The Harm in Asking: My Clumsy Encounters With the Human Race
Page 26
“Sarita, you cannot believe her kindness.”
“Sarita, my woman is so more beautiful than all the other womans.”
“Sarita, for to know someone so mucho special? You cannot know the joy.”
I couldn’t know the joy. I didn’t know the joy. I myself was wildly, flagrantly single at the time, and I did not appreciate the way in which Angel’s new relationship interrupted my suspension of disbelief. Naturally, I knew Angel was out of my league, but at least when he wasn’t going on about some real, actual woman, I could trick myself into thinking otherwise.
Seeing as how you have to join them if you cannot fight them, I decided to ignore my impulse to fake snore whenever Angel mentioned his girlfriend, and instead I feigned interest. By this I mean that whenever Angel and I were together, I asked him questions about his girlfriend as a means to the end of stalking her online.
1. “What is her name again, Angel? Great. And her last name as well?”
2. “And is she on Facebook?”
3. “And does she hail, perchance, from Trenton, New Jersey?”
I went on in this vein until I learned everything I wanted to know: That Angel’s girlfriend was a midlevel hairstylist with an adequate face and a fitness-model figure. That she maintained an active presence on both Facebook and her salon website. That she liked posting photos of haircuts she’d done, which she’d then intersperse with posts thanking Jesus for her talent, for the chance to “take advantage of this one life by doing what I love.”
These bits of information made my current situation easier to bear.
20. THE FOUR QUESTIONS
After three months and three weeks on crutches, it was time, once again, to try walking on my own. I could not do so casually, however. I could not simply cast them aside in my apartment, then see how the ol’ ankle coped with a victory march. The process of walking independently would have to be approved by Dr. Dean.
My mother called the night before the visit.
“Are you preparing?” she asked.
“Preparing?” I asked back.
“Preparing questions,” she answered. “For Dr. Dean. You should do that, you know. Prior to the actual appointment. You’ll get intimidated once you’re in there, overwhelmed by the prospect of walking again.”
“So?” I said.
“So,” she said, “plan your questions in advance. Here’s what I want you to ask: ‘1. Will the range of motion return? 2. Will the swelling go down? 3. Where can I expect to be one year from now? 4. (And this is important.) What can I do to make myself better?’ ”
I did as instructed. I wrote down these four questions and took them with me the following day.
Upon arrival, I was relegated to Dr. Dean’s usual minimal eye contact and monotone speech.
“Hello,” he said, staring at my ankle.
“Hello,” I said, staring at his wider-than-a-mile chest.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay,” I said.
“Let’s walk,” he said.
“Just like that?” I said.
“Yep,” he said. “Just like that. Just go ahead and walk.”
I was thrilled at the chance, but disappointed by the lack of fanfare. I would’ve liked … I don’t know, applause, maybe, from some of the surrounding staff. Instead, I took my first steps to resounding silence, and this granted unto me the charming opportunity to focus solely, silently, on what it felt like, now, to walk.
21. WHAT IT FELT LIKE, NOW, TO WALK
My ankle was flexible like a piece of damp timber is flexible: There’s some give, but barely. So it was that walking felt not at all like walking, but rather like carting an albatross around. A spiky, grinding pain set in.
“This feels … bad,” I said.
“That’s to be expected,” Dr. Dean responded.
Dr. Dean and I stared at each other. Or perhaps it was more like I was staring at Dr. Dean because I wanted a more reassuring answer, whereas Dr. Dean was staring through me because that was just sort of his deal.
Finally, my father broke the silence.
“Sara,” he said. “You had questions you wanted to ask.”
“Oh, uh, yeah,” I said, and reached into my pocket for my list.
I read with the robotic stiffness of an unseasoned actor.
“Will the range of motion return? Will the swelling go down? Where can I expect to be one year from now?”
I left out the bit about asking what I could do to make myself better, and that is because an eminent surgeon and I aren’t going to have similar definitions of the word “work,” now, are we? The difference in our thinking would be the difference between a ten-minute stroll for the prize of a decent New York bagel versus a ten-mile run for the prize of bruised nipples. And anyway, even if I could channel that sort of dedication, why would I want to put it toward my ankle? I’d have one less thing to complain about if I did. One less thing to make me feel special and unique.
Dr. Dean answered my questions concisely.
“A little. Not really. That all depends on you.”
