The Opposite of Music

by Janet Ruth Young

  We’ve already improved at staring back at Fritz. The four of us are aligned opposite his desk, achieving a four-on-one group counterstare. I should have mentioned earlier that Fritz is not what you would call handsome. In fact, he resembles a Pekingese dog in a landslide. He has a high forehead and Pekingese-like features that occupy only the lower half of his face and nestle into his beard. The beard blends into his chest and neck hair. Everything on the front of him seems to have slipped down one place. But we’re seriously concentrating, not only drinking in but also wringing out every word. When he tilts his face to review a pamphlet on his desk, we tilt our faces too, like four gyroscopes.

  He pushes his chair back and shrugs his shoulders to loosen them.

  “Okay, everyone, deep breath, in and out. Mmmmmph-pheeww.”

  Mmmmmph-pheeww.

  “Loosen clothing if necessary. Get as comfortable as possible.”

  We shake out our arms and legs like sprinters preparing for a race, plant our feet flat on the floor.

  Fritz links his fingers over his belly. “All of us are plagued by negative self-talk that can create anxiety. This can consist of criticisms, negative fantasies, or recurring thoughts of things we should not have said or done, or painful reminders of things we should have said or done but for some reason did not. Does anyone recognize this tendency in himself or herself? An example, anybody?”

  “Hooo,” Mom whispers, crossing her legs again. I think she means: so many of them, where to even start?

  “Bill Senior?”

  Dad moistens his lips but says nothing.

  Fritz unclasps his hands and looks receptive.

  “Sometimes I’m convinced that I won’t be able to go back to work,” Dad says softly.

  “And what would happen then?”

  “Well…my family would become indigent.”

  “That means we would be broke,” I explain to Linda.

  Fritz ignores me this time. “Very good example, Bill.” He nods, a rolling, whole-body nod. “Very good example. Now when you say this to yourself about not working, you know it’s negative self-talk because it makes you feel bad.”

  We nod.

  “And the second part of that thought, the part about being indigent, is going to make you feel even worse. So your goal with this technique is to stop the thought as soon as it starts, before you even get to the second part. And you’re going to do that by saying these words to that inner voice in your head: ‘Cancel, cancel!’”

  Murmuring: “Cancel, cancel.” We’re still nodding.

  “And there’s a picture, a visual, you can add to it too. While you’re saying ‘Cancel, cancel,’ you can picture yourself drawing an X through the thought, or stamping it out with one of those red circles with the diagonal through it.”

  “Like the No Smoking symbol.”

  “Exactly, Linda. Or conjure up your own picture. Whatever works best for you.”

  “You know, that’s very good,” Mom says. And she mouths the words to herself: Cancel, cancel.

  Fritz rests his elbows on the desk. “Challenge yourself to say ‘Cancel, cancel’ as quickly as possible. Right on the heels of the negative thought. Make a game of it. Because the less time the thought spends in your mind, the less it will affect your mood and contribute to a downward spiral. Ready to try it?”

  Dad seems pretty caught up in this, more involved than he’s been in a while.

  “Here we go. I’m going to lose my job and—”

  “Cancel, cancel,” we blurt out.

  “I’m going to—”

  “Cancelcancel.” Three of us are speed-talking, with Dad trailing behind.

  “I’m—”

  “Cancelcancel.”

  “Okay.” Fritz raises both hands over his head. “Ho!” He laughs in booming, individual cannonball shots. “I’m a negative thought, and I just gave up. You can’t get much faster than that. Very good work. Let’s relax and breathe for a moment.”

  Mmmmmph-pheeww.

  “Who’s ready for another one? You all are. Since you’re doing so well, I’m going to give you an opposite, or complementary, strategy to the one you just learned. This one is to reinforce any positive self-talk that runs through your mind. Say I observe to myself, ‘I’ve had a terrific day.’ I want that thought to hang around for a while. So, to encourage it to stick around, I say, ‘Welcome!’ To confirm and validate that positive thought: ‘Welcome!’ And you can add a mental image of this gesture.”

  Fritz has struck an openhanded pose, like someone catching rain after a drought.

