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Lexapros and Cons

Farrar, Straus and Giroux

In the past year, I masturbated exactly 468 times. That's an average of 9 times a week and 1.28 per day. I'm not sure what impresses me more, though — the fact that I jerk off so much, or the fact that I actually kept a running tally for an entire year. But I did. On a growing stack of Post-its in the drawer of my nightstand. Jerk off, make a note of it, go to sleep, routine.

The thing is, routines make up a huge part of my life. Okay, well, maybe "routines" isn't the right word. I know the right word now, but for a while I didn't. Basically what happened was that on January 1st of last year, I jerked off. For some unknown, unexplainable reason, I thought to myself, I wonder how many times I do this in a year? Of course, the proper thought process for a typical, red-blooded teenager would be, I should get a girlfriend, that way I won't have to jerk off so much. But for whatever reason that's not the first thought that popped into my head.

My problem wasn't January 1st, though, it was January 2nd, when I jerked off again, and then made a note of it. Once I start doing something, no matter how idiotic, I can't stop. It's all I can think about. I tried to halt the tally in mid-March but then I couldn't sleep in that post-wank, pre-checkmark state, thinking, Why not just keep the list going? You've made it so far! Then I would make the tally, feel better, and then get up to pee. I also pee a lot.

The weird thing about all my "routines" is that I'm acutely aware of how crazy they are. It's not normal to get up to pee fifteen times before going to bed. I know I just peed, there could not possibly be any more urine in my bladder. I'm not gonna piss the bed; everything will be fine. But then I start to think about it until I can't help jumping out of bed and going to the bathroom. It's like if you start thinking about swallowing or breathing or blinking. Then that becomes the only thing you can think about. But eventually you forget. That's like me and peeing, except I never forget and it happens every single night. So I pee a lot.

I've got a few other bad "habits." The stove — well, the stove is a fucking nightmare. If I don't check the burner thingies, I'm convinced the house is gonna burn down with me, my sister, and my parents inside. When the stove is on, a little light goes on to alert you. But what if the light breaks? There are four burner thingies; you could theoretically walk past the stove and not realize that one of the knobs wasn't set to Off. Then, let's say a dish towel fell off the refrigerator handle (which is all the way across the kitchen, but let's just say), it landed on the burner, caught fire, and the entire Taylor family died in a horrible burner-thingy accident. I'm consumed by this thought. So I check the burners and the knobs by hand. Over and over. Several times a day. My parents barely even use the stove. I masturbate more than they cook.

The thing that really got me, though, was the hand washing. That's when I started to think, Man, maybe you have a problem. If my hands are dirty, I absolutely have to wash them. But my definition of dirty and your definition of dirty are probably very different. You probably wash your hands after you eat chicken wings or take a shit. I must wash my hands after touching animals, small children, public mailboxes, elevator buttons, money (especially coins), other people's hands, all food (plus salt, pepper, and condiments), and anything I consider "natural" (grass, dirt, wood, etc.). I wash my hands a lot. Sometimes it's the only thing I can think about.

Like I said, the hand washing is what first got me. If you Google "I keep track of how often I masturbate," you're not gonna get a lot of hits. Well, you'll get a boatload of hits — just not anything relevant or appropriate to be displayed in a high school computer lab. But if you Google "I can't stop washing my hands," it's a whole different story. Most of the results will point to one thing. What I do are not "routines." They're compulsions. You know when you read something and you're just like, Fuck, that's me! Well once I read this thing, I knew I had it.

My name is Chuck. I'm seventeen years old. And according to Wikipedia, I have OCD.

My name isn't actually Chuck. It's Charles. Why anyone would ever name a baby Charles I've never figured out. It's like my parents were living in nineteenth-century England or something. I'm named after my mom's grandfather, who she claims was a real intimidating guy. He died way before I was born, so we never met, but how badass can you be if your name is Charles? Fortunately, no one actually calls me Charles. I go by Chuck. That's what everyone at school calls me. Though, I guess "everyone" is relative. I'm pretty much invisible at school. Let's just say that's what my teachers and my one friend call me. Whatever. It's better than Charles.

Perhaps you've picked up on it by now (but probably you haven't) — my full name is Chuck Taylor. And unlike my great-grandfather, there is a Chuck Taylor in history who definitely was a badass. This Chuck Taylor was a basketball player in the 1920s. He worked for Converse and eventually had their most popular shoe named after him — the super-famous Chuck Taylor All Star. People call them Chucks or Cons and when I first saw a pair I thought it was the coolest thing ever. I mean, it's got my name right on the side! Soon, though, like everything else in my life, Cons became an obsession.

My mom was actually thrilled when I told her I wanted my first pair of Cons a few years ago. I had never really given the sneakers much thought until my best friend Steve found a Chuck Taylor biography in the school library. It only took a few pages for me to realize that I was destined to wear Cons. Chuck Taylor, that dude in Grease, Kurt Cobain, and then Chuck Taylor again. I loved the symmetry. Symmetry makes my brain feel nice.

