I am the most well-adjusted human being I know. I started out

Host: The night had that strange quiet that only Los Angeles can hold — a stillness just beneath the hum of distant traffic, a calm before the neon storm. The city below glimmered, stretched, and breathed like a living, restless beast. In a hotel bar forty floors up, glass walls gave way to a skyline of electric dreams.

Jack sat at the counter, his grey eyes reflecting the city’s restless glow. A half-empty whiskey glass stood before him, amber and slow-moving in the light. Jeeny sat beside him, hair cascading like black silk, her hands curled around a cup of untouched tea.

The TV above the bar flickered, showing a documentary clip of James Ellroy — his voice sharp, his words cutting through the static: “I am the most well-adjusted human being I know... I am rich, I am famous, I’ve got a fabulous marriage to an absolutely, spell-bindingly brilliant woman.”

Jeeny: “He says it like a confession. Not pride — almost defiance.”

Jack: “It’s both. That’s Ellroy for you. The man’s made of contradiction. He talks about being adjusted like he’s daring the world to disagree.”

Jeeny: “Because deep down, he knows it’s a lie.”

Host: The bartender wiped down the counter, pretending not to listen. The rain outside began its soft assault against the windows, streaking the city’s face with silver tears.

Jack: “Or maybe it’s not a lie. Maybe it’s survival. You know his story — his mother murdered when he was ten, his years on the street, the drugs, the cops. He built his sanity like a fortress. You don’t mock that.”

Jeeny: “But calling yourself well-adjusted doesn’t make it true, Jack. It’s like painting light over a crack. It hides the wound, but it doesn’t heal it.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the only way some people survive — by pretending the wound isn’t there. The whole world applauds success, not recovery.”

Jeeny: “So fame becomes therapy?”

Jack: “Sometimes, yes. Money, recognition, marriage — they’re armor. He’s saying he’s fine because the world doesn’t forgive the broken. You either become a myth or a casualty.”

Host: The lights of downtown flashed, casting their faces in gold, then blue, then white. The music from the speakers — slow jazz, haunting, patient — filled the air like smoke curling between truths.

Jeeny: “You sound almost sympathetic.”

Jack: “I am. Because I know what it’s like to fake peace. Everyone does. The difference is, Ellroy had the guts to say it out loud.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack — he had the skill to make it sound heroic. There’s a difference. You can polish pain until it looks like triumph, but that doesn’t mean you’re free of it.”

Jack: “What’s wrong with that? You think healing’s about baring everything? Maybe hiding it behind a great career and a brilliant woman is enough.”

Jeeny: “Enough for what? For surviving? Maybe. But not for living.”

Host: Her voice trembled with quiet conviction. The steam from her tea rose like a ghost, curling between them, delicate as regret.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never wanted to hide from your own mess.”

Jeeny: “I do. But hiding isn’t healing, Jack. Look at Ellroy — he’s rich, famous, adored. Yet every word he writes bleeds. He’s haunted by his mother’s murder, even now. You can hear it in the rhythm of his sentences — the rage, the need for control. The well-adjusted man is just the mask that keeps him from collapsing.”

Jack: “So what? That mask is still strength. Everyone wears one. You, me, him — we all curate our sanity.”

Jeeny: “Strength isn’t about wearing a mask. It’s about daring to take it off.”

Host: The wind howled against the glass, shaking the bar’s soft peace. For a moment, the skyline lights flickered, as if the whole city were holding its breath.

Jack: “You want honesty? Fine. The world doesn’t reward the unmasked. Try walking into an interview, telling people you’re broken, that you cry at night. See how fast they walk away.”

Jeeny: “You think honesty is about pity? No, Jack — it’s about connection. When you admit you’re fractured, you give others permission to stop pretending.”

Jack: “And you think that’s noble?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s human.”

Host: Jack took a long sip, the ice clinking softly in his glass. His eyes stayed on the window, where the city seemed to move — not forward, but in circles.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? The more successful you get, the lonelier you become. Everyone wants the story, not the man. Maybe Ellroy’s right to declare his happiness. It’s his last defense against the vultures.”

Jeeny: “But defenses harden into prisons, Jack. The walls you build to protect yourself eventually keep you in.”

Jack: “Maybe some people prefer the walls. Maybe freedom’s overrated when it comes with exposure.”

Jeeny: “No one is free until they stop performing for their own reflection.”

Host: The bar had emptied. Only the city remained, humming beneath them, restless and alive. The rain had turned into a fine mist, painting the windows with soft light.

Jack: “So what would you have Ellroy say instead? ‘I’m damaged, haunted, trying to hold it together’? You think people want to hear that?”

Jeeny: “Not people. Just someone. That’s the tragedy of fame — everyone listens, but no one hears.”

Jack: “You really think confession heals?”

Jeeny: “Not always. But silence kills. Slowly, quietly. Like carbon monoxide in the soul.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But maybe he’s beyond confession. Maybe he’s earned peace through work, through discipline. You can’t discount that.”

Jeeny: “I don’t. But peace built on denial isn’t peace — it’s paralysis.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, and he looked down at his hands, their shadows long and nervous against the table.

Jack: “Maybe denial’s the only way to stay sane in a world like this. Look around. Everyone’s broadcasting happiness while falling apart off-camera. At least he’s honest about his dishonesty.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the saddest honesty of all.”

Host: The silence between them was now almost holy — a stillness heavy with unspoken truths. The bartender switched off the music. The rain had stopped.

Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes soft but piercing.

Jeeny: “Jack… have you ever really been happy?”

Jack: “I’ve been… functioning.”

Jeeny: “That’s not the same.”

Jack: “It’s close enough.”

Jeeny: “No, it isn’t. Functioning is what machines do. Living is what we’re meant for.”

Jack: “And what if living hurts too much?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you know it’s real.”

Host: The lights dimmed. Outside, a plane crossed the night sky — a slow, blinking reminder of motion, of escape.

Jack finally smiled, faint and tired.

Jack: “You know, maybe Ellroy wasn’t lying after all. Maybe saying you’re well-adjusted isn’t about being healed. Maybe it’s about refusing to drown — calling yourself sane just long enough to believe it.”

Jeeny: “Then I suppose we’re all liars trying to stay afloat.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Jeeny: “But maybe — just maybe — the truth isn’t drowning. Maybe it’s the air we keep running from.”

Host: Jack looked up, meeting her eyes. The city’s reflection split between them — two faces, two truths, blurred together by the rain’s residue.

He nodded slowly, as if conceding to something larger than reason.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why writers like Ellroy fascinate us. Because they say what we can’t — that success is a disguise, that love is an alibi, and that sanity… is just a performance.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the most human thing we can do is stop pretending we’re well-adjusted at all.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — through the window, into the breathless night, past the rain-washed streets of Los Angeles. The city would glow like a nervous heart, pulsing beneath the illusion of perfection.

Inside, two souls sat in half-light, their words still hanging, their truths half-spoken but fully felt.

And for a fleeting moment, as the lights flickered and the rain began again, the world seemed to whisper Ellroy’s unspoken secret — that sometimes, the mask is the only thing keeping us alive.