Hyper-chondriac (23 page)

“These almonds are good,” interrupted Nancy.

“Yes, they're delicious,” said Sharon.

“Where do they come from?”

“Our farm.”

“No, I mean what part of your farm?”

“We also have a beef with your mother for financial reasons,” Lawrence blurted. “When my mother, your grandmother, died, Rhoda was in charge of the estate.”

“I barely remember that.”

“Well,” my uncle continued, “by the time your mother was through with all the paperwork and wheeling and dealing, the rest of us barely got anything.”

This was a new one. My mother was a lot of things but she certainly wasn't a thief.

“I just don't believe that my mother would ever rip anyone off. Even a nickel.”

“Well, we all think she did.”

“Believe me, there was never even the slightest influx of money in our house.”

“She claims that they didn't get much for the condo in Florida and that the lawyers were expensive.”

That sounded logical.

“Did she offer you receipts?”

“Yeah, but who cares about receipts? Those are easy to forge.”

So now my mother had a double major: stealing and forgery.

“Actually,” he went on, “nobody even bothered to tell me that my mother had died until months later.”

“You weren't in contact with her either?”

“No. I mean, I wouldn't have gone to the funeral anyway, but it still would've been nice to know.”

“Why wouldn't you have gone to the funeral?”

“When my father died in 1979 I didn't go. Funerals are a waste of time. Anyway, when your grandmother—my mother—died, I was in no position to travel.”

“That's when Lawrence was shot,” said Sharon sadly.

“You were shot?!” Nancy and I asked in unison.

“Yeah. In 1985. I was living in East Flatbush running a stamp dealership out of my apartment. On the way home from the bank, a guy on a bicycle followed me and shot me three times in broad daylight just as I was getting into my elevator.”

“He almost died.”

“I still have one of the bullets in me somewhere.”

“Are you okay now?”

“Yeah.”

Two of the yellow Labs were jostling over which got to lick me.

“You know your grandmother—my mother—was allegedly involved with another man right after your grandfather died.”

“I didn't know that. I barely knew her.”

“She told me the guy took her for a lot of money.”

“So maybe that's what happened to your inheritance? And it had nothing to do with my mother?”

“Your grandmother was addicted to barbiturates and amphetamines. Uppers and downers. Who knows what state she was in when she told me that?”

I had no inkling that my grandmother was a self-medicated pill junkie holed up in bed. And, if true, I wondered how much of an influence that was on my mother.

I knew that my grandfather wrote college textbooks but Lawrence told me he was also a ghostwriter.

“He actually ghostwrote a book called
How to Control Your Blood Pressure
by a guy named Dr. Alexander Pomerantz. I think it was an Ace Books paperback.”

The fact that my late grandfather had ghostwritten a book for a doctor on blood pressure was alone worth the drive to Oregon.

“Did your mother ever tell you about
Dennis the Dizzy Dinosaur
?”

“No.”

“It was a children's book she wrote. It was probably in the late fifties. Your father illustrated it. They sent it to some publishers and the response was that dinosaurs were too scary for kids. Two months later, Sinclair Oil unveiled a dinosaur as their mascot and kids loved it.”

“How was the book?”

“I have to say I really liked it.”

 

We then went out to a really nice restaurant and spoke about Sharon's kids, grandkids, writing, computers and television shows. They were both really interesting people who, had they lived a little closer to us, we would have loved to see on a regular basis. And my uncle was a very cool, nice, smart guy—even before he insisted on picking up the check. I felt kind of bad for lying about the reason for our visit, but it seemed like a safe lie. Who would drive twenty-six hours round-trip just to see why his mother's siblings didn't speak to one another? At last now I had a little bit of closure. My mother had a tough life, continues to have a tough life, and grudges never make things any easier.

 

On the drive home, I didn't stop at Jack in the Box.

I had learned a valuable lesson from our trip to Oregon. Let things go immediately or they can fester forever. The thirteen-hour drive back to Los Angeles was one of the most tranquil days I'd ever experienced, and certainly the mellowest I'd ever been in a car.

In the meantime, for my birthday Nancy had bought me a series of private yoga classes at our house. Although my previous experience nearly ripped my hip out of my pelvis and set me back enough money to buy 1,700 yellowtail handrolls, I was healed and willing to give yoga a second chance. It's always worked for Nancy, who assured me that the instructor was aware of my past troubles and would keep a close eye on me. After the first at-home, I felt amazing. The Zoloft, Ayurvedic diet, Tai Chi and yoga were working in synergy.

Even Nancy agreed that I could soon drop myself down to 50 mg.

 

While cleaning out my car, I unearthed a glossy pamphlet for something called “Reiki by Sandi” that I'd found on a bulletin board in a Jamba Juice—where, incidentally, I am no longer allowed to frequent; the drinks are too cold and the bulk of the ingredients aren't Ayurveda-friendly.

