“I’ve forgotten how to enjoy myself,” the Voice said, “how to have fun.”
The last time Cal could remember having real fun was when he was a kid and his dad drove him around the Forum floor on his forklift or when Angie and her friends came over and they did stupid dances in the living room. The Running Man, the Soulja Boy, the Chicken Wing.
“My eating is out of control,” the Voice said. “I’m drinking too much or doing a lot of drugs.”
Cal had gained twenty-five pounds. The only thing he felt comfortable in was a bathrobe and he was eating pills like a food group. If Snoop knew how much weed he was smoking he’d organize an intervention.
The Voice went on: “My job is so pointless and soul-depleting I don’t even want to think about it.”
Cal was supposed to be writing songs for the new album but he didn’t know what to write about. More bitches, blow jobs, and bling? More Rémy, Dom, and Courvoisier? More whips and straps and world domination? All the rhymes had been used up. Cal had thought about taking Kanye’s route, do some songs about his mom, Jesus, materialism, and whatever else. He gave it a try, laying down a couple of tracks in his home studio. The first track was twenty-three seconds long and titled “The Fuck Am I Doing on This Earth?” The second was thirty-five minutes long, didn’t have a title but the first line was: They changed the recipe at In-N-Out, the meat don’t feel right in my mouth. When Cal heard the tracks played back he ordered Charles and Bug to take all the recording equipment out of the house and throw it in the ocean.
“Frankly,” the Voice said, “I wouldn’t bother getting up in the morning but I have no choice. I have bills to pay, people that depend on me, and obligations to fulfill.”
There was alimony for that evil bitch Noelle, tuition for his nieces and nephews, mortgages on the houses and the condo he bought for his parents. He was supposed to be a presenter at the Soul Train awards show and he’d promised interviews to XXL and WBL. He was supposed to audition for a buddy movie with Ashton Kutcher. He owed back taxes and he’d canceled appointments with his business manager ten times. Then there was Bobby Grimes. Cal felt like a Winnebago on a one-lane road, Bobby a Porsche Turbo, weaving around behind him blasting the horn.
The Voice continued: “I don’t know how long I can keep this up or if I can keep it up at all. I’m at the edge, the end of my rope, I have to keep going but I can’t keep going. I’m burned out.”
“Burned out?” Cal said. That sounded about right. Wristing the tears off his face, he turned around to see this Mr. Voice but no one was there. He thought he’d lost his mind for real but a janitor’s cart was parked against the far wall, a portable radio on the top shelf.
The radio host said, “For those of you who have just joined us, we’re talking with professional life coach Dr. Russell Freeman. He’s the author of the new book Stuck in a Lifetime, or How to Cure Burnout and Stop Spinning Your Wheels.”
“I appreciate your having me, Dan,” Dr. Freeman said.
Cal couldn’t believe it. Somebody named Dr. Freeman was the Voice.
“That was a very powerful passage you read, Dr. Freeman,” the radio host said, “but let me play devil’s advocate here. Isn’t burnout just another one of those Oprah diseases like shoe addiction and mother-in-law phobia?”
“Burnout is very real. I see it in my practice on a daily basis. Men and women from every age and walk of life are so overwhelmed they can hardly function.”
“Maybe they’re just working too hard.”
“A common misconception. A person can suffer from burnout even if they’re a couch potato. You can burn out from being idle just like you can burn out from success. The common denominator is prolonged frustration.”
“Spinning your wheels.”
“Exactly. The feeling that no matter what you do you’re in the same place as you were yesterday. That there’s simply no reason to continue because you’d still be sunk in the same mire, running on the same treadmill, dancing the same tired dance. The housewife, the cop, the slacker, or the business tycoon can all suffer from burnout.”
Cal nodded. If there was ever anybody who was spinning their wheels it was him. The monotony of fame, the rapper’s cookie-cutter life.
“So if burnout is the disease, what’s the cure?” the radio host said.
“The most effective treatment is group therapy,” Dr. Freeman said. “A burnout can be with other people who have the same problems and talk about their shared experiences under the guidance of a therapist.”
Cal tried to imagine himself sitting in a circle with a bunch of white people. What shared experiences could he talk about? How his diamond-and-emerald-encrusted grill gave him cold sores and how he couldn’t stay awake because DStar had run out of Adderall and how sex wasn’t worth the trouble? A hit off his last album was titled “Bonin’ ’Til the Break of Dawn.” The last time he was in bed with a girl he nutted in three minutes and rolled over to sleep. The girl thought about it a moment, shook him and said: “It ain’t dawn yet.”
“But a lot of people don’t have the time or the resources for group therapy and that’s why I wrote the book,” Dr. Freeman said. “I’ve developed a series of lifestyle changes and exercises that are designed to, and I’m going to get technical here, get you unstuck. Give you a fresh perspective, reenergize you, alleviate your symptoms, and put you back in control.”
Anthony was knocking on the men’s room door. “Cal, are you okay?” he said. “We’ve got to get back to work. Everybody’s waiting.”
“And burnout doesn’t go away,” Dr. Freeman said. “If left untreated, the symptoms can be severe. Body aches, stomach distress, addiction, obesity, panic attacks, and increasing isolation. The effects can be devastating and sometimes irreparable. Some of my patients come to me too late, after they’ve lost friends, family, home, career, bank accounts. Everything.”
“Everything?” Cal said. He knew he was fucking up but he didn’t know it was about everything. Shit. The crib, the cars, the clothes, the bitches, the primo weed. No way he was going to lose all that.
“Well, this has really been informative, Dr. Freeman,” the radio host said. “And I think this was a wake-up call for a lot of our listeners. Thanks for coming in.”
“Thank you for having me.”
Cal breathed in hope like a hit off a bong. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, a chance to get his swagger back and be his old self again, and he wasn’t fucked up in some general way, he had a specific condition-burnout-and burnout had a treatment and maybe he couldn’t go to group therapy but he could sure in the hell buy that book.
Anthony was still knocking on the door. “Cal, we’ve got to get going. Cal? Everybody’s waiting.”
CHAPTER SEVEN Kill on Sight
July 2013
When Isaiah was in his teens, he worked for Harry Haldeman and wondered even then how the man could stay in a state of perpetual indignation; his fierce dark eyes glaring through the Coke-bottle bifocals resting on his great beak of a nose, his snow-white hair sticking up like a toilet brush. Isaiah thought he looked like an orchestra conductor. Harry’s wife, Louise, said he looked like an eagle wearing glasses.
“Pit bulls,” Harry said, “my favorite subject. Here you’ve got a high-energy, high-maintenance dog and pound for pound one of the most powerful creatures on the face of the earth and some goddamn teenager buys one because he thinks it makes his dick bigger. Some cities have banned pits altogether but what they ought to do is ban the goddamn teenagers. Did you know pit bulls are abandoned by their owners more than any other dog? We’ve got five or six right now and we’ll get another one before the day is over.”