Self-Inflicted Wounds: Heartwarming Tales of Epic Humiliation

by Aisha Tyler

  The twenty was usually rationed out early in the pay period for lattés, which at the time were a new and heady import from the mysterious continent of Europe. Managed properly, a single double latté could be made to last a day, and occasionally two. This involved the judicious application of office coffee once the beverage had been drunk down somewhat, followed by office creamer, sugar packets, and periodic strategic microwaving. Thus handled, my morning latté could last all day and be riding home with me on the bus at night, as steaming hot and (somewhat) delicious as the moment it had been delivered some twelve hours afore.

  I was very good at being thrifty, at stretching my money, at making every dollar work.

  That is, until I came in contact with a homeless person.

  There is nothing like another human being lying on the ground in the cold to make me want to turn my pockets inside out like a virgin frat boy at a strip club. I feel crazy. I feel sad inside. I want to take them home with me and feed them Stouffer’s Turkey Tetrazzini. This is a compulsive reaction, and it is unavoidable. If I see a homeless person, I have to give them money.

  You can see how this would be a problem in a city where homeless people litter the street like sleepy dandelions.

  After several weeks of navigating the gauntlet that was the two blocks between my subway stop and my office while choking back tears and the occasional murmured “good lord, the humanity,” I stopped buying coffee and started packing my pockets with small bills and “spare change.”5 Rather than feeling horrible at the fact that I had food and a guy on the corner seemed to be eating three-day old Spanakopita from the remains of a sock, I coughed up money to whomever asked. This saved me the overwhelming wave of guilt that was sure to ruin my afternoon and weekend, and saved him from having to call me a stingy cunt at the top of his lungs. So it worked out well for both of us.

  Before you give me a big lecture about how giving a homeless person money on the street doesn’t really change their situation in life, I would respectfully like to say, shut up. I know that. I know many people on the street have alcohol and drug addictions and will turn right around and use that money to get high. And even if they do use the money to eat, it’s not like they can carve the middle out of that scone they bought and live in it, you self-satisfied little prick. I know that. That’s not the point.6 The point is to be kind in the moment, to treat another person who is looking you in the eye and asking for a little help with respect, if you can manage it. Plenty of people treat homeless people like they don’t exist at all. Just acknowledging them and being kind, just seeing them, can be enough to make them feel as if they are not alone.

  I believe in being kind in the moment. I can’t end homelessness. I get that. But I can give a single person some brief relief from a brutish, unkind, and very chilly existence, if only for a moment.7 Or, more specifically, relief from a life that is driven completely by concern over when, where, and how to pee, something I can relate to greatly, having attended college.

  I quickly acquired a coterie of homeless regulars, including one guy in particular. We’ll call him Mitch.

  Mitch camped out in front of the coffee shop-slash-bakery across the street from my office building, and from the first moment I saw him, it was abundantly apparent that Mitch was different. Open, engaging, charming, funny even, he had us suit-clad guilt-ridden workaday suckers eating out of the palm of his hand. He was articulate. Self-possessed. He had jokes. His cardboard sign, renewed daily, alternated between some wry, self-aware comment about him needing money for a drink and a profound Buddhist quote.8 He would engage passersby for hours on end, delighting them with his knowledge of current events and his understanding of world affairs. Even when he would sink into a funk (totally understandable, since he was living on the street), he would still find time to give a grateful smile or wave to anyone who would drop money into his cup. He was a model hobo. Absolutely perfect.

  Everybody loved him. After bending to give him money, you would stand and smile at the person next to you, who had coincidentally also just given him money (he was that beloved), both of you now feeling that somehow you had made the world just a tiny bit better in that brief, shining moment. The walk to work was made better by passing him on the street, by seeing his smile, and by thinking a) this is truly a great world, where someone in his situation can still be so upbeat, and b) what a great light he is, that he still finds energy to share his joy with others, and c) holy fucking shit, I am late for work. He was wonderful, and it was a pleasure to give up my morning latté so that Mitch could take my money, pool it with a bunch of other people’s money, and do whatever it is that homeless people do with their cash at the end of the day.9

  And then, one day, he was gone.

