I'm with Stupid (15 page)

I examine the picture. It’s Tchotchke, wearing a baby bonnet and bunny slippers. She looks pissed. Plus she’s ugly, a total garbage face. “Very charming,” I tell an expectant Barbara, whose eyes are now watering.

“I know,” she says, taking it back. She wipes tears with the back of her hand. “I’ll get you a copy. I’m having wallets made.”

I return to my desk and collapse into the chair. A manuscript laying next to the wastepaper basket catches my eye. I pick it up off the floor. In lieu of a cover letter the author attached a brief note, with just an e-mail address at the bottom:

To whom it may concern:

I wrote this novel to impress a girl.

Sincerely,

S. Konrad

S. Konrad, huh. I wonder what the
S
stands for? I open it and start reading: “On Sunday somebody said something. Somebody said something but it didn’t sound like anything . . .”

I read a few more pages and get that feeling. The feeling that doesn’t come that often, but when it does I sit up and take notice: This book is pretty great. I wonder what S. Konrad is like? I bet he is really funny (the book at least is). By page ten I’m wondering what the author looks like. And then I start to think of William. I have not heard from him. I thought he’d at least send one message . . .

My boss clears his throat. I look up from the manuscript with a start, like I just got caught doing something I shouldn’t be doing. “Welcome back. How’s it going?” he asks. He is wearing his standard outfit of brown pants and corduroy jacket with patches on the sleeves. The three remaining sad hairs on his otherwise bald head sway gently as he talks. I tell him everything is fine. Just reading a manuscript. He nods at me absently. “Keep me posted,” he says and begins walking away. “We need a winner.”

Do we ever. We have not had a “winner” (that’s what he calls every manuscript whose author he eventually signs) in a long time. The dry spell has been painful; I can see it’s making him nervous. The truth is I’m at least a little responsible for it. He doesn’t know this but a few weeks ago we got a manuscript for consideration that I tossed back into the slush pile and then that same author signed with a rival agency. The rival agency sold the manuscript to a big publishing house—it was an eight-way bidding war—for half a million dollars. We could have had that contract. I may not be the most dedicated employee—far from it, in fact—but I have to be paid so that I can continue to eat. What happens to him trickles down to me. Even though I still insist the manuscript was cheesy, the oversight made me question my judgment. Yeah, we definitely need that “winner.”

I am absorbed in S. Konrad’s manuscript when Max calls. “What’s shakin’, bacon? Libby and I were thinking of getting smoothies. Wanna come?” Ah, the benefits of setting your own schedule, or, in Libby’s case, being unemployed. I tell him I shouldn’t. I should work. “It’s lunchtime,” he reminds me. “Come on.” I finally say okay. “Good. But I need to run to the library first to get a few books. Call Libby and meet me there and then we’ll go do something fun.” He rattles off the cross streets of the library.

“Okay,” I answer, “but, Max, I don’t have all day, why do you need—” He hangs up. I put the manuscript aside.

Libby comes to my office and we head to the library together. When we arrive Max is at the front desk, chatting with the silver-haired circulation clerk wearing Ben Franklin–style wire-rimmed glasses. “This is really going to be a big help for the research I’m doing,” he says to the man. “It’s amazing how many great books you found for me in this dilapidated joint.” When Max sees us he grabs a big cardboard box off the counter and walks over. “Hi, girls!” he says with a smile. He lifts the box to his shoulder, then places it on his head.

“Need a hand?” Libby asks as we head for the door.

“No thanks,” he answers. “I got it.”

“Good,” she says.

He kicks the door open with his foot. “Let’s get a cab and go downtown.”

