Whisper to Me(30)

“What?” I said. I flashed back to meeting Paris at the hospital, how I had said the same thing. It was like a tic with me.

Suddenly you looked self-conscious. You straightened up. “Oh, uh, it’s stupid,” you said. “I just … I’m delivering plush.”

I looked at you blankly; at least I assume I did, because you had an uncomfortable expression on your face.

“Stuffed toys, you know? For the stands. Prizes. I get them from a warehouse in town, and I drive down onto the beach. Throw them up to the guys on the piers. To restock.” You gestured with your thumb toward the open back of the pickup truck.

I looked: there was a plastic bag in there, the size of a person, full of Angry Birds.

“After my break, I’m taking those to Pier Two,” you said, filling the silence nervously.

“They have an assistant manager for that?” I asked.

You shrugged. “Like I said, it’s stupid. Really, I’m just the plush delivery guy, but they gave me that title. You wouldn’t believe how quick the stands run out of prizes. And there are a lot of stands.”

I wasn’t really interested in the stuffed toys, which is sucky of me, I know. I was still amazed that the voice had said nothing about you. I hadn’t even had my risperidone that morning; it made me too tired to do anything, so I’d skipped it, which I knew Dr. Rezwari would bust a gut about if she knew. The voice had stopped with the threats. It didn’t seem to tell me to hurt myself anymore or that it would kill Dad or whatever—I don’t know if that was the drugs—but it would still sometimes insult me, sometimes curse about stuff.

I thought for sure it was going to say something like, “He knows you’re ugly,” or whatever. That would have been its style.

But that’s the thing about you—you’re an insulator. A muffler. You silence the voice.

Then the little mike on your shirt buzzed.

“714, come in,” said a crackly voice, sounding reedy through the small speaker.

You reached up and pressed a button. “714.”

“What’s your 20?”

“On my break for another half hour,” you said. “Then I’ve got a delivery to Pier Two.”

“Okay,” said the voice on the other end of the radio. “I need five medium Tweety Birds and ten large SpongeBobs to Pier One, when you’re done.”

“10-4,” you said, and signed off.

“10-4?” I said. “Seriously?”

You held up your hands defensively. “I think all the guys on the piers wish they were cops. They believe they’re characters in an Elmore Leonard book or something.”

“A lot of them eat in my dad’s restaurant,” I said. “The real cops too. I’d say they’re more Carl Hiaasen than Elmore Leonard. They’re the kind of guys who wear novelty socks.”

You leaned your head to one side, intrigued. “You like books?”

I shook my head. “Used to.”

I could see the curiosity on your face, but you didn’t press. I think you heard something in my tone. “Well, okay,” you said, backing away.

Me: repelling people since seven years old.

I saw the 9 bus then and jerked my head at it. “That’s my bus,” I said.

“You sure I can’t drive you? In a noncreepy way?”

“I’m sure. Thanks.”

You smiled a tentative smile. That was one of the things that impressed me about you: another guy faced with what I’m sure was a pretty frosty demeanor from me might have felt hurt, rejected. But you stayed nice. I think you really did just want to help. “Catch you later,” you said.

“Yeah,” I said.

I KNOW: It’s like Romeo and Juliet all over again, isn’t it? Dialogue FOR THE AGES.

Of course, I didn’t feel anything though. I didn’t have, for instance, butterflies in my stomach. I couldn’t feel anything, because of the drugs.

No. No, that’s not true. I think I did feel something for you, even then, but it’s like when I was sedated—I know I felt it, but I can’t remember it. Which sucks in a whole other way, as if my memory is taking you away from me, erasing you. When I look back on myself in those days I see a dead person walking around, dressed up in new skin. Even then, standing at the bus shelter, in the light, with you by your truck, it was as if everything was a little too shiny and unmoving, like everything was behind glass, even the sun.

Then you drove off and I got on the bus and went to my appointment, where Dr. Rezwari asked me if I was hearing the voice anymore and when I said no, not really, she pretty much just shoved me out of her office right away. She’d given up even on offering me books by this point.

Here is the thing: if you hear a voice, it is very important to those like Dr. Rezwari to make it stop, and keep it stopped. This is because they are afraid the voice will tell you to hurt other people. And yourself, of course. So they load you up with risperidone until you’re nothing but your own shadow, and they call it a day.

I don’t blame them for this. I get it.

It’s just—if she had, only once, asked me when the voice started. Or why I thought I heard it, or anything about it. What it sounded like. Who it sounded like.

If she’d asked those questions, then maybe I would have gotten better sooner. Would have been spared a trip to the ER.