Destination Sociopath: Phase 1, Narcissism

###

JOURNAL 1

CHAPTER 1

Today is May 19, 2008 and other than typing the date I have no idea how to start something like this. I guess it’s to be expected since I’m not a big fan of expressing my emotions, and even if I was, I certainly wouldn’t write them down in something that puts a blemish on my heterosexuality like a diary or journal. This is why I initially ignored the advice of the psychologist a month ago.

Obviously, my mind has changed dramatically since then, as I’m now watching my thoughts appear word for word on this computer screen. I don’t know if it’s because my father just came into my room and peed in my kid’s crib again (his Alzheimer’s condition has become almost unbearable), or if it’s just the dejected state of my existence in general, but I figure it’s time to try something different after noticing the negative affects the details of my life were having on my already high level of stress and anxiety due to the last seven years. With the only other option given by my doctor involving psychiatric medication, I decided a journal might not be such a bad idea.

Speaking of medication, let me express how annoyed I am with today’s diagnosis from my pill-pushing psychiatrist: Personality Disorder NOS (Not Otherwise Specified).

Really, Doctor? You’re telling me that my laundry list of personality disorders is so long that there’s no way to specify whatever problem I might have? This was how the doctor explained it to me:

To put it more simply, you have Mixed Personality Disorder. It means that you are suffering from an array of different indicators that match an assortment of personality disorder criteria. This is the reason I’m reluctant to label you with a specific diagnosis. You’re actually a prime candidate for at least, emphasis on the words at least, three different disorders: Anti-Social PD, Narcissistic PD, and a unique type of Schizoid PD that mental health professionals refer to as, Secret Schizoid. Again, you don’t have an overabundance (criteria-wise) of a particular PD to definitively place you. You are the epitome of being all over the place. Technically, the only classification that you would be correctly included, considering your NOS condition, is the Level 3 Complex Personality Disorder. This means you meet the criteria for one or more personality disorders within more than one cluster of PD. FYI, this is only one stage away from the Level 4 Dangerous and Sever Personality Disorder category that is the criteria for creation of severe disruption to not only an individual, but potentially to many in a society.

Yeah, this was his idea of simply put. And what was he insinuating with that FYI of his, does this quack think I’m some kind of mass murderer or something? I’m glad I secretly record all of my sessions with a digital voice recorder. No way would I have been able to remember this explanation well enough to do some research on his analysis when I got home if I hadn’t taped it.

It’s funny, but after doing a little Internet research I was starting to see what he was talking about. My head really was all over the place. If what I’m reading in these Wikipedia pages are true, and the characteristics of these personality disorders aren’t common to the average person as I assumed they were, maybe I do have issues—a lot of them.

So much so that I can’t help but wonder how all of this started. How did I allow myself to end up in such an unstable condition? This was definitely not how I envisioned going into my thirties, especially with me having such a good life in my twenties. Things were moving along great back then. I had a nice career, a gorgeous girl, a decent car and apartment; things were about as perfect as I knew perfect to be at that age. Then it all started to take a turn for the worse.

All right, I take it back; maybe I do know how to start all of this off. I can write about how I’ve arrived at a point in my life where I need to see a damn psychologist so someone can explain why I feel the outside world has become too painful and difficult to want to associate with it anymore. And I know exactly where to start the story. It might have been seven years ago, but I remember the time like it was yesterday. I wasn’t able to sleep at all that first night, not even a minute. I thought I was prepared for what I found out, but I apparently wasn’t. All I could think about at the time was the fact that Michelle, the only woman I’d ever loved, loved another man. I wasn’t shocked, the signs of it were all around, but to actually find hardcore evidence of the infidelity was not only a blow to my heart but to my psyche as well. That morning I told myself over and over, You knew this was going to happen. It was a futile attempt to combat the immense shock and heartbreak that I’d been suffering from the entire night.

It was at that exact moment that my cell phone rang. I knew who it was without even looking at the caller ID; he always seemed to call when I was having a problem, a type of sibling sixth sense, if you will. It was my older brother Jerald. For as far back as I can remember, Jerald has been there guiding me through all of my child and adulthood bumps in the road. Any time I was going through something difficult, be it a simple problem or a life-changing ordeal, he was there.

Hello, I replied.

"What do you mean, ‘Hello’?" Jerald said. What’s bothering you?

