He realizes that Ginsberg is mostly kidding, but he can't let him get the wrong impression, has to correct him right away, speaking quickly, "Oh, no, don't believe that, please. Your dad made the right call, boarding school is horrific. Better your dad never letting you out of his sight than a couple dozen teachers and priests never letting you out of theirs. And the 'things' that people get up to at boarding school are mostly just... vicious pranks and bullying and bullshit. You didn't miss out on anything, there."
It's a curious feeling, listening to Ginsberg talking about all those milestones, the common narrative of the American teenager. He might not volunteer this on his own, but it's different, if Ginsberg goes first. If, by talking about himself, he's offering a degree of solace or solidarity to a man that he really rather likes, so far. "I do know. I didn't do any of those things, either, or any of the things that normal kids did at Longborough- at the school where I grew up. I was about as abnormal as they came."
"I'm sure you're right about all of that. I think it's pretty common, though, to wish we'd had a different experience than we'd had, no matter how we grew up, right? Is anyone ever really satisfied with the things they did as a teenager?"
It's almost a rhetorical question. There have been times that he's thought he'd've been a lot happier if his dad had occasionally let him out of his sight, let him have a little bit of freedom, but in actuality, he's sure he would have been unhappy with whatever reality he'd lived. Maybe it's just in his nature, to be dissatisfied by things, or maybe that's in every teenager's nature. Things are better now, he feels more settled, even though he's pretty certain he doesn't want to live with his father forever.
"You were abnormal because you were nice. Are nice. That's a good kind of abnormal. People take advantage of that, I know, but better you be nice than the alternative. I didn't have any friends in high school. I don't have many friends now, either. If I were nicer, I might have had some."
He realizes, with some surprise, that he could probably count Ned as a friend now. It seems only fair, after all.
That is certainly one way of looking at it, and Ned's consoled himself with a similar thought process before now. Sure, he might have had a miserable and loveless span of teenage years, but if no one enjoyed it, that didn't make him completely different, did it? He finds it interesting that Ginsberg mind works in the same way, follows the same logical route.
"I was abnormal for a lot more than that," Ned mutters, but he doesn't elaborate any further. "I didn't have any friends at school. At least... not really. Not for long." There had been Eugene, for a little while, and he'd clung to even that failed example of friendship as a sign that it was possible, for him, if he was just careful enough. "And I don't think it's only down to niceness, because you keep saying I'm nice but I don't really have any friends now, either."
At this Digby perks up his head, makes a small noise of complaint in his throat. Ned, as if anticipating this, immediately says, "Digby, you don't count. I meant human friends." The dog, appeased in this finer point, lays his head down once more, staring up at them once more with soulful eyes.
"I was abnormal for a lot more than that, too," he says, seeing a certainly solidarity between the two of them, although of course he's not nearly as intimately familiar with Ned's oddnesses or lack of normalcy as he is with his own. He could give a long speech about all the ways he'd failed to be the normal person that his father had wanted, that his classmates had wanted, even that his work had wanted. "I was born abnormal. I don't actually know what normal is. I mean, I know it when I see it, but I know I'm not it."
He looks down at Digby, smiling slightly, marveling again at just how smart that dog is, how much he seems to understand human conversation, how Ned talks to him like he's a real person. It doesn't strike him as strange at all, really. If he had such an intelligent dog, he'd probably talk to him, to. To be fair, Ginsberg talks to everyone and everything, including inanimate objects.
"I can be a human friend. I mean, if you want. I mean, I'd like to be."
Born abnormal sounds about right, Ned thinks, though he doesn't say that aloud. Instead he just files it away, along with the bitter mental footnote that out of the pair of them, he is probably the more abnormal. Not that it is a competition, and he certainly wishes it weren't the case. He's simply failed to meet anyone in all his years who can top being born with an unexplained power over life and death. But Ginsberg doesn't need to know about that. No one does.
"You don't think abnormal can pass for normal? Given the proper amount of routines, and strategies, and attention to detail?"
An abstract kind of a question, for a simple piemaker, but he's curious to hear Ginsberg's answer. His offer to be Ned's friend makes him smile, radiantly. "I'd like that. I guess it only makes sense. Us abnormal kids should stick together."
"I do think abnormal can pass for normal. I think if you put on the right clothes, and never deviate from the right script, and pay attention to every little thing you do down to the way you breathe and the way you blink, abnormal can pass for normal. I spent a long time trying to do that. I was miserable. More miserable, I mean."
