And the crazy part? The more I read about it, staring at the screen, the more involved and focused I was. And the more focused I was, the more focused I was on something besides what I was feeling. Even though that thing was reading about what I was feeling and why, in those moments, the less I experienced it.
For example, when thinking about my book—or that “big event” I had been searching for—I hadn’t felt out of my body. Because I wasn’t thinking about my body, or the feeling of not existing. And that was the key to overcoming derealization, essentially . . . don’t think about the pink balloon! only makes you think about the pink balloon.
All in all, in the hours and hours of looking this stuff up, the one thing that made me feel better was learning that feeling that way couldn’t hurt me. It was scary, it made me feel uneasy . . . it was annoying and really fucked with me . . . but it wouldn’t hurt me! And it couldn’t kill me.
Ring!
During one of these deep-dive research sessions, my old-school phone went off. I looked at it, puzzled.
Ring! it went again. I reached out and pulled the phone to my ear.
“Hey, man, how you feeling? Ted said you wigged out or something.”
It was Frank; before I could even answer, he continued, “So, yeah, buzz around the store is you saw Cara’s tits.”
“Who told you that?” I said.
“Doesn’t matter who, just tell me about them. Haha, they’re nice, right?”
“I . . . yeah. I mean, I, I guess,” I said, wrinkling my brow while recalling the event. Since it had happened, I hadn’t thought a minute more about how beautiful her body was. But, of course, leave it to Frank to remind me of a woman’s naked upper body. As Frank chewed over the phone on what I’m sure was a banana, my mind was thrown back into that instant where I walked in and saw Cara topless. That moment where I froze before either of us frantically reacted. Standing there, back at the supermarket in my mind, I could picture it all—her breasts were so supple, her skin smooth and pale, seeming to have no imperfections. No necklace, no markings, no . . . tattoos.
No tattoos? I thought.
In a fraction of a second I had both realized something insane, and . . . forced myself to forget it for the sake of my book. Frank had said Cara had a cupcake tattoo on her rib.
Ever since I met him, Frank had droned on and on about himself, telling me about the girls he’d been with. His pseudophilosophies and his take on life. I’d been so fascinated by the sharp edges of his personality. So fascinated that I had based my book on him. But this entire time he had just been another phony. Frank wasn’t real like he claimed to be. He was a liar, and a goddamn good one.
At that moment, I realized what he was. Or what he wasn’t. I could see right through him. I was struck with panic at the thought of what this would do to my book. Upset that creating my main character around him was now pointless because there was no authenticity to Frank’s words. I no longer knew what was false and what was true.
I almost called it off. Right there in that moment. I was on the edge of scrapping the whole book. Until those words echoed again in my head, just as they had the night in my bathroom. That night before I set foot in Muldoon’s to fill out that application.
Finish the book! Finish the book! Instantly, a maddening vision of failure boiled up inside me. Finish the book! Finish the book! Let nothing stop you!
Right then, I got that feeling again, as if I were split in two. Just as I had that night in front of the mirror. In that moment of frozen time, a new me had emerged, filled with determination to complete the task and prove Lola wrong. In that moment, ignorance was bliss.
Talking to Frank, my mind just blanked itself to the event. I forced myself to forget his fallacy, instead believing every word he spoke. For the sake of my book’s completion, I believed fully in everything he conveyed. I did it so the audience would do the same from page to page! Because how could I sell a book about a womanizing, self-indulgent supermarket employee if . . . he wasn’t one?
If I didn’t believe it, my audience wouldn’t.
And just like that, the cupcake tattoo was real, both in my mind and in my book. The cupcake was there and all doubt about Frank’s stories was thrown from my mind, and . . . I was inspired again! The writer’s block was gone and I could feel all the things I had to write about coming to me!
“Yo, help me fuck Rachel, man!” Frank said into the phone.
“What?” I replied, feeling energized. Feeling the best I had in weeks.
“Go tell her ya boy Frank likes her. We’ve never formally met, so it will be awesome. Like some seventh-grade shit,” he said.
“Okay, sure, man. Let’s discuss it at the store.”
Frank agreed and I hung up. After the phone call I jumped into bed feeling rejuvenated.
The first thing that came to mind was Mia. I couldn’t help but think of Mia and how beautiful she was. How I missed her. How I wanted to kiss her again. I hadn’t seen her in the few days I took to myself, so I was very much so looking forward to seeing her. I thought to myself, I should take her on a date.
Tomorrow was the last day I had off before I headed back to work.
With that thought in mind, I fell asleep.
I woke up feeling great. I asked Mia to meet me at this Putt-Putt golf spot at seven that evening for a much-needed date. But I had the whole day until then to do whatever the hell I wanted.
I grabbed Bennett’s red collar from the top of the dresser and took him on our morning walk. I never left it on him when we were home, figuring it was uncomfortable for him. On my way out, I saw Mrs. Huffle in the stairwell. Like always, she was very sweet and asked how my dog was doing, as if he weren’t right there in front of her. She was kinda batty, really.
Like always, people gave me and Bennett super-strange looks on our walk.
I never understood why. I mean, he wasn’t exactly the cutest dog, I guess that was it. Man, people can be so superficial.
We walked around, ending up at this park by my house on Bleeker Street, then we played fetch with the red rubber ball—the same one I bounced thinking of ideas to write. It was nice to just chill with Bennett. I don’t know why, but whenever we hung out I got the same feeling I did when I hung around Frank—I was definitely entertained, I’ll tell you that.
Later in the afternoon, back at my house, I decided to clean up the place. It was pretty messy, and who knew? Maybe Mia would end up coming back later that night if I was lucky.
I had a few framed pictures I had collected in the time I had been living in the apartment, along with busts and other collectables, but I’d never found the time to properly decorate the place. Down the street was this awesome store called Blast from the Past. They had all sorts of amazing memorabilia, T-shirts, and busts—anything collectable. But the thing they had that was super awesome was their poster selection. I had befriended a guy who worked there named Duncan. He was British and seemed to be of mixed race. He was definitely black, but very light-skinned. Super nerdy, but he had a cool vibe about him. I always wondered what the hell he was doing in the States, working at a place like that, but I never asked. I did, however, know he really enjoyed it.
Every time I went there he was pretty stoned. We would talk Star Wars and other fun sci-fi shit. Anyway, it was definitely my favorite place to waste my time. That and Fisher’s Vinyl Village.