12:30 a.m. Sunday, October 24, 1993

Dear Diary:

Saturday night lying in my bed unable to sleep and suddenly profoundly disturbed...I can't say now that I didn't know that living with Nick would be weird, and suddenly, it seems that all the implicit dangers of placing the two of us in one room have been realized: He's in his bed whimpering like a baby and I can't stop shaking.

What happened? For two years, Nick and I have enjoyed our graceless goodnights, but tonight, Nick came into my room when I was already in bed. He sat down and looked straight into my eyes, which already threw me off, because usually Nick can't look anyone directly in the the eye for too long without getting nervous.

"Seth," he said, "something's wrong...you're different from the other people I know. Sometimes that worries me." He sighed heavily and got up to make the trek back into his cave, muttering under his breath. "Oh lord, oh lord, my heavy heavy load."

At any other time, I wouldn't have minded Nick's admonishments; indeed, generally I revel in hearing and thinking about other people talking about me. And I love convincing people that I'm 'not normal': Just yesterday, a friend of my girlfriend, upon hearing that she was going out with me, asked: "Wasn't he the one who had blue toenails freshman year?" I love stories like that. They make me feel important.

But tonight, Nick seemed a little too... ominous. He's no run-of-the-mill character himself: he completely lacks all social graces, he never opens his shades, and for years has been trying to keep his ethnic identity a secret. ("I walk with all the people," he used to shout. When I told his mother this, she looked a little nervous and asked her husband if maybe Nick should see a psychiatrist.) I was a little suprised that Nick would have the insight to sense that, in his deranged world, I was 'not normal.' What could it mean? 3:30 a.m. Sunday, October 24, 1993

Dear Diary:

I couldn't sleep, so finally I went in and asked Nick exactly what it was that he meant. It was hard getting him to respond. For a good ten minutes or so, he kept muttering over and over: "I know this is a dream. Seth is not in my room. Please end, horrible dream of mine. Get Seth out of my subconscious room." When finally he resigned himself to the fact that I was indeed in his room, he started to fling old pictures of His Holiness the Dalai Lama at me. I patiently weathered his storm and endured his cursings: I had to know what was going on.

Finally, he settled down, but then we had to move into my room: he was afraid that the woman through the fire-door would hear us talking and then "she'll know the truth." (I can't quite figure out exactly what he means by this, but for months after Oliver Stone's "JFK" came out, Nick refused to sit by the windows in restaurants and even tried to avoid going outside. "What if they see us?" he would ask, and when I asked him who "they" were, he would become frantic: "Don't be so stupid!" he'd scream in reply. His fear of the woman through the fire-door seemed somehow connected to this type of exaggerated paranoia.)

So when I got Nick into my room, I sat him down and told him, politely but firmly, that he must explain what he meant when he said I was 'not normal.' Maybe if I knew what it was he was getting at, I could figure out why it bothered me so much.

"Seth, you're a freak! We all know you're a freak! All of your CDs are alphabetized and divided into different categories, and so are your books and tapes! You spent five hours yesterday memorizing all the liner notes to the Smithsonian Collection of Classic Country Music! Some people are obsessive, but at least they're obsessive about things that matter, like peace and social justice, or getting a job!

"And the worst part of it is, the same thing is happening to me...today I spent all afternoon rearranging the postcards on my wall because I was thinking about what you said yesterday about a person's `individual aesthetic experience.' I'm messed up enough without being sucked into your egocentric world!" Nick started to weep, and all I could do was hold him and assure him that everything was going to be alright. But was it? Did Nick have a point? At least he's only a junior...when I graduate in May, I can't go on alphabetizing my CDs forever...or can I? Diary, please help me...   7 a.m. October 24, 1993

Dear Diary:

Nick's pathetic blatherings kept me up all night. I tried to ignore him, but the walls are too thin. His repeated cries of "How did this happen to me? What have I done? I just want a nice house and a family and an orange tree out front. How did this happen to me...?" were unnervingly chilling, and around 6 a.m., I was overcome with gulit and remorse. Nick has no experience with my sort of reality. He thought that the mere fact of his being at Harvard would make everything alright. The only thing that stands between him and a nice job is the year or so before his graduation. Or so he thought. Graduation for me is only seven months away, and Nick suddenly realized that the only serious job I've ever held was driving a cab for Yellow Taxi in Newton. Shoot, I even got fired from Lamont for hoarding the reserve readings.

And if I end up as a waiter in Memphis, who's to say the same won't happen to him? As long as I can make enough money to pay rent and feed myself, and still have plenty of time left over to devote to the reorganization of my CDs and rereading old Russian novels, I'll be happy.

But maybe the same isn't true for Nick. I've stayed up all night worrying about his tenuous mental condition, and I don't see any easy answers in sight. He's caught in a horrendous double-bind, just the sort of thing that leads to schizophrenia and full-scale psychotic breakdowns. And now, somehow, I feel that all this is my fault.

There's only one thing left to do: call Dr. Gregory Bateson at U.H.S. Dr. Bateson helped me out last year when I was in a jam, and he told me to look him up if any of my friends ever had problems. He specializes in severe mental disorders. For years Nick has been wondering if he has a brain tumor, so it should be easy to get him in. A couple of weeks in Stillman should calm Nick down enough to get him off my back. I love Nick, but I need my sleep.

Well, Diary, I feel much better. The sun is coming up, and it's a beautiful day for Head of the Charles. I think I'll take an early morning stroll before I hit the record stores, and then maybe check out the races. I need some fresh air and a clear mind to calm me down after last night's traumas. I would recommend the same for Nick, but at this point, it's unclear whether he need heed my advice anymore.