It's Kind of a Funny Story

“Okay. I started Tae Bo at six. So there are like—so many people angling for success and so many colleges you’re supposed to get into, and so many women you’re supposed to have sex with—”

“You gotta freak them,” says Johnny from across the room.

“Were we talking to you?” Humble asks.

“Huh, eat your salt.”

“What, tough guy? How about I knock your head off, how would you like that—”

“Boys.” Noelle stands up and pulls her hair away from her cheeks, which are red in addition to being cut up. Everybody shuts up.

“So now,” I continue, “instead of a quarter-life crisis they’ve got a fifth-life crisis—that’s when you’re eighteen—and a sixth-life crisis—that’s when you’re fourteen. I think that’s what a lot of people have.”

“What you have.”

“Not just me. It’s the . . . um . . . should I keep going?”

“Yes,” Noelle says.

“Well, there are lot of people who make a lot of money off the fifth- and sixth-life crises. All of a sudden they have a ton of consumers scared out of their minds and willing to buy facial cream, designer jeans, SAT test prep courses, condoms, cars, scooters, self-help books, watches, wallets, stocks, whatever . . . all the crap that the twenty-somethings used to buy, they now have the ten-somethings buying. They doubled their market!”

Bobby has pulled up a chair next to me. “This kid is a freakin’ lunatic,” he says.

“I hope they keep him in here,” says Humble.

“So pretty soon.” I keep thinking. “There’ll be seventh- and eighth-life crises. Then eventually a baby will be born and the doctors will look at it and wonder right away if it’s unequipped to deal with the world; if they decide it doesn’t look happy, they’ll put it on antidepressants, get it started on that particular consumer track.”

“Hmmmmmmmmmmmm,” Humble says. I think he’s going to follow it up with something, but instead he says: “Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

Then:

“Your problem is you have a worldview totally in formed by depression.” He leans in. “What about rage?”

“I was never big on rage.”

“Why?”

“It’s so much more angry in my head than it could ever be outside.”

“Extra cookies!”

It’s one of the nurses. We all get in line; it’s oat meal and peanut butter. As I shuffle forward, Noelle nudges me from behind; when I turn to her, she turns her face away as if I were trying to kiss her but she wouldn’t let me.

“You’re trouble,” I say.

“You’re silly,” she answers.

I did it. I talked and she liked me; she thought I was smart. I start to develop a plan. Once I get my cookies, I go to the phone to call Dad, who’s already bringing Blade II tomorrow night. I want him to bring something else too.

forty-three

This is your last full day at the hospital, is what I think when I get up—no one’s taking my blood today (it’s only happened once since Sunday) so I don’t get up super-early, but I’m still the first one in the halls. I take my shower and think about how much life would suck if hot water didn’t come out of the showerhead when you wanted. I’ve tried to take cold showers and they’re wonderful when they’re over, but during the process they feel like some form of animal torture. But then again, that’s the point—when you take a cold shower you’re supposed to get in and out as fast as possible; that’s why they do it in the army.

That’s right! Want to take a shot, soldier?

I don’t think so. Sir.

C’mon, what’s the matter with you? You got a lot going for you; you don’t want to keep it going?

I need a cold shower to keep things going?

That’s right. Less time in the shower, more in the battlefield.

Fine.

I can do this. I reach out and twist the temperature knob slowly to the left, then decide that I’m never going to get it done gradually so I’ll have to do it like a Band-Aid—I jerk it over. The water goes from toasty warm to frigid so quickly that it feels like it burns me. I bend my groin out of its path but I know that’s cheating, so I stick it back in as I furiously lather myself. Leg: up! Down! Other leg: up! Down! Crotch: uh, scrub scrub scrub. Chest: wipe. Arm: down! Back! Other arm: down! Back! Neck, face, turn around, wash your butt, and I’m out! Straight to the towel. I wrap it around myself and shiver.

I’m so desperate to put my clothes on that my socks stick to my wet feet. I go out to talk with Smitty.

“You okay?”

“First cold shower.”

“Of the day?”

“Of my life.”

“Yeah, that’ll knock ya.”

“What’s the news?”

Smitty holds up his paper. It seems that a new candidate is running for Mayor of New York promising to give everyone who votes for him a lap dance. He’s a multibillionaire, and at $100 per lap dance, he thinks he can lock up the vote. A lot of women are supporting him.

“That’s crazy.” I shiver. “It’s like . . . Who’s out there and who’s in here, you know?”