Worms

It’s spring.

It’s April.

Eastertime, too.

It’s around four o’clock in the afternoon.

The days of the week run from me like seven deer.

I think of permanence when I look at my body.

There’s that chip on my shoulder. A thickness runs through me.

A year ago, I was living in a home for boys suffering from body dysmorphia.

We could barely make it outside. We cut our nails outside. It became impossible to keep from stealing. Our hands were clumsy and awkward. Terrible words ran through our heads. Our voices left us, changed, even when we didn’t have colds, even if we had nothing to say.

We never had anything to say.

We gossiped. We heard things so well it bothered us. We played with our hair. We drew swastikas. We masturbated. We masturbated each other. We vegetated. We had stomach pains from anxiety disorders. We played sick to get out of things. We played plenty of basketball, table tennis, and video games.

We talked about girls, sometimes women. We criticized them. We cracked our jokes wide open, like supermarket eggs, all over the panicky heads and bodies of our victims. We were trying to be men: playing around, edging up against the law, getting under your skin, and staying there.

We ate cold cereal in the mornings and hot ready-made meals in the evenings. We drank healthy sodas. We smoked cigarettes. We smoked more cigarettes. We chain-smoked. We stubbed cigarettes out on the bottoms of our feet.

We slept. We mostly slept. Our dreams were harsh and critical.

Worried worms wriggled in the backyard. Daily medications were swallowed.

We stared at ourselves in the mirror. We made pretty faces. We were just looking.

We felt our stomachs. Our beer guts. Our biggest shame. I can’t even.

We were inappropriate and worried about our inappropriate bodies. We felt intense, detached, ugly, and fat. We were undesirable, unlikable, unwanted, and overly sensitive. We called ourselves chubby—chubby, and pathetic—because we were. We wanted perfect bodies in ten minutes, or less. We self-harmed if we didn’t get our way. We self-harmed anyway. We wanted our questions answered immediately.

We were freezing. We froze. We needed to thaw. We never thawed.

We were entertained by the cleverness of criminals. We hoped they would get away with it. We wanted to get away with it, too. We wanted to get away with everything. With life, with living. We would never become bankers, florists, librarians, auto racers, forest rangers, building contractors, sports reporters, feminists, or locksmiths. We didn’t enjoy work. We lacked ethics. We were freaks. We were not going to grow up. Never.

I want borderline anorexia. Then I’ll gain a few pounds and hit the sweet spot. I would greatly benefit from a mentorship program. I want a strong father figure. I want a mother’s love and reassurance. I want to look and feel fabulous. I enjoy the smell of concrete after it rains.

I want to look good on the beach. I want to look good with my shirt off. I want to look good in the dark, naked. I want to press you up against a wall. I want you to press me up against a wall.

I’ve been exercising. I run on the treadmill every day. I lift weights. I am trying my best to eat only little balls of food, or not eat at all. I look much better. I’m happier. Watch me work out, lose weight, have fun, and relax.

My therapist doesn’t accept insurance. My parents send me money for therapy. I’ve been skipping therapy—I just don’t go, and it’s so easy—and saving up for a trip to Mexico with my girlfriend.

My new girlfriend.

Mexico, or Hawaii. We haven’t decided. We should decide.

We just want the beach. The sun, the sand, an ocean.

I’m a thief. What? I never said I wasn’t. I am twenty-three years old. I never said I wasn’t wormy. I never said I wasn’t weak. I never said that. I’m good for nothing. I’m exhausted. I am stuck on food. I’m holding too many grudges at once. I’m a bumbling child who can’t keep his affairs in order. I’m looking for Easter eggs in Union Square Park.

My parents. My parents are Bill and Jean. My father is Bill. My mother is Jean. I’m wondering about the first stage of their relationship. When I was growing up, my parents lied to me about how they met. They said they met at Morton Williams. There are sixteen Morton Williams Supermarkets in New York City. They said that they saw each other in the produce section, but that was not true. My parents met in Italy. My parents say that, in Italy, wine is cheaper than soda.

And my old psychiatrist, Dr. Henry, asks, “Why? Why don’t you want to see me anymore?” He’s upset. He keeps pestering me. Calling and calling me. All hours of the day and night. He’s like me. I want all the money in the world.

Anyway, my girlfriend. Stephanie Bernadette Rothman. We’re in love. She’s beautiful when she sleeps. We’re bordering on soulmates. It’s serious. We’re serious. We’re very comfortable with each other. We’re practically skipping down the street.

