Stupid Fast

Chapter 12: MAKING A LIST, CHECKING IT TWICE




Downstairs in my room, I pulled the leather pouch out of my sock drawer and almost pulled out shiny rocks (semiprecious stones from Brazil) and crystals to try to relax but then caught myself. Don’t do that. I jammed the pouch back in with the socks.

Then I found my notebook where I always meant to take notes about life and whatnot, which I’d never done. I wanted to write something about how I wasn’t the problem. I wanted to write about Jerri, but I couldn’t. The notebook was completely empty. What are you supposed to write in these things? I emailed Gus:

there is strong possibility that i’m nuts primarily because my mother and brother have made me nuts, not to speak of my dad, who was also likely nuts (or maybe had been driven nuts by my mom). it’s not my fault. do you keep a journal of your thoughts?



Gus responded an hour or so later. Extremely out of character, he wrote like a million words, way too much to read. Clearly, he was bored out of his cabbage. Here is some of what he wrote:

i own nothing but my thoughts (and also my pants)…you ever hear of hugo chavez? he’s el presidente and he hates america because we love money and mcdonalds (i want a quarter pounder) and he took away american tv so i cant watch anything i understand…i’m writing a book about spies who eat tacos and hide in large house plants…grandma moans and farts and swears at dad in spaniard HILARIOUS…use notebook to write to-do lists. dad does that…



None of what Gus said made any sense. Not even my oldest friend made sense? I remember being at his house for dinner with my parents when we were toddlers. (Yeah, his dad and my dad were friends—at least colleagues; there were always colleagues around and parties and picnics—that’s something I remember from when Dad was alive.) I remember Gus had white baby booties with bells on them, and I chased him around because he made a jingle noise, which I liked, and both our dads were totally dying laughing because Gus didn’t want to be chased, but I wouldn’t stop. Gus’s dad said “Chasing booty. Chip off the old block” to my dad. I remember that perfectly. That might be my first memory actually. But even Gus had become incomprehensible.

Well, at least he mentioned I could use my notebook to make a to-do list of my goals and plans, etc. So I did. This is all I wrote. I’m reading the original right now (it seriously took me about three hours):





Lift weights with Cody.

Get driver’s license.

Consider giving up comedy, as comedy isn’t even funny anymore.

Stop talking to Jerri and Andrew.



Then because I was so exhausted from not sleeping the night before and from what Jerri called my “time of growth,” I went out and flopped onto the couch, flipped on the TV (truTV, not Comedy Central), and went to sleep. I had no dreams. I slept like a rock all afternoon (while the sound of COPS reruns played in the background), only waking a couple of times before morning—once to sneak upstairs and jam about a loaf of bread, a pound of cheese, and a banana in my mouth and once when Andrew poked me so he could show me a YouTube video of Aleah bashing a piano keyboard like a goddess. Even from Andrew’s laptop, the sound was like that Florida wave crashing on me.

“She’s too good,” he said. “She’s really, really good.”

“Uh huh,” I agreed, getting goose bumps. (I said uh huh—grunts, not words—so as not to break my plan to not speak to him or Jerri.)

“Yes,” Andrew whispered.

Before I fell back asleep, I replied to Gus’s mammoth email. I wrote: beautiful girl in nightie lives in your house and plays your piano.

I’m very certain that Jerri didn’t check on me or watch me sleep.