Forget the Name of the One You Love Read online

  This waitress, for instance: I have been out of wine for five minutes. What could she be doing back in the kitchen?

  The double doors to the kitchen explode open with the force of a hurricane and out of this abattoir crawls just the person I was thinking of, carrying a tray balanced precariously on her shoulder. She pulls up to where Isabel and I sit mindlessly flirting with each other. I immediately ask her to refill my wine.

  The plates of food disperse across the table, offering a different option to fill the void. Instead of mindless chatter we stuff meat, bread and potatoes into our mouths for a couple minutes, wash it all down with more wine, then we resume the mindless chatter again. Oh yeah, isn’t this fun?

  But you know that some times a little piece of the truth will slip out when you least expect it; alcohol is often the lubricant for truth. I guess it’s all about whether you can accept other people’s truths as your own, if you can shape ideas from clay about miracles experienced by different eyes. As it happened, I felt myself dragged along in the flow of conversation until the current started to push me under. Feelings rose to the surface I had long repressed. Words echoed their meaning out of my hollow lungs and the parody playing on Isabel’s lips tried to console me by showering on advice.

  Don’t live in the past, she says. Learn to move on, learn to accept what you don’t have control over.

  Yeah, well, they never taught me any of this in school. All they taught were theories. I never learned how to deal with this, but trust me; I’m trying. I’m trying so hard. God, believe me. It’s just hard.

  One thing is for certain though, people like helping other people. If you don’t have anyone to turn to, Lord, I pity your everlasting soul. Find someone, or, do it like me and find as many people as you can. You can learn something new from everyone you meet, like the meaning of words: kindness, empathy, love. Like I said before, don’t ask me to tell you the specifics, but it was a good date. I woke up some time the next morning in her bed.

  #

  “Hey, man, puff puff pass.”

  Nick, the weasel, the scavenger. If you ever run dry he’s got your back, just give him a call. Even if he’s in the middle of banging a chick he’ll have a half ounce of the best stuff you’ve ever smoked in your lap within the hour. He’ll even give you a discount but then you’re gonna be stuck with him for the rest of the day. So be prepared to listen. Hold on to your ears tight or they might get blown off.

  “So the other day I was walkin’ down the street, y’know, just mindin’ my own business, when this fuckin’ pig comes creepin’ up on me all slow ‘n shit. He rolls his window down and sees the blunt hangin’ from my fingers and he’s all like ‘Sir, have you been smoking marijuana?’ and I’m like ‘Excuse me, officer? Hell no, I don’t touch dope.’ And that cop just rolls right along. They ain’t got shit on me, ya dig?”

  “Yeah man, don’t let them tell you what to do.” That’s just one of my stock phrases to respond to all these identical stories I hear every day of the week—Christ, it seems like everyone in my life thinks this grand old Society thing has it out for them. I wish I could slap everyone who whines at me and shout, Buck up, son. This is life. But there is a veil preventing me from ever connecting to anyone. Every time words distill in my mind they only make it to my throat before vanishing into apathy. Never again will a true word cross my lips.

  Nick leans back his head and blows smoke rings up through the motionless air of the living room. An antique television set cowers in the corner, crackling fuzz at us. The picture on the box is of some overproduced Sitcom family living life the way its lived on television. Not much there to hold my attention. What does arrest my attention are the patterns swirling in the smoke. A human nose rotates a perfect 360 degrees, elongating and folding in upon itself before I can make out both the eyes floating above it. The spectral face winks at me. I blink and the image vanishes. “Hey man this shit is so dank, what’s it called?”

  “What you’re smoking right now is called Sour Diesel. Man, that’s the dopest dope I ever smoked. Eighty dolla for an eighth if you’re innarested.”

  “Man, I think I’m gonna have to nab some of that from you, but not right now. Right now I feel like swimming.”