“That all depends on you” sounded, to me, like the answer to the question I had purposely left out. The overall point here was that shouldering responsibility for my own recovery would rob me of hours in the day I preferred to devote to self-pity.
I therefore made the choice to let the questions lie. All I said in response was, “Um, okay. Well, thanks. Am I done?”
And Dr. Dean had nodded.
“Yep,” he’d said. “You’re done. Just check out with my nurse before you leave.”
22. US PEOPLES RESPONSIBLE FOR US PEOPLES
The orthopedics department was located on the third floor of the hospital. The physical therapy department was located seven floors above it, on the tenth. I had been told to schedule a physical therapy appointment with Angel as a follow-up to my orthopedics appointment with Dr. Dean. Which is to say, I had been told to schedule an appointment with Angel as an immediate follow-up to being taken off my crutches.
My father joined me at both of these appointments, and when we arrived to the second he made the unnecessary and (if I may say) moronic decision to mention my least favorite part of the first.
“Angel,” he said, “Sara’s surgeon made an important point today, I think.”
“Bueno,” said Angel. “Tell me, please, then. Let me know.”
“Well,” said my dad, “the surgeon said that now that she’s off crutches, the recovery is largely up to her.”
“Bueno point-o, yes,” said Angel. “Very bueno. I was discussing with my girlfriend the other day, how important it is for us peoples to be responsible for us peoples.”
“For ourselves, you mean?”
“Sí, yes. For ourselves. My girlfriend, she is wise. She understand very much, and anyway, Sarita, yes: You must work for to make the ankle strong and good. You must push youself.”
“Pushing myself isn’t my thing, really.”
“But this is okeydokey. Angel make it be your thing.”
To his credit, Angel tried. He really did. Our physical therapy sessions took on a new, markedly more tortuous quality. On crutches, they had involved gentle stretching and presses. Off crutches, they involved crippling pain on a treadmill. They involved an excruciating game of hopscotch designed to engage the ailing limbs of deformed adults. They involved a little piece of hell on earth built around a seat belt and a folding chair. They involved a butter knife, which Angel would use for the delightful and specific job of “loosening the skin” of my “very big scars.”
The physical therapy facility had been lined on all sides with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and it was thanks to these mirrors that I knew how I looked as I did my various exercises. It was thanks to these mirrors that I knew I looked like some contestant off The Biggest Loser. I’m talking, like, one of the ones for whom gratitude is trumped by anger.
Too much hurt too much. And that—by my estimation—is how you know it’s time to walk away.
Speaking of walking, now that I was walking, it was time for my dad to go home. Following our double-bill appointments, he booked himself a flight back to Chicago.
Four months together. Every hour. Every day. But then he books a flight. And then he has to go.
My mom tells this story about how when she and my dad dropped me off to go to college, he, my dad, requested a window seat for the return flight so he could slump against the window and sob. His little girl was gone to the Big Bad Apple, gone to do as young girls do once they arrive: fail at creative enterprise, sleep with the occasional homosexual.
I thought I might get a similar bit of fanfare at this good-bye. However, at this good-bye, my dad wasn’t leaving behind a daughter becoming a woman, but rather a woman who’d been peeing in a vase. There wasn’t reason for him to cry so much as there was opportunity for him to wash his hands of the final urinary splash. So it was that for the first time in his life, my father, Joseph Barron, didn’t cry. Perhaps I should’ve been impressed, but instead I just felt sad myself and did the crying for him. It was like I’d been handed some supremely sad baton. Here, sweetie. Take it. Since now you’re all alone.
24. PAPA, CAN YOU HEAR ME?
It’s weird how quickly one adjusts to company, in general, and servitude, in particular. I’d hoped my father’s absence would be compensated for by the fact that I was walking again, but then it turned out the whole walking thing wasn’t nearly as much fun as I thought it would be. I tried drumming up new activities to occupy myself, but I’m never great with that sort of thing, and instead wound up stuck with what I’m good at: TV watching. Bagel buying. Rigorous rounds of self-pity. The TV and bagels were, as ever, really delicious and fun. But the rounds of self-pity were less so. I couldn’t enjoy them as much without my dad around to hear them, and so I started calling home. Complaining over the telephone was the only viable alternative to complaining in person. So I’d call my parents in the morning, to complain to them into their afternoon. Or I’d call them in the afternoon, to complain to them into their evening. The routine worked well enough, but only until they got hip to my game, only until they learned to avoid the calls until they absolutely had to answer.