  “Welcome!” we mutter, practicing the gesture.

  “I am a useful and worthwhile person,” Fritz says.

  “Welcome!”

  Fritz checks the clock on the wall. “We’re done for today. I know you’ve all worked really hard in this session, especially you, Bill. And I have to compliment you. You and Adele have a lovely family.”

  “Thank you,” Mom says, walking to the door.

  “Welcome!”

  “How did you like your first session, kids?” Mom asks while she unlocks the car.

  “Well, I learned something. We’re all supposed to take care of each other!”

  “Cut it out,” Linda says.

  “Don’t make fun of the doctor, Billy,” Mom says. “Your father feels comfortable with him.”

  “I’m not making fun of the doctor. I’m making fun of you!”

  “That’s enough, Billy,” Dad says.

  It’s hard to argue with him right now.

  ON THE MALL ROAD

  A group of men in heavy parkas cluster by a bench on our main street.

  “I like your light!” one calls in accented English. The others guffaw. Well, you can’t pay much attention to stupid comments. A headlight is practical when you do a lot of night riding. If they find me foolish, so be it. Some of the immigrants in town ride bikes too, but I get the impression it’s because they can’t afford cars yet, and as soon as they can buy a nice pickup it will be adios, bicicleta.

  Everyone’s in a rush to get a driver’s license, but I’m in no hurry to get a car. You know those old movies, British mysteries or French classics, where you see a guy riding a bike in a tweed jacket and tie? That’s very classy. Except that in the U.S. you would have to wear a helmet, which ruins the look.

  Why hasn’t anyone done a movie about a group of bicyclists? It would open with kind of a skittery theme on an electric fiddle, which gets louder as a dozen classic bikes appear, another dozen, forty in all. They burst into stunts: ramp jumps and wheelies. The scene looks like pandemonium but has been drilled to clockwork precision. It could be the story of outlaw bikers taking midnight rides on hacked bikes that defy safety laws, or musicians who work as bike messengers by day. Or an action movie about rival gangs, loaded with street-fighting scenes. I can picture the movie poster: “Spokes. What goes around comes around.” A closeup of a guy’s face through the wheel he’s repairing. His eye is circled with a gang tattoo.

  Maybe if Dad rode a bike again, like he did as a kid, he could get his old energy back. It could be that easy: tire himself during the day, sleep better at night, and we all go back to normal. Maybe, maybe, maybe. I try not to think about it too much. But Mom and the doctors have to keep trying. If they weren’t saying maybe, maybe, maybe they would just sit around asking why, why, why. As in a traditional blues song. Something like:

  Why does a man feel tired

  Why does a man feel dead

  When something something something

  And the something in his head

  It’s a world of trouble, baby

  Oh Mister Trouble, let me go

  Get your something from my something

  And leave me to my—

  Studio? Radio?

  I should be able to plug in that rhyme. I don’t want to use a rhyming dictionary unless I’m absolutely, definitely stuck.

  “Hey, Bicycle Boy!”

  At the red light I feel something wet acr
oss my eyes and cheeks. Not blood? A Ford Explorer screeches forward, bolting from me as soon as the light turns green. Guys in the car are laughing, and one turns back to taunt me, holding a bottle out the window.

  I pull the bike over to the curb and press my hand against my face. My heart is slamming. No, not blood. Something cool and clear. I sniff. Probably just water. He squirted me with a bottle of water. Could be worse. Could be bleach. Or urine.

  Who would do a thing like that?

  Probably frat boys from Hawthorne State, looking for a cheap laugh. If so, is there something about me that provoked this? Were they cruising for victims, or did my appearance make them want to humiliate me? Are they threatened by my challenge to automotive dominance?

  Christ, I wish I had had something to throw into their car. Or at least that I recovered in time to say something back. “Bicycle Boy.” Really clever. Really humiliating. That put me in my place, all right. Oh my gosh, you’re right, I am riding a bike! Thanks for pointing that out, I hadn’t realized it! And now I realize how socially unacceptable that is! Idiot me! It’s four wheels from now on!

