I am not schizophrenic.
His every move is my instruction.
I follow him everywhere. I shake my head disapprovingly as he tunes the car radio to the talk station. I watch him surf the Internet at work or flip channels on the TV while his laptop sits open and a blank screenplay page beckons him.
He feels my glare, sometimes, and occasionally he'll even turn to look at me. But then he'll blink a few times, and go back to ignoring me.
I wonder what goes on inside his head. When he lies in bed without getting up, one hand scratching the cat's chin. He turns and looks at the clock, and I'm not sure the numbers make their way quite to his consciousness. Or maybe he just doesn't care.
I watch him stumble out of bed and find a piece of string cheese in the fridge. For the past few days it's practically the only thing he's eaten. Unless you count the cylinder of Chips Ahoy that he kept eating, one cookie after another, almost like he didn't know it was happening.
I wonder why he never goes out with friends. Sometimes he does, I guess, but usually he'll call someone up and chat for a minute and I'll kind of hear the person on the other end make an excuse.
"I'll call you this weekend, maybe we'll get together," he'll say. He doesn't throw the phone anymore, though. He used to throw the phone a lot. When he talked to Michelle, sometimes.
Sometimes he'd linger so long that their traded goodbyes would fade into whispers and nothings, and then the sharp beep of the phone turning off would startle him.
Other times he'd say, "Okay, bye" and beep the phone off and hurl it into the couch cushions. He doesn't do that anymore.
I sit next to him as he drives to work. A couple of days ago some rich woman in a BMW was looking the other way and hit his bumper. She looked horrified. He had to yell at her to back up, so they could both move, but she still didn't hear him - or was paralyzed with shock, maybe. He finally pulled forward a little bit and then just kept driving.
When the BMW woman realized he wasn't going to pull over to trade insurance information, she whipped a right turn onto another street and disappeared forever, lest he change his mind. I don't think he was going to. He's had enough trouble with car accidents.
When he stopped at Del Taco on the way to work he checked out his fender. She'd left a pretty good dent. I don't think he'd realized how bad it was. But he opened the trunk and started banging on the inside and popped the dent back out.
I wonder what the BMW woman thought about their little incident. I hope she felt guilty. I don't think he cares. But he's hard to read, sometimes.
He goes for long hours without talking. He'll sit and read for an entire day without moving. Nikki refuses to take him to bookstores, and I can see why. "I'll lose you," she says. "You'll never come out." And if she wasn't there to pull him out, I don't think he would. He's turning into his mother that way, with his stack of library books. He takes his mail into the bathroom. The trash can in there is full of envelopes and junk mail. I think that's kind of weird. But then, I follow him into the bathroom. Who am I to talk about weird?
So I wonder what he would do with friends if he had them. Sure, he laughs with the guys at work, and they look at funny websites or talk trash about the movies they're trying to con people into seeing, but then he goes home and hangs up his keys and plugs in his cell phone that never rings and checks to see what the TiVo's recorded today. By the time he gets home it's one in the morning. And he'll lie there in bed for hours without sleeping, and curse himself when he can't wake up before eleven the next day.
Once I caught his eye in the mirror. He leaned real close to me and told me how he thought that subconsciously, he was afraid of finishing his screenplays and films and such because sending them into the world would mean probably getting them rejected. I think that's B.S., though. I think he was feeding me a line. I think he was trying to rationalize his laziness. Besides, I didn't catch most of what he said. I was too repulsed by his train-wreck hairy nipples. Those things are gross.
So if he ever asks me why his friends don't call, or why he has to go out of his way to remind them that he's around, or why they they're never really more than civil to him ... I probably won't tell him what I really think. After all, I told him to open his mouth and apologize, back then. To write a letter and clear the air, or to call someone and just chat, like you used to. Back then they might have chatted. Today they probably won't.
"Hey, good to talk to you, see you around." They've already forgotten he was there by the time he turns away. I've watched them, after he's started to walk away, but I wouldn't tell him what I've seen. I think it would hurt him. And besides, I think he knows. But he's hard to read, sometimes.
He's said a few things that were wrong, here and there, but by and large, it's what he hasn't said that's gotten him to this island.
So I'll do the same, and I won't tell him what I really should, and instead, when he asks why his cell phone never rings, I'll just smile a half-smile, turn away, and tell him they're grossed out by his nipples.
