Me Talk Pretty One Day (20 page)

“Hey, Smart Guy,” my father would say, “offer your grandmother another piece of that gum, and you’ll be the one scrubbing your teeth in the bathroom sink.”

What did he know?

Alone in my bedroom, I studied pictures of intelligent men and searched for a common denominator. There was a definite Smart Guy look, but it was difficult to get just right. Throw away your comb, and you could resemble either Albert Einstein or Larry Fine. Both wore rumpled suits and stuck out their tongues, but only one displayed true genius in such films as Booty and the Beast and The Three Stooges Meet Hercules.

My grades sank, teachers laughed in my face, but I tried not to let it get to me. In high school I flirted with the idea that I might be a philosophical genius. According to me and several of my friends, it was almost scary the way I could read people. I practiced thoughtfully removing my glasses and imagined myself appearing on one of those Sunday-morning television shows, where I’d take my seat beside other learned men and voice my dark and radical theories on the human condition.

“People are insecure,” I’d say. “They wear masks and play games.”

My ideas would be like demons rushing from a hellish cave, and my fellow intellectuals, startled by the truth and enormity of my observations, would try to bottle them up before they spread

“That’s enough!” they’d yell. “For the love of God, somebody silence him!”

Far scarier than any of my ideas is the fact that, at the age of seventeen, I was probably operating at my intellectual peak. I should have been tested then, before I squandered what little sense I had. By the time I reached my thirties, my brain had been strip-mined by a combination of drugs, alcohol, and the chemical solvents used at the refinishing company where I worked. Still, there were moments when, against all reason, I thought I might be a genius. These moments were provoked not by any particular accomplishment but by cocaine and crystal methamphetamine - drugs that allow you to lean over a mirror with a straw up your nose, suck up an entire week’s paycheck, and think, “God, I’m smart.”

It’s always been the little things that encourage me. I’ll watch a movie in which an attractive woman in a sports bra, a handsome widower, and a pair of weak-chinned cowards are pursued by mighty reptiles or visitors from another galaxy. “The cowards are going to die,” I’ll think, and then when they do, I congratulate myself on my intelligence. When I say, “Oh, that was so predictable,” it sounds brainy and farsighted. When other people say it, it sounds stupid. Call me an egghead, but that’s how I see it.

It was curiosity that led me to take my IQ test. Simple, stupid, brutal curiosity, the same thing that motivates boys to see what flies might look like without their wings. I took my test in Paris, in the basement of an engineering school not far from my apartment. I’d figured that, on its own, my score would mean nothing - I needed someone to compare myself with - and so Hugh came along and took the test as well. I’d worried that he might score higher than me, but a series of recent events had set me at ease. A week earlier, while vacationing in Slovenia, he’d ordered a pizza that the English-speaking waiter had strenuously recommend he avoid. It came topped with a mound of canned vegetables: peas, corn, carrot coins, potatoes, and diced turnips. Observing the look of dumb horror on his face as the waiter delivered the ugly pizza, I decided that, in a test of basic intelligence, I was a definite shoo-in. A few days later, with no trace of irony, he suggested that the history of the chocolate chip might make for an exciting musical. “If, of course, you found the right choreographer.”

“Yes,” I’d said. “Of course.”

The tests we took were designed to determine our eligibility for Mensa, an international association for those with IQs of 132 or higher. Its members come from all walks of life and get together every few weeks to take in a movie or enjoy a weenie roast. They’re like Elks or Masons, only they’re smart. Our tests were administered by an attractive French psychologist named Madame Haberman, who was herself a Mensa member. She explained that we’d be taking four tests, each of them timed. In order to qualify for Mensa membership, we’d need to score in the top 2 percent of any given one. “All right then,” she said. “Are we ready?”