This is the honeymoon phase. They say that. And I believe them.

Stephanie has the accent of an international student. She was born in Lisbon. She was raised in countries too numerous to list. She attends NYU. We met at a bar named after a famous dead person. I was drinking a light beer. I saw a beautiful girl ordering a fruity drink. I’m not sure what I said, but it worked.

Stephanie is a compulsive shopper. She spends recklessly, hatefully. Each week, she drains her bank account like it’s another complimentary plastic bottle of water. Then, her parents help her out. Again and again. Fight after fight. And now I have front row seats. On the phone, Stephanie’s angry father sounds like he just learned perfect English.

Stephanie says that when she was a teenager, her father, Dr. Rothman, wanted to prevent her from becoming a slut. He thought it was likely that she would grow up to become one.

Accomplished and functional, sure, but a slut, nonetheless. He was petrified. He wanted to stop this transformation, but didn’t know how. Why would he know how? Fathers never know how. Most fathers are clueless.

At family functions, she moved provocatively on the dance floor. Her father would call them slutty dances. He would tell her that her clothing was slutty, too. But Stephanie would refuse to change her outfits, which were beyond scandalous. She was crossing a line. She was going too far.

She says she only wanted to alienate her parents. To humiliate them. In front of everyone. I believe Stephanie. She wanted attention. All the time. To her, attention was everything. Nobody ever gives you what you need. What you really need. What you want.

Stephanie says that, back then, she wanted the world to know her; back then, she wanted the world. Stephanie admits that she must’ve been a complete nightmare. Nobody ever wants to deal with nightmares.

Stephanie is touchy about the past. She did and said things back then she wished she hadn’t done and said. She wants to forget about so much. I tell her that she can’t, that it’s not possible. I explain that’s not how pain works. Stephanie, pain doesn’t work that way. But she doesn’t believe me. She says she’s always nervous and scared. I tell her that she’s safe—here, right here, with me—but she just plays with her hair. She doesn’t respond. Stephanie says that slut-shaming and victim blaming begin at home.

Sometimes, at night, when Stephanie’s talking about her adolescence, she decides that she wants to stop talking about her adolescence. She begins a funny dance, then, abruptly, violently, stops dancing. She fixes her position, so that her back is facing her bedroom doorway, and her head is between her legs, facing me. She’s staring at me, upside down. She’s pushing her butt out. She’s trying to make a point. She looks like she’s against everyone and everything. The whole wide world. Stephanie says this is the slut-shaming position.

Stephanie says she’s done all sorts of crazy, slutty things, and those words are comforting to me, because it’s nice to know that she’s got some scars, too. Stephanie makes me feel good. Good, and dull. It feels good to have something. A person, a position, a purpose, an explanation. Maybe, but I still don’t know.

Stephanie says that I mutter in my sleep. Stephanie says that it looks like I’m trying to hurt myself, but that I’m too sleepy to cause any real harm. Stephanie says that I am probably exhausted.

I think Stephanie is mostly French. I could have a Jewish girlfriend, an Irish girlfriend, an Italian girlfriend, a Palestinian girlfriend. They would all be concerned for me. For my well-being. For something. Stephanie is not that concerned. She’s French.

The truth is that we are two completely different luxury apartments in the same luxury apartment building. We both know it. The truth is that we split the cost of her birth control because that’s only fair. The truth is that I don’t like a messy apartment. The truth is that Stephanie only exists below Twenty-Third Street. The truth is that Stephanie likes to know who the killer is ahead of time. The truth is that Stephanie is another female victim of a boyfriend who takes more than his fair share. The truth is that Stephanie starts crying whenever she sees babies on the street. The truth is that Stephanie is the victim of a worm. The truth is that I am that worm.

These days, I’ve been living at Stephanie’s new apartment, right off Union Square East.

There, I hide from the world. We hide together. It’s just like camping. There’s a gym. A pool, too. A sauna, and a jacuzzi. Sometimes, it feels like the beach is outside Stephanie’s bedroom window. The beach is not outside Stephanie’s bedroom window.

Two nights ago, Stephanie and I broke up.

Another failed relationship, completed, and I could feel the apocalypse happening.

Two hours later, we got back together.

