JAKE LA BOTZ

Self-Help

“You hear that?”

She turned away and pulled the pillow over her head. I tapped her. Then I tapped harder.

“What?” she asked too loud.

“I said did you hear that? It sounds like someone talking.”

She swatted at me blindly, nearly scratching my eye. I tapped her on the head, which she hates.

“It’s probably just the baby,” she said. Our daughter was inches away in the bassinet. I don’t know how she thought the low rumble of a grown man’s voice in another room was coming from a four-month old girl lying next to her.

“Where’s my cell?” I asked.

“No EMFs in the bedroom.”

It bothered me that she’d moved my phone out of the room. It bothered me more that I didn’t know what the initialism stood for. It’s the type of thing my brain chases tirelessly. I ran several possibilities in my mind. One stuck out more than the others: Esoteric Meat Fragments. I pictured two cops standing over our dead bodies the next morning – one sipping coffee, the other shaking his head and saying, “They’re nothing but esoteric meat fragments now, Frank.”

I thought about escape routes. The most obvious was the bedroom window, but it was blocked.

“We should’ve taken the air conditioner out,” I said.

“We used it just the other night.”

“Every year it’s the same. Leave it in ’til the frostcomes. Now someone’s breaking into our house and we’re stuck here.”

I considered nearby weapon-like objects. The stainless steel water bottle my wife totes everywhere should’ve been on the nightstand, but for the first time it wasn’t. I’d have to find something else on the way.

“I’m going to look,” I told her, hoping she’d stay alert.

“You always do this,” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know you do.”

“Would you listen. There’s someone out there,” I whispered hard.

I slipped my feet out from under the covers and stood up. Just then something fell and thudded on the bedroom floor.

“What was that?”

“Would you stop. I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Did you leave your book on the bed again?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” she said.

“You don’t even read them. They’re just booby traps.”

“Look, if you’re going to play intruder alert; get on with it, but I have to go back to sleep.”

“Please keep your voice down so I can hear what’s going on out there.”

Then the baby started whimpering.

“Are you going to get her?” she asked, as if that was our biggest worry. I scooted my toes in front of me until they came to the fallen book. At least it was hardcover. I considered the irony of her unread self-help book saving us from getting chopped into esoteric meat fragments.

Then the baby whimpered a little louder.

“Yes or no?” she asked.

“I have the book…”

“Oh my god. You’re going to beat a burglar to death with a New York Times bestseller? That ought to make the news.” Her version of irony lacked humor.

“Would you stop talking? He’s getting closer…”

She did stop talking then. I guess she heard it too. Even the baby got quieter.

“Are you going to look or not?” she finally asked. When I heard the fear in her voice I went from scared to completely terrified.

My feet knew all the places to step on the hardwood so it wouldn’t creak. When I came to the door I felt the smooth, cool brass of the knob in my hand and wondered if someone was doing the same on the other side. I stood there holding the book over my head, feeling the blood emptying down my arms and into my torso, ready to smash whoever might be there.

As my eyes adjusted to the dark I could see my wife pulling our daughter into bed and under the covers with her. That was a bad sign. I felt a sudden pang of remorse for all the unkind things I’d said and done in my life, especially to those two.

The sound came again. As I listened closely it seemed to be emanating from the living room. I got up the nerve and twisted the knob. The door creaked slightly.

When I reached the hallway I tipped my head around the corner so I could see the kitchen and the back door. Nothing. I continued toward the front of the house.

Then the baby cried loudly. I hoped the intruder would be scared off – either confronted with a moral dilemma about committing crime near an infant, or worried about a stiffer prison sentence for breaking into a house with one in it – but I didn’t hear anyone leave.

When I reached the living room I could see well enough to notice the mess. It looked like a cyclone had hit it. Baby books and clothes strewn about. Couch cushions and pizza boxes on the floor. I moved slowly through the room, waving the book in front of me like a bible in the hand of an exorcizing priest. The front door was locked. The windows were all shut too. But the noise was coming from somewhere nearby. I braced myself.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the glowing blue light of the baby monitor on the bookshelf. I didn’t remember leaving it on. As I walked toward it I could tell the sound was coming from its fuzzy speaker. I grabbed the little device off the shelf and held it in front of me. What I saw there was confusing. I blinked and looked again. The outline of a dark face began to fill the screen. It seemed to be looking back at me. With the monitor in one trembling hand and the book in the other I hurried back to the bedroom.

“Did you see anything?” she said.

“Where’s the baby cam?” I asked frantically.

She pointed toward the dresser. It was there alright. Aimed at the empty bassinet. I held the monitor near my wife’s face.

“I don’t see anything,” she said. I looked again. I didn’t see anything either. She snatched her book out of my hand and laid it on the bed in a huff. I went back to the living room and wrote this all down so I wouldn’t forget…

 ———

My therapist handed me back my notebook and gave me a ‘concerned’ look.

“Ok, I’m going to stop there Jerry. Let me ask, how did you feel about her taking the book from you?”

“I don’t know. Relieved? Angry, maybe? I think you’re missing the point though. Did you read it all?”

“I read enough. Here’s the thing, I think we’ll get to the heart of the matter more effectively if we talk about what’s happening in your life rather than you giving me stories to read.”

“You said I should journal.”

“That’s right, but I didn’t mean you should bring me your journal… hey… are you writing right now?”

“I’m still journaling.”

“Well…please listen to me. My take is that you need to work on your relationship with Sheila. I think your writing is becoming a kind of substitute for genuine connection, perhaps even a competition with the books she’s reading. Did you notice that you never once used her name in the story?”

“What about the man’s voice and the face in the monitor? I’m pretty sure the house is haunted.”

“Ok. Maybe your house is haunted. But what if you’re being haunted by your disconnection from your wife? It’s not uncommon for couples to go through major difficulties when their first child is born.”

