\tYou are becoming more and more comfortable with the routine of your therapy sessions. The office with the white walls, chipped paint, some outdated magazines. On the wall across from your seat there\u2019s a generic-looking landscape painting. You sit on the chair, legs crossed, flipping mindlessly through a National Geographic from 2001. The white noise machine in the waiting room masks the conversation in your therapist\u2019s office, droning on eternally.<\/p>\n
\tWhen the patient before you leaves through the other exit, the one in the office, so that nobody will see her, your therapist pokes his head out through door of the waiting room, and you follow him into his office, plopping yourself down on the couch, no need to be asked.<\/p>\n
\tYou don\u2019t even really believe in therapy, but the other shoe has got to drop eventually, right? Somehow, some way? You\u2019ve already tried everything else. You\u2019ve tried yoga and meditation. You quit smoking, drinking, and eating meat, all in the same week, which might have backfired, but still. You\u2019ve tried quitting social media and ditching your smartphone. You\u2019ve tried cutting off all your hair (\u201cbut make it look feminine!\u201d you told the hairdresser, and she knew what you meant). You\u2019ve tried sleeping with strangers. You\u2019ve tried sleeping with no one at all. You\u2019ve experimented with sleeping on the floor after reading a blog about \u201cminimalism as a lifestyle.\u201d But none of it has worked, and now you\u2019re here, and even though you\u2019re not entirely sure what you\u2019re doing here, in this tiny office with that dreadful waiting room outside, you come every Tuesday and you continue to get nowhere. And so you\u2019re not even making an effort anymore really. Instead, you\u2019re sitting there, and you\u2019re saying:<\/p>\n
\t\u201cI\u2019m a gay man.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tAnd your therapist\u2014Dr. Friedberg\u2014says, \u201c\t<\/p>\n
Let\u2019s talk about that, Emily.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tYou don\u2019t know what happened, and that\u2019s the problem. This idea, that if you just flap your jaws enough, that eventually you\u2019ll be \u201ccured\u201d\u2014who came up with this idea? Because a cure does not seem at all imminent, as far as you can tell. Instead you sit there, and you either make jokes or you speak earnestly, except that when you speak earnestly, by the time you\u2019re through, it feels like you\u2019re talking about someone else, someone not in the room. The feelings that you describe are not your feelings, and then your therapist will say something about \u201cprogress,\u201d and you will leave, confused.<\/p>\n
\tAnd so now you\u2019re saying:<\/p>\n
\t\u201cWhat\u2019s to talk about? I\u2019m reading Leo Bersani and I\u2019ve practically had my head shaved. There\u2019s no way I\u2019m not a gay man.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tWhat you want to do, what you\u2019ve tried to do, is to say that you\u2019re just going through a bad breakup. Last year, you met someone, and the sex was good, even if the conversation was dull, and you got along well enough, and eventually you moved in together. Then in April he splits, says something about going to the Alaskan wilderness.<\/p>\n
\tAnd now your therapist, a strained smile on his face, is saying:<\/p>\n
\t\u201cEmily, I can only help you to the extent that you let me help you. If joking around like this makes you feel better, then that\u2019s fine, but if we\u2019re going to make any real progress\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
The problem with pinning this state of yours, this stale un-feeling, on the breakup, is that in truth it wasn\u2019t the breakup that depressed you. When he left, you were relieved. Your small one-bedroom was a claustrophobic nightmare with him around, and a small tinge of despair hit you every time you found a pair of dirty briefs on the floor, or every time he left the toothpaste uncapped. Seven-hundred-fifty square feet had never felt so spacious as when he finally left and you were sitting on your couch, almost reveling in the quiet of his absence.<\/p>\n
\tBut if not the break-up, then what? The other day you spent an hour looking out the window of your apartment, your eyes glazing over as the traffic crept by. Maybe you\u2019ll start jogging, you think.<\/p>\n
****<\/p>\n
\tSo you go to work at your job at the call center. You will be fired soon\u2014most employees, you learned soon after they hired you, are fired in the first two weeks, but that\u2019s okay. You never were looking for a \u201ccareer\u201d anyhow, just a way to make money until you figure out whether or not you want to go to graduate school. Your quota for the end of the first two weeks is five sales. You have made zero.<\/p>\n
