The Burn Journals (21 page)

Mark Motherfucker Miles wants to give me some tests. Tests. I don't know what that means exactly, but I do know that I have to sit in a room about the size of a supply closet and answer his stupid questions. I always thought this room was for the janitors, but there's a sign outside that says Psychological Testing Room. This is going to be fun. What an asshole.

He says, “So, Brent, if you were an animal, what kind of an animal would you be?”

God, what a dumb question. This is like Barbara Walters.

“Um, I don't know.”

“Well, don't think about it too much. Give me the first thing that comes to mind.” The first thing that comes to mind is that you're a complete asshole.

“Maybe a dolphin.”

“A dolphin.” He nods and writes something down. “Why?” I don't know why, I just said it so you'd get off my back.

“Um, because they're graceful and they're smart and they seem, I don't know, kind of free or something.”

“And what kind of an animal would you hate to be?” Jesus.

“A cow.”

“Why?”

“Because they're slow and ugly and just sit around eating grass and throwing it up again.”

“Okay. Great. That was just a little warm-up. Next I'm going to show you some cards with some ink stains on them, and you tell me what you think they're pictures of, okay?”

“Okay.” We're doing inkblots? I read a book about this once, and it told you how to beat the test. Let's see if I can remember. Oh yeah, all the little inkblots are supposed to look like penises and vaginas, but you're not supposed to notice that, otherwise they'll think you're crazy. He's got his notepad and pen ready.

“What might this be?” It's the one that looks like a butterfly. I wonder if I should say that or if I should make something else up.

“A butterfly?”

“Okay, where is the butterfly?”

“You mean you want me to tell you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, those are the wings and those are the antennae.”

“Okay, how about this one?”

I'm going to say two people playing pat-a-cake.

“Two people playing pat-a-cake.”

“Okay. Show me where you see that.”

“There's one person, there's the arm, there's the leg. Same on the other side.”

“And this one? What might this be?”

This one is weird. It's got two people, like the last one, but they both have penises and breasts, and there's a big red butterfly between them. I'm not saying any of that stuff.

“Looks like a horseshoe crab or a beetle.”

“Where?”

“That kind of looks like a horseshoe crab, and these things kind of look like a beetle's pincers.”

“Okay, and what might this be?”

Oh Jesus, this one looks like a man with a giant dick and no arms. What a weird picture.

“Looks like a dinosaur with a huge tail. Like a stegosaurus.”

“Where?”

“That's the tail. That's the legs. That's the head.”

“And what might this be?”

“This one's definitely a bat. Head. Wings. Feet.”

“Okay, and what might this be?”

“This doesn't look like anything. Maybe a woman giving someone a hug. Or a boat. Or an animal skin. It doesn't look like anything, really.”

“Okay, and what might this be?”

“A woman looking at herself in the mirror, but she doesn't really have a body, so maybe a statue or two statues.”

“Okay, and what might this be?”

“Do you have to say that over and over again? It's kind of annoying. Um, this one doesn't look like anything either. Maybe a big black inkblot.”

“Okay, see anything else?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“Okay, last one.”

It's just a big mess of a bunch of stuff. It kind of looks like a man in the center on fire, but I'm not going to say that. Sea urchin. Pelvis bone. Tangled mess of seaweed. Okay, that's good enough.

“Tangled mess of seaweed.”

“Okay, anything else?”

“No.”

“Okay, good.”

“How'd I do?”

“You did fine. There are no right or wrong answers.”

“Yes, there are. I read a book about it once.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I think I passed.”

“There are no right or wrong answers.”

“Right.” Dickhead.

Mark has a bunch more tests for me to do. I have to answer some general knowledge questions first, then do some analogies. Tuna is to fish as grizzly is to ______. It's all pretty easy. After that I get some lunch and then back to the tests.

I don't understand what the point is of giving me all these tests. I mean, like, what exactly are they trying to find out by making me fit some shapes together? Do they want to know if I'm crazy? They should ask me because if they do, I'll tell them I was crazy, but I'm not anymore. I don't know why I was crazy, but I was. They never ask me the right questions.