  No explanation. No note. Of course, we all expected the worst, we fatuous yuppie commuters. Where was our hobo? Where was our reason for feeling morally superior? Where was our Mitch?

  We never saw him again.

  After several months of Mitch’s absence, we slowly moved on, in the way that people do. Human beings possess a unique capacity for letting their concern for others fade quickly in favor of other critical worries, such as what kind of sushi would be at the salad bar that day for lunch, or when shoulder pads might come back into style. But I couldn’t entirely forget him, and I would occasionally ask people around the office if they knew what had happened to him. And one day, finally, someone breathlessly reported that they found out that Mitch had passed away. They weren’t sure, but they believed it was substance-related.

  It wasn’t a surprise, but it was shocking nonetheless. Mitch was our golden boy. Mitch was special. Why I thought he was saving the money he received for an apartment and two weeks at a yoga retreat instead of booze or drugs, I have no idea. This was all part of the illusion, an illusion I had created to assuage my own bullshit guilt. I couldn’t get entirely comfortable with the idea that Mitch was truly in crisis, so I made up my own backstory, one that made me feel comfortable with our daily transactions. Mitch was there because he wanted to be. Mitch was a gentleman wanderer. And I was his venture capitalist, a floor-level investor in his quixotic quest.

  But that was fantasy. In reality, Mitch was homeless, struggling with addiction, living day to day in a world fraught with danger. A few bucks and a smile didn’t change that at all.

  I felt immediately that I, with my proffered dollars and friendly asides, had paved the way to Mitch’s demise. Somehow I had taken this special man and led him down the primrose path. By gleefully giving him money, instead of ignoring his pleas, or pushing him to get professional help, I felt I’d enabled him—I’d helped put him in the bottle, or the bag, or whatever substance it was that killed him. And I felt guilty, and helpless, and awful, and small, and all the things one feels when one grows up and realizes that the world’s problems are sprawling and complex and utterly massive, and can’t be solved with spare change or good intentions, and that trying to romanticize the life of a man who has no home is a naïve recipe for tears.

  That doesn’t mean the world’s problems can’t be solved, or that we shouldn’t try for fear of disappointment or loss. Nothing great was ever done by someone who let a fear of failing stop them. But it’s going to take much, much more than a handful of coins and a smug sense of false intimacy with a single homeless man who was clearly extraordinary but suffering nonetheless from the same devastating problems as so many others who struggle to survive on the street.

  Later I found out, from another member of Mitch’s fan club who had done some investigating, that Mitch was, indeed, a very special homeless person. In his earlier life, he had been a scientist, an Ivy League graduate. This explained his charm and intelligence, his sophistication and manners. He had lived a “normal” life, until mental illness, addiction, and other unknown tragedies drove him into the street.

  And so, I suppose, Mitch was just like other homeless people—like all people in general. Flawed, imperfect, in need of our compassion, in need of more help than ju
st financial. And even with exactly the right kind of help, with the right intentions and in the right amounts, Mitch may have still been destined for an unavoidable and tragic end.

  While it sometimes felt futile, I didn’t stop giving homeless people money. I hope I never will. You don’t give up trying to help just because one gesture of kindness doesn’t work out the way you had hoped. You keep at it, because kindness is its own reward. It has to be. And inasmuch as your kindness may or may not transform the lives of others, it will transform your own without fail.

  Since I was little, I have wanted to save things. I am not likening rescuing a baby bunny rabbit to trying to save a homeless guy. For one thing, you can’t keep a homeless guy in a shoebox. But I am saying that it is important to tap into your own compassion, and never let that capacity for kindness die, no matter how many times it breaks your heart.

  Or takes your money and spends it on booze. Delicious, delicious booze.

  Hey. Spot me a twenty.