\tThe first fifty calls either go straight to voicemail or hang-up on you while you\u2019re delivering the monologue you\u2019re supposed to read off the screen of your computer. You sigh, slip off your headphones. You listen to the buzz of the call center. Dozens of people failing to execute dozens of monologues. You pop an Advil. Slip the headphones back on. Call number fifty one picks up.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cHi, this is Emily, calling from\u2026 Are you happy with your air conditioning? \u2026 Low prices, quick installation\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tThe man on the other end of the line has a thick Indian accent. Your computer screen says he is from Amarillo, Texas. That makes sense, you guess. It\u2019s hot in Texas.<\/p>\n
\u201cUm,\u201d he says. <\/p>\n
\tYou say: \u201c\u202685 percent customer satisfaction rating\u2026 Your money back guaranteed.\u201d<\/p>\n
\t\u201c85 percent,\u201d he echoes. \u201cThat\u2019s pretty good.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tThe Advil has not yet kicked in and the dull ache in your temple is making it very difficult to sell air conditioners with the kind of conviction a good air conditioner saleswoman ought to have. It will kick in soon, but not right now, and meanwhile the customer has, as your supervisor says, \u201cgone off script.\u201d You do not know what to say, so you say:<\/p>\n
\u201cYes. It\u2019s pretty good.\u201d<\/p>\n
The man on the other end of the line says nothing, but you know he has not hung up on you yet because you can hear him breathing.<\/p>\n
So you say: \u201cAre you interested in purchasing an air conditioner today?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cUm,\u201d he says. \u201cI don\u2019t know. I have an air conditioner.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut ours is better,\u201d you say, dubious.<\/p>\n
\u201cHm,\u201d he says. \u201cMaybe. Do you recommend it?\u201d<\/p>\n
And now it is your turn to say, \u201cUm. I guess.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou guess?\u201d<\/p>\n
\t\u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n
\t\u201cThat\u2019s it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\tAnd suddenly you have to choke back this urge you woke up with this morning, the inexplicable urge to cry. Today is not the only time you\u2019ve woken up with this feeling, that you might start crying immediately upon waking and perhaps never stop, but usually it goes away with the morning coffee. But today it lingers, and in your emotional state, you are finding it difficult to sell this Indian man from Amarillo an air conditioner. So you almost manically start reading off your script again:<\/p>\n
\t\u201c\u2026two-way air direction system distributes your air coolly and evenly\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\tYou read the sales pitch as though you were delivering bad news to a stranger: delicately, uncertainly. You want to want to Believe in Your Product, you want to want to be a Good Salesperson, but you can muster neither a coherent strategy nor any of the professional pep you really need. <\/p>\n
\t\u201cHuh,\u201d he says. \u201cHm. I guess\u2026 I guess I\u2019ll buy it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tBut he, also, lacks a certain pleasure that people who buy things are supposed to have. He doesn\u2019t really seem to want this air conditioner at all, and the idea that somebody would buy an air conditioner over the phone when he already has one that works perfectly well, and when it isn\u2019t at all clear that he really even wants to buy it\u2014it\u2019s all enough to bring a certain moisture to your eyes.<\/p>\n
\tAnd so you tell this man the only thing you can tell him: \u201cYou don\u2019t have to buy it if you don\u2019t want to. You don\u2019t seem to want it, or need it, really.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tAnd again the sound of his heavy breath takes place of a reply for a while, before he says, \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n
\t\u201cI\u2019m just saying,\u201d you say.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cI\u2019m confused,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
\tAnd so, with a sigh, you say: \u201cMe too, man.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tAnd then you hang up on him, and slip the headphones off again, and close your eyes for a minute, trying to will the Advil to finally start working against your migraine. When you open them, you feel your supervisor standing behind you and he\u2019s saying:<\/p>\n
\t\u201cEmily.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tAnd you turn around to look at him, your eyes still a little wet, even though the tears haven\u2019t yet fallen. You wish these crying-ish spells would stop. But right now you are on the verge of tears, and you are looking at your supervisor, Ben, who never really seemed to like you in the first place and certainly isn\u2019t shy about that right now.<\/p>\n
