False Memory

driveway,” Dusty said firmly.
    “They won’t care. They’re in Paris.”
    “London.”
    “Whatever.”
    “And they will care. They’ll be pissed.”
    Blinking his bleary eyes, Skeet said, “What—are they really uptight or something?”
    Motherwell was arguing with the guard. Dusty could hear their voices but not what they were saying.
    Skeet still had his hand on Dusty’s shoulder. “You’re cold.”
    “No,” Dusty said. “I’m okay.”
    “You’re shaking.”
    “Not cold. Just scared.”
    “You?” Disbelief brought Skeet’s blurry eyes into focus. “Scared? Of what?”
    “Heights.”
    Motherwell and the security guard headed into the house. From up here, it appeared as though Motherwell had an arm around the guy’s back, as if maybe he was lifting him half off his feet and hurrying him along.
    “Heights?” Skeet gaped at him. “Whenever there’s anything on a roof to be painted, you always want to do it yourself.”
    “With my stomach in knots the whole time.”
    “Get serious. You’re not afraid of anything.”
    “Yes, I am.”
    “Not you.”
    “Me.”
    “Not you!” Skeet insisted with sudden anger.
    “Even me.”
    Distressed, having undergone a radical mood swing in an instant, Skeet snatched his hand off Dusty’s shoulder. He hugged himself and began to rock slowly back and forth on the narrow seat provided by the single-width cap of ridge-line tiles. His voice was wrenched with anguish, as though Dusty had not merely acknowledged a fear of heights but had announced that he was riddled with terminal cancer:
    “Not you, not you, not you, not you...
    In this condition, Skeet might respond well to several sweet spoonfuls of sympathy; however, if he decided that he was being coddled, he could become sullen, unreachable, even hostile, which was annoying in ordinary circumstances, but which could be dangerous forty feet above the ground. Generally he responded better to tough love, humor, and cold truth.
    Into Skeet’s not you chant, Dusty said, “You’re such a feeb.”
    “You’re the feeb.”
    “Wrong. You’re the feeb.”
    “You are so completely the feeb,” Skeet said.
    Dusty shook his head. “No, I’m the psychological progeriac.”
    “The what?”
    “Psychological, meaning ‘of, pertaining to, or affecting the mind.’ Pro geriac, meaning ‘someone afflicted with progeria,’ which is a ‘congenital abnormality characterized by premature and rapid aging, in which the sufferer, in childhood, appears to be an old person.’”
    Skeet bobbed his head. “Hey, yeah, I saw a story about that on 60 Minutes.”
    “So a psychological progeriac is someone who is mentally old even as a kid. Psychological progeriac. My dad used to call me that. Sometimes he shortened it to the initials—PP. He’d say, ‘How’s my little pee-pee today?’ or ‘If you don’t want to see me drink another Scotch, you little pee-pee, why don’t you just hike your ass out to the tree house in the backyard and play with matches for a while.’”
    Casting anguish and anger aside as abruptly as he had embraced them, Skeet said sympathetically, “Wow. So it wasn’t like a term of endearment, huh?”
    “No. Not like feeb.”
    Frowning, Skeet said, “Which one was your dad?”
    “Dr. Trevor Penn Rhodes, professor of literature, specialist in deconstructionist theory.”
    “Oh, yeah. Dr. Decon.”
    Gazing at the Santa Ana Mountains, Dusty paraphrased Dr. Decon: “Language can’t describe reality. Literature has no stable reference, no real meaning. Each reader’s interpretation is equally valid, more important than the author’s intention. In fact, nothing in life has meaning. Reality is subjective. Values and truth are subjective.
    Life itself is a kind of illusion. Blah, blab, blah, let’s have another Scotch.”
    The distant mountains sure looked real. The roof under his butt felt real, too, and if he fell headfirst onto the driveway, he would either be killed or crippled for life, which wouldn’t prove a thing to the intractable Dr. Decon, but which was enough reality for Dusty.
    “Is he why you’re afraid of heights,” Skeet asked, “because of something he did?”
    “Who—Dr. Decon? Nah. Heights just bother me, that’s all.”
    Sweetly earnest in his concern, Skeet said, “You could find out why. Talk to a psychiatrist.”
    “I think I’ll just go home and talk to my dog.”
    “I’ve had a lot of therapy.”
    “And it’s done wonders for you, hasn’t it?”
    Skeet laughed so hard that snot ran out of his nose. “Sorry.” Dusty withdrew a Kleenex from a pocket and offered it. As Skeet blew