  Nick passes the blunt back to me and I loosely balance it between my lips. Tilting my head back onto the cushion, I close my eyes and inhale. Stars explode and my head starts vibrating. Images flash on and off of the canvas of my lids, dim faces, remnants of lives scattered to the wind. Blonde curls. And a jungle.

  #

  “Shit, dude, you all right?”

  What just happened? Arms and legs akimbo, my temples throbbing acidly, splayed across the floor next to the coffee table. How did I get in this position and why does it feel like I just missed a little bit of the action? And why does my head hurt so god damn bad? Will I be able to sit up?

  As I move my arms to push myself into a sitting position, the rush of blood sends my head spinning Exorcist style. I rest my head on my knees and groan strings of gibberish, all the sense I can make of my rapidly evaporating world.

  I feel a hand touch the skin on my shoulder blade, a comforting hand—an anchor to reality. “You all right, man? You scared this shit out of me right there.”

  I weakly nod my head and tilt it to the side so I can see Nick. “Yeah…. I think so. What happened?”

  “First, let’s get you onto the couch.”

  Nick offers me his hand to pull myself up, but my vision has slowed down so I decide to stand up on my own, but as I stand my head starts reeling again. I aim my body for the couch and plummet onto the cushions, absorbing all the pain from my body. If I close my eyes I can pretend I’m in heaven.

  Nick lingered over my comatose body, worrying about whether I’d have another seizure. I felt perfect, his encroaching presence only agitated me. “Hey, man, chill out. I’m fine now, just had a rush of blood to my head.”

  “Man, you sure? You were having a fit down on the floor. I think you should go to the hospital to be safe.”

  “Nah, man, really, I’m cool now. Just let me rest.”

  “Alright man. Don’t lose it again.” Nick casts one last wary glance at me before retracing his steps back to his seat, turning his attention back to the television.

  As I float in a pool of jell-o, feeling the quicksand pull on the center of my chest, a motionless freefall through the space of my mind, a vague thought rises over the horizon–a substanceless idea swirling in eddies across the expanses, coagulating at a point just to the left of the center of my field of vision. As I experience the transformation of thought into idea I feel as my mouth drops open, an iron stove pipe coughing up steam, and streams of speech flow through the murky air straight into Nick’s ear canals. Through some miracle of nature, maybe the only true gift of the gods, this arrangement of vocal sounds instigates a reaction in Nick, who stands up in response, walking towards the coffee table, standing over the spot I had fallen in. Nick’s tendons constrict as his limbs contort into awkward angles as he kneels down and drags the tips of his fingers through the shag carpet. A subtle movement of his face betrays the excitement of discovery, the smile, brightening his features, tells that he has found what he was searching for. He grips the newfound item between his forefinger and thumb and raises it to his mouth, sucking in a lungful of air and smoke.

  Between coughs, Nick gasps, “I did not expect it to be lit. Shit, my lungs are burnin’ like a mofo.”

  The coherence of Nick’s words calms down my feverish brow, a reminder that logic still exists if not inside my mind. I burrow down under the cushions to find a more secure spot to hide from the oncoming terror. The demons are knocking at the door but my leg is still sticking out from under the cushion; they’re gonna spot me.

  Without warning the air around my head explodes with surges of static energy. A lightning bolt cast by the hand of Zeus striking between my eyes, but I discover that if I close my eyes that the room stops spinning. Using this ability, I guar
d my mind against the attacks raining down through the air.

  Another explosion, this one louder, startles me out of my nest I have constructed. I leap to my feet, sending the cushions cascading down around me, and stare straight into the shadowed corner where, on the screen, a bunch of actors are pretending to fight a war. Who would put that on right now, at this moment? It’s already a war zone in this room, why is Nick destroying the balance?

  Overwhelmed by the negative energy, I ask Nick to change the channel. He claims it is his house and that he wants to watch this one. Feeling bold, I dart across the room to the television and flip the channel down, turning on CNN.