\tAnd you say: \u201cOh. Hi.\u201d<\/p>\n
****<\/p>\n
\tBack in the therapist\u2019s office, again. He sits back in his chair, legs folded, hands clasped on his lap. Where does this go? What\u2019s the point? You think of the things you could buy with the $100 a week you\u2019re paying Dr. Friedberg.<\/p>\n
\tYou say, \u201cSo I got fired.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tHe says, \u201cHm. Tell me about that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tSo you tell him about the Indian guy, how he didn\u2019t want the air conditioner, but was willing to buy one anyway, and how inexplicably sad it made you, and you say, \u201cI felt like I was, I don\u2019t know, saving him, or something. But afterwards, when I turned and saw that my supervisor had been listening in on it the whole time, I just felt stupid.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tDr. Friedberg says, \u201cHm.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tAnd you shrug and say, \u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tA moment passes and, because you are the type of person who isn\u2019t comfortable with silence, you say, \u201cI feel like crying all the time.\u201d<\/p>\n
\t\u201cBecause of your job?\u201d<\/p>\n
\t\u201cNo. Just because.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tHe frowns and says, \u201cI can recommend a good psychiatrist.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tYou sigh and say, \u201cI don\u2019t want pills.\u201d<\/p>\n
****<\/p>\n
\tSo at the end of another impossibly long week, you drag yourself\u2014more out of habit than desire\u2014to the comedy house to watch the Open Mic Night. One evening several years back, you were walking home, slightly drunk, after a lousy date, and you wandered in here, hoping to be cheered up. And you were cheered up, though not in the way you\u2019d expected. The jokes the comics told weren\u2019t very good, and you didn\u2019t laugh all that much, and there weren\u2019t that many people in the crowd that night. But what made you feel better that night was a certain energy behind it all: here were a group of people who were trying, in earnest, to do something with themselves. To make something original, and worthwhile, and maybe even meaningful. Many of them were failing to do so, of course, but, as you came back, week after week, you noticed that so too did the failing comics come back, fine-tuning their jokes, making another sincere go of it. <\/p>\n
\tYes, there was magic here, in the beginning. Or, you thought, if there was going to be magic anywhere, it might as well be here. There was something incredibly moving and promising in these people, something you had not found anywhere else. So you kept coming back. Some of the comics got better, most did not, and the latter, by and large, started to come less and less, until they disappeared entirely from the scene, and faded from your memory, like a pop song you once knew by heart but had since forgotten. A few of them went on to have careers, and you would watch their HBO specials and feel happy for them when you did. And those who burned out were replaced by strange new faces, also filled with promise, and when you went, you would see how much this mattered to them, you would see how badly they wanted to make you laugh, and how comedy might be a stab at the kind of unique connection that great literature used to facilitate. And sitting there, you used to smile.<\/p>\n
\tLately though, not so much. You come because you have been coming for years, and there isn\u2019t anything else to do anyway. You don\u2019t have very many friends, and the ones you do have you prefer to see only occasionally. So, even though this place has long since failed to bring a smile to your lips, here you are, and you sit down and you see your waiter, Jim, who you\u2019ve known since he started working here a couple of years ago. Jim is a tall man, a few years younger than yourself, with nice, short, black hair and very light emerald eyes, and when you first met him you thought he was flirting with you, and you planned pretty quickly on sleeping with him, but nothing ever came of it. In retrospect, he was probably just being a good waiter. But he\u2019s still friendly, and he\u2019s become something of a fixture in your Friday nights here, and so when you sit down at the table, there he is, with that smile.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cHi,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cHey Jim,\u201d you say, sounding more tired than you wanted to.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cHow\u2019s it going?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cYou know. Same old. I got fired the other day. But you don\u2019t want to hear about that. I\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n
