Hating Olivia: A Love Story (19 page)

One morning, after pulling into the driveway at 717 Redman Terrace and dropping the
Times
and the
Journal,
I back my heap into another vehicle by mistake. The crunch of the collision is sickening. I jump out—it’s a spanking new Mercedes-Benz 300SD. Without morning light I couldn’t see the goddamned black Nazi-mobile sitting there behind the mailbox. My vehicle is as clean as a whistle, not so much as a scratch—like it would make much of a difference. The Benz wasn’t so lucky. I’d blasted out a headlight, punched a hole in the fender, and smashed the grille. Totaled. The damage was a lock to run into the thousands.

Standing there like an idiot it dawns on me that the street is quiet except for the drip-drop from one of the Benz’s hoses … that no one has poked his head outside to investigate the commotion … that no doubt they’re all still sleeping cozy in their beds….

I think it over fast. No way I can afford to pay out of my own
pocket for the repairs to that vehicle, same as I can’t afford to watch my auto insurance rate rocket through the ceiling—my last payment is two months overdue as it is. Ditto for a careless driving citation. And, I figure, if the man in the mansion can afford a Mercedes in the first place, he can pay to have the dents pounded out of it. And so I do what I have to do—step on it and blow out of there.

Back home in bed, I wait for the cops to show up at the door and nail me for leaving the scene of an accident. But I no longer really give a fuck about anything, except for avoiding prison and the psychiatric ward—I have a gnawing, irrational fear of both.
If they only knew that Max Zajack is a freak on the loose, then they’d come and throw the net over me.
But they don’t. They never do. Cruising those deserted streets with my newspaper bales under cover of darkness I’m like a lost creature from another dimension, drifting through the outer limits of my own tortured mind. Sometimes planet Earth plays along with my delusions via the radio waves. Like the morning I heard this coming out of the speakers:

“Now we’re getting reports of scores, hundreds dead at the People’s Temple in Jonestown, Guyana…. ”

“And just where is Guyana, Joe, for the sake of our listeners who might not know?”

“Guyana, Bill, was formerly known as English Guiana, and it’s located on the northeastern tip of South America. She’s a relatively small country at 83,000 square miles, with a population of 763,000. A large part of that population is of East Indian extraction, and the major religions observed are Hinduism, Islam, and, of course, Christianity…. ”

“That’s quite interesting, Joe, really quite fascinating…. ”

“And our reports are indicating that the heaps of corpses are
already bloated, distended from the poison those poor people either chose to or were forced to ingest.”

“Just horrific, just horrific. I can’t begin to contemplate the agony—”

“And now, Bill—excuse me for interrupting—I’m being told that a preliminary official count indicates that at least 350 people are thought to be dead at Jonestown.”

“Can you tell us exactly where Jonestown is located?”

“I’m sorry again, Bill, but I’m getting a description now of row after row of bodies ringing the central pavilion at Jonestown, one stacked on top of another. It’s a scene only Hieronymous Bosch could conjure … 500 … 735 … Would you believe 800 bodies? … 875?”

“My God…. ”

“Authorities are now saying that at least 912 people committed mass suicide by drinking cyanide-laced Kool-Aid at Jonestown, and let’s pray that’s as high as this death count climbs!”

“How could it happen, Joe?”

Before Joe has the chance to answer, the radio transmission is cut off, leaving me without an explanation for the surreal hecatomb thousands of miles away. I feel for all those dead people.
Because I know what it’s like to give up the ghost.

I aim and hurl another gazette. Drive on.

34.

A few mornings later Livy never made it home. There was no answer at the restaurant when I called, so after getting rid of my newspapers I drove over to La Portofino and did a search and destroy through the parking lot—not a vehicle on the premises, no sign of Livy’s Nova.

I’ll be damned—the bitch beat me to the punch and flew the coop.

Back at the apartment, I was at a loss for what to do. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. All I could do was pace the floor smoking cigarette after cigarette and look out the window every few minutes. Once or twice I nearly phoned the cops, but at the last second decided against that course of action due to some gut instinct that told me not to get them involved.