I’ve known people who have taken IQ tests in the past, and whenever I’ve asked them to repeat one of the questions, they’ve always drawn a blank, saying, “Oh, you know, they were… multiple-choice things.” Immediately after taking my test, I was hard-pressed to recall much of anything except the remarkable sense of relief I’d felt each time the alarm went off and we were asked to put down our pencils. The tests were printed in little booklets. In the first, we were shown a series of three drawings and asked which of the four adjacent ones might best complete the sequence. The sample question pictured a leaf standing top to bottom and progressively leaning to the right. It’s the only question I remember, and probably the only question I answered correctly. The second test had to do with spatial relationships and left me with a headache that would last for the next twenty-four hours. In the third test we were told to examine five drawings and figure out which two didn’t belong. Eventually a break was called, and we stepped out into the street. Hugh and Madame Haberman discussed her upcoming trip to the Turkish coast, but I was still trapped in test world. Five deaf students walked down the street, and I tried to determine which two did not belong. I imagined myself approaching the two boys wearing tennis shoes and pictured their confusion as I laid my hands upon their shoulders, saying, “I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”

Our final test involved determining a pattern in four pairs of dominoes and prophesying what the fifth pair might look like. There were pages of questions, and I didn’t even come close to finishing. I’d like to say that the room was too hot or that Madame Haberman distracted me with her incessant banjo picking, but none of this is true. According to the rules of Mensa France, the test instructions were delivered in French, but I understood every word. I have no one but myself to blame.

A week after taking the tests, our scores arrived in the mail. Hugh has been advised to try again: scores can fluctuate according to stress and circumstance, and he’s right on the cusp of Mensa qualification. My letter began with the words, “Dear Monsieur Sedaris, We regret to inform you …”

It turns out that I’m really stupid, practically an idiot. There are cats that weigh more than my IQ score. Were my number translated into dollars, it would buy you about three buckets of fried chicken. The fact that this surprises me only bespeaks the depths of my ignorance.

The tests reflected my ability to reason logically. Either you reason things out or you don’t. Those who do, have high IQs. Those who don’t reach for the mayonnaise when they can’t find the insect repellent. When I became upset over my test score, Hugh explained that everybody thinks differently - I just happen to do it a lot less than the average adult.

“Think donkey,” he said. “Then take it down a few notches.”

It’s a point I can’t really argue. My brain wants nothing to do with reason. It never has. If I was told to vacate my apartment by next week, I wouldn’t ask around or consult the real estate listings. Instead, I’d just imagine myself living in a moated sugar-cube castle, floating from room to room on a king-size magic carpet. If I have one saving grace, it’s that I’m lucky enough to have found someone willing to handle the ugly business of day-to-day living.

Hugh consoled me, saying, “Don’t let it get to you. There are plenty of things you’re good at.”

When asked for some examples, he listed vacuuming and naming stuffed animals. He says he can probably come up with a few more, but he’ll need some time to think.

The Late Show

I’M THINKING OF MAKING a little jacket for my clock radio. Nothing fancy or permanent, just something casual it can slip into during the wee hours. I’m not out to match it with the curtains or disguise it to look like something it’s not. The problem is not that the clock radio feels underdressed, the problem is that I cannot bear to watch the numbers advance in the heartless way common to this particular model. Time doesn’t fly - it flaps, the numbers turning on a wheel that operates much like the gears on a stretching rack.

For the first twenty years of my life I rocked myself to sleep. It was a harmless enough hobby, but eventually I had to give it up. Throughout the next twenty-two years I lay still and discovered that after a few minutes I could drop off with no problem. Follow seven beers with a couple of scotches and a thimble of good marijuana, and it’s funny how sleep just sort of comes on its own. Often I never even made it to bed. I’d squat down to pet the cat and wake up on the floor eight hours later, having lost a perfectly good excuse to change my clothes. I’m now told that this is not called “going to sleep” but rather “passing out,” a phrase that carries a distinct hint of judgment.

As a perverse and incredibly boring experiment, I am now trying to prove that I can get by without the drugs and the drinking. It was hard for the first few months, but then I discovered that I can live without these things. It’s a pretty miserable excuse for a life, but technically it still qualifies. My heart continues to pump. I can put socks on my feet and make ice; I just can’t sleep.

I’ve never gone to bed early, and have no intention of changing my schedule. There’s always a little hump at about eleven o’clock, which I’ve traditionally gotten over by drinking a lot of something. I’m used to holding a glass or can and raising it to my mouth every thirty seconds or so. It’s a habit my right hand can’t seem to break.

