The Harm in Asking: My Clumsy Encounters With the Human Race

by Sara Barron

  One of the side effects of your friend’s boyfriend being all like, “Blah, blah, blah. Your friend’s ejaculating diamonds, blah, blah,” is that your sense of social norms gets distorted. You feel atypically emboldened, atypically moved to grab life by the violet vadge.

  12:47 A.M.: “Hello,” I said to Murray Hill. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m, like, such a fan.”

  I checked Mr. Hill’s face for any sign my night might take an erotic, gender-bent turn, only to realize no, it would not. For this was not Murray Hill. No. Just another obese man whose outfit—’70s-style suit; wire-rim, double-ridge glasses—was not in any way ironic.

  12:48 A.M.: I apologized for my mistake.

  “No problem,” said the man. “I mean, well, the trains take forever this time of night. It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

  I condone pitying the obese, but not ignoring them. So we talked for a while, and this was for the best, I think, as doing so offered unto me a new target for annoyance.

  1:15 A.M.: I arrived home, finally.

  1:25 A.M.: I turned on the TV.

  2:00 A.M.: I turned off the TV.

  2:10 A.M.: I went to bed.

  11:00 A.M.: I woke up.

  11:10 A.M.: I went to the bathroom to wash off my face paint.

  11:15 A.M.: I thought a bit about humanity, and solitude.

  12:00 P.M.: I wondered if perhaps I ought to leave my apartment.

  12:01 P.M.: I decided I should, and walked over to the local coffee shop. I brought with me my “Funny Thoughts and Ideas!” journal. I also brought a bag of beef jerky, and that is because the coffee shop had recently started shellacking their sandwiches with way too much mayonnaise. Nowadays when I went there, I made sure to bring my own food.

  1:00 P.M.: I had started to get hungry. I was about to eat my jerky.

  1:01 P.M.: Then, though, an attractive man sat down at the table beside me.

  This posed a very real problem.

  I don’t know when you last ate jerky in public, but it’s an indelicate process to say the least. For starters, there’s the grasping at the base of the jerky—the jerky stabilization, if you will—then there’s the eons it takes to gnaw through the top. Licking whipped cream off a finger, it is not. What it is, at least for me, is the chance to resemble Prehistoric Man with Drumstick.

  1:02 P.M.: I figured I would wait to eat the jerky. Eating it now, I thought, would be counterproductive to looking attractive.

  1:02 P.M.: I tucked The Devil Wears Prada into my backpack, took out my “Funny Thoughts and Ideas!” journal, and started sketching stick figures of the various coffee-shop patrons and employees. My goal in doing so was to look occupied. But—and this was key—also available for eye contact with the handsome man beside me.

  1:30 P.M.: The handsome man beside me had still not looked my way. I, however, had given it and given it in the eye-contact department. I decided this meant that the handsome man had probably seen my obsessive eye contact and clocked me as psychotic. I thought, Hmm. Okay. So he’s probably made a choice to look away.

  1:32 P.M.: So then what was the point in not eating?

  1:33 P.M.: I dove aggressively into my jerky. I waged war on this one piece, bearing down with my teeth until I’d ripped it involuntarily out of my hands, which, in turn, forced my elbow into the table.

  “OWWW!” I screamed.

  Everyone turned.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  The cashier glared at me from behind the register.

  “No outside food allowed,” she said. “Just, like, FYI.”

  “I’m sorry for that too,” I said, and, in penance, bought a chicken sandwich with too much mayonnaise.

  1:40 P.M.: I exited the coffee shop and headed back to my apartment.

  1:45 P.M.: I offered the mayonnaise sandwich to a homeless guy I saw along the way. I made sure to do it when someone attractive walked by.

  1:55 P.M.: I arrived back at my apartment.

  2:00 P.M.: I ate some more food.

  2:45 P.M.: I turned on the TV.

  7:00 P.M.: I perused Facebook to see what other folks were up to, and by “other folks,” I mean, of course, “current girlfriends of men with whom I’d previously inter-coursed.”