I've started doing magic. Mom and Dad bought me a book from the gift shop called
The Klutz Guide to Magic
and it's pretty cool. For one thing, you can make a handkerchief disappear into your hand. Another good one is tying a knot in a rope without letting go of either end.

The sleight-of-hand stuff is really hard to do with the Jobst gloves on. I take them off to do some of it, but then the jacket I have to wear pushes all the blood down into my hands and they turn purple and start to itch. It's a real pain in the ass. Plus when I take off my gloves, my hands are really fragile and weak, and when I'm trying to do a trick with a coin, my hands start to shake.

Every morning I wake up, take a shower, get in my wheelchair, and zoom down the hall for my morning massage with Gina. I get this thing going as fast as a motorcycle, it's such a long hallway. I should be in the Special Olympics. But they'd probably find out I can actually walk and kick me out.

When I get to the corner, I grab the left wheel and take the turn so tight, the chair almost tips over.

I love these morning massages with Gina. I love hearing all her funny stories about what's going on backstage at
Peter Pan
. She got her hair cut even shorter and she's really starting to look the part.

When it's all done, she helps me into my Jobst garments and then comes upstairs with me. I like it because she sits in the wheelchair on the way back up and lets me rub her shoulders as I push her around. She's got really strong shoulders. And the skin on the back of her neck is so smooth. I don't know, it makes me feel romantic. I know she doesn't feel anything like that, just by the way she talks, but to me, it's great.

We're standing at the elevator, waiting. I'm rubbing her neck. I'm singing, “‘There's something happening here; What it is ain't exactly clear.'”

She says, “You like Buffalo Springfield?”

“Who?”

“Buffalo Springfield. You were just singing their song.”

“I was?”

“Yup.”

“Hmm. I heard it in the preview for that movie
Born on the Fourth of July.
Did you see that?”

“Nope. Did you?”

“No. I don't know if I want to. I mean, I like Tom Cruise and I think
Top Gun
is probably one of the best movies ever made, but I don't really want to see him in a wheelchair.”

“Did you just say you think
Top Gun
is one of the best movies ever made?”

“Yeah.”

“You're kidding.”

“No. Have you seen it?”

“Sure. It's stupid.”

“What?” I'm laughing.

“It's the stupidest movie.” She's laughing too.

“The stupidest movie? It's great. Tom Cruise flying F-14s. It's awesome.”

“Please.”

The elevator's here. God, she's so cool. If I ever get married, it'll be to someone like her.

Jodi and I are playing basketball. Well, trying to play
basketball. I don't have the right shoes, and even if I did, I can't get my stupid arms above my head to make the stupid ball go into the basket. The other thing that's hard about basketball is jumping and shooting at the same time. There's no possible way to get my body to jump up and shoot the ball.

I feel like one of those really uncoordinated kids on the team that can't even make a foul shot. I can't even make a layup. I guess playing one-on-one with Magic Johnson is out.

Miles and Sheslow have an appointment with me today. Christ, when are they going to get the message that I'm not going to talk to them?

Miles says, “So, Brent, I want to talk about something different today.”

“Yeah. Why are there two of you and only one of me?”

“It's not a competition, Brent.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Do you believe in God?”

“What?”

“Do you believe in God? It's a simple question.”

“Um, let me think about it.” This is what I always do. I pretend like I'm going to answer the question and then I start thinking about something else and then fifteen minutes later they ask me again and I say I forgot the question. Works every time.

“Why do you have to think about it?”

“I don't know. It's a hard question.”

“Well, do you have any opinions?”

Maybe they're not going to let me get away with it this time. Okay, I could tell them about how I used to wonder if I was Jesus. No, too revealing. I could tell them about the time I made the deal with the devil to be the world's best soccer player. That didn't really work. I could tell them about how I'd put a Ping-Pong ball on the table and stare at it and think, Okay, God, if you really exist, all you have to do is move the Ping-Pong ball and I'll believe in you. I promise, I'll spend the rest of my life devoted to you. I promise. I will. But nothing ever happened.