\t\u201cOh shit,\u201d he says. \u201cNo, I\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tYou purse your lips in lieu of having anything else to say, and he stands there, still smiling. Jim was always smiling when he worked. Sometimes you want to say to him, can you cut that out? People who smile all the time make me lonely. But you never do.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cSo, can I get you anything?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cA beer?\u201d you ask, uncertain.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cI thought you quit drinking,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cWell, you know\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\tJim raises his eyebrows, up and down, real quick. And he says, \u201cWhat kind of beer you want?\u201d<\/p>\n
\tAnd you say, \u201cSurprise me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tJim comes back a couple of minutes later with a glass of Budweiser.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cIt\u2019s hard to surprise people,\u201d he says as he sets it down. \u201cWe only serve Bud and Corona.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tYou shrug and say, \u201cBudweiser is fine.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tHe smiles, still, and he says, \u201cLet me know if you need anything.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tYou thank him and watch him walk briskly away, to attend to other customers. The Open Mic Night hasn\u2019t started yet. <\/p>\n
There are regulars, others like you, but for the most part, you don\u2019t know them. Almost all come with friends or family, except you and this one other guy, a bit older than yourself, Fred or Frank or what\u2019s his name. He tried to hit on you one night about a year back, came up to you a bit drunk, spouted a garbage pickup line, and you made it apparent that you weren\u2019t interested. He hasn\u2019t spoken to you since. There\u2019s a couple whom you\u2019ve never spoken to, beautiful and youngish and well-to-do-looking. You\u2019ve never spoken to them but you\u2019ve imagined lives for them. They\u2019ve been married for about a year, and he\u2019s a lawyer and she teaches mathematics at a community college. They don\u2019t have any kids yet, but things are looking good and they\u2019re trying to start trying soon. There\u2019s another couple, septuagenarians, who are quite friendly and who talk to you all the time before and after shows. Larry and Linda. You just now realize that they\u2019re among the select group of people\u2014inside the comedy club or not\u2014that you genuinely enjoy talking to. You\u2019re not sure how to feel about this.<\/p>\n
The host takes the stage and welcomes everybody to Open Mic Night. The club hires somebody to host it each week, and you\u2019ve seen this particular guy a few times. It\u2019s the host\u2019s job to introduce each comic before he or she comes on stage, and this host likes to make fun of the comics who have an especially hard time of it, and you, in turn, have grown to kind of loathe him. But anyway, he only says a few words before the show starts, and you sit back, you sip your beer, already slightly buzzed since your tolerance has gone entirely away after you quit drinking.
\nThe first couple of acts are okay. It\u2019s an election year, so there\u2019s a lot of political humor, which is not your personal favorite, but the crowd seems to be enjoying it, and nobody is bombing. In between the second and third act, while the host is in the middle of a lame one-liner, Linda finally sees you and gives you a smile and a wave. You nod your head, and suddenly it almost feels good to be here again, and to be a regular. Almost.<\/p>\n
\tAnd then the third act comes on, and you know more or less on sight that it\u2019s not going to go well. He\u2019s a kid, for one, no older than twenty-two, and kids, generally speaking, come to Open Mic Nights to fuck up. It\u2019s a rite of passage for comics, bombing is, and if the act in question is worth his salt, he\u2019ll keep coming back. It\u2019s true that you don\u2019t come here for the talent, you come here for a certain spirit, a certain sense of resilience and almost stupid optimism that you haven\u2019t found anywhere else, but still, when a comic bombs\u2014especially a young comic, like this, for whom it\u2019s probably his first time\u2014your heart breaks, just a tiny bit. <\/p>\n
\tThe kid on stage is as pale as a slice of white cheddar, almost moon-skinned. His face is acne-scarred and he wears those tragically un-hip round glasses, like the kind your father wears. He\u2019s got on a Misfits t-shirt and a pair of black jeans, and he holds the microphone as though it were a delicate explosive. Your heart sinks before he\u2019s even said a word.