  7:05 P.M.: It was the usual, natch: “Blah, blah, blah. Best job ever.” “Blah, blah, blah. Best friends ever.” “Blah, blah, blah. Best. Life. EVER.”

  7:20 P.M.: I thought about the arrogance of a superlative. I thought about how shitty we all are.

  7:30 P.M.: I received, somewhat suddenly, a message from a stranger. His name was Dan, and Dan claimed in his message to know someone who knew someone I worked with.

  Dan said he’d like to take me on a date.

  7:31 P.M.: I felt flattered and delighted.

  7:32 P.M.: I perused Dan’s Facebook page.

  7:50 P.M.: I concluded he was not too psychotic, and relatively handsome.

  7:55 P.M.: I decided we should go on a date.

  8:00 P.M.: I wrote to Dan to tell him I was free.

  8:05 P.M.: Dan wrote to me to tell me this was great.

  “So then what shall we do?” he wrote. “A normal date activity in a crazy location, or crazy date activity in a normal location?”

  8:10 P.M.: I flipped my mind coin. I wrote, “Crazy date activity in a normal location.”

  8:15 P.M.: “Oh! Great!” Dan wrote. “Then how’s about we meet at the Brooklyn side of the Brooklyn Bridge. Could you do Tuesday? I’ll bring ski masks. We’ll wear them as we walk across.”

  It was, to remind you, the first day of November. The weather was unseasonably warm.

  8:20 P.M.: “Out of curiosity,” I wrote, “can you tell me my option for a normal activity in a crazy location?”

  8:21 P.M.: “Dinner,” wrote Dan, “in my basement. I know it sounds weird, but it’s actually really romantic.”

  Years ago, I read an article about how if a woman fears being attacked, she’s supposed to verbalize the crime the perpetrator is or could be attempting. For example, if you’re walking along a dark city street and you see a guy masturbating at you, you’re supposed to go, “YOU ARE MASTURBATING AT ME! STOP MASTURBATING AT ME!” You’re supposed to directly confront. Doing so is apparently effective in making you seem strong, and therefore like a less-appealing victim.

  8:25 P.M.: “Well, Dan, here’s the thing,” I wrote. “I know you’re probably just a nice guy who puts his own spin on the dating scene. Unfortunately, though, you’ve left the impression that you’re also maybe a killer. In which case, Tuesday’s out.”

  8:54 P.M.: I closed my computer.

  8:56 P.M.: I turned on the TV.

  11:45 P.M.: I turned off the TV.

  11:55 P.M.: I climbed into bed.

  MONDAY, 4:00 P.M.: I arrived to work for my Monday night shift.

  4:15 P.M.: My coworkers and I had a pre-service meeting. We were told to push a product called “fonduta.”

  4:30 P.M.: The meeting wrapped up.

  4:31 P.M.: I made a beeline for Deirdre.

  “So here’s a thing,” I said. “Remember how on Friday we were at TGI Fridays, and I was bitching about my friend Vicki? And then when I was done bitching about Vicki, I made the point about how there was nothing on my own romantic horizon? Do you remember how I said I wanted the universe to shower me with options? Do you remember how I said ‘even someone interesting to think about would be enough’?”

  Deidre nodded. She chewed a wedge off the fonduta.

  “Well!” I said. “In the two days since I’ve seen you, I met a gigolo who wanted me to be his pimp! I spent time with Vicki’s boyfriend, who yammered on about her violet vadge!”

  “What?” asked Deirdre.

  “I know!” I said. “Then,” I continued, “I tried flirting with a drag king who was actually, really a guy. Then I met another guy in a coffee shop who wouldn’t look at me, so I was all, like, ‘Screw it. I’m eating my jerky,’ and still another who asked me to wear a ski mask on a date!”<
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  Deirdre was quiet for a moment. Finally, she said, “Because he thinks you’re ugly?”

  And I was quiet for a moment.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The guy who wanted you to wear a ski mask,” she repeated. “Is it because he thinks you’re ugly?”

