I'm with Stupid (24 page)

I pull out a loaf of bread and a package of cheese from the fridge. I love cheese. And I love it even more today because I’ve been staring at meat for hours. I open it. Okay, only two slices left. William eats as much as I do; he polished off this cheese in one day. I could devour these remaining slices right now and they wouldn’t make a dent. I have hungry-man hunger. The sandwich will be an appetizer.

I run over to Libby’s place and raid her fridge. She has better stuff. I bring back with me an armload of food including chips and homemade cookies. When I return William is on his back, phone still glued to his ear. “The world is such a complicated place,” he says. “It’s hard to explain. So many people are suffering and I just want to do my part through public service and good deeds. Life on Planet Earth is amazing . . . uh-huh . . . It’s hard to explain. Sometimes I want to give all my money away . . .” Jesus, don’t do that. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.” A pause. “You must be thinking of someplace else. Yeah. The political situation might be bad there, too. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. Maybe that will be the subject of my next boo . . . Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.” A longer pause. For a writer, William sure uses the words
it’s hard to explain
often. “It’s always been my dream. Always. And now I feel like I can finally get it done. If only I could write. It’s so hard . . . Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh . . . It’s very difficult . . . Uh-huh, uh-huh . . . It’s not easy . . . uh-huh . . . I never knew that! That sounds so simple . . . Uh-huh, uh-huh, Nelson Mandela, yeah, uh-huh, uh-huh.”

Maybe she’s trying to convince him to come back to the farm. Better not interrupt. I take a seat on the couch and start eating my sandwich. “Uh-huh,” he says, “no there’s no question I have to be here now . . . Uh-huh, the stars are aligned . . .” Great. No question. “Yeah,” he continues. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh . . .”

I take another bite of my sandwich. I really do like cheese. What a super product. You can eat it plain or on bread, you can cut it into fun shapes or squirt it out of a can. It always tastes great. Especially the smoked kind. Bleu cheese, too. Bleu cheese is good in salads. I also like it as a dipping sauce for Buffalo wings . . . “A Taurus, uh-huh,” I hear him say. I turn my head and swallow hard. A Taurus? What’s his mother doing, reading his horoscope? “Uh-huh, celestial bodies, uh-huh, uh-huh . . . ambassadors of the universe . . . uh-huh.” I massage my throat to get the lump of yeast down. “We are stubborn by nature. When we get something in our heads . . .”

I start coughing. I need water. “Uh-huh, Age of Aquarius, uh-huh, my chakras, uh-huh, uh-huh Mars uh-huh, uh-huh . . .” I get up off the couch and take a step toward him. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, crystals, uh-huh, uh-huh twelve houses uh-huh, uh-huh.” I start hitting my chest, giving myself the Heimlich maneuver. “I used to wear a bracelet made from magnets after that rugby injury I told you about . . . uh-huh . . . pyramid scheme? I’ve never . . . uh-huh positive aura . . .”

“William?” I say and cough again.

“Uh-huh, sun sign descriptions sound fascinating . . . uh-huh, uh-huh, I know,” he continues. “You are so right about everything. I feel like I know you . . .”

“William,” I say a little louder, trying to clear my throat in the process. William looks up and covers the mouthpiece with his hand: “I’ll be off in a minute.”

“William, who are you . . .”

“Uh-huh,” he continues, “but you see my birthday falls between those two signs so maybe your calculations of my birth chart . . .”

“William!” I scream to get his attention. “Who are you on the phone with?”

William covers the mouthpiece again. “It’s Miss Celeste from the psychic hotline. This will only take a minute. She’s inspiring me to write my book on the polit—”

I grab the phone out of William’s hand. “Good-bye, Miss Celeste!” I scream into the phone and hang up.

William is startled: “What’s the matter? Are you stressed out again?”

“William, how long were you on the phone with that woman?” I ask.

He looks at the clock: “Let’s see, I was watching
Melrose Place
and then looking for
Alf
. . .”

“You’ve been on the phone with her that long? I’ve been gone all day!” I shriek. “Do you know how expensive that call is going to be? Those people are con artists!”

“I’ll pay for it,” he says sheepishly. “I’m sorry if I upset you. Please don’t yell at me.”

I take a seat next to him on the bed. “You will have to pay for it,” I say more gently. “You have to. I don’t have the money to pay. Look, I’m only saying this for your own good. That call probably ate up half your savings . . .”

He sits up: “Are you breaking up with me?” His eyes begin to water, and this gives me pause.

William is definitely not S. Konrad.

“William,” I say, “just don’t call Miss Celeste again, okay?”

