Inside Out

by Terry Trueman

  It’s nice to feel happy and to know I’m feeling it. Does that make any sense? I just mean it’s so unusual that I “feel” anything. This is pretty much the way it goes for people with my kind of brain. We just don’t feel things.... It’s hard to explain.

  Alan interrupts my thoughts. “So, Zach, this Curtis guy’s your doctor? Why is your brain so messed up?” He hesitates a second, then says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I didn’t mean it like … never mind.”

  I ask him, “Why’d you guys do this robbery? Why’d you need money so bad?”

  Alan looks at me a second before he answers. “Our mom has cancer. We don’t have any medical insurance because Mom had to quit her job. She’s really sick from the chemotherapy and radiation treatments, and her medicine costs a fortune. We’re down to nothing. We had to get some money, so I came up with this idiotic idea.”

  “Where’s your dad?” I ask. “Dads sometimes help with money.”

  Joey says, “We don’t even know if Dad’s alive.”

  Alan interrupts, yelling, “Fuck you, Joey! He’s alive!” But then Alan says, “We just don’t know where he is.”

  I say, “My dad left too, a long time ago.” But the truth is I don’t even remember him and I don’t ever think about him.

  “Long gone … like you … boo-hoo … long gone.”

  Alan pauses a few seconds and stares at me. “I’m sorry you got caught up in this, and I’m sorry if we scared you and kept you here. But the truth is we’d do anything to help our mom.”

  I try to understand, and I say, “I know what you mean. My mom makes meals for me and cleans all my clothes and picks me up after school and gives me my medicine.” I try to think of some other reasons to care about my mom. All I can come up with is, “She used to hide Easter eggs for me when I was little. I like eggs.” I try to think of anything else, anything more that I can figure for why I’m glad my mom is around, but finally I give up.

  Joey says, “Our mom used to do that kind of stuff for us, too.”

  Alan looks at him and says, “When Mom gets well, she’ll do those things again, Joey.”

  Joey looks at the floor and nods his head. “Yeah, sure,” he says, so softly I can barely hear him.

  I ask, “Is your mom gonna die?” The second I ask this, I wonder if it’s “appropriate.”

  Joey gives me a mean look, but Alan answers, “No. I hope not. We don’t know for sure, but I don’t think she will.”

  Joey stares back at the floor. He doesn’t look at either of us, but he says, “If prayers ever come true, Mom won’t die. If there really is a God and if he gives a …” He doesn’t finish his thought.

  Alan asks me, “So this brain thing you’ve got, when did you know you had it?”

  I try to explain. “When I was fourteen, I started to hear voices and got all confused and had to go to the hospital—they said I have schizophrenia.”

  Alan asks, “So that’s when you knew you were messed up, huh? I mean, that’s when you knew you were sick?”

  I think about it. “No, not really at first, I didn’t know for sure then. I mean, I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know how bad it would get until I—”

  CRASH!

  My words are cut off by a loud sound from outside the coffee shop. It’s a big crashing sound, like the cops are breaking down the door or kicking in the glass.

  Alan and Joey both jump up and pull out their guns real fast. Alan moves over to the door so he can look out.

  Joey yells to Alan, “Are they coming?”

  Alan yells back, “I don’t know!” He turns to me and says, “Get over in that closet, Zach; stay out of the way.”

  I say, “I won’t get in your way.”

  “Go!” Alan yells. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  I go across the room up to the closet door and pull it open. It’s kind of dark in there, but it’s not really a closet. Through the dark, I see a freezer and some shelves. There’s also a door that leads outside. I glance back over my shoulder.

  Alan is peeking out at the cops. In the instant he starts to pull his head back, there’s another huge noise, the loud, cracking sound of a gunshot.

  Alan falls from the doorway and down onto his knees, dropping his gun, which slides across the slick linoleum floor and ends up right at my feet. Joey screams, no words, just a scream. Alan lifts his hands to his face. I pick up the gun. It’s real heavy. It seems to be alive, like it’s breathing. I know guns aren’t alive, but it feels like it is.

