He spends his days quiet, reading mystery novels, without company. He often acts differently in front of people than he is, to shock them or seem like a real nut, as if they'd need help drawing that conclusion. He doesn't wear underwear or socks. He doesn't drive and won't learn. He rides his electric bike, very slowly, all over the neighborhood.
He knows everyone but there is not one person I would consider his friend. He keeps parts of his past secret. I have wondered if he behaves the way he does to keep people at bay. He doesn't need people, not really.
I'm scared. I'm becoming more that way.
I sit with him on Thanksgiving morning, talking about my brother.
"Mike needs more confidence," I say, like I've always said, now a parrot in sweat pants talking to no one, just the walls.
He laughs.
"Nobody's confident. No one you know is confident. Are you? No. There is not one guy in the world who is confident. Any type of confidence is just bullshitting. People'll say, 'Oh, that guy, he's really confident.' No, he's not, he's just a better at the bullshitting game. It's all game. And the lower you are, the better you got to be at that game. Confidence is a bullshit modern day myth."
I laugh, too, but the person inside me wants to jump off the couch and touch him.
I can't make the leap.
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