In the late afternoon I buzzed the restaurant again and was informed that Livy had taken the night off. Was the manager on the premises? I believed his name was Fred something or other?

Sorry. Fred wasn’t in tonight, either.

Another long night, this one utterly without sleep. My mind races in ten million different directions. But knowing Livy as I think I do, I have no fears for her safety. No, her sudden disappearance has something to do with
me,
I can feel it in my bones.

Like a human oscilloscope, I pitch back and forth between rage, pity, yearning, jealousy, and sentimentality. If she comes back, I’ll change. No, I won’t, either. Fuck Olivia Aphrodite—I
hate
her. No, I don’t; I
love
her. It’s my fault that I don’t understand her, she’s said it herself countless times. No, fuck that shit—when I get my hands on her I’ll murder her, the two-bit whore.

At two the next morning I down a few beers, catch an hour or two of restless shut-eye. Seeing double, I drag my ass out of the rack and head out to make my deliveries. When I get back, still no Livy.

Finally at nine
A.M.
she bursts in, looking fresh as a daisy, a mask of defiance on her face. I jump up from the kitchen table to confront her.

Where the hell have you been?

Out.

There’s something different about her, some
aura,
but I can’t put my finger on what it is. No
shit.
Out where?

None of your business. Since when do I have to tell you where I go?

Some remnant of wholesome human self-regard prevents me from telling her that I was concerned for her well-being. Who were you with? None of your business.

What do you mean none of my business? I fuck you, don’t I? Doesn’t that give me some kind of right? Or have you forgotten about that?

Give me a break, Max. I’m tired. And while we’re at it, let me ask you a question: do you really give a damn about me? Why kid yourself—you don’t. You care more about yourself and your books and songs than you ever cared about me.

Oh, is that so? Well, would you mind telling me who puts up with your fits of fucking insanity? Who is it that sleeps out on the living-room floor like a dog when you’re on the rag? Who dances like a marionette when you call my tune?

Whose fault is that? Anyway, you never had it so good! Without me where would you be? Living in another dump somewhere, cleaning shithouses, eating off food coupons, without a pot to piss in! Better yet, you’d be on the street, where you really belong anyway! On the
street,
where you came from! And if you don’t like it, there’s the door! Who’s stopping you from walking out? Leave! See if I care! I WANT YOU OUT OF HERE!

You want me out of here? Would you mind telling me who it was begged me on hands and knees down on the street to come back or you’d die! Who was it, Livy?
Tell me!
Open your mouth now, you cunt! NOW YOU’RE GONNA TELL ME WHERE YOU WERE AND WHO YOU WERE WITH!

All right! Have it your way! I was with Fred!
FRED!

Oh,
Fred!
And did you FUCK Fred, you fucking cunt?

With that single word—"Fred"—hanging in the air like a guillotine, she kicks off her shoes and makes a break for the bedroom. Even in my blind fury everything about her gets to me—the sheer black stockings, the skintight dress, the tilt of her chin, the sway of her hips. But I’m not finished with her, not by a long shot. I follow her, firing off interrogations, demanding answers. As she pulls off her clothes I smell the air for traces of another man. I can just picture her on her back, taking Fred’s cock, letting him do everything, rolling over for him like a bitch in heat.

Livy, did you
fuck
him?

What does it matter if I did?

Are we getting somewhere now? Is this an admission of guilt? But no, she refuses to give me the ultimate satisfaction of saying yes.

I dog her to the bathroom, but she locks me out. I pummel the door with lefts rights lefts until my knuckles bleed. Soon the shower comes on, stays on, and before I know it I’m not cursing Livy anymore—I’m cursing myself like a raving lunatic.

I
n no time flat something goes wrong for Livy at La Portofino. She pulls into the apartment on Roseland Avenue at daybreak, retires to the boudoir, rips off her clothes, and slips between the sheets. All without a word to me. By the time I’m on my way to a rendezvous with the overstuffed Friday editions, the bedroom door is fastened airtight.

