MONTECITO MURMURS: TRANSIENT GLOOM OF A CLUTTERED SKULL
The Underbelly of America's Most Expensive ZIP Code
Garbed in his flasher raincoat, Piker tornadoes out of a superstorm into Ca’Dario and plunks himself across my table looking as mournful as the heavy clouds above.
“Do you think I’m a sad sack?” he asks.
“No, I think you’re my patient but I can’t get paid because I’m not a licensed therapist. So we might as well get on with it.” I sip my Rombauer chardonnay. “How’s your technical writing course going?”
“It’s not.”
“Dropped out?”
“No, City College dropped it.”
“Why?”
“Under-enrollment.” Piker orders a beer.
“You scared off the other students?”
Piker shakes his head “There weren’t many for me to piss me off. That’s why they dropped it—and put me in a course called Project Management.”
“Gee, that’s kinda like what I do with you. What kind of project?”
“It’s Information Technology oriented, a kind of graphic design 101. Listen, I’m thinking of moving to Phoenix.”
“To be near the girlfriend you haven’t seen in three years and four months?”
“No! Because of the opportunities. There’s no work here.”
“You kidding, every business I see is suffering staff shortages. Ever since Covid no one wants to work. And if they do, they’re only willing to work from home.” I penetrate his eyeballs. “Are you sure this isn’t about the gal you think is your girlfriend?”
Piker throws up his arms. “She’ll come round!” He pauses, lowers his voice. “But I’m not sure if I go to Phoenix I can trust myself not to drive by her house twenty times a day.”
“Yes, that would definitely be a mistake,” I counsel. “You might be misconstrued as a stalker. Women tend not to like stalkers.”
“Argh.” Piker sighs. “What should I do?”
“Well, for one thing, don’t move to Phoenix if it’s about driving by her house twenty times a day. But if you truly want to be there for work opportunities or other reasons, by all means go, get the hell out of here, a new setting might do you some good.” (Might do me some good too.) “After about a month, send her a text saying you’ve resettled in Phoenix, things are working out and you’re available for a drink if she’d like to meet.”
“What if I text her as soon as I arrive and tell her I’ve been there a month?”
“If you really believe there’s hope for this relationship and you want it to work you should probably stick to honesty. Otherwise, one fib will lead to another and you’ll get caught out. Women tend to dislike liars almost as much as they hate stalkers.”
Piker shakes his head in despair. “Am I delusional?”
“Good question,” I say. “In a word, yes. If you believe you’re still in a relationship with that gal, you are deluding yourself.”
Piker exhales heavily. “I don’t think I’m ever going to have a girlfriend.”
“And now you’re enjoying your victimhood. I know a couple people like that. They’re not looking for solutions, just want to yak to anyone who’ll listen about all the ways they’re being fucked over. I think you need to stop your search for a girlfriend. Give it up. That’s when the magic happens and suddenly you’ll meet your soulmate.”
Piker brightens. “Really?”
“Truly. Unburden yourself from all the congestion in your head and responsibility you feel about needing to find a girlfriend.”
It looks like we’re making progress. But then Piker says, “I’ve written a long text to my girlfriend in Phoenix.”
“She’s a delusion,” I remind him.
“But she’s real.”
“She is. But your perception of having a relationship with her is delusional—and that’s the issue here.”
“Will you read the text?”
“Why not.” I shrug. “You haven’t sent it, have you?”
“No.”
“Good. An unsent missive is the best way to go. Pour your heart out, get it completely gone from your system. It’ll help give you closure.”
“I was thinking it could be a reopening.”
“That’s because you are delusional and you want to keep the delusion alive.” I pause. “Listen, is it okay if I write about this, these sessions?”
“Huh-what?"
“Not using your real name, of course, but I’m doing a series on the underbelly of Montecito. I’ll buy you a beer if you’re cool with it.”
“Just one?”
“A beer for each column that mentions you. So far I’ve written two.”
Piker shoots his arm up. “Server! Another beer!” He returns his gaze on me. “I bought a glass of wine for a friend on Tuesday. I thought you’d be proud of me. Happy hour, of course.”
“Of course. You’ve got to start somewhere to address your tightwad nature. Look, Piker, back to that gal in Phoenix. You’ve got to erase her from your mind.”
“But how?”
“There was a movie about this. Jim Carrey, I think. Yeah, Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind. It’s about erasing a romantic relationship from your mind.” I quickly do a search on my phone. “Oh, shit, that’s no good. I think they get back together at the end.”
“That’s good!”
“No it isn’t. You need the opposite.”
Piker looks bewildered. “What’s the opposite?”
“Transient gloom of a cluttered skull?”
“Alright, Eringer!” Piker rises and assumes a boxer’s stance. “Queensbury Rules!”
I shake my head and put my hand over my eyes while diners around us become unnerved over such antics.
Piker dances a few seconds longer then slumps back into his chair, sips his beer.
***
Two nights later.
Ca’Dario again.
Piker slumps into the same seat in the open air near the door. He’s unhappy about such positioning because of foot traffic, expresses his angst, orders a glass of water.
“Look at it as CBT,” I say. Cognitive behavioral therapy. “You have to submit, get used to it. Otherwise, what are you going to do when you’re out on a date with a potential soulmate and you’re in this kind of seating predicament—get frustrated, angry and act out? Big turn-off, Piker. You’ll never be able to stay in a relationship unless you roll with whatever’s going on around you.”
Piker shows me the unsent text he has written to the gal he’s delusional about. It is angry, bitter, demanding, with an ultimatum.
“If you send this,” I say, “it’s over even if it wasn’t over before, which it was.”
“How can you say that!” Piker protests.
“You practically accuse her of pulling your chain!” I pause. “Tell me about the circumstances in which you last saw her?”
“Thanksgiving morning. Three years ago. We were at a hotel in San Diego. I walked out on her.”
“Why?”
“She was giving me a bunch of shit.”
“And you haven’t seen her since?”
Piker shakes his head. “Hey, instead of a beer for me being in this column could I have a pizza?”
“No. Pizza is more than twice the cost of a beer. I need to write another column beyond this one before you’re entitled to that much.”
“Could I have it on credit?”
I study the menu. “Best I can offer is broccolini.”
“Done!”