The Good Luck of Right Now(23)

“Good question,” Max said. “Great f*cking question.” He nodded like he meant it and wasn’t making fun of me at all.

“Yes,” Arnie said. “The yellow room is for talking. You are free to speak your mind. But the goal here tonight is to partner the two of you up, so that you might support each other through the grieving process.”

Max blew air out between his lips.

“Max, would you please tell Bartholomew why you are grieving?”

Max blew even more air out between his lips.

“Max?”

Max looked up at the ceiling for a good fifteen seconds or so and squeezed his knees with his hands before he said, “Alice was my best friend, and now she’s f*cking gone.”

“Yes, she is, Max. I’m very sorry about that.”

“Did you f*cking kill her, hey?”

“No, I did not,” Arnie said.

“Then what the f*ck are you sorry about?”

“I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry that you have to go through this grieving process. I’m sorry that Alice is no longer providing you with the comforts that you once had, and I hope that you will find a way to move on.”

“I haven’t missed any work, hey.”

“Maybe you should take a few days off.”

“Fuck that.”

“Bartholomew, would you tell us please why you are grieving?”

“My mother died of cancer.”

“Cancer?” Max said. He turned and faced me, eyes wide.

“Brain cancer. The doctors described it like a squid with tentacles, and—”

“Fuck cancer! That’s what got my Alice too, hey. Fuck cancer. Fuck.”

Arnie said, “How do you feel about cancer, Bartholomew?”

“Um . . . I don’t know. I don’t like cancer. It killed my mother,” I said.

“The yellow room is a safe room,” Arnie said. “You can speak more forcefully about your feelings if you wish. You don’t have to be polite, like you do outside of the yellow room, in the real world. Remember, this is a word fortress.”

“Fuck cancer!” Max said.

I nodded in agreement.

“How’s it been for you, Bartholomew? Since your mother died?” Arnie said.

“It’s f*cking hell, right?” Max said. “Fucking hell.”

“Um . . . it’s been an adjustment. I loved Mom. She was a good friend in addition to being my mother. But she wasn’t right at the end. She changed.”

“My Alice changed too,” Max said. “She started to piss on everything. The bed. My clothes. The couch. Everywhere she was f*cking pissing, which is how I knew she wasn’t right. It was like she lost her f*cking mind, hey.”

“Mom was like that too. She had to wear a diaper.”

“Fuck cancer.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Max, would you like to tell Bartholomew what you miss most about Alice?”

He looked at the ceiling, and I actually thought Max was going to cry.

Finally, he blew out another lungful of air between his teeth, like a leaky tire, pushed his clunky brown glasses up his nose, and then said, “I f*cking miss having someone greet me when I come home from work after the late movie ends and my sister is f*cking sleeping. Alice always waited up for me. Fucking always. I miss Alice sitting on my lap when I watched television. I miss the way she f*cking purred when I scratched behind her f*cking ears. I miss how she sat in the window all day, just enjoying the f*cking sun.”

“Wait . . . I don’t understand,” I said.

“What don’t you understand?” Arnie said.

“Who are you talking about, Max?”

“Fucking Alice!”

“What relation was she to you?” I asked.

“She was my f*cking everything. For fifteen f*cking years.”

“So she was . . . your wife?”

“What the f*ck, hey?” Max said. His face turned bright red, like I had thrown boiling water on it. “Do you think I’m some sort of twisted f*cking f*ck?”

“It’s okay, Max,” Arnie said. “We never told Bartholomew that Alice was a cat.”

“I said she sat in the f*cking window, right?”

“People can sit in windows,” I said.

Max dismissed my words with the wave of his hand and then said, “I f*cking miss Alice and I’m not ashamed to say so—especially here in the yellow f*cking room, where I’m supposed to f*cking grieve openly, hey. She was a calico and more loyal than any f*cking person has ever been to me—I don’t give a shit if she was a cat or not. Fuck! I miss her. And I’ll tell you what, hey!”

“Tell us,” Arnie said. “Tell us everything. Let it out. We’re listening. This is a safe place.”

“You don’t f*cking care about my dead f*cking cat! No one does!” Max said to me and then wiped his eyes. “What the f*ck, hey?”

Richard Gere, you whispered in my ear—well, maybe I pretended you were whispering directly into my ear, thinking what would Richard Gere say and do?—Tell him you want to hear about his cat. Lessen his pain. Be compassionate. Remember the Dalai Lama’s teachings.

I remembered a line I read in the Dalai Lama’s book A Profound Mind. “It is important that we understand just how truly all-pervasive suffering is.” I remembered the Dalai Lama saying it is easy to feel sorry for an elderly beggar, but it is much harder to feel sorry for a young rich man. He also said that all “conditioned existence is characterized by pain.” And that all types of people are “enslaved” by “strong destructive emotions.”