It's amazing how well Ned seems to understand all of this, like Ned's had these thoughts, too, and from the sound of it, he has. The fact that he'd slammed the guy into the glass so hard that it had cracked doesn't necessarily surprise him, nor does it scare him; on the contrary, he's almost glad to hear it, because that means that Ned really can relate, isn't just saying empty things because that's what's expected of him.
"I can try to be good all I want," he finally says, reassured by Ned's continued physical contact, by the fact that it's dark and quiet in the closet. He knows that his coworkers are likely wondering what they're doing in here, what they're talking about, but he's glad they're leaving them alone to talk. Peggy's doing, most likely. If it were up to Bob, he doesn't doubt the closet door would have been broken down by now. "But no matter how hard I try to be good, to be kind, I'm still part of something awful. I can't sleep at night sometimes because I start thinking about all the terrible things I do, even though I don't do them directly."
He knows that requires more explanation, but thinking about it makes his head hurt, so he has to take a pause and take a big breath, trying to steady himself. The things Ned's saying make sense, are reasonable, are even soothing, but it's hard to accept all of those things when his mind is racing a mile a minute. "I think about you slamming that guy into the display case and there's something about it that makes me happy. And that shouldn't ever make me happy. I should be glad you defended me, but feel bad for the guy, or worried that he got hurt. You were obviously worried that you'd hurt him, when it happened."
Turning his face away from Ned now, he seems to be addressing the shelves full of paper and pencils and cleaning supplies. "I talk about hating the war. Hating the companies that use their money or their products to support the war. But then we do ads for them, and I take the paycheck even though I know it's dirty money, and I tell myself 'it's just a job, I'm not a bad person, I'm not hurting anyone,' but that's what everyone says, that's what anyone who allows bad things to happen says. That's how the Nazis tried to defend themselves, too. 'Just a job.' So how does that make me any better, when I know I help companies hurt people? You don't do that. You make pie. Pie doesn't hurt people."
It actually, physically hurts when Ginsberg turns away like that. Ned knows what it is, to hate yourself so much you can't look another person in the face. But Ginsberg doesn't deserve to hate himself so much for so little.
"Not necessarily," Ned knows it's a stretch, but he isn't sure how else to comfort Ginsberg, how else to make him feel better, "The companies I buy fruit from probably cheat and exploit their workers, only I haven't had the courage to look them up and check, because even if they do, I have to buy fruit from someone. Just like you have to make ads for someone. That doesn't make you a- a Nazi. You have to see that. You're not writing propaganda for the war, and you're not working for the government, and you're not hurting people directly, so there is a difference. There's a big one."
There's something so daunting about all this, and Ned has a moment of self-doubt. Is this really the right route to take, or will it sound like he's just invalidating Ginsberg's feelings? But he doesn't know what else to do.
"The war's too big for you, Ginsberg. You're not going to be able to stop it single-handed by quitting your job, or keep it going by writing a great ad for a horrible company. You're not that important. That doesn't mean you're just allowing bad things to happen."
He hesitates, weighing the options before him. Will baring his own burdens really help to Ginsberg to bear his? Or will he merely worsen the other man's conviction that everyone is rotten on the inside, in one way or another? In the end, Ned decides to risk it.
"And even if pie doesn't hurt people... I have. So I know what I'm talking about."
He could be saying I know to anything, but what he's really agreeing to is that he knows that he's not that important, that nothing he does really has an impact in the big scheme of things. It's logical, and it makes sense to him, and it's the kind of thing he'd tell someone else and really mean it, but it's amazing how logical things can be so difficult to comprehend when applied to oneself. All the rules he has for other people, all the ideas he has about them, those all go out the door when they're applying to him.
"You've hurt people?"
He doesn't necessarily know what Ned means by that, and that's why he turns his head back to look at him curiously. Maybe Ned means physically, like the guy he'd slammed into the display case. Maybe he means emotionally, because it's pretty damn hard to go through life without hurting at least one or two people emotionally, no matter how hard you try. Maybe he means something else entirely. "I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want. Maybe it's enough just to know that I'm not the only one. Not the only terrible person. Not that you're terrible, I don't mean that at all, but not the only one who worries about this kind of thing."
And there he goes again, fumbling his way through sentences he's not sure how to articulate, making it all sound worse than it really is. He knows that he has a flair for the dramatic, that he's likely panicking about something that nobody else would even give a second's thought to, but he doesn't think he can help it. For better or for worse, this is how his brain works. It's exhausting.
He's startled to find that tears have sprung to his eyes, and he swipes at his eyes angrily with the sleeve of his sweater. The last thing he needs is to cry in front of Ned. This is already bad enough, and although he's generally more comfortable being emotional than most people, crying is another level of unpleasantness. Surely, even if Ned hasn't judged him so far, he'd judge him for that.
"I just hate knowing..." He hesitates, and then spills it all out in a long stream of words that practically run together. "I hate knowing that if I hadn't been born, my mother, whoever the hell she was, would probably still be alive. I mean, I don't know that for sure, because how could I, but she'd've had a better chance. I hate knowing that my existence hurt someone. Just existing. Not even doing anything. Not even consciously. Just the act of being here."
When Ginsberg asks that question and looks back at him, Ned only nods. He never intended on going into the matter much more than that simple declaration that he had hurt people before. Just that is a large enough step, for him. Just that is enough to have him nervous. Besides, he didn't come here to talk about himself.
His chest aches when he sees Ginsberg wiping away tears. Ned's never been much good at seeing other people in pain or distress, even if they were strangers. To see Ginsberg fighting back tears like that is so much worse than he would have imagined, and that's before he says what he does about his mother.