\n\tAnd then it starts.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cHey everyone,\u201d he says, in the squeaky, off-kilter voice that belongs almost exclusively to the adolescent and the fatally nervous, \u201cI\u2019m Michael. How are you guys doing tonight?\u201d
\n\tThe crowd gives him a lifeless hoot, and he nods.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cVery nice. Very nice.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tIt\u2019s silent for a moment and, as you finish what\u2019s left of your beer, you quickly signal Jim to bring you another round. You\u2019re hoping that this kid will surprise, or that he\u2019ll at least do alright, but right now you can see his knees wobble from your seat, and you\u2019re not at all confident he\u2019s going to do well.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cLots of couples out in the audience,\u201d he says, with a smile so forced that it can barely be called a smile. \u201cLots of couples. Look at these guys,\u201d he says, gesturing to a fairly non-descript couple seated up front, who both look about your age, maybe a little older. He\u2019s wearing a green sweater and she\u2019s wearing a baggy skirt, and they both seem happy enough. \u201cYou guys married?\u201d<\/p>\n
\tYou hear the echo of the \u201cyes\u201d that the woman gives Michael.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cHow long have you been married?\u201d<\/p>\n
\tMurmur. <\/p>\n
\t\u201cThree years! Right on, right on.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tThere\u2019s another pause, and you can feel the crowd start to get slightly restless. Usually, people understand it\u2019s an Open Mic Night, and that their expectations should be managed accordingly, but every once in a while, the crowd doesn\u2019t get the memo, or has a bit too much to drink, or simply won\u2019t pay attention to the act, electing to talk amongst themselves over the various jokes.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cI just got out of a relationship myself,\u201d he says. <\/p>\n
\tYou don\u2019t like where this is headed. Not at all. <\/p>\n
\t\u201cWe met in college. Junior year. And there\u2019s nothing like your junior year of college, you know? You\u2019re not an underclassman anymore, you\u2019re all settled in, you\u2019re not stressed out about managing your time or whatever. But so I met her at this party, and, long story short, we wind up dating for like a year. And you know, I\u2019m me,\u201d he says, gesturing towards his body with his free hand, waiting for a laugh that doesn\u2019t come, \u201cand she is just\u2014she\u2019s fucking incredible. She\u2019s like one of those girls who all the other girls hate, you know? Because she doesn\u2019t have to make much of an effort to be as good-looking as she is. Just like no makeup, she likes a ponytail, you get the idea. And this whole time, I\u2019m worried\u2014I mean, like, cosmically worried, just anxious with every fiber of my being\u2014that she somehow missed something, and doesn\u2019t realize how much better she could do. And like, sure, everything is great now, I mean, are you kidding me? But there\u2019s a clock ticking in my head the whole time, counting down to the day when she wakes up, looks over at me, and she\u2019s just like what the fuck, you know?\u201d<\/p>\n
\tAt this point, you\u2019re slightly less nervous for Michael than you had been when you first saw him. Nothing he\u2019s said is funny, and he\u2019s still very awkward and obviously uncomfortable, which probably explains the audience\u2019s discomfort that you sense, but he tells his story with the cadence of a joke, which is sometimes enough. Maybe he won\u2019t bomb after all, you think. You take a deep breath and listen to him go on.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cBut okay, so everything\u2019s going great, otherwise. So summer of that year she says, \u2018we should get an apartment together, move off campus.\u2019 And the voice in my head is telling me, like really screaming at me: No, don\u2019t do this, you fat, ugly fuck, don\u2019t do it, she\u2019s gonna leave you and then you\u2019re gonna be homeless, don\u2019t do it don\u2019t do it.\u2019 But I\u2019m also falling in love with her, and you know, of course I\u2019m going to move in with her. There\u2019s no real reason not to. So I move in the start of the next semester\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\tAnd suddenly, here it comes: some guy, middle aged, a few days\u2019 beard growth, baseball cap, sitting alone in the back corner of the club, is cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting, \u201cTell us a fucking joke!\u201d Like anything else, it only takes one before all the others turn, and you want to turn to the guy and tell him to shut up, but you don\u2019t. You sip your beer and hope it passes.<\/p>\n
