Page 51 of My Own Kind of Person

I write to Christy, Like when I was in the fifth grade, I walked past my mom having a beer with a friend in the kitchen. She said, “Sean knows the truth. He knows adults are kids pretending to be grown up.” I pretended I didn’t hear her. I hadn’t known the truth before, but now I did.

One summer Mom and I went to a festival with a wood pole covered in cooking oil and a hundred dollars at the top. After all the local guys leaped up and slid down, I approached. I’d covered myself in dirt. I’d filled my pockets with dirt. Every time I started to slide down the pole I took a handful of dirt from my pocket and pulled myself back up. That night, Mom and I went out for dinner.

Once I went to the dentist and I had nine cavities. He told my mom that she had to make sure I brushed my teeth. Mom never mentioned it again.

One time I went to the school counselor and she told me there was an epidemic of loneliness among young men. She said societal expectations of masculinity discouraged us from sharing our emotions, and our reliance on digital connections worsened the isolation. I tried watching videos about it later but they were all about who to blame.

One time we had good insurance and Mom found me a therapist. He fell asleep during the session. It was kind of a relief though. My problems couldn’t be that bad if they weren’t interesting enough to keep someone awake.

The tooth fairy usually left me two dollars but once it left me twenty-one. When I told my mom in the morning, she cursed.

Some nights I ask God to help me. I’m not sure exactly what kind of help I’m asking for. I don’t think I’m Christian, but I believe there is something out there, or more likely in here, deep inside me in the place that’s protected from my conscious thoughts, that’s sacred.

I don’t know why it’s in that same place that I feel so lonely.

I watch the phone. She doesn’t reply.

I think that’s one reason I’m drawn to saying these things out loud. If someone else can hear me, and understand, then we both feel less alone.

I know you’re not here right now, but you will be at some point. I’m going to trust that at that point you’ll read all this and understand.

Thank you.

I put my phone away and tap my hand on the bookshelf. I blink. I’m on the second floor of the Paumanok Public Library, apparently being paid an hourly wage for my work.

A video call comes in from Tony. Maybe he makes video calls more than I realized.

I answer, and his perfectly lit face appears.

“Go for it,” I say.

“Preparing to go.” He gives serious eyes. “Did you watch your set?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“When I was done I watched it three more times. It had a weird effect, but it’s the first time I’ve wanted to watch one of my sets more than once, so that’s meaningful.”

He takes a labored breath. “Thursday’s competition is a big deal.”

“It is.”

“I’d like to do a rehearsal at my place before then.”

“Oh.”

“You’re capable of nailing this show.”

“I agree.”

“Last night’s set was great.”

“Okay.”

He inhales. “But you’re gonna need more laughs at the competition.”

It’s a physical pain in my chest.