Page 6 of My Own Kind of Person

Andi’s fall look is the same as their summer, spring, and winter look: long dark hair shoved under the same I-don’t-care beanie, and the same black hoodie with the not-expensive brand name scraped off. I’ve never seen their bare arms or legs. They’re short, sometimes they call themselves tiny, and their black Doc Martens are enormous. They’re Ecuadorian and say their skin is “classic brown.” Once at a party, a drunk white guy asked Andi where they’re really from, and Andi said, “Your nightmares.”

They spit out their gum and jump down to the pavement. “Why do either of you care what those mouth-breathers think anyway?”

“What else is there to care about besides what other people think of you?” I say this like a joke, but truthfully I don’t have an answer.

Andi does a louder monotone. “Every time we come to McGalligan’s—”

“McGuinn’s.”

“Whatever. It’s two hours of cis white guys jerking off on each other’s faces, and not in a fun way.”

Tony yelps. “Is there a fun way?”

“For somebody,” Andi says.

I’ve valued Andi’s judgment more than my own since we met last year in Studio Art. Their work was exacting, detailed, and serious. I wanted them to do a portrait of me, like it would help me see myself. At the Art Honors Society event in the fall, Andi stood in front of my piece, a messy oil pastel cartoon of every item in my house linked together like a puzzle, and said, “This is my favorite thing.” I was speechless about their piece, a watercolor series of objects rendered so close it was impossible to tell what they were. When Andi tried to throw it out at the end of the night, I asked to trade mine for it, and we became real friends.

“Point being,” Andi says, “I don’t know why you feel the need to prove yourself in this toxic place.”

“Where else am I supposed to go?” I’m surprised to find I’m almost choked up.

“To prove yourself?” Andi says. “Nowhere, man. You don’t have to. Where do you go to share your already-awesome self? Anywhere but here.”

I know hypothetically they’re right, but I don’t feel that they’re right, and either way I can’t think about it because it makes me want to cry. I cut off the heat coming to my eyes and pull my consciousness up and away. Sean O’Brien will be here having a hard time, but I will be at the edge of the Milky Way floating through a vast, indifferent universe.

“What is it, bro?” Tony says.

His face is blurry and insubstantial.

I have to pee. Before getting onstage I peed like ten times. I even stuffed toilet paper down the front of my underwear in case I accidentally peed more. It’s still there and it’s very uncomfortable.

“Thank you both for coming,” I say, I think loudly enough to hear. “Especially on such short notice. You two are the kindest, most—”

“All right!” Andi growls.

“Keep it moving, bro,” Tony says.

“I just wish I knew…” I’m scared to finish the sentence because I’m not sure how it will end. I never know what’s inside my head unless I say it out loud, and there’s a lot I never say out loud. Whatever wants to come out isn’t funny, though. I can tell by how nervous I am. And I don’t want to seem too needy. So I say, “I just wish I knew how next week’s crowd could prepare themselves for the new material I’m gonna bring.”

Tony punches the air. “My boy!”

Andi rolls their eyes. “I’m going to bed.”

“But how will you sleep knowing I’m about to conquer the comedy world one Long Island suburb at a time?”

“Happy birthday!” Andi shouts as they get in their truck.

Tony drops his voice. “I should get to bed too. Research says teenagers need at least nine hours of sleep a night and I’ve been getting eight and a half at best.”

He gives me a sturdy pat on the back, and I head to my older-than-me blue Kia Rio.

Driving home I do not feel the need to cry. I do not feel inadequate. I do not feel like everyone thinks I’m an idiot. I feel nothing at all. When I stop at a red light and notice a feeling coming on, I let out a long shout. I roll down the windows and I shout as long as I can. When I drive onto my street and I’m not ready to see my bedroom, I drive past my house and I keep shouting. I drive until I can barely stay awake, until my voice hurts too much to continue shouting and I’m too tired to feel bad. Then I go home and lie on the couch. I close my eyes and when that isn’t enough, I pretend to close a second set of eyes, and a third set, and a fourth, and on and on until I’m buried deep inside where it’s quiet and I’m unseen. But a noise creeps into the bottom of my brain: It’s me telling myself, Nobody likes you, and I don’t know how to quiet it.

I try to distract myself with porn, but all the men are either being super dominant or being shamed for not being dominant, so I scroll until I find something with a woman alone. I feel rude watching her, though, so I click away. At times I’ve wondered if I’m gay, not because I’m not attracted to women but because I don’t think my attraction is the same as other straight guys’. But how do I know how other straight guys feel? I try scrolling through gay porn and the videos look as stressful as the straight ones. Everything happens fast and no one seems happy about it. I open one with a guy alone and I don’t feel rude watching him, but I do feel sad.

The noise in my head gets louder, pushing against the back of my eyes.

I put on Joe Johnson’s first special, recorded when he was my age. A line of stuffed animals face a wall of fingerpainted art. Joe steps in front of his bed with its colorful checkerboard blanket and lifts up a toy microphone. He delivers his first line.