  Nick groans at me, “Shit, man, not cool. I wouldn’t come into your house and change your channel.”

  “I couldn’t take that one. I just want to chill out.”

  “Hell yeah. Man, I got some awesome ass jams you need to check out. Do you know where my laptop is?”

  “Nah. Shit, why would I know that?”

  “I dunno.” Nick chuckles to himself, then turns his attention back to the television. I walk back to the couch and lie back in my cradle. Apparently there was a school shooting over in Texas the other day. Who would’ve guessed?

  #

  “Yes, come in.” I open the door a crack and peak in. Behind the door is a luxurious office, decked out with a fancy desk, a bookcase lining the wall and a green sofa against the back wall. “Oh yes, you must be Jack. I was expecting you. Well, have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”

  A very pleasant looking woman sits behind the desk, dressed in business clothing. A placard on the oak surface reads Dr. Thatcher. I nod at her, cupping my hands together to camouflage their shaking, as I walk across the room and sit on the edge of the sofa, ready for all hell to break loose. “Well, Jack, it’s nice to meet you. I could hear the anxiety in your voice when we were talking on the phone. Do you want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

  I have to lean forward even further to hear what she says. Her voice seems to drip from her mouth without any weight, floating up through the cool air of the office to disappear into the vent. “Well, I guess I can give it my best shot. Everything I say is strictly confidential, right?”

  “Of course, Jack. Nothing you say will ever leave this room.”

  “All right. I guess I came here because, well… I don’t know who I am any more. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Oh, yes. You’d be surprised how many people struggle to discover their own identity. But before I go on I want you to recognize that I cannot cure your mind. I can only guide you to a better path, but if you are willing to put forth the effort, I’m sure we can help you get back on track.”

  “Okay. Listen, I’m desperate for some help. I thought I had it figured out but lately I’ve been blacking out in random places and I can’t even hold a straight thought together. You tell me what to do and I’ll try my hardest.”

  “That’s the spirit. But, I don’t want to give you any false hope. This is not going to be a miracle cure. It will take time and devotion, but don’t let your spirit flag and in a couple months we’ll have you put back together. Today I am just going to start with some basic questions so I can get to know you better.”

  Much to my chagrin, the building tension breaks and washes back, leaving my soul exposed. I had prepared for an existential battle with the shrink but the state of calm uncertainty her words leave me in shake my control of the situation. I find myself left to the mercy of the questions rushing forward to meet me, no choice but to tell the truth. I owe myself that much. If I tell the truth once, Lord, let it be now.

  Dr. Thatcher goes into her shrink mode: notebook spread on the desk, pencil in hand, a sparkle in her eyes. She asks me a question. I respond mechanically. She asks very specific questions so I find that it becomes harder and harder to paint the truth any different colors. If I take a step back and view the scene from my subconscious layer of defense I find it easier to let the words slip through my lips.

  After thirty minutes of chipping away at the wall blocking me from the rest of humanity, Dr. Thatcher smiles and says “Well done, Jack. I think we have done enough for today. If you could make an appointment with the secretary for next week, that would be terrific. I’ll see you again then.”

  The fog had been thickening with each question she asked, so the abrupt ending takes me by surprise. I feel content to lay there until my body starts to decay, but Dr. Thatcher’s kind gaze melts some of the ice enveloping my mind. Shaking my head to return to reality, I slowly push myself to my feet.

  “Guess I’ll see you next week then, Dr. Thatcher.”

  “Please, call me Molly.”

  “Alright. Molly. Good bye.”

  I swing the door shut after I exit the office, listen as my footsteps echo in the rafters stretching above me, gliding through the twisting corridors until an angel appears twisting in upon itself, typing at a computer screen behind a window with smudge marks racing across the glass. She looks at me but her thick mascara makes her eyes look like black holes. I cringe back as her lips crack open. “Yes?”

  “Um… Dr. Thatcher asked me to make an appointment for next week.”

