I.
Who brings a 5 month old baby to a midnight showing of anything?
Too young for a babysitter should also include too young for exposure to 200 strangers in a dark theater full of loud explosions, screams and deafening soundtracks. But what do I know.
And I can’t be too hard on bad parents, I mean they are responsible for 90% of my dates.
Still, meeting her at the theater for our first date was probably NOT the best time to inform me she had a child.
The breast feeding was a plus. I had not expected that development and seeing nipple that soon gave me, hope. The old guy next to us also seemed pleased.
She asked, “What kind of mind does it take to shoot people in a theater?”
“A narcissistic one, clearly” I offered.
“Since when did narcissistic become synonymous with psychotic?
“Self absorbed, seeing everyone around him as characters in his own movie, expendable, interchangeable instead of distinct individual humans...The maintenance of such a life exacts its toll.”
“You think he’s sane?”
“I don’t know what sane is anymore. But it seems to me that four months ago he decided that this was a way, maybe the only way to keep his perception of himself as the Joker intact. He’s living that out now, still, in his cell. Probably hasn’t felt this alive in years...”
“You sound a little too awed.”
“Does it bother you he is well educated? Someone rather common? Grew up watching the same TV shows as you?”
“A little but unlike you-- I don’t think he’s one of us. He’s demented, deranged and not in touch with the same world. Just awful.”
“Awful indeed. He’s not us in the sense that he’s just more committed to his role playing.”
“He needs to be committed.” You gave me that look that said, enough, I’m out of things to say and don’t like being disagreed with.
As I made my way to the restroom during the preview of something loud and dull, I met you.
II.
You were sex walking upright in shorts. A masterpiece of toned body parts and fashion magazine ads. It’s as if you were pieced together using the hottest parts of Cosmo except you were seamless. I tried not to stare. Men all around you crashed into things, went the wrong way, became deaf to the sounds of their significant others calls and even their children’s nagging.
I followed you into the other darkened theater just to see what kind of man you did choose. And it was there I saw another joker.
He wore the cologne (a lot of it) called arrogant and crass. He had sent you to get his snacks while he texted and spoke rather loudly into his phone. He ignored you. He seemed annoyed that you even spoke and would cut you off quickly. Dismissive. He even told you not to use your phone while he was on his. And you ate it up. Couldn’t get enough of him. You buried your head into his shoulder as the lights went dim.
III.
Back at the romper room, my seat was taken by a diaper bag and the shushing sound she made was louder than the babies cries. For a moment I thought of leaving, throwing my cell into a storm drain and walking. Where?Just walking with no hope of ever returning let alone looking back. I can do it. But I sheepishly moved the diaper bag and took my seat.
IV.
“The narcissist feels unhappy because he thinks his life isn't as it should be, or things are going wrong; but all of those feelings find origin in frustration, a specific frustration: the inability to love the other person.
He's a man in a glass box, unable to connect. He thinks the problem is people don't like him, or not enough, so he exerts massive energy into the creation and maintenance of an identity: if they think of me as X...
But that attempt is always futile, not because you can't trick the other person-- you can, for an entire lifetime, it's quite easy. But even then, the man in the box is still unsatisfied, still frustrated, because no amount of identity maintenance will break that glass box.
If the other person is also in a glass box, then you have a serious problem. If everyone is in their own glass box, well, then you have America.” -TLP
N.
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