Time: Monday afternoon
Scenario: A boy and a girl are conversing with each other, separated from the rest of their group. The girl begins to lament about the rest of her week. She has two exams to take and she’s dreading them. The boy, now quiet, nods his head along, allowing her to vent.
Imagined Backstory: He, Kip Gibbs, is on a cleanse: a complaining cleanse, to be exact.
He had gotten the idea from his friend Martha. On a chilly Saturday night as they had their weekly dinner at the FFC, she had proudly announced that she was on a meanness cleanse, which had garnered a skeptical what-does-that-even-mean look from him. Letting out an exasperated sigh, Martha explained that it meant she couldn’t be mean. She proceeded to explain that it was the first part of her four-part journey to becoming a better person, but Kip had already tuned her out by then. Martha was naturally a gossipy person, and he doubted she would be able to survive this cleanse for more than a couple hours — not that he would ever say that to her face.
A tap on his shoulder brought him back to her.
“You’re not listening to me,” Martha said with a pout.
Kip swirled his spoon through his soup. “Sorry, I was just thinking about how over-salted this soup is. Don’t you think?”
“Nope. Nope. I’m not getting into this with you right now. I’m on a cleanse.”
“It’s not being mean,” he protested. “It’s complaining. There’s a difference.”
“Whatever makes you sleep better at night.” Martha paused, tapping her fingers against the table. She let out a short laugh. “Maybe you should go on a complaining cleanse instead.”
Kip hadn’t thought much about it until he began to really listen to himself complaining about the FFC food, complaining about how boring the psychology lecture was that day, complaining about his roommate stumbling in every night from the library and making a ruckus. He realized with disgust that he complained about anything and everything. And so he had decided to go on a complaining cleanse. It would be simple enough, he had thought to himself.
It only took a couple days to learn it wouldn’t be simple enough. Everywhere he went, he heard complaints about classes, about friends, about rip-off printing costs, about tuition debts, about useless roommates.
When the girl across from him, Mary Anne, pauses in her tirade against the education system, letting silence fall over them, Kip lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. As she leaves to get fruit, Kip lets his body slump forward. He is so close to cracking. He knows it.
When Mary Anne returns, her face scrunched up, she says, “The fruit selection here is just so disappointing. Isn’t it?”
Kip keeps his mouth clamped shut and nods along weakly. He reassures himself that if he refuses to verbally voice the complaint, then it can’t count against his cleanse. He’s just being a good friend, a good listener. Mary Anne studies him closely with a frown and asks if he’s okay. He automatically squeaks out, “Fine.” With a shrug, she begins to swivel towards the rest of the group.
Kip half-shouts “Wait,” and Mary Anne stops mid-swivel. He feels it bubbling in the back of his throat. With gritted teeth, he remains silent, but the longer she waits, looking at him expectantly, the more he feels like he’s falling apart.
Before he can stop himself, he says, “I have two exams and one 10-page paper I haven’t even started due in the next two days. I’ve been sick for the last three weeks. Oh, and all I’ve eaten in the last three days is tuna salad, so there’s a chance I might get mercury poisoning, but everything else here is terrible, and — ”
He pauses mid-sentence. His heart is racing, his hands are shaking and his eyes are watering. He feels alive for the first time in days, and in that moment, Kip Gibbs feels human again, he feels whole.