Yup, he was good. I paused for a second to contemplate how he could have known that I was going through something. Since I didn’t recall making any calls the prior night; I replied with Why would you ask that?

Because you sounded all formal, answering the phone with ‘hello’, when you normally answer with some type of slang like ‘hey,’ or ‘watts up’?

Observant bastard, I thought to myself.

My brother was good at recognizing changes of pattern. Growing up, he would always tell me to listen, pay attention, and remember what a person says and how they act. That way, if you detect differences in their patterns, you can make a better judgment regarding the validity of what’s being said or done. He got that bit of advice from my father who was the best at reading people.

I wasn’t ready to share what had happened the previous night; just hearing him ask, What’s wrong with you now? made my stomach twist in knots. So I replied, I have to get dressed and go to work, I’ll tell you about it later.

Having a severe big brother complex, he asked, You sure? I’ll be down there in 4.6 seconds if you need me to whoop somebody’s ass!

It’s funny, because he really would. Like a young Mike Tyson, it was like his body was made for brawling. He was short compared to me, about five-ten, but he had all the muscles, which meant he was always ready to take off his shirt to show the physique and fight. So I told him, Bring it down a notch; it’s nothing like that. I’ll call you back later.

It was a convincing enough response for him to think that I didn’t need him to play the cavalry role right then. The one thing my siblings and I would go to war over would be our immediate family; it was a bond my parents embedded in us early.

All right, hit me up later,he replied, to which I hung up the phone and lethargically tossed it on the couch.

This was, up to that point in my life, the roughest morning I’d ever had. I had one of those lack-of-sleep migraines, not to mention a nauseating feeling in my stomach. Even still, I decided to go to work. I hated using sick days because I was ill, I always preferred to save as many as I could so I would get paid for them at the end of the year. Because of this, I didn’t concede to the fact that I needed to take the day off until I got to the gas station and noticed that I’d forgotten to brush my teeth and had two different color shoes on. The fact that it took as long as it did before I recognized such obvious oversights made me a little skeptical of my ability to manage the millions of dollars I was responsible for with the finance position I held.

A quick voicemail to the HR guy telling him I would be taking the day off and I was headed back to my apartment.

Normally, a day off from work would be one of life’s great pleasures, but when your heart is broken it could be the worst thing imaginable. When you’re at work, at least the mind is somewhat focused on a job at hand. When you’re at home, not doing anything, all your mind has to focus on is the reason you feel as bad as you do. Which was exactly what my mind had already started doing.

I needed to talk to somebody just so I could hear a voice other than the one in my head that was constantly replaying the details of what I’d experienced. I decided to call a friend of mine who had recently become a firefighter. It’s a civil service job, so of course he had all the free time in the world to be that other voice I needed. I dialed the number, and after it rang a few times, he answered, What’s up, Kid?

He was raised in New York, so he was always referring to people as kid or son. It’s funny how the lingo switches depending on where you live.

What up, B? I replied.

His name was Brian, but of course that had too many syllables, so to shorten it we all just called him B. What you up to? I asked.

Lounging, just dropped my girl off at her job. Why aren’t you at work? he quickly replied.

I felt like getting my three-day weekend on, I answered. Just then, I remembered his girl owned a 500-Series Mercedes Benz. So, we’re in the Benz today?

It’s funny, but I can still remember the feeling of excitement that engulfed me over the idea of driving around in one of the hottest cars on the street at the time. The year was 2001, so Bentleys and Maseratis weren’t main-stream yet, and with every music video featuring a Mercedes, the consensus was clear that the 500-Series was definitely the car to have.

You know it, he replied. I’ll be over there when I get fresh, he concluded before hanging up the phone.

It was at this point that I tried to get my mind to convince my body that good times were ahead. I didn’t want a migraine and stomach issues when I was about to be in the passenger seat of the most envied car on the street. I quickly took my tailored slim Banana Republic pants, Armani dress shirt, and leather loafers off and threw on the Levis jeans, new white T-shirt, and Nike Air Force 1 sneakers and was good to go. I’ve always considered the ability to adapt to any social environment as an impressive and unique quality to have. The knack to go from corporate to street and wherever in-between at the drop of a dime and fit right in is definitely a skill.

Let’s roll, son, Brian shouted through the intercom.

