More Than You Can Chew Page 4

  DAY 17

  JUNE 30

  We are all seated like good little soldiers waiting for our next assignment. We never know if this will be the mission where one of us is captured and tortured. Where the enemy twists any information we give and uses it against the rest of us. The faces around the table show no fear. All of them would make good poker players.

  The art therapist, who comes three times a week, walks into the dining room and says, “Today I want you to write about your neighborhood.” She passes out thick yellow legal pads. Later she’ll analyze them and try to squeeze juice from our paper lemons.

  THE HOOD

  by marty black

  I had to move to a new neighborhood recently. My mom wanted me to finish high school at the old place, but my mom was told that if I didn’t move I would die. A hundred-and-fifty-dollar-an-hour shrink told her that. Nobody asked me what I wanted or what I thought. I thought I’d rather die in my old hood than live in this new one. I wanted to kill that shrink.

  My new neighborhood is bizarre. People are starving but there’s lots to eat. It’s full of drug addicts with nothing to shoot or pop. Plenty of alcoholics, but no liquor store for miles. The alchies go thirsty here. My neighbors are nuts. There’s the guy who drools and pees himself. Every time we see him, we sing, “Plop plop, whiz whiz, there goes Jeeziz.” Jesus and Mary live right around the corner from me–a couple doors down is Napoleon. Joan of Arc moved in last week and now we have to hide all our matches. She screams her head off every time someone lights a cigarette.

  This neighborhood only has three blocks. On my block lives Catwoman. I call her Catwoman because she sits alone all day, just staring out the window. I think she would rather sit on the windowsill but the thick safety glass doesn’t give her enough room. Instead she curls up in a corner. Her hair is falling out. I talk to her but she never talks back.

  I had to move to another block for a day. One fun-filled all-expense-paid trip to the loony bin. The loony bin is on the wrong side of town. You have to watch your back in loonyland–not to mention your arms, legs, and butt. I’m not kidding. I learned the hard way that you should not leave your butt unwatched. One of the nutties must have thought I was fresh meat since I was new. He sank his rotten teeth into my fat ass. I should’ve seen it coming. Just before I got tasted, I heard singing behind me. “I see your hi-nee, it’s very shi-nee, you better hiiide it before I biiite it.” At least the attack got me out of the psycho ward.

  It’s hard to be normal here. Because if the neighbors don’t make you crazy, “the watchers” will. Oh, the watchers are all very polite but they watch you all the time. They watch you sleep at night–they come right into your room and shine a flashlight into your face and on your chest to make sure you’re still breathing. Sometimes I stay awake and wait for them. I hold my breath and when I can’t hold it anymore, I yell BOO! They hate that. It scares the crap out of them. They scare the crap out of me, so I think it’s only fair. It’s annoying that they watch while you eat–every spoonful that makes it into your mouth is recorded. What’s unbearable is that they insist on going to the bathroom with you and then they need to see what you’ve done, like you’ve just made them a present or something. Everyone who lives here has to…if they want to live at all.

  Nobody in their right mind wants to live here. The funny thing is, this is where you are supposed to find your “right mind.” And when you find it…that’s when you get to live somewhere else.

  DAY 19

  JULY 2

  10:19 A.M.

  We sit and stare at each other five times a week in this little office–the head-shrinker and I.

  “What has four legs and chases cats?”

  “I don’t know, Marty?” Dr. Katz asks back.

  “Mrs. Katz and her lawyer!”

  “Why do you think that’s funny?”

  “Because it’s a joke! Don’t you think it’s funny?”

  “There is no Mrs. Katz.”

  “Never married?”

  “Divorced.”

  Excellent. The guy who is supposed to help me can’t even solve his own problems.

  “Maybe you would like to talk about it?” I offer.

  “No, thank you, Marty, I’ve already got my own therapist.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “No kidding?” And then I have to laugh. Katz will never be a kidder.

  “Yes, Marty, I have a therapist I see once a week.”

