A Bad Idea I'm About to Do (22 page)

Then, a third piece went hurtling straight back. It was a metal gear with Matthew Broderick's face on it. I watched as it flipped through the air—cardboard gear, Broderick head, cardboard gear, Broderick head, cardboard gear, Broderick head—over and over until, finally, it landed Broderick-head-down on the windshield of the police car that had pulled up behind me.

“Pull over right now,” the trooper said into his loudspeaker. He didn't even bother to turn on his lights or siren.

I rolled to a halt on the shoulder of Route 18. The cop pulled up next to me and rolled his window down. Mine was already down, as I couldn't close it with the thick swatches of homemade rope ensnaring my car. The officer looked at me from his driver's seat, his eyes glancing from my face to the
Gadget
cutout to the yards of plastic. He shook his head and held up his hands.

Then he asked me a question that was totally fair.

“Are you fucking stupid?”

I didn't know what to say. So I went with honesty.

“Well, I work at Loews,” I answered. He nodded his head in understanding.

He told me to throw everything away into the dumpster of the apartment complex we'd pulled over next to. He shook his head one more time before driving away. He didn't even give me a ticket. It would have been like kicking a three-legged dog.

I did as the officer said. It took me close to ten minutes to tear apart all the rope and hoist the cutout into a dumpster. The
entire time, a confused housewife watched from her apartment window up above. I quit my job at Loews shortly after. For many years, the
Mumford
poster hung in my kitchen, a reminder of what I went through and how good it felt to escape. The scars of the horrible indignities and atrocities I participated in and witnessed at Loews are with me to this day. Wherever he is, I'm sure that Rhoderick understands.

L
osing your mind is actually pretty fun when it leads to things like police chases and fistfights.

You feel like a maniac, but in an exhilarating daredevilish sort of way. This is the side of manic depression that's hard to realize is a problem: the manic side. That's the side that makes you wander down an abandoned boardwalk in Asbury Park, New Jersey, carrying an envelope containing close to $3,000 cash just to see what happens. It's the side that makes you participate in a rap battle circle you randomly stumble into by yourself near the West Side Highway in Manhattan at four in the morning on a Wednesday night. It's the side that makes you write a one-act play called “Time Phone” in less than fifteen minutes, and try to convince your friends to perform it that night in the ATM annex of a closed local bank.

It's fucked up to admit, but there's a part of me that didn't seek help for my manic depression because the manic side was pretty addictive. It made me feel daring, masculine, creative,
and attractive to be around. The bottom line is that the manic side of manic depression is really fucking fun.

Of course, there's the other side of things, and that can catch up with you fast.

Veronica was the first to notice that my anxiety issues were overrunning my personality.

“Don't be nervous,” she told me as we entered a party together. “Try not to do the thing where you rub your legs.”

Veronica and I had grown pretty far apart by our junior year at Rutgers, but we were still dating. We'd developed two entirely different sets of friends. I rolled with a crew of dirtbag punk rock guys with nicknames like “Bonadooch,” “Dirty Dave,” and “The King of Coitus Interruptus.” She'd linked up with a whole bunch of preppy musicians who were all current or former members of marching bands, loved to get together to jam out on their woodwinds, and redefined sweater-based fashion at Rutgers University.

We lived in different worlds. The difference was Veronica was able to adapt to mine. Sure, hanging out and drinking 40s of King Cobra malt liquor in a house that should have been condemned while listening to Screeching Weasel wasn't her cup of tea, but she was able to roll with the punches. On the other hand, when I was tasked with hanging out among her ilk, I shut down.

When conversations were at the most basic level, I'd be fine. I could answer questions like “How are you doing?” and “What is your major?” reasonably well. But as soon as those kids launched into discussions of what their favorite Sousa march was, I was socially crippled. I couldn't jump in with a joke. I couldn't ask a question to get them to explain what they were talking about. I couldn't even stay quiet and nod politely. As soon as I felt out of my element and in over my head, my lack of confidence would spiral out of control. The first warning sign that I was having an
anxiety attack would be that I'd vigorously run my hands through my hair over and over again. Then I'd bite my nails one by one until I'd bitten all of them. Eventually I'd sit and rock back and forth. Rubbing my thighs was the final nail in the coffin, a sign that I was done for the evening. Once the thigh-rubbing phase of social anxiety had been achieved, I was unable to recover.