I wave down a cab and Libby and I get into the back. Max decides to sit up front with the driver. He places the box on his lap. Libby then asks the natural question: How is he going to walk around downtown with a huge box of books? He starts to answer but his cell phone rings and he picks up instead. “Peter!” he shouts. “Did you take care of business?” He pauses. “You’re a genius, I like it, I’m attracted to it. That is great news . . .” While he chats on the phone I fill Libby in on the morning’s events. Max says something to the cabdriver then proceeds with his phone conversation. A few minutes later the cab stops. We’re still on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, not far from where we started, near the mayor’s official residence, Gracie Mansion, which is situated in a park that overlooks the East River, which separates Manhattan from the borough of Queens. Max ends his call, pays the driver, and we exit the cab. I ask why we are at Gracie Mansion. Do we have an audience with the mayor? He again lifts the box of books and balances it on his head. “I have to run one more errand,” he says.

We walk down a path toward the East River and arrive at the guardrail. Max places the box of books on the ground beside him. I gaze across the East River at the factory chimneys billowing black smoke in Queens. A seagull flies by, then another. I look down at the box of books. The one on top is called
Houseboys in Ancient Greece
. Max takes it out of the box. He takes out the book under it as well. This one is called
History of Gay Porn
. He takes out three more books. He holds all five in his arms. And then he throws them, one by one by one, into the East River. “I met up with Noreen last night. She gave me Richard’s library card,” he says. He takes more books out and throws those in, too. “Looks like Richard will be paying fines on some pretty interesting titles.”

He lifts the box off the ground and turns it upside down. The rest of the books fall out like body bags. Splash, Splash, Splash. He sets down the empty box and slaps his hands together a few times like he’s cleaning them off. “Well,” he says, “my work here is done. Let’s go get smoothies.”

Libby pulls out her nail file and shakes her head.

“Max,” I ask, “don’t you think you’re taking this a bit far?”

“No,” he answers. “It’s not my fault he’s careless.” He taps his temple with an index finger. “Lesson one, when cheating on your fiancée, don’t leave shit lying around that can be used to punish you later.”

I take a final glance at the books, now receding into the great, polluted watery abyss, gray and white seagulls curiously circling above them. One of the seagulls aggressively swoops down toward the water and hits a book with its exaggerated beak, presuming, I imagine, that it has caught its prey.

I get home from work that evening around six thirty. I eat, wash some dishes, then find myself with nothing else to do. I drag the only chair in my possession over to the window. My apartment is in the back of the building and faces what only a New York real estate broker who gets paid to make straight faces could call a courtyard. Basically my view consists of a couple of dead trees and the apartment building beyond them. I take a seat, put a cigarette between my lips, and pull back the curtains. I wish I could look out my window in peace. Instead I’m immediately confronted with ten identical windows glowing with light. They’re like TVs. I look up, I look ahead, and then down, into an apartment on the first floor. No curtains. I suppose the person living there has given up the delusional notion that there is such a thing as privacy. I have a direct view of the bottom half of a kitchen cabinet and a segment of the shiny hardwood floor (better than mine, by the way). Before long I see a pair of legs, a woman’s, followed by another pair of legs, a man’s. From the angle at which I am positioned I can only see the couple from the waist down, but, from the way their toes are pointing, I know they are facing each other. They are far enough apart to be talking and close enough to be kissing. Whatever it is, it looks intimate. I get up.

I turn on the computer and check e-mail. My eyes travel down the row of spam. I consider walking over to Libby’s to ask if she wants to go get some dessert, when . . .

I focus on two words:
William Johnson
. An e-mail from William! Oh, how sweet. He didn’t forget me after all! Self-esteem restored! I was beginning to wonder if I was bad in bed. I need to tell Max to send me some of his pictures of William so I can forward them to everyone in my college graduating class. He’s right, I have the best vacation story—and some major bragging rights. People are going to be so impressed with my skills. I never thought I’d say this but a one-night stand can be a big confidence booster—well, if you have it with William. Goodie, goodie, goodie. An e-mail! He was a nice guy. And to think I deemed him a player. I have to be more positive.

I open the e-mail.