  ( 20 )

  The First Time I Did Standup

  “Search not a wound too deep lest thou make a new one.”—THOMAS FULLER

  “If I think about this fully, I will piss myself in fear.”—AISHA TYLER

  There’s an adage, pretty well known, that warns “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” My mother loves a cute variation on that phrase that admonishes “Fuck with it till it breaks!” She never misses an opportunity to gleefully use that phrase. She is like a sweet, adorable trucker.

  That adage has been a governing principle of my adult life. If I find myself feeling comfortable, if things seem to be going too well, I immediately feel panic, and am gripped by an overwhelming urge to leap up and go running down the street screaming like a banshee. I like things to be difficult, insurmountably punishing even. And if my life is feeling too easy, it’s time to start breaking shit. The charming thing about me is that I never saw a good situation I wasn’t willing to completely fuck up.

  After college, I was incredibly lucky to get what, by any set of measures, was a perfect first gig: working for an environmental non-profit organization in my beloved hometown of San Francisco. I had wrested my degree from the reluctant jaws of my alma mater—major in political science with a minor in environmental studies—so this was my bullseye: working for an organization that bought up unused urban land and converted it into parks for communities that lacked safe, green places to play. We actually made parks for inner-city kids. I mean, could we be any more selfless? I had landed my dream job.

  Now, I realize this is not a dream job for anyone who wants to do stuff like make money or get laid or not smell like wheat grass, but, for me, it was awesome. I really did care about the environment, I really did love my hometown, and, even more than that, I really, really needed a job.1 This position hit all three of those criteria, so I was thrilled. This was all I had ever dreamed of. The only thing that would have made it more perfect would have been an unlimited supply of free office chocolate and a desk made of angora sweaters for snuggly lunchtime micro-naps. I showed up for my first grownup job all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, my tummy full of bubbles made of hope and angel’s wings.

  My tummy angel bubbles popped pretty fucking quickly.

  If you haven’t yet noticed, working sucks. Unless you are a racecar driver or an astronaut or Beyoncé, working is completely and utterly devoid of awesome. It is hard, it lasts all day, the lighting is generally fluorescent,2 and, apparently, drinking at your desk is frowned upon.3 If you ever needed to ruin someone’s fun, I mean really poop a party, just move things to the workplace. Fun terminated.

  This particular workplace had a very specific set of elements not going for it. First, it was a not-for-profit organization, which I realized they took very literally after I saw my first paycheck. I made so very little money that I would plan large parts of my workday around opportunities to scavenge for food leftover from office meetings and departure parties. My favorite thing to do was to plan a birthday celebration. It didn’t matter if it was actually someone’s birthday—if I could find a way to wrangle a supermarket sheet cake out of those tight-fisted bastards, I was doing it. A third of a leftover cake was like four meals for me. I was desperate and borderline diabetic, but I did what I had to.

  Second, having to go to a place every day where I had to be organized, sit in a cubicle, not use curse words or eat with my fingers, and wear panty hose (argh!), seemed like a particularly cruel kind of torture.4 Just months before I had been floating down the Connecticut River in an inner tube, drinking beer out of an upcycled spaghetti sauce jar, and now I was wearing L’eggs and a polyblend skirt, trying to figure out how to answer a phone that had more buttons than the Starship Enterprise. It was bewildering: I had a dream position, doing something that was important for the world, with like-minded people, in the city that I loved, and yet I was totally miserable. I believed in what I was doing, and I forged some good friendships with my coworkers (some that persist to this day), but otherwise, this whole work thing was sucking major ass.

  Also, panty hose make your knees itch.

  The problem was, like most people on the planet, I really didn’t have an alternative plan. I had been on this path since I was little: work hard, behave yourself, get good grades, follow the rules, give up your dreams of being an astronaut, go to college, get a good job, go to law school, become a lawyer, die a little inside each year, and then eventually actually die. This had been the plan from the beginning, and so far I had executed it perfectly. My parents were thrilled—I had hit all their benchmarks: I had an Ivy League degree, I was gainfully employed, I had my own apartment, I wasn’t lurking around asking for money or raiding their cabinets for food. They had raised me properly—to work hard, be polite, and stay out of their hair—they’d done their job. Now it was time to do mine.