  “Oh. No,” I said. “At least, I don’t think so. I think he’s just, like, a weird guy who tries to spin his weirdness as inventiveness. You know the type. They’re always all like, ‘Look at me! Aren’t I wild? Aren’t I so amazing?’ ”

  Deirdre nodded. She smiled. She swallowed her last bit of fonduta.

  “Then you’ve got to call him back,” she said. “I think you’ve found yourself a soul mate.”

  18

  This Might Be Controversial

  My family’s history is a real slap in the face to the American Dream. That is to say, we do not do better than our fathers. We do worse. My great-grandfather was a surgeon, my grandfather, an internist, my mom, a psychotherapist. As for me, I professionally underearn. I’ll do whatever, provided I get paid a meager wage, and it was in keeping with this general approach that I tried my hand at teaching writing.

  I had already worked retail and waited tables. Teaching I preferred to both previous careers because, although it sounded more prestigious than my other jobs, I could still make an insultingly low wage. And this was important. If I did not earn less than my parents, it would be an insult to their legacy.

  ——

  I’D SEEN THE job listing in the back of a free weekly paper. Posted by a local writing school, it called for “writers seeking extra cash.” Well, I was a writer insofar as I had written different things. I decided to apply. What I lacked in qualifying experience, I would make up for in my choice of interview outfit. The day of, I paired a lady’s blazer with a spot-on chignon and barreled in with just the right amount of razzmatazz.

  The interviewer offered me the job, and yes, I did think him slow on the uptake for doing so. He hired me because, he said, my “aggressive speaking voice” would help keep the students “awake if not fully engaged.”

  In advance of my class, I prepared a class plan: I’d lecture, review homework, critique homework. I preemptively practiced critiques: “The ending is shit,” or “Don’t call yourself a writer if you’re not paid to write.” I’d keep it generic, but inspiring. I’d be lauded as brilliant. I watched Dead Poets’ Society, Dangerous Minds, and Stand and Deliver. Teaching, I realized, was all in the attitude, and as long as I leaned casually against my desk at just the right angle, as long as I walked with brash confidence between my students’ desks, I’d maintain unshakable control.

  The only chink in my armor was my ability to lecture. I mean, I could offer up a word or two on structure, dialogue, and so on. I could say things like, “A climax is important” or “It’s good when people talk.” But these words, wise as they are, would not a lecture make. I needed a buffer, and prepared correlating personal anecdotes for my various lecture topics. At the class in which I lectured on character, for example, I’d say, “Characters are important. They should do things. And have opinions,” at which point a student would ask, “Could you give an example? A story from your own life, perhaps?”

  “Of course,” I’d say. “Why don’t we talk about my dad? He’s a character. What kind of character? Well, consider what he does. He sobs like a woman. He sobs at novels, news stories, and sitcoms like The Wonder Years. When we went to see the movie Father of the Bride, my father’s crying got so loud, the woman behind us asked my mom to take him out.”

  The students would reflect. A shining star would raise her hand.

  “His sobbing shows us who he is,” she’d say.

  “Exactly,” I’d say. “Write that down. Now: Who has any questions?”

  It was cause for concern that I was entirely without answers, but I figured the students could do the job for me, answering one another. One could ask, “How do you create characters who are round and compelling?” and I could say, “Great question, Paul. Maybe … Chris! Why don’t you take a stab at it?” And when all was said and done, when the course had finished and it was time to say good-bye, the students would start a slow clap followed by a briskly formed receiving line. I’d stand at the door to shake their hands good-bye.

  “You’re tough,” they’d say. “But fair. You’re a molder of minds. A blazer of trails.”

  “Blazer of trails” would be a phrase they got from me, of course, from my lecture on Creative Use of Language.

  I got to the point of feeling really excited about the whole thing, but then undermined myself when, at the first class, I made the choice to call myself “professor.”

  “Hello, students. Welcome,” I said. “I am Sara, your writing professor.”

  A gentleman—a homosexual, I presumed, who paired all manner of vibrant color awfully well—shot his hand in the air.

  “Do you have a doctorate?” he asked.

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “And is this an accredited college or university?” he asked.

  “It’s not,” I said.

