2. Chapter 2 Theo
Chapter 2 Theo
M y therapist, Barb, feels my taking the TA job is a brilliant way to make more connections—even friends. She says it’s a unique opportunity for me to be vulnerable. Barb believes there is no possible way for college to be a repeat of my high school years.
If anything, this campus is a replica of high school; my peers are hungover and fueled by instant ramen and energy drinks.
There are Chads by the dozen, gorgeous women, jocks, burnouts, and scholarship students who keep their heads down and their sticky notes lined up, much like Gabby Rivera in the front row of today’s class. I’m prepared for her constant questioning and clarifications on syntax and consonance but not annoyed because questions usually mean the student loves the subject. To answer Gabby without attracting attention from her opulent and uninhibited seatmate—Staley—might prove more difficult.
Women don’t see me, and most of them assume I’m nothing short of a total asshole for my limited conversational skills. But Staley somehow managed to make prolonged eye contact. Her ability to speak without a filter was unnerving, but not in an unpleasant way. Plenty of women on campus have caught my eye, but Staley has my attention and hasn’t relinquished it. I’m not desperate, but I am lonely. Her hug was a reminder that I do want to date.
I have poetry. What more could I possibly need to say out loud to anyone? Sure, the written word and I have a long-requited love affair, where I scribble and ink all the things I cannot say aloud into one of my many notebooks. My poems are the things I struggle to say without a stutter or without adding a third T to the beginning of my name. Writing is my pain and my passion. It makes no sense to immerse myself in a class where I hope to be neither heard nor seen, but I can try.
“Theo, it’s lovely to see you today. It’s been a few weeks since our last session. How are things?”
Barb’s office is a small, converted garage off the back of her house. She’s in her mid-sixties, and her decor reflects that. The wood-paneled walls accentuate the ancient carpet, and framed Mallard ducks hang above the chair where she takes her notes during sessions. Barbara Fleming has been my primary therapist for the past three years. Upon meeting her for the first time, she wasted no time getting straight to the point.
Call me Barb. Dr. Fleming was my father, and he wasn’t good at helping people with their feelings. Don’t mix me up with a guy who worked on bunions.
I like Barb. She isn’t like other therapists I’d seen as a child, and there were many. Speech therapists. Occupational therapists. Good ole fashioned what’s-wrong-with-you? therapists. There hasn’t been a single person in my life I’ve been in a relationship with longer than any of my therapists.
“Hey B-barb. The beginning of the semester is nuts.”
Barb is patient and allows me to finish my sentences without interrupting or trying to fill in the words for me as other people do. I’ve stuttered since I started speaking. My mother assumed my first words were typical toddler gibberish and enrolled me in a fancy Waldorf school, which only proved my ability to be creative and take scholarly risks was limited by saying the alphabet without repeating letters.
“Tell me about your first week. I won’t gush over you, but it’s wonderful you heeded my advice and took the position as the teaching assistant.”
When Professor Graham approached me two semesters ago to be his TA for his Craft of Poetry class, I nearly laughed him out of the auditorium.
Mr. Sullivan, your work is some of the finest I’ve seen throughout my tenure. It would be a waste not to impart some of your wisdom to the other students.
Laughing is more like swallowing a bone lodged in my throat. Meanwhile, my face remained blank and agreeable enough for Professor Graham to think I was offering him a vehement yes. He promptly told me what paperwork to complete to make my new job legit.
Barb often exists in a space of familiarity with me, which I embrace and laugh about. Barb is more like the kooky aunt I never had. I tell her about the typical sportsball guys who showed up on the first day with desperation in their eyes, begging me to let them into the class as if their imaginary careers in the Olympics depended on it. If keg stands and texting without punctuation were to happen during the Winter Games, some of these beggars would get a gold medal for our country for their emoji use. But in the meantime, they’re a headache I don’t care to deal with.
“A poet and an Olympic scout. Theodore Sullivan, you possess many talents.”
It’s a risk telling Barb about Staley. I can trust her with the details. What I can’t trust Barb with is her ability to turn every bit of information I share into an assignment. I will inevitably suffer through the task completion. Transform into a better version of myself, sure—but suffer all the same.