They've finally coming to it, to the thing at the roof of all these different strands: Ginsberg's response in the meeting, his feeling of dread and unreality, his fear that he's a bad person, his horror of hurting others. But it turns out that at this most crucial of moments, words absolutely fail Ned. He's accustomed enough to speaking with people about their mothers, even their dead mothers, and doing so with the emotional distance necessary to keep himself safe. He wasn't expecting this, however, and it cuts into him deep, from out of nowhere. Ginsberg blames himself for his mother's death. Well. That's something Ned can relate to, too.
Only he can't seem to find his voice to say that. And besides, what would he even say? What words could possibly be enough? He can't tell Ginsberg it isn't his fault, though he doesn't think it is, because that strikes Ned as not his right (besides which, he wouldn't trust his voice). So he does something that's out of character for him and gathers Ginsberg into an embrace, sudden and fierce, holds him as if he could banish everything bad in just that one act. Ned knows that he's shaking, now, but he doesn't care Ginsberg if notices. He'll say something, something reassuring, something wise and logical, when he can.
When Ned doesn't respond, his immediate response is a sinking feeling, a completely hopeless one, like now he's gone and said all the things he shouldn't have and Ned will get up and leave because how could he possibly deal with someone so pathetic, someone so incapable of simply going on with their lives like a normal human being? If he were normal, he wouldn't worry about things like this. He doesn't think his coworkers do, although of course they all have problems of their own. They don't lock themselves in closets and cry about it, or, if they do, they do so in private.
The hug, then, takes him almost completely by surprise, and he startles a little before letting himself sink into it, letting Ned hold him tightly, burying his face in Ned's shoulder. He's not crying, he's not going to let himself, but those tears are still there, lurking somewhere, and he knows they could burst out at any minute. If he does cry, he thinks, he'll do it once Ned is gone. Because Ned's going to leave eventually, isn't he? Most people do.
"I shouldn't have said any of that," he says, because this is usually the kind of thing he ends up having to apologize for. True, Ned's response is far different than other responses have been -- those responses have been mostly dismissive, with a helping of discomfort and irritation -- but that doesn't mean Ned has endless patience. "And I'm saying that to you, and I know you don't have a mother either, and it's selfish of me to bring any of it up, because I'm making you waste your time in a closet because I freaked out during a meeting about ketchup. I mean, out of everything to have a breakdown about. Maybe I'll pitch an ad like that. Ketchup: It's great, except when you get a mentally unstable ad guy working on it, and then it makes you cry! But it sure tastes delicious.."
He laughs, even though he's not amused, because laughing is a lot better of an option than the alternative.
He recognizes the attempt at humor to lighten the mood, to pretend that what they're talking about isn't devastating. Ned's gone that route enough times himself to know the motives behind it, but he can't even crack a smile. His mouth simply won't obey. Because it's not about ketchup. Not really. That was just the catalyst.
"You're the furthest thing from a waste of time that I can imagine," he says, fervently, not loosening his grip on Ginsberg one iota. His voice is hoarse with emotion, but relatively steady, at least. If Ginsberg meant that as an apology, Ned isn't accepting it. "It isn't selfish to talk about it. I want you to know you can tell me things. I just-" Here, against his will, his voice breaks. He tries to cover it up by clearing his throat, but it's a pretty flimsy ruse. "-I'm not sure what to say. Because. I think. I kind of know... how you feel." The words are coming jerkily, in starts and fits, but he presses on, "And I can't imagine anything anyone could say... making it hurt any less."
Ned runs a hand through Ginsberg's hair, pushing it back from his ears and forehead. "I guess... the only thing I do want to say is, it's okay for it to hurt. That doesn't make you weak, or weird, or crazy."
He's still got his face pressed against Ned's shoulder, but at least he's not close to tears anymore. That's a step in the right direction. That's something he can consider to be a positive thing about this whole incident, right? Ned's here, and talking to him, and it's actually working. There's no way he's pulling away from Ned's embrace yet, not until he feels even better still. It's clingy, and he knows it, but he doesn't much care.
What Ned says, though, has him frowning, because although it can be a good thing, sometimes, to know that someone else out there feels the same way as you do, understands and can comprehend it, he doesn't want Ned to feel that way. He's already seen, of course, that Ned has a great deal of hurt and pain surrounding his childhood, but the fact that Ned recognizes how much this hurts, from a personal level, makes him feel very, very sad.
"You're the last person I'd ever want to feel that way," he says, voice very determined, and a little too loud, although he'd meant it to come out sounding a bit softer, a bit more sensitive. "I mean, I don't think anyone should have to feel that way, but you, especially, you should be happy. And me, y'know, I go from overjoyed to miserable to gleeful to despairing and back again in the space of about an hour, which you've probably noticed, so I'm not sure happy is my goal so much as just... normal. Normal would be a good start. I appreciate you trying to tell me I'm not a waste of time, because that's sweet of you, because you're a sweet guy, but if you feel that way too, if you know how I feel, how do you deal with it? I mean, how do you walk around every day, looking at people and talking to people and pretending that everything's... normal? I keep feeling like one of these days someone is going to find out everything about me and it'll be like they're gleefully tearing open the package on a present to reveal what's inside of me, except the present is a huge disappointment and terrifying. And people do find things out. They just do. Or I tell them. Like I told you."
He's never been good at seeming normal. Not even as a kid. Even less so now.
Ned considers that question, resting his cheek against the top of Ginsberg's head, trying to think how he'll answer. Eventually, he settles on the truth, "I have no idea. I wish I could tell you how I do it, but I don't know. Because I have to. Because I've had a lot of practice." But that doesn't really solve anything. Presumably, Ginsberg would like to be able to appear normal just as badly, and has had just as long to try. Then again, that fear of discovery is something he lives with, too. Though, he thinks, his fear of discovery is a shade different than Ginsberg's. Similar as their emotional troubles may be, Ned's never questioned his assumption that Ginsberg is, after all, a normal human being, without any inexplicable powers to hide.
