Once I Was Cool

by Megan Stielstra

  He was holding a drink.

  After the week we’d just had, he had the nerve to sit down next to me with a glass of fucking wine. I looked at it—not at him, just the glass—and you know what he said? He said:

  Bobby: “I’m done.”

  Megan: He held it up, studying the contents like a map.

  Bobby: “I’m not gonna drink anymore.”

  Megan: Maybe some of you have heard those words before. Hell, maybe you’ve said them. Last drink ever? Riiiight. That’d be a fucking miracle.

  Bobby: So where do you begin a story about miracles? Well, this one starts at the bottom. In October 2009, I was suicidal. That Tuesday morning before we left for Portland, I found myself standing on a train platform in Edgewater, ready to die. This did not happen overnight. I had been struggling for years with depression, anxiety, and a long time addiction to drugs and alcohol. A close friend had died the year before; I had found him in the apartment we shared, and the image of his dead body was burned into my mind. Life had been getting progressively hazy, but right then, standing on that train platform, life was beyond hazy; life was pitch black.

  Megan: That same morning, I woke up to voicemails: Bobby didn’t show up for rehearsal, didn’t show up to our meeting, didn’t show up to teach his morning class. No one knew where he was, and in 24 horribly short hours, I was supposed to get on a plane with Bobby, three other storytellers, and a nine-piece band. Our artistic director, Amanda, had gone to Portland ahead to rent cars, and before she’d left, she’d said, “Just promise you’ll get them on the plane; in their seats, belts fastened.”

  If I could find Bobby, I’d have belted him to the fucking wings.

  Bobby: I’d been on a three-day drug and alcohol bender brought on by increasing anxiety attacks, or had I been coming off a three-day anxiety attack brought on by drugs and alcohol? When dealing with these two afflictions it’s often hard to tell which is which.

  Those of you out there that have battled any or all of these issues would probably agree that suicide is always an option. For me though, it was usually a ways down the line though. If this, this, this, or this doesn’t work out, then I can always just kill myself. I know it sounds grim, but when you live with it for long enough it becomes your reality. But on that day before we left for Portland, suicide was no longer E, F, or G; suicide was plan A-ish. I’d been staying with Amanda and her boyfriend, Nic, and that morning, when I left their condo, I was pretty sure I was going to kill myself.

  Megan: By the time our friend Julia called, I was wrecked.

  “Did Bobby call?”—we said at the same time.

  “No.”—we said at the same time.

  And then, cautiously, she asked if I had keys to Amanda’s. At the time, I ran workshops for 2nd Story out of her and Nic’s living room. “Sure,” I told Julia, “I have keys,” and then she said it: “You know what this weekend is, right?” Suddenly, none of it mattered. Who cared if we got on the plane. Who cared about our stupid tour, our stupid stories. The year before—almost to the date—Bobby had walked into his friend’s bedroom and found him dead.

  Now, Bobby was missing. And the only one with house keys was me.

  [pause]

  Bobby: Standing on that train platform—

  Megan: Standing in front of Bobby’s bedroom door—

  Bobby: I wasn’t…scared—

  Megan: I was so scared—

  Bobby: I actually felt kind of calm.

  Megan: I’d already looked everywhere else: the living room, dining room, kitchen, bedroom, two offices, five closets, walk-in pantry, behind two shower curtains, sunroom, back porch, garage; each step an attempt to avoid his bedroom, because honestly—

  Bobby: I still hadn’t decided if I was going to do it.

  Megan: If he was going to do it, that’d be the place.

  Bobby: I mean, you don’t decide until you decide, right?

  [pause]

  Megan: I reached for the doorknob—

  Bobby: The tracks began to rumble—

  Megan: It was like watching a movie—

  Bobby: Getting louder—

  Megan: When you already know what’s going to happen—

  Bobby: Getting closer—

  Megan: And you yell No, don’t do it! at the characters like they can hear you—

  Bobby: And as it pulled into the station, I had this thought: Nic and Amanda just purchased the condo I was living in. If I killed myself right here on these L tracks, a block away, they would never escape it. It would ruin their home, their neighborhood, even their lives. Now there are probably a million ways to psychoanalyze this thinking process, but in the moment it was just a fact: I can’t kill myself here, Nic and Amanda live here.

