The Crazy Magnet—Clark Humphrey

It’s not easy being a Crazy Magnet. 

I know you probably never believed it WAS, but you might have assumed there was at least as much wild antic fun as there was scary drama. Maybe when I’m a few years older it will seem that way in retrospect. 

But for now, it’s still fresh and tender. Not tender as in sweet; tender as in sore.

Which crazy should I start with? Not the regular everyday crazy. Not the one who proclaimed me to be her honorary gay friend even as I was hitting on her (or trying to). 

And not the actually diagnosed as “crazy” crazy; complete with the wrist cutting and the stints in the psych ward and the insistence that a total stranger had bugged apartment and was listening in on everything. That would be too easy.

It’s the in-between crazy that’s the most, er, “interesting.”

It’s the crazy that seems normal until you accidentally step on a Crazy Cue. 

Like when A. asked if I could be with her when she went to a doctor’s appointment. 

She told me when and where. She said it was probably nothing, but she wanted someone to hold her hand just in case. 

I asked what I thought was an innocent question.

I asked how long it would take.

Zero to inflamed in 0.3 seconds. That’s how long it took.

“How DARE you ask that! I pour my heart out to you and all you can think of is how inconvenient it’ll be. It’s my fucking LIFE at stake [it was really a routine follow up about a broken foot], and all you can say is [impersonating a flippant, sarcastic voice I had NOT used] ‘how long will it take’. My heart just SANK straight down to the FLOOR. Just LEAVE. NOW. NOW!”

I left. She slammed the door after me.

Sure enough, at 11:45 the next night—she had no sense of other people’s schedules—I got drunk-dialed. No, she didn’t apologize, or explain herself, or ask me to explain myself. She went right ahead with new news (foot progressing steadily) and another date invite (lunch and errands, which I knew would turn into drinks and errands and drinks). 

You ask why I kept seeing her.

After the bloody mary breakfasts, and the at-home guzzling of plastic-jug vodka with Diet Pepsi.

After the half dazed road trips to Poulsbo and Lynnwood.

After she got kicked off the Leavenworth Christmas train for being disorderly (thankfully I wasn’t with her that day).

Long after I stopped having sex with her (yes, that was even crazier). 

Even after the 14-hour date that started at a QFC, wound up at a suburban cardroom, and eventually led to my minor panic attack.

I haven’t stopped asking myself the same question.

But when a guy told me about the L.A. strip club called Crazy Girls, I told him I’d never had to pay for that. Not with money anyway.


About bbcstudiowrites

This blog is me archiving the BBC Studio Writers Workshop.

Posted on November 20, 2012, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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