Page 43 of My Own Kind of Person

“Oh, God.”

My hand goes to my back pocket to check my phone and something pricks my finger.

The tension in my face releases and I take out the folded piece of paper and open it.

You seem like your own kind of person.

I slip it back into my pocket.

“It’s true,” I say. “I’m a gentle guy who wouldn’t terrify anyone who encounters me in a dark alley. But what’s curious to me is why we think that’s funny.”

I look down at myself.

“We all have an idea of how a man is supposed to be and I am not that. I am at best a cartoon kitten wearing a comically large shirt.”

Some hesitant laughter, but I’ve threatened to make us second-guess the laughter. In the darkness I can barely make out Mrs. Farmer, who’s trying to smile. I want to tell her I’m sorry I can’t be who she expects me to be.

“I do it to myself, though. I’ve made three jokes so far and they’re all about how I don’t have large muscles or a deep voice.”

Silence.

“My friend gave me these clothes. I think my appearance serves as its own punchline.”

I take off the tie and shirt, fold them up, and place them on the ground.

“A crucifix,” I declare. I put it on the pile.

The T-shirt I’m left wearing is the robot sounding its barbaric yawp.

I move the stand to the side of the stage. “I’m anxious about a lot of things—the dark, the collapse of society, milk on its expiration date—but I’m especially anxious about what people think of me. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words might make me feel bad.”

The silence is interesting. Maybe not terrifying. People aren’t laughing, but they are listening.

I put a hand in my pocket. “So I make fun of how I don’t live up to being a man because I’m scared it’s what everyone is already thinking. Silently feeling like I’m not enough is the one aspect of masculinity I excel at. Feeling inadequate is an essential piece of male culture. That’s why so many guys drive pickup trucks. Gotta have room for all those insecurities.”

The room laughs and I hear, distinctly, Christy’s loud snort.

I talk about things I wrote down, like how my mom’s friend’s boyfriend once peed loudly in the bathroom and my mom frowned, and ever since then I’ve peed sitting down. I talk about things I didn’t write down, like how one time my history teacher wanted to make a point about women in the military so he had me arm wrestle a girl in front of the room, and when I lost, he asked the class, “Who would you want fighting next to you?” I talk about Mr. Z bringing us to Hooters. I talk about how I have never in my life seen a man cry.

As my eyes adjust to the lights, I see the group of guys at the table in front. Three are displeased but one is laughing. I walk toward them.

“Jokes are all us guys have,” I say to them. “The only fancy outfit allowed for guys is a suit. You want to express yourself? You get fun socks!” The one laughing guy laughs again. “It’s the same with emotions. The only emotion allowed for guys is anger. You want to express other emotions? You get to make a joke!”

The rest of the room laughs but I focus on the three guys giving me the same look Bobby Bingo gives. It’s more than dislike. It’s disdain.

“My girlfriend told me yesterday that the rules are changing and men are allowed to cry now. She said, ‘You can cry.’ What a relief! Then she said, ‘Just don’t cry more than me.’ ”

Laughter. Though I don’t hear Christy.

“So, gentlemen,” I say to the guys up front, “you are allowed to cry. Just don’t cry like a girl.”

The three who aren’t laughing laugh even less.

“But that will be hard for me because once I allow myself to feel one thing, it opens the floodgates. I tell a girl she’s beautiful and suddenly I’m thinking about how short our lives are.”

I tap my teeth together, thinking.

“Right then I was making fun of myself for having too many feelings.”