Magical Thinking - Augusten Burroughs [52]
He said, “That’s incredible. Congratulations. That takes so much courage and an incredible amount of dedication. I admire you.”
Feeling admired and shielded from his sight thanks to the three thousand miles between us, I lit a cigarette, being careful he didn’t hear the match. I did confess to him that I smoke sometimes, especially when I write. And he said that he likes to smoke sometimes, too. Since I write constantly, I smoke constantly, but I’m not going to tell him either of these things now. I need to ease him into the facts of me, not just do an information dump.
We talked about our odd sex. I told him how it’s really difficult for me to have sex with somebody unless I know them very well and am extremely comfortable with them. This sounded better and more hopeful to me than the truth, which is I can’t have sex with somebody unless they are a stranger and I’m drunk.
He said he’s not worried about the lack of sex between us and that he understands completely and that I should never feel any pressure and to please let him know if he ever pressures me because he doesn’t want to do this.
So he’s perfect.
Too perfect?
I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something off with him. I asked him, “What is it about being a shrink that is so fascinating, that caused you to go into the profession?”
He said, “Nothing. I never really wanted to be a shrink. It was an accident. I wanted to be a photographer, and that’s what I was gonna do. But I had to take a biology class in college, and I turned out to be really good at it and . . .” He trailed off, but I pushed for more. “And, well, I just ended up taking more and more science classes and then my parents were really happy and they said, ‘Be a doctor,’ so that’s sort of what happened.”
I couldn’t imagine going through four years of undergrad, four years of medical school, and then a residency all by accident.
But this is the thing about him: he doesn’t seem to be passionate about anything. He’s level-headed and sleepy. And there’s something about him that I am so drawn to, like he possesses some unknown force that causes me to cling to him. Is it because I want to figure him out? Is it because he never pressures me about anything? Is it because I can be false with him and hold back my facts or because I can tell him everything and in the end there is no difference?
Nine months later. Mark the Shrink and I are no longer dating, but we are friends. We stopped dating when I returned from L.A. There just didn’t seem to be anything to hold on to. We weren’t going anywhere, and we weren’t pulling away. We were just floating, suspended in liquid. And I guess I want more. And I don’t know what he wants.
We talk on the phone once a week and sometimes go to a movie. He tells me about his ex-boyfriend, the one he spent two years with, from twenty-five to twenty-seven. The ex-boyfriend wants to date Mark again but not exclusively. He wants to date others as well. But Mark doesn’t want this. Mark wants one person. But maybe “wants” is too strong a word.
Two weeks pass, and we don’t talk.
I think of him but do not call because I am busy with work, and if I call him, I’ll just have to say “I can’t talk now because I’m busy, but I wanted to say hello.”
Instead, Mark’s friend Gary calls me. He says, “Have you heard from Mark?”
“Heard from him? What do you mean?”
Gary says, “Nobody has seen or heard from Mark for two days. He’s missing.”
I hear the word “missing,” and something inside me is filled with a certain though unnamed knowledge.
An hour later Gary calls back. He is sobbing. “Mark is dead,” he says. “He checked into the Chelsea Hotel and overdosed on sleeping pills.”
What do I say? How? What? Why?
There is nothing to say.
“He’d worked two shifts in a row. Then he went to the hotel, checked in, and took the pills. He had his little tape recorder with him. He left a message for his parents.”
I want to know what he said on the tape but know that I can’t ask and will never know.
Half a thousand people attend his funeral