Adam Levin - Hot Pink

“Thank you, but I didn’t call to brag about that, though I might have, had we been on normal, or even semi-normal terms. There are still other things I have to say to you, things that aren’t bulleted, things your mom and I decided I wouldn’t say to you if you were sad when I called. Now that I’ve heard your voice, the ease in your phone manner, I’m guessing you’re involved with this Jane Tell, the evidence being that she answered your telephone — she has a pretty contented-sounding voice, herself, by the way — and so now I’m thinking you aren’t sad. I’m thinking you might even be in love, or falling therein. So. Are you ready to hear what you need to hear? I’m saying you’re as ready as you’ll ever be, and I’m starting.

“You fucked up,” he said. “Know that you’re someone who fucked up. But know that doesn’t make you a fuckup. The difference is a matter of repetition. We will always love you. That is out of our hands. But if you repeat your mistake, we will know you have become a fuckup, and we will not respect you, and not respecting you will be painful for us, more painful than you can possibly imagine, and our pain will be on your head all the way. One hundred percent. Okay?” he said. “Okay,” he said.

“So I started reading Verbal Behavior ,” he said, “and I know this Skinner is your new guiding light, and I really do want to understand what you find so intriguing about his work, nor am I saying that I think the book was anything other than an excellent birthday gift for a father to receive from his only son, but I just can’t read it anymore. All those terms! Not that they don’t make sense. They do. So far, at least, the book makes a lot of sense. It does. But it also gives me a headache and makes me feel a little powerless, which I guess most truths about the world do, right? Maybe that’s how we get the sense that they’re true? Because they hurt ? Because despite our desire to deny or ignore them, they’re compelling and we can’t look away from them or something? Listen to me yammer! What do I know? I’m just a humble salesman who loves his wife. How’s the car running?”

“Car’s fine,” I said. “Don’t worry about the book. I’m glad you gave it a shot.”

“Good. That’s what I wanted you to say about the book, but you probably knew that. It was a disguised mand , right? Is that what he calls it? Yes. I elicited your approval without asking for it directly. See? I know what a disguised mand is. I’m your father, after all. We share DNA and I’m smart like you. Like a genius. But listen. We love you. Don’t be afraid of us. Don’t be ashamed. Just don’t fuck up again. We’re going to give you back to your new girlfriend now. And you know the two of you are welcome in our home, which is your home, any time you want to come by. Okay? Good. Enjoy yourself, sonnyboy.” Then he hung up.

I said, “That was my dad.”

“He sounds like a nice man,” Tell said. She kissed my hand.

We did not again fuck as well as we had at SuperTarget, but there were two more Ricks in as many weeks. One was the AAA guy who towed Tell’s truck from the hospital lot to mine. He didn’t hit her. He held her by the throat and dug in his nails. I didn’t know it was happening. She leaned in through the window on the passenger side and I thought she was tipping him. Once she hopped off the running board, though, I saw her neck — the five blood-beaded crescents, a black smear of grease — and hurled a chunk of gravel at the receding rear windshield. It bounced right off. The Rick stopped and got out.

He said, “You got a problem, guy?”

“You’re an ape is my problem! Why don’t you—”

“What!”

“He doesn’t have a problem,” Tell said. “Go away now.” The guy did as he was told. Tell grabbed me through the fabric of my shorts — I was hard. She pulled me toward my car, got in, and we fucked. The backseat velour was grimed with old coffee spills and rubbed-in ashes that glommed on my skin and stank like a punk-squat. When we finished, our knees and elbows were gray.

Then Tell wanted ice cream, and we got in front to drive to the mini-mart. I turned the key and the engine turned over, and the thermostat needle was leaning, though it wasn’t. I knew that it wasn’t, but every time I looked away from it, I sensed it creeping rightward. I laughed a little. Tell said, “What?” I said it was nothing and put the car in drive, and Tell said I was weird and I laughed a little more, and she said I was crazy, and I wondered if maybe that was true, if, more specifically, I was being driven crazy by a tumor in my brain, which seemed highly unlikely, though certainly a lot more likely than usual — why else would I continue to sense the needle leaning? And how could I even “sense” it was leaning if my eyes weren’t on it? I couldn’t, yet I did. I looked through the windshield and “sensed” the needle leaning, then looked at the needle and saw it wasn’t leaning, and then I thought that maybe I was having a premonition; maybe I kept “sensing” the needle leaning because some hidden part of my consciousness, some part that having sex with Tell had unlocked, “sensed” that the car one day — maybe one day soon, even that very evening — that the car would overheat and… what? Blow up? Overheat and blow up.

Right about then’s when I noticed I was panicking, that I had been panicking, that my heart was in my ears and my stomach my neck. I remembered I didn’t believe in premonitions, and I didn’t believe any “hidden parts of consciousness” could be “unlocked” (I was a good Skinnerian). And it occurred to me that my “sense” the needle had leaned hadn’t caused my panic. Neither had my fears of having a tumor or my death premonition. Those things were only symptoms of my panic. The panic preceded them.

The needle wasn’t leaning, my brain wasn’t tumored, the car was not about to explode — it just seemed they were because I was panicking.

These thoughts, which took only seconds to think, didn’t make me feel better, though. They seemed to actually make me feel worse. My breath was too audible. The seat-smell too sharp. The grime on my knees and elbows too… grimy. I was nauseated, pounding-hearted. I put the car in park.

“What’s up?” Tell said.

“I’m tired,” I said.

“Let me drive,” she said.

We climbed over each other.

Riding shotgun was better. My pulse slowed a little, and though my chest was still swimmy, I knew it wouldn’t get worse — I knew that I wouldn’t actually be sick.

The members of the anger-management group were angry at Tell, who had not returned after the first meeting. They said they felt rejected. They said they felt deeply scarred by the rejected feeling they felt and powerless to do anything about their feelings of rejection since she wasn’t there to be confronted. I kept as quiet as I could for three straight meetings and, at the fourth, they began talking about how they felt rejected by me and my silence.

The therapist smelled progress. He encouraged them to express. They expressed. They didn’t like that I smoked alone during the break. They didn’t like that I didn’t address them by their names when we greeted one another at the start of group. They felt like they didn’t know me, like they were spilling their angry secrets to an uncaring stranger. Sally, the woman who’d called Skinner a monster at the first meeting, complained that I hadn’t seemed happy when she complimented me on my haircut at the second meeting. She said, “It made me feel like I shouldn’t have said anything at all. Like in being nice, and showing you that I noticed something about you, I had somehow crossed a line.”

“Notice,” said the therapist, “that you just said, ‘It made me feel like I shouldn’t have said anything at all.’ Does anyone see anything confusing about that statement?”