Dr. Bird's Advice for Sad Poets (15 page)

I want to spend time with
adorable.

Beth has her short hair pulled back with a green headband thing. She’s wearing a spring-y skirt and lipstick. Her ears, her lips, her nose, all seem perfectly balanced on her face. Her forehead makes a smooth arc at her hairline. She is
adorable.

Do I look at her breasts? Of course! Plus, I can tell I will definitely see down her shirt later and it won’t even be on purpose. It will be a result of the natural movements of a dinner between people, as well as the semiautomatic glances of my eyes and the intentionally loose design of her shirt.

She picked the shirt. I’ll do my best but cannot promise anything.

What am I supposed to do? Pretend like she’s not a girl? Pretend like I haven’t imagined what she looks like without clothes? Pretend I don’t want to know, desperately, if she has big nipples or small? If she shaves? If she wears thongs? Or if she’s more fantastic than any of those individual little sexy facts that would thrill me in the moment of discovery?

Will her laughter lose the power to make my heart hurt? Will we ever run out of things to talk about, serious or not? Will we hold hands tonight? Will I be close enough to inhale the soft smell of the shampoo or perfume that she chose for tonight? Will I be funny enough to make her laugh and make us both forget about time and place and circumstances beyond our control?

Will I be able to hold off a new round of anxiety and depression?

We hug. People look at us or they don’t. I tune everything out, even the people close to our age, the jealous boys I see and the girls I’d normally let my eyes wander over just to take in a passing smile.

Our buzzer goes off and we sit and I think that maybe Jorie will appear after all. That maybe the hostess thought I said someone else’s name. But no, the waiter is a dude with mutton chops and earrings and he’s very happy we chose Fillmore’s tonight. We send him off with drink orders.

“How are you feeling tonight?” Beth asks.

“I’m not sure how to respond!” I laugh.

“Why not?”

It’s hard to explain why without sounding foolish.

“It’s just been a weird couple of days.” I unpeel the napkin wrap from the silverware.

“You were very down on the phone last night. Had me worried.”

“I got better.”

“But you still had a weird day today?”

“Yeah, I guess. We don’t need to get into it, but my sister apparently doesn’t work here anymore.”

“Does that mean we’re going to get crappy service?” Beth smiles and I smile and we talk about other things.

Here is a poem I write in my head:

This is the hour I hide everything

Behind my eyes

To see if you can see

All the trouble my brain’s been brewing.

Yes, I feel I am the worst and you are the best

And yet, and yet,

Nothing bad unfolds as we sit,

Young and nervous,

Alive and bursting,

With futures that may not entwine.

Who am I?

Who am I to sabotage what may be too small

For even chaos to notice

And disassemble?

When Beth leaves to use the restroom I pull out my cell phone to check the time. It’s flying by.

I have three texts from Derek, all of them begging me to let him know if I see Sally making out with some dude in the parking lot.

Slightly annoyed by this reminder of other people’s concerns, I still manage to peek around to see if Derek’s double agent girlfriend appears.

I notice her floating around the bar, over to the hostess station, stopping at tables. Normal shift manager responsibilities.

I text back that she’s working and doesn’t seem to be paying close attention to any heinous-looking dudes.

Me: She hasn’t even been to the parking lot, from what I see.

Derek: Check her knees. Are there little pieces of gravel in her knees?

Me: What??

Derek: BJ in the parking lot. Ha!

Me: You are sad.

Derek: Good news, then. But keep an eye on her.

Me: I’m on a date, man. Give me a break.

Derek: It’s not a date unless she touches you where you pee.

Me: Good night, loser.

I put the phone away as Beth returns.

“You got a hot date?” she says, noting the phone I’m slipping in my pocket.

“I do, actually.” I smile at her.

She grins and her eyes break contact with mine. This feels like an important gesture.

“So I want to say that I’m glad you’re feeling better and I’m glad we got to hang out tonight.”

She twirls her straw and little bits of soda fleck the tabletop. She wipes them away with her palm.

