Shane and Carmen: The Novelization Ch. 03

"How do you know that?"

"Harvey loaned me some of Jack's old clothes."

"Jack died a couple years ago. Harvey never let him go."

"I guess not. But I don't get it. What's all this mean?"

"I have a theory about you, Shane. With your permission, I'd like you to take some tests. It's all standard stuff, nothing fancy, nothing scary. An I.Q. test, then something called the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, which is a personality inventory. The Strength Deployment Inventory, which is about mental strengths, not physical ones, continuums of motivation as well as awareness of relationships. Maybe the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, I'll have to think about that one. The 16PF Questionnaire. The ProScan Survey. It'll take a fair amount of time, a day or two, and you'll probably find it pretty tedious, but I think I'm onto something and I think it's pretty important."

Shane gave Carol a look that Carol knew was fear. "Do you think there's something really wrong with me? Am I, like, a psycho or something?" she asked quietly.

"Actually, Shane, if my suspicions are correct, it's pretty much the opposite. That isn't to say you haven't been badly damaged by the rape, as well as by your abandonment over the years, the foster homes, and all that. And we're working on that stuff. But what I think I'm about to discover is what we can call the 'real' Shane, the core Shane McCutcheon, if you will. And what I suspect is that nearly everything anyone thinks they know about you, including what you yourself think, is dead wrong."

***

One night at dinner Shane asked Harvey what the word mensch meant. "I've heard you say it about somebody, or ask somebody to be one, but I can't quite figure out what it means, except that it's Jewish. Carol used it once to describe someone, too."

"It's Yiddish, not Jewish," Harvey said. "Yiddish is the language dialect, Jewish is the name of the people and the religion. The word 'mensch' literally means something like 'a good person,' but that's not nearly enough. A mensch is a person of integrity and honor, a stand-up guy. Or a girl, I suppose, but it's usually said about a man. But I don't see why it couldn't apply to a woman as well. It's someone you can depend on to be honest and truthful, even more, to be humane, to treat someone fairly. To be compassionate. Understanding. Generous. Helpful. Supportive, when you need it. Someone to watch your back. Somebody to admire, to want to be like. Which brings us back to 'a good guy.' Like, 'that Solly, he's a good guy.' You hear the emphasis? The inflection?

"Also, the remark, 'Ah, c'mon, Izzy, be a mensch.' That means maybe Izzy's cheating you, or being a hard ass or something, not a nice person, and you want him to back down or soften up, give a little, you say c'mon, Izzy, be a mensch, will ya? Here's what a mensch does. A mensch helps somebody without expecting anything back, or without even asking for recognition, you see? He helps because it is the right thing to do, not because he gets some reward, not even a reward in heaven. God isn't keeping score, contrary to popular wisdom. A stenographer he's not. You do the right thing because it's just simply the right thing, end of discussion. In short, a mensch is what every person should want to try to be. But believe me, there are damn few of them. And in this town? Hollywood? L.A.? The music industry, the TV and movie industry? Oy. You find them few and far between."

"And here's the funny thing," Harvey said after thinking about it while he ate. "A mensch is supposed to be something of a secret thing, a modest thing, right? You don't do something good for the recognition, you just do it, maybe anonymously, nobody knows that good deed you did. You follow? But when a person is truly a mensch, if that's how he is in his life, over time people begin to know it. That's how we come to say things like 'That Solly, he's a mensch.' Because little by little, people become aware of what kind of person you are. Doesn't necessarily mean they will treat you well. Hell, they may shit all over you, rob you blind, whatever. That kind of person isn't worth having as a friend anyway. So it's the other people. See?"

"Got it," Shane said. "Thanks."

"Those test results come back yet?"

"No, not yet."

"Boy, Carol must have really shrunk your head good. How many tests were there?"

"Seven."

"Hard?"

"Not exactly hard. But there weren't many with any kind of answers you could figure out. One of them was a bunch of crazy pictures, shapes of stuff."

"Ah. The Rorschach Test," Harvey said. "Useful for people like you, actually."

"What do you mean?"

"They use it a lot for people who aren't very articulate, who can't verbally describe their own thought processes. It's just a different way of getting inside your head to see if you're a wack job or not. Did you know this? Some people say the idea of looking at those ink blots was started as a game back in da Vinci's time. Maybe even by da Vinci himself, who knows. A brilliant guy, that da Vinci. Gay, you know."