  “To talk about your problems or your patients?”

  “We are required to attend counseling.”

  “So we don’t drive you nuts?”

  “We listen to a lot of people’s problems all day.”

  “I heard that psychiatrists have the highest rate of suicide in any profession.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “You are being evasive, Dr. Katz.”

  “Alright, it is true.”

  “You guys must miss a lot of appointments.” I look at my watch. Five minutes to go. I haven’t bought myself enough time. I should have set my tongue to kill instead of stun. Too late, he is already recovering.

  “Are you done, Marty?”

  It’s alive. “Yes, I think we’re done. Not enough time to get into anything, so I’ll just go back to my room now.” I get up to go.

  “Hang on, I want to give you something.”

  “It’s unethical for a shrink to give gifts.”

  “Not a gift. A journal.”

  “For what?”

  “If you are not going to talk to me, then maybe you’ll talk to this.” Dr. Katz he places the book on the desk and slides it toward me like a plate of liver. Eat this. It’s good for you.

  I stare at the book.

  “Please, Marty. Tell it about you.”

  I pick it up. It’s heavy, the cover black. I open it. White pages, no lines. “It’s perfect. Black and white. My favorite colors.”

  “Someday you would make a good psychologist, Marty,” Dr. Katz notes with a scrap of sarcasm. There is hope for him, yet.

  “Yeah. Maybe. Someday,” I say, turning to leave.

  As I close the door behind me, I hear him breathe, “If you live that long.” Katz the no-kidder holds no such hope for me.

  Journal Entry # 1

  I was given this journal / not-a-gift by Dr. Katz. He wants me to tell it about me. Okay, here goes.

  I am…

  …that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  Sincerely, M.

  DAY 25

  JULY 8

  “Mail for you, Miss Black.” The nurse slides the postcard to me across the counter like a bank robber passes a note to a teller. I tuck it under my sweatshirt and go to my room. Close the door and sit on my bed. Alone. The corners of the postcard poke at the butterflies in my belly.

  Maybe it doesn’t say anything. Don’t look. Throw it out.

  I feel under my shirt for the glossy side and pull it out picture up. Catalina Island. A bird’s-eye view of Avalon Bay. One empty mooring is circled with the number 37 written beside it. More writing on the other side.

  Dear Marty,

  Zack told me you were there. I phoned your mom for the address. I would’ve called you but I don’t know what to say. I’m still not crazy about what happened with you know who. But it was a long sail without you. And now that I know you can’t be, I wish you were here. Love, Cherri P.S. Willy is driving me nuts! I hope that doesn’t offend anybody. I hope they give this to you.

  You know who. Paul. Cherri’s then boyfriend. We were all at a party. Then Zack came. I hadn’t seen him in a while. He saw me and started talking to Cherri. They were whispering. They left. And when it looked like they weren’t coming back, Paul and I got together to commiserate. We had a few too many drinks. And then we stopped talking.

  I haven’t spoken to Cherri since. And now she’s on Catalina Island.

  Catalina Island. Cherri’s words: “wish you were here.” I’d have to walk twenty miles
of San Diego freeway and swim eighty miles of ocean to get there.

  I look at the clock–II:43 A.M. Almost lunchtime for both of us. Cherri’s reading some horror novel on the bow. Her mom is making ice tea and delicious abalone sandwiches down below. Cherri’s dad will ring the lunch bell in a couple of minutes. If Willy isn’t having any luck picking up girls on the beach, he’ll zoom back to the boat in the Zodiac. Cherri will dive off the bow, swim to the stern, just miss getting hit by her brother, climb aboard, and start eating with her family while the sun dries her off.

  I wish I was there too. In the cockpit with Cherri. For the sun and the sandwiches and the stars that we would sleep under. Every night they would watch over us as we settled into flannel sleeping bags, salty bathing suits for pajamas. The admiral would tuck us in and kiss us good night. The captain would make sure we understood we didn’t have authorized shore leave. It was always the middle of the night before Willy made it home. He would knock on the hull for me to give him the “all clear.”

