“That’s David Hauser,” my friend Paul responded when I asked him about the guy in the corner of the liquor store, speaking to himself. “He’s crazy. An absolute loon. Went crazy about a year ago. People say he got so smart that he just snapped one day.” Paul snapped his fingers. “Like that!” he said.
I frequented The Family Liquor Store for just this reason: I loved anomalies. I knew little to nothing of anomalies in the sheltered life I lived prior to walking into The Family Liquor Store. I knew that some people succeeded and others failed, but those in my dad’s inner circle that failed in life were a rung or two lower. I knew nothing of the depths of failure and despair that I would encounter in my friend’s parents’ liquor store, where he happened to work.
Even while immersed in this world of despair, I encountered pride, coping mechanisms, and lies. John informed me that he once played against Wayne Gretzky in a minor league hockey match, Jay informed me of the time he screamed “Go to Hell JFK!” to the man’s face, and Ronny told me you of the various strength contests he won. The fact that I flirted with believing any aspects of the tales told those in The Family Liquor Store that I was almost as laughable as the fools that told them.
“Why would they lie about things like that?” I asked to top off the joke.
“Wouldn’t you?” they asked when they reached a break in their laughter. “If you lived the life they did?”
The unspoken punchline of this ongoing joke was that I might have been more lacking in street smarts than any person they had ever met. The answer to the question that was never asked regarding my standing in their world was that a thorough understanding of their world could be said to be on par with any intellectual study of the great men of the book smarts world, in that they both involve a basic understanding of human nature.
“You see these guys here,” Paul’s father whispered to me on another day at the liquor store, gesturing out to its patrons. “I could introduce you to these men, one by one, and you’d hear varying stories of success and failure, but the one thing you’ll hear in almost every case is the story about how a woman put them down. They all fell for the wrong woman.”
Knowing full well how this line would stick with me, I turned back to Paul’s father while still in the moment.
“What’s the wrong woman?” I asked. “What did those women do to these guys?”
“It varies,” he said. “You can’t know. All you can know is that you don’t know, because you’ll be all starry eyed in the moment. Bring them home to meet your dad, your grandma, and all your friends, and listen to what they say.”
In the life that followed that advice, I met a number of picky guys. Some of them wouldn’t even look at a woman that was below an eight, on the relative scale of physical appearance. Others looked for an excess in class, intelligence, strength and weakness, and still others were in a perpetual, perhaps unconscious, search for their ma. For me, it’s always been about sanity. I would date some beautiful women. I would date strong women that could school me in intelligence, and most of the women I dated brought that sassy element that I so enjoy, but it’s always came back to the fruitloopery index for me? I had an inordinate attraction to the mama-that-could-bring-the-drama for much of my life, but when those ultimatums of increased involvement arrived, Paul’s father’s whisper would work its way into my calculations. I did not want to end up in an incarnation of my personal visage of hell, otherwise known as The Family Liquor Store, where it appeared a wide variety of bitter, lost souls entered by the droves, and none escaped.
For everything I learned in The Family Liquor Store, I still had one question that I dare not ask. Why would a normal family, with normal kids, want to open a liquor store on the corners of failure and despair? I would not ask this question, even as a young man with an insufferable amount of curiosity, because I knew that the answers I received would reveal some uncomfortable truths about the person that answered. One answer I did receive, over time, and in a roundabout way, was that surrounding one’s self with failure and despair, makes one feel better about their standing in the world by comparison.
“How does one get so smart that they go crazy?” I asked Paul, still staring at this man that sat in the corner, and spoke to himself, named David Hauser.
“I don’t know,” Paul said. “They say he had a fantastic job, prestige, and boatloads of money, and he just got fired one day. No one knows why. Then his wife divorced him when he couldn’t find other work, and he ended up here talking to himself for hours on end, drinking on his brew.”
That made a little more sense to me. It was a woman. Paul’s father was right. I was satisfied with that answer, but Paul –and those that informed Paul– wouldn’t let the “too smart” angle go in regards to David Hauser’s condition. He/they declared that it was, “The nut of it all.”
Most of the patrons of The Family Liquor Store spoke to themselves. It was, in fact, those that didn’t that stood out. David Hauser, however, had full-fledged conversations. David Hauser was a good listener in these conversations, a characteristic that made him an anomaly in a world of anomalies. There were times when David Hauser looked to this speaker that no one else could see, but this glance was one often reserved for the introductory section of the speaker’s conversation. When this purported speaker’s dialogue would progress, David Hauser would begin looking at a diagonal slant, and then an outward glance, followed by that inward glance that suggests that he’s contemplating what the other is saying. There were also times when he and this friend said nothing.
Prior to David Hauser, I assumed that people that spoke to themselves would so to fill a void. David Hauser filled that void, but he and his invisible friend created other voids, what some might call seven-second lulls, and there were times when the lulls in those conversations would end with active listening prompts on David’s part. This display suggested that the purported speaker that had ended the lull and David’s listening prompts encouraged the speaker to continue. This added element to David Hauser’s conversation deepened my fascination, until I had to know what this man was saying.
“I have to know what he’s saying,” I told Paul.
I went on to inform Paul that my curiosity was based on comedic intrigue, but that was a ruse to cover for the fact that my obsession with David Hauser had grown into a full blown desire to understand something about humanity that I didn’t think I could learn from my otherwise sheltered life of books. I needed to know if a person, as incapacitated, as David Hauser appeared to be, continues to speak to himself to sort through internal difficulties, and they recognized it for what it was on some level, or if they believe they are talking to someone else.
“For God’s sakes,” Paul said. “Why?”
