journey on the T

Hey, you?

Yes, you, standing there, facing me, in my own personal-space-bubble.

You, with the skin-tight pre-holed jeans, pants that are so small they only go halfway up your butt and are snugly held up by a black belt with those stupid metal studs. Yes, I see how your shirt is so thread-bare that I’m sure you got it at a thrift-store, and how you’re wearing a frayed black sweatshirt with the name of some obscure band on it, probably one either you or your friends are in, and how the hoodie is pulled up even though it’s not raining and you’re inside the goddamned T. And your long, black hair that is so intentionally unwashed and probably even artificially straightened.

But still you stare straight out the window, almost imperceptibly bobbing your head to the music coming from your ipod, traveling to your ears through the token earbugs. It’s the best way to be alone no matter how many people are around. Oh, you have a black ipod, how antiestablishment. Obviously, no one understands your pain, no one could appreciate the inner, tortured depths of your existence. It’s only the music, man; it’s the music that gets you through.

Despite the fact that I’m staring directly at your face, and there’s no way you don’t know I’m not-so-subtly trying to get your attention, you determinedly look everywhere but at me. You keep giving disgusted looks at the girl with the big fucking bag behind you, the one that keeps hitting you uncomfortably every time the train hits a bump. I know man. I can commiserate. Let me give you a conciliatory look, a look that says, yeah, people can be such assholes.

No? I’m just trying to be friendly, just trying to strike up a conversation with you. Jesus, we’ve sat next to each other in class twice a week for the past four months. It might be awkward if we started talking now, it’s been so long, but isn’t it more fucking awkward now that, for the love of God, if we were any closer I’d be bearing your child in nine months?

But then I’m not sure. I’m kinda pissed. Not because I’m interested in knowing you, really, but because isn’t that just what people are supposed to do? Exchange pleasantries with familiar strangers? Or do you have the right idea, just cutting out the bullshit of social exchanges with people you have no interest in talking to? But now that 10 minutes have passed with your glaringly forced ignorance of recognition, isn’t it weirder to tap you on the shoulder, to say, hey, you’re in my class, when that’s been the case you’ve been avoiding all along? And if I do, do you take out your earbugs and pretend to have a conversation with me? If it’s painfully awkward, what happens at the point where we have nothing to say, but it would be rude to re-insert the music-device in your aural cavities?

So I just turn, staring out the window myself.

I guess I’ll see you in class.

Harmless Quirks or Totally Berserk: An Investigation into a Could-Be Psychopathic Boyfriend

Harmless Quirks or Totally Berserk: An Investigation into a Could-Be Psychopathic Boyfriend

By Katie O'Reilly

'Found out about a thai restaurant with bugs on the menu. Interested? Even if u dont eat caterpillars i could use the support cause ill need a push.'

Lump that one into the 'texts that don't help the cause when you're trying to convince yourself that you're not dating a serial killer' category. This singular pursuit had been taking a lot out of me as it was. Nothing like a mid-workday missive like that to put you straight in the front row of that theater in your mind specializing in unsettling recent memory montages.

The tongue burrito your new boyfriend ordered for lunch the other day before your cat circus date. His high-concept bathroom design scheme that involved row after row of naked wighead mannequins. That story about hookers in the upper peninsula of Michigan. That time 48 hours ago when you were cleaning up after your good friend's birthday party and came across a mask made of baloney abandoned facedown on the sticky floor alongside makeshift ash trays and pinata candy. Yup, his.

Now, I can appreciate creative liberties as they pertain to a theme party. I consider winning runner-up for best costume at a raucous caucus presidents' day bash one of my proudest moments. Not only had I made the black eye I'd earned in a recent concussion really work for me as Betty Ford, but I had somehow rendered my portly grandmother's flowered fifties smock sexy. (Hint: safety pins can be your next messiah.) I have a friend who once scored while dressed at Sputnik. What I'm saying is, there's an art to this.

But what does it say about someone who hears 'under the sea' and immediately thinks not of the scores of adorable and potentially comical underwater creatures and fun aquatic concepts to be tapped, but rather seeks the opportunity to twist the name of some obscure fish into an excuse to glue processed lunch meat all over his face? I'm sure I would be a kinder critic were the correlation between 'all baloney' and abalone more readily apparent to a room full of drunk people and less attractive to squirrels on the porch. But the baloney wig? My initial diagnosis was 'Trying too hard,' but that of most of my friends was, 'Jesus Christ, Katie, what is wrong with you? You are clearly dating a serial killer.'

At first I tried in vain to paint him as misunderstood. It's not that I was particularly attached or saw much of a future with this guy. But self-reliant feminist righteousness shines much brighter in theory than in practice. In female brunch company I'm all about 'I am not a midnight snack!' and similar proclamations in the vein of empowerment. But after someone buys me dinner and a wine buzz, a wave of guilt, possibly of Catholic origin, seeps in and overrides all of that, leaving me feeling indebted. Not necessarily sexually, but I mean, I'm probably not going to snicker diabolically over someone's long johns or predilection for jager bombs until a couple of days after they pay me nice compliments and all of the cab fare. Not returning duds' phone calls gives me an ulcer. It took my ex ending a serious long-term relationship over Skype for me to manage to not rationalize away all of the sentiments of disgust I'd long harbored and finally tear him a new one. And baloney face had thus far been living up to his astrological expectations as the prince charming of the zodiac. He refused to let me chip in for any tapas and hadn't date-raped me. A veritable ray of sunsine. And while he did up show up at the party I'd invited him to over the weekend smelling like a butcher's worst nightmare, he'd brought along a whole bottle of tequila. So I feebly protested that he was merely artistic and generous, not creepy and presumptuous.