  —

  Three taps on the door make me jump. I fling the postcard at the trash beside my bed, but it lands short.

  Katherine slinks into the room. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Why do you knock on the door to your own room?”

  “Just habit.” She looks down at the postcard.

  “You do that at your own house?”

  “Yeah. My father is a producer in Hollywood. Ever since my mother left, I never know what I’m going to find behind a door…I was surprised when I saw you behind this one. You look so different when you smile.”

  I pull everything on my face up.

  “Never mind…Nurse Brown says lunch is in five minutes.” Katherine rolls her eyes and leaves.

  I lean over and pick up Cherri’s postcard. The quarter-moon slice of beach at the bottom of Avalon Bay looks back at me. I hide the smile under my pillow.

  DAY 27

  JULY 10

  Jackie comes in my room and sits beside me on the bed.

  “So your dad is coming today,” she says, casting for a pretherapy bite.

  “Yes. My father is supposed to come,” I reply and walk away, letting her know the fish isn’t hungry.

  “Your mom called and wants to join us.”

  “NO!” It just comes out.

  “Not ready?”

  “I don’t remember being a nuclear family. Only the fallout.” It won’t go well. She’ll drink. And it’ll be my fault.

  “Okay.”

  “I just want to see my dad.”

  Jackie nods yes like I just took a test and got the grade she expected. I actually like Jackie, even though she is one of the enemy. She doesn’t take or catch shit from anybody; it just bounces off her. She’s shorter and a lot rounder than all of us. That’s what’s funny. You can be the one looking down at her and find yourself intimidated. Jackie really cares. She comes in your room, throws her rump up onto your bed, and gives you a big squeeze–whether you like it or not. It doesn’t matter to her what you like. It matters to her what you need. Jackie thinks my father and I need to have a “family session” with her. I was going to tell Jackie that my father doesn’t need anything (or anyone), but I don’t. I think it might be more interesting to let Jackie find that out for herself. Besides, I’m going to have the best seat in the house and for once it won’t be the hot one.

  Jackie’s office isn’t on this floor. It’s somewhere down in the basement of the institute. I remember reading an article about electric chairs in prisons. They are always in the basement. When you have a “family session” with Jackie, you have to wait in your room until a nurse comes to get you. The escort of the day knocks gently at your door and tells you it’s time. Walking down the hall, it’s hard not to notice the salute of silence. No one ever comes back from Jackie’s office the same as they went in. There was one girl who never came back at all.

  Today is to be double treat day. I have to go to art therapy before the meeting with my father. While everyone is carving into their paper with the ever-popular black Crayola, I decide to go with every color but. The crassly named crayons are brand-new. Never used but probably years old. The art therapist must have to call the manufacturer and special order cases of all-black crayons.

  I watch the art therapist pretend not to be watching me. When I pick turquoise blue to draw the sea, she holds her breath. I use blue-green and teal blue to draw the depths, and her eye starts to wink all on its own. Her hands start quivering when thistle and cornflower shade in hulls of tall ships, reflecting a sunrise. When mahogany and bittersweet make masts for giant sails of salmon and apricot, she has to go get coffee. I wax the sunrise daffodil and periwinkle and she damn near passes out. I think the possibility of going into the staff lounge and announcing her incredible breakthrough is just too much.

  I’m not quite finished when a loud knock comes at the door.

  It’s Jackie. She’s here for me. The only sound now is the clawing of my chair. It’s too early. Or maybe my father is early. That’s a first.

  “Marty?” Jackie calls, even though I am already out of my seat.

  We walk toward the elevator and then wait forever.

  “What, Jack, no last meal or rites?”

  “Since you’re an anorexic and an atheist, I thought we’d skip them.”

  “Thank God you have a sense of humor, Jack, ’cause you’re going to need it with my dad.”

  As the elevator to the basement finally opens, I hear Jackie mutter “no kidding.”