He nods. I give him a peck on the cheek. I do want to like this guy. But he’s just so . . .

“Okay,” he assures me. “And don’t worry about how much it will cost. It was a bargain, less than two dollars per minute. Miss Celeste is a miracle worker, offered me some fantastic advice. She told me I will soon meet a mystery man who will change my life.” William puts his arms around my neck. “I want to tell you again how happy I am that you are helping me. I trust you completely. Miss Celeste said I just need to have faith in my vision, as much faith as I had in you when we made love that first time. She said that when Albert Einstein was working on his theories in the 1800s he was rejected for a promotion at work. He was a clerk third class and wanted to become clerk second class but they wouldn’t let him . . .” Did William just compare himself to Albert Einstein? “. . . so you see, there is hope for me,” he continues. “I’m going to be a great writer with a big career.” I nod. This would be so much easier if William would just stop pouring his heart out while telling me how trustworthy I am. He continues after a pause: “I have some questions for you.” I light a cigarette as William grabs a pen off the desk. “How do you spell your last name? I’m trying to create a romance compatibility diagram. I’m also going to need your birth sign and . . .”

As I make my way past Barbara’s desk on Monday morning she strikes me in the pelvis with an empty ink cartridge from her printer. “I’m sorry,” she offers distractedly as the cartridge falls into pieces on the floor. “I was aiming at the wastepaper basket.”

When I get to my desk there’s a Post-it note on my computer screen. I peel it off. “Meeting with S. Konrad next Wednesday at 5. Mark your calendar,” the note reads. Before I can mark my calendar my boss is at my desk. Excellent misuse of paper. He points at the note and asks if I got the note. I wave the note. I think I got the note. Yup, it’s right here. I ask if he liked the book. He takes a sip of coffee. “I liked the book,” he tells me. “I want to take him on as a client.”

I smile. That’s good news. I shuffle a few manuscripts around in an effort to simulate work. It’s the kind of thing I would be doing with my plate of string beans if I were a ten-year-old boy in the 1950s. I next ask why I’m invited to the meeting. Not that I’m opposed to going, but, well, I’m never invited to meetings.

“I told him my assistant read the manuscript first and he asked if you could come along, too, so he could thank you for bringing it to my attention,” he responds.

Wow. He wants to meet me. “So he’s excited?” I ask.

My boss shrugs: “I can never tell, and we don’t even have a deal yet.” His cell phone rings. He takes it out of his pocket and looks at the number. It’s one of his twins, he has to answer. He turns around and walks off. I stare at the back of his bald head.

I spend the rest of the morning trying to figure out what kind of person S. Konrad is. I am so absorbed in this activity that I barely have time to get pissed off about and delete the twenty-three links to anti-smoking Web sites that William sent. At lunch I meet Max for salads at a coffee shop near my office. When our food arrives he immediately removes all the tomato slices off his plate and throws them on mine. “So slimy,” he says. Throughout the meal I can’t help but talk about S. Konrad. I want him to be handsome, with a disarming wit and keen sense of style. I want him to own his own tuxedo, not rent from some mall. I want him to look like William (from the neck up, of course) but not be William. I’m confident that at least I’ll get the second half of my wish fulfilled. I mean he can’t be too disappointing if his book is any indication of his personality, which it inevitably must be.

At the end of the meal Max points out that I’m acting as though S. Konrad and I are being set up on a date. Maybe he has a point. Haven’t I learned my lesson yet? No, I haven’t. Perhaps hope does spring eternal. Based on that book, which I loved, S. Konrad is my dream man. I don’t care if he is fifty . . . okay, not fifty. I don’t care if he is thirty. “What kind of pretentious name is
S. Konrad
?” Max challenges. “You and your nerd reading. He sounds like a fruit.” He places his gym bag on the table and unzips it. He removes a white lab coat and puts it on, followed by a stethoscope, which he hangs around his neck. Then a pair of eyeglasses with large round red frames and a men’s black wig, which he haphazardly slaps on his head. Finally he takes out a white lunch bag folded at the top and stapled shut. On the front of the bag is written:
PSYCHIATRIC MEDICATION FOR PATIENT RICHARD STEIN
. He gives me his hand. “I’m Dr. Leon Devereux,” he says in a bad British accent. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” He explains that he is going to Richard’s office building. He’s going to give the bag to the receptionist to give to Richard. He rattles the bag. “It’s full of Tic Tacs,” he tells me, “but she won’t know that.” I ask what this is going to accomplish. He shrugs. “It will freak him out. He’s obviously going to deny that he is on psychiatric meds and she’s going to think he is and so on and so on.” He slaps a twenty note on the table and tells me lunch is on him. He slings the duffel bag over his shoulder and heads for the door. “Doctor coming through!” he says loudly while moving past booths lined with diners. “Doctor here!”