  “Yes, yes. I see. And what’s your name?”

  “Jack.”

  “Last name?”

  “Friedman.”

  “Alright, Mr. Friedman. What day is best for you?”

  “I think Wednesday would be the best.”

  “Next Wednesday the only appointment time open is at three in the afternoon.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll see you next week, Mr. Friedman. Have a good night.”

  “You too.”

  As I walk through the door out into the brisk, autumn night, I realize that the only person left I can talk to is back inside the building. The only thing left for me in this world is routine. It is the routine which holds me together despite everything tearing me apart. But I cannot have a conversation with routine. There is no reason to have one.

  #

  Day blends to night but sleep does not come. Thoughts tear apart the friction of my blanket; the abyss opens up under me as I fall headlong into the deluge of memories, the clarion call of past mistakes poking through the image I maintain with sweat and willpower. Stripped naked, I recoil at the cleaning so desperately needed. I need to whitewash the garbage heap and sort out the recyclables. Every night the same awareness reawakens as I swear to change, but the day is a different story. The autopilot has been running for so long I no longer remember how to turn it off. I grit my teeth and shovel all the shit that falls in my path. What else can I do?

  #

  One hour a week I am allowed to speak my mind. Look how pathetic I am. I’ll turn twenty seven soon but already I have to pay someone to even be allowed to talk. I thought that I was supposed to enjoy these years, enjoy it while I’m still young, so why am I trapped in hell?

  Sure, the girl I’ve been seeing for a couple months has been keeping me sedated, but I can’t stand to be around her when she starts in on one of her conversations. I am not interested to hear any more about your pet cat, and, trust me, I had a worse day than you. No, I don’t want to tell you about it. I want to forget about it. I want to erase my memory. I want to curl up and finally disappear.

  Only when I find myself ensconced in the green sofa in Molly’s office do I ever feel like an actual human. In the confines of her world I am able to discard all the false images that I had collected over the years from all the liars and cheats who had wormed their way into my confidences. She guides my vision and I start to see patterns drawn in neon across my universe, I start to notice the traps that had tricked me before. I start to see the long lost truth. I understand that everything I thought I knew was wrong. I tear apart all the fortifications—all the corridors and drawbridges—that make up the strong hold of my life. I do so with glee. I rejoice as the chaos rains down, I let all the stones sink back into the primordial ooze from whence I came and challe
nge the foundation to hold under my onslaught. Cheered on by Molly, I hold nothing back. My savior. Still, somewhere in the back of my mind a tiny thought still buzzes its wings: would she listen to me if I didn’t pay her out the ass?

  Epilogue

  I continued seeing Dr. Thatcher for over a year once a week. I cannot remember the exact conversations of any of our meetings; it was as if sitting in the green couch sent me into a trance and my inhibitions blurred at the edges letting more light out of my soul. The trick is that she listened to what I said even if I didn’t always listen to myself.

  As she got to know me she was able to help me see myself in a new light. She helped me learn that what happened in the past no longer has any relevance to the person I am today. The most important thing Dr. Thatcher taught me was a new sense of perspective.

  I should remember that I am only a single person in a world populated by billions. But that isn’t all that important. I should consider myself the center of my world so that I can find what makes me happy. But that seems kinda egotistical. I should find a source of stability so that I can withstand the force of the storm. That is the only thing that really feels right.

  My pen scratches its final trails across the paper. Putting the cap back on the pen, I lay it upon the table and shut the journal. I reach my hand towards the green desk lamp and pull the chord. The room descends into a murky predawn ambience, window-framed silhouettes cast in light from the street play across the wall and ceiling. The window is propped open, letting in a stiff breeze and sounds from the street below, the occasional car whizzing by. I yawn and stretch as I stand up, hobbling over to the window. Sticking my head out, I gaze up and down the street to see if anyone is still out. Guess it’s too late. I’m sure they’ll all be back in the morning. They always are.