He keeps holding Ginsberg, muses, "I've had a lot more practice seeming normal and happy than being either of them, if I'm honest. I always knew... being normal was never really an option, for me. And I was always pretty skeptical about being happy, too. So I guess I learned to fake it pretty well."
"Me too. More practice pretending than actually being those things, I mean. My whole life, I've known I wasn't normal. Maybe I'm a different kind of abnormal than you are. See, you seem pretty normal to me. But I know that that's just appearances, and that in reality, you're probably just as abnormal as I am, but in different ways. That's why I like you. I mean, that's not the only reason I like you. There're a lot of reasons to like you."
As evidenced by his continued clinging, apparently. Ned doesn't seem to mind the continued closeness, especially not with the way Ned's resting his cheek on top of his head like that. He doesn't know exactly what Ned has to hide, other than the things that Ned had already divulged to him on Halloween, but whatever they are, he supposes they're probably different than his own. No two people are exactly the same, after all, even when it comes to deep, dark secrets.
"I fake it pretty well, too. I think. Most people think I'm pretty cheerful, or if not cheerful, just kind of weird and offbeat. And I am all of those things, I guess, but obviously I'm a whole lot of other things, too. I don't really talk about this with anyone else. I talked about it with Peggy a little, but I'm not sure if she understood it all. It's hard to try to explain your childhood in a way that won't make people pity you. Pity's such a waste of time. I tried to explain to her how I didn't feel real, how I didn't feel like I fit, but I think all she got out of it was quintessential orphaned kid sob story."
Privately, Ned is certain that his abnormality is of a different sort than Ginsberg's, that if Ginsberg ever found out what he can actually do, he would do something far more drastic than hide in a closet. He has much more than what Ned's come to think of as the average allowance for peculiarity, for vulnerability, for strangeness. But all that he's shared with Ginsberg thus far has been within the bounds of physics and the accepted scientific way of looking at the world. What would he do if he knew the rest?
Ginsberg is right about one thing though - that the demarcation between feigning cheer and actually being cheerful isn't always so easy to locate. Habitual acts can become realities, or something very similar. There have been days, weeks, when Ned has almost convinced himself that he is the person he pretends to be, inside and out. But something always came along to remind him, before too long, of the fragility of that act.
"You already know more about my past than anyone else in the world," Ned says, as a kind of proof that he understands why Ginsberg doesn't talk about this kind of thing so often. There is, however, one detail that is eluding his comprehension. Which is why he asks in a gentle, quiet voice, "Most of what you're saying is so like my own thoughts that I could swear you were some kind of mind-reader. But... I'm not sure I know what you mean when you say you don't feel real."
This is always such a difficult thing to explain, even to himself, and the truth is, he has no idea how to explain it to Ned without sounding utterly insane. "I guess sometimes I just start thinking about how strange the very nature of existing is. We're here, but it all seems so random. There were probably a million things that could've happened to make us not be here at all, not exist at all. And sometimes I start to wonder whether everything that I experience isn't just some kind of... I wonder whether it's all actually just in my head, if I'm just fantasizing about everything I think I'm seeing and feeling and doing. And if that's possible, and I know it is, because I know there're people who live with those kinds of delusions, then isn't it possible that I'm also just a delusion in someone else's head? Maybe the reason I feel so strange and out of place all the time is that I'm just not supposed to be here, that I'm just a figment of someone else's mind."
It doesn't make sense, when he explains it aloud, and he doesn't expect Ned to get it, but he's talking too fast now to slow himself down or to consider just how bizarre and downright strange he sounds, saying all of this. Ned might understand what some of this is like, but he probably doesn't question his own existence. Ginsberg, on the other hand, has been having existential dilemmas since before he really knew what they were.
"I mean, I don't really fit anywhere. I was born in Germany, but I'm not German. I was in Sweden for awhile, but I'm not Swedish. I came to America, but I'm not really American, not the way people think of it, even if my passport says I'm an American citizen. Where am I categorized? My father isn't my real father. I might not have had a mother at all, for all I know she could be a fictionalization, too, and I could have come from outer space. I have no idea what my real birthday is, I just know the one they invented for me. I have no idea what I was supposed to be named, I just know what they decided to call me. Everything I know about myself is fake. Doesn't that mean I'm not real, too?"
Much of this is, indeed, rather over Ned's head. He's never questioned the fact that he does exist, that the universe exists, that the people he interacts with are real and not delusions. He can't imagine how frightening it must be, to doubt on such a fundamental level. The closest equivalent he can conjure up from his own experiences would be his early religious crisis, when he decided there was no God, no heaven and hell, no benevolent omnipotent consciousness looking down on him. That had been a paradigm shift that changed the way he looked at everything. But Ginsberg, from the sound of it, is stuck in that transitional phase, not able to take anything for granted.
He doesn't understand, but he does listen, and gradually Ginsberg's reasoning becomes more accessible to him. Questions of identity, he has dealt with. Not in the realm of nationality, as it seems to be in Ginsberg's case. But he feels on firmer ground responding to that
"I don't think so." He's careful to phrase it as an opinion - not making fun of Ginsberg for having doubts as to his own existence, but firm in his own conviction that Ginsberg is, in fact, real. He wonders if anyone had ever bothered to give him even that, or if they had scoffed and spouted some variation on of course you're real. "The only way that would make you not real is if you believe someone's past is the key to who they are, and I don't think that. Not the only one, anyway. Maybe... maybe another way to look at it is: even if you don't know what you are, and can never know for certain, that means you get to decide who you want to be."
He knows it sounds cheesy, but it's what he's always done. He's focused that old anxiety over what kind of monster he must be into efforts to redefine himself, to build scaffolds and structures around that emptiness, around that unanswered question.