He takes another sip of his coffee, although it's cooling off quickly. "If you want people to think you're normal, you can. It just takes a lot of work. And I don't think the work's worth it. I may be a freak, I may be crazy, but if I hadn't been a crazy freak, I never would have met you, right?"
Because if he hadn't been a crazy freak, nobody would have thrown pie at him, and even if they had, he never would have been so talkative and bold with Ned. There's a sense of freedom in abnormality that he's only just started to embrace. For years, he'd tried desperately to fit in, despite feeling displaced wherever he went. Now he's started to accept that, perhaps, he's just not meant to fit in. Maybe Ned's like that too.
Ginsberg makes it sound so simple, to stop pretending and be comfortable in his skin. But Ned has already seen some of the qualifications to that narrative, the flashes of uncertainty and self-doubt in Ginsberg the night before, and this morning. It's not entirely possible, perhaps, for people like them to entirely own and accept who they are, give up the act and be happy and confident.
"It takes a lot of work to pass," he agrees, with the air of someone who does it on a daily basis, "but it takes a lot of bravery to decide not to."
Bravery that he doesn't currently have at the ready. He'll take the fear of being noticed - with its costumes and scripts and occasional despair - over the uncertainty of what might happen to him if he did start to own his freakishness. But he likes that Ginsberg doesn't. He's glad of it, and glad they met, and glad they are speaking like this. Glad enough that he caves into a moment of impulsiveness and leans across the small table, kissing Ginsberg quickly.
The smile that breaks across his face when Ned kisses him is nothing short of overjoyed, and he kisses him back quickly, barely unable to believe his luck. He feels oddly comfortable with Ned -- because for all his talk of being fine with not fitting in, he often has a hard time relating to people, but there isn't the same problem with Ned.
When he draws back from the kiss, the silly grin doesn't dim at all. "Can we do this again sometime? All of it, I mean. I don't know how to ask someone on a second date because I've never gotten that far but this is me trying to be brave and do my best."
Somehow, he thinks Ned will probably agree, but that doesn't stop him from feeling nervous as he asks.
"Anytime you'd like," Ned says, without a second of hesitation, grinning to match. He grabs a pen from a cup on the counter, jots something down on a napkin and pushes it across the table to Ginsberg. "My number," he explains, perhaps superfluously, "Or you can just come by the Pie Hole. I'm not a hard guy to find." He's there anytime the shop is open, after all, and it's open most of the time.
Ned finds himself hoping Ginsberg doesn't wait too long; he doesn't ask for his number, doesn't want to presume. It's probably easier this way, anyway. Calls to his workplace might seem suspicious - ad agencies probably have secretaries who would ask why he's calling. Calls to him home would probably be similarly frustrated by the fact that his father, from the sound of it, is a nosy type.
"Well, I'd like it to be soon," he responds, completely honesty, sliding
the napkin the rest of the way across the table to him and holding onto it
like it's priceless. And to him, it is. This is the promise of there being
something more than just that evening. And he's pretty sure he'll be
stopping by the Pie Hole again.
He picks up the pen and writes something down on a napkin, too, his
handwriting surprisingly neat for someone so offbeat and creative. "That's
my office number," he explains, because Ned would be right in his
assumption that Ginsberg isn't inclined to give out his home number, not
when his father monitors calls so intently. "I share the office with a
couple people, but most of them won't ask weird questions. Okay, Stan might
ask weird questions, but he asks everyone weird questions. And our
secretary's okay, too. She won't suspect anything, and if she asks why
you're calling, just say you're a friend of mine. She'll be so surprised
that I have friends that she'll forget to be suspicious."
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no subject
It's a curious feeling, listening to Ginsberg talking about all those milestones, the common narrative of the American teenager. He might not volunteer this on his own, but it's different, if Ginsberg goes first. If, by talking about himself, he's offering a degree of solace or solidarity to a man that he really rather likes, so far. "I do know. I didn't do any of those things, either, or any of the things that normal kids did at Longborough- at the school where I grew up. I was about as abnormal as they came."
no subject
It's almost a rhetorical question. There have been times that he's thought he'd've been a lot happier if his dad had occasionally let him out of his sight, let him have a little bit of freedom, but in actuality, he's sure he would have been unhappy with whatever reality he'd lived. Maybe it's just in his nature, to be dissatisfied by things, or maybe that's in every teenager's nature. Things are better now, he feels more settled, even though he's pretty certain he doesn't want to live with his father forever.
