(no subject)
A story, based off this.
People ask the wrong questions.
At a club on K Street, a man approaches me and asks me what ten CDs I would take to a deserted island. Which books, what people?
I ask him what he would kill to survive.
He has no response; he just looks at me as if I have hit him and orders himself another martini. I think about how alcohol has become an excuse to be an idiot, to avoid people, when it used to be such a social drug.
Later, my mother calls and asks me if she has grandchildren on the way. Do I have a girlfriend? A boyfriend? An anything?
I ask her if grandchildren would make her a better person. I ask her if my happiness need be compromised for her pleasure. I ask her if she understands what happiness is.
She calls me morose and tells me to call her later, when I’m in a better mood.
My shrink and I talk the next day, and he asks me how I feel, what I think, do I ever want to die?
I ask him if the medicine is working. I want him to tell me if I should feel so dead, if I should eat so little, if I should think about the things I think about.
He gives me an answer, but it’s just a hidden question. He offers me a thin consolation wrapped in another stupid question. What do you think, Kip?
I want to ask him if they really let him out of Hopkins, asking questions like that. If he really earned that degree on his wall, if he knows how old the issues of People in his lobby are.
Instead I shrug and say something about my childhood.
My shrink is the only person I lie to.
They told me, at the factory, that if I wanted to keep working there I’d have to see him and get some chemicals. So I go and I lie to him to keep them happy, to keep my job. But he and I both know I shouldn’t be there. It’s a little game we play.
I think later about the man at the bar. I think, next time someone asks me that, I will tell them I want to take a barcalounger. It will give them the idea that I am lazy, yet clever. I will tell them I will raise goats and father children with the island natives. Then I decide that if anyone did ask me, I’d sound rehearsed and I’d be that guy.
When I was little, I thought I’d raise bees. I don’t know where I got that idea; Winnie the Pooh or something. My mother never asked me, so she doesn’t know either. But I was going to keep bees and live off honey.
I don’t know when “beekeeper” became “box factory floor supervisor.” I wish someone would ask me how I got here. I wish I had a response for that question poised and ready, but, if I did, I might never have the occasion to use it. And why prepare something that’s just going to get wasted? That’s why I only buy frozen foods. Mom says it’s a stupid thing to do, that they suck the nutrients out before they freeze them.
I think she’s lying, and I ask her where she heard that. She says something about Consumer Reports, about Readers Digest and 60 Minutes. I decide not to say anything, but make sure to enjoy my Hungry Man that night, to spite her.
People are always asking me if I’m going to do something, and they never ask me what I’ve done. Even my shrink, he wants to know if I’m going to kill myself, not if I’ve ever tried.
The answer would be no. I love our game.
The most important thing, I decide, is not to go back to K Street this week. I’ll go to Dupont, wander the mall at night, or just sit on the steps of the Supreme Court. I like those steps; they signify the high questioning they do in there. I feel like, if I were to become a lawyer, I’d never have to answer questions about my CD collection ever again. I’d have to answer questions about murders and drugs, questions that someone’s life hangs on.
But I get up and I shower and I shave and I put on my uniform. I get on the metro and I look at the people who are pretending they’re not looking at me. Every so often, one of them is reading a novel, rather than doing those crosswords in the Post Express. I used to try to remember the book. The only one I ever succeed at recalling was Jurassic Park. I was so depressed by that that I stopped looking. And every passing day is one more in which I don’t apply to law school, one more in which I don’t answer the questions that other people think are so crucial.
And I just don’t know why.
People ask the wrong questions.
At a club on K Street, a man approaches me and asks me what ten CDs I would take to a deserted island. Which books, what people?
I ask him what he would kill to survive.
He has no response; he just looks at me as if I have hit him and orders himself another martini. I think about how alcohol has become an excuse to be an idiot, to avoid people, when it used to be such a social drug.
Later, my mother calls and asks me if she has grandchildren on the way. Do I have a girlfriend? A boyfriend? An anything?
I ask her if grandchildren would make her a better person. I ask her if my happiness need be compromised for her pleasure. I ask her if she understands what happiness is.
She calls me morose and tells me to call her later, when I’m in a better mood.
My shrink and I talk the next day, and he asks me how I feel, what I think, do I ever want to die?
I ask him if the medicine is working. I want him to tell me if I should feel so dead, if I should eat so little, if I should think about the things I think about.
He gives me an answer, but it’s just a hidden question. He offers me a thin consolation wrapped in another stupid question. What do you think, Kip?
I want to ask him if they really let him out of Hopkins, asking questions like that. If he really earned that degree on his wall, if he knows how old the issues of People in his lobby are.
Instead I shrug and say something about my childhood.
My shrink is the only person I lie to.
They told me, at the factory, that if I wanted to keep working there I’d have to see him and get some chemicals. So I go and I lie to him to keep them happy, to keep my job. But he and I both know I shouldn’t be there. It’s a little game we play.
I think later about the man at the bar. I think, next time someone asks me that, I will tell them I want to take a barcalounger. It will give them the idea that I am lazy, yet clever. I will tell them I will raise goats and father children with the island natives. Then I decide that if anyone did ask me, I’d sound rehearsed and I’d be that guy.
When I was little, I thought I’d raise bees. I don’t know where I got that idea; Winnie the Pooh or something. My mother never asked me, so she doesn’t know either. But I was going to keep bees and live off honey.
I don’t know when “beekeeper” became “box factory floor supervisor.” I wish someone would ask me how I got here. I wish I had a response for that question poised and ready, but, if I did, I might never have the occasion to use it. And why prepare something that’s just going to get wasted? That’s why I only buy frozen foods. Mom says it’s a stupid thing to do, that they suck the nutrients out before they freeze them.
I think she’s lying, and I ask her where she heard that. She says something about Consumer Reports, about Readers Digest and 60 Minutes. I decide not to say anything, but make sure to enjoy my Hungry Man that night, to spite her.
People are always asking me if I’m going to do something, and they never ask me what I’ve done. Even my shrink, he wants to know if I’m going to kill myself, not if I’ve ever tried.
The answer would be no. I love our game.
The most important thing, I decide, is not to go back to K Street this week. I’ll go to Dupont, wander the mall at night, or just sit on the steps of the Supreme Court. I like those steps; they signify the high questioning they do in there. I feel like, if I were to become a lawyer, I’d never have to answer questions about my CD collection ever again. I’d have to answer questions about murders and drugs, questions that someone’s life hangs on.
But I get up and I shower and I shave and I put on my uniform. I get on the metro and I look at the people who are pretending they’re not looking at me. Every so often, one of them is reading a novel, rather than doing those crosswords in the Post Express. I used to try to remember the book. The only one I ever succeed at recalling was Jurassic Park. I was so depressed by that that I stopped looking. And every passing day is one more in which I don’t apply to law school, one more in which I don’t answer the questions that other people think are so crucial.
And I just don’t know why.