Tim O'Brien - The Nuclear Age

That’s where it hit me.

One minute I was sitting quietly in study hall, finishing up some geometry problems, then a dizzy-scrambly feeling came over me. A fun-house experience—topsy-turvy, no traction. In a way I felt very loose and relaxed, letting things spin, lying there on the floor while everybody yelled, “Give him air.”

I almost laughed.

I didn’t need air. I needed peace. I started to sit up, but then I felt a cool hand against my forehead. “God,” someone said, and right away I knew who it was. All those fake phone calls. “Man alive,” Sarah muttered, “just look at this, just look.”

She unbuttoned my collar and began fanning me with a notebook.

I closed my eyes. The situation, I realized, was not romantic, but still I felt a sparky kind of human contact. That thick voice of hers: “God,” she kept saying. A few seconds later, when I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was one of her kneecaps, smooth and shiny. I could’ve licked it, or kissed it, but instead I jerked my arms and pretended I’d gone into a deep coma.

“Wow,” Sarah whispered.

I ended up in the school nurse’s office.

One thing led to another, thermometers and ice bags, and a half hour later I was ass-up on Doc Crenshaw’s examining table. “Don’t sweat it,” I told him, “I’m all right,” but Crenshaw didn’t listen.

His eyes sparkled. “Well, well,” he said.

I never saw a man enjoy his work so much.

He was a quack, though. He didn’t cure me. A week later my insides were clogged up again and the headaches were worse than ever. I was even running a temperature. Crenshaw put me through every test in the book, but at the end, when the results were in, he just wagged his head and told my mother that it didn’t seem to be anything physical.

“Not physical?” my mom said.

“You know. The opposite.”

“Opposite.”

“You know.”

My mother allowed herself a half-smile.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, well.”

Calmly, I tried to explain the situation. A huge mistake, I said. A plumbing problem, nothing else.

My mother stared.

“William,” she said, “stop hiding it.”

“What?”

“Please, I wish you’d—”

“Hiding what? ” I said. “Go on, let’s hear it.”

Her eyes seemed to frost over. She was a thin, delicate woman, with tiny wrists and ankles. She hesitated, toying with her wedding band. “William,” she said, “just listen to me.” And then she rattled off the facts. Apparently she’d been doing some detective work at school, because she knew about the telephone gimmick and the fake dates, how unpopular I was, no friends or prospects.

When I denied it, my mother stiffened and crossed her legs.

“No arguments,” she said. “There’s someone we want you to see. Someone to talk to.”

“Talk how?” I said.

“Just talk. A counselor up in Helena. A nice man, I think you’ll like him.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“It might help.”

“I don’t need help. I don’t need—”

“William.”

“No way.”

“We’ll find a way,” my mother said, very thickly, very decisively. “It’s your future we’re talking about.”

It was hopeless.

I raised hell, of course, but two days later we made the drive to Helena. I didn’t say a word the whole way. Arms folded, I sat there in the backseat, staring out at the mountains and trees and telephone poles. Treachery, I thought. Who could you trust in this screwy world?

“Piss,” I muttered.

My mother turned: “ What’s that?”

“Bombs,” I said.

We took two rooms in a Holiday Inn—one for me, one for my parents—and the next morning they drove me across town to a dingy office building a few blocks down from the state capitol. As we were riding up the elevator, my father stood behind me with his hands on my neck and shoulders, massaging them as if to warm me up for a big race. “Nothing to it,” he said brightly. “Just level with the man, don’t hold back. Whatever’s on your mind.”

“Suicide,” I said.

“That’s the spirit. Anything.”

For ten minutes we sat around in a sterile little waiting room. My mother kept humming. Every few minutes she’d get up and go to the water fountain and then dab at her lips with a shredded-up Kleenex.

“Well, now,” she’d say.

It took forever, but eventually the shrink came out and shook everybody’s hand and led us down a tight corridor to his office.

Adamson was his name—Charles C. Adamson, that’s what his diplomas said—but while he was pouring coffee he made a point about how we had to call him Chuck. “Chuck-Chuck,” he said, “like in woodchuck,” then he smiled to show off his big front teeth. I looked away. Bad omens, I thought. Bare tile floors, two old armchairs, a sofa, a gray metal desk, flaking paint on the walls and ceiling. The office had a sour, slightly brackish smell, like the men’s room in a Greyhound bus depot, and right away, even before I sat down, I could feel the beginnings of a headache.

I stayed calm. There was some small talk, some nervous energy, but finally the shrink looked at his wristwatch and said it might be a good idea if he and I had a private chat. He blinked and gave me a tentative grin.

“Alone?” my mother said.

“I think so. For starters.”

She took a deep breath. “Private,” she chirped.

My dad winked at me, raised a thumb, then led my mother out to the waiting room.

Instantly, my whole body seemed to tense up. It was an itchy, clammy feeling—I couldn’t get comfortable—but the odd thing was that Adamson seemed a little jittery himself. He hustled over to his desk, opened a manila folder, and began chewing the skin around his fingernails.

“So then,” he said, “here we are.”

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a stick of Doublemint.

“Gum?” he said.

“No, thanks.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive,” I said. “I hate Doublemint.”

Adamson nodded. “Right, who doesn’t?”

He picked up a pencil and tapped it against the bridge of his nose. All nerves, I thought. He was a reasonably young man, maybe thirty-five or so, but he seemed old and weary-looking, especially the eyes. The saddest eyes I’d ever seen—very tiny, very timid, a moist copper color.

“So,” he said.

There was a short pause, then he asked me to begin by telling him a few things about myself, a general self-description.

“Just the basics,” he said. “Nothing fancy.” He gazed out the window, studying the big golden dome on the state capitol building. “Hobbies. School. One small request, though. If it’s possible, try not to bore me. Short and sweet. Make it peppy.”

“Well, sure.”

The man shrugged and showed me his front teeth.

“No offense,” he said, “but you wouldn’t believe the crap I have to tolerate in this job. Same old sob stories, day after day, and I have to—” He stopped and blinked at me. “Anyhow, do your best. Feel free to pull the lid off.”

“Look,” I said, “we can take a break if you want.”

“No. Just keep it halfway interesting.”

I was cautious. Briefly, as vaguely as possible, I outlined the bare facts of my life. I told him I was in good shape. An average kid, I said. Nothing unusual. Very sane.

Adamson folded his fingers around the pencil.

“Fine,” he murmured, “but what about—” He paused, flicking his tongue out. “What about your parents, for example? You get along all right?”

“Of course.”

“No tension areas? Squabbles?”

“Forget it,” I told him. “You met them. They’re terrific parents.”