feel good when you touch your breast like that?
(The patient nods.)
DIRECTOR: Then why are you crying?
PATIENT #62: Because I’m so confused. I know I’m not crazy, but . . . I just don’t know anymore. . . .
DIRECTOR: You know what? I think we’re ready for the next phase of our work together.
(The patient begins crying loudly and shaking, but does not move.) (The director bends close to Patient #62’s ear.)
DIRECTOR: {This portion is inaudible.}
Chapter Six
P ACK OF M ARLBORO R EDS . One left. He holds it in his good hand, sticks it in his lips. It dangles there until he digs a lighter out from under a crushed RC Cola can and pops a flame. Then he snaps the cigarette to attention, taut, and breathes all that mother-lovin’, toxic shit into his lungs. He dumps it out in a sigh. Looks down at the crumpled map on the desk in front of him. Spreads it out with his good hand as if to smooth out all the wrinkles, an impossible task. He slouches in his chair and takes another drag. No revelation, nothing. One thing’s for sure, he’s no Sherlock Holmes. Praise God.
Not surprising. In middle-school gym class, he was no rope climber. At Markston High School he was no mathematician. No writer, either. Not much of a mechanic when he did that stint in his stepdad’s shop, and the old bastard never missed a chance to remind him of it. Was never much good with women, so it made perfect sense that he was a lousy husband when he finally got the chance. Couldn’t hold down that job keepin’ books at the industrial supply—morphine makes the numbers swim once you’re on the third or fourth pull from the whiskey flask. Couldn’t just keep his blessed mouth shut and swallow his pride enough to appreciate that job checkin’ groceries at the Publix, even though they had health benefits and everything. And, of course, let’s not ever forget the last fiasco, the crown of them all. After that one, anything is easy to swallow. So there’s not a speck of surprise in the fact that he can’t figure this out, a bona fide mystery. One thing, though, gotta be fair. One thing no one can deny, one thing they can scrawl on his gravestone: Ron Bent was a good father. At least there’s that. Praise God.
He goes to fold up the map and gets ashes all over it: one more screwup to go in his ever growing screwup file. He brushes the map off and folds it up, against the folds. Seems like he’s folding against the folds every time with this blessed map. Seems like there’s no right way to fold the thing. The shiny star stickers—gold, red, blue, and the scrawled, nearly illegible “Ron writ,” as he thinks of it, disappear in the folds until finally, miraculously, the part saying “The Florida Panhandle, by Rand McNally” faces up. He sets it neatly in front of him, thinking he might never unfold it again, now that it’s actually put away right.
Maybe that would be best. He’s been staring at the thing for over two years.
Three big steps and he’s at the sink, tosses the cigarette in. It hisses and smokes, then shuts up. Squirts some Colgate on his finger (forgot his toothbrush at the last motel, go figure) and brushes. Looks at himself. Gaining weight? Check. Hair a little thinner? Check. Grayer? Hard to tell with this flickering fluorescent light, but it’s safe to say—check. Spits, splashes water into his mouth, pulls the rubberband out of his ponytail. It pulls and hurts. Tosses it next to the sink, takes a leak, undresses to his skivvies, and sits down on the bed, feeling it strain and hearing it squeal under the weight of his body. What’s the blessed box spring complaining about? He’s the one who has to carry his heavy ass around all day, not it. He shoves his feet under the covers and clicks off the light next to his head. It’s dark. A truck yells past on the highway, then another, then another. Hollow light seeps in between the curtains. Somebody’s clomping up the steps outside, shaking the whole place. They
(The patient nods.)
DIRECTOR: Then why are you crying?
PATIENT #62: Because I’m so confused. I know I’m not crazy, but . . . I just don’t know anymore. . . .
DIRECTOR: You know what? I think we’re ready for the next phase of our work together.
(The patient begins crying loudly and shaking, but does not move.) (The director bends close to Patient #62’s ear.)
DIRECTOR: {This portion is inaudible.}
Chapter Six
P ACK OF M ARLBORO R EDS . One left. He holds it in his good hand, sticks it in his lips. It dangles there until he digs a lighter out from under a crushed RC Cola can and pops a flame. Then he snaps the cigarette to attention, taut, and breathes all that mother-lovin’, toxic shit into his lungs. He dumps it out in a sigh. Looks down at the crumpled map on the desk in front of him. Spreads it out with his good hand as if to smooth out all the wrinkles, an impossible task. He slouches in his chair and takes another drag. No revelation, nothing. One thing’s for sure, he’s no Sherlock Holmes. Praise God.
Not surprising. In middle-school gym class, he was no rope climber. At Markston High School he was no mathematician. No writer, either. Not much of a mechanic when he did that stint in his stepdad’s shop, and the old bastard never missed a chance to remind him of it. Was never much good with women, so it made perfect sense that he was a lousy husband when he finally got the chance. Couldn’t hold down that job keepin’ books at the industrial supply—morphine makes the numbers swim once you’re on the third or fourth pull from the whiskey flask. Couldn’t just keep his blessed mouth shut and swallow his pride enough to appreciate that job checkin’ groceries at the Publix, even though they had health benefits and everything. And, of course, let’s not ever forget the last fiasco, the crown of them all. After that one, anything is easy to swallow. So there’s not a speck of surprise in the fact that he can’t figure this out, a bona fide mystery. One thing, though, gotta be fair. One thing no one can deny, one thing they can scrawl on his gravestone: Ron Bent was a good father. At least there’s that. Praise God.
He goes to fold up the map and gets ashes all over it: one more screwup to go in his ever growing screwup file. He brushes the map off and folds it up, against the folds. Seems like he’s folding against the folds every time with this blessed map. Seems like there’s no right way to fold the thing. The shiny star stickers—gold, red, blue, and the scrawled, nearly illegible “Ron writ,” as he thinks of it, disappear in the folds until finally, miraculously, the part saying “The Florida Panhandle, by Rand McNally” faces up. He sets it neatly in front of him, thinking he might never unfold it again, now that it’s actually put away right.
Maybe that would be best. He’s been staring at the thing for over two years.
Three big steps and he’s at the sink, tosses the cigarette in. It hisses and smokes, then shuts up. Squirts some Colgate on his finger (forgot his toothbrush at the last motel, go figure) and brushes. Looks at himself. Gaining weight? Check. Hair a little thinner? Check. Grayer? Hard to tell with this flickering fluorescent light, but it’s safe to say—check. Spits, splashes water into his mouth, pulls the rubberband out of his ponytail. It pulls and hurts. Tosses it next to the sink, takes a leak, undresses to his skivvies, and sits down on the bed, feeling it strain and hearing it squeal under the weight of his body. What’s the blessed box spring complaining about? He’s the one who has to carry his heavy ass around all day, not it. He shoves his feet under the covers and clicks off the light next to his head. It’s dark. A truck yells past on the highway, then another, then another. Hollow light seeps in between the curtains. Somebody’s clomping up the steps outside, shaking the whole place. They
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