It’s a different night and a different fast food establishment. Chris and I are visiting our friend Erin, who is taking orders on her little headset. Burger King’s dining area is closed, but she is letting us mingle around with our coffee. It was brewed with a hot chocolate packet, but I can’t really taste the difference. Chris is unloading nine packets of sugar into his cup. I’m criticizing how he’s diluting the crisp, bitter taste. The on-duty manager is fighting with her husband on the phone. Her face looks tired, and she gives me a look like she’s heard it all before. In her hand is a box cutter. It’s blue, but not like the ocean or another friendly shade. In her grip the blade is angry, and whenever she passes control of the conversation over to him, she slices through the pamphlets stacked neatly on the trays. Two people are still sitting in the back of the dining area. One waiting for her boyfriend’s shift to end and I think the other works here. But I’m not sure. I’m not really focused and I’m barely catching the tail end of everything that’s being said. I’m thinking of Vermont and wanting to cash in on some second chances.
I don’t want a second dice roll to change how things turned out, but I’m wondering if things would be easier now if I branched out when I should have. To my understanding, abusive relationships are more about somebody struggling with themselves rather than another individual. If I we’re struggling with ourselves, should we ever put that responsibility on another person?
Erin asks me to get her the trash from the men’s room. It’s not my job, but I figure it’s not the worst thing I’ve done to earn a cup of coffee. I don’t blame her for not wanting to be in there. Paper towels litter the floor, and I try not to wonder how they’ve gotten there or what’s on them. I come out with the bag in hand, holding it awkwardly away from my body. Erin and the manager tell me that they were considering cutting the power to the men’s room, which would have left me picking up the papers in the dark. I imagine this, me fumbling around in the dark, trying to feel for paper towels. Things never feel the same when you can’t see them. I correct her, saying that I had the power to leave the room if the lights were cut. I could leave any time I wished it.
I feel like I never left this battle with myself. In one sense, if either bit of me returns victorious from the pit, then I’ve won. If I’m right, then the heart of the issue is that there is conflict. But I think the problem is not the willingness to fight ourselves. It’s the fact that we’re dueling with the weapons that society is giving us. Barbie and Ken are fucking bombs in the human condition, and we only have ourselves to respond back with. We’d think this would be enough, right? I remember that I had one opportunity to show somebody how I’m stacking the cards against myself. I could have done this before I left, but I ran. I ran with the arrogance that because we need to solve our own problems, we should tuck them away from the rest of the world. I drove back to Mass, cashing the opportunity in to finish the drive back in daylight.
Chris and I are leaning on the rail. My coffee is gone and we’re getting ready to head back to my place and do something productive like watch Youtube videos that we’ll forget about in the morning. I look at the floor tiles. They’re all evenly placed against one another, but none of them are touching. I think what’s separating them is this cement-like glue, but I’m not a mason. Either way, I accept how I’m seeing it, and it looks like they’re never going to touch. Chris leans over to me, crosses his arms and prepares to say something.
“Um… Do you ever wonder what it’s like to be skinny?”
I want to scream my answer in his face, like we finally found some even plane of communication. I see him, though. He’s looking at the kid with dreadlocks, preparing the fries and onion rings. He’s slender, and it looks as if he can move freely without having to tax his breath. For a minute, it’s as if Chris and I are the same person, standing on the same time. I’m thinking about time spent in front of the mirror, and how the dorm’s mirrors are obnoxiously huge, showing us everything that we don’t want to see. With analysis, there is always the response.
“Yes, I do. Often.”
Stage Fright 