  We get to Jackie’s office and she opens it with a key.

  “Did you lock my dad in so the loonies won’t get him?”

  When she opens the door to the dreaded office, there is nothing inside except a desk. No whips or chains or electrical contraptions. No plants or pictures. Jackie opens a closet that she pulls only two chairs out of. Then I realize that unless she is going to pull my dad out of the closet, there is no father either. Jackie points to one of the chairs and gives me a stern sit with her eyes.

  “Your father isn’t coming,” she says. Jackie isn’t stupid enough to say, so how do you feel about that?

  “Well, Jackie, my father not showing up for our big FAMILY SESSION–that’s a FUCKIN’ SURPRISE.”

  Jackie doesn’t offer an explanation. She knows I’m not in a place to hear one. The silence hurts. I start to make a joke and cough. Then I cry.

  DAY 28

  JULY 11

  Twenty-six hours since my father pulled a no-show. Twenty-five hours since I left Jackie’s office. Twenty-four hours since my Tall Ships at Sunrise suffered a total eclipse of black wax.

  I’m sitting in the lounge, counting the hours that have passed since certain events in my pathetic life have elapsed.

  “Marty, it’s your dad on the phone–wanna talk to him?” Lily squeaks, peaking from behind the doorjamb.

  I want to say no. I want her to tell him I said, “Go to hell–straight to hell, do not pass GO and collect $200.00, just go to hell.” But I don’t. The only time I say no to my father is when he asks me if I want something to eat. And every time I step on the scale and another pound evaporates, I say go to hell.

  I look up to ask Lily to tell him I’m coming, but she has disappeared. I know she is still there, just around the corner.

  “I’ll be there in a minute. Don’t worry, Lily, I don’t shoot the messenger…unless they deserve it.” I hear Lily take off down the hall as fast as two toothpicks can go.

  I leave the lounge and pick up the receiver on the wall.

  “Hi.” One hollow dam of a word.

  “Hello, Marty, how are you?”

  “Fine.” Control the flow.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Check the cracks, the pressure, just a little longer.

  “Look, Marty, I couldn’t make it yesterday. The meeting in LA ran over and I didn’t get back to New York till after midnight, so it was too late to call.”

  Dad’s dam is starting
to falter. I want to say if he had time to call Jackie, why not me? “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “Just okay, alright, whatever.” Too many words, too much tone, the needles are heading for red.

  “What do you want from me?”

  You don’t have enough time. I’ll send you the books–one, two, and three–when I’ve written them. “Nothing.” Code word for “everything.”

  “It doesn’t sound like that. I’m trying. I’m not only trying, but I’m paying $1500.00 a day for them to fix you and you don’t seem to be trying! You didn’t even write three simple essays.”

  Oh, I’m trying alright. Just ask the art therapist, who is probably still flying down the Pacific freeway or wrapped around some pole. Lucky bitch.

  “Did you hear me, Marty? $1500.00 a day. Do you know how much that adds up to?”

  I want to say, “Yes, Martin. I was 87 pounds when I came in. In four weeks (twenty-eight days), I’ve gained exactly two pounds. The cost, including Dr. Katz’s useless fifteen minute visits five times a week, and the family session you didn’t show for, makes a grand total to date of 47,400.00. I’m worth $533.00 a pound. That makes me the most expensive meat in town.” I want to tell him I calculate each day how much I cost him, just in case there is a pop quiz. All I say is, “A lot.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad–I’ll try harder.”

  “You do that. And I’ll talk to you next week.”

  Yeah, Martin, I’ll talk to you in $11,850.00.

  I can’t believe it happened again. I’m the one who gets hurt, and it’s me who ends up apologizing. My feelings are always my fault. A fault the size of the San Andreas that no one seems to see. There are huge, gaping canyons underneath the ocean. Nobody sees them either.

  I don’t feel like diving any deeper into my psychiatric rift. I might get the bends. I decide to go find Lily and make sure I haven’t traumatized her.