As I opened my apartment door, I could already hear the music blasting from his car. I love it when you call me Big Poppa. It was an old, but I guess not that old at the time, hip hop song by the Notorious BIG. My spirit got a much-needed boost when I heard the chorus: Throw your hands in the air if you a true player.

This caused an instant change in my morale. Those numbing thoughts that had occupied my mind from the previous night’s ordeal were being replaced by the optimism of a good time ahead. The day was officially on.

As I exited the lobby heading for the street, I noticed that Brian had already snagged a couple of women who were driving pass. That car was definitely a game changer. This was why I was so excited about that day. We were working with guaranteed bait; fishing with dynamite as they say. We were already blessed with good looks and stature with both of us being six-five and each having that athletic, basketball player physique. We also shared the same bi-racial ethnicity. The only difference was that his dad was white and his mother was black, while my father was black and mom was white. We definitely stood out in a crowd. Now add the Benz into the equation, and like I said, we were going to blow the fish out of the water. The two women who had flocked to him between the time he buzzed the intercom and the moment I walked outside, which couldn’t have been more than two minutes, confirmed it.

As I approached the car, they were exchanging pleasantries – names, ages, and so forth. They were nice-looking women. Both were tall, standing around five-eight or so, with each having average lingerie measurements. One had shoulder-length hair and the other’s was fairly longer. I gave them a seven rating on a scale of one to ten, so I wasn’t that excited to meet them.

I shook Brian’s hand, not in my corporate way, but in the way most young guys do with each other in social situations, ending ours with a snap of the fingers. He introduced me to the ladies and we talked to them for around five minutes before getting their numbers and making our way off. As we were driving, we could see the girls through the side mirrors screaming and high-fiving each other, a typical reaction from women in their rating group. They aint ready, we said simultaneously as we drove pompously down the street.

It was still fairly early and neither of us had eaten. We wanted to eat at a place where we had the best chance of finding a good catch (female wise), as well as a decent breakfast. Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles was the obvious choice. We decided to go to the Sunset and Gower location. The Pico and La Brea spot was our normal location, but since we were in the Benz that day, we decided the flossier spot would be the Hollywood location . . . not to mention, it was a prime destination for women with the cultures Brian preferred to date.

I can still remember Brian enthusiastically telling me about his epiphany in which he noticed that women from the eastern hemisphere (Asian, Middle Eastern, and so forth) were a lot more manageable, naïve, and freaky than those from the western hemispheres. You would think the boy just struck gold or something from the way this discovery excited him.

Anyway, the drive was Southern California at its best. The sky was powder blue and remarkably clear with the Pacific Ocean’s offshore flow blowing the smog east toward the desert, opening up miles and miles of picturesque views. The most invigorating of which, at least to me, was the sight of the snowy mountaintops behind the downtown skyscrapers, not only because of the beauty it exudes, but also due to the combination of the four unique characteristics that I just used to describe it. No other place in the world is quite like LA.

Name another city where, with one full tank of gas, you can go from riding ATV’s in the desert in the morning, to jet-skiing at the beach or lake in the afternoon, watch the sunset as you hike in the mountains in the evening, and then round out the day with snow-boarding and a hot-toddy back at the cabin at night. Why let nature choose the seasons when you can adjust your location so easily and choose your own?

It was around twelve o’clock and we’d almost hit Sunset Boulevard traveling from La Cienega. We didn’t do a lot of talking during the drive, which I think is pretty normal for guys. We would have an occasional conversation, but a drive for us generally consisted of loud music and text messaging. The conversations could be saved for when we got to wherever we were going.

We made a right onto Sunset, which almost put us at our destination. We got nothing but stares and double takes from people that we passed along the way, all with the I-wonder-what-sports-team-they-play-for type gaze as they squinted their eyes in an attempt to make out who we were. The typecasting didn’t bother us one bit. We only had this car for the day, which meant whatever prize we were going to receive from it would have to be redeemed within the day as well, and since most of the women hooking up with guys within this particular timeframe are groupies of men with entertainment professions, it was actually the look we were trying to achieve.

As we made a left on Gower, it was fitting that the only available parking spot be the green loading area directly in front of the restaurant. This was the smallest Roscoe’s, so people were always hanging outside as they waited to receive a table—just the crowd we wanted as we drove up and parked the car.

