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.