  I hold the gun carefully and look back at Alan again. He is kneeling on the floor holding his face. I see blood on his fingers.

  14

  Letter from Ms. Emily Wahhsted to Dr. Cal Curtis:

  Zach says he took the rifle and went out and sat on a deck chair. As he sat there, he says, he wondered what I might think when I came home and found his body. I guess some tiny part of him realized that I “might be upset.”

  The blood on Alan’s face looks kinda like chocolate sauce, the kind you put on ice cream. I wish I had a chocolate sundae right now.

  The phone rings.

  A loud voice booms from outside:

  “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT IN THERE? IS EVERYONE ALL RIGHT? THAT WAS A MISTAKE! PICK UP THE PHONE!”

  The phone keeps ringing.

  Joey just stands frozen, staring at Alan, so I grab the phone.

  A voice asks, “Is everybody okay?” He sounds scared.

  I say, “Alan’s holding his head—he’s bloody!”

  “Oh, God,” the voice says back.

  Alan stands up, brushing off the side of his face. Little pieces of wood fall away. The bullet shattered the wall right next to where Alan’s head was. Splinters are sticking into his face, making bloody spots.

  I say into the phone, “Alan’s face is bleeding.”

  “Is he conscious? Is he alive?”

  Alan walks over to me and grabs the phone out of my hand.

  “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?” he yells into the phone.

  He listens for a second, then yells again. “MISTAKE MY ASS! YOU TRIED TO BLOW MY HEAD OFF!”

  Alan listens again, then says, “No,” still sounding mad. “I’m okay, but …”

  Alan listens some more. He says, quieter, “No, it’s just a scratch, not that you give a shit.”

  Alan slams the phone down.

  He turns to Joey and me and says, “Accidental shot.”

  Joey yells, “Accidental? Bull! It only missed your head by about an inch!” As Joey says this, he walks back and forth across the room like I’ve seen people do in the hospital, pacing like crazy. It’s like Joey’s ready to kill somebody himself.

  Alan says to Joey, “Calm down—the guy wasn’t supposed to shoot. He didn’t have orders.”

  Joey says, “I don’t believe it. I think they wanna kill us to protect Zach.”

  Alan says, “Maybe. I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  Suddenly Alan looks at me and notices, for the first time, that I’m holding his gun. Joey notices, too, and snaps his gun up, pointing it right at me. Without even thinking about it, I point Alan’s gun at Joey. We stand real still. I look down the barrel of Joey’s little gun.

  “Long gong … barrel … cracker barrel … barrel o’ monkeys … wong-gong.

  “Shoot … shoot.... Even better … let him shoot you!”

  This isn’t good.

  Even I can tell this isn’t good.

  15

  Letter from Ms. Emily Wahhsted to Dr. Cal Curtis:

  Zach says he came back into the house, got a piece of paper and a pencil, and wrote a note, leaving it for me on the kitchen counter. Then he went back out to the deck and sat back down and picked up the rifle. Can you imagine?

  Alan snaps at Joey, “What the hell are you doing? Lower your gun!”

  Joey looks at Alan so angrily that not even I can miss it. Joey spins around and punches the wall, but he points his gun at the floor. I point my gun at the floor too. />
  Alan looks at me. “Hey, Zach, I better have my gun back, okay?”

  I look at the gun in my hand and don’t say anything for a second.

  I look up again at Alan, and he is smiling. He says, “You wanna shoot it?”

  Joey paces back and forth again.

  I answer Alan about shooting the gun. “I better not.”

  Alan says, “It’s okay—go ahead and pull the trigger if you want to.”

  I point the gun at Alan, and I ask, “Really? How come? You want to die?” Maybe I’m not the only one who feels that way.

  Alan says, “Sure, just pull the trigger.”

  Joey says, “Wait a sec—”

  Alan interrupts him. “It’s okay, Joey.”

  “Fine, whatever!” Joey yells.

  I say, “I don’t really want to shoot you, Frosty … I mean Alan.”

  Alan says, “Shoot the floor, then.”

  I say, “Okay.”