We took our time doing so, of course. We needed to stretch the moment to make sure every possible female standing outside of the restaurant noticed our vehicle. A pretty easy task considering everyone’s attention had already been grabbed with us blasted Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody as we stalled. A song selection that I tried to get him to change before we turned the corner, but what can I say, Brian loved that song. At least he timed it so that we pulled up during the rock part and not the ballad.

"Beelzebub has a devil put aside

for meeeeee,

for meeeeeeeeeeeeee,

for meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Alright let me stay focused. So after the head banging and air guitaring (Wayne and Garth aint got nothing on our car performances) we finally exited the car and walked towards the entrance. Brian nonchalantly handed the security guy a twenty dollar bill to overlook the loading zone parking infringement we were committing. We had to fit the persona of people who would be driving in this type of vehicle, and parking in the parking lot was not the way to do it.

We entered the restaurant and made our way to the hostess where we put our names on the list. This time I handled the persuasion aspects by casually handing her twenty dollars, after which I was told that we’d get the next available seat.

Brian and I made a great team. His game not only complimented my game; it validated it and vice versa. We were definitely the epitome of how good wingmen should be, and it was time to show and prove it.

When we initially pulled up to the restaurant we spotted a couple of culturally ambiguous women waiting to be seated. Since we already drooled over their gorgeousness while we were parking, it was easy for us to stick to our approach of ignoring them while we worked the room, figuring that they were already getting enormous amounts of attention by every guy in the restaurant as they waited for their table. Besides, we knew how enticing the Benz looked dangling on our ‘hook’, now it was time to see if it ‘baited’ them enough to take a bite.

We separately attempted to make eye contact, putting them on notice that they’d been noticed. Once eye contact was made, Brian and I began to converse among ourselves again. We figured this gave the girls ample time to get excited about us as they returned to their own conversation. After thirty seconds or so, a replay of the let’s-get-some-eye-contact game was played. This time, the women sent smiles in return, solidifying our assumption that things were about to go our way. Brian nodded to one of the girls, gesturing our intention to approach them to which they smiled to show their approval. During a brief conversation we learned their names (Lilith and Yasmine), and our table for two suddenly turned into a table for four.

We were seated quickly, which delighted the women who’d been told it would be about a forty-five minute wait. The twenty dollars given to the hostess had already paid off. Once we were seated, we exchanged the rest of the initial basics—age, relationship status, etc. With that out of the way, we scanned the menus. We all ordered the same thing: three wings and a waffle. To guarantee our fill, Brian and I added an extra waffle and cheese eggs to our meals.

While we waited for our food, we found out that the women were Syrian. All I knew about Syria was that it was in the Middle East, and by the looks of these two, the nation produced very beautiful women. Then they inquired about the details of our occupations. Brian said he was a professional baseball player, a lie that would easily be accepted with his access to the Mercedes. I asked him once why he always chose baseball as his fake sports profession to which he explained that with so many people on a baseball team, not to mention the fact that most girls know nothing about baseball, it’s the sport with the least risk of getting him caught in a lie. His slick ass was truly a pro at this.

I, on the other hand, didn’t have access to luxury automobiles, so I kept it real with my accounting profession. I also wasn’t that big on all the lying since I hated the work it took to keep track of what I was lying about. (Wow, my mind-set regarding lies has definitely flip flopped since then.)

Anyway, the girls told us how they were both students at USC. They were also second-generation rich kids whose parents owned a handful of trendy restaurants in the Brentwood and Beverly Hills area, so when they insisted for a second time on paying the bill to show their appreciation for sharing our table, we accepted without feeling that our manhood was in question.

Brian kicked me under the table and whispered, See why I date women from these regions?

I definitely did. You had a better chance of winning the state lottery than finding a woman from LA who would pick up a tab like that.

As usual, our newfound friends accompanied each other to the bathroom where they were probably going to discuss the same thing we were as we waited for them to return—who was going to end up getting who? Truth be told, I was a little intimidated by them both. At that time, I had never dated someone out of my race. I dated a couple of Hispanic women, but they’re basically sistas with accents.

These girls were different; they were women from a completely different culture, who spoke a completely different language made of sounds that I’d never even heard before. Not to mention that I really wasn’t at the top of my game with all that I had on my mind from the previous night. Technically, I should have realized it was too soon for me to go out when I noticed how queasy my stomach got as I watched Brian talk to those girls he met in front of my apartment. The sight of them flirting made me wonder if Michelle was out meeting guys like that.