  [pause]

  I have to do it somewhere else.

  [pause]

  Megan: I opened the door—

  Bobby: I boarded the train—

  Megan: And saw an empty room. I thought I would feel relieved, but the thing about suicide is that once you’ve decided, you’ve decided.

  There are a thousand bedrooms in this city.

  A hundred L stops.

  [pause]

  I sat on Bobby’s bed for a long time, then I left him a voicemail: “Please, just call me… love you.”

  Bobby: When I arrived at 95th street, as far south as the Red Line went, I checked my phone. I’d had it on silent, and when I looked it was full of messages and texts. I picked it up and heard a voicemail from Megan.

  Megan: “Please, just call me… love you.”

  Bobby: If there’s a moment I decided I wasn’t going to kill myself, at least not right then, and at least not on that train, this was the moment.

  Megan: You never realize the power of your own words: “Please, just call me … I love you.”

  Bobby: And within seconds of making that decision I went directly to a bar and got blackout drunk.

  Megan: The next morning, face-to-face at the airport, my words were… not so nice. I yelled a lot—about the money our organization had sunk into this trip; the students he’d left waiting in the hallway; about standing in front of his bedroom door, and how I’d never get those minutes of my life back.

  Any of you ever talk shop with an alcoholic?

  He didn’t hear a word I said.

  Bobby: The word alcoholic came at me from everywhere. Within an hour of landing in Portland, I got a call from the college where I teach, telling me I was suspended; my friends weighed in on my voicemail and to my face; and finally, my longtime therapist, Bea—a woman I trusted more than anyone on the planet—called long distance to say she’d seen enough.

  “You’re an alcoholic and a drug addict. This is my diagnosis.”

  I sat on a park bench outside our hotel, listening to her lay it out: she would no longer treat me for depression and anxiety, no more medications would be prescribed, and no more letters written to employers my behalf. She would not be my doctor if I did not go to rehab.

  I couldn’t believe it. Through tears and screams I told her she was breaking our trust, that I was not going to rehab, and that she was going to keep treating me, or I’d sue her for malpractice. When she held strong, I told her to stay out of my life forever, then I hung up and sat on that bench, crying—right up until our tour manager called, telling me it was time to head to the theater. My heart nearly stopped. I had not thought about performing in days. I knew the piece, but I wasn’t sure I could actually get up on stage and do it.

  Megan: He got up on stage and fucking brought the house down. The show was at The Bagdad, this old, beautiful theatre with a huge balcony—seats around 500, I’d guess? That night, it was packed for the opening night of Wordstock, and when Bobby performed, the crowd went crazy.

  Bobby: Honestly? I don’t remember any of that.

  Megan: His story was about sitting in a strip club and seeing—on the pole, dancing—the first girl he ever slept with. Right? He was fift
een years old, sooo in love with her, and—get this—she asks him to get her pregnant so she could trap her boyfriend. And Bobby did it! He slept with her!

  Bobby: She was so beautiful. And I was Catholic! The only way you get to have sex when you’re Catholic is for procreation!

  Megan: Anyhow—it was this crazy, awkward, improbable situation, but right at the end of the story, Bobby asks the audience—he asks us—to consider: “How a simple blip in the matrix—”

  Bobby: My sperm not connecting with her egg—

  Megan: “Allowed our lives to instead diverge.”

  I’d heard Bobby tell that story a thousand times, and every time that line takes me right out of the strip club and into my own life: how a simple blip in the matrix allowed me to diverge. A blip, and I moved to Chicago; a blip, and I met my husband; a blip, and I’m talking to you. But back then, sitting in the balcony at The Bagdad Theater watching 500 people hang on Bobby’s every word, I wondered if this could, for him, be a moment where his life would diverge.