Having decided in advance that I will never use the word decaf, I began looking for a new beverage. My disappointing search taught me that, without the blessing of vodka, tomato juice is a complete waste of time. Even when you buy it in a bottle, it still tastes like the can. I’ve learned that soda gives me a stomachache, grape juice gives me a headache, and that nothing is more disgusting than a glass of milk, especially French milk, which comes in a box and can sit unrefrigerated for five months, at which point it simply turns into cheese and is moved to a different section of the grocery store.

Following a brief and unsatisfying flirtation with lemon-tainted water, I finally settled on tea, which is something I’d never placed beside coffee in terms of things that will keep you awake. I’ve never been one of those people who talk about a “sugar rush” or claim to feel the immediate effect of a vitamin tablet. I’m not terribly in touch with my body but have noticed that, taken in great quantities, tea is actually pretty serious. Drink twelve cups at about eleven P.M., and you’ll really notice the difference between going to bed and going to sleep. Even if you’re lucky enough to lose consciousness, you’ll find you still need to get up every half hour just to empty your bladder.

So here lies the new me. It’s 5:48 in the morning, I’m thinking of making an outfit for my clock radio, and I’m so full of caffeine that my scalp itches. To read a book or attempt a crossword puzzle would be an admission of defeat, and I know that if I let my mind wander, it would most likely head off in the direction of the liquor cabinet. Rather than practicing my irregular verbs or trying to make sense of my day, I pass the time by replaying one of my current, ongoing fantasies. These are the epic daydreams I would normally call forth while walking around town or waiting in line at the grocery store. They’re like movies I edit and embroider and watch over and over again, regularly recasting the villains and updating the minor details. My current inventory is more than enough to keep me busy, and includes the following tides:

M r. S c i e n c e

Alone in my basement laboratory, I invent a serum that causes trees to grow at ten times their normal rate, meaning that a person can plant a sapling and enjoy its fruit or shade one year later. It really is a perfect idea. Nobody likes waiting for a tree to grow - that’s why more people don’t plant them; it seems hopeless. By the time they’ve matured, you’ve either died or moved to a retirement home.

My trees grow at an advanced rate for anywhere from two to five years before tapering off to normal, and they are a wild success. Instant parks are created. Cities and subdevelopments are transformed seemingly overnight, and the hurricane states erect statues in my honor. Frustrated parents attempt to use my serum on their children, but it doesn’t work on people. “Sorry,” I say, “but there’s no cure for adolescence.” The lumberjacks and environmentalists love me equally, but a problem arises when a group of lesser scientists spread the rumor that the leaves of my trees cause cancer in laboratory animals. I then discover a cure for cancer just so I can say, “What was that you were carrying on about?”

The Mr. Science look changes from one night to the next. Sometimes I’m tall and fair-skinned. Sometimes I’m dark and stocky. The only constant is my hair, which is always thick and straight, cut in such a way that if surfacing from a dive, my bangs would fall to my lower lip. I keep it combed back, but every so often a lock will break free and hang like a whiplash down the side of my face. Mine is a look of intense concentration, the face of a man who’s forever trying to recall an old locker combination. When receiving my Nobel Prize, I’m so lost in thought that the peacenik seated beside me has to elbow me in the ribs, saying, “Hey, buddy, I think they’re calling your name.”

I’ll sometimes have dinner with a group of happily cured cancer patients, but for the most part I tend to keep to myself, ignoring the great mound of social invitations heaped upon my desk. Without making any great fuss about it, I cure AIDS and emphysema, meaning that people can once again enjoy a cigarette after a rigorous bout of anal sex. There will be a lot of talk about “turning back the clock,” most of it done by people whose clocks will not be affected one way or another. Psychologists will appear on TV suggesting that our former AIDS and cancer patients are desperately in need of counseling. “We have to teach these people that it’s okay to live again,” they’ll say. Their self-serving message will be met with great peals of laughter, as will the flood of books with titles such as Getting Over Getting Better and Remission Impossible: The Conflict of Identity in a Post-Cancer Society. After decades of falling for such nonsense, the American people will decide they’ve had enough pointless anxiety. Antidepressants will go out of style, and filthy jokes will enjoy a much-deserved comeback.