This time she holes up in there for days—no admittance to me, no admittance to anyone. I can live with that—I’ve been rolling like a locomotive through
The Old Cossack
and don’t at all mind the quiet and privacy. From time to time Livy opens up to place a sullen order. There are tears in her eyes. Her canker sores are back with a vengeance; would I run to the pharmacy and fetch some medication? And bring some strong cough medicine, too—anything with codeine in it. And aspirin, don’t forget aspirin or some other painkiller. And while I’m at it, how about a bottle of Le Grand Marnier?

Do you want something to eat? Aren’t you hungry after all this time?

No. I’m not hungry.

Does she have to report in to the restaurant anytime soon? Nope, all finished there. Does she want to talk about it? Her answer is a hard stare at the wall.

Another day passes, another night, then one more day, before I lose track of time. I camp out on the sofa while Livy indulges her need for solitary confinement. In the morning when I stroll
up to the corner newsstand for my cigarettes, my gaze is drawn to the faded letters painted into the bricks of the three-story building next door:

FLY-BY-NIGHT MOVERS

FLORIDA AND WEST COAST SPECIALISTS

OR ANYWHERE YOU WANT TO GO

DELIVERY IN 24–48 HOURS

The advertisement fills me with incredible, romantic longing. I can see it all: the turquoise waters … the eternal golden sunshine … my ass at the base of the palm tree without a care in the world. If I had the balls to split for somewhere, I would. But I don’t. I don’t know why I don’t. There’s even less of me than there was two months ago. For consolation, I tell myself that one place is as good as another—it doesn’t matter in the slightest where I am.

When I walk in, Livy is sitting up in bed staring morosely into space.

You want to know what happened, Max? she whispers.

Yeah, let me have it. I take a seat on the corner of the mattress.

I was all packed up to leave you, Max. That Thursday night when I went to work, Fred and I were supposed to take off together for somewhere. Mexico. The islands. You never even noticed that I had a bag with me.

No, I guess I didn’t. So what happened?

The bastard never showed. We had the whole thing all worked out. He told me he had enough money to carry us for a year, maybe even two. We were going to have ourselves a high old time.

I nod, but don’t say anything. I want to hear more.

I would have married him, Max. In a heartbeat. You were never going to see me again after that night.

All right…. I’m shocked, but not surprised. Like a sponge on the ocean floor I sit there taking it all in. Now there’s nothing left of me, nothing at all, and I don’t even realize it.

So what went wrong? I manage to ask.

I don’t really know…. Her voice is hard as granite, emotionless. Maybe he emptied the till and took off by himself. Maybe he went back up to Boston, to his wife and kids. I don’t know. All I know is, he didn’t show. He didn’t keep up his end of the deal. The stinking coward dicksucker.

So what am I supposed to do now? Feel sorry for her? I’m exhausted, all worn out. I don’t have it in me to do battle with her or anybody else. I can’t say that I even feel jealous. I don’t feel anything. But I do have a question.

How many times did you fuck him, Liv?

Come on, Max.

I know it doesn’t matter. But I just have to know.
I have to know.

Oh, Max, Max, Max. Use your imagination.

35.

It was Friday. Payday, as my old man back in Philly liked to say. My goods had been delivered, and on time for a change. Had it not been for Livy and her thing with the now-vanished Fred, I would have been feeling pretty damned good. Lately I’d succeeded in making that $120 check stretch a long, long way.

Lopato summoned me into his office. It was a dingy rat’s nest tucked between a second-run movie house and a typewriter repair shop on Bloomfield Avenue near the Verona-Montfleur line. I’d never been in there before. The place was piled high with stacks of crusty yellow newspapers. It smelled of cat piss.

“Here’s your paycheck,” he says, tossing an envelope across the desk at me. “And one more thing—you’re fired.”

This throws me for a loop. I don’t know what to say, so I laugh. It’s a funny joke, one of the best I’ve heard in a long time. But Lopato’s expression is flinty—he’s dead serious.

“I ain’t never had so many complaints about a carrier before in all the years I’ve supervised these routes. You’ve already cost me a dozen customers—I can’t afford to lose no more. Now get out of here and stay out. I don’t want you around no more.”