"You were abnormal because you were nice. Are nice. That's a good kind of abnormal. People take advantage of that, I know, but better you be nice than the alternative. I didn't have any friends in high school. I don't have many friends now, either. If I were nicer, I might have had some."
He realizes, with some surprise, that he could probably count Ned as a friend now. It seems only fair, after all.
no subject
"I was abnormal for a lot more than that," Ned mutters, but he doesn't elaborate any further. "I didn't have any friends at school. At least... not really. Not for long." There had been Eugene, for a little while, and he'd clung to even that failed example of friendship as a sign that it was possible, for him, if he was just careful enough. "And I don't think it's only down to niceness, because you keep saying I'm nice but I don't really have any friends now, either."
At this Digby perks up his head, makes a small noise of complaint in his throat. Ned, as if anticipating this, immediately says, "Digby, you don't count. I meant human friends." The dog, appeased in this finer point, lays his head down once more, staring up at them once more with soulful eyes.
no subject
He looks down at Digby, smiling slightly, marveling again at just how smart that dog is, how much he seems to understand human conversation, how Ned talks to him like he's a real person. It doesn't strike him as strange at all, really. If he had such an intelligent dog, he'd probably talk to him, to. To be fair, Ginsberg talks to everyone and everything, including inanimate objects.
"I can be a human friend. I mean, if you want. I mean, I'd like to be."
no subject
"You don't think abnormal can pass for normal? Given the proper amount of routines, and strategies, and attention to detail?"
An abstract kind of a question, for a simple piemaker, but he's curious to hear Ginsberg's answer. His offer to be Ned's friend makes him smile, radiantly. "I'd like that. I guess it only makes sense. Us abnormal kids should stick together."
no subject
He takes another sip of his coffee, although it's cooling off quickly. "If you want people to think you're normal, you can. It just takes a lot of work. And I don't think the work's worth it. I may be a freak, I may be crazy, but if I hadn't been a crazy freak, I never would have met you, right?"
Because if he hadn't been a crazy freak, nobody would have thrown pie at him, and even if they had, he never would have been so talkative and bold with Ned. There's a sense of freedom in abnormality that he's only just started to embrace. For years, he'd tried desperately to fit in, despite feeling displaced wherever he went. Now he's started to accept that, perhaps, he's just not meant to fit in. Maybe Ned's like that too.
no subject
"It takes a lot of work to pass," he agrees, with the air of someone who does it on a daily basis, "but it takes a lot of bravery to decide not to."
Bravery that he doesn't currently have at the ready. He'll take the fear of being noticed - with its costumes and scripts and occasional despair - over the uncertainty of what might happen to him if he did start to own his freakishness. But he likes that Ginsberg doesn't. He's glad of it, and glad they met, and glad they are speaking like this. Glad enough that he caves into a moment of impulsiveness and leans across the small table, kissing Ginsberg quickly.
"Right," he says.
no subject
When he draws back from the kiss, the silly grin doesn't dim at all. "Can we do this again sometime? All of it, I mean. I don't know how to ask someone on a second date because I've never gotten that far but this is me trying to be brave and do my best."
Somehow, he thinks Ned will probably agree, but that doesn't stop him from feeling nervous as he asks.
no subject
Ned finds himself hoping Ginsberg doesn't wait too long; he doesn't ask for his number, doesn't want to presume. It's probably easier this way, anyway. Calls to his workplace might seem suspicious - ad agencies probably have secretaries who would ask why he's calling. Calls to him home would probably be similarly frustrated by the fact that his father, from the sound of it, is a nosy type.
no subject
"Well, I'd like it to be soon," he responds, completely honesty, sliding the napkin the rest of the way across the table to him and holding onto it like it's priceless. And to him, it is. This is the promise of there being something more than just that evening. And he's pretty sure he'll be stopping by the Pie Hole again.
He picks up the pen and writes something down on a napkin, too, his handwriting surprisingly neat for someone so offbeat and creative. "That's my office number," he explains, because Ned would be right in his assumption that Ginsberg isn't inclined to give out his home number, not when his father monitors calls so intently. "I share the office with a couple people, but most of them won't ask weird questions. Okay, Stan might ask weird questions, but he asks everyone weird questions. And our secretary's okay, too. She won't suspect anything, and if she asks why you're calling, just say you're a friend of mine. She'll be so surprised that I have friends that she'll forget to be suspicious."