Нед Виззини - It's Kind of a Funny Story

“Spades! Buddy, I crush you in spades.”

I put my initials on it, big and bold, “CG” like “computer-generated.”

“I’m gonna keep this, for real,” Armelio says. “You a good guy, Craig.” He shakes my hand. “You want my number for when you go?”

“Sure.” I take out a piece of paper.

“It’s an adult home,” Armelio says. “You’re gonna have to ask for Spyros, which is my other name.” He gives me the number and moves aside, and there’s Ebony, with her cane and her velvet pants, smacking her lips.

“I heard . . . that you were making your brains for people,” she says.

“That’s right! And you know who the first person who said they were brains was?”

“Me!”

“Absolutely. Now, look” —I gesture at my stack of work on the floor—“now I’ve got all this.”

“So I get paid, right?” Ebony laughs.

“Not quite; I haven’t really made it yet. As an artist.”

“I know. It’s tough.”

“So you just get a brain map for yourself, okay?”

“Good!”

I trace her head freehand, looking at her, not the paper. I look down and it’s pretty good. Ebony’s brain . . . what’s in there? A lot of circles, for all the buttons she stole. She was a nut with those buttons. Didn’t mess around. Quite a schemer. And with all of her gambling skill, she needs to have a Strip, like Vegas. So I get a big boulevard in the middle and lots of traffic circles around it, with circular parks, circular malls, little circle lakes. It comes out looking less like a city and more like a necklace with a central band and tons of bunched-up jewels hanging off.

“It’s pretty!” she says.

“And you’re done.” I hand it to her.

“You like doing these, huh?”

“Yeah. It helps, you know . . . with my depression. I came in here with depression.”

“Imagine having depression when you were eleven years old,” Ebony says. “If all my children were in this hall, this hall would be full up, I tell you.”

“You have kids?” I ask, keeping my voice down.

“I had thirteen miscarriages,” she says. “Imagine that.” And she looks at me without any of the humor or attitude that she usually puts on, just with big wide eyes and empty questions.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

“I know. I know you are. That’s the thing.”

Ebony shuffles away showing off her portrait (“That’s me! See? Me!”); she doesn’t leave a phone number. Humble is next.

“All right, man, what kinda scam you got going on here?”

“It’s nothing.” I start in on Humble’s bald head. Bald heads are easy. You know, if I had to right now, I think I could handle the lower tip of Manhattan. I look at Humble. He raises his eyebrows at me. “Make me look good, all right?”

I laugh. Inside Humble’s head is industrial chaos.

I don’t make any small blocks, just big ones—the kind of blocks where you’d find lumber shops and factories and bars where Humble would hang out at and work. I put the ocean in there, to represent his hometown, Bensonhurst, which borders the ocean, where he hooked up with all those girls way back when. Then I splash it with highways, erasing the streets and putting them over the top, throwing in crazy interchanges for no reason, making the whole thing look violent and random, but also powerful and true—the kind of mind that could come up with some great stuff if you harnessed it right. When I’m done, I look up.

“I guess it’s okay.” He shrugs.

I chuckle. “Thanks, Humble.”

“I want you to remember me,” he says. “No joke. When you’re a big-time artist or whatever, you gotta invite me to one of the parties.”

“It’s a deal,” I say. “But how am I going to be in touch?”

“Oh, right—I got a number!” Humble says. “I’m gonna be staying in Seaside Paradise; it’s the same home that Armelio is going to, but I’m going to be on a different floor.” He gives me the number; I put it on the same sheet as Armelio’s.

“You’re not gonna be in touch,” Humble says.

“I will,” I say.

“No you won’t; I can tell. But it’s okay. You have a lot going for you. Just don’t burn out again.”

We shake hands. Up next is Noelle.

“Hey, girl!”

“Don’t you dare start calling me that. This is very nice of you to do.”

“Least I could do. They’re all such cool people.”

“You’re like a celebrity now. Everyone wants to know if I’m your girlfriend.”

“And what do you tell them?”

“’No!’ And then I walk away.”

“Good call.”

“So what are you trying to pull? You already made one of these for me. You just said it wasn’t finished.”

I pull out the one I made for her, with the guy and girl connected by the bridge, and write my phone number on the back of it.

“Oh my gosh.”

“Now it’s done.” I smile, standing up. I lean in and whisper: “It took me like twice as long as any of the others. And I’ll make you an ever better one when I get out—”

She pushes me away. “Yeah, like I want your stupid art.”

“You do.” I lean back. “I saw how you looked at it before.”

“I’ll keep it to make you feel good,” she says. “That’s it.”

“Fine.”

She leans in and kisses my cheek. “Thank you, for real.”

“You’re welcome. Hey, what are you doing tonight?”

“Well . . . I thought I’d be hanging out in the psych hospital. What about you?”

“I’ve got big plans,” I say. “We’ve got a movie coming in—”

“Right, I’m not seeing that stupid movie.”

“I know.” I drop to a whisper. “But when it’s halfway done, do you want to meet in my room?”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Seriously.”

“Your roommate will be there! He’s always there!”

“Trust me. Come to the room.”

“Are you going to try and make out with me?”

“If you must know? Yes.”

“I appreciate your honesty. We’ll see.”

I give her a hug; she holds the brain map with her hands wrapped around me. “And I already have your number,” I say.

“You don’t get any second chances if you lose it,” she says. “I don’t give that number out twice.”

I take a quick wanting look at her as we pull away from each other and she moves off to the side.

Bobby is next.

“Who’s that behind you?”

“Huh, who do you think?” Johnny answers.

“Come on up together, guys. I’ll do you both at once.”

“Cool,” Bobby says, standing off to the side. Johnny stands next to him and I start drawing them, their shaggy hair and baggy clothing making for great outlines.

“So he’s drawin’ us?” Johnny asks Bobby.

“Be quiet, all right?”

“Where did you guys hang out?” I ask Bobby, not looking up from the paper. “Back when you were garbage-heads?”

“What? You’re gonna draw that?”

“No.” I look up. “I’m just curious. What neighborhood?”

“It was the Lower East Side, but don’t draw the Lower East Side,” says Bobby. “I don’t want to go back there.”

“All right, fair enough. Where do you want to live?”

“On the Upper East Side, with all the rich people,” Bobby answers.

“Huh, me too,” says Johnny.

“Wait, no, you’re getting a guitar,” I say.

“Oh, cool.”

I start on Bobby’s and Johnny’s brains. With Johnny, it’s fun to do a guitar in a street grid—some diagonal streets meeting for the body and then a big wide boulevard for the neck, a park for the head. Then I turn to Bobby. I know the Upper East Side pretty well; it’s in Manhattan and the big thing that it has is Central Park, so I draw that on the inside left of his head. Then I put in the stately grid of rich streets. I know the Guggenheim Museum is somewhere up there; I mark that with an arrow And then I put an “X” right next to it, on a corner where an apartment probably costs $20 million, and write Bobby’ s pad.