Удушье (Choke)

She says, 'I was so proud of him. He still tells people that story.'

Paige Marshall looks up at me.

'Secretly,' Mrs. Tsunimitsu said, 'I think my son, Paul, al­ways felt like a coward until that night.'

Paige sat back and looked from the old woman to me, back and forth.

Mrs. Tsunimitsu clasped her hands together below her chin, closed her eyes, and smiled. She said, 'My daughter-in-law had wanted a divorce, but after she saw Paul save you, she fell back in love.'

She said, 'I knew you were faking. Everybody else saw what they wanted to see.'

She said, 'You have an enormous capacity for love in you.'

The old woman sat there smiling and said, 'I can tell you have the most generous of hearts.'

And fast as sneezing, I told her:

'You're a fucking wrinkled old lunatic.'

And Paige winces.

I tell everybody, I'm tired of being jerked around. Okay? So let's just not pretend. I don't have fuck for a heart. You people are not going to make me feel anything. You are not going to get to me.

I'm a stupid, callous, scheming bastard. End of story.

This old Mrs. Tsunimitsu. Paige Marshall. Ursula. Nico, Tanya, Leeza. My mom. Some days, life just looks like me versus every stupid chick in the whole damn world.

With one hand, I grab Paige Marshall around the arm and yank her toward the door.

Nobody's going to trick me into feeling Christlike.

'Listen to me,' I say. I shout, 'If I wanted to feel anything, I'd go to a frigging movie!'

And old Mrs. Tsunimitsu smiles and says, 'You can't deny the goodness of your true nature. It's shining for everyone to see.'

To her I say, shut up. To Paige Marshall I say, 'Come on.'

I'll prove to her I'm no Jesus Christ. Anybody's true nature is bullshit. There is no human soul. Emotion is bullshit. Love is bullshit. And I'm dragging Paige down the hallway.

We live and we die and anything else is just delusion. It's just passive chick bullshit about feelings and sensitivity. Just made-up subjective emotional crap. There is no soul. There is no God. There's just decisions and disease and death.

What I am is a dirty, filthy, helpless sexaholic, and I can't change, and I can't stop, and that's all I'll ever be.

And I'll prove it.

'Where are you taking me?' Paige says, stumbling, her glasses and lab coat still flecked with food and blood.

Already, I'm imagining junk so as not to trigger too fast, stuff like pets soaked in gasoline and set on fire. I'm picturing the dumpy Tarzan and his trained chimp. I'm thinking, here's just another stupid chapter in my fourth step.

To make time stand still. To fossilize this moment. To make the fucking last forever.

I'm taking her in the chapel, I tell Paige. I'm the child of a lu­natic. Not a child of God.

Let God prove me wrong. He can nail me with a lightning bolt.