When my mom found out I wanted $45 sneakers to replace the $85 ones I had worn out, she was more than willing. She actually bought me a few pairs — all high-tops because the low-tops don't have my name on them, and always solid colors because, well, I don't know ... they just seem cleaner looking to me. My mom knew I had a thing for Cons and she encouraged it. Anything I got into, as long as it wasn't drugs (sharing the same pipe with six other people? Please!), she encouraged. There wasn't much. I guess when your only son is a nutcase who touches the stove more than you do, you'll do anything to put a smile on his face. I built a nice little Converse collection out of that pity.

But there's only so many sneakers a kid can have, even at $45 a pop, and Mom stopped buying them for me, so I had to dip into my savings account. I had some money in there from bonds I got when I was born and also from what passes as my weekly allowance. I could buy a pair of Cons every month just from that, and pretty soon I had amassed a mountain of them in my closet — every solid color available. And that's when things got weird.

Here's the thing. I'm not shy, it's just that no one really gives a shit about what I have to say (besides Steve and Mom, who don't count). So I'm quiet. But I'd rather be shy. Shy and quiet are different. Shy means you can't speak up. Quiet means you don't want to. This past summer was especially rough because Steve went away with his parents for like two months. It was just me and my Cons, stuck in Plainville with nothing to do. The only one who ever asked me how I was feeling was Mom, who, again, doesn't count.

Now I've always kept the closet in my bedroom so organized you'd probably hesitate before touching anything in it — like it's a museum (which is sorta the point). However, my method for choosing which Cons to wear was actually quite haphazard — I'd grab whatever pair struck my fancy that day and run out the door. But haphazardness, as you might imagine, is generally not something I can tolerate for long. One morning, I walked in on my younger sister Beth using my laptop — which she knows she's not allowed to do. I yelled at her but she just ignored me and walked out of my room. Beth is brilliant at ignoring me. Worst sister ever. I was angry. I grabbed my red Cons. On my way out the door, Mom asked how I was feeling. I said, "Fine."

Somewhere, deep in my brain, deep down in a synapse, a neuron fired. Angry = red Cons. The next day, I was more tired than anything. The red Cons were still there of course, but I wasn't angry anymore. I chose the orange Cons instead. Tired = orange. And so my system was born. Whatever I was feeling that morning would determine which sneakers I wore that day. The colors themselves didn't make much sense — orange and tired really have no connection — but the connection was made in my head. And just like with the stove-checking or my masturbation tally, once a connection is made in my head, I can't break it. So instead of expressing myself like a normal kid, I began using my Cons as a kind of shorthand. Every day, a different mood, a different color. A little threat-level advisory code of my emotions. Except no one — not even Steve — realized what I was doing.

Steve and I hang out a lot in his basement, mostly playing video games.

"Did you see Sensual Moon III last night on Skinemax?" Steve asks.

"There's a Sensual Moon III? I didn't even know there was a Sensual Moon II," I respond.

Steve is really into those softcore porn movies they play on cable late at night. He goes to sleep, then sets an alarm to wake up in three hours and turn on the TV.

"Hell yeah there was a Sensual Moon II; that was the best one!"

Steve loves Skinemax. Even though every guy in the universe uses the Internet for porn, Steve refers to himself as a "masturbatory traditionalist." He likes the production values on Skinemax. Steve is a fucking weirdo. Which is probably why we get along.

I first met him in fourth grade when his family moved to Plainville. Since Steve was new, he didn't have any friends. And even though I had lived here all my life, I didn't either. We've been best friends ever since.

"No, I didn't see it. Skinemax is usually blocked in my room," I say.

"Oh man, it was great. There's much dirtier stuff online, but Sensual Moon is just classy. Reminds me of —"

"That time you got a hand job?"

"Yeah, that was awesome."

Last summer, when Steve was traveling with his parents to all the biggest national parks in the country, he claims he got a hand job from a girl in California. This supposed hand job is the high point of his life and he does not stop talking about it. I guess I don't blame him. He doesn't have much else to be psyched about. Like me, Steve has a somewhat unusual name — Steve Sludgelacker. But while I have the same name as a famous basketball player, Steve's name happens to rhyme with "fudge packer." The bullies at school tend to remind him of that every day. With their fists. So I never really bug him for the details of the hand job, even though the story seems dubious. He has enough to deal with.

It's winter break and we still have a few days off before heading back for the second half of our senior year. Luckily, me and Steve both got into college Early Decision. High school graduation is only six months away, which means we are that much closer to leaving for college, which means we are that much closer to getting the hell out of Plainville. But it also means we are that much closer to leaving high school as pathetic virgins. I've never had a girlfriend. And Steve, well, I guess Steve has his hand job.

