Vandal

The therapist lays a photo on the table between us. A shot of my handiwork. The entrance

of my high school spray-painted in yellow four-foot letters stating Dumb Asshole.

“My first set of questions,” the therapist says, “is grammatical. Who in particular is the

cited dumb asshole? An individual in the student body? In the faculty? Or were you addressing

them all, in which case asshole should’ve been pluralized? Or possibly the singular usage was

intended, as if you were personifying, then vilifying, the academy as a whole?”

I don’t like this guy’s face. Nondescript. He’d be more interesting if he were cool-looking,

like some aging movie star, or ugly.

“I don’t know,” I reply. Which is true. That night when I was blasting graffiti, things

were moving so fast in my brain I can’t remember details.

He taps his pen against the notepad on his lap. “Just because the court mandated these

sessions doesn’t mean you should consider them a burden. Insincere answers won’t help me…or

you. I want you to grow from this. Not to mention, if my write-up claims you didn’t actively

participate with me, the judge has the power to ratchet up your punishment, possibly putting you

in jail.”

I rip my gaze from his, peek out his window. The sun sets over Manhattan’s Union

Square, the people on the sidewalks so little from twelve stories up. They look like bugs.

“I wasn’t being insincere,” I say, my legs fidgeting. “If I have something to say on a topic,

I’ll do it. I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid of anything really.”
 “Wonderful. Let’s rewind a bit, your life prior to the vandalism charge. I’m wondering

how a normal eighteen-year-old boy from a nice home, accepted into college, could make an

irrational decision like this just a few months before graduation.”

“It wasn’t a good college or anything.”

“It’s a reputable school. You should’ve been proud. Now your admission is revoked. All

for a silly doodle. I don’t understand what you gained.”

“Because you’re wrong about something.”

“And what might that be?”

“You called me a normal eighteen-year-old boy. That’s false. I’m not normal.”

I lean back in my chair to make sure he can see the full front of my tee shirt. It’s my

favorite. The color is basic, simple white, but on the chest is an image of a rotten banana peel.

It’s super weird.

He must tell I’m trying to show him it because he says, “Last weekend my wife and I

were at a gallery opening. They had a postmodern still-life piece that reminds me of the banana

design you’re wearing. Suburban Trash I believe it was called. Rather striking. We almost

bought it for our study. You have good taste.”

I feel a hotness on my cheeks. “Thanks.”

“Another painting there was even better. Relates to your generation in a vexing yet

accurate way. The left half was of four teen girls in Nineteen Fifties clothing putting on makeup

in the mirror of their high-school bathroom, subtly comparing themselves to each other from the

corners of their eyes. The other half was of a teen girl in modern attire looking at her cellphone

in a bathroom alone. On her screen were dozens of social-media photos from settings around the

world, in each a girl more beautiful than the next. Do you understand the message?”
 “No.” I rock forward. “I don’t relate to kids my age. I deleted all my social-media apps.

Remember what I said? I’m not normal. In fact, I’m quite deranged.”

“Golly. Deranged. That’s a strong word.”

“Why I used it.”

“And how might you be deranged?”

Want to find out what happens?

Pick up a copy of Vandal.