On my way home from work I scan the subway platform looking for S. Konrad’s face. Is he the guy with the beard? No, S. Konrad can’t have a beard. Beards tickle. Is he that businessman with the expensive suit? Of course not, he’s a writer. He can’t afford suits like that (he spent too much on that cute tuxedo). Maybe it’s that guy there . . . wow, I can’t believe he managed to wrap his entire head in toilet paper. Impressive but not S. Konrad. Maybe he’s that guy, what is that guy reading? I wait for him to lift his book. Maybe that’s him. No, that’s not him. S. Konrad wouldn’t be reading chick lit. Desperate love stories narrated by dizzy girls are so beneath him. Maybe it’s that guy with the parrot on his shoulder. The guy with the parrot on his shoulder is reading a big adult book. Literature! The kind of literature that spends chapters describing the nicks in an antique table. Moody stuff, not a lot of dialogue—that’s quality! What is he reading? Now I’m curious. I can’t make out the title . . . Oh, it’s the Old Testament. Maybe the parrot is reading it. Now I’m confused. And why does that guy have a parrot on his shoulder in the first place? That’s not S. Konrad. S. Konrad wouldn’t let a parrot soil a towel draped across his shoulder. So who’s S. Konrad? I decide then not to ask my boss any more questions about the author. The act of wanting can be better than getting the thing you wanted, and I need something to look forward to.

“Cover your eyes!” William shouts when I get home from work that night. I haven’t even closed the door behind me. I stare at him. What? He bum-rushes me. He puts his hand over my eyes as I struggle to break free. I nervously ask what’s going on. “I have a surprise!” he says. “It’s big!” Big like how? Seriously, the last time this happened he was showing me an elephant in South Africa. William guides me across the apartment, his hand still over my eyes, and starts giving me clues: “Okay, remember the other night at Libby’s when we were playing Uno?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Do we have to play again?”

William tells me to let him finish. “Remember you said you loved this certain thing and then I said I loved it, too.”

“What are you talking about?” I say impatiently. I can’t see anything with his hot hand over my damn face. “Did you bake a pie?”

“It’s better than that,” William says and begins jumping up and down. Nothing is better than pie, don’t even joke about that. I tell him to stop jumping up and down. “Oh, sorry,” he says and stops jumping. “But do you remember that thing you said you loved?” he repeats. I ask him to please remove his hand because I’m scared of the dark. “No, you’re not,” he says and laughs. I roll my eyes, which I wish he could see me doing. I’m the man in the Iron Mask. “Do you remember that thing you said you loved,” he says a third time.

“No,” I truthfully answer. “I have no idea what you are talking about. Can you just please take your hand away so I can see?”

“I’ll give you a hint.” He pauses. “Water.”

“You bought an aquarium?” I ask. William just laughs. “A rowboat?” I offer.

“You’re getting warmer,” he says.

Warmer than a rowboat? “A steamer, an octopus, a gargoyle, moon boots?”

“No, no, no, and no,” he playfully answers. “Open your eyes.”

He doesn’t take his hand away. I tell him they are open but it’s not doing me any good with his hand still over them. “Oh, right,” he says and finally takes his hand away.

I look in front of me. “What is this?” I ask accusingly, pointing to where my bed should be. William stands in front of it like a Barker’s Beauty from
The Price Is Right
. There it is, the thing he claims I have always wanted. This thing, which is taking up way too much room, is my very own . . .

“I BOUGHT A WATER BED!” he screams. William touches the bed. It begins to jiggle like an unsettled Jell-O mold.

Suddenly everything goes into slow motion. Whaaa-teeer-bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbed.

“I bought it for the both of us,” he explains. “I’ve always wanted a water bed, too! It’s like our stars are aligned. We have so much in common!”

I look around me. My mattress is propped up against the wall. The dismantled bed frame is beside it on the floor. I put my hands to my cheeks. I’m getting light-headed. When I begin to swoon he catches me. “Are you okay?” he asks. It sounds like he’s talking to me under murky water. I mumble that I need to lie down for a minute. “That’s what this is for,” he says and forcibly pushes me onto the water bed. I fall backward. Help me! Oh God, I’m stranded at sea. “I bought it on a whim,” he continues while my limp body rides the waves of shame and confusion. “You were so stressed out yesterday over Miss Celeste that I thought I’d make it up to you.”