"But I don't get what the inkblots mean. I don't know if I got them right or wrong."

"That's the thing, you see," Harvey said. "What you actually said you saw in the cards is almost totally irrelevant. It's how you answered and the general kinds of things you said you saw, not the things themselves. For instance, the first card. Half the people see a bat, and almost as many see a butterfly or a moth, that's if they are North American. In Japan, they see the same card as a crab or a spider. But none of that matters. The point is, most people see some sort of animal. The person you gotta watch out for sees a machine gun or his mother's vagina, something way out in left field. But here's the other thing, see? That card is the first card. What the shrink looks at is how you deal with it. It's the start of the test, the first item. Does looking at it and not knowing what it is make you nervous? Are you apprehensive about it? Panicked, worried you aren't doing it right? Do you turn it this way and that, trying to figure out what's the top and what's the bottom? How do you handle all those little stresses and decisions? Do you ask a lot of questions about how to do it? Do you complain? Are you cool and calm? Confident? Are you thoughtful? Emotional? Do you decide reasonably quickly what it is, and announce your decision firmly? Do you take forever to decide, do you give a tentative, timid answer? See, that's the stuff they score. A bat? A butterfly? They don't give a shit. It's just a fucking inkblot, that's all. It's you they are scoring, not what you see on the card."

Shane nodded.

"The second card, it has mostly grayish black spots on it, but also some smaller blotches of red, right?"

Shane nodded.

"Did you say the red looked like blood, or something else? Or did you ignore the blood altogether? Did you see humans or animals?"

"People with red hats, like clown hats. And with their feet cut off."

"Were the two clowns angry at each other?"

"Yes."

"Well, see, there you go then. Clearly you're a raving lunatic. Maybe a serial killer."

Shane's face clouded over.

"Joking! I'm joking, Shane. Relax, lighten up. A little headshrinker humor."

Shane nodded and smiled weakly. She ate quietly for a while. Then she dropped her fork with a clatter, sniffled and put her face in her hands, making Harvey look up.

"Hey, Shane? What's the matter, babe?"

"Harvey," she began, tears welling up in her eyes and running down her cheeks. "I'm so fucked up. I know I am. What's going to happen to me?" And then she really burst into tears, burying her face in her arms on the table, sobbing. Harvey got up and went to her, kneeling on the floor next to her. He pulled her off her chair so she knelt on the kitchen floor facing him, and wrapped her in his arms. He cradled her head onto his chest and held her, rocking her slowly and crooning, "Hey, hey, hey."

She cried for a few minutes, then started to get some control. Harvey said, "Come here," and moved across the floor so he sat on the floor with his back to the kitchen counter. He pulled Shane with him and she sat next to him with his arm around her and her face still in his shirt.

After a while Harvey said, "OK, tell me."

"I'm so scared," Shane whimpered.

"Scared of what?"

"What's gonna happen to me. I'm so messed up. I don't have anybody, I don't have any family or friends. I don't have any money. I owe you thousands and thousands of dollars and I don't know how I'm ever gonna pay you back. After I graduate from hairdresser school, I have no place to go, no job. I'm a faggot, a queer, a dyke. I do drugs, I'm a fucking street whore, and if I ever had any money I'd be a fucking junkie just like my mother. I used to make money jerking off other faggots I can't even stand, that's how low I am. People hate faggots like me, even other queers hate us. They beat us up. Cops beat us up. Everyone hates us. I don't wanna go back on the street, Harvey, but that's all I'm good for. I'm trailer trash, and I'm not even fucking straight trailer trash."

Harvey just rocked her for a while.

"Sorry," Shane said, sitting up and sniffling. She wiped her nose on her sleeve.

"It's okay," Harvey said.

"Fuck," Shane said, disgusted with herself. With everything.

Harvey said nothing. Shane sat, too, saying nothing.

Finally she couldn't stand it anymore. "Okay, what?"

Harvey grinned. "You ready? My turn to talk now? Because I can wait if you need it."

"Fuck you," Shane said, but laughing, and Harvey smiled. "Yes. Talk. Say something."