Barb’s old eggplant-colored faux leather couch is from the 1980s.
“Barb, this couch is older than m-me. Ever consider getting a new one?”
Deflection is an all-too-familiar tactic when I’m uncomfortable. It’s an easy way to distance myself from what’s real. I’m not afraid of my emotions. If I were, I wouldn’t come to therapy as often as I do. That’s why I’m intimidated by this immediate and overwhelming feeling. Parts of my life are empty. I want to get over myself and be a bit braver.
Barb eyes me.
“What did my couch ever do to you, Theo?”
I go back to the moment when Staley looked at the second guy. Her face was dark and backed with venom. If decoded, she would say, If you say one more idiotic thing to me, I will mop the floor with your tears.
Staley’s entire demeanor after she stopped the recording told me she is interested in one of my favorite themes in poetry, next to love: death.
Death to dudebros. And she has immaculate taste in the spoken word.
“Therapy is only effective when the patient puts effort in. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
Heat climbs my neck, and although I do not need to feel bashful with Barb, I do. She’s not my mother, who takes great pride in eliciting shame in me.
“Does it matter?”
“Does it, Theo?”
The whole mishap is a first for me. I receive the occasional email from a student professing their love (which I still do not understand) or the unsolicited, “Mr. Sullivan, can you please read my poem?” But this is a fixed-form villanelle with a nineteen-line dual-refrain.
It’s complicated.
“I don’t kn-know if I should make any sort of assessment when it comes to women, considering my limited experience.”
She nods as if the few details I’ve let slip have given her a full view of the spectrum of my issue.
“So, this is about women? I’m watching you, Theo. What are you thinking about? Or is it someone you’re thinking about?”
“This has to do with st-students, a student. She needs me to get into the class, nothing more.”
Barb rolls her eyes and taps her pen on her notepad, a sure sign she’s about to work her annoying magic on me.
“Theo, your prosody is not lost on me. You may be the poet here, but I know sass when I hear it. What did you see in this student?”
“Does it matter, Barb, what I s-saw in her? I’m the TA. The last time I tried d-dating, the rhythm wasn’t there, and I am to blame for it.”
Barb shakes her head as if I’m being silly. Maybe I am.
The one time I got up the nerve to talk to a woman, it didn’t take long for things to feel awkward due to my eventual silence. Then she discovered the notes I’d made in my journal about her allure and wit because when I feel the quietness creep in, I find a way to let it out. Then, she said I was too forward for a relationship without a label.
As a child, I wasn’t nearly as confident in my language as I am now. The more I write about the things I marvel at in the opposite sex, the more patient I become with the notion of being alone, being an admirer instead.
Writing is all the practice I need to say things out loud.
“Theo, yes, it matters. When you connect with someone, you must explore what it means. Don’t you want to feel the soul-stirring love you write about? I’ve read some of your work. The way you choose sounds and string them together on paper with intention and care is genuine. You are but a mute consonant in need of a vowel.”
Barb is a duck lover and well-versed in words and sounds.
“Barb, who’s the poet h-here?”
This gets her to laugh, which adds a sense of levity to my session.
“I’ll have you know, Mr. Sullivan, you get what you give in this world, and it would be a damn shame if you didn’t start to hand over some of your brilliant self to another person willing to give you the same.”
I’m never loud with Barb, but I use the firmest tone.
“The thought of parceling myself to a love interest could be a real estate exchange gone bad. I’d be a f-f-fixer-upper, a project for the other person to pour their energy into. I don’t want that love. I don’t want someone to finish my sentences for me. I want them to know what I’m saying without saying it. I want a partner who listens at a pace I can deliver.”
I say this with such indignance Barb laughs, as if having me as a patient is above her pay grade. Introversion stereotypes about poets are often true, as quiet is my status quo.
“Theodore Sullivan. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for, where you are being given a choice: Talk to this student or hell, anyone who has you all kinds of shouty, or find another way to get comfortable interacting with the opposite sex. You deserve to live a life where love is front and center.”
“Barb—”
“You need practice, Theo. Every poet, athlete, and lover works to improve their methods. You are no different.”