I follow him everywhere. I shake my head disapprovingly as he tunes the car radio to the talk station. I watch him surf the Internet at work or flip channels on the TV while his laptop sits open and a blank screenplay page beckons him.
He feels my glare, sometimes, and occasionally he'll even turn to look at me. But then he'll blink a few times, and go back to ignoring me.
I wonder what goes on inside his head. When he lies in bed without getting up, one hand scratching the cat's chin. He turns and looks at the clock, and I'm not sure the numbers make their way quite to his consciousness. Or maybe he just doesn't care.
I watch him stumble out of bed and find a piece of string cheese in the fridge. For the past few days it's practically the only thing he's eaten. Unless you count the cylinder of Chips Ahoy that he kept eating, one cookie after another, almost like he didn't know it was happening.
I wonder why he never goes out with friends. Sometimes he does, I guess, but usually he'll call someone up and chat for a minute and I'll kind of hear the person on the other end make an excuse.
"I'll call you this weekend, maybe we'll get together," he'll say. He doesn't throw the phone anymore, though. He used to throw the phone a lot. When he talked to Michelle, sometimes.
Sometimes he'd linger so long that their traded goodbyes would fade into whispers and nothings, and then the sharp beep of the phone turning off would startle him.
Other times he'd say, "Okay, bye" and beep the phone off and hurl it into the couch cushions. He doesn't do that anymore.
I sit next to him as he drives to work. A couple of days ago some rich woman in a BMW was looking the other way and hit his bumper. She looked horrified. He had to yell at her to back up, so they could both move, but she still didn't hear him - or was paralyzed with shock, maybe. He finally pulled forward a little bit and then just kept driving.
When the BMW woman realized he wasn't going to pull over to trade insurance information, she whipped a right turn onto another street and disappeared forever, lest he change his mind. I don't think he was going to. He's had enough trouble with car accidents.
When he stopped at Del Taco on the way to work he checked out his fender. She'd left a pretty good dent. I don't think he'd realized how bad it was. But he opened the trunk and started banging on the inside and popped the dent back out.
I wonder what the BMW woman thought about their little incident. I hope she felt guilty. I don't think he cares. But he's hard to read, sometimes.
He goes for long hours without talking. He'll sit and read for an entire day without moving. Nikki refuses to take him to bookstores, and I can see why. "I'll lose you," she says. "You'll never come out." And if she wasn't there to pull him out, I don't think he would. He's turning into his mother that way, with his stack of library books. He takes his mail into the bathroom. The trash can in there is full of envelopes and junk mail. I think that's kind of weird. But then, I follow him into the bathroom. Who am I to talk about weird?
So I wonder what he would do with friends if he had them. Sure, he laughs with the guys at work, and they look at funny websites or talk trash about the movies they're trying to con people into seeing, but then he goes home and hangs up his keys and plugs in his cell phone that never rings and checks to see what the TiVo's recorded today. By the time he gets home it's one in the morning. And he'll lie there in bed for hours without sleeping, and curse himself when he can't wake up before eleven the next day.
Once I caught his eye in the mirror. He leaned real close to me and told me how he thought that subconsciously, he was afraid of finishing his screenplays and films and such because sending them into the world would mean probably getting them rejected. I think that's B.S., though. I think he was feeding me a line. I think he was trying to rationalize his laziness. Besides, I didn't catch most of what he said. I was too repulsed by his train-wreck hairy nipples. Those things are gross.
So if he ever asks me why his friends don't call, or why he has to go out of his way to remind them that he's around, or why they they're never really more than civil to him ... I probably won't tell him what I really think. After all, I told him to open his mouth and apologize, back then. To write a letter and clear the air, or to call someone and just chat, like you used to. Back then they might have chatted. Today they probably won't.
"Hey, good to talk to you, see you around." They've already forgotten he was there by the time he turns away. I've watched them, after he's started to walk away, but I wouldn't tell him what I've seen. I think it would hurt him. And besides, I think he knows. But he's hard to read, sometimes.
He's said a few things that were wrong, here and there, but by and large, it's what he hasn't said that's gotten him to this island.
So I'll do the same, and I won't tell him what I really should, and instead, when he asks why his cell phone never rings, I'll just smile a half-smile, turn away, and tell him they're grossed out by his nipples.
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