It all started when she didn't laugh at my joke. Some reality show she was watching—she said I joke around too much—where the guys and the girls decide to strip naked on the beach and run in. Probably they live together—came back from a club or somethin.' I had made her watch Cobra the night before. You know, it's been scientifically proven watching those shows lowers your intelligence by point something percent. I don't know if I was cognizant of the blaring irony at the time; I bit my lip just now, if that counts for much. You watch retarted things, too. You always make me feel bad about myself. She said I was rude. She stripped me naked, yes she did. I paused for a moment, apologized—in case she's ever interviewed for some memorial documentary. She brushed it off and I hated her. I've been cold to her since. I note how frequently she eats. I whispered to the house manager, she's got her ice cream in our fridge. A pizza, too. It's carrying over, I cried. I went out and bought a bunch of frozen shit I didn't need. And it's carrying over.
My head's gotten heavy lately. That's how I fall. I've found a niche exploiting my vulnerability. I've been telling on myself, trying to impress them, that I'm trying to impress them.
Another writing assignment. It's been feeling like college all over again. I tried to tell her I'm not used to interacting, and that's partly true. The last time I used—playtime was spent—I sat in a soothing, uncomfortable clarity. It must have gone on for hours—by the door, looking out into the backyard on my deskchair, chaining-smoking and hunched over. I ran through a long list of people and friends I had subtly undermined in our conversations.
The group dynamic again. They brush off the jokes I interject from the back of the van. They don't see me as a serious man. I bite my fist each time I do it again. We love you, ____. There was a slight before it, I'm sure of it. So I put on my best suit and ask a lot of questions, seizing any solemn moment, an opportunity. Wrestling inside, just let that one go. And here I thought you were going to say something serious again. You should have passed on that one, buddy. I bite my fist each time I do it again. Ever hear of: here's a thought, watch it pass? I've been in a heated debate in my head, wherein I hate them.
He asked for Jack's number—Why didn't he ask for mine? I wanted to start shouting out random numbers—11, 92, 12. It's that flaming petulance, growing in me. The Matts and Armens of the world again. Jack's got in good with him. He sits shotgun in the van. Nick and him are boys, he says. George had a job interview; we did mock sessions and schooled him in group. He couldn't make eye contact. He's a lovable bear, and said the interview went great. He relapsed the very next day. He was about to start school, worked on letters with his counselor for various courts, then she went off and quit. Jack had took his spot about a week or two ago—he put on his hoodie and his head hung low. He was quiet, I noticed, from the back of the van. I'll show those bastards. I'm the crusader for the humble guy.
I apologized to Rudy after for being so defensive. I said I realized only after what was my true vision of sobriety, but it was too private to share. Prior, some of the guys talked about the face Natalia must make looking back, being stugotzed from behind. The face transformed and I snapped my band.
I was itching to raise my hand. Don't appear too eager; play it cool, play it patient. I thought I'd have to pause in between the laughter. Don't go and lose your mystique. I envision gold, women, cars, gold cars on a TV screen that I won't see... But the lines weren't landing. It was so flat. Cause I'll be reading. I felt naked again.
We went back and forth. It's all practice for me, I said, but I oozed a sheepish beseeching. Every face was a body of water through which I was sinking. I don't even know what the hell that means. He said it was funny, but I didn't hear them laughing. You're a good writer—I know it's important to you. Ah, don't say that! Then he said I didn't do what he asked, and I felt like my parents were scolding me, like she caught me insincere; she knew I want to have sex. I don't compromise my writing. The vision is there. How is it not there? I refuse to make lists—I don't know what else I ranted. My body started to shake and I lowered my hands from view. It was getting embarrassing. He said I didn't ask you to make a list. He made me tell him that in high school I read The Stranger under a tree during a field trip; and how fun and easy it was to follow War & Peace once I opened it, probably under some kind of tree, too. On my bed. There were no sweat stains from the back of my head. He wouldn't let me slide, not me, he said. I mumbled it was my ego, but it wasn't very audible. I sank in thought once the attention was off, guilty inside, like I had committed a crime no one would admit. The transferred face came back to life.
All those years. Then God's cruel joke on me. There was another writer in the group. He had said, Rudy, come on, it's not that bad, Rudy. Before I knew it he outdid me. His vision was poetry—it didn't even rhyme. I knew the jury was in. He carried the reader deep into each sentence, descriptive adjectives, images, and the texture of granite. He envisioned living in a community where social interaction was not like competitive jousting.