According to the literature, Reiki (pronounced “ray-key”) “releases stress, increases tranquillity, accelerates the body's ability to heal physical ailments” and “medical studies have shown that treatment results in a significant reduction in anxiety.” This would allegedly be accomplished by the moving around of energy, and, I'd assumed, some words of wisdom thrown my way. Like Ayurveda, Reiki's been around for over 5,000 years. Unlike with Ayurveda, one is fully clothed for the procedure. Again, I was psyched to try something new.

When I called the number on the pamphlet I was saddened to learn that it had been disconnected. Apparently, the three-color printing had eaten away at Sandi's Reiki profits and she had to close up shop.

As I searched through phone books and the Internet for another Reiki master, I stumbled upon an alternative solution to alternative medicine. Distance Reiki. It would cost a mere $10 for a ten-minute session and I wouldn't have to drive anywhere. Plus, there were over 800,000 Google matches, so it had to be legit. I paid through PayPal and made an appointment via e-mail. The following is my entire correspondence with “Matrika.”

Eight minutes notice! What the hell is that? And why was he/she assuming I'm always online (even though I am always online)? Attempting to schedule this ten-minute session was starting to drain me.

I was getting pissed. This shouldn't have been this much of a hassle for ten minutes of her time over the Internet. (Nancy insisted Matrika was female because the name ends in an a.)

Okay…I'd been sitting around, staring at my in-box for six hours, which to me was not a “little bit.” I felt like a moron waiting for someone to answer an e-mail. Plus, I had a Christmas party that I didn't want to go to but had to and it was football season and I knew they wouldn't have the game on there and I'd be lucky if there was a morsel of anything Ayurvedic I could eat. I couldn't believe my day revolved around the writing whims of some irresponsible Reiki lady—especially after I'd PAID her $10 to “work” with me. For ten fucking minutes! That's $60 an hour! I wrote another e-mail, this time using CAPS to emphasize my displeasure.

Good! She's starting on time. I've rearranged my entire day over this ten-minute burst of insanity.

So I sat for over an hour and she didn't write me back a fucking word. I wondered if I just had way too many things wrong with me for her to type—perhaps Matrika was an awful typist who only pecked with her index fingers. Waiting to heal is one thing but waiting for someone to answer an e-mail sucks. Bread of Shame! Bread of Shame!

An hour later I had a feeling this was all a scam.

Another two hours later—nearly four full hours since she was about to “begin our session”—I still hadn't heard from Matrika. I'm a goddamned sap! I should've let things go but I couldn't. Another grudge had sprouted. Despite my spending thousands of dollars on trying to calm down, this $10 I was taken for was gnawing at me. The odd thing is that the big things in life I can handle better than most people—deaths, illness, losing a job—because I know there's nothing I can do about them. It's the little things that get me riled up because I unduly believe that I can change and affect the outcome. Which I know isn't practical because I usually can't. Damn, I could've used that extra 50 mg boost.

Two hours later I checked my PayPal account. The $10 had been transferred back to me by a guy named Pete with a hotmail address. Nancy was wrong.

 

I was still determined to do Reiki, but this time the traditional way. I Googled some more and found a Reiki woman in Tarzana. I called for an appointment and told her about my desire to calm down.

“Oh, you're gonna love this, then. It's great for getting rid of stress.”

It's also great for adding stress if the concept is poorly communicated to you and you have a PayPal account.

“Good. Should I bring anything?”

“Just some comfortable clothes. Oh, and you'll be coming to my home office. Is that all right?”

“Sure. Fine.”

I showed up in my sweats at über-suburbia. Predictably, I was forty minutes early and decided I didn't want to be seen lurking in front of her house. There was a school and playground a block away and I didn't want anyone thinking I was a perv. It's a similar feeling to the paranoia I experience when I walk into a store with something I already own and think they'll arrest me for shoplifting. That's why I often wave the previously purchased product in the air when I enter such a business, in hopes that their video surveillance cameras will verify proof of my ownership.

So, instead of being mistaken for a child molester, I'd try to be productive. I decided to get my car washed. While strangers with the keys to my vehicle were allegedly vacuuming and cleaning it, I would kill some time in the “gift shop.” Now, unless one collects things that hang from a rearview mirror or yearns for breath mints, there wasn't really much to buy. Then I saw something that would seemingly occupy me for a while. It was a large rotating Lucite tower filled with individual letters in separate compartments that could be used to build a customized bracelet. I was excited. I'd make one for Nancy that said something stupid on it. However, I soon noticed that it would be a nearly impossible task.

“Um…excuse me…but there are no
a
's…do you have any more
a
's? Or
e
's or
b
's, actually,” I said as I spun the tower around, searching frantically for vowels.

“Sorry,” the cashier politely responded. “No
a
's.”

I couldn't even spell “frustration.” Either get rid of the display or replenish the letters! Why does shit like that infuriate me? Is it the bad business sense of the owners? Is it the general apathy of people? Or is it my disappointment in myself because I really don't buy Nancy enough presents and have to rely on a car wash for my holiday shopping? I felt like knocking over the entire display by dragging my forearm across it as if angrily clearing a restaurant table. Then maybe my aggression would randomly spell some words on the sticky car wash gift shop floor. Although the preponderance of
x
's and
z
's made that unlikely.