"Sure, I guess it could mean that. And I guess I decided to be what I am right now. Which isn't necessarily a bad decision, but if I'd've been able to pick anything, I probably would've chosen being someone with a little more money. You'd think advertising would pay well, but it doesn't."
He knows that's not necessarily relevant to the conversation at hand, but he never can resist going off on a tangent, if the opportunity presents itself. He finally dislodges his face from Ned's shoulder, although he doesn't pull away from him entirely. No way is he letting go of him before he has to.
He appreciates Ned's words, the obvious care that he takes to make sure that he doesn't denigrate his feelings, ridiculous as they may be. Other people haven't necessarily given him that kind of thought. They've just dismissed him, or worse, gotten worried about him. That's what his father had done, when he'd started talking like this. Decided he needed help, and found him a 'good' psychoanalyst. It hadn't worked.
"But that thing you say about the past not being the key to who you are... I don't think most people see it the way you do. Why else would people be so focused on making ads about childhood memories? These things are supposed to shape us in some way, and we're supposed to become adults based on what we experienced as kids, right? But I mean it, I can't remember anything until I was five or so, and who knows what happened before then? I mean, I've been told, but that's different. So if it shaped me, I don't know how. And that's scary, not knowing how things you can't even remember might have changed you for the worse."
The fact that Ginsberg feels up to a tangent like that, up to a crack about how little he makes at his job, tells Ned that he's doing somewhat better. He feels like his presence here is helping, if only a tiny amount. His eventual plan is to get Ginsberg feeling stable enough to leave the closet, then to whisk him out of the building and back to his place for the night, to get him ready for that inevitable meeting the next day. But he doesn't want to rush it and ruin this small improvement.
Ned thinks that his memory from before he was five is fairly spotty, too, that some of that is natural, but he gets the feeling that what Ginsberg is talking about is more complete than that. He remembers what Ginsberg said about being in the meeting and drawing that complete blank, tries to imagine how alarming that must be.
"If I couldn't remember years of my life, I'd be pretty freaked out, too," he admits. He doesn't have any words of advice, or wisdom, to make that gap any less daunting. Nothing he hasn't said already, anyway. "I don't think people make ads about childhood memories because they're more important for shaping who you turn out to be, though. I think... I mean, I'm not gonna pretend I know anything about advertising, but I would think it's because nostalgia is missing something you can never have again, so it would make sense to take that desire and try to redirect it towards something that you can have. Right? It's an easy way to make people want things. It's not like the first five years of your life are more important to making you who you are than the last five have been."
"That's exactly what it all is," he says, nodding, glad that Ned seems to get it. "It's a cheap way of inducing nostalgia, and then directing peoples' attention towards some product that can give them a simulacrum of the experience they think they had as kids, that they're desperate to get back. Mostly because adults are so unhappy that they're willing to do just about anything to regain the experiences they feel like they had as kids, but the truth is that even if they did have a sense of wonder and innocence when they were children -- which most people didn't have as much as they think they do -- they'll never get it back. And I guess that's why I prefer the darker ads. No pretending there, or at least, not in the same way. We're still trying to sell shit people don't need."
It does seem like he's feeling better. His talking is still quick, but his breathing has slowed down to a more reasonable rate -- part of that's down to being this close to Ned, to breathing in his smell and leaning against his shoulder and absorbing his calm -- but part of that's being able to talk about this without fear of judgement. He hasn't had that opportunity in far too long.
"So we should probably get out of this closet soon, right? I mean, Peggy and Bob are probably wondering what we're doing in here, and if I don't come out soon, they'll probably think I murdered you on my obviously psychotic, panicked, poetry-spouting rampage. You missed that. The poetry, I mean. I thought it would be a good way to calm down, but I guess it just sounded nuts."
"You're not going to try going back to work, are you?" Ned asks, with a trace of worry creeping into his voice. He wouldn't put it past Ginsberg to try: his job is so stressful, so competitive. But there's no question in the piemaker's mind that the best thing for Ginsberg would be to just get away from this place for a little while.
"Can you tell them you'll be ready for the meeting tomorrow and come back with me?" He doesn't want to just leave, can't bear the thought of heading out on his own with Ginsberg staying here, to deal with the rest of them, giving him sidelong glances, making remarks. Ned knows he can't keep him away from that forever, can't hold onto him forever, but he's not ready to be parted from him just yet. For his own sake, as well as Ginsberg's.
"No," he says, shaking his head emphatically, as though the emphatic tone of voice isn't enough to articulate just how much he's not going to try going back to work. "They know I'll be there for the meeting. Haven't missed one yet. Truthfully, I think they just want me out of this closet. I don't think they care where I go. And I doubt any of them are working right now, anyway. It's, what, almost five by now? They're probably all having a drink."
A drink at the office, he means, not going out anywhere to have a drink, but he probably doesn't need to say that, because he's already told Ned about just how much people get up to around here. It's not that he disapproves of it, exactly, it's just that it's never quite appealed to him.
"We can go tell them I'm leaving. You don't have to come with me to tell them, if you think it'll be awkward. I don't mind if you want to, though."
With that, he finally disentangles himself from Ned and stands up, opening the supply closet door and squinting into the light of the hallway.
"I'll come with you," Ned says without hesitation, getting to his feet too and picking up the discarded box of pie. As he, too, is blinking against the bright light of the hall, he suggests, "Maybe I can leave this as a peace offering for your coworkers..."
One of whom, Ned spots, is at hand. If he didn't know better he'd call it, well, lurking. He didn't have his ear pressed to the door or anything, but it's clear he's been lingering, checking in, probably drawing his own conclusions. Ned's not sure why, but he finds that warm smile a little too warm. Maybe he's just being paranoid, feeling overprotective after the very intimate conversation he'd just had with Ginsberg, but he feels a strange twinge of dislike towards the man.
