by Lais Williams
"So tell me about your family. I know they
usually ask about your mother, but just to be different, tell me about
your father instead," Dr. Hoffman said, shifting in her big leather chair.
"Just whatever comes to mind."
"My dad and I have never gotten along," Richard
sneered. "One time when I was three, he was riding a bike with me
in the baby seat, and the bike fell over and I cracked my head open on
the curb. That just says something, you know?" He laughed.
"Like, 'Fuck it, I'm gonna find some way to damage this kid.'" He
looked at Dr. Hoffman for a reaction, but she was calm. He continued.
"Another time, at Christmas one year, he told me I was 'unplanned.'
He said my mom wanted to have an abortion, but he refused to let her go
through with it, and that's the reason I'm alive today. Thanks, dad!"
He laughed again. "When I get older I know I'm gonna be corporate
as fuck, just like him. He's an executive at a cement company, but
he's not a hard-ass like I'm gonna be. He's always being lame and
giving people extensions on their payments instead of foreclosing when
he should, 'cause he's such a good Catholic guy, goes to mass every Sunday
and keeps his wife from aborting her unwanted fetuses." He paused.
"Does that answer your question?"
Dr. Hoffman looked at him without expression.
"If that's all you have to say about it, yes. Why don't you tell
me about your family history now?"
"I hate being Italian. I got it on both sides,
so I'm also gonna be hairy as fuck when I get old. I don't have hair
on my back or my chest, but I have a lot on my legs. And my face,
I gotta shave that like twice a fuckin' day. I hate hair. It
makes you look like one of those fuckin' greasy 70's movie stars, like
Burt Reynolds an' shit. Walk around with your top four buttons undone
sayin', "Yeah, I'm a fuckin' man, check it out, I got hair comin' outta
my ears I'm such a fuckin' man." The only place hair belongs is on
your head, anywhere else is just plain nasty. I shave everything,
except my arms. I went out with a girl who shaved her arms, and I
grabbed her by the arm one time and almost got cut by the stubble.
Stubble's nasty. I want to be smooth, not sharp. I don't shave
my chest either, 'cause like I said, it's smooth. Some girl at school
told me it won't be like that forever, I should look at my dad and know
what to expect, and I just about threw up. So if it happens, when
I get out of school I'm gonna make lots of money so I can get electrolysis
on my whole fucking body." He stopped. "What were you asking
about again?"
"You answered my question," she replied. "Now
tell me, why do you hate hair so much? Does it make you feel better
when you shave?"
"I fuckin' hate hair 'cause it's fuckin' nasty as
shit, that's why I shave! Everybody knows that. The only people
who like hair are fuckin' frat boys. They have contests to see who
has the most hair. I don't like hair anywhere except on my head."
Richard gesticulated towards his hair.
Dr. Hoffman scribbled in her notebook. She
looked up at Richard, then asked, nonchalant, "When you're shaving,
do you ever cut yourself?"
He looked at her hair. He looked at his shoes.
He shifted. He pulled on his ears. He rolled his eyes.
"Yeah," he said, sighing. "Sometimes I cut myself." There was
a long pause. Dr. Hoffman looked at him and waited. "It's not
really an accident either. I have little cuts all over my forearms
and some on my legs. Here, see?" He pulled up a sleeve to show
her the tiny white scars. He watched her expression, but as always
there was none.
"Why do you cut yourself?" Dr. Hoffman asked.
"I get so sick of seeing all that hair, and it keeps
growing back, and I get so pissed off*" He stopped and stretched
his back with his arms above his head. He returned his arms to the
sides of the chair. "So I lie in the bathtub with the shower running
and I watch myself bleed for a while, and it makes me feel better."
"You said it makes you feel better, how do you mean?"
she interjected.
Richard laughed. "'How does that make me feel?'
I can't believe you actually said that," he murmured. Then he got
quiet again. He ran his hand through his hair. He looked at
the floor. "If I'm in there at the right time, like real early in
the morning, It looks cool. See, my bathroom has dark blue tile and
a skylight. I leave the light off so it's not too bright, and the
tile looks dark like you could sink into it. Like the ocean.
I get in the tub and turn the shower on, and then I lie there. I
get the razor ready. I look at my body. I can see the stubble
that's growing in on my legs and around. I hate it. I hate
my body. So I make a cut on my arm, or my leg, and I watch the blood
and it makes me feel a little better, something to focus on, but then I
think I'm starting to get a gut, like my dad. I didn't eat yesterday,
except for a few corn chips at lunch and a diet Pepsi. Today I just
had some cereal at breakfast, 'cause my mom made me. I take Vivarin
to keep me awake. Last week I took six before school and I threw
up. There's no way I'm gonna get fat. Fat hairy men...."