Workshop 2

“So, last week we spoke for the longest time since I came back from duty,” said a man speaking on the other side of the circle, to a synchronized nodding and humming of his peers. “…we shared a couple of sodas, and my relationship with my brother finally feels like it’s on the right track…” As far as Henry could tell, things with this man’s brother have felt like they’re on the right track for weeks already.

That always seemed the case with these people; things were on the right track; or things were chugging along; or every now and then, when things got really exciting, someone would go off the rails. Henry took a moment to wonder why trains were always the go to vehicular metaphor for basket-cases. Probably because they weren’t under the rider’s control—even when someone mentioned a car it was just to give Jesus the wheel.

“Henry?” A woman’s voice came from the head of the circle. Tina leaned slightly forward in her chair in the usual I’m-Here-But-I’m-Not-Imposing gesture; long braids tied back, with her usual combination of black jeans and long-sleeve shirt, as if she were trying to go unnoticed so as to pluck the darkest secrets from attendants’ heads when they least expected. “You haven’t said much in the last couple of weeks,” she said, likely preparing to pounce upon some terrible childhood trauma or adolescent shame. “Would you like to share something that’s happened recently?”

“Not really,” said Henry.

“I see,” said Tina, nodding as if there was actually something to see. “Perhaps, you’d like to share how Jason’s story made you feel?” She gestured towards the previous speaker, the name of whom Henry had heard many times before but never found reason enough to remember.

“Sure. I thought it was actually a pretty boring story,” said Henry, eliciting a unified breath from the rest of the circle, and the squeak of awkwardly adjusted chairs legs across the polished floor.

“What would make you say that?” Tina asked in her perpetually calm tone. “I think a lot of people here will have found Jason’s testimony very helpful.”

“It’s nothing personal,” said Henry, crossing his arms as he slumped down in his chair. “You expect us to come in every week with a story as if anyone can be that interesting.” Briefly looking over the faces gazing in his direction, he could feel himself becoming frustrated at their slack-jawed and bewildered expressions; he doubted they were getting much of anything from these sessions.

“Besides,” Henry continued. “I’m sure he’s tough enough to take the criticism.” He gestured towards the older man’s large physique. Jason sat slightly forward in such a way that emphasized his intimidating form. He didn’t look bewildered at all. More concerned, if anything, That annoyed Henry even more.

“It’s not about what’s interesting, Henry,” said Tina. “It’s about being heard. Everyone deserves that, even if it isn’t apparent to you.” She paused for some response and continued when she received none. “Jason’s been updating us on his relationship with his family, perhaps you can tell us something like that?”

“My whole family thinks I’m a loser, and my girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—has a restraining on me, so she obviously isn’t gonna hear me out.”

“Well, you did attempt to break into her house.”

“I broke a window!” Henry sat up, exasperated. “She knew it was me. She knew I wasn’t gonna do any harm!”

“Do you not think breaking someone’s window is doing harm?” Tina asked.

“I’ll apologize to the window the next time I see it,” said Henry, sneering all the while.

That would be how that week’s meeting came to a close. People often didn’t appreciate when he contributed anything, that was usually why he didn’t bother contributing. The other attendants went about congratulating each other on how much they’d shared, as Henry went about taking his share of the refreshments left on a nearby table; hunching over as he wrapped a fistful of cocktail sausages in paper napkins that he then stuffed into his jacket pocket.

“You don’t have to act like your stealing those. They are free, you know.” Tina appeared behind Henry suddenly, causing him to jump and scatter toothpicks and miniature pork-product across the tablecloth.

“Damn it,” said Henry. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Not sneaking, you’re just jumpy,” said Tina. “You’re not breaking in anywhere, you can just take the food.”

Henry gave a faux-chuckle at the friendly jibe. “I just know they’re looking over. Judging me. That’s all. They know I’m not like them,” he said as he wiped the grease from his slender fingers on to the off-white table cloth.

“No one’s looking at you, Henry.” Tina said, her brown eyes fixing upon him as if providing an exception to prove the rule. “There’s a whole world of experience going on that doesn’t involve you.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Is this how you get ‘em in these groups?” Henry asked. “First you beat ‘em down, the you hit ‘em with the God stuff.”

“It’s not about God,” said Tina. “I don’t believe in God. Half the people in here don’t believe in God.”

“Oh really, so what was with all the God talk in the last few sessions?”

“Because that’s the material they give me,” said Tina. “And most of these guys, as well as us, don’t have many other options. And, like I said, it’s not about God; it’s about learning there’s something bigger than yourself. Because there is.”

Henry, looking back into her eyes for a moment, felt something stir inside him. “Well, I mean,” he began, motivated by a sudden bravado that convinced him he was somehow debonair, regardless of what the rational part his mind might say. “You certainly seem bigger than me.”

“What?” Tina’s face became stiff, as her eyelids almost disappeared into her skull.

