Funny Feelings (26)

“But, I grabbed my umbrella, and in my tantrum I shoved it open so hard that it went completely inside out. All the spindles on one side poked through, and I tried to right it but… it was already torn. I burst into tears and my Mom was still gentle with me. Gentle, but firm. She calmly walked up to me, turned it the correct way, handed it back to me and said, ‘Serves you right for getting mad at the rain, Farley,’” I exhale a shaky breath. “When I got home that night I cried some more, and apologized. She told me she forgave me, told me that it was okay, to forgive myself. She said that it was going to be one of our favorite stories one day because that was me. I was always going to have big feelings, and it was going to be up to me to make sure they were worth it. She told me I was going to have to learn to wear those feelings proudly, without doing damage to the things or people I love, that I’d only hurt myself in the process if I did.” I look back up at Meyer and let my eyes slip along my favorite corners of his face. The ripples of his forehead, the jut of his jaw.

“What happened to the umbrella?” he asks.

“I used it for years, actually. Up until it basically disintegrated outside of Lance’s—on the day I met you.” I laugh, remembering. “Because of my many shoddy patch-up jobs over the years, it had become a little sloped in one section and would collect rain. So when it fully broke, it dumped more water on me than if I’d have not used it in the first place.” I smile as another tear falls.

“So, yeah. I guess I’ve always had a thing for umbrellas.”

His mouth lifts into a sad smile. “But you don’t want a new one?”

I shrug. It doesn’t make sense to me either. “I’ll just keep borrowing yours, if that’s alright.”

He nods.

“She sounds like she was pretty great, Fee,” he says, swiping his thumb over the back of my hand.

“She was.”

He reaches between us with his free hand, stalling midway before he tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

“You know,” I start, letting it barrel out of me in a moment of bravery, “she and I watched a few of your sets together. Not in person since I was too young, obviously. But she loved your stuff. She used to call it ‘caustic’.”

His eyes widen and his face falls. He visibly struggles with a reply before he comes up with, “That makes me really happy, Fee. Thank you for telling me.”

Click

I blink, then look to my right and see a man with a camera.

So, I smile and wave.





10





32 MONTHS AGO





“My psychiatrist told me I was crazy and I said I want a second opinion. He said okay, you’re ugly too.” - Rodney Dangerfield





FARLEY


My steps hit the ground hard enough to reverberate up my shins as I get to the parking lot. I swipe angrily at my phone, which naturally results in it not registering anything, until I slide into my car and slam the door. After a soothing breath, I manage to scroll to Meyer’s name and hit call.

“Hey.”

“She doesn’t fucking like me, Meyer.”

“Today was therapy?”

“See!!! You know what I’m talking about before I even have to explain!!!”

“I know because it’s on the calendar and because I know you,” he replies, offensively calm.

“And you know how inherently unlikeable I am? Respectfully, Meyer, what the fuck?”

He sighs wearily and says something to someone away from the phone.

“Oh, I—I didn’t know you were busy. Why would you answer if you’re busy with someone?”

“What makes you think she doesn’t like you, Jones?” he breezes past my question.

“She didn’t laugh or even smile at any of my charming quips. Not one, Meyer.”

“Farley. She is your therapist. You are not there to entertain her.”

“Oh, bullshit. Why would anyone be a therapist if they didn’t want to be entertained by other people’s issues?”

“Also, this just confirms why therapy is important for you. For me. For all of us, but especially people in this field. Your likability is not directly correlated to how much you make someone laugh.”

“First of all, how dare you. Second of all, she wouldn’t even meet me halfway, Meyer. She straight up ignored my self-deprecating comments. I even told her that story about how you made fun of my run, and how I didn’t think I actually cared, but then I had that dream—”

“Fucking hell, Jones, you performed a bit for her?!”

“I didn’t perform it. I asked her to translate the Freudian meaning behind the dream. I told her how I was being chased by killers and how they stopped and started laughing at my run. So, I asked, does this just mean that I need to take running lessons, or does it mean that I am so deeply self-conscious that I worry that even a killer would find me lacking-slash-unworthy?”

“Meet me for lunch somewhere. I need to see your face to gauge how serious you are with this shit.”

“Fine!”

“The Kabob place down the street from Lance’s in thirty?”

“Fine.”





My steps stutter as I take Meyer in at a table on the patio. He’s already got an empty platter of hummus in front of him, with my favorite marinated chicken pita half-eaten on another.