We're All Damaged

by Matthew Norman

“They didn’t hate her when you were in high school. They made fun of her. She was the butt of jokes. But they didn’t hate her. That’s what people do now. They don’t disagree, they hate.”

put on one of my old flannel shirts, and, of course, it’s way too big, which I blame mostly on Eddie Vedder.

me. I don’t have time to wait, though. At least I don’t think I do. My dad was vague but serious. Dads have this tone when something is happening; you learn it when you’re a toddler and it sticks.

At that exact moment I was organizing my CDs by genre and alphabetizing them. This was after a failed attempt at color-coding by album art.

Over at T2 pinball, Emma pinches Bryce’s arm, and he slaps her hand away. Emma looks briefly devastated but then launches into a flurry of angry nonsense. The volume of her voice is set to Rape Whistle. “Bryce!” says Jim. “Don’t hit your sister.” “But she pinched me!” “I don’t care.”

Jim and I grab slices. The pizza is so good that it’s like a piece of nostalgia, like a goddamn Bryan Adams song, and I think of all the hours the younger version of me spent here, eating and drinking and laughing and manhandling Terminator 2: Judgment Day pinball.

I suspect scotch is something you have to convince yourself to enjoy, like sushi or the last few Radiohead albums, but I can’t deny the result is nice.

“I wanted to tell you about him,” he says. “I mean, you know that, don’t you?” “Yeah,” I say. “You should have, but I get it.” “But here’s the thing . . . What she did to you was shitty. She’s my sister, though.” “I know.” “And I love her. I always will. That’s just the way it’s going to be. She and I shared a womb. You and I shared a dorm room.”