Veronica's gentle efforts to preempt my social meltdowns didn't help. Knowing the person I was closest to could see so clearly that I was falling apart only furthered the plummet in my self-esteem. While running around like a lunatic was fun and gave me cool stories, the rest of the time I was putting myself through hell. I'd go days without leaving my bedroom, skipping classes and avoiding friends. If anyone told me they thought I needed help, I'd find a way to cut them out of my life. I was backing myself into a corner with my own depression; I knew I needed help, but I was too scared to get it. And anyone who tried to make it happen became someone I feared.

Veronica, to her credit, stuck by me far longer than anyone should have. When I'd disappear for days on end, she'd accept my rambling apologies and excuses and try to move on. When I'd shut down in front of her friends and ignore her in front of mine, she did her best to accept it as a reflection of my growing problems and not as a judgment of her. And when I'd shut down completely, she'd quietly do her part to help get me back on my feet.

One of her main ways of taking care of me was making sure I was eating. Veronica would show up each afternoon with a slice of pizza from Ta Ta's, the bizarre restaurant across from my house on Hamilton Street. We'd sit together in silence, usually watching reruns of
Beverly Hills 90210
on cable, as I sadly ate. Often that would be the only thing I ate all day.

The fact that I owed my existence to Ta Ta's said it all. Because if there was any individual on earth who could unquestionably be deemed sad, it was old man Ta Ta, who burned through his days in a small pizza shack, a large metal oven four feet behind him, doling out slices to drunk, mean college kids. Ta Ta and his wife spent all day every day confined to that tin heat box, and going there as often as we did, my friends and I saw Ta Ta show signs of cracking on numerous occasions.

Once while I waited for a slice, Ta Ta received an order and dispatched his delivery boy. “You go to the side door of this house,” he said. The delivery boy looked at him in confusion. Ta Ta's eyes grew wide with terror.

“Be careful,” he continued. “This is a very scary house.”

On another occasion, my friend Mike entered and Ta Ta was inside alone, crying behind the counter.

“Ta Ta, what's the matter?” Mike asked.

“It's nothing,” Ta Ta answered. “I just found out my village in France has been destroyed by a flood. I'm waiting to hear if my brother is alive. What can I get you today?”

And yet, even this self-imprisoned sad sack was a step above me on the ladder of sanity, a veritable rock of stability in comparison. After all, my girlfriend could always count on stopping by his place for a slice on her way to my place to help me hold things together.

Eventually, though, not even a saint like Veronica could put up with me.

All throughout growing up as an angry little kid I'd managed to find a small sliver of hope in the form of comedy. I was obsessed with David Letterman, Andy Kaufman, Eddie Murphy, and
Saturday Night Live
. I consumed episodes of
Kids in the Hall
voraciously, and soaked up
Mystery Science Theater 3000
religiously.

Just as things were crumbling around me during my junior year, comedy provided me with hope again. It was during this time that I found the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater in Manhattan, a grungy comedy space housed in a former strip club on Twenty-second Street in Chelsea. As soon as I found it, I fell in love. There were shows every night of the week, and often they were free or five bucks. Most of the shows were hilarious and bizarre, and all of them were interesting on some level. And all of the performers were weirdos just like I was, a lot of them not that much older than me. Once I signed up for classes at the UCB, for the first time in a long time I felt like I had a home and a focus. Every weekend I'd head up to the city, hang out with people I felt connected to, enjoy the opportunity it provided me to be creative, and then get back on the train to New Brunswick.

Of course, the mere fact that this outlet was great for me didn't make it any easier to be around me. If anything, in addition to being a salvation, UCB gave me another place to hide, a way to put even more distance between myself and the person who wanted to help me the most.