Poetry is not something I can teach. Teaching requires talking, showing, and doing. I want to stay miles away from enunciating any words in public. Behind closed doors is a different story as I have ways with the spoken word, which serves me well. And still, it’s all an imaginary world that keeps me miles away from women like Staley Monroe.
My session with Barb leaves me feeling like a volta, a rhetorical turn in which I can either remain the same person who has managed to say very little to students or a man who can turn the line and use my words for once.
Body language goes a long way, and I’m anything if not a master of head nods, shoulder shrugs, and the occasional tongue click when I need someone to wrap up their deplorable interpretation of Neruda. This is my chance to be the writer and person my therapist says I am.
But how?
The light on my answering machine flashes the number three in an obnoxious bright red. A home phone is not typical among people my age—I know this—but giving my mother my cell phone number is non-negotiable. Her access to me remains limited after she showed up in one of my lecture classes to See what her hard-earned money is paying for. However, I don’t know what is hard-earned about her money or the generational wealth passed down to her.
Email is okay because I can use the Sorry, Mom, your message got lost among all my student emails excuse.
When I told her I was majoring in creative writing in hopes of becoming a poet, she scoffed, turning up her nose at me.
Theodore, you have a stutter. To be or not to be isn’t the question here when the answer is not to be. No child of mine will live a careless life rhyming hat with cat, walking around with coffee-stained teeth.
I’m more of a hot water with lemon and honey kind of guy, as caffeine leaves me too jittery. I like to keep my vocal cords relaxed for all aspects of my work.
The machine taunts me to press Play. What the hell? I might as well get it over with.
“ Theodore, it’s your mother. I stopped by yesterday morning, but you weren’t in. I wanted to ask you about your participation in an event I’m putting on. Please return my call.”
I put the kettle on and retrieve my favorite mug from the drying rack, slicing some lemon wedges before I skip to the next message.
“Theodore, it’s your mother. Are you ever home?”
Delete.
It’s a shame Elizabeth P. Sullivan is a single mother at times like these. Having a father in the background muttering, Lizzy, leave the poor boy alone, won’t you? He’s a college man now, under his breath would be a godsend.
The sun catches the slow crawl of the steam coming from my mug. Adding a little bourbon to my drink is the only way to get through a third message. The amber liquid, rarely touched, is welcomed at this exact moment. Avoidance is my preferred method when it comes to my mother. But tonight, I choose to drink. Being alone is sad, but drinking alone is more heartbreaking.
Caramel notes of the bourbon slide over my tongue, loosening the tension in my body and mind. I promised Barb I would practice, but first, I must explore what this might look like.
Heaviness forces my body into a slouch until I lean back in my chair, causing the springs to groan underneath my weight. The first week of school is exhausting, but this is the first time I’ve held a job with such responsibility. I hold the fate of my peers in my hands.
The streetlights flood my office window, illuminating the passing of time.
I return to the kitchen for another round of bourbon.
The liquor warms me into a state of complete relaxation. A buzz enters my head as I go through the emails. There’s one from my mother, of course. No, make that two.
What appears to be an advertisement for a service I’ve never heard of before stops me mid-scroll. A hiccup escapes my lips at the subject line of the email.
Are you a Big Spoon or a Little Spoon?
Maybe you’re a Sad Spoon. Either way, Cuddle Like You Mean It is here to help you with your cuddling needs.
Book your first cuddle session today.
Never in my life have I heard of a cuddling service. What’s even more curious is how this is a school-approved email. Do people on campus receive comfort and solace in the form of hugging? Is it weird for me to think of consensual cuddling as a worthy investment? Cuddling would be considered practice, right?
Maybe I’m putting the cart before Frost’s little horse, but the alcohol instills bravery in me and probably stupidity. I’m inebriated enough to try something new without hesitation. I click on the sketch of two people cuddling on a couch, taking me to an intake form. Entering my credit card number and adding a tip in case my silence ultimately puts off the cuddler seems to be the courteous thing to do.
Hovering over the Send button, my finger twitches but hesitates.
“I have to try.”
My doubt speaks up as quickly as the confidence gets me to the finish line.
Who am I kidding? I can’t have a stranger come to my home and cuddle me.
The morning version of me might have different feelings about this, so I’ll wait until then.