The Silver Linings Playbook(32)

I actually rip the book in half and throw the two halves at my bedroom wall.

Basement.

Stomach Master 6000.

Five hundred crunches.

Why would Nikki make teenagers read such a depressing novel?

Weight bench.

Bench press.

One-hundred-thirty-pound reps.

Why do people read books like The Bell Jar?

Why?

Why?

Why?

I’m surprised when Tiffany shows up the next day for our sunset run. I don’t know what to say to her, so I say nothing—like usual.

We run.

We run again the next day too, but we don’t discuss the comments Tiffany made about my wife.





An Acceptable Form of Coping





In the cloud room, I pick the black recliner because I am feeling a little depressed. For a few minutes I don’t say anything. I am worried that Cliff will send me back to the bad place if I tell him the truth, but I feel so guilty sitting there—and then I’m talking at Cliff, spilling everything in a wild slur of sentences: the big Giants fan, the little Giants fan, my fistfight, the Eagles’ loss to the Giants, my father smashing the television screen, his bringing me the sports pages but refusing to speak with me, my dream about Nikki wearing a Giants jersey, Tiffany saying “Fuck Nikki” but still wanting to run with me every day; and then Nikki teaching Sylvia Plath to defenseless teenagers, my ripping The Bell Jar in half, and Sylvia Plath sticking her head in an oven. “An oven?” I say. “Why would anyone stick their head in an oven?”

The release is powerful, and I realize now that somewhere in the middle of my rant I had begun crying. When I finish speaking, I cover my face, because Cliff is my therapist, yes, but he is also a man and an Eagles fan and maybe a friend too.

I start sobbing behind my hands.

All is quiet in the cloud room for a few minutes, and then Cliff finally speaks, saying, “I hate Giants fans. So arrogant, always wanting to talk about L.T., who was nothing but a dirty rotten cokehead. Two Super Bowls, yes, but XXV and XXI were some time ago—more than fifteen years have passed. And we were there just two years ago, right? Even if we did lose.”

I am surprised.

I was sure Cliff was going to yell at me for hitting the Giants fan, that he would again threaten to send me back to the bad place, and his bringing up Lawrence Taylor seems so random that I lower my hands and see that Cliff is standing, although he is so small his head is not much higher than mine, even though I am sitting down. Also, I sort of think he just implied that the Eagles were in the Super Bowl two years ago, which would make me very upset because I have absolutely no memory of this, so I try to forget what Cliff said about our team being in the big game.

“Don’t you hate Giants fans?” he says to me. “Don’t you just hate ’em? Come on now, tell the truth.”

“Yeah, I do,” I say. “A lot. So do my brother and father.”

“Why would this man wear a Giants jersey to an Eagles game?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he not think he would be mocked?”

I don’t know what to say.

“Every year I see these stupid Dallas and Giants and Redskins fans come into our house wearing their colors, and every year these same fans get manhandled by drunken Eagles fans. When will they learn?”

I am too shocked to speak.

Does this mean Cliff is a season-ticket holder? I wonder, but do not ask.

“Not only were you defending your brother, but you were defending your team too! Right?”

I realize that I am nodding.

Cliff sits down. He pulls the lever, his footrest comes up, and I stare at the well-worn soles of his penny loafers.

“When I am sitting in this chair, I am your therapist. When I am not in this chair, I am a fellow Eagles fan. Understand?”

I nod.

“Violence is not an acceptable solution. You did not have to hit that Giants fan.”

I nod again. “I didn’t want to hit him.”

“But you did.”

I look down at my hands. My fingers are all squirmy.

“What alternatives did you have?” he says.

“Alternatives?”

“What else could you have done, besides hitting the Giants fan?”

“I didn’t have time to think. He was pushing me, and he threw my brother down—”

“What if he had been Kenny G?”

I close my eyes, hum a single note, and silently count to ten, blanking my mind.

“Yes, the humming. Why not try that when you feel as though you are going to hit someone? Where did you learn that technique?”

I’m a little mad at Cliff for bringing up Kenny G, which seems like a dirty trick, especially since he knows Mr. G is my biggest nemesis, but I remember that Cliff did not yell at me when I told him the truth, and I am thankful for that, so I say, “Nikki used to hum a single note whenever I offended her. She said she learned it in yoga class. And whenever she hummed, it would catch me off guard. I would get really freaked out, because it is strange to sit next to someone who is humming a single note with her eyes closed—and Nikki would keep humming that single note for such a long time. When she finally stopped, I would be grateful, and I also would be more aware of her displeasure and more receptive to her feelings, which is something I did not appreciate until recently.”