\tMichael, interrupted, pauses briefly, winces just ever so visibly, and ignores the comment, pressing on. <\/p>\n
\t\u201cI move in, and right away, you can just tell something is weird. Like, you know that feeling when you\u2019ve been living with someone for a while, and you\u2019ve just woken up\u2014it\u2019s like six in the morning\u2014and you stumble, you know, like a drunk or something into the kitchen, searching for coffee or whatever it is, and you open your stupid eyes and there she is? And you just get irrationally angry, like, how could she do this to me? How could she exist?\u201d<\/p>\n
\tThere are few things worse to feel than the full-body cringe you get when somebody tries to make a joke that falls flat. The middle-aged guy in the corner boos again, and Michael\u2019s voice begins to shake a little more with each passing phrase. <\/p>\n
\t\u201cBut yeah, so there\u2019s that, and then also there\u2019s still all the stuff with her being out of my league or whatever. But you know, I still do love her, at the end of the day, and nothing is obviously wrong, so some months go by and I think maybe some of the weirdness is going away but who knows. And then, I come home one day from a night class that let out early. And I see somebody\u2019s car parked in the parking lot of our building, in my spot, and I know right away, well, that\u2019s it. But, like, in a really fucked up way I\u2019m also kind of excited about it, you know? Because I get to be the guy now! I get to be the guy who\u2019s like, ah I\u2019ve caught you! You\u2019re a bad person! J\u2019accuse! Which is way better than her sitting me down and, you know, oh honey, I love you, but there\u2019s someone else.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tThe middle-aged guy has shut up, at least for the time being, but Michael still hasn\u2019t gotten a single laugh. Still, it doesn\u2019t appear as though he\u2019ll be booed off stage or anything, and ultimately, it could be going worse.<\/p>\n
\tWhy are you so invested in this guy? What is your motivation here? It\u2019s not even like you\u2019re rooting for him to succeed; you just want desperately for him not to fail. You\u2019re praying for mediocrity, basically. And where\u2019s the magic in that? That isn\u2019t what keeps you coming back here. You start to feel depressed and you take a generous sip from your pint glass.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cSo I walk up the steps to our apartment\u2014and it\u2019s a sixth floor walk-up, so there\u2019s a lot of steps\u2014and I\u2019m just huffing and puffing, and I\u2019m thinking about what I\u2019m going to say. Like, I\u2019m already at that point visualizing what I could say to her, and I want it to be something that\u2019s just soul-crushing, you know? Something that just eats her heart up and makes her want to, like, evaporate out of shame. So finally, I get up to my apartment, and I\u2019m out of breath, but I\u2019m too caught up in everything to care, and I jam my key into the lock, and I fling open the door and I\u2019m practically running to our room\u2014I can hear them, and they clearly haven\u2019t heard me come in\u2014and I barge in and I open my mouth to say something but\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\tThere\u2019s a pause here. You think, this might be good storytelling but it\u2019s not comedy. You think, this pause is too dramatic. You think, poor kid. You think, if the magic has gone from this place, I\u2019m not sure where the hell else to look for it. You think, oh fuck.<\/p>\n
\t Because now something has happened to the kid\u2019s face. The emotion, that kind of jokey energy he had before, has simply left his being, sizzled up like water in a frying pan, and he\u2019s now somehow even paler than before, and you can tell he\u2019s committing the cardinal sin of comedy, as far as your lay-knowledge of comedy is concerned; he\u2019s lost control. <\/p>\n
\t\u201cAnd I see them,\u201d he says in a suddenly quiet, distant voice, affect flat as a pancake, \u201cand she\u2019s startled, her eyes are bulging and she\u2019s covering her tits\u2026 whatever. And then I see him. And he is hideous. He\u2019s got this bowl cut, a soul patch, and a lazy eye, and a scar running down the side of his left cheek. He\u2019s a little bit overweight and, I\u2019ve never had high self-esteem, but I think, I\u2019m better looking than this guy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tThe room is just dead silent, and you\u2019re not sure whether or not that\u2019s a whole lot better than being booed. You\u2019ve literally never heard it this quiet in this room before. And something else you\u2019ve never seen before: the kid on the stage, who just a second ago was frowning at something on the floor, is now crying. Balling. And in between sobs, he\u2019s saying:
