Me, Myself and Them Read online

  A heart-wrenching, funny and fresh debut about human connection and the power of friendship

  Struggling to cope with a tragic loss, Denis Murphy has, for the past seven years, learned to live differently. His friends are used to his strict routines, like ironing his socks and lighting his fireplace every Sunday (even in the summer). His forlorn mother puts up with his strange “no touching” antics, even though all she wants is a hug from her son. Really, the only problem is the four monsters he has for roommates. This ragtag bunch run his life, determined to create chaos in his orderly world.

  Then Rebecca, Denis’s enigmatic ex-girlfriend from his former life, returns to town. Shocked to meet the new Denis—a broken man, unable to manage even the most basic social interactions—she becomes fixated on bringing back the funny, charismatic man she once loved. As Denis begins to emerge from his sheltered existence and rediscover the person he used to be, the monsters declare all-out war. Denis is finally forced to confront the demons that share his house, and his head.

  By turns heartbreaking and heartwarming, Me, Myself and Them deftly explores mental illness with compassion and in entirely original terms. With wit and charm, Dan Mooney offers a wholly new perspective on the effects of grief and the power of human connection.

  ME, MYSELF AND THEM

  DAN MOONEY

  To move on,

  we must let others in...

  Praise for

  Me, Myself and Them

  “Me, Myself and Them is a remarkable debut by a blindingly talented new writer. Dan Mooney tackles tough questions about mental illness and our need for connection with more compassion, deftness, and originality than most writers who’ve been in this game for far longer than he has. This is a book we’ll be talking about for a while.”

  —Grant Ginder, author of The People We Hate at the Wedding

  “Fresh and fast-paced, Dan Mooney’s debut veers into darkness, but somehow never loses sight of lightness and hope. A charming novel on surviving loss and moving on with the help of our friends.”

  —Annie Hartnett, author of Rabbit Cake

  For Nana, who is my past, and Ellen, Mikey, Emily, Gracey, Joe and Megan, who are our future.

  Contents

  MY BELOVED MONSTER

  GO AWAY, HEARTBREAKER

  THERE YOU ARE

  JUST EAT IT

  OPEN THE DOOR

  GOOD LUCK MOVIN’

  JUST DON’T ASK

  CAN’T STAY HERE

  TRY TO FIX

  VERY OLD CIRCLES

  TEAR THAT TRICKLES

  CAN’T GET ENOUGH

  IN THE PANTOMIME

  ARE LONELY GUNS

  IF I SAW

  ISN’T IT RICH?

  LIFE IS HARD

  I COULD TRY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MY BELOVED MONSTER

  He watched the monsters watching him over his lunch of smoked salmon and brown bread. They didn’t speak, or laugh or joke, they simply watched. Plasterer, the bulky clown, dressed in his usual workman’s overalls, leaned against the door frame, his painted smile covering a gruesome frown. The Professor, his skin threatening to rot off his face and ruin his tweed jacket, rested his chin on his hands and sighed once without taking his eyes off Denis. Deano sat at Plasterer’s feet, being hairy, which was his one exceptional talent. And then Penny... Penny also watched. Closer to him than he’d like. She was always closer to him than he liked. It was afternoon, but they weren’t long out of bed, and as there wasn’t a morning person among them, silence was not uncommon at this hour of the day.

  They watched him clean his plate carefully, put on his coat and head for the door. He nodded to Plasterer as he passed him, and the clown clapped him encouragingly on the shoulder.

  Nothing to be afraid of, he told himself. It’s just outside.

  The words were supposed to be a comfort to him, but a small voice in the back of his head quietly reminded him that they were a lie.

  I remember when you weren’t afraid of your own shadow. It’s just outside, feel the fear, do it regardless.