  I point the gun at the floor. I slowly squeeze the trigger. I hear a click and nothing more, just a little click. I pull the trigger a second time, click, a third time, click, then a bunch of times, click, click, click, click.

  Alan reaches over and takes the gun. He looks at it, then says to me, “It doesn’t work, hasn’t for a long time. It’s a World War Two officer’s sidearm, a forty-five caliber. Our grandpa was a fighter pilot. All of them carried these, but Grandpa removed the firing pin from this one fifty years ago. Some holdup, huh?”

  16

  Letter from Ms. Emily Wahhsted to Dr. Cal Curtis:

  Zach, my son, felt horrible enough to put the barrel of the rifle into his mouth.

  I’m confused, so I ask, “What about Joey’s gun? It works.” I look at Joey’s gun. “He shot the desk.”

  When I say this, Joey says, “Yeah, I did, and don’t forget it! Don’t get any smart ideas—uh-oh, I forgot, you never get those.”

  “Shut up, Joey,” Alan says, then looks at me again. “I emptied the bullet clip from Joey’s gun, but I forgot to check the chamber and make sure that it was empty, too—”

  Joey interrupts him. “Alan, what’re you doing?”

  “It’s okay, Joey,” Alan says. He turns to me. “When Joey’s gun went off, I almost had a heart attack!”

  I ask, “How were you going to shoot us if you don’t have guns that work?”

  Alan looks at me for a second like he feels sorry for me, but he says, “That’s the whole point, Zach—we were never going to shoot anybody. We just wanted to scare everybody until we could get the money, then leave.”

  I glance around the room where the three of us are sitting. I look at Joey’s silver gun and Alan’s black one, both useless. I hear the hum from behind the closed closet door. The walls are clean, painted white. I can smell coffee. I look at the doorway, which leads out into the front of the coffee shop.

  All of a sudden I realize I could jump up and go running out of here and tell the cops that these two juvenile delinquents, Alan and Joey, can’t do diddly-squat ’cause their guns don’t even work.

  I guess turning in Alan and Joey would be the “appropriate” thing to do. After all, they are doing a crime. A “good citizen” would probably turn them in, and if I did, everyone would probably think I’m a hero. It’s probably inappropriate of me not to do it.

  But here’s the deal. These two kids aren’t so different from me. I mean, I’m sick and messed up and they’re messed up now, too. They’re probably going to jail, which can’t be that different from going to the hospital—all three of us are kind of the same. Plus, neither Alan nor Joey has called me Wasteoid.

  I don’t know for sure what to think; I mean, after all, I’m not the best guy to figure out the right thing to do. Heck, I know I’m weird, maybe even crazy! I think about maple bars when I should be worried about getting shot in the head. I think about candy bars when I should be worried about my mom being dead. I think about the color of the walls and the sound of the freezer when I’m surrounded by cops who could shoot me by accident. I know I’m nuts. But I know another thing, too, and I know it for sure—whether a guy is crazy or not, if he gives his word, if he says he’s gonna do something, he should stick to it, otherwise he really is a wasteoid. A lot of times my brain makes it hard for me to control what I say or think or do, but I promised Alan and Joey that I’d stay here until Dr. Curt comes and helps. I’m NOT a wasteoid! I’m NOT! I’m going to try my hardest to do what’s right. Then I’m going to get my medicine and go home with my mom.

  17

  Letter from Ms. Emily Wahhsted to Dr. Cal Curtis:

  This was the moment I got home, walking into the house and through the kitchen. I saw Zach on the deck, the barrel of the rifle in his mouth. He looked so relaxed, almost happy. I called out to him, and he actually smiled at me.

  Alan and Joey talk softly together. I can’t really hear what they’re saying, but after a little while Joey starts to cry. I don’t know what exactly is making him cry right now.

  I know people usually feel sorry for somebody who’s crying, but I don’t feel sorry for him. I don’t mean that to sound bad; I don’t want people to hate me, but I don’t feel anything much for people—that’s just the way my brain doesn’t work. So now I just sit here and watch the tears rolling down Joey’s face and the snot dripping out of his nose. I may not feel anything, but I know what I should do. I should help them like I promised, so I just sit still and keep the news about their guns not working to myself. When Dr. Curt comes, everything will be okay.

