You held up your hands defensively. “I think all the guys on the piers wish they were cops. They believe they’re characters in an Elmore Leonard book or something.”
“A lot of them eat in my dad’s restaurant,” I said. “The real cops too. I’d say they’re more Carl Hiaasen than Elmore Leonard. They’re the kind of guys who wear novelty socks.”
You leaned your head to one side, intrigued. “You like books?”
I shook my head. “Used to.”
I could see the curiosity on your face, but you didn’t press. I think you heard something in my tone. “Well, okay,” you said, backing away.
Me: repelling people since seven years old.
I saw the 9 bus then and jerked my head at it. “That’s my bus,” I said.
“You sure I can’t drive you? In a noncreepy way?”
“I’m sure. Thanks.”
You smiled a tentative smile. That was one of the things that impressed me about you: another guy faced with what I’m sure was a pretty frosty demeanor from me might have felt hurt, rejected. But you stayed nice. I think you really did just want to help. “Catch you later,” you said.
“Yeah,” I said.
I KNOW: It’s like Romeo and Juliet all over again, isn’t it? Dialogue FOR THE AGES.
Of course, I didn’t feel anything though. I didn’t have, for instance, butterflies in my stomach. I couldn’t feel anything, because of the drugs.
No. No, that’s not true. I think I did feel something for you, even then, but it’s like when I was sedated—I know I felt it, but I can’t remember it. Which sucks in a whole other way, as if my memory is taking you away from me, erasing you. When I look back on myself in those days I see a dead person walking around, dressed up in new skin. Even then, standing at the bus shelter, in the light, with you by your truck, it was as if everything was a little too shiny and unmoving, like everything was behind glass, even the sun.
Then you drove off and I got on the bus and went to my appointment, where Dr. Rezwari asked me if I was hearing the voice anymore and when I said no, not really, she pretty much just shoved me out of her office right away. She’d given up even on offering me books by this point.
Here is the thing: if you hear a voice, it is very important to those like Dr. Rezwari to make it stop, and keep it stopped. This is because they are afraid the voice will tell you to hurt other people. And yourself, of course. So they load you up with risperidone until you’re nothing but your own shadow, and they call it a day.
I don’t blame them for this. I get it.
It’s just—if she had, only once, asked me when the voice started. Or why I thought I heard it, or anything about it. What it sounded like. Who it sounded like.
If she’d asked those questions, then maybe I would have gotten better sooner. Would have been spared a trip to the ER.
Anyway.
You probably remember that whole conversation at your car differently, of course. I am quite sure you were confused and maybe even a little hurt by my flatness, I mean; in those days I could barely motivate the muscles of my mouth to smile. That’s the thing. Our versions of reality always differ, even when we’re supposedly sane.
But I thought you were cool, even right then at the start. I want you to know that.
I think it was maybe a week later that I saw Paris again. I hadn’t really seen you in that time. I mean, I’d passed you and Shane on the lawn a couple of times, drinking your beers, and I’d seen you drive past in your truck, sometimes laden with bags full of Elmos or Beanie Babies. We’d said hello and stuff. Had some epically awkward interactions in the laundry area—Dad and I used the same machines—some painful false starts.
“Oh, you wear T-shirts too!”
That kind of thing.
Awful.
Anyway, I was on my way out of the hospital from seeing Dr. Rezwari and Paris was standing there smoking by the revolving door. It was hot, and she was wearing a string vest. I mean like an old man’s mesh tank top; you could see everything.
“Hey, Fortune Teller,” she said.
“Hey,” I said.
She was leaning against the wall right by the door, in the cool blast from the air-conditioning inside; the air in town was muggy, full of rain that needed to fall. “Appointment?” she said.
“Yeah. You still here?”
“No. Outpatient too now.”
“Good,” I said. When they let you out it means they don’t think you’re in imminent danger of doing something stupid. “You got an appointment too?”
“Done. Now I’m waiting for a ride.” She examined me. “You look ******* terrible, BTW.”
“What?”
It really was a tic, see?
“Your skin, your eyes, everything. Diazepam? Valium?” She peered at my eyes. “No. Haldol. Wait, no, that’s kind of a big gun, you’d be drooling more. Risperidone. Yep. Risperidone. I’m right, yeah?”
I stammered. “Y-yes.”
“You feel like you’re wrapped in cotton?”
Fog was how I thought of it, but, yes, close enough. “Uh, yeah.”
“Me too. You have to stop that shit, seriously.”
I shook my head.