I’m not sure what I said at that point, but I know it was an attempt to diffuse the situation, so Paul wouldn’t have material on me later when it came time to mock me for my odd curiosity. I think I said, ‘I don’t know, I just do.”
The truth was I didn’t know what would’ve satisfied my curiosity. I didn’t know if I was searching for listening prompts, or if I was what words he could’ve used that would’ve done it for me. Is there a word that can inform another that a person genuinely belies another person is there? Is there a word, or series of words, that will inform an observer that a person has manifested another person to satisfy a psychological need? The latter was so far beyond my comprehension that I didn’t want to spend too much time thinking about it, but I figured that his mannerisms, his tone, and the context of his active listening prompts would form a conclusion.
“Be careful,” Paul said.
Those two words slipped out, as if Paul was repeating the warnings he received when he considered further investigation. He then focused his attention on me and said, “Be careful” again.
I was willing to accept these words of caution on the face of what they implied, at first, but my curiosity got the best of me.
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know, what if he says something so intellectual that it gets trapped in your brain and you go insane trying to figure it out?”
“Could that happen?”
“How does a guy go insane by being too smart?”
It is possible that Paul was messing with me, and that I was so obsessed with this that I couldn’t see it, but it’s also possible that he believed it. We were both avid fans of the horror genre after all, and we were both irrational teenagers that still believed in various superstitions, black magic, curses, elements of dark art, and the supernatural. Our minds were just starting to understand the complex, adult understandings of the real world, while still young enough to consider the child-like belief in the possibilities of how reality could occur under an altogether different premise.
Long story short, his attempts to warn me, followed by his questions, did set me back, and I did try to avoid the subject of David Hauser for a spell. I was not what one would call an intellectual young man. I had an insatiable curiosity, and I was an observant sort, but tackling highbrow intellectual theory, or highbrow literature, was beyond me. I was ill equipped for that. Ill-equipped, naïve, and vulnerable to the idea that a thought, like a corruptible woman bent on destroying, could leave a person incapacitated to a point that they frequent a low-rent liquor store for the rest of their days and speak to non-existent people.
I thought of the idea of an intellectual peak during that brief moment. I knew I hadn’t even come close to my intellectual peak at that point in my life, but I wondered if there was a peak, and if a person could know it when they’ve arrived at it. Is there a maximum capacity that one should be wary of crossing, and if they do, do they risk an injury similar to those athletes risking physical injury to accomplish something that lies beyond the actual limits of their ability? I thought of a pole-vaulter here, sticking a pole in the ground, attempting a jump he should have reconsidered and the resultant injuries that could follow.
When I recovered from those irrational fears, I went over to David Hauser. The level he spoke at, before I arrived at the windowsill he sat on, lowered as I progressed. I was still somewhat distant, pretending to look out at something beyond the window, standing near him. I neared even closer, and his volume dropped even more. Was that a coincidence, or was he trying to prevent me from hearing him?
Whatever the case was, I couldn’t hear him, and I was more than a little relieved. I felt encouraged by the fact that I had neared him, even though I was afraid. I was wary of getting too close however, for I feared the idea of having his overwhelming theories implanted in my brain. I thought that such an implantation might be equivalent to an alien putting a finger on a human head and introducing thoughts to that brain that are so far beyond its capacity that the victim starts shaking and drooling, like what happened to that kid in The Shining. I considered it plausible that I could wake in a strait jacket with that theory rattling around in my head, searching for an answer, until I ended up screaming for the nurse to come in and provide me some relief in the form of unhealthy doses of chlorpromazine to release the pressure in my head.
I would later learn that David Hauser had achieved a doctorate in some subject, from some northeastern Ivy League school, and that fact placed him so far above those trapped in this incarnation of hell, AKA The Family Liquor Store, that I figured everyone involved needed a way to deal with his story, and everyone did love the story.
When the man would enter the Family Liquor store, from that day forward, the story of how a once prominent man, of such unimaginable abilities, fell to such a level of despair and failure, was on the tip of the tongue of everyone that knew it. “Like that!” everyone would say, with a snap of their fingers to punctuate the description. Bubbling beneath that surface fascination, were unspoken fears, confusion, and concern that if it could happen to this guy, who’s to say it can’t happen to anyone one of us? In place of traveling through a complex maze of theories, and research findings, to find the truth, was an answer. No one knew who came up with this answer first, and no one questioned if that person knew what they were talking about. We just needed an answer. A coping mechanism.
The fact was no one knew the undisputed truth of what happened to David Hauser. We knew some truths, because he told us some truths, but he wouldn’t give us an answer, because he probably didn’t have one. My guess was that even if you could sit David Hauser down in a clinical setting, or create some sort of climate that would assure him that his answers weren’t going to be used to satisfy a perverse curiosity, you still wouldn’t get answers out of him, because he didn’t have any.
The man that had spent the first half of his life answering the most difficult questions anyone could throw at him, had reached a block regarding the one answer that could prove beneficial to his continued existence. His solution, therefore, was to talk it out with a certain, special no one for answers.
This led me to believe that the reason his volume dropped as I neared, might have been the result of the pain and embarrassment. If his mind was as complex as they suggested, and it was stuck on one question being repeated in his head to the point of him needing to manifest another presence to help him work through it, how embarrassing would it be for him to have an eavesdropping teenager might find that answer for him?
I had that answer, we all did, but I’m quite sure that our answer didn’t come anywhere close to solving the actualities of how a man could fall so far. I’m quite sure that it was nothing more than a comfortable alternative developed by us, for us, to try to resolve the complexities of such a complex question that could’ve driven us insane if we tried to figure it out, and it trapped itself in our brain.