If he's just being paranoid, Ginsberg is, too, because although he doesn't say anything to Bob, he gives him a sort of look, one that couldn't accurately be described as distrust, exactly, but one that doesn't scream great levels of friendship, either. And perhaps it's significant, too, that he doesn't say anything to Bob as he heads back towards the offices -- apparently, the guy doesn't warrant any comment about where the two of them are going.
Opening the door to the large yet cluttered room he and the rest of the creative team work in, he gestures around, like he's giving Ned the official tour. "This is where I work," he says, easily slipping back into what sounds like a cheerful tone now that there are other people around. "Stan's usually here, and I'd introduce you, but he's not here today. Sick, or so he says."
There're papers scattered all across the table in the center of the room, and the walls are all covered in scraps of paper; drawings, scribblings, fully formed advertisements, single word notes that must mean something to someone but are probably incomprehensible to Ned. "Peggy?" he calls out, and several seconds later, she's peeking her head around her office door. "I'm going home," he says, not asking for permission, not explaining himself, "But I'll be back tomorrow. Of course. For the meeting. Wouldn't miss it. It'll be great."
Peggy stares at him for a moment, then shifts her gaze to Ned, offering him a smile -- a genuine one, and not at all the too warm smile that Bob had given them. "Okay," she says, "Get some rest. It was nice to meet you, Ned."
Ginsberg grabs an overflowing file from the stack of them on the table, and hurries out of the office towards the elevators as fast as he can without looking like he's running away. In truth, he kind of is running away, and he's glad none of the executives had been there to apprehend him. Bob gives him a strange sense of unease, but he's got no power, and Peggy might get frustrated, but at least she cares a little and isn't likely to gossip too badly. He presses the button for the elevator three times, urging it to come more quickly.
Ned stares around at the workspace with open curiosity. It looks pretty much how he'd expected it to: a brilliant collage of scraps and ideas, all jumbled and dauntingly, well, creative. He's glad that Peggy doesn't object, to see the relief that's on her face. Perhaps, he thinks, he'd been a bit too harsh in his opinions of Ginsberg's coworkers. Well, some of them.
"Nice to meet you, too," he says, with real feeling behind it, rather than just as a formality. What he really means is thank you for calling me. "Here, you guys-" he puts down the pie in the center of the table, as Ginsberg is gathering his things. There's still a kind of frantic urgency to his movements that worries Ned, but at least they're getting out of there. "-help yourselves."
That offering given, he follows Ginsberg as he rushes out. He'd give anything to be able to set his hand on the small of Ginsberg's back as they wait for the elevator, but he doesn't dare. So he murmurs, low enough that no one else will overhear, "You know, I just thought of another thing that helps when I'm feeling stressed? Digby." Ginsberg might not share Ned's love of dogs, but he hasn't seemed to mind Digby's company, in the time they've known one another, and he is very calming company. Ned's seen that with dozens of people. "I'm sure he'll be happy to see you-"
With that, the elevator has arrived, and Ned follows Ginsberg on, more than prepared to dedicate the rest of his day to making him feel better, feel - if not happy, at least normal for a little while.
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"I can try to be good all I want," he finally says, reassured by Ned's continued physical contact, by the fact that it's dark and quiet in the closet. He knows that his coworkers are likely wondering what they're doing in here, what they're talking about, but he's glad they're leaving them alone to talk. Peggy's doing, most likely. If it were up to Bob, he doesn't doubt the closet door would have been broken down by now. "But no matter how hard I try to be good, to be kind, I'm still part of something awful. I can't sleep at night sometimes because I start thinking about all the terrible things I do, even though I don't do them directly."
He knows that requires more explanation, but thinking about it makes his head hurt, so he has to take a pause and take a big breath, trying to steady himself. The things Ned's saying make sense, are reasonable, are even soothing, but it's hard to accept all of those things when his mind is racing a mile a minute. "I think about you slamming that guy into the display case and there's something about it that makes me happy. And that shouldn't ever make me happy. I should be glad you defended me, but feel bad for the guy, or worried that he got hurt. You were obviously worried that you'd hurt him, when it happened."
Turning his face away from Ned now, he seems to be addressing the shelves full of paper and pencils and cleaning supplies. "I talk about hating the war. Hating the companies that use their money or their products to support the war. But then we do ads for them, and I take the paycheck even though I know it's dirty money, and I tell myself 'it's just a job, I'm not a bad person, I'm not hurting anyone,' but that's what everyone says, that's what anyone who allows bad things to happen says. That's how the Nazis tried to defend themselves, too. 'Just a job.' So how does that make me any better, when I know I help companies hurt people? You don't do that. You make pie. Pie doesn't hurt people."
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"Not necessarily," Ned knows it's a stretch, but he isn't sure how else to comfort Ginsberg, how else to make him feel better, "The companies I buy fruit from probably cheat and exploit their workers, only I haven't had the courage to look them up and check, because even if they do, I have to buy fruit from someone. Just like you have to make ads for someone. That doesn't make you a- a Nazi. You have to see that. You're not writing propaganda for the war, and you're not working for the government, and you're not hurting people directly, so there is a difference. There's a big one."
There's something so daunting about all this, and Ned has a moment of self-doubt. Is this really the right route to take, or will it sound like he's just invalidating Ginsberg's feelings? But he doesn't know what else to do.
"The war's too big for you, Ginsberg. You're not going to be able to stop it single-handed by quitting your job, or keep it going by writing a great ad for a horrible company. You're not that important. That doesn't mean you're just allowing bad things to happen."