  Bobby: The next morning we drove six hours to Bookwalter Vineyard in Washington State and did two more shows on consecutive nights. Most of that was also a blur until the last night, when I sat down next to Megan, drinking her hot-off-the-presses Pinot Noir out of a very fancy glass. And it was there, staring out over acres and acres of grapes, that it happened. Call it a spiritual experience, or the hand of God, or the universe, or whatever you like, but I had a moment. It happened this fast: one minute I very much believed that I would drink forever, and the next (snap), I knew I was done.

  Megan: Have you ever been in the presence of a miracle?

  Bobby: It was like remembering something—

  Megan: I didn’t know it at the time, of course—

  Bobby: Where I’d left my keys—

  Megan: At the time I doubted every word out of his mouth.

  Bobby: Or a book I’d hidden somewhere—

  Megan: But now? Three years later?—

  Bobby: It was over.

  Megan: —after watching him, every day, slay dragons so huge and deadly and terrifying they could level this city?

  Bobby: I turned to Megan, stunned by the words that were about to fall out of my mouth: “I’m done.”

  Megan: He held up the glass, studying the contents like a map.

  Bobby: “I’m not gonna drink anymore.”

  Megan: And then he put it down. We sat there, watching the stars—all those tiny little blips in the matrix. In the city, you can never see them, but out there? It was one of those moments where you understand how miraculous the world really is.

  THE ART OF THE EXCUSE

  ONCE I WAS COOL, things would be easy. I’d know how to put on eyeliner correctly. I’d know what music to like. I‘d know the right thing to say at parties. My friend Jeff sticks Post-it notes on his bookshelves that say “megan go talk to someone,” because at his parties, I stand there, nursing the same plastic cup of Maker’s Mark and reading all his book titles. Then I count how many the’s were in all the titles. Then I count the e’s. Then it’s time to go home—alone. I haven’t spoken to anyone—again. Because whenever I try, I’d panic—this choking, squeezing electricity wrapping my limbs like vines.

  Once I got a boyfriend, I would not have to have sex with people I shouldn’t be having sex with; unless, of course, I wanted to have sex with them, which is sometimes the case. Sometimes we’re lonely. Sometimes we’re drunk. Sometimes, it’s the only way we know how to heal. Other times, we’re bored. So bored. Bored out of our fucking skulls with the day-in/day-out, nutsandbolts grind of go here, do this, drink that, did you get that file? I sent it to you, did you get it? Please read the entire email. Please don’t click reply all. How’s about I Google that for you? How’s about I cancel the meeting at the exact time it’s supposed to begin? How’s about I do the thing that is my job, and you do the thing that is your job! Then all the jobs will be done! It’s like magic!

  And sometimes, we just like sex.

  Once I lost weight, I’d be able to wear tank tops. I could finally get the tattoo I want across my shoulders because my arms would be nice; not ripped like Linda Hamilton in Terminator II, or Angela Bassett in anything (Dear Angela Bassett: I love you. Please be my best friend, my personal trainer, and my mentor in all things), but nice—enough to wear tank tops, to show off my tattoos, to not be anxious about mirrors, cameras, camera phones, or cute girls who tell me how much they love my hair and/or purse and/or shoes.

  Once I finished my MFA, I’d have time to read all the books I was supposed to be reading. I’d have so much extra time!

  Once I finished my MFA, I’d have time to write the book I said I was writing. I’d have so much fucking time.

  Once I got a book contract, I’d be set.

  Once I got a boyfriend, I’d have someone to put in my window air conditioner. Most of the stuff that gets attributed to guys—stuff like power tools, carburetors, guns, ants—I can do all that by myself. But summers in Chicago? They’re brutal; brutal and gorgeous, like we’re all walking around in a sexy, steamy Def Leppard video, and no matter how much Gloria Steinem I’ve read, no matter how much bell hooks, those window air conditioners are still fucking heavy.