  The only problem was the “die a little inside” part of my plan seemed to be kicking in a little early. I felt strange and off-kilter and I had no idea why. I didn’t want to do anything. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I would sit alone in my remote corner of the office and stare zombielike at a computer screen while I gnawed droolingly at an everything bagel (which, along with those long-nursed lattés, were one of my only delights at this time). I was completely bewildered.

  And then, finally, I figured it out—the long bouts of catatonic silence, the dependence on carbohydrates, the itchy knees—I was depressed.

  Even though I was clinically blue, it didn’t mean I didn’t work hard. I believe very deeply in the concept of industry.5 I care about what I put into the world, and I believe in doing my best in everything. If my name is on something, it is going to be the best something I can possibly produce. The best macaroni collage, the best book report, the best budget analysis, the best round of kamikaze shots anyone has ever pounded in under a minute. I believe one hundred percent in being the best. It’s just hard to be the best at something you find supremely dissatisfying.6

  I kept at it, though. I like winning more than I like being happy, and I am also a blockheaded and blindly stubborn ramrod of a person, so I threw myself into my work. And that non-profit really was doing good things in the world, which gave me some slim shreds of satisfaction. Trees were protected. Endangered birdies saved. Little kids got green places to play. But as the months wore into a year, I realized I could not go on like this. I needed to make a change. Thankfully, I had very few responsibilities (by design) and even fewer belongings (as I was broke as fuck), so I had absolutely nothing to lose. I had no idea what I wanted to do, but I knew I missed performing. Plus, I was starting to eyeball sharp objects around the office wistfully. I decided to cast about for some way to get back on a stage of some kind. Any kind. I wasn’t picky. I needed to perform.

  But I had absolutely no idea how to start.

  I started thinking of what kind of performer I wanted to be. I could have joined a band, but I couldn’t play any instruments. I had three years of violin in grade school but that skill was utte
rly erased by my general apathy about the violin as an instrument. Plus I doubted any rock bands were looking for a backup string section that only knew the first two movements of Pachelbel’s Canon. I would have auditioned for a play, if I knew anything about theater or the audition process, or if most regional theater productions didn’t test the limits of human patience. Television acting seemed attractive, but of course, I knew as much about that as I did about astrophysics. I actually knew more about astrophysics, thanks to my childhood obsession with sci-fi and my current obsession with The X-Files.7 And I was as likely to find a talent agent as I was to find a pot of gold in the side alley next to my apartment building. Getting discovered seemed like something magical that happened only to anorexic twelve-year-old blondes when they went to the mall with their mothers for frozen yogurt.

  Unfortunately, I was no longer twelve, I had never been blond, and the only way I would ever become anorexic was if I suddenly lost the ability to chew.

  This left standup comedy.

  I didn’t know much about that either, other than that I had seen some live comedy shows while I was in college, and had found them indescribably delightful.8 I remember emerging from one such show, after laughing so hard that my stomach muscles ached (at an act that I would undoubtedly find insanely hacky now—something about Tyrannosaurus Rex trying to play the flute—wait, actually it’s still pretty funny), and feeling as delirious and amazed as if I had discovered fire. That was when I fell in love with comedy. But several years later, I was still only a secret, slightly lurky admirer. I had no idea how standup comedy worked, how you made funny come out of your face, where you went to do it, or anything of any value whatsoever that would help me become a standup comedian.

  Serendipitously, comedy was in its boom time in the nineties. You could find it everywhere: late-night talk shows, syndicated standup series, coffeehouses, strip mall comedy clubs, and a brand-new cable network called “Ha,” which was the single worst name for a cable network before “Starz.” “Ha” played standup twenty-four hours a day, and because this was still relatively early in the advent of television comedy, they played a lot of the same execrable crap over and over again. Dude in a blazer in front of a brick wall. Dude in a blazer in front of a velvet curtain. Chick dressed like a dude in a blazer in front of a piano in front of a brick wall. All of it tepidly amusing, none of it very good.