The Book of Joe by Jonathan Tropper Read Free Book Online Page B

2000. Now the town is solidly immersed in recession, and every block has at least one FOR SALE sign planted on the front lawn. Even though the houses generally look well maintained and the lawns immaculate, there's a sense of desperation in this quotidian tidiness, as if now, more than ever, these carefully tended homes are nothing more than facades concealing unknowable and irreparable damages.
    I turn left onto Diamond Hill Road and drive past my father's house, which concealed its own share of damage long before Porter's went belly-up. I slow down to take in the slightly sloping front lawn, at the top of which sits the square two-story colonial in which I grew up. The aluminum siding, a pale shade of blue when I was a kid, is now a dirty eggshell color, and the hedges growing beneath the dark picture window of the living room aren't nearly as tall or dense as I remember, but otherwise the house is exactly the same. I stop the car and take a deep breath, anticipating some sort of emotional reaction to my childhood home, and I come up empty. I haven't always been this dispassionate; I'm fairly certain of that. Is it a function of time and distance, or have I simply shed over the years what general sensitivity I once possessed? I try to recall a time in recent memory that I expressed any heartfelt emotion to another person, and can't come up with a single instance of sentiment or passion. Turning right onto Churchill, I'm troubled by the notion that while I wasn't looking, I seem to have become an asshole. This leads to a brief, syllogistic argument. The fact that I suspect I'm an asshole means I probably am not, because a real asshole doesn't think he's an asshole, does he? Therefore, by realizing that I'm an asshole, I am in fact negating that very realization, am I not? Descartes's Asshole Axiom: I think I am; therefore, I'm not one.
    It is debates like this one, and the sneaking suspicion that I'm losing the overall capacity to give a shit, that led to my brief and ill-fated stint in therapy. One of the drawbacks I've discovered to being a fiction writer is that I seem never to fully inhabit the moment at hand. Part of me is always off to the side, examining, looking for context and subtext, imagining how I'll describe the moment after it's gone. My therapist, Dr. Levine, felt it had nothing to do with being a writer and everything to do with being egocentric and insecure, which I thought, true or not, was a pretty harsh judgment to arrive at twenty-five minutes into our second session.
    â€œWhat's more,” he informed me at the time, “your penchant for self-analysis—which is, by the way, another manifestation of your egotism—is further complicated by immense feelings of inferiority. You don't allow yourself to become fully engaged because deep down you feel undeserving of approval, love, success, et cetera. All of the things you crave.”
    â€œDon't you think you should get to know me better before making such categorical statements?” I said, somewhat put off by his remarks.
    â€œDon't be defensive,” he chided me. “It just slows down the process. You're not paying me to be gentle.”
    â€œI'm not being defensive.”
    â€œYou sound defensive.”
    â€œThat's because it's patently impossible to deny being defensive without sounding defensive.”
    â€œExactly!” Dr. Levine said enigmatically, sitting back in his chair and scratching the ridiculous little goatee that made his mouth look suspiciously like a vagina. I wondered if he'd grown it for just that reason, being such a resolute Freudian and all. He pulled off his gold-rimmed spectacles and cleaned them absently with his necktie. Then, replacing them on his nose, he asked me the question that all therapists invariably fall back on when creativity fails them before the hour's up. “Tell me about your father.”
    â€œOh, come on. You can do better than that.”
    â€œDon't you think it's a