"Okay, first off, about two-thirds of what you just said was bullshit of one kind or another. You started off all right, that you were scared about what's going to happen to you, and it all just suddenly welled up on you and overwhelmed you. Yes?"

Shane nodded.

"And yes, you are somewhat fucked up, as you like to put it, but probably not nearly as badly as you think. You're still suffering from some of that nasty ol' post traumatic stress disorder, as Carol told you, or in layman's terms, as you like to put it, you're fucked up. Okay. But you're dealing with it. You're getting therapy. But it takes a long time, and from your point of view you can't see the light at the end of the tunnel. But you have to take it on faith that there is one. Now, the bullshit part. Yes, you used to do drugs, but you've been pretty clean ever since the rape, right? The only stuff you've done is those couple of times we smoked some grass. Right? You haven't done anything else I'm unaware of?"

Shane shook her head no.

"Okay, then. So you're not a drug addict, and you aren't your mother, which is what I think is really worrying you. And don't be so hard on her, since we hardly know anything about her, and we shouldn't be judging her until we have more and better facts. Next the money. Fuck the money, okay? Just fuck it. I have lots of it and you know me well enough by now to know I basically don't give a rat turd about it. It comes from my family back in New York, trust funds and all that, but you know I am just not money-oriented, all those Jewish stereotypes to the contrary. So maybe you never pay me back, what the hell. Or it takes you twenty years. I could fucking care less. And maybe some day you become rich and famous, then you'll buy me a Maserati or a blow job from Simon Cowell. So if it's all the same to you, I'd just as soon not hear any more bullshit about the money. We okay about that?"

Shane nodded.

"Good. See? We're making progress. Next up, yes, you're a faggot, but so what? You're only nineteen and you've known you were a lesbian for more than half your life already. That's not gonna change, so just accept it. Deal with it. In spite of all the crap the world tells you, it's not a crime, it's not a disease, it's not a sickness, it's not a punishment from God, it's not a fucking lifestyle choice, it's just the way you are. Me, too. And millions and millions of other people. I'm not telling you a single thing you don't already know, so don't do that goddam poor me, I'm a homosexual thing. Just be whoever the hell you are, Shane, and don't worry about the labels and all the other crap. Fuck who you want, don't fuck whoever you don't want, try and find some love, try and find some kindness. I'll tell you this, it's goddam scarce, and when it comes along you need to grab it. God knows, I fucked it up with Jack when it came along, and I don't have to tell you that sad story again."

"Now, just like you are no longer any kind of drug-abusing junkie, you are no longer any kind of street faggot prostitute punchhole, either. That was just something you did once upon a time when you were living on the street in survival mode. And believe me, people have done a helluva lot worse things to survive. Don't get me started on the Holocaust. And shit, this is Hollywood. You have any idea what percentage of the workforce in southern California makes its living fucking and sucking? Why, the porn industry out in the valley employs like a million people your age who get paid to do stuff a lot worse than anything you ever did. How long were you tricking?"

"I don't know. Six months."

"Okay, call it a hundred and eighty days. How many tricks a day?"

"Three or four."

"Seven days a week?"

"You think we get the weekends off, we watch football on Sundays? Go golfing?"

"Point taken. You think you did four a day, more or less, every day?"

"No. Rainy days, bad weather. Some days I was too stoned. Some days sick. Some days cops were patrolling and nobody got any business done. Some days I met somebody and spent all day eating pussy. Some days this asshole named Harvey picked me up and after I jacked him off we went and had coffee and a sandwich and blew my entire work schedule for the day."

Harvey grinned. "So let's split the difference and say an average of three and a half hand jobs a day, times a hundred eighty days. That's six hundred and thirty people you had sex with, insofar as giving hand jobs is actual sex. You undoubtedly had some repeat customers, such as me."

"Some. Not that many."

"Okay, let's round off the numbers, then, call it six hundred men and six hundred hand jobs."

"So?"

"So one way to look at it, when you were young and desperate you found a way to survive on the street while making six hundred men feel good, if only for an hour or two. Six hundred hours of pleasure, of relief. Shane, you could easily find a million people within a thirty-mile radius of this spot who couldn't hope to achieve a record like that in a thousand years."

"So what do I do?"