“I mean, not like that!” Henry said, panicked as he began to frantically put his lips together in an attempt to cobble together some sentence of clarity. “Like, you’re obviously not…physically bigger…I mean I’m bigger than you…like, I’m tall--taller than most men…Because that’s what I am…a man…and you’re a… woman…which doesn’t necessarily mean you’re small…but you’re not big…you’re a good…shape…”

“What are you doing?” Tina put out a hand for him to stop.

“I just thought there was a moment…”

“There wasn’t.” Tina said, cutting him off.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” said Tina, breathing a heavy sigh. “We all have different paths. And there all long. But some are longer than others. Do you know what I mean?”

“You’re saying I need to mature before you’d consider anything like that?”

“Well, no, that’s not what I mean; that’s not going to happen. But also, yes, for the record, I am not interested in robbing the cradle…”

“I’m not that much younger than you!” Henry interrupted in protested.

“Maybe not,” said Tina. “But you definitely seem to need a mother more than a girlfriend. Maybe work on that,” she added before turning to walk away.

Henry flushed, his whole body feeling as if it could collapse into itself; weighed down by his own density. His exit from the community centre was as Irish as he could make, just excluding the booze, and he went to walk the block to the nearest bus stop. As he made his way across the street, he passed a man the path of whom he would frequently cross, sat on the street with a sign that read: JUST A LOOK. The sign had drawn on it two pairs of bulging cartoon eyes. The sign caused him to try even harder to avert his gaze, as it often did.

Approaching the stop, Henry saw a man in a grey suit stood staring at the bus schedule. As he stood, he heard a muttering from nearby. Henry felt a pang of anxiety cause him to move his neck in the man’s direction. He was sure the muttering was coming from the besuited man, most likely judging him for his appearance, or simply capable of picking up on his shear character failings. The disheveled state of his brown hair falling about his face, or the dingy hue to his jeans, was probably all this well to do professional-type needed to pick up that he was an utterly pathetic piece of work. He looked down at his feet his, formerly white converse now turned grey, and proceeded to kick at the floor. He then remembered that he hadn’t yet eaten today, and he’d collected a bounty of sausages in his pocket.

To hell with whatever some suit would think of him.

Henry put his hand in his jacket pocket, hearing a louder mumbling than before, more frantic this time. He quickly darted a look at the man at the bus stop, who was now looking back at him, eyes grown wider. What was this guy’s problem? Henry wondered if he saw him as some kind of threat, or maybe the suit was the threat? Either one of them was mumbling to himself, or the other was hearing things—either way, someone wasn’t quite right.

Henry took out one of the sausages by the toothpick that was pierced through it. He decided to finally ignore any mumblings from nearby as he began to eat his meal, but as he brought the wiener closer to his mouth, a shout rang loud in his ears. “Stop!”

“What!?” Henry shouted at the suited man, who twisted and recoiled in shock at the exclamation. “What is your problem, man?” Henry continued. The man simply looked at him, eyes wider than ever, and eventually turning his gaze to the road and the floor beneath him, backed away slowly.

Henry shook his head before returning to the sausage, when he heard a shout again, this time clearly coming from in front of him. “Please, stop!” said the voice.

Henry’s body almost began to convulse upon the realization that the voice was coming from the cocktail sausage between his fingers.

“Oh, thank the gods!” came the voice again. “For so long we have pleaded for one of your kind to hear us, we thought we’d grow wings before such an event would occur! But now, you, for the first time, have proven there is hope for us!”

Henry simply cursed under his breath, as he started to go through the potential complications of having entirely lost his sanity.

“Please, we implore you, hear our tale!” The sausage continued. “We have been cut, and ground, and dehydrated, and impaled, all for the lackluster enjoyment of your kind. All the while screaming for mercy. But now our suffering is over! You, our saviour have come to lift us from torment!”

At that proclamation, a chorus began to sound from Henry’s jacket. A series of small voices chanting “Saviour, saviour, saviour!”

Henry moved to the nearest trash can, a large metal receptacle by the bus stop, and proceeded to desperately fling the skewered meats inside, caring little for the points of the toothpicks even as they pressed into his palm. Lamentations of betrayal and damnation came from the party snacks as they prayed for their saviour to not forsake them.

“I am not your saviour!” Henry screamed, turning his pocket inside-out, to check for any remaining sentient hors d’oeuvres. “I’m not their saviour,” he said to the suited man he noticed hadn’t quite left yet.

“Maybe not theirs, but you are mine,” came a deeper, echoing voice from beside him. When he turned, Henry could feel the boom of the voice emanating from the trash, but it was a sound quite distinct from the sausages. “This is the first good meal I’ve had in weeks. Nobody ever chucks anything nice away in here! Half the time I’m filled with razors and syringes. This neighbourhood’s really gone to the dumps!”

“It’s the trash!” Henry began to scream again, turning to the man nearby. “The trash is talking as well do you hear it?!” It was, at that point, the suited man’s turn to scream, falling backwards, begging for Henry to stay away from him, before staggering upwards again to launch himself down the street.