  Or was the “boy” part the big insult? Crap, I’m only fifteen! That makes me unfit to live! If only I could be a college guy like you, with nothing to do but drive around soaking people!

  Now, what was I just thinking about?

  Still, it could be worse. Awful things. Like bleach, right in the eyes. Or, I heard of somebody riding along when a car passenger smashed a glass bottle in front of him, probably hoping that broken glass would fly up into the cyclist’s face. Or girls getting their rear ends grabbed. You could fall right into traffic after something like that. Why can’t people just get along?

  What could you say to those guys? “Bicycle Boy.” Why is that so clever? Is it the repetition of the b at the beginning of both words (i.e., alliteration) that they think is devastating? If so, would they be devastated if I alliterated them back? College Clowns? Water-Wielding Wusses?

  Explorer…Excrementheads? But that’s the thing about these incidents. You dwell on them too long, and you never do recoup. You think you’ll get your own back, but you can’t. It eats away at you. They’ve got you either way.

  Okay, now I’ve completely lost my train of thought.

  TREATMENT REPORT: DAY 27

  Dad has started a new med. Now, in addition to being worried, tired, malnourished, and sleep-deprived, his fear level seems to be rising. He looks like he would jump at the sight of a Fauvist painting. And once I saw his hand shake when he drank a glass of water.

  I don’t know if the pills are causing this or if Dad is simply getting worse, but I suspect the pills are at fault. If so, maybe Dr. Gupta attended the medical school at Paradox College, where in addition to learning things like (1) You have to be cruel to be kind, and (2) If you love something, let it go, she also learned (3) To calm someone down, scare them.

  Of course, I don’t know anything. Most likely Dad is 100 percent on track for where he needs to be.

  THE SHORTEST DAY

  At six p.m., it’s already been dark for two hours. A thin layer of mixed rain and snow has come down, leaving the road tacky and hissing. After dinner we settle into the conversation area with Dad’s brother Marty and watch the tree blink. Marty brought his camcorder so he can film us opening our gifts. He shoots Mom placing a turkey leg on a plate beside Dad’s chair.

  “He might want to pick at that,” she says.

  Marty pans across the cards strung on ribbons above the fireplace, a combination of Merry Christmas and Get Well. Dad’s office has sent a fruit basket wrapped in gold cellophane, with a note saying “An apple a day keeps the doctor away!”

  “Gee, that’s easy,” Linda said when she accepted the basket from the deliveryman. “Do they think he’s suffering from irregularity?”

  Marty sits beside Dad and rests his arm along the back of the couch. He was recently separated from Aunt Stephanie, who was, as Mom and Dad always said, a keeper. She traveled all over the world setting up computer systems for a big hotel chain. When she left Uncle Marty and took Marty Junior, the new baby cousin we never met, we couldn’t help feeling, as a family, that she was just too good for us.

  Now Marty always dresses as if he’s out on a date. Pressed jeans, smooth mustache, styled hair. But he’s getting that defeated look some divorced fathers have. The look that says they used to be part of something.

  The phone rings in the kitchen. “That must be Sally and Adam,” Mom says, jumping up. There’s no telling when she’ll be back once she starts yakking with her sister.

  “Go sit under the tree, Linda,” Marty says, hoisting the camera onto his shoulder. Linda poses like a little kid waiting for Santa. She’s wearing a long pioneer skirt and a snowman sweater of Grandma Pearl’s that she found in the attic.

  It’s odd having Christmas Eve without music. Normally Mom would be playing a Nat King Cole Christmas CD that someone copied for her, but out of respect for Dad, we’re chestnut free. Marty begins to hum.

  “Well? Can you make it?” Mom asks on the phone. “Why not? Well, what other plans? I thought you were coming here. I never told you we didn’t feel up to company. We do feel up to company, very much so. We would have loved more company this year. I made cookies and eggnog and everything. Marty’s here. No, just Marty. Well, do you want to drop the kids off here and I’ll bring them back later? Sally…” Mom’s voice sounds like it’s wearing off. She takes a deep breath, the way the therapist told us to.

