “A couple of days ago.”
Her gray head nods expectation.
Did something specific trigger it?
Just hours ago I was dying—er,
I mean, anxious—to discuss Hayden
with an impartial third party. Yet, now
reluctance forms like a big glob
of phlegm in my throat. “I—uh—I’m
not sure. Maybe it’s because . . .”
Oh, what the hell? “I think it had
something to do with Hayden. We got
into a couple of arguments and I started
thinking about losing her. I don’t know
if I could handle losing someone else.”
I hate to point this out, but loss
is inevitable. You’re young and . . .
Even as my mouth spills the words
“I know,” my head swivels side to
side in the negative. “Okay, I know
we’re young. But why does that have
to mean we can’t last? Some people
who fall in love in high school stay
together for the rest of their lives.
Why couldn’t that be Hayden and me?
I hate how people make promises,
then turn around and break them.
I hate how everything good turns
to shit eventually. I hate when . . .”
I’m Panting Anxiety
Wheezing air like I just completed
a dozen wind sprints, Dad yelling
at me to hurry. Move it. Why can’t you
run like your brother? Yeah, Dad.
Luke outran me all the way to hell,
which is about the time I started getting
mild anxiety attacks. Guess I’ll have to
catch up to him there. Martha sighs.
Deep breaths, Matt. In. Pause. Out.
Pause. Remember what I showed
you last time. She lifts her hands,
rotates her palms upward for in. Pause.
Turns them toward the floor for down.
Directing my breathing like a symphony.
It’s fascinating to watch, and without
really thinking about it, I collect myself—
oxygen intake and blood pressure start
to normalize, and I can breathe comfortably
again. “Man. You are really good.
Do you come in a portable model?”
She grins. The whole point of therapy
is giving you the necessary tools to use
on your own, so a portable me is
unnecessary. You should be practicing
this exercise at home. Proper oxygen