My friend L, who has been one of the most sage forces in my life since sixth grade, broke it down for me. 'Your strongest attribute is also gonna be your greatest downfall.' I asked her to elaborate. 'You don't let the small stuff get to you and you're not a judgmental bitch, but that really just ends up meaning that you're a magnet for sociopathic freaks.' she explained.

Was I courting my own delusions in going out with this nice, avant-garde guy? I reexamined my mental list of pros. The meat mask may have been a stretch, but he was generally witty and articulate, always quick with an entertaining, often ludicrous story. I can appreciate the gift of gab. Maybe my friends were just petty and closed-minded. I resorted to independent research to address the serial-killing-sociopath-or-not hypothesis at hand.

The internet was quick to point out that psychopaths are typically amusing, glib and superficial. Come to think of it, this guy usually cast himself in an ironically heroic light in his colorful yarns. Tying a chicken to a kayak 'just to see what happens' and then proudly reporting a barracuda siting?

The World Wide Web was unanimously more discerning than I had been when made privy to that vacay tale. 'Because of their inability to appreciate the feelings of others, psychopaths are capable of behavior that normal people find not only horrific but baffling. They can torture and mutilate their victims with about the same sense of concern that we feel when we carve a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner.'

Suddenly put off by poultry and reminiscent of childhood Hannibal Lecter nightmares, I felt a serious need to recall things about this person that put me in a happier, more comfortable place. So I tried to hone in on how much I admired his adventurous spirit. Here was someone who really put faith in his whims and seemed to live an enriched life as a result. He drew churches for a month in Ireland, spent a summer naked and fasting on some island, moved someplace to start up a brewery, and then another three months later to pursue mountain biking and camping. This itinerant hobo of a bartender had certainly stirred something in the wide-eyed, wannabe maverick idealist in me.

Datefraud.com set me straight fast.

'Psychopaths tend to live day-to-day and change their plans frequently. They give little serious thought to the future.' So I was well out of college and apparently still falling for this modern-day Kerouac bullshit? Might as well get a tattoo on my forehead advertising my unquestioning acceptance of derelicts who can rock a convincing bohemian agenda. And what 'free spirit' has enough baloney sitting around to create an entire freaking costume for a last-minute invite?! I may not have the credentials for pop psychology any more than I qualify to operate a space shuttle, but it just wasn't adding up.

This certainly wasn't the first time I'd been pressed to reassess a dude's level of berserk. I used to consider an ex a legitimate writer until I accompanied him to a poetry reading where he drunkenly railed against vegetarianism for forty-five minutes. I once received a fog light for my birthday for no good reason. But the notion that my crazy radar may not be razor-sharp really hit home that time when I got to talking about activism with a flirtatious hostel traveler who claimed to be a key player in the MADD movement. I confessed that I was unfamiliar, and he used his Czech language skills to order us some drinks before explaining. He described it as 'basically gay pride, but for schizophrenics.' Two pilsners in and I was inappropriately sniggering over mental images of parades winding their ways through city streets that featured schizoids rambunctiously rallying for 'mad pride for all,' while showcasing priceless antics unique to the mentally ill. For the first time in my life, I politely excused myself from the situation before becoming too entrenched. Me being an insensitive jerk aside, I had successfully navigated the line between 'different' and 'unhinged' finally.

Surely I could revive that sensibility for the situation now at hand. Was it time to move new boyfriend from the eccentric unit to the unbalanced, demented loco ward? Quirky's one thing, but here was the line, and I couldn't quite yet determine whether he stood on the side of harmless whimsy or was off tap-dancing in the ether of bananasville.

Anais Nin said, 'Each friend represents a world in us, a world not possibly born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.'

It's nice to get your mind blown sometimes. Challenging existing notions of reality is part of what our existence is all about in this ever-shifting world. And people are fascinating. But that's not to say our comfort zone isn't there for a reason.

I suppose I could weigh his mental merits and read up on psychological tendencies and conditions until I in turn go nuts in the process. The fact is, sanity's relative. From what I can tell, it's an issue comprised almost entirely of gray matter. And who am I to establish any norms or decide who's closer to or farther from okay and acceptable? I probably shouldn't go around crying psychopath. But I also don't have to be a martyr for misunderstood freaks.

One thing is sure. If I have to expend much energy convincing myself that someone's degree of eccentricity is palatable, then I should probably just back away. The question shouldn't be about whether I ultimately decide to or not to overlook anyone's alleged serial killer-ness. I'm starting to learn to see value in the poetry of someone's weird existence, to let them breathe some alternative energy into everyday life, without fully incorporating their avant-garde modus operandi. In other words, it's possible to appreciate something new and bizarre without necessarily taking it to bed. My subconscious knows me better than I often credit it. And if I felt over my head in this situation, then it was probably foolish to try to convince myself otherwise.
Maybe the 'crazies' are just ahead of their time. And maybe I'm really just kind of a square who would take the comics over esoteric prose on most days. I'd rather eat peanuts than insects. And that's okay.

'Brave soul. Raincheck? Busy for the next few weeks, but if you survive insect cuisine I hope to hear about it at electroclash cinco de mayo.'

I hit 'reply,' 'send' and relaxed. Maybe I hadn't gotten to the bottom of my paranoid hypothesis, but I'd placed an order for whack in smaller, more manageable doses. Who knew where he really landed on the sane/mental continuum, but I'd finally managed to determine where I stood. Totally in control. Crazy.

First post

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