He hesitates, weighing the options before him. Will baring his own burdens really help to Ginsberg to bear his? Or will he merely worsen the other man's conviction that everyone is rotten on the inside, in one way or another? In the end, Ned decides to risk it.
"And even if pie doesn't hurt people... I have. So I know what I'm talking about."
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He could be saying I know to anything, but what he's really agreeing to is that he knows that he's not that important, that nothing he does really has an impact in the big scheme of things. It's logical, and it makes sense to him, and it's the kind of thing he'd tell someone else and really mean it, but it's amazing how logical things can be so difficult to comprehend when applied to oneself. All the rules he has for other people, all the ideas he has about them, those all go out the door when they're applying to him.
"You've hurt people?"
He doesn't necessarily know what Ned means by that, and that's why he turns his head back to look at him curiously. Maybe Ned means physically, like the guy he'd slammed into the display case. Maybe he means emotionally, because it's pretty damn hard to go through life without hurting at least one or two people emotionally, no matter how hard you try. Maybe he means something else entirely. "I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want. Maybe it's enough just to know that I'm not the only one. Not the only terrible person. Not that you're terrible, I don't mean that at all, but not the only one who worries about this kind of thing."
And there he goes again, fumbling his way through sentences he's not sure how to articulate, making it all sound worse than it really is. He knows that he has a flair for the dramatic, that he's likely panicking about something that nobody else would even give a second's thought to, but he doesn't think he can help it. For better or for worse, this is how his brain works. It's exhausting.
He's startled to find that tears have sprung to his eyes, and he swipes at his eyes angrily with the sleeve of his sweater. The last thing he needs is to cry in front of Ned. This is already bad enough, and although he's generally more comfortable being emotional than most people, crying is another level of unpleasantness. Surely, even if Ned hasn't judged him so far, he'd judge him for that.
"I just hate knowing..." He hesitates, and then spills it all out in a long stream of words that practically run together. "I hate knowing that if I hadn't been born, my mother, whoever the hell she was, would probably still be alive. I mean, I don't know that for sure, because how could I, but she'd've had a better chance. I hate knowing that my existence hurt someone. Just existing. Not even doing anything. Not even consciously. Just the act of being here."
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His chest aches when he sees Ginsberg wiping away tears. Ned's never been much good at seeing other people in pain or distress, even if they were strangers. To see Ginsberg fighting back tears like that is so much worse than he would have imagined, and that's before he says what he does about his mother.
They've finally coming to it, to the thing at the roof of all these different strands: Ginsberg's response in the meeting, his feeling of dread and unreality, his fear that he's a bad person, his horror of hurting others. But it turns out that at this most crucial of moments, words absolutely fail Ned. He's accustomed enough to speaking with people about their mothers, even their dead mothers, and doing so with the emotional distance necessary to keep himself safe. He wasn't expecting this, however, and it cuts into him deep, from out of nowhere. Ginsberg blames himself for his mother's death. Well. That's something Ned can relate to, too.
Only he can't seem to find his voice to say that. And besides, what would he even say? What words could possibly be enough? He can't tell Ginsberg it isn't his fault, though he doesn't think it is, because that strikes Ned as not his right (besides which, he wouldn't trust his voice). So he does something that's out of character for him and gathers Ginsberg into an embrace, sudden and fierce, holds him as if he could banish everything bad in just that one act. Ned knows that he's shaking, now, but he doesn't care Ginsberg if notices. He'll say something, something reassuring, something wise and logical, when he can.
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The hug, then, takes him almost completely by surprise, and he startles a little before letting himself sink into it, letting Ned hold him tightly, burying his face in Ned's shoulder. He's not crying, he's not going to let himself, but those tears are still there, lurking somewhere, and he knows they could burst out at any minute. If he does cry, he thinks, he'll do it once Ned is gone. Because Ned's going to leave eventually, isn't he? Most people do.
"I shouldn't have said any of that," he says, because this is usually the kind of thing he ends up having to apologize for. True, Ned's response is far different than other responses have been -- those responses have been mostly dismissive, with a helping of discomfort and irritation -- but that doesn't mean Ned has endless patience. "And I'm saying that to you, and I know you don't have a mother either, and it's selfish of me to bring any of it up, because I'm making you waste your time in a closet because I freaked out during a meeting about ketchup. I mean, out of everything to have a breakdown about. Maybe I'll pitch an ad like that. Ketchup: It's great, except when you get a mentally unstable ad guy working on it, and then it makes you cry! But it sure tastes delicious.."
He laughs, even though he's not amused, because laughing is a lot better of an option than the alternative.
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"You're the furthest thing from a waste of time that I can imagine," he says, fervently, not loosening his grip on Ginsberg one iota. His voice is hoarse with emotion, but relatively steady, at least. If Ginsberg meant that as an apology, Ned isn't accepting it. "It isn't selfish to talk about it. I want you to know you can tell me things. I just-" Here, against his will, his voice breaks. He tries to cover it up by clearing his throat, but it's a pretty flimsy ruse. "-I'm not sure what to say. Because. I think. I kind of know... how you feel." The words are coming jerkily, in starts and fits, but he presses on, "And I can't imagine anything anyone could say... making it hurt any less."
Ned runs a hand through Ginsberg's hair, pushing it back from his ears and forehead. "I guess... the only thing I do want to say is, it's okay for it to hurt. That doesn't make you weak, or weird, or crazy."
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What Ned says, though, has him frowning, because although it can be a good thing, sometimes, to know that someone else out there feels the same way as you do, understands and can comprehend it, he doesn't want Ned to feel that way. He's already seen, of course, that Ned has a great deal of hurt and pain surrounding his childhood, but the fact that Ned recognizes how much this hurts, from a personal level, makes him feel very, very sad.