With all of this going on in my head I told Brian to choose, and after about five minutes of debating the different characteristics they had that we each preferred, not to mention the various vibes that we had gotten from them over our breakfast, we were still left without a clue as to who was getting who. As they came out of the bathroom, we would find our conversation pointless as the girls had made the decision for us. Yasmine grabbed Brian’s arm and cuddled close to him while Lilith did the same as she sat by me. About ten minutes of small talk passed before Yasmine asked, You guys want to hang out a little while longer?

This quickly brought another kick from Brian. He didn’t have to repeat himself though; I definitely saw why he preferred to date the women of these cultures. What did you two have in mind? I asked.

Let’s get some herb and go back to our place, Yasmine replied.

With that statement, we knew the fish had been caught. Not just any fish; these were some gotdamn great white sharks. We quickly agreed to their proposal, and after dropping a tip for the waitress we headed for the exit with our new friends by our side.

As we made our way to the door, I noticed people were giving off a much different vibe from when we originally entered. I was used to girls giving the woman I was with a good stare down, like they were checking to see the type of female that someone like me would be with. This time was different though. These stares had more of a we-should-be-ashamed-of-ourselves type of look. It eventually dawned on me that it was because the women we were leaving with weren’t black. Like I said, this was a new experience for me, so I wasn’t used to the response associated with interracial dating.

My mind immediately imagined what my black father and white mother must have went through being married in the 1960s. The thought made me consider how much they must have loved each other to persevere through such racially insensitive times. Of course, as soon as I thought of love, my mind was redirected to thoughts of Michelle, so it was critical for me to get the hell out of there.

We finally got to the street, where Brian successfully contacted a weed connection that he had in Hollywood. The guy said he had some fire, a term used for the most potent marijuana, so we quickly made our way over there. As we pulled into his driveway, a fairly tall, dreadlocked Jamaican man was waiting on the porch. Brian got out and did the handshake, which exchanged our money for the product we were buying, and we were on our way. As we were driving, it was obvious the dealer wasn’t lying about it being fire; you could smell how potent the weed was through the sealed baggy. Technically, at a $100 an eighth, you should be able to smell it from down the freaking block.

After about a thirty-minute drive consisting of winding, uphill roads, we finally arrived at the girls’ place in the Hollywood Hills, a very well-off area of Los Angeles where the rich and famous liked to engage in their Melrose Place type lifestyles. Most would recognize it as the mountains where the famous Hollywood sign is located. The girls had an astonishingly gorgeous house with a huge patio overlooking all of Los Angeles. It was the kind of place you’d only see on MTV Cribs or something. I mean, I was expecting to see something lavish with us traveling as far as we did up that mountain. I knew the further up you went, the more expensive the property got, but this was ridiculous. Of course, I had to restrain myself from being too amazed by our surroundings so we could keep up the impression that Brian was a professional ball player.

This is a really nice spot you got here, I said, trying to pass for a guy familiar with wealth. In reality what I wanted to say was: Damn, this is the tightest place I’ve ever seen in my freaking life.

As we walked in, we were asked to take off our shoes. Looking at their snow-white carpet and huge Persian rugs, you could understand why. We were told to make ourselves comfortable, and after drinks were offered and made, we began the chitchat. Brian started breaking up the weed so we could put it in the newly emptied Swisher Sweets cigar wraps, and after each rolling a blunt (to see whose rolling skill was better), we lit the best one first and put it into rotation. Each puff taken was immediately followed by a cough. The inside of my chest felt like it was a thousand degrees as the smoke engulfed my lungs. That was why it was called fire, because that was how your upper body felt when you inhaled it.

The blunt was rotated between the four of us a few more times before we put it out. We’d each had multiple hits, and by the time it was down to a size that could no longer be held we were all high as hell. Almost on cue with the weed’s cherry being smothered, Yasmine seductively kissed Brian and started to guide him to her bedroom. He flashed me the peace sign, and just like that they were off.

Recognizing that I was about to be alone with Lilith, conflicting and anxious feelings began to bombard body. So much so that instead of being able to focus on one of the hottest women I’d ever been around, all I was able to think about was how broken my heart must be that I wasn’t able to enjoy the moment. I had no idea what was going on. I tried to maneuver around the awkwardness of our friends being in the next room doing what they were doing, so I lit the other blunt and said in a playful way, You must need a little bit more weed in your system to get things crackin’.