“We should do this again,” I say, because that’s what people say when dates go well.

“I told my boyfriend I was coming here with you tonight.”

Ugggggggh. You know all those butterflies that live and party-till-they-puke in my stomach? Even they feel bad for me right now.

“What did
Drama Mavens
have to say?”

“I just told him the truth. That a good friend of mine needed cheering up!”

Now it’s time for me to break off eye contact. It’s time for me to break off everything. I poke ice with my straw. I pick up the little ball of straw paper and unroll it, then twist it into a thin, toothpick-y shape. I twirl it between my finger and thumb. I pay very close attention to this and try not to listen.

“Are you okay, James?”

“Yeah. It’s fine. I just thought. I just got myself into a place where my hopes . . .” I look out the windows, but it’s dark outside and the windows are tinted and I can see more of my reflection than anything else. Seeing myself is not what I need right now.

“You just sounded so terrible on the phone last night,” she says.

“I shouldn’t have called. I should have called someone else.”

Beth’s face defies interpretation. Mostly because my eyes hurt and my brain races and my breathing has become cold and slow.

“It’s okay that you called. I just shouldn’t have pretended like this was a date. I have a boyfriend.”

“A guy that you don’t really like. Or that doesn’t like you.” I’m trying to be mean, but I’m also sure of all the things she’s said about him. What was the point of all those little secrets being divulged to me? She confided in me but now wants to pretend like I don’t know any of that information? She dresses for a date but we’re not on a date?

“It’s complicated.” She looks around, as if we’re making a scene. But no one’s paying attention to us. Even I don’t want to know who we are.

“It’s not that I don’t like you, James. If things were different this would be a different kind of night.”

“We should get the check,” I suggest, because I can’t listen to someone else tell me how my life could be different if it were different.

It is the longest ten minutes of my life so far.

Outside she hugs me. She doesn’t press herself close to me. She doesn’t press her hands very hard on my back. She doesn’t let the hug linger, draw out, define itself. I imagine she’s looking off at some stranger and wants to shrug. My eyes are closed because that seems like the right thing to do for a hug like this.

I sit on one of the benches after she’s gone. I guess all the poems I’ve composed will get buried in my closet. I guess the website literary magazine will get scrapped. Roy will be pissed that we got him jazzed for an idea that we’re scrapping for non-poetry-related reasons.

What would Whitman think about all this? He didn’t write about girls, but he had to have loved someone. His hurt heart had to feel the same, right?

I want to pull out a copy of
Leaves of Grass
right now, but the paperback version that always accompanies me sits at home on my dresser. Why bring Whitman on a date with a girl who doesn’t like him? She would not be impressed. And here I am in desperate need of him.

I fidget. I pace around. I consider walking home or to Jorie’s (if I can remember the way). I can’t call my dad for a ride home. He’ll know that things didn’t go well even if I lie about it. Because I won’t be able to lie about it. I’ll just mumble my answers and tell him nothing bad happened. Sometimes he does know things that he should not comment on. Sometimes I just need to be left alone. And sometimes the people I want to bother me let me down.

I see Sally come outside and light up a cigarette. She’s alone. I watch her. I want to know if she’s a villain too. She’s standing there very sure of herself. She looks like everyone else in Fillmore’s except she has a phone clipped to her belt. Must be great to have authority, even a small amount of it. She can feel like she has some purpose in the world.

Then I get more mad and wonder
Why Derek?
Why did she pick him over anyone? A girl like that? He can’t go to bars or clubs with her. She can’t expect him to buy her things. He’s not a romantic guy. He’s just a guy. He’s my friend, but there has to be something wrong with her to need a relationship with a high school kid.

Sally’s texting and smoking, smiling, thrilling at her little life.

With a stomach full of irritated butterflies, I begin walking over to her and then follow as she walks inside.

In the main waiting area I tap her on the shoulder. She turns around with a pretend smile, the kind that’s always ready for a drunk and dissatisfied burger-stuffed customer.

“Sally.”

She doesn’t recognize me. Why would she?

