And everyone has psychoanalyzed him.
And everyone knows what his problem is.
And everyone knows he has baggage.
And everyone thinks they know how to help him.
Because everyone believes what they see on TV.
Because no one has realized yet that it’s all full of shit.
“You don’t know shit about me when I was a kid, and not only did that break rule number three, but it was a stupid-ass thing to say and you’re completely f**king wrong.”
She stares at me. She seems surprised.
“I want an apology,” I say. I stand and gather my things from the booth.
“But you did, Gerald. You did used to go off into your own world,” she says. “And you still do it.”
“You don’t know anything about anything,” I say. “You’re just a f**king brainwashed moron like the rest of them,” I say—okay, I mutter—on my way past her toward the cafeteria door.
I eat my lunch in the hallway outside Fletcher’s room, where Deirdre and Jenny are eating and talking about TV shows.
Mom packed her famous chicken salad today and it doesn’t taste anything like it tasted last week. That’s probably because I’m realizing that her needing me to be learning disabled could compare to her wanting me to be in a wheelchair… all so Tasha could run faster.
It would take a lot of kick-ass chicken salad to make me un-realize that.
40
“YOU CALLED ME a brainless moron,” Hannah says.
She’s walking me to my car and I haven’t offered her a ride, so I’m about to tell her not to get in when she gets in. Mental note: Lock car from now on.
“Well? Didn’t you?” she yells.
“No,” I say, now trapped in a cold car with a screeching teenage girl. I am thankful for rule #5. I am thankful this hasn’t gone far. “And who invited you into my car?”
“You called me a brainless moron,” she says again.
I look at her. “No, I didn’t. I called you a brainwashed moron like the rest of TV viewers who think they know Gerald Faust but who don’t know anything about Gerald Faust. And no, I’m not apologizing. You broke rule number three in a big way. Using some bullshit you once saw on the TV against me is way out of line, Hannah.”
I get out the driver’s-side door, I walk around the back of my car, and I open the passenger’s-side door like a gentleman. I stand there until she gets out, and once she walks toward the buses, I walk around to the driver’s side of my car and get in.
And that’s when I see she’s written ASSHOLE on my dashboard in silver Sharpie marker.
My drive to work is fast.
When I get there, Beth, who is hovering over a full hot dog roller, says, “It’s Dollar Night. I have to make four hundred of these before we open. And I haven’t even started anything else.” At this moment, I try to imagine her skinny-dipping and drinking beer with her friends and I can’t see it. I can’t see anything but the wrinkles of Dollar Night worry on her forehead.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I don’t want to look, because I’m sure it’s Hannah playing some ASSHOLE game with me. “I’ll get everything else,” I say. And I do. I fill the ice, count my cash, set up the condiment stand, fix the cheese dispenser for the trillions of Dollar Nachos to come.
By the time I’m done, Hannah has been at register #1 counting her cash for ten minutes. Each of us pretends the other isn’t there. It’s perfect until Beth asks her to come over and help her wrap hot dogs. I’m already wrapping hot dogs, so we stand there and wrap silently and I give her a few dirty looks and she gives me dirty looks and then we go back to not looking at each other.
After a minute, Beth says, “Shit. The tension here is intense.” When neither of us answers, she laughs to herself and answers for us. “Yes, Beth, it is. It’s because we’re teenagers and can’t figure out how to talk to each other.”
“Hey!” Hannah says. “I’m not some idiot just because of my age.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“So what’s the problem?” Beth asks.
I shrug.
Hannah says, “I asked Gerald today to stop going off into his little dreamworld because it’s hard to deal with him when he does that and he freaked out on me and called me a brainless moron.”
“I did not call you a brainless moron. I called you a brainwashed moron because you brought up the bullshit you saw on the TV from when I was five. Jesus! How the f**k would you feel if I had twenty-four-seven movies of your house when you were five and said something like Hannah, stop being so emotional. You’ve always been emotional—don’t you remember that time when you were five?” I take a breath. “Anyway, if you believe that’s really what my house was like, you’re wrong. And so making judgments from those bullshit shows… or even bringing it the hell up is just out of line, man.”
“But you do space out,” Hannah presses.
“Yeah, I do. So f**kin’ what? Who doesn’t need a minute to themselves every now and then, okay? I space out. I go on a journey. I zone. Whatever. Who cares? And why does that give you the right to psychoanalyze me?” I say.
Hannah sighs. She has tears in her eyes. “Look. At lunch, I was just trying to say that sometimes you’re hard to talk to. And you’ve proven that I’m right in every possible way. Whatever. Be immature if you want. I don’t care.”
She walks away from the hot dog–wrapping table and leaves me and Beth here, wrapping. My phone buzzes in my pocket again and I can see it’s not Hannah texting me, so I stop and take off my plastic glove to check the message.
It’s from Joe Jr. Can you talk? That’s the first text, from earlier.
Dude. Can you talk? That’s the second text.
I tell Beth that I have to go to the bathroom and I find my way to the smokers’ alley, where I first met Joe. I dial his number, but he doesn’t answer. I leave a voice mail.
“Hey, Joe. It’s Gerald. I just got your texts and wanted to talk. I’m working, though, so I have to go back now, but I’ll call you again on break.” Oh shit. I remember it’s Dollar Night and there are no breaks. Okay. “Or I’ll call you when I’m off work. Hey, I was serious about me coming to see you. I want to do it. My birthday’s in a week, and I asked my mom for a gas card.”
I hang up and instantly regret nearly all of that voice mail. Voice mail was invented by confident people to make unconfident people say stupid shit that gets taped and haunts us forever.