"Damn it. Killed again," Steve says. We're playing this new game where you're the zombies and you get to shoot the soldiers, instead of the other way around. Pretty sweet, unless you keep getting killed like Steve does. "Stupid game," he says as he hits Reset. "So I was at Applebee's last night with my parents. Stacey Simpson was there."

"Oh yeah?" I offer.

Stacey is the hottest girl in our class. It's not even close. "Blonde with cannons" is how Steve describes her. In fact, I'd say she's the source material I used to fantasize about one-third of the tallies on last year's jerk-off list. We were actually partners (not her choosing) in eighth-grade Home Ec, and she watched as I scrubbed my hands any time even a morsel of food touched them. Within a week she asked to switch partners, and never acknowledged my existence again. Luckily, I have plenty of stock footage stored up.

"Chuck, I'm telling you, Stacey's tits grew over winter break. They're like fucking cantaloupes."

"No way," I say.

"Something was different. She is so hot."

"Did you talk to her?"

Steve continues playing without responding to my question. It's not necessary. Of course he didn't talk to her. We aren't the type to talk to hot girls. Or any girls for that matter. Sometimes I wish me and Steve were nerdier. There's a lot of nerds in Plainville — at least we'd have a clique. But the nerds are all really nerdy. They do calculus for fun and play ridiculous role-playing games online for like fifteen hours at a time. So here me and Steve are — stuck in the lonely region between the jocks and the nerds. Sadly, we're neither athletes nor mathletes.

"So when I was in California —"

"Can we talk about something else besides your hand job?"

Even though it's freezing outside, I walk home from Steve's because he only lives two blocks away. I step on some of the cracks in the sidewalk as I go. It doesn't bother me. Besides washing your hands, avoiding cracks on the sidewalk seems to be the most common trait they give a character with OCD on television or in a movie. But I don't care about whether or not I step on a crack. That just isn't one of my "things." I have no idea why I'm okay with it. It's almost annoying in a weird way.

I wave hello to our senile old neighbors the Greulichs, who are sitting on their front porch being senile and old, then walk into my house. Mom is cooking, which is unusual. I say a quick hello and make a mental note that there will have to be some extra stove-checking tonight. I go downstairs to the living room where my dad is watching some NBA pregame show on TV. My grandpa Sam, who died last year, was a huge basketball fan. Me: not so much. With Grandpa gone, I don't think Dad has anyone to talk to about sports, and I think he hopes I'll fill that void. Unfortunately, my connection with basketball begins and ends with the fact that the guy whose sneakers I wear played it eighty years ago.

"Big game?" I ask.

"As big a game as there can be at this point in the season," Dad says.

I don't understand, and Dad realizes as much.

"The playoffs don't start until April."

"Oh," I say, "right."

Dad eyes my Cons. They're pink. Before I went to Steve's house, I was pretty bored. Pink happens to mean bored in my system, so I tend to wear pink Cons a lot. This does not sit well with my dad. He never actually says anything, but I suspect that he suspects I'm gay. I mean, I've never even had a girl friend — space in between. And I wear pink sneakers sometimes. I almost don't blame Dad for thinking that. But I'm definitely not gay. Just terrible around girls. And really fucking bored.

"The trading deadline is coming soon; these guys are playing for their jobs," Dad remarks.

I nod in agreement as if this means anything to me.

"Also, me and Mom want to talk to you before dinner."

"About what?" I ask.

"She'll tell you. It's no big deal. When do you go back to school again?"

It actually amuses me that my dad kinda gets pissed whenever I'm off from school. Sometimes I just want to say, "Dad, I'm seventeen. You're forty-seven. What do you want me to do?"

"I go back Monday. You know that."

"Just seems like a really long break. I'm still working."

Dad is an accountant. Now don't get me wrong, I'm good at math. I'm in Calc AB, which is the second highest class you can possibly be in. In fact, if I do well on the AP test in May, I could even get college credit for it. But I still hate calculus. I can't believe my dad's actual job is to do math all day. Math for other people. Not only does it sound awful, but it's one less thing we have in common. Steve's dad's company makes the plastic casing that video games come in. At least that's sorta kinda cool.

"You're working this week because you're old, Dad!" I say. I'm joking. Despite our cavernous differences, me and Dad still joke around a lot, and I love that. He smiles.

"Not too old to come over there and smack ya," he says. Also joking.

Just as the game is about to start, Mom calls down from the kitchen. "Chuck! Ray!" Mind you the kitchen and the living room are not that far away.

"Coming!" we respond simultaneously, yelling just as loudly as Mom had. But we don't go upstairs for another few minutes. Dad wants to see if he can catch tip-off. I remember I touched a twig on the way home from Steve's and go to wash my hands.

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Excerpted from Lexapros and Cons by Aaron Karo. Copyright © 2012 Aaron Karo. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
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