“It’s James. Derek’s friend.”

“Oh, right, right! I didn’t recognize you with two good arms. How are you?”

“I’m good. But I’d be better if you told me why you’re screwing around on Derek?”

“Excuse me?”

“He got a text message he wasn’t supposed to.” I watch as her face gets pale. I think. It’s hard to tell in the Fillmore’s lighting.

“Seems like you are waiting to see The Hype tonight?”

But now her potentially pale face changes to a healthy-colored smirk.

“He sent you to complain about a text message?”

“It seemed strange that you would be excited to do something on a Friday night with someone other than your fiancé and your underage boyfriend!”

I say this loud because fuck Sally and fuck Beth and fuck my parents and fuck me, most of all.

Sally starts walking away and I yell things at her that I should be ashamed of, but shame has no place in my mind right now. I’m racing along, buzzing with the manic energy I yearn to harness but never can.

“You think he doesn’t brag about all the dirty things you do in the parking lot of Fillmore’s?!”

Yes, I say that out loud. Very out loud.

Families go from enjoying their Millard Shakes to whispering about the crazy boy yelling at the manager. Couples on dates complain about the terrible atmosphere. Food service people apologize and distract with talk of appetizers and desserts.

I know how all these people operate. I know that they’re all just going to pretend like I’m not here trying to tear the walls down with my
fucking barbaric yaawwwwwppppp!

Did I say some of that out loud? I’m very scared that I don’t know.

A few tall, sideburns-sporting waiters and bus boys come over and urge me to leave.

“The great procreant urge of the world is not an excuse for sluttiness!” I turn and run and run some more.

Whitman would not be proud of this behavior.

At least he’s dead and never met me.

I KEEP RUNNING.
I’m not a runner, though, and I’m dressed for a date, so I get tired and hot quickly. I try to think of the direction of Jorie’s house, but I’m confused and too upset to recall the map in my mind.

What the hell do I do now?

I call Derek.

“What the fuck did you do to me this time?” he screams. “Sally just called me screaming about my asshole friend calling her a
whore
in front of the entire restaurant?!”

“I’m sorry. I got mad. I got really mad because Beth got weird and then I saw Sally and thought she was cheating on you with The Hype.”

I hear Derek talking to Flip in the pizza shop. Something about handwriting, bad addresses. Normal concerns.

“Why did you even say anything to her? I just said
watch
her. “

“You’re my friend. I needed to defend you!”

“Flip, there is no street with that name. Jesus Christ, man, learn how to write! Or listen!”

I hear Flip screaming at Derek and maybe Derek screaming back, but I’m standing in a quiet strip mall parking lot, so everything seems loud and blurred together in my phone’s earpiece.

“I’m sorry, Derek.”

“Stop talking.”

“I didn’t do it to ruin your life.”

“Stop talking!”

I can’t figure out who he’s addressing, so I shut up to be safe.

I’m quiet and listening to pizza shop shouting and then there’s three beeps and the call is dead.

Calling back to ask for a ride seems out of the question.

Wandering seems reasonable. Whitman wandered through nature, stopped to loaf, stopped to ponder.

This, then, is life;

Here is what has come to the surface after so many throes and convulsions.

Whitman didn’t write this for moping moments. It’s at a moment when he celebrates the cosmos. But I am incapable of celebration right now. I am a rotting oak, aware of the creaking of my diseased trunk. Gravity strengthens its constant pull. My limbs weaken. I will tumble, though I cannot tumble. My responsibilities crack and groan because I have been irresponsible.

I walk west, or what I think is west, because that’s what Whitman might suggest in a dark time.

Why can’t I recall the times that Whitman speaks of darkness? Why can’t I feel connected to him, even, at this low moment?

I recognize a street, a landmark eyesore, a streetlight, a bend in the road. Wandering has brought me to the bug-filled garage apartment of Jorie. Something has gone right. I plod up the steps, which creak like my soul. Was the soul designed to bend like a tree? Maybe. Does it have joints that squeak? Maybe.