“You’re saying Sheila is the face in the monitor?”

 “Jerry, look, our time’s about up, so I’m going to give you some homework. I’d like you to pick up a book called Evolving the Marriage-Friendship. I think it’ll offer some practical advice for your situation.”

“Whoa. EMF. It’s Sheila’s initialism again.”

“See you next week, Jerry. Take good care.”

 ———

“You shared all that with him?” Sheila asked as she handed my notebook back.

“I’m pretty sure sharing is what people do with their therapist. By the way it’s she not he.”

“What? I mean, I don’t care that it’s a woman. But you should have told me.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d care. Anyway, it was your idea for me to see a therapist.”

“I’m reading that book you know.”

“Are you actually reading it?”

“Do you honestly care? You know what, you didn’t put her name in the story either. Maybe you need to work on your connection with your female therapist.”

“Oh, that’s real good. Her name is Sofia by the way.”

“You call her by her first name? Hey… would you please stop writing.”

 ———

“…but it’s getting weirder now, Mom. I don’t know what you’d call it. I guess he’s becoming a compulsive writer? Yes, I know Dad was an alcoholic when I was little. Of course other people have worse problems. Look. Mom. Stop for a minute. Do you want to hear what’s going on or not? Oh my god! No, not you. It’s Jerry. He’s been sitting on the other side of the door listening… and writing! I gotta go. What the hell? You cannot eavesdrop on my calls! Stop it. Stop writing! Are you listening to me?”

Sheila stormed out of the room. For some reason hearing about her alcoholic dad made me thirsty. I walked to the bar.

“Pilsner please.”

“That’ll be five.”

“I’ll have another.”

When I finished the second beer I left a two dollar tip and went to the men’s room.

“You write when you’re pissing? Better not be writing about my dick,” my urinal neighbor said with zero sarcasm.

“No, I’m just writing what you’re saying.”

“That’s fucked up dude. Stop it.”

The guy aimed his phone at me, which, incidentally, he’d been looking at the whole time he was peeing.

“I’m posting this so people know about the creepy shit you do in bathrooms, freak.”

“It’s called journaling, pal. You might try it sometime.”

I tried getting out of there quickly, before the confrontation got worse, but I slipped in a puddle of pee. The guy must’ve thought I was coming at him. He knocked me down. My notebook got wet. My right hand was hurt too.

 ———

Sofia handed me back my urine-stained notebook a bit disgustedly, I think.

“Jerry, I’m not reading any more. We talked about this last week.”

We sat silently for a minute or two.

“I used Sheila’s name this time”

“Yes, I noticed that. It sounds like you also invaded her privacy as well as the privacy of a stranger in a bathroom. Why do you think you did those things?”

“Now that I think about it, the guy’s face looked a lot like the one I saw in the baby monitor.”

“Please put the notebook down and look at me Jerry.”

“Sorry, I can’t use my right hand so well since the urinal incident. It takes longer writing with my left. Give me a minute to catch up…”

“Jerry, I’d like to speak directly to you and not to your notebook. Is that possible?  Ok… doesn’t look like you’re stopping. At this point we need to shift our focus to your writing compulsion. Can you describe for me what it feels like when you write and what it feels like when you don’t write?”

“I don’t know. If I stop to think I’ll miss what’s happening and I won’t get it all down on the page.”

“And what would happen if you didn’t get it all down on the page?”

A horrible feeling crept over me when she asked that. I knew I had to get out of there. I made an excuse and got up.

On the way out the front door of the office complex I looked over my last few sentences – being sure I’d written Sofia’s exact words. It’s so important. I see that now. If I don’t get the words down just right…

 ———

As I was walking and writing a guy came barreling down the sidewalk. I didn’t notice until it was too late. Maybe getting run over by a bicycle doesn’t sound like a real thing, but believe me, it is. The man on the bike was large and heavy. We were both hurt badly. Me worse than him. Oddly, his name was Edwin Michael Fisher. EMF all over again. And yes, I know EMF stands for electric and magnetic fields, it’s just weird those letters keep popping up over and over again.

The doctors put casts on both of my arms and will soon put screws in one of my hips. Edwin’s insurance will cover the bills. I haven’t been able to get out of the hospital bed yet. I also can’t use my fingers well enough to write, so Sheila is jotting this down for me.

One good thing is I’ve had plenty of time to read the self-help book these last two days. I’m enjoying it and I really do think it’s helping. I’m not just saying that because Sheila’s sitting right next to me. Ha ha. You know you don’t have to keep writing, sweetie. We could just spend some time visiting…”

“I just… sorry, I have to go home now.”

“Oh. That’s too bad. Will I see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll call you later.”

“Ok. Give Lisa a kiss from daddy.”

 ———

I walked out of the room before Jerry could figure out what was happening, though I must admit I don’t completely understand myself. All I know is, when I read his journal after the accident I felt compelled to write some of my own words down. I haven’t been able to stop since.

“Yes, that’s right, 986 Laurel Avenue,” I told the Uber driver as I got in the car.

Mom called again. I know she wants me to pick up Lisa, but I can’t take care of her right now. I can’t do anything else right now. The thing is I know everything will be good again if I can just get the words down properly. They must be organized. They must be complete. They must be perfect.

Oh my God, there’s only one page left in Jerry’s notebook. I hope there’s a store open.

“Excuse me, sir, I need to stop at the Walgreens… up there on the left.”

Jake La Botz is a touring musician and meditation teacher. His songs, and sometimes acting, have been featured in film and television, including True Detective, Shameless, Rambo (yes, Rambo) and more. La Botz’s fiction has recently appeared or is forthcoming in The Inquisitive Eater, Metonym Literary Journal, and The Museum of Americana.  www.jakelabotz.com