“Sweetheart! Hi! Sorry we missed your call.”
“You missed five calls.”
“Did we? Gosh. Well, I’m sorry about that. We were out for a walk. The weather’s lovely at the moment.”
“Out for a walk, eh? Sounds great. We should all be so lucky.”
The truth of the matter is that I dislike taking walks and always have. However, it is important when seeking attention to instill guilt in whomever you can.
25. THE END
When I visit home now, I like involving my family in bits and pieces of my ongoing physical therapy. I’ve been prescribed a half hour’s worth of ankle exercise that I’m supposed to do every day. I’m supposed to do it every day, but I don’t do it every day. And that is because I don’t like to do it if other people aren’t around. If other people are around, well, then it’s much more fun. Then I’ll make a show of it. I’ll ask someone to massage my scars or to push back on my foot to increase the mobility in the ankle.
But other people mostly aren’t around. In which case, I mostly do not do them.
The byproduct of this ongoing neglect has been an ankle like a baby: feeble and incompetent. It hurts a lot. I limp a lot. I know there are worse problems out there, and I know that a good thing to do, probably, would be to think about those problems, to remember how lucky I am.
But that is not my way.
I am not designed to push myself nor to focus on the positive. This is maybe self-indulgent. Or it is maybe realistic. It is maybe life examined, then stripped of self-denial, of the inauthentic lesson learned. It is maybe both. It is hard to tell. What is not, though—what is painfully clear—is how much I like to wallow. And this, to be sure, is a different thing from being left to wallow. That I do not care for. I like to know I’m being overheard.
Acknowledgments
It takes a village to raise a child. More to the point, it takes a village to assist me in the wonderful and tortuous project of writing a book. Thanks are due to each of the following people:
My agent, Elisabeth Weed, whose guidance and overall loveliness have made of me a published author.
Everyone at Three Rivers Press for their patience and support, most especially my editor, Alexis Washam, who is sharp and thorough beyond description.
Each and every one of my students. They’ve worked together over the years to give me a reason to leave my apartment. Not only that, they’ve used their questions and insights to force me into my own improved understanding of this ridiculous business of writing.
My friend and early reader, Diana Spechler, who is profoundly intelligent when it comes to people and to writing, and who has made me (as a person and a writer) a little better than before.
My friend Michelle Newman, upon whose couch I’ve edited a portion of this manuscript, and who says—without fail, and every time I see her—“Tell me about the book. I know you think it’s boring, but I don’t think it’s boring.”
My friend Maggie McBrien, without whom I’d be short on material. I’d also be terribly lonely.
My friend Joseph Zvejnieks, from whom I’ve stolen more than one story because, well, no one else’s are as funny. This is true about the man, and it is true about his stories.
My brother, Sam Barron, who does me the favor of allowing me to write about him. He does this despite the fact that I convey 1/100th of his massive brain and overall charisma.
My father, Joseph Barron, who—at the age of sixty-five and across the span of four months—had to care for me as though I were a toddler. It was during those months that I began the process of writing this book. Without him there—without the sense that I was not alone—I would not have had the energy to do so.
My mother, Lynn Barron, who in real life would never speak about another person as though that person were an enema. To her I owe every part of me that is—for however brief a moment—in any way funny or kind.
My husband, Geoff Lloyd, whose talent inspires, whose nimble mind and unparalleled sense of humor serve as my beacons in the night: What a gift to trust your taste. What a gift to have at my disposal a brain as big as yours. This book, Geoff, is for you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sara Barron is the author of People Are Unappealing, Even Me. She hosts the Moth in New York City, and her work has appeared in Vanity Fair and on NPR, NBC, and This American Life.
ALSO BY
SARA BARRON
PEOPLE ARE UNAPPEALING*
*EVEN ME
The strange, funny, and sometimes filthy stories of Sara Barron’s twisted suburban upbringing and deranged attempt at taking the Big Apple by storm—first as an actor (then a waiter), then a dancer (then a waiter), then a comic (then a waiter). It’s there that she meets the ex-boyfriend turned street clown. The silk pajama–clad poet. The OCD Xanax addict who refuses to have sex wearing any fewer than three condoms. Barron has a knack for attracting the unattractive. People Are Unappealing is her wickedly funny look at the dark side of humanity.
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