  “Adele? Is everything okay?” Dad asks.

  “Yes, fine.” Mom puts her hand over the phone and steps into the living room. “They’re not coming.”

  “Yes,” she says into the phone, “Bill received a box from you. He hasn’t opened it yet. But he looks very pleased. Actually, to be honest, he doesn’t look pleased, but if he were feeling better, I know he’d be extremely gratified to get the package. Call me tomorrow? What time? Okay. Merry Christmas. Yes, you too, ’bye.”

  “Excuse me a minute.” Mom goes from the kitchen into the hall. She’s rushing, almost like she has to go to the bathroom. She disappears for a while.

  “Do you want to see what I got you?” Marty asks.

  “We better wait for Mom to come back,” Linda says. She sorts the skimpy stash of presents, reading the name labels and tossing them into piles under the tree. She bumps a branch that holds an ornament with small sleigh bells. The bells jingle, and Dad winces.

  “Sorry,” she says without looking at him.

  Marty fiddles with the camera and hums to himself. Before the illness, Dad spent hours consoling Marty and giving him advice about the separation. Now it seems like Marty’s trying to put a holiday face on and not mention his heartbreak.

  “Well,” Linda says, “this is shaping up to be a Christmas for the record books, isn’t it? At least Aunt Stephanie used to bring us decent presents.”

  I crawl across the floor and drape tinsel on her head. “Cancel, cancel, Linda!”

  “That’s perfect, kids,” Marty says. “Do that again.”

  Mom comes back, wiping her eyes and looking furious. “Who wants a cookie?” she commands, passing a plastic tray in the shape of a bell. Marty and I each take a couple of cookies. Dad takes one and promptly forgets about it, leaving it on the arm of his chair like a business card or other inedible.

  Linda places an oversize box on Dad’s lap. “Here’s your present from Sally and Adam. Watch out, it’s a heavy one.”

  Marty sets up a shot over Dad’s shoulder. “Three, two, one, action!”

  “I might need help opening this,” says Dad. “It’s taped up pretty tight.”

  I crawl to the couch, feeling like a kid again, and sit next to Dad. I cut the brown paper flaps with my pocket knife. Inside is a corrugated cardboard box.

  “Smile again, Billy,” says Uncle Marty. “You’re helping your dad, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “I hope they didn’t get you anything too expensive,” Mom say
s. “I told them we were keeping it simple this year. I wasn’t even expecting to exchange with them.”

  “It’s a fisherman’s trophy of some kind,” Dad says. “A bass. Why would they send me this?”

  “Isn’t that handsome?” says Marty from behind the camera.

  A large stuffed fish is attached to a wooden plaque. Pulling away the last piece of tissue, I see a switch on the plaque and turn it on. The fish twists its head and tail and begins to sing.

  Here’s a little song I wrote

  You might want to sing it note for note

  Don’t worry, be happy

  In every life we have some trouble

  When you worry you make it double

  Don’t worry, be happy

  Dad covers his face with the box lid. “How horrible! Turn it off, Billy, turn it off!”

  “It’s just a toy, Dad. See?”

  Marty drops his camera. “Are you all right, bro? It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s over.”

  “I can’t believe it!” Mom says. “I can’t believe they would send a grotesque gift like that instead of showing up. It’s so insensitive. Good God, Sally.”

  “I like it,” Linda says. “Can I have it? I’ll play it in my room, very quietly.”

  “Here,” Dad says, “you keep it.” His hands are shaking.

  Linda takes the present to her room, laughing at me over her shoulder as if we had been competing for this piece of musical taxidermy. Sometimes I wonder if Linda would even know what she wanted if I weren’t around.

  “I can’t believe Sally couldn’t make it,” Mom says, biting into a cookie. “Or didn’t want to make it. Do you know this is our first Christmas apart?”

  “Shhh, Adele,” Dad says. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Okay, now,” Marty says. “Ready for your close-ups. One at a time.”

  “You’re going to leave the camera on, Uncle Marty?” Linda asks when she comes back. “What if Dad gets something else that’s freakish?”