Krystal

There are really only two things you need to know about me.

First, I am a son of the low country,

a child of the south.

I’m polite, courteous, chivalrous,

I open doors, I respect my elders,

I "Yes, sir" and "No, ma’am" all the livelong day.

That’s a long-billed curlew, just in case you’re curious.

The second thing is, I have a very weird heart.

And I don’t mean that in a metaphorical English major sense.

I mean physically.

I have a condition.

Paroxysmal atrial tachycardia. PAT.

I have a racing heart which just gallops up to 200 beats a minute

whenever it feels like it.

The doctors think my PAT might be caused by stress,

which is something doctors say when they’re stumped.

So that’s why I’m a walker of dawn beaches and a watcher of birds,

to keep as far away from this exhausted and silly

and heartbreaking world as possible,

to stay calm, very calm, and barely alive.

The first time I got it, the PAT, I mean, was in front of my house.

Remember when you were a little kid and you ran for the sheer joy of running

and you never, ever got tired?

That was my last morning of forever running.

Please don’t die.

Please.

I waited to die too, and in waiting, I converted,

a quasi-medical term that means my heartbeat returned to normal.

My second episode happened a year later.

Essentially, what all great religions teach us

is transformation of one’s self.

To lie down on the summer grass...

That’s my father giving one of his famous home Saturday seminars

in Comparative Religions.

He’s a professor at Emery. He’s brilliant.

...and a lie. Wake up!

Well, you can imagine.

The Devil is in the attic!

Look, son, you didn’t see Satan.

You were simply overwhelmed with guilt

about peeking into places you really shouldn’t,

and finding magazines that I should feel guilty about but don’t.

And hopefully, you’ll understand later, when you’re married

and lassitude has lassoed the galloping priapic pony of your sexuality.

- Pony? What pony? I’m getting a pony? - No.

There’s no pony. Jesus.

Then I don’t think... What are you talking about?

I’ll make it simple, okay? There is no Devil.

But there’s no Santa either. That’s the trade off, Tay-Tay.

Santa and Satan are just symbols for...

My father’s book, The History of Om,

is about the redemptive power of prayer and meditation.

I tried reading it last summer. I couldn’t.

If a cartoon in a titty magazine just about killed me,

a normal life was totally out of the question.

College, forget it.

Sex, drugs, and rock and roll,

a death sentence.

And love...

Hey.

Hi.

Are you here by yourself?

- Do you have a car? - Um...

Did you drive here? Do you have, like, a phone or something?

I need to call a cab or Lyft, or whatever.

Um...

What?

You okay?

What?

- I said are you-- - No, not re... not really.

Well, you don’t look so hot.

I have a kind of... condition.

You’re sweating a lot, do you know that?

I’m having kind of a hard time.

Having a hard time what?

Just breathing, actually.

Shit.

Fuck!

- Name, please. - Krystal Bryant.

- No, I meant him. - I have no idea.

Look, man, I don’t even know him, okay?

He was just sitting on the beach, on his ass,

and all of a sudden, kid has a heart attack.

See if we have anything on a Taylor Ogburn.

We need the EKG--

Miss Bryant, I have to ask you to leave.

Tell him that. He won’t let me go.

Taylor Ogburn, history of paroxysmal atrial tachycardia.

- Age? - 18.

- God, remember 18? - IV’s in.

- Maybe a pulse reading would be in order? - Great, get a pulse reading.

Two hundred.

Miss Bryant, that’s not helping.

210, 215.

- He’s not converting. - That's bad, right?

You’re amazing.

- Just gonna put this on. - 240.

- 250. - We’re gonna have to induce conversion.

- Get me four CCs of ATP. - God. Shot, Jesus. Needles.

Well, Miss Bryant, I’m not giving you the shot, now am I?

- You can just eat me, all right? - Miss Bryant, you’re fantastic.

- 260, 280. - ATP.

Adenosine triphosphate.

Taylor, you’re gonna feel a kind of warmth spreading up your arm, yes.

Something’s wrong.

- No, you’re fine. - He’s not fine!

- Miss Bryant, shut up. - 1-80.

Yep, see? You’re converting. You’re fine.

My heart is bleeding.

I can feel it opening and bleeding.

Fuck bleeding. I’m going down. I swear to God, I’m fucking going down.

Nurse, can we get a couple of Valium for this crazy broad?

- Get her the hell out of here. - I can’t take Valium. I’m in the program.

- Somebody do something! - Okay.

Somebody help her!

Jose, we need a little help in here!

...roll you over.

Yeah, just get her head. She’s in the program.

- What program? - AA.

It’s okay.

My brother Campbell is a hot-shit artist.

I don’t know if his paintings are good or bad.

I do know they’re big.

So big, in fact, that when I stand before them,

I can literally feel myself shrinking.

- No thanks. - Right. Sorry.

How many times you faked the PAT thing?

- How do you know I ever faked it? - I would.

At my piano recital, at your show in Charleston.

I knew it.

I think there are more but shame dulls my memory.

Have you ever been in love?

Negative.

Well, what about Mary Elizabeth?

I brought Mary Elizabeth to dinner a couple of weeks ago.

So before dessert, Dad and I went out onto the porch to smoke a joint.

When did Dad start smoking pot?

He says, "You ever notice, Mary Elizabeth has a bit of a beak?

Imagine if she had a little mustache, she’d look just like Larry Bird."

My God. He’s right.

Yep.

Some things you just can’t unsee.

So I dumped him.

Her.

Was there a point to this story, or--?

The point is, I think love is just a trick God plays on us

so we don’t feel ashamed of ourselves all the time.

Weird to hear you talk about God.

I mean, do you, you know, believe?

Only marginally.

And only when it’s convenient.

What about Satan?

- What about him? - Do you believe in him?

Hell no! Who needs Satan when we have Republicans?

Morning, Mr. Spencer.

And a good morning to you, my lady of ladies.

Good morning, Taylor.

Has our kingfisher arrived from New York?

Not yet.

Shoot a monkey...

Well, all in good time, I suppose.

Vera is the Belle

of the Honeysuckled Sunny Southern Aphorism.

"All in good time. God works in mysterious ways.

Everyone is doing the best they can."

Vera, you know what I admire about you?

I have no idea, but I’m dying to hear it.

Your resolute cheeriness, which flies in the face

of the world’s marauding armies of tragedy and darkness.

I think some young southern boy has been reading too much Faulkner.

If it’s not one thing, it’s another.

There are dust devils everywhere.

And our kingfisher is somewhere between here and New York.

Well, we’ll muddle through somehow.

- Vera, when you were a girl... - Dear.

...what singers did you listen to?

The same ones I listen to now:

Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Miss Joni Mitchell.

And when they sang love songs,

did you ever get the feeling that they were singing about something

that you knew absolutely nothing about?

Of course.

Did you ever find out?

Of course, and so will you.

All in good time?

You’re young. Have faith, sweetness.

Well, I’m late.

Right. It’s Tuesday morning.

Yes, my little group.

Vera, you wanna know what I imagine?

Imaginings of an 18-year-old? Darling, I’m not sure I do.

Well, hello, dear.

Hi. My name’s Taryn, and I’m an alcoholic.

Hi, Taryn.

Is this your first meeting?

Yes.

I mean, I think I may have made a mistake.

Honey child, if you’re here,

it’s no mistake.

...and the wisdom to know the difference.