We held hands. I decided to sample all the fast food chains surrounding Union Square. McDonald’s. Wendy’s. Popeyes. The end of the world. Just for fun. For the hell of it. I couldn’t stop. I vomited in front of Best Buy. Then, we drank fruit-salad-flavored beers and smoked pot in the park.

And we rooted for the Yankees, and the Mets, too. And we rooted for my body, and we rooted for Stephanie’s body, too. And we rooted for eating disorders. And we rooted for all the helpless people in the world suffering from eating disorders. We were playing both sides.

In the park, people with day jobs carried grocery store bags; people with no jobs pushed banged-up grocery store carts.

We were two people talking on a bench. We talked about sex. She just lies there. I go too fast. We talked about Labor Day, Memorial Day, the distinction. We talked about babies dying inside hot cars every summer, because that always happens, every summer. We talked about Jack Nicholson. We talked about Shelley Duvall. We talked about Dr. Phil. We talked about swearing to God, about people swearing to God. We talked about personal hygiene. Apparently, I don’t brush my teeth enough. We talked about insults, compliments, and the differences between insults and compliments. We talked about painful family vacations. We talked about our siblings. Her sister, my brother; her brother, my sister. We talked about mental blockage, mental disorders. We talked about our potential honeymoon.

Later, later, later. Her bed. The start of her neck. The beginning of facts. Another lie I don’t want to start telling again. Moles and freckles alive. Knots in my back. Shoulders ache. Nerves, nervous, nervousness. She squeezed my pores, my pimples, my blackheads. I told her to cut it out. Because it hurt.

We giggled. We talked like babies. We fell asleep. We didn’t fall asleep. She began singing her favorite song. For no reason at all. She stopped singing her favorite song. For some reason. It was the worst rendition I’ve ever heard. The lights were on. She straddled me, sarcastically, but she was still on top of me, and I was panting. She was exaggerating her sexuality, I think. She’s not actually like that. That must’ve been the joke. She was pretending. That was the joke. I get nervous at night. That’s another joke.

She’s only interested in men who smell good. She’s always said that. She’s only interested in men who hold their own in conversations. She’s always maintained that. She’s always claimed that her first addiction was swimming, but she says she doesn’t want a waterbed because she gets seasick. She says this is the beginning of a regression into a state of dependence on other people. She says this, our relationship, isn’t going to end well. She says she has seen this happen before.

What have you seen, Stephanie? I really want to know.

We’ve been dating for several weeks now, but, when, exactly, is our anniversary?

She wants a thigh gap. Her thighs touch. Says she’s wanted a gap between her thighs since she was twelve. Ever since the shock of puberty. She says she wants to make God sick.

Oh, my god.

Yesterday, I masturbated in a public restroom at the Union Square Barnes & Noble. I am an open book that nobody wants to read. Stephanie was hogging the bathroom. I worry that I am not sexually satisfying her.

Yesterday, I saw Bill Clinton on the street. I saw a man’s body covered in a sheet in the window of a mortuary. I saw a picture of all my old friends. Taken years ago. They were hanging out. They were laughing. Where was I?

Yesterday, I weighed myself on Stephanie’s bathroom scale.

Yesterday, I found an old photograph. I was seventeen. I looked pretty good. I think.

Yesterday, I weighed myself on Stephanie’s bathroom scale, again.

Yesterday, in a nearby park, I pounded my fist into the synthetic surface of the tennis court. I could barely hit the ball. I didn’t know how to grip the racquet properly. I think I may have broken my hand. A good workout means pain, right? The instructor was puzzled. Stephanie was silent. It was her idea. To try to play tennis. To take lessons from a former professional. To do fun things, together.

Last night, I ate General Tso’s chicken and felt guilty. A typical restaurant serving may include up to your weekly cholesterol allowance. I was hoping to save some of that allowance for pizza. I mean, pizza crust.

Last night, I had a dream. It was big, simple, an elephant. I was much thinner. I looked better. I was happy. I applied to NYU, was accepted, enrolled, and made a good adjustment. One, two, three, four. A total success. I woke up after the dream in exactly the same place. The same position, the same body. I didn’t get away from anything. My life was the same. My phone number and bank account were the same. I weighed the same number.

Last night, I had a nightmare. I was trapped in a mansion. All that space. So many rooms. It was overwhelming. Suddenly, without explanation, I was being chased. A homicidal pervert with bad hygiene wanted to jump my bones for no reason. He wanted to circumcise me, but I’m already circumcised. I tried explaining the situation, but he didn’t understand. I tried screaming, but couldn’t.

