"A Man Called Harvey" By Elie Kim

Matt Larrimore
Jul 11, 2025
2 min read

EXT: Unknown town, midday

Blair, a sixteen-year-old girl, sits on a bench outside of a liquor store, staring intently at a poster of the Daytona 500 race. A man (Harvey) is looking at a poster of a vodka brand next to the NASCAR sign. He is deciding if he wants to buy any and distracts himself by starting a conversation with Blair.

Harvey: Do you watch NASCAR?

Blair: Not since Caroline died.

Harvey nods slowly.

Harvey: I get that.

Blair straightens, looking at Harvey. He does not look away from the poster.

Blair: Did you do therapy?

Harvey: They made me, but—

Blair: —you didn’t need it, right? Yeah. I don’t need it. My parents are trying to get me to do it with all these other people like her sister and her boyfriend, but I have so much other shit to think about right now. God, its junior year, you know? I have to start thinking about college. I’m sad I’m just…I don’t have time. I need to keep moving. People are always saying that she’s still here in spirit but she’s dead. She is and that’s the truth. My going to therapy won’t change the fact that she died. Talking to her sister and brother and boyfriend and holding hands and skipping afterwards won’t make her alive again. The therapist guy, Paul or something, he didn’t know Caroline. He can’t do anything about it. Hell, I can’t do anything about it and the only thing I can do is continue with my life. The truth, the real truth, is that I have to do this myself. I don’t know. I’m just sick of everyone saying that I need help. I thought grief was a personal thing, right? You would know. You would know, right? Maybe I needed this, I mean I’m freezing my ass off, but maybe I need this. Being alone. No one listens anymore. They might hold back from adding in while you’re speaking but the whole time, they’re spending it trying to fix you inside their heads. I don’t know. Maybe that’s a good thing. They are trying to help. Their brains are always just running and running and running and sometimes they throw a dog a bone and help a poor girl out. I know it’s my parents and all and of course they love me but how would they know? They haven’t lost anyone. Not like this. Whatever. Sorry to spring this all on you so fast. I don’t even know who you are. That’s the problem, you know? Only strangers listen. Maybe you’re thinking inside your head right now how to fix this. You’re better, though. You’re not looking at me with those eyes that everyone else is. Big and all sorrowful. God, I hate those. I don’t need that.