And everyone knows what his problem is.
And everyone knows he has baggage.
And everyone thinks they know how to help him.
Because everyone believes what they see on TV.
Because no one has realized yet that it’s all full of shit.
“You don’t know shit about me when I was a kid, and not only did that break rule number three, but it was a stupid-ass thing to say and you’re completely f**king wrong.”
She stares at me. She seems surprised.
“I want an apology,” I say. I stand and gather my things from the booth.
“But you did, Gerald. You did used to go off into your own world,” she says. “And you still do it.”
“You don’t know anything about anything,” I say. “You’re just a f**king brainwashed moron like the rest of them,” I say—okay, I mutter—on my way past her toward the cafeteria door.
I eat my lunch in the hallway outside Fletcher’s room, where Deirdre and Jenny are eating and talking about TV shows.
Mom packed her famous chicken salad today and it doesn’t taste anything like it tasted last week. That’s probably because I’m realizing that her needing me to be learning disabled could compare to her wanting me to be in a wheelchair… all so Tasha could run faster.
It would take a lot of kick-ass chicken salad to make me un-realize that.
40
“YOU CALLED ME a brainless moron,” Hannah says.
She’s walking me to my car and I haven’t offered her a ride, so I’m about to tell her not to get in when she gets in. Mental note: Lock car from now on.
“Well? Didn’t you?” she yells.
“No,” I say, now trapped in a cold car with a screeching teenage girl. I am thankful for rule #5. I am thankful this hasn’t gone far. “And who invited you into my car?”
“You called me a brainless moron,” she says again.
I look at her. “No, I didn’t. I called you a brainwashed moron like the rest of TV viewers who think they know Gerald Faust but who don’t know anything about Gerald Faust. And no, I’m not apologizing. You broke rule number three in a big way. Using some bullshit you once saw on the TV against me is way out of line, Hannah.”
I get out the driver’s-side door, I walk around the back of my car, and I open the passenger’s-side door like a gentleman. I stand there until she gets out, and once she walks toward the buses, I walk around to the driver’s side of my car and get in.
And that’s when I see she’s written ASSHOLE on my dashboard in silver Sharpie marker.
My drive to work is fast.
When I get there, Beth, who is hovering over a full hot dog roller, says, “It’s Dollar Night. I have to make four hundred of these before we open. And I haven’t even started anything else.” At this moment, I try to imagine her skinny-dipping and drinking beer with her friends and I can’t see it. I can’t see anything but the wrinkles of Dollar Night worry on her forehead.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I don’t want to look, because I’m sure it’s Hannah playing some ASSHOLE game with me. “I’ll get everything else,” I say. And I do. I fill the ice, count my cash, set up the condiment stand, fix the cheese dispenser for the trillions of Dollar Nachos to come.
By the time I’m done, Hannah has been at register #1 counting her cash for ten minutes. Each of us pretends the other isn’t there. It’s perfect until Beth asks her to come over and help her wrap hot dogs. I’m already wrapping hot dogs, so we stand there and wrap silently and I give her a few dirty looks and she gives me dirty looks and then we go back to not looking at each other.
After a minute, Beth says, “Shit. The tension here is intense.” When neither of us answers, she laughs to herself and answers for us. “Yes, Beth, it is. It’s because we’re teenagers and can’t figure out how to talk to each other.”
“Hey!” Hannah says. “I’m not some idiot just because of my age.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“So what’s the problem?” Beth asks.
I shrug.
Hannah says, “I asked Gerald today to stop going off into his little dreamworld because it’s hard to deal with him when he does that and he freaked out on me and called me a brainless moron.”
“I did not call you a brainless moron. I called you a brainwashed moron because you brought up the bullshit you saw on the TV from when I was five. Jesus! How the f**k would you feel if I had twenty-four-seven movies of your house when you were five and said something like Hannah, stop being so emotional. You’ve always been emotional—don’t you remember that time when you were five?” I take a breath. “Anyway, if you believe that’s really what my house was like, you’re wrong. And so making judgments from those bullshit shows… or even bringing it the hell up is just out of line, man.”
“But you do space out,” Hannah presses.
“Yeah, I do. So f**kin’ what? Who doesn’t need a minute to themselves every now and then, okay? I space out. I go on a journey. I zone. Whatever. Who cares? And why does that give you the right to psychoanalyze me?” I say.
Hannah sighs. She has tears in her eyes. “Look. At lunch, I was just trying to say that sometimes you’re hard to talk to. And you’ve proven that I’m right in every possible way. Whatever. Be immature if you want. I don’t care.”
She walks away from the hot dog–wrapping table and leaves me and Beth here, wrapping. My phone buzzes in my pocket again and I can see it’s not Hannah texting me, so I stop and take off my plastic glove to check the message.
It’s from Joe Jr. Can you talk? That’s the first text, from earlier.
Dude. Can you talk? That’s the second text.
I tell Beth that I have to go to the bathroom and I find my way to the smokers’ alley, where I first met Joe. I dial his number, but he doesn’t answer. I leave a voice mail.
“Hey, Joe. It’s Gerald. I just got your texts and wanted to talk. I’m working, though, so I have to go back now, but I’ll call you again on break.” Oh shit. I remember it’s Dollar Night and there are no breaks. Okay. “Or I’ll call you when I’m off work. Hey, I was serious about me coming to see you. I want to do it. My birthday’s in a week, and I asked my mom for a gas card.”
I hang up and instantly regret nearly all of that voice mail. Voice mail was invented by confident people to make unconfident people say stupid shit that gets taped and haunts us forever.