"You're the last person I'd ever want to feel that way," he says, voice very determined, and a little too loud, although he'd meant it to come out sounding a bit softer, a bit more sensitive. "I mean, I don't think anyone should have to feel that way, but you, especially, you should be happy. And me, y'know, I go from overjoyed to miserable to gleeful to despairing and back again in the space of about an hour, which you've probably noticed, so I'm not sure happy is my goal so much as just... normal. Normal would be a good start. I appreciate you trying to tell me I'm not a waste of time, because that's sweet of you, because you're a sweet guy, but if you feel that way too, if you know how I feel, how do you deal with it? I mean, how do you walk around every day, looking at people and talking to people and pretending that everything's... normal? I keep feeling like one of these days someone is going to find out everything about me and it'll be like they're gleefully tearing open the package on a present to reveal what's inside of me, except the present is a huge disappointment and terrifying. And people do find things out. They just do. Or I tell them. Like I told you."
He's never been good at seeming normal. Not even as a kid. Even less so now.
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He keeps holding Ginsberg, muses, "I've had a lot more practice seeming normal and happy than being either of them, if I'm honest. I always knew... being normal was never really an option, for me. And I was always pretty skeptical about being happy, too. So I guess I learned to fake it pretty well."
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As evidenced by his continued clinging, apparently. Ned doesn't seem to mind the continued closeness, especially not with the way Ned's resting his cheek on top of his head like that. He doesn't know exactly what Ned has to hide, other than the things that Ned had already divulged to him on Halloween, but whatever they are, he supposes they're probably different than his own. No two people are exactly the same, after all, even when it comes to deep, dark secrets.
"I fake it pretty well, too. I think. Most people think I'm pretty cheerful, or if not cheerful, just kind of weird and offbeat. And I am all of those things, I guess, but obviously I'm a whole lot of other things, too. I don't really talk about this with anyone else. I talked about it with Peggy a little, but I'm not sure if she understood it all. It's hard to try to explain your childhood in a way that won't make people pity you. Pity's such a waste of time. I tried to explain to her how I didn't feel real, how I didn't feel like I fit, but I think all she got out of it was quintessential orphaned kid sob story."
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Ginsberg is right about one thing though - that the demarcation between feigning cheer and actually being cheerful isn't always so easy to locate. Habitual acts can become realities, or something very similar. There have been days, weeks, when Ned has almost convinced himself that he is the person he pretends to be, inside and out. But something always came along to remind him, before too long, of the fragility of that act.
"You already know more about my past than anyone else in the world," Ned says, as a kind of proof that he understands why Ginsberg doesn't talk about this kind of thing so often. There is, however, one detail that is eluding his comprehension. Which is why he asks in a gentle, quiet voice, "Most of what you're saying is so like my own thoughts that I could swear you were some kind of mind-reader. But... I'm not sure I know what you mean when you say you don't feel real."
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This is always such a difficult thing to explain, even to himself, and the truth is, he has no idea how to explain it to Ned without sounding utterly insane. "I guess sometimes I just start thinking about how strange the very nature of existing is. We're here, but it all seems so random. There were probably a million things that could've happened to make us not be here at all, not exist at all. And sometimes I start to wonder whether everything that I experience isn't just some kind of... I wonder whether it's all actually just in my head, if I'm just fantasizing about everything I think I'm seeing and feeling and doing. And if that's possible, and I know it is, because I know there're people who live with those kinds of delusions, then isn't it possible that I'm also just a delusion in someone else's head? Maybe the reason I feel so strange and out of place all the time is that I'm just not supposed to be here, that I'm just a figment of someone else's mind."
It doesn't make sense, when he explains it aloud, and he doesn't expect Ned to get it, but he's talking too fast now to slow himself down or to consider just how bizarre and downright strange he sounds, saying all of this. Ned might understand what some of this is like, but he probably doesn't question his own existence. Ginsberg, on the other hand, has been having existential dilemmas since before he really knew what they were.
"I mean, I don't really fit anywhere. I was born in Germany, but I'm not German. I was in Sweden for awhile, but I'm not Swedish. I came to America, but I'm not really American, not the way people think of it, even if my passport says I'm an American citizen. Where am I categorized? My father isn't my real father. I might not have had a mother at all, for all I know she could be a fictionalization, too, and I could have come from outer space. I have no idea what my real birthday is, I just know the one they invented for me. I have no idea what I was supposed to be named, I just know what they decided to call me. Everything I know about myself is fake. Doesn't that mean I'm not real, too?"
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He doesn't understand, but he does listen, and gradually Ginsberg's reasoning becomes more accessible to him. Questions of identity, he has dealt with. Not in the realm of nationality, as it seems to be in Ginsberg's case. But he feels on firmer ground responding to that
"I don't think so." He's careful to phrase it as an opinion - not making fun of Ginsberg for having doubts as to his own existence, but firm in his own conviction that Ginsberg is, in fact, real. He wonders if anyone had ever bothered to give him even that, or if they had scoffed and spouted some variation on of course you're real. "The only way that would make you not real is if you believe someone's past is the key to who they are, and I don't think that. Not the only one, anyway. Maybe... maybe another way to look at it is: even if you don't know what you are, and can never know for certain, that means you get to decide who you want to be."
He knows it sounds cheesy, but it's what he's always done. He's focused that old anxiety over what kind of monster he must be into efforts to redefine himself, to build scaffolds and structures around that emptiness, around that unanswered question.
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He knows that's not necessarily relevant to the conversation at hand, but he never can resist going off on a tangent, if the opportunity presents itself. He finally dislodges his face from Ned's shoulder, although he doesn't pull away from him entirely. No way is he letting go of him before he has to.
