The Good Luck of Right Now(18)
“You shouldn’t make fun of Richard Gere. He’s a wise and powerful man,” I said. “He’s doing good, important work. You wouldn’t understand. He’s helping people. Many people!”
“Okay, okay,” Wendy said and pulled out my binder from her bag. “I didn’t know you were such a Richard Gere fan. Jeez Louise.”
I wanted to tell her that not merely am I your fan, but you are my confidant. I wanted to tell her about the you-me Richard Gere of pretending, but I knew that it would cause me more trouble than it was worth. Wendy wouldn’t understand our correspondence. Wendy wants me to be a bird. And to go to her support group of age-appropriate people. But birds do not befriend famous movie stars and internationally known humanitarians.
Do not hate Wendy.
It’s not her fault.
She really does want to help me.
She just doesn’t know how, but it’s not her fault.
Wendy is only in her midtwenties—the age I was when I was arrested for letting the undercover cop prostitute rub up against my leg. Nobody knows anything when they are in their midtwenties. Think back to when you were that age, Richard Gere. Remember your time in New York and London when you played the lead in Grease? Your reviews were sensational—you were much more accomplished than Wendy is now—but could you have been able to advise me back then? No. So cut Wendy some slack. She’s just a young woman doing her best.
“Can I level with you?” Wendy said.
I nodded.
“I’m a graduate student.”
I blinked at her, waiting for more, and she looked at me like she had said all I needed to understand.
“You know what that means, right?”
I shook my head.
“It means I’m not a licensed therapist yet.”
I looked at her.
“I’m practicing on you. That’s why I don’t charge money.”
“Thank you.”
Wendy laughed in this very excited and surprised way—like I had told a joke. “Listen, I’m all for being honest with people. Going to group therapy would be good for you. Truly. It would help. You might even make an age-appropriate friend—maybe even have your beer at the bar. I really believe you should go. Truly. Truly. Truly. But I’m also required to convince you to go. I’m getting graded on this. All of my classmates have convinced their clients to attend group therapy already, and you’re starting to make me look bad. I shouldn’t be saying all this to you; I know that. But would you please just go to group therapy for my sake? So they don’t throw me out of my grad class? Would you do it for me? Please?” Wendy put her hands together like she was begging me. The bruise on her wrist jumped out of her sleeve once more, ugly as a cockroach emerging from under a floorboard. The tiny man delivered a swift kick to my kidney. Then Wendy raised her eyebrows and said, “Pretty please?”
“My going to group therapy would help you do well in grad school?” I asked. This seemed to put the idea in a different light—going to group therapy to help Wendy rather than to help myself. I don’t know why this made group therapy more appealing, but it did, maybe because I didn’t need help and didn’t want to waste my time doing something that wouldn’t help anyone.
“It would help a lot, actually. More than you realize. I’m not doing very well in school lately.”
“If I go to group therapy, will you do something for me?” I asked, because I suddenly had a good idea.
“Sure! Anything!” Wendy said, practically leaping from her chair.
“Would you maybe give me lessons on how to impress a woman?”
Wendy made a lemon face and said, “What do you mean?”
“I want to know how to approach a woman so that she might want to have a beer at the bar with me.”
“You’re elevating the stakes of your goal, Bartholomew.”
“Is that good?”
“It’s very good!”
She seemed really happy. She is such a child. So easily pleased.
“Can you help me?” I said.
“Who’s the girl?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“Okay,” she said, smiling under those thin orange eyebrows. I made the heart constellation out of her freckles once very quickly. “I see how it is.”
“I’ve never been on a date before.”
“That’s okay.”
“You don’t think of me as a retard now that I’ve told you I’ve never been on a date?”
“I don’t think of anyone as a retard, because that’s a word that shouldn’t ever be used.”
I smiled.
“It’s an age-appropriate goal,” Wendy said. “I’m definitely in.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“How do I make it happen?”
“Why don’t you let me think up a course of action, and we’ll talk about it next week. We’ll fix you up and do our best to get you the girl, Bartholomew. I promise,” Wendy said. She wrote something down on a piece of paper, tore it out, and handed it to me.
Surviving Grief
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