After many years of watching me unravel and refuse help along the way, my high school sweetheart had finally had enough. One morning I was getting dressed before heading to the city when my phone rang. It was Veronica.

“When you get home today, don't make any other plans,” she instructed me. “We have to talk about some stuff.”

My stomach dropped.

“I get it,” I said. “I'll call you when I'm back in town.”

I headed to the train station, my head spinning. Veronica was going to break up with me. It had been a long time coming, and I knew I'd forced her hand. But still, this was the girl who had seen me grow up, had helped me do so, and now she was done with
me. It was overwhelming. I didn't even have the energy to glare at The Worst Guy Ever when he came by asking for money.

The Worst Guy Ever wore a children's cancer hospital T-shirt and walked around the train station soliciting for money. The first time I saw him, I gave him a dollar. My older friends then told me that he had nothing to do with a kids' hospital and instead pocketed all the money. The next time he hit me up, I gave it to him.

“I know your scam and I think it's fucked up,” I told him. “You're not getting any more money from me.” I got on the escalator in the middle of the train station.

As I floated upward, he shouted “HEY!” I stopped and turned. I was the only one on the escalator. The entire train station heard the commotion and turned to watch.

“You,” he said, “are a fucking faggot.”

After that incident, whenever I was at the New Brunswick station and The Worst Guy Ever came by, I'd stare him down icily. He'd either remember me and scurry away or would engage and I'd tell him off again. But on a day like this, I didn't have it in me. Instead, I kept my head down and thought about how by the end of the day I wouldn't have a girlfriend.

I'd spent $12.50 on my round-trip train ticket. When I got to Penn Station, I bought my usual weekend-afternoon-in-the-city meal, an Auntie Anne's pretzel with nacho cheese dipping sauce. I had about five bucks left when I headed to my class.

After class, my fellow students started making plans. Usually we'd either go out drinking or watch a comedy show together. Normally, I was one of the guys leading the charge.

“Not this time,” I told them. “I've gotta get back to Jersey so I can get dumped.”

Some people made jokes. Others got awkward. One girl in my class approached me.

“I'm so sorry,” she said.

“It's okay,” I answered. “I deserve it.”

I trudged back to Penn Station. There was a shitty flower stand in the main hall. I had five measly bucks left but figured Veronica deserved some sense of class from me, considering the situation. I bought a wilting red rose and headed to the main terminal to wait for my train.

If you ever need proof of the discrimination held against the state of New Jersey, pay a comparative visit to the two main train terminals in Manhattan. On the one hand, Grand Central Station is beautiful. That's where the trains to Westchester and Connecticut go. Everything's made of marble. People go there just to read because it's so peaceful. There's a farmer's market in the basement. The station even has an actual oyster bar.

I would
never
eat oysters at Penn Station. I wouldn't eat at the Nathan's Hot Dogs in Penn Station. I wouldn't eat food I bought somewhere else and brought inside Penn Station; once inside, that food instantly becomes garbage. If you ever walk through Penn Station, I invite you to note how the floor is always slightly moist. I can only assume this is the accumulative residue of many people's tears. God help anyone who has to use the men's room at Penn Station; there are people inside who can only be described as “lurkers.”

It all adds up to the fact that on a normal day, Penn Station is a pretty soul-crushing place. On a day when I was waiting for a train to carry me back to the first true dumping of my young life, it was indescribable.

And yet, once I got on the Northeast Corridor train that night and sat down, an immense wave of relief washed over me. Because I knew how much of a fucking handful I was. As sad as breaking up would be, at least I knew I would no longer be subjecting someone I loved to dealing with it. Veronica would be
better off. After all, I'd never had the guts to get help. I'd lied about it—said I was in the process of looking or acted like things were fine—until people stopped asking. Throughout it all, I'd used Veronica for support and forced her to put up with my bullshit when it served me. I was sad she was dumping me because I loved her, but I also recognized it was a good thing for her to move on, and as a result, during that train ride I became more calm and relaxed than I had been in months.