He appreciates Ned's words, the obvious care that he takes to make sure that he doesn't denigrate his feelings, ridiculous as they may be. Other people haven't necessarily given him that kind of thought. They've just dismissed him, or worse, gotten worried about him. That's what his father had done, when he'd started talking like this. Decided he needed help, and found him a 'good' psychoanalyst. It hadn't worked.
"But that thing you say about the past not being the key to who you are... I don't think most people see it the way you do. Why else would people be so focused on making ads about childhood memories? These things are supposed to shape us in some way, and we're supposed to become adults based on what we experienced as kids, right? But I mean it, I can't remember anything until I was five or so, and who knows what happened before then? I mean, I've been told, but that's different. So if it shaped me, I don't know how. And that's scary, not knowing how things you can't even remember might have changed you for the worse."
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Ned thinks that his memory from before he was five is fairly spotty, too, that some of that is natural, but he gets the feeling that what Ginsberg is talking about is more complete than that. He remembers what Ginsberg said about being in the meeting and drawing that complete blank, tries to imagine how alarming that must be.
"If I couldn't remember years of my life, I'd be pretty freaked out, too," he admits. He doesn't have any words of advice, or wisdom, to make that gap any less daunting. Nothing he hasn't said already, anyway. "I don't think people make ads about childhood memories because they're more important for shaping who you turn out to be, though. I think... I mean, I'm not gonna pretend I know anything about advertising, but I would think it's because nostalgia is missing something you can never have again, so it would make sense to take that desire and try to redirect it towards something that you can have. Right? It's an easy way to make people want things. It's not like the first five years of your life are more important to making you who you are than the last five have been."
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It does seem like he's feeling better. His talking is still quick, but his breathing has slowed down to a more reasonable rate -- part of that's down to being this close to Ned, to breathing in his smell and leaning against his shoulder and absorbing his calm -- but part of that's being able to talk about this without fear of judgement. He hasn't had that opportunity in far too long.
"So we should probably get out of this closet soon, right? I mean, Peggy and Bob are probably wondering what we're doing in here, and if I don't come out soon, they'll probably think I murdered you on my obviously psychotic, panicked, poetry-spouting rampage. You missed that. The poetry, I mean. I thought it would be a good way to calm down, but I guess it just sounded nuts."
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"Can you tell them you'll be ready for the meeting tomorrow and come back with me?" He doesn't want to just leave, can't bear the thought of heading out on his own with Ginsberg staying here, to deal with the rest of them, giving him sidelong glances, making remarks. Ned knows he can't keep him away from that forever, can't hold onto him forever, but he's not ready to be parted from him just yet. For his own sake, as well as Ginsberg's.
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A drink at the office, he means, not going out anywhere to have a drink, but he probably doesn't need to say that, because he's already told Ned about just how much people get up to around here. It's not that he disapproves of it, exactly, it's just that it's never quite appealed to him.
"We can go tell them I'm leaving. You don't have to come with me to tell them, if you think it'll be awkward. I don't mind if you want to, though."
With that, he finally disentangles himself from Ned and stands up, opening the supply closet door and squinting into the light of the hallway.
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One of whom, Ned spots, is at hand. If he didn't know better he'd call it, well, lurking. He didn't have his ear pressed to the door or anything, but it's clear he's been lingering, checking in, probably drawing his own conclusions. Ned's not sure why, but he finds that warm smile a little too warm. Maybe he's just being paranoid, feeling overprotective after the very intimate conversation he'd just had with Ginsberg, but he feels a strange twinge of dislike towards the man.
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Opening the door to the large yet cluttered room he and the rest of the creative team work in, he gestures around, like he's giving Ned the official tour. "This is where I work," he says, easily slipping back into what sounds like a cheerful tone now that there are other people around. "Stan's usually here, and I'd introduce you, but he's not here today. Sick, or so he says."
There're papers scattered all across the table in the center of the room, and the walls are all covered in scraps of paper; drawings, scribblings, fully formed advertisements, single word notes that must mean something to someone but are probably incomprehensible to Ned. "Peggy?" he calls out, and several seconds later, she's peeking her head around her office door. "I'm going home," he says, not asking for permission, not explaining himself, "But I'll be back tomorrow. Of course. For the meeting. Wouldn't miss it. It'll be great."
Peggy stares at him for a moment, then shifts her gaze to Ned, offering him a smile -- a genuine one, and not at all the too warm smile that Bob had given them. "Okay," she says, "Get some rest. It was nice to meet you, Ned."
Ginsberg grabs an overflowing file from the stack of them on the table, and hurries out of the office towards the elevators as fast as he can without looking like he's running away. In truth, he kind of is running away, and he's glad none of the executives had been there to apprehend him. Bob gives him a strange sense of unease, but he's got no power, and Peggy might get frustrated, but at least she cares a little and isn't likely to gossip too badly. He presses the button for the elevator three times, urging it to come more quickly.
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"Nice to meet you, too," he says, with real feeling behind it, rather than just as a formality. What he really means is thank you for calling me. "Here, you guys-" he puts down the pie in the center of the table, as Ginsberg is gathering his things. There's still a kind of frantic urgency to his movements that worries Ned, but at least they're getting out of there. "-help yourselves."
That offering given, he follows Ginsberg as he rushes out. He'd give anything to be able to set his hand on the small of Ginsberg's back as they wait for the elevator, but he doesn't dare. So he murmurs, low enough that no one else will overhear, "You know, I just thought of another thing that helps when I'm feeling stressed? Digby." Ginsberg might not share Ned's love of dogs, but he hasn't seemed to mind Digby's company, in the time they've known one another, and he is very calming company. Ned's seen that with dozens of people. "I'm sure he'll be happy to see you-"
With that, the elevator has arrived, and Ned follows Ginsberg on, more than prepared to dedicate the rest of his day to making him feel better, feel - if not happy, at least normal for a little while.