"Look, it's a mean, tough, shitty, cruel, arbitrary, capricious, nasty fucking world out there. And yes, you and I and thousands of other gays and lesbians are all on the bottom of the totem pole trying not to get butt-fucked by society unless we want them to. But there are ways to survive, and not only survive out there, but to actually do pretty well. Maybe even find some happiness. So you have two choices. You can try to figure out how to do all that over the next ten or twenty years, trying hit-or-miss, maybe getting lucky now and then, and getting screwed, blued and tattooed now and then instead. And maybe you'll find a little happiness and a little peace, and maybe you won't."

"What's my other choice?"

"Your other choice is to listen to old Uncle Harvey here, and heed the accumulated wisdom of my vast, hard-earned experience."

"Which is what?"

"Which is, I'm giving you all the shortcuts I know. Do with them what you will. Maybe I can spare you a little grief somewhere down the road. But like most young people, you'll ignore pretty much everything I'm about to tell you, because that's the way the world is. Nobody listens. But here it is anyway.

"Ordinarily, life's a bitch, right? Well, when you're gay or lesbian, it's a bitch-and-a-half, maybe two bitches. But there are ways to survive. First, find yourself a bubble, a city, a town, a neighborhood where there are other people like yourself. That way you'll minimize contact with that part of the world that thinks you're some sort of deviant freak. Right now you live in L.A., which is about as good a place as any to do that. Just don't try to move to Beerbottle, Iowa, and hope to find a nice, supportive, gay-friendly community full of warm, friendly, horny lesbians who will clasp you to their collective bosoms. It ain't happenin'.

"Next, try to find yourself a handful of friends, a small group of people who like you and accept you as you are. Once you find them, you have to accept them as they are, as well. Like anybody else, they'll have flaws and peccadillos and quirks, and little habits that drive you crazy. But you have to be laid back and accept them with all those flaws, because they're going to do that for you, too. Or so we hope. Be loyal to them. Support them, even when they're fucking lunatics about something. Well, support them as best you can, anyway. We can't always do that. Don't judge them. Many of them will be just as fucked up as you are, and some even more so. Be generous with them. Don't expect anything back from them, because you may not get it. If you do get it, that's swell, that's gravy. But if there's no gravy, well, that's the way it is. Eat your turkey dry, that's all. Now, here's why you need these people. It's because it's almost impossible to live alone. I don't mean be a single person in a single apartment. I mean it's impossible not to be part of a community. There's a few people can be hermits, reclusive, loners. But they're rare, and you aren't one of them. Everyone needs people around them. You want to call it a support group, or a network or whatever, fine. But we humans don't do well in emotional isolation. You have to express your feelings about things from time to time, or you'll become a psychopath. So when you do express them it's best to do it in an environment where it's safe.

"Two final things. No, three. First, try to find someone to love, who loves you back. It's easy to find relationships that go one way, but the best is a reciprocal thing. Call it a lover, a life partner, a companion, a spouse, a significant other, the terminology doesn't matter. Because caring about another person is healthy. It's life-affirming. And yes, it's damn-all hard. You're going to screw this up, Shane, so understand this going in. It won't be the first person you find. Hell, it might not be the nineteenth. But at some point, decide this is the person, the woman you want, and commit to her.

"Next, cut yourself some slack. You've been through a lot in your short life already, Shane, and a good deal of it has been shit. This you're already aware of. So give yourself a break. Forgive yourself of what you think you've done wrong. Let the past go, if it hasn't been good to you. Live for today, live for the future.

"Finally, try to find yourself a small piece of happiness. That may be even harder to find than love, and I don't know how to do it myself. But if it somehow comes sliding at you sideways and out of the blue, try to recognize it. It might not be a person, at all, it might be a thing. A cause. A career. A mission, a calling. Something that gives meaning to your life. Saving whales. Shooting whales. Being the world's best hairdresser. Climbing Mount Everest. Entering a convent. Singing Handel's Messiah. Cooking the perfect fourteen-course meal. Doing some good deeds. Helping people. Whatever. Just find whatever it is that might make you happy, and grab onto it."

"You want me to be a mensch," Shane said.

"You got it."

Harvey shut up and they sat in silence, Harvey with his arm around her.