  He made his way out into the early afternoon, calling out his goodbye through the door as he pulled it firmly shut. He carefully placed the palm of his hand against the smooth grain of the door and gave it three precise pushes, taking care to apply the exact same amount of force each time. Satisfied with the door-closing procedure, he walked twelve steps to his gate and opened it, stepped out onto the street and shut it behind him, carefully counting each deliberate step as he moved. The low gray clouds closed in on the afternoon oppressively, a mild breeze tugging at his suit jacket, rustling the leaves on the trees, a whispered warning that he should have stayed indoors. The neighborhood kids watched and giggled. He smiled at them and nodded. They were used to his foibles, and he to their amusement. He set out for town, his perfectly polished black shoes striking a comforting staccato as he moved, a steady kind of rhythm that drowned out thoughts.

  He was dressed well. Denis always considered maintaining his appearance to be something of a priority, and the act of maintaining his professional look was a chore in which he could lose himself happily. His suit trousers were expertly ironed and sat atop shiny shoes that covered perfectly pressed socks. Attention to detail is something that the normal person aspires to, but as far as Denis Murphy was concerned, if you don’t iron your socks, you’re living a lie, hiding your gruesome lack of concern from the world. His shirt, starched and crisp, was a pale pink with a darker pink tie to offset it. The whole ensemble was finished by his pristine gray coat, buttoned up, because that’s how it’s supposed to be worn. His gray satchel was carefully packed with a laptop, some paperwork and a pencil case containing all the required tools for the statistical analysis that paid his bills. As he passed a car, the glass threw his reflection back at him, forcing him to carefully correct a single aberrant hair that had strayed from his otherwise perfectly groomed head. Aberrant hairs were a significant problem for Denis Murphy, and the wind was most certainly not his friend. Sometimes he wondered if the breeze was trying to spite him. Most wouldn’t have put his thirty years on him; he appeared to be a man in his twenties, but there was no mistaking his calm and confident manner, a learned behavior that betrayed no hint of his frighteningly complex daily routine. Tasks, tasks and more tasks. That was how Denis Murphy survived his day.

  A careful, meticulous man, he awarded each job the relevant time he felt it deserved, depending on its place in his own personal hierarchy. Washing dishes was more important than cooking, maintaining the bathroom a higher priority than vacuuming the stairs. For some, household chores are that necessary evil that have to be tackled during commercial breaks on television, or on a Saturday morning when there’s nothing on. For Denis, a daily schedule was written every night and completed on time every day. Each list presented a fresh order, a required routine that drove the hour forward. Denis was content to maintain the order of his day by the tasks that had to be completed. Not happy exactly, but content.

  On this particular day, he had no work to do, and so his tasks were relatively simple. Walk into town—forty minutes. Purchase a newspaper and select a coffee shop—sixteen minutes. Spend some time with both of his friends—one hundred twenty minutes. Walk to the hospital—fifty minutes. Spend some time visiting Eddie—twenty minutes. Walk home—ninety minutes. Clean up the mess of four monsters—thirty minutes. (This one, upsettingly enough, could vary from day to day, depending on how boisterous they were feeling.) Prepare and eat dinner—sixty minutes. Watch television—one hundred twenty minutes. Prepare the following day�
��s task list—twenty minutes. Prepare for bed—fifteen minutes. Sleep—four hundred eighty minutes. Order and efficiency. There’s nothing more important in the world.

  He regarded the dark gray clouds above as he walked, considering the possibility of rain. Worryingly, they hung low in the sky, positively bulging with fat raindrops, ready, at probably the most inopportune moment, to shed their load. Denis was confident that if it did rain, the deluge would fall more or less directly on top of him alone, like some kind of sad cartoon character. He shook his head in exasperation, but immediately dismissed the idea of going back for his car. He had, after all, already closed the gate, and besides, the peculiarities of other road users were a concern. Driving infuriated him on a number of levels, not the least of which was that, despite the uniform rules that had to be applied to all drivers, there was a plethora of possible variations as each driver applied only the rules he or she believed to be most relevant to him or her at any given time. Signaling on roundabouts, for example. Slowing or, more important, not slowing when a traffic light turned amber. Changing lanes. To add to that, his new car had a digital speedometer, which meant there was no practical way to avoid looking at odd numbers. Odd numbers upset Denis. No, the car simply wouldn’t do. His bicycle was out of the question for many of the same reasons. There was always the bus. He winced at the thought. What if someone sat next to him? They might even unwittingly touch him. What if they talked to him? Expressing their opinions as they leaned into his personal space, breathing their breath on his face. He grimaced. He would just have to chance the rain. He knew his friends would find his current predicament hilarious, and he smiled at the thought of how delighted they’d be if he told them that he had taken a bus into town. He could picture both of them laughing heartily. No, there’d be no satisfaction for them today, not on this account anyway. He continued walking, the sharp click-clacking of his black shoes comforting him as the dark clouds overhead threatened to soak him to his skin.