Subject: Hey gorgeous!!!!!!

wht a wondfull last nite!!! sory fro the weird sent-off bt helga wantching me like a hawk!!!!!!!! All I wanted t=o2 do ws kiss u. Imiss u. ill right again son!! Luvies
w

I read William’s message twice. Wow, that is some e-mail. Looks like he lost control of his muscles. I open the rest of my e-mails and send a few, including one to William. He’s so hot. And that was a really nice thing to say. I would have no problem kissing him again.

Subject: Hi William!

Thanks for the e-mail. I had a wonderful time with you in South Africa. You remain, without a doubt, the best-looking man I (and Max and Libby) have ever seen.

PS--New York anyone? Come on by, I miss you too!

I press send and immediately notice that there is something new in the inbox. Arrived while I was writing. Let’s see. Four new messages . . . Four new messages from William. Four? I read the subject headers. They all say “hey gorgeous” but this time without the exclamation points. Maybe he woke up from whatever was preventing him from spelling words correctly. I open the first e-mail.

Subject: hey gorgeous

Helgas ontoo/us!!!!!%$^&#!!!! will

What’s he saying now? Helgas ontoo . . . seriously, did he compose this while drunk driving? Hel-ga-is-on-to . . . Oh no, maybe she found out about the sex. I hope she doesn’t fire him. That would be terrible. He was so worried about that.

I open the second e-mail:

Subject: hey gorgeous

Hlga just saked/fired me-he sakd mee as I ws righting te first emal. She went threw me drawerz&found te card u droped& I puked up!!! She red the back where u rote: “Thanks for last night. Your dick is HUGE!” shejust showed it 2 mee !!!!!!!!!!!!! I had 2 tell te truth. i broke the lodge rulz bysleeeping w/a guest. I hav 2b gone by end o f weak. i dont now what 2 do!!%^^& tis is terrible, willy

Tis is terible. Tis is willy, willy terible. He got saked/fired! I can’t believe he got fired. I can’t believe she fired him. Damn. I wonder what he’s going to do now? Stupid Max, dropping that card—and writing thanks for last night on the back, not to mention YOUR DICK IS HUGE. Of all the dumb things to do. And William thinks I wrote that? Hope he doesn’t blame me. I never would have left evidence like that behind—and I certainly would never have said that thing about his huge dick. He kept saying how nervous he was to lose that job. I stare at the message and reread it. Is this some kind of e-mail code he keeps using? It’s like a bunch of gibberish. Why is he writing like that? It seems like he’s typing with his nose.

I open the third e-mail:

Subject: hey gorgeous

I dn’t want 2 eb a ranger anymre william.

im soo drepressed--soso depresssed

He don’t want to eb a ranger anymre william? Why he don’t want to do that? What else he gonna do, teach English? And speaking of English, what is the matter with his? Was he writing like this when I met him? This has to be a mistake. I’m pretty sure writing in English is a minimum requirement for me. Until now I didn’t think he was capable of doing anything to turn me off. That is such awful news about his job, though. I feel bad.

I open the fourth e-mail:

Subject: hey gorgeous

I wnt 2 come 2 nyc & be sty with u [4 just a litel awhile] & wirte my 400.000$bok on monaco!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! U r a litery agnt. Plese help me///iam soso sad&represed. I ned help!!!!!! Ur a kind persn//I beileive that!!!!!!

I hav something 2 say--I am in love w/u2-I cn’t bellive I just told u the truth!!! right buck-plese.i lov ur, willy

I read the e-mail and read it again. It doesn’t get any easier. Great God, what is happening? If someone saw these e-mails I would seriously be embarrassed. As I again picture William’s face, his beautiful features begin to run together like ink on a tearstained letter. I light a cigarette. I look at the message again . . . he just called me a litery agnt. Wait—does he think I can get him a book deal? I’m going to kill Max. I don’t even remember all the stuff he was saying. Max will say anything to amuse himself. I have to write William back to clear this up. I feel awful . . . I mean he got fired from his job . . . wow, I can’t believe he said he loves me. He doesn’t even know me—and come to think of it . . .

I take another drag off my cigarette and feel my face get hot as the short days I spent on the reserve flash before my eyes. Oh . . .