  Alan puts his arm around his brother and says, “I’m sorry I got you into this, Joey.”

  Now Alan starts to cry, too.

  I watch them both.

  But now the weirdest thing happens. Suddenly I notice a tear running out of the corner of my eye and down my cheek. I put my finger up and touch the tear. I put the tear into my mouth and taste it. It’s salty. Wow. Maybe I do feel sad for them. Maybe I’m crying because I feel sad. Maybe I’m not so crazy after all! Maybe I’m getting better!

  Alan turns to me and says, “Are you okay, Zach?”

  “Huh?” I ask. I’m still thinking about the tear. “Yeah, sure, I guess.”

  Suddenly I remember what Alan and I were talking about earlier, before Alan’s face almost got shot. I remember Alan’s question about when I first knew I was sick. I never answered him.

  I say, “I’m okay, Alan. And I remember when I first knew I was sick, too.”

  For a second, Alan looks like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but now I can see by his expression that he remembers. He asks, “Oh, yeah, when did you know?”

  “After …” I say.

  “After?” Alan asks. “After what?”

  I pause a second. “After I tried to kill myself. After that I knew I was sick. I’m really hungry, Alan. Can’t we go get a maple bar from out front?”

  18

  Letter from Ms. Emily Wahhsted to Dr. Cal Curtis:

  Zach just said, “I’m gonna shoot myself, Mom,” but before he could get his mouth back down to the gun, I took the rifle away.

  “But Mom,” Zach said again, “I’m gonna shoot myself.”

  “Not today, honey,” I said, and then I burst into tears.

  Alan and Joey both stare at me. People get real quiet when they hear about suicide. Maybe Alan and Joey are freaked out.

  Alan asks, “You really tried to kill yourself?”

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  Joey says, “You tried to kill yourself? What’d you do, screw that up too?”

  Alan gives Joey a shove. “Shut up, asshole!”

  I say, “I did try, Joey, really. I was gonna shoot myself, but my mom got home and wouldn’t let me.”

  Joey laughs and says, “What’d you do, ask her permission?”

  I answer, “No, she just got home.”

  Alan shakes his head. I know lots of times people don’t say what they’re thinking. But Alan’s face looks so sad, even I can tell that he feels bad for me,
like my mom did when she saw me with the gun that day.

  “Christ, Zach,” Alan says, his voice kind of shaky, “why’d you wanna do that?” He stops. “I mean … how bad can it be?”

  I don’t know what to say.

  Joey is quiet too.

  I finally say, mostly just because I think I should say something, “It’s okay, Alan, don’t worry.”

  Alan says, “I’m sorry, Zach. I guess you got it pretty bad, man. Are you ever going to get better?”

  I remember what Dr. Curt has told me about my brain and my illness. I answer Alan truthfully. “No, probably not, but it’s okay, Alan.”

  I wish I could explain to Alan and Joey about going to the hospital that afternoon after I tried to kill myself. I can’t find the right words, but I still remember it. It seemed like a long ride back to Clearwater. Mom drove us down Highway 195 southbound, driving fast. I kept thinking that if I just opened the door of the car and dove out onto my head, I’d die for sure; then everything would just be over, no more Dirtbag and Rat, no more confusion, no more—anything. I watched the pavement race by, staring at the white lane-bump markers as they flickered past. After a while, I realized that I hadn’t heard the new voices since I’d started to pull the trigger—it was like Dirtbag and Rat knew that if I died, they wouldn’t get to torture me anymore. I smiled at that thought, and right then Mom happened to look over at me.

  “You okay, Zach?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are the voices bothering you?”

  “No. I’m just thinking about the white dots and dying.”

  Mom said, “I know, honey. Dr. Curtis is going to talk to us about all this, okay? He’s going to help us.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  I didn’t even feel sad or upset that I hadn’t been able to kill myself right; it didn’t even matter to me. Neither of us said anything else all the rest of the way to Clearwater.