  “Right,” he said. “What it is, I believe, is an unaccredited school that offers private writing classes for adults. So you really shouldn’t call yourself ‘professor.’ I didn’t sign up for a writing class so I could question the judgment of the instructor. You see? Now there’s an appropriate word.”

  This was as chummy as it got those first few weeks. The most significant problem was that my students did not embrace my personal anecdotes in quite the way I’d hoped, and this, in turn, meant we scored ourselves a whopping twenty minutes of unstructured class time. I had no idea what to do with it. In my defense, however, I will say that I was gracious enough to let the students decide for themselves.

  “What would you guys like to do?” I asked. “We could play a game of Telephone. Does that sound good? Or we could do weekly conversations on celebrity news to ensure that we, as writers, stay up to date on what goes on around us? Or … oh! I got it! What about a twenty-minute eating break?”

  The students chose the twenty-minute eating break. But then we tried it a few times and realized that people eating but not really talking serves only to heighten one’s awareness of the sound of other people chewing.

  It was circumstance, then, that forced us into another plan of action, a game of our mutual devising.

  We called it “This Might Be Controversial.”

  “This Might Be Controversial” came about in the workshop portion of the class. Every week, two students submitted essays their fellow students would read and then critique using a series of “positive” and “improvement” comments. So you’d hear things like, “It was good how on page four, paragraph ten, you wore that wig to pretend you’re Barbra Streisand. But then on page six, paragraph twelve, it was weird when you wrote about how hot you think you are.”

  “I didn’t mean hot like sexy. I meant hot like ‘I’m too warm.’ ”

  “Oh, right. Well, that’s unclear.”

  One student, Sven, an enormous, kind-faced Swede, combined a mastery of the English language with a devoted unwillingness to criticize. He’d eschew anything that felt in any way harsh. “On page three, paragraph nineteen, I am very impressed when the character cries, and then washes her feet,” he might say. “And for my improvement … I am sorry, Instructor. I think in every part, Good for you, Miriam! Writing is hard, but you are trying!”

  Miriam was a recent retiree, who, in lieu of an essay, had turned in a eulogy she’d written for her recently deceased mother. Miriam wore only purple clothes, and would’ve done well to wear a sign that said, HANDLE WITH CARE, WON’T YOU PLEASE? MY GRASP ON REALITY’S NOT GREAT.

  So Sven handled her with care. It was sweet, in its way, but the problem was that he handled everyone with care.

  I tried urging him toward a more honest critique.

  “Sven,” I said. “Listen, you have to find a way that works for you.”

  Sven
told me he’d try harder, and in the weeks that followed he started prefacing his comments with, “This might be controversial.” For Sven, it worked as an effective disclaimer. He’d say, “This might be controversial, but on page six, paragraph twenty-seven, I thought the line with seven adjectives was very silly.” Or, “This might be controversial, but on page five, paragraph nine, when you talk about your boyfriend, I thought, Hello. This part is very boring.”

  “This might be controversial” freed Sven up and, over time, caught on with his classmates. Two more weeks went by and we hit a point where everyone said it. Where everyone couldn’t not say it.

  “This might be controversial, but on page three, paragraph twelve, it was really, like, bad how cheesy the dialogue was when your father tells you he has cancer.” Or, “This might be controversial, but on page one, paragraph eighty-five, your interpretation of manic-depression as creative genius feels really self-delighted.”

  One day, Harry, he of the homosexual persuasion and well-coordinated colors, returned from a lengthy visit to the bathroom. Harry spent most of my lectures in the bathroom; however, on this return, he seemed atypically chatty.

  “I have an idea,” he said.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “How about if from now on when one of us says ‘This might be controversial,’ we’ve got to follow through with something really controversial. I think that that’d be fun. Add some spice to the class. A little excitement.”

  “I think spice and excitement sound good,” I said.

  “Great,” he said. “Then I’ll go first: This might be controversial, but gay marriage is a bullshit thing to legalize. I loathe the showers and the registries. I loathe the blah fucking blah of it all. And, well, I’m sorry, okay? But if my time and money saved means fewer rights? Then fuck it. FUCK IT. Fine by me.”