The Nuclear Age by Tim O’Brien Read Free Book Online Page B

screwy world?
    “Piss,” I muttered.
    My mother turned: “
What’s
that?”
    “Bombs,” I said.
    We took two rooms in a Holiday Inn—one for me, one for my parents—and the next morning they drove me across town to a dingy office building a few blocks down from the state capitol. As we were riding up the elevator, my father stood behind me with his hands on my neck and shoulders, massaging them as if to warm me up for a big race. “Nothing to it,” he said brightly. “Just level with the man, don’t hold back. Whatever’s on your mind.”
    “Suicide,” I said.
    “That’s the spirit. Anything.”
    For ten minutes we sat around in a sterile little waiting room. My mother kept humming. Every few minutes she’d get up and go to the water fountain and then dab at her lips with a shredded-up Kleenex.
    “Well, now,” she’d say.
    It took forever, but eventually the shrink came out and shook everybody’s hand and led us down a tight corridor to his office.
    Adamson was his name—Charles C. Adamson, that’s what his diplomas said—but while he was pouring coffee he made a point about how we had to call him Chuck. “Chuck-Chuck,” he said, “like in woodchuck,” then he smiled to show off his big front teeth. I looked away. Bad omens, I thought. Bare tile floors, two old armchairs, a sofa, a gray metal desk, flaking paint on the walls and ceiling. The office had a sour, slightly brackish smell, like the men’s room in a Greyhound bus depot, and right away, even before I sat down, I could feel the beginnings of a headache.
    I stayed calm. There was some small talk, some nervous energy, but finally the shrink looked at his wristwatch and said it might be a good idea if he and I had a private chat. He blinked and gave me a tentative grin.
    “Alone?” my mother said.
    “I think so. For starters.”
    She took a deep breath. “Private,” she chirped.
    My dad winked at me, raised a thumb, then led my mother out to the waiting room.
    Instantly, my whole body seemed to tense up. It was an itchy, clammy feeling—I couldn’t get comfortable—but the odd thing was that Adamson seemed a little jittery himself. He hustled over to his desk, opened a manila folder, and began chewing the skin around his fingernails.
    “So then,” he said, “here we are.”
    He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a stick of Doublemint.
    “Gum?” he said.
    “No, thanks.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Positive,” I said. “I hate Doublemint.”
    Adamson nodded. “Right, who doesn’t?”
    He picked up a pencil and tapped it against the bridge of his nose. All nerves, I thought. He was a reasonably young man, maybe thirty-five or so, but he seemed old and weary-looking, especially the eyes. The saddest eyes I’d ever seen—very tiny, very timid, a moist copper color.
    “So,” he said.
    There was a short pause, then he asked me to begin by telling him a few things about myself, a general self-description.
    “Just the basics,” he said. “Nothing fancy.” He gazed out the window, studying the big golden dome on the state capitol building. “Hobbies. School. One small request, though. If it’s possible, try not to bore me. Short and sweet. Make it peppy.”
    “Well, sure.”
    The man shrugged and showed me his front teeth.
    “No offense,” he said, “but you wouldn’t believe the crap I have to tolerate in this job. Same old sob stories, day after day, and I have to—” He stopped and blinked at me. “Anyhow, do your best. Feel free to pull the lid off.”
    “Look,” I said, “we can take a break if you want.”
    “No. Just keep it halfway interesting.”
    I was cautious. Briefly, as vaguely as possible, I outlined the bare facts of my life. I told him I was in good shape. An average kid, I said. Nothing unusual. Very sane.
    Adamson folded his fingers around the pencil.
    “Fine,” he murmured, “but what about—” He paused, flicking his tongue out. “What about your parents, for example? You get