Skip to main content

My Favorite Essay

 My favorite essay is by Katherine Heiny; it's a love story in disguise.


Its star is Katherine, who joins a suicide prevention team (because she herself is lonely and bored). Katherine is delighted when one of the "regulars" (a woman who abuses the phone line) chooses to send eclairs; other volunteers think the pastries may be poisoned, but Katherine feels that they are delicious, "especially as they grow slightly stale." 

Taped for a news segment, Katherine accidentally fields a call from a friend, whose husband (a volunteer) has left his lunch at home. Nervous about the cameras, Katherine pretends that she is talking someone down from suicide. "How do you feel about your situation? No matter how intense the pain is, know that you will not always feel this way...."

In my favorite scene, Katherine attends an AA meeting. (A brief study of AA is a requirement of suicide prevention training.) Slowly, Katherine sees that she recognizes most of the people from her neighborhood bar, Toby's--and (via subtext) Katherine realizes that she herself is *also* an alcoholic.

At the climax of the story, Katherine attends a holiday party for Samaritans volunteers; she purchases three beers immediately and lines them up, because she hates having to request refills. A lonely man admires Katherine's "forward thinking"--and, soon, the two are married and living in London.

Not everyone would find humor in a suicide prevention setting--but Heiny understands that, from the right angle, pretty much anything is funny. Additionally, the essay has a surprise ending; we flash forward, and the camera "pans out." Heiny then delivers the insight the essay has been building toward; I won't hand out a spoiler. I'll just say that the last sentence is exactly right, and it is "earned."

You've got to read this.

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more