\n\t\u201cThis whole time I was worried\u2026 This whole time I was worried that\u2026 Oh god… Oh shit.\u201d<\/p>\n
****<\/p>\n
\tAnd then a week later, you find yourself once again in your therapist\u2019s office. You sit there not knowing what to say, and he is looking at you both patiently and expectantly, the way people sometimes look children whose babble they\u2019ve decided to indulge. You are in no hurry for a conversation to get underway. You look to your left, at his wall, on which hang a host of certificates and diplomas, all hanging inside nice, neat little frames.<\/p>\n
\tAnd then you realize that you\u2019re paying by the hour, and you say,<\/p>\n
\t\u201cI decided to quit quitting drinking.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tHe raises an eyebrow. \u201cOh?\u201d<\/p>\n
\t\u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n
\t\u201cHow come?\u201d<\/p>\n
\tAnd you say, \u201cI thought if I made all these drastic changes in my life, something would give. This\u2014I don\u2019t know\u2014this quagmire or whatever that I seem to be trapped in\u2026 I thought maybe if I just started changing a lot of different things about my life, the way I feel about my life would change. But it hasn\u2019t. So I drank.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tHe asks, \u201cWhat kind of change did you envision?\u201d <\/p>\n
\tYou open your mouth to say something, but find that there are no words. You sigh, and your eyes turn back to the Wall of Diplomas. And you\u2019re saying,<\/p>\n
\t\u201cYou don\u2019t look that old.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tHe smiles a little, cocks his head to the side.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n
\t\u201cYou have all those diplomas on the wall, but you don\u2019t even look old enough to have been in school for that long.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tAt which he shrugs. \u201cYou didn\u2019t answer my question.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tAnd so you say, \u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\t\u201cSure you do.\u201d<\/p>\n
\t\u201cNo I don\u2019t. I wish I did. I want to know what to want. But I don\u2019t. So I can\u2019t even begin to answer that question.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tThere\u2019s another silence, and you\u2019re thinking that this whole thing is just a complete waste of time and money. Maybe your problem is that\u2014for whatever reason\u2014you want to feel miserable. Why else work at a call center with a college degree? Why else date someone for the better part of a year, despite never having loved him? Why else drag yourself, every week, to a comedy club that you no longer take any joy in?<\/p>\n
\tAnd then you\u2019re saying:<\/p>\n
\t\u201cSometimes the world feels as though it has the rhythm of a joke, but then the punchline never comes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\tAnd he looks at you, giggles quietly, and says, \u201cYou know, people go to therapy for that.\u201d
\n
\n\t
\n\tCorey Isaacs is a writer from Palisades, New York, just over the state line from Bergen County. He is currently an MFA candidate at George Mason University.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
You are becoming more and more comfortable with the routine of your therapy sessions. The office with the white walls, chipped paint, some outdated magazines. On the wall across from your seat there\u2019s a generic-looking landscape painting. You sit on the chair, legs crossed, flipping mindlessly through a National Geographic from 2001. The white noise [&hellip<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,1],"tags":[297],"class_list":["post-4834","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose","category-uncategorized","tag-art-picasso-hair-oil"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4834","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=4834"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4834\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5442,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4834\/revisions\/5442"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=4834"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=4834"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=4834"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}