Not really, she replied. She inched closer and began to unzip my jeans while kissing me.

A big smile took over her face as she liberated my dick from its clothed confinement. You won’t find this on a man from Syria, she said as she slowly stroked it up and down and then placed it in her mouth. About a minute and a half would pass before she rose up and began to lead me to her bedroom. Halfway there I stopped.

I can’t do this, I told her. I got too much on my mind right now.

Excuse me? she replied. What can’t you do?

I can’t go with you to the room. My head is too screwed up over issues with my girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend, whatever the hell she is now.

Issues with a girl that you don’t even know if you’re with or not is keeping you from this? she replied smugly while motioning to her body like she was Vanna White revealing the next puzzle on the Wheel of Fortune. Wow, that’s sad, she said with a chuckle.

By this time I could hear moaning and squeaking bed noises coming from Yasmine’s bedroom. This must have given Lilith enough motivation for one last attempt to move things in a sexual direction.

You don’t want them to be the only ones having fun, do you? She said while pulling me to her room by my dick which I had yet to tuck back inside my jeans. My reluctance to follow her was the last straw.

Wow, this is definitely a first, she said in an annoyed voice as she walked alone to her bedroom and slammed the door, leaving me in that beautiful living room by myself. I had nothing else to say but This is fucking sad.

Rather than waiting around for Brian to finish what my broken heart possessing ass couldn’t, I decided to avoid any further embarrassment and I took a cab home. Besides, I would definitely have some explaining to do after passing up what was sure to be a very nice sexual experience. It was an explanation that would involve clarifying what happened between Michelle and me the previous night, and I wasn’t ready to divulge that information yet. Having no other option, I grabbed what was left of the blunt we were smoking and made my way out of the house and into the unfamiliar mountain area surrounding it.

Funny the places life chooses to dump you sometimes.

CHAPTER 2

It only took about twenty minutes for the cab to arrive, which felt like hours as I replayed what had happened with Lilith over and over in my mind. It’s not that I regretted what I did, or I guess, didn’t do, in regard to sleeping with her. Beautiful women are a dime a dozen in California. I was bothered by the fact that I couldn’t come up with a decent reason as to why I didn’t hook up with her.

Not wanting to torture myself with the thought of it anymore, I decided to call my brother back. He was sure to be calling soon anyway with his Professor X mind-reading abilities. Besides, late afternoon traffic in LA guaranteed me at least an hour of free time to talk, especially from Hollywood where we would have to fight the crowded 101 freeway.

Feeling weird about the idea of telling somebody my story, I felt a sigh of relief when I got Jerald’s voicemail. Thinking that my responsibility had been fulfilled in attempting to reach him, I prepared to leave a message. My preparation would be for nothing, as I noticed his incoming call. If he’d called five minutes later, I could have ignored it; you could get real busy in this city in five minutes. A ten-second time lapse between a missed call though, required an answer.

Watts up, big bro? I said.

Don’t ‘Watts up’ me now, he replied. What’s the problem?

I paused for a second, not really knowing where to start. I tried to stall.

It’s nothing, I’m already over it, I told him.

Quit bullshitting dammit. These cell minutes aren’t free.

He was right. It seemed like they charged thirty dollars a minute once you went over your plan back in those days. The outstanding Sprint balance I had back then for $670 was proof of that.

It’s Michelle, I told him. Do you remember me telling you about her ex-boyfriend who was in the military?

Who, your twin? he answered, trying to be funny.

Michelle loved light-skinned men, so all of her boyfriends fitted that profile for the most part. And from the pictures I’d seen, her ex and I did favor each other quite a bit with pretty much our only physical difference being the multitude of tattoos that were inked all over his body, a practice I decided a long time ago I would refrain from. With everyone around me getting them, I figured I’d be showing more individuality by not following the trend. Besides, I knew from my interning at various corporations that my race made it complicated enough to succeed in the corporate world, so I didn’t need anything extra on my body that might accentuate any stereotypes.

Yeah, yeah, him, I answered. Well, last night she sent me to get something out of her car; I can’t even remember now what it was. Anyway, when I looked under the seat I found an envelope addressed to him that she was mailing to some address in South Korea.

That was all I was able to get out before that nauseating feeling from earlier came back full blast, so much so that I had