  Once I’ve read enough bell hooks, I can start to examine my own privilege. Also: Audre Lorde. And W.E.B. DuBois. Baldwin. I need to educate my own damn self about the experience of race in my own damn country. I need to acknowledge what I’ve received that I haven’t earned. I need to own that it won’t be a one-stop shop, but rather an ongoing conversation I’ll be having with myself for probably always. I should probably take a class on critical race theory; gender theory, too. Then, I can get started. Then, I can dig in. Then, I can look in the mirror. Then.

  Once my CV was as good as his CV, I could apply. All I needed was more workshops. And panels. And awards and honors and service. Oh, and writing. Once I had time to get some writing done, I’d publish it and put it on my CV, and then it would be as good as his and I could apply.

  Once I formatted my CV, I could apply for that teaching gig. need good fonts.

  Once I got a teaching gig, I wouldn’t have to wait tables anymore because what I’d be paid as an educator would be waaaay more than what I make serving pancakes. Plus, I’d have health insurance! All teachers get health insurance, right?

  Once I had health insurance, I could get ___________________ taken care of.

  Once I hit that elusive point in my freelance career where I no longer had to accept pro bono work to establish my credentials, I wouldn’t have to say yes to everything. I could be selective. Only projects I cared about. The ones that made my blood boil. Passion—that’s the word.

  Once that happened, for love and for money would mean the same thing.

  Once I paid off my loans, I’d be able to start saving for retirement. An IRA, right? Or something. I don’t want to eat cat food when I’m old.

  Once he was no longer my student, I’d be able to think about him in that way.

  Once we’d been together for a month, I’d be able to trust him.

  I’d know after a month, right?

  Two months?

  Three?

  Once we moved in together, I’d be able to trust him.

  Once he proposed, I’d be able to trust him.

  Once we got married, things would be easy. Everybody would stop asking us when we were going to get married.

  Once we owned a place, I could have central air conditioning. I could have central air conditioning and built-in bookshelves that go up to the ceiling, like something you’d see on bookshelfporn.com. Maybe there’d be a ladder up to the top, on wheels so you could slide it around. My friend Maggie and I were looking at bookshelves with ladders just now on the Internet, and it said they were made by the “skilled hands of German artisans.”

  Not gonna lie: that got me a little hot.

  Once we owned a place, its property value would increase and
in a few years we’d be able to sell it and buy something a little bigger. It’s what they call “building escrow.” It’s what they call “being an adult.” It’s what they call “The American Dream.”

  Once we owned a place, things would be easy. The developers would totally have put the roof on correctly. We wouldn’t have to redo it in the first few years! We wouldn’t have to take out an enormous loan to pay for it! I wouldn’t think our condo board treasurer was joking when she told us how much it was going to cost! I wouldn’t have laughed like crazy, and everyone wouldn’t have looked at me the way that they looked at me.

  Also: the housing market totally wouldn’t crash. That shit never happens.

  Once I got pregnant; once the window in the little plastic stick turned pink; once I took a second test to be sure, and that one turned pink, too; once I called the doctor to verify, and she couldn’t see me ‘til later in the day, and I drank like nine bottles of water in the coffee shop next door to her office, so when I finally did the pee test it came out all water, and she couldn’t tell, so she drew blood; once she called the next day and said, yes, it was true—all those months, and now it was true; once I showed the stick to my husband, and he put both fists in the air and yelled, “I am the captain of the swim team!”; once I could stop counting days on that ovulation calendar and stop locking myself in the bathroom for the fast, private cry I allowed myself month after month when my period came; once we knew that the baby was a baby, that it was healthy and growing and normal; once this thing I so desperately wanted had finally, finally, finally happened—I would totally know what to do next.

  Once he was born?

  I’d know what to do then, too.

  Once they got the tumor out of me, I would travel more.

  Once we paid off the condo, we’d be able to travel more. New Zealand. Tokyo. Melbourne. Maybe somewhere with a pristine white beach and pristine blue water, like you see in movies or television commercials. By then I’ll be in my seventies, but who gives a shit?