But I’ve got no choice, right? I mean, I’m not some invalid. I’ve got to participate in life, just like everybody else does. There’s nothing so special ’bout me that should make me exempt. I need to be able to handle this kinda shit. And I will. I’m going to.
I force myself up, put on some pants, and I’m sweating already. Sue Ellen’s got her laptop set up to a set of speakers, so I go put on one of the electric Miles Davis albums I downloaded off her iTunes without actually asking.
The music starts out fast and frantic. In some ways, listening to this shit helps remind me of who I am, you know? I mean, the music I love has always been such a huge part of me. I need to hold on to that.
So I turn the volume louder and go get dressed the rest of the way. Sue Ellen’s designated me some space in the closet and one dresser drawer. Like I said, I don’t have too much stuff, anyway. All the photos and posters on the wall are hers. The couch and plush chairs and desk and office furniture are all from her family. The rest of the stuff she bought herself, but with her mom’s money, of course.
But now that I’m working, well, at least I’ll be able to pay for some of our shit, even though the minimum wage here is ridiculously low—like, six dollars an hour. Still, my getting a job is more a symbolic gesture than anything else. It shows I’m not some fucking freeloader. It shows I’m not just hustling Sue Ellen.
And so I pull on my shoes and light a cigarette and walk out into the wet, sticky heat—my sunglasses fogging up so bad I can’t even see. The trash is stinking in the alley. Skinny, feral bobtail cats lie sleeping in the shade of parked cars. A young man with short dreads and a muscular body bends over the open hood of his car, messing with I-don’t-know-what. The guy I call the “bastard man” is walking down the narrow street in my direction. He makes his rounds of the neighborhood every day about this time—sweating, fat. His khaki shorts hiked up so they cling tight between his butt cheeks. His too-small Hawaiian shirt practically bursting open around his belly. His white socks pulled up to his fleshy calves. Waddling along in his bright white, sensible orthopedic sneakers. His straw porkpie hat pulled down over his eyes. I call him the bastard man ’cause, somehow, his particular mental illness causes him to walk around the neighborhood for hours, stopping every ten paces or so, screaming out “You are the bastard!” at no one at all—or, I guess, at everyone, maybe. The first time he came by, I tried to say hey to him, but he just turned on me and yelled, “The trash goes in the motherfucking trash can!”
Of course, I get how fucked up it is that this guy isn’t getting treatment for his illness—most likely ’cause he can’t afford the psych evaluation and medication. Another example of how corrupt our health-care system is in this country. On the other hand, there’s something oddly comforting about the bastard man roaming free and unharassed around the neighborhood. I mean, he’s just accepted as an eccentric part of the community—one of a whole bunch of crazies wandering the streets, like the man who dresses in three-piece suits every day and screams “Jesus” at the top of his lungs, holding some sign about Satan over his head, walking from one end of town to the other, no matter how hot it is outside. They are as much a part of the landscape here as the live oaks, the ancient cemeteries, the Spanish moss, the squares and parks, the projects, the old Southern mansions. And I guess there’s something about that acceptance that I really do respect. Or maybe it’s ’cause, being totally fucking crazy myself, I’ve finally found a place where I might just fit in.
So I walk off down the street—quick-like, ’cause I’m about to be late.
The bastard man screams, “You are the bastard!”
And I make sure to throw my cigarette butt in the motherfucking trash can.
Back when I was in high school, dealing with all the bullshit pressures of getting into college, trying to figure out who the hell I was, battling my parents, challenging every goddamn thing, feeling hopeless, like nothing could ever fill me up completely, I remember thinking what a relief it would have been just to turn that corner, you know? Lose hold of reality. Drift off to some delusional place. Living with eyes closed. Easy. Able to walk around Charleston screaming, “You are the bastard!” Never having to work or love or make anything of yourself. Never having to let anybody down. It would be such a relief. An escape I would never be blamed for. A little lovely dream. A fantasy. Romanticized in movies, books, and songs. The King of Hearts. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. David Bowie singing, “I’d rather stay here with all the madmen than perish with the sad men roaming free.”
But as I’ve gotten older, well, I’ve come to learn the truth of it. There is no freedom in insanity. There is nothing romantic about wandering the streets disoriented and crazy, mixed up, tangled, bound by obsession. Sometimes I just want to curl up small in an abandoned corner and lie still till the world goes away completely. Sometimes I want to run screaming and screaming. But either way, crossing the street to the coffee shop, I’m suddenly aware that I have a whole lot more in common with the bastard man than I could ever have with these ultrahip-looking art school kids I’m about to be working with. I can
