My mother calls this morning to check up on me. The weekly call from Ann Arbor. I don’t want to talk to her or anybody else. Why do I pay money to hear that little machine ring if all it does is wipe out my ever so fragile tranquility? Rarely do I use it to call out. Getting rid of the thing—it’s my next big step toward becoming 100 percent unsociable. No phone. Reach me on the street. That’s where I’ll be.
It’s been a bad week.
Whether I like it or not, my mother and I are talking away; there’s nothing I can do about it. The same questions come from her, followed by my regular answers, my evasions. My life, no different than last week. All fucked up. I don’t tell her this oh-so-terrible fact because she’ll insist that everything will be fine. If I challenge her theory of the happy world, she cries. That’s what I hate most. She feels responsible for the way I am, and I feel responsible for putting a kink in her smooth cheerful outlook. So I keep things from her. My mother gets upset when I tell her I’m sick of talking, or okay, that I’m in a quiet mood. That scares her. She thinks quiet is for the dead. She believes we should all think and say nice things as long as we’re alive. And smile more. But Mom, I’m dying inside. I’m so incredibly unhappy.
No, can’t say that. We hang up.
Ten minutes later, my older brother calls, obviously on orders from Mom. He doesn’t know what to say.
“Lou, how are you?” he asks.
“Hey, I’m fine,” I say, straining to sound upbeat. “How are you?”
He tells me about this trip he took to Florida. On the drive back, he stopped at a pet shop and purchased four lizards for his three children—four, just in case one died in the car. It would save him an explanation. All the lizards survived. Martin, the three-year-old, asked his daddy why there were four—who was the fourth one for? My brother told Martin that one of the lizards had a baby. Martin asked which one. My brother pointed at random. Martin asked where it came out, and my brother said underneath the tail.
Great. We hang up.
Unplug the phone.
My brother’s approach to life is unsettling. I know he’ll continue to tell his safe little lies forever. It’ll never stop. But those common changes in the truth will turn him into a fake, and in 10 or 20 years his children won’t even recognize him.
Who’s the impostor? Where’s Dad?
That’s him. That’s the guy.
I’m no different. We’re both terrified of life.
When I used to think of dying, I always pictured myself stepping into the feeding ground of a tiger. The image just came to me one night and stuck for years. It seemed appropriate for who I was. I can’t say why. Now I feel differently. I see another animal. I still want to be eaten alive; only now I would prefer a dip in the ocean followed by a serious attack from an angry sea lion. However unlikely that may seem, it’s what I truly want. In the end I pray that I am torn apart. Not whole.
Maybe a walk would do me some good. Yes, a long walk. It’s cloudy today. I’ll put on my hat and fill up the canteen. Then I’ll be off.