“I guess I don't really believe in God, like how people normally talk about God.”

“What exactly do you mean?”

“I mean, we can't really know about stuff like that, about God or anything like that, until after we're dead. But I think, maybe, it's possible that there is something that exists that is bigger and, kind of, like, around us, but I don't know what that is.”

“Interesting.”

Why am I talking so much today? It's okay. It's harmless. “When I was . . . after I was in the . . . when the firemen were there around me, and I was lying on the floor looking up at them, I don't know how to explain this, but their eyes were kind of glowing. Like there was a light inside their eyes.”

“Yes.”

“And when my mom came, I remember her eyes, which I've looked at all my life, and they were so green, like emeralds. They were so full of light and, like, love. I don't know, I can't explain it.”

“So, what does that make you think about God?”

“I think that maybe, if human beings have souls, that maybe their souls are in their eyes. That maybe that's what the color is. Their souls.”

“Well, they say the eyes are the windows to the soul.”

“No, that's not what I mean. I mean, the actual color is kind of like your spirit, like your soul. And the black space, maybe the black space is the tunnel that people talk about when they die. Do you know what I mean? Like when you die, you go into the eyes of the person you're looking at and walk through their eyes and, at the other end, that's where heaven is.”

“That's interesting. So you think that when people die they walk through the eyes of others? Almost like a Native American right of passage?”

“No, not like that.” Goddamn it, why did I start talking to these guys? I'm talking about something, and they try to make it about something else. I hate these guys.

“Well, let's talk about something else.”

“Fine. Great. I'd love to talk about something else. What else would you like to talk about?”

Mark gets this look in his eye like he's pissed. He probably doesn't like my tone of voice. I've never seen him look like that. “Let's talk about why you feel the need to be so scarcastic.”

Did he just say what I think he said? Scarcastic?

“What?”

“Why do you feel you have to be so sarcastic?”

“That's not what you said.”

“What did I say?”

I look over at Sheslow. “Did you hear what he said?”

Sheslow says, “He said sarcastic.” Oh right, he's going to back up his friend there. What the fuck, I know what I heard. Fucker.

Jodi and I are bowling. It's always hard to find a ball that will work for me. Most of the balls are too heavy, and the light ones don't have big enough holes.

So most of the time I wind up throwing gutter balls, but today, maybe they waxed the lanes or something, but my balls are rolling really well.

I get in position. Relax. Focus on the arrows, not the dots. Visualize. Visualize. Without my Jobst glove on, my hand is starting to itch, but it's not bad yet. Here we go. Come on, baby. Come on. Come back, baby, come back. Yes, strike.

I pump my fist and Jodi gives me a high five. She says, “Great job, kid. Was that your first strike?”

“Yup. And I'm not a kid.”

“Well, excuse me, you're a bowling machine.”

One thing about Jodi, she's always exaggerating her voice and her facial features to make it seem like we're really having fun. I wish she'd chill out.

Next frame. Relax. Visualize. Be the ball.

Another strike. I'm fucking awesome.

“Wow, Brent, you've really got it going on today.”

Jesus, if there's one thing I can't stand, it's older people trying to talk like they're not old.

Okay, tenth frame. Last chance. If I get this, I'm definitely going to break one hundred. Focus. Use the hand. Follow through. Come on. Come on. Come back. Yes. Another strike. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Maybe I should be a professional bowler.

They're finally discharging me from this fucking place. Lisa just told me. I've been in here for almost three months. Three months?

My parents and the doctors are talking about where I should go next. It seems like a choice between a mental hospital or high school. I don't know which one sounds better, but nobody is asking me anyway.

Tom, the teacher, wants me to do some reading comprehension, but I don't feel like it.

He says, “Are you planning on doing any work today?”

“Not really.”