Funny Feelings (36)

“Meet me at the hotel bar?” I ask.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll head down.”



He’s already standing at the bar when I get back, tapping the side of a fist rhythmically against the counter, next to an empty glass.

He doesn’t look up until I’m in front of him, his eyes the only things that move my way. Bloodshot, with dark circles underneath.

“Meyer. I am—I am so sorry I threw you into that. I should never have put that on you.” My big mouth and rashness have gotten me into trouble before, but never with a friend, not with Meyer.

He sighs and reaches around me to pull out my stool. When I sit, he follows.

“Jones, I should be the one apologizing. I’m sure I brought down the entire vibe of the room and made it harder for you to bring everyone back up. I should’ve been able to at least pull off a few minutes, and I couldn’t even do that. God, I told the equivalent of a Dad joke and then bailed,” he groans. The bartender slides another drink in front of him and he takes a sip before nodding my way. “Ralph texted, though. Said you did great. You want one of those lemon drink things you always get?” he blinks lazily, his eyelids slightly out of sync with each other—he must be buzzed.

I look over the cocktail list and choose one at random, waiting until the bartender walks away again to ask, “Do you want to talk about— what happened? When did that all start?”

His sigh is deep as he wraps both big hands around his already half-empty glass. He never drinks like this. He’s always controlled, always steady.

“I don’t know, exactly. But, I guess it’s some form of PTSD. Dr. Dale and I have surmised that it has to do with the couple years of isolation I had when Hazel was born.” He rubs a palm along his stubble and finishes his drink. “It wasn’t like it was anything that could be helped, though. I was unprepared, completely, to be a dad. I thought I’d… fuck, it sounds so lame saying this… but I thought I’d have her for only short, small periods of time. I didn’t know I’d… and then, I felt like I was doing everything wrong, when she wasn’t always meeting the milestones that they say they should meet at those certain points. But she was so brilliant and beautiful and I loved her. I just—I guess I insulated us? Especially when we learned that she was Deaf, and no one had caught it prior to that. I had to teach myself a new language, along with teaching her. I didn’t realize just how much I was isolating myself since I was working, still. Writing, at least. But I didn’t need to be anywhere in person often and going out was such a hassle. I didn’t trust anyone to watch her back then.”

“Meyer. That’s all completely understandable. No one could have prepared you for all of that at once. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Well, I know that now, Jones. But back then it also felt like I was giving up on myself. None of my stand-up material was super sharp or high-caliber, since everything else had turned into these stories that had to have more meaning, more depth. They worked for shows but not so much as jokes. I had to be able to show the whole picture, you know? Still, I was determined to get up there and do it because it was what I’d always done.

“And then I couldn’t. I didn’t just fall apart, Fee. I evaporated. I didn’t even like it—at all—anymore. I hated all the faces and all the noise and there was no part of me that wanted that attention anymore.

“I still love laughter. I still love comedy, but I didn’t want to get up there and tell jokes about being a dad and how shitty it can be when I couldn’t go on to elaborate about how god damn Earth-shattering it is when she smiles or learns something new, too. And it’s not like I had any dating stories, certainly not anything sexy to talk about,” he chuckles darkly, tossing back the ice and chewing on it. “So now, I write. And I’m ok with it. Sometimes I miss that adrenaline, but it’s very, very rare, Fee. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s fucking embarrassing, nor do I totally understand why that changed so much for me. And I really don’t love not understanding myself. I used to feel like the smartest fucker in the room. Hell, that was why I loved it, why I did it. Now, I know better.”

A tear slides down my cheek and I restrain myself from reaching out to him. “The mind is a fickle bitch. I don’t know how I get places ninety-nine percent of the time when I’m driving. My brain just manages to take over even when I’m consciously in a completely different scenario. I constantly wonder ‘how the hell did I get here.’ I’m sure it’s the same, in a way.”

His eyes close in agony and he sighs through his nose. “God, please don’t bring up your driving right now. It might be the one thing that terrifies me just as much.” He finishes the drink as he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry again, My. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“Stop,” he holds up a palm. “It’s already done.” He tries to smile.

It doesn’t sit quietly in me, though, still has my insides twisting in guilt. “Doesn’t this make you miserable? Taking me to do all this all the time?”

If I couldn’t perform anymore… So much of my self-esteem is wrapped up in it now that I can’t quite imagine the feeling.

He turns my way again, a drop of whiskey or melted ice glistening on his lower lip. “Surprisingly, not at all.” He doesn’t elaborate further. And I decide I don’t want to push him any further.