  The shopkeeper at his chosen convenience store eyed him with a smile. Another person used to his foibles. “How do you do today, Mr. Murphy?” he asked in his African accent, raising his hand and presenting it, as he did most days, for a high five. “What about that high five? Are you going to leave me hanging again?”

  He had tremendous diction. Denis admired it to no end.

  “I’m very well, Thomas. Thank you for asking. I’m afraid today, much like yesterday—”

  “And the day before, and the day before that,” Thomas said, cutting in.

  “Yes. Just like those days too, I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you hanging. I hope your day goes well though.”

  “I’m sure it will, Mr. Murphy. I’m sure it will. The usual?”

  “Yes, please. The usual.” Denis found himself smiling. Thomas was a nice chap. A regular fixture in his day who, like so many other regular fixtures in his day, gave him a sense of comfort. He still recalled with anxiety the day that a new staff member had served him and touched his hand as they exchanged money. He imagined that she must have told her friends about it in some bar or other that evening over drinks or cocktails. His meltdown that day had been up there with the best of them. He had spent an extortionate amount of money on baby wipes and tore through the packs, eyes wide with panic, frantically scrubbing while trying to maneuver himself so that she couldn’t wrap around him the consoling arm that she was offering.

  Oh yeah, that one would have made an excellent conversation piece. Her friends probably gaped at her as she told them how he had almost wept, and only left the shop when there were no baby wipes left.

  Thomas placed his change on the counter and bade him farewell with a smile.

  His shop was close to the Italian café. The inconsiderate clouds had threatened to make a good day bad, and so the Italian café with its unobtrusive staff had become the choice of venue. By such consideration did Denis Murphy make decisions. There were four potential options, and each one had its own particular charms on any given day. Set on a quiet side street, narrow from one end to the other, his coffee shop of choice was well protected from the elements by a canvas canopy and by the looming buildings that lined the street itself, acting as a kind of wind shield. Each shop front had been restored to a beautiful finish not seen in many decades, and though their colors were clashing, there was an almost beautiful uniformity to the two-tone color schemes, and their floral arrangements and hanging baskets. He took his favored seat, thankfully not occupied as it had been the previous Saturday, to text both his friends. He carefully unfolded the paper and, making sure to turn each page properly and refold on the crease, set about reading the day’s events. The waiter brought his coffee, a latte, and placed it on its saucer directly in front of him. His teaspoon was wrapped in a serviette, and a fresh ashtray was produced on his arrival. All in order. He smiled at the waiter and nodded his approval.

  “Enjoy,” the man told him.

  “Will do. Thank you.”

  Manners. Manners were so very important. Their application oiled the communication process in a way that was acceptable to everyone. As a result of his manners, Denis never offended anyone. No one ever begrudges a man who smiles and who shows courtesy to all and sundry. It was his own little defense mechanism in a world that finds people like him interesting until they become annoying. His foibles, for want of a better term, could be viewed as endearing to some, as long as they didn’t overly impact on their lives. Denis made sure that he smiled and showed his manners as often as possible, to compensate for the irritation of having to individually wrap a teaspoon in a serviette, or pick up money from the countertop and place the change back without simply handing it over.