Last night, in the middle of the night, I woke up, startled, and smoked a long-lasting cigarette without additives and drank from a Nalgene I found somewhere.

Some memories from last summer. A pool party I was invited to. Had a bad time. Didn’t want to take my shirt off. Didn’t like my thighs whenever I sat down. Pretended to fall asleep on a sunlounger.

Stephanie’s friends can’t believe she’s with me. On the street, people can’t believe she’s with me. They can’t believe us. They are hurting my feelings. My dad says they’re just jealous.

I have some personal stuff to figure out. I want to talk to all the skeletons in my closet. I need to figure out how to communicate with my family. I need to get right with them. I need to get my body right. I need to get right. I need to get right with Stephanie for good.

I need to learn how to work. I need a skill that will allow me to earn money. If you don’t have something you’re really good at, you will never be a man. If you can’t make money, you will never be a man. If you don’t have a good body—well, that’s obvious.

And, according to my father, after you turn thirty, it becomes harder. If you miss the window, it gets harder. Much harder. I don’t want to lose neuroplasticity. I don’t want to waste any muscle. I should’ve started planning my life as a teenager. I should’ve laid out a path. My last personal trainer suffered from schizophrenia. I heard that a good place to start is weightlifting. I heard that it’s something you can excel at within six months. And, from there, you’ll understand how it works to get good at something, and you’ll probably be able to get good at something else, too.

This morning, I’m going to work out for the rest of my life. I’m never going to stop. I’m promising myself this. I haven’t eaten since General Tso’s. You can’t take that away from me. Nothing is going to stop me now. Control your hunger. Control your day. I’m trying to get thin. For her.

Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie.

(I love you, Stephanie.)

At home, during family dinners, my father often comments that I’m eating too much. Framed family pictures watch us. Big framed photographs of big grassy fields below big blue skies watch us. I tell my father to go fuck himself.

On the way to the gym now, I hear Stephanie crying behind me. She’s crying about something that has absolutely nothing to do with me. On the way to the gym now, I pass someone who could be a famous model, but she will never know my name.

Men. We are so very funny. We want our women to barely have stomachs. We don’t want to picture women on the toilet. We want to screw them like power tools. We want to feel better. We want to enjoy ourselves. We want to forget. We want, want, want, and nothing is ever enough. Even the world is not enough. Most of the time.

The gym is calming. I have brought a mason jar of ice water with me. On the treadmill, I feel presidential and moronic. I am realizing my potential. My hips make funny sounds.

On the gym television, a naughty trillionaire does something very bad, for the eighteenth time. Actors are committing suicide. Actors are getting murdered. Two major mall owners are filing for bankruptcy. I think my dad wants to talk to me. I think he’s worried about something, but I don’t know what he’s worried about.

On the news, the President says he’s going to flood the streets with cash. He says he is going to make a total shithole—one overflowing with losers, rapists, killers, terrorists, drug dealers, women, homosexual homeowners, and feeble-minded hookers—pay for everything. He says he is searching for the cures. For cyberbullying, urban heat waves, obesity, racism, feminism, addiction, poverty, homelessness, homicide, and activism. He says everybody is too guilty, too remorseful, too uptight. He says that most animals are retarded, basically. He says that we need to raise the roof. He says he has a gun and is not afraid to use it. He says he doesn’t want to hurt the elderly, the disabled, the sick, the bruised, the impoverished, the impure, but he’ll blow them away if he has to.

Then, a commercial: when I was young, my hair made me feel beautiful; now, my hair is thinning, and it makes me feel old. And I’m really not sure what happened next. I think I lost my balance. I tripped, or something.

I fell off the treadmill and I crashed to the floor and I hit my head. I could barely see straight. Watch me play dead. Watch me play dead in Stephanie’s pool. Watch me play dead in your memory of me. How much money have I saved? How much weight have I lost? Numbers, numbers. Stephanie asks me, “Is it your head or your legs?” I think it’s both.

But, actually, it’s the feeling of success. The feeling of success attacking me, success finally sticking to me. Things will never be the same. I can’t just walk past this.

And, outside, during the wonderful summer months, beautiful men take off their shirts. They talk to beautiful women. They appear confident, relaxed. Their hard chests shine. They’re buff, chiseled. Perfect.

Then, winter comes, and the water fountains are disabled. Just for a little while.