  His friends were late. No surprises there. Idly he wondered whose turn it was to try to get him that day. His friends had developed their own way of dealing with the day-to-day hassles of being friends with Denis Murphy. Each time they met, one of the two would try to do something to upset his sense of order. Something to test Denis’s limits and force him to deal with their special brand of chaos. Some of their pranks were impressively elaborate. On one occasion, they had broken into the outdoor garden of a coffee shop in the small hours of the morning, removed a single cobblestone and dropped in a fish, three days dead, before replacing the cobble. The rotten fish raised a stink that drove customers out and wafted down the street for half a block. Sometimes a prank would backfire drastically, as it had on the day of the smelly fish, which Ollie and Frank had expected would drive him away in a hurry. They had not anticipated that Denis would simply put up with the smell rather than deviate from a well-established schedule, and they were forced to keep their seats too, rather than lose face. The three of them had sat directly on top of a rotting fish carcass for one hundred twenty minutes. There was little in the way of conversation that day.

  Other times their pranks were successful, and the resulting disorder would force Denis to beat a hasty retreat back to his house, where order reigned, more or less—his housemates were famously messy when they wanted to be. Ollie had scored one particular win with a bag of birdseed and a veritable army of pigeons had become willing accomplices. More often the attempts to sow some chaos into his life were simple things, like buttoning their coats incorrectly or dropping cutlery on the floor and threatening to use it afterward.

  He didn’t resent his friends for their hobby; quite perversely he was glad that what they called his “disorder” could bring them some amusement, even if it was at his expense. Personal tragedy or not, they had put up with him for a very long time—mostly with good grace, occasionally with more than a share of frustration. There is, however, a limit to how long one can go on being frustrated about something, so that eventually gave way to pity. Pity for Denis and his “condition,” which was reflected in their tone and the concern in their eyes each time they saw their friend line up condiments on a table by order of size, or when they saw the panic on his face as he struggled to get the b
aby wipes from his satchel to clean a smudge from his perfectly polished shoes. Denis had very secretly hated that pity. They didn’t know that he could see it, but he could, and it ate at him. Each look of sorrowful lenience made him want to cry or scream in equal measure. He felt the first stirrings of an angry bitterness that he repressed with logic. His expression, however, remained impassive. Finally, the pity had given way to amusement. It had taken nearly seven years to reach the point they were at now. They had arrived at a place where all three were comfortable enough with his foibles for both of his friends to mock them. Six or so years of consistent attempts to unbalance his sense of order had, somewhat paradoxically, become part of that order and owned its own place in his routine. Obviously he would never tell them that. They might stop. He shook his head at the absurdity of this particular line of thought.

  Over his newspaper there was a flash of color. Bright pink. He looked up and saw her moving along the street, almost skipping. The bright pink had been the scarf that she wore half over her shoulders. Her hair was a dark brown that hung down past the scarf and was tied back with a knitted, many-hued hairband. A single lock of hair bounced here and there, plaited with tiny yellow beads. Her face was only partially visible, but he didn’t need to see all of it to know that she was beautiful, with dark brown eyes and full, smiling lips. She was tanned and of average height for a girl, and exuded energy and cheerfulness.

  Rebecca.

  For one brief second of complete insanity he thought about calling out to her, but stopped himself as panic rose in his chest and gripped him aggressively by the throat.

  Do it. Say hello. Do it now.

  A surge of emotion, powerful feelings of something or other, tumbled in his head. His feet began tapping a rapid tattoo on the ground as he adjusted his tie, smoothed over his hair. His eyes darted all over the table; there must be something that needed fixing. He tried to restrain his foot. It continued tapping as his breathing quickened. All is in order, he reminded himself over and over. There was no need to panic. She hadn’t seen him, and she was now almost at the end of the street. Soon she’d be around the corner and gone, and the world would be okay again. Nevertheless, he stared after her, and as she passed from view, there was another surge of emotion that felt bizarrely like regret or disappointment. He couldn’t tell which. This of course made no sense. Denis Murphy had no time for the kind of chaos that Rebecca could bring into his life. He fought it down as hard as he could, adjusting the coffee cup on its saucer so that the handle pointed directly out on the right-hand side.