I'm with Stupid (3 page)

Casual. Now it’s casual? It wasn’t casual before. Regardless, and I make sure to emphasize this next point loudly: “It’s kind of odd when you tell someone ‘I’ll call you tomorrow’ as you are leaving their apartment
right after having sex with them
and then
never call them again
. I mean what the fuck is wrong with you? How casual are you?”

Richard thinks about this, or at least pretends to. “Well,” he says, looking behind him at the bathroom door, “I think we’re better off as friends. I realized it wasn’t going to work out, don’t take it the wrong way.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Richard seems a tad distracted by that bathroom door. He continues: “. . . It’s just hard to have serious conversations with you. It’s always about some joke with you. Don’t take it the wrong way . . .”

Where is this even coming from? I stomp my foot, then start rambling to save face: “Slow down, Richard. What, you think everything is a joke to me? You never had a problem before. What do you want to talk about: Armageddon, nuclear waste, Bulgarian orphanages? Why would I want to talk about that shit? Am I campaigning? . . .”

Richard rubs his forehead. “See, there it is again,” he curtly observes.

“What is ‘it’?” I ask, incredulous. “
‘It’s’ how my mind works
—‘it’s’ called personality. How do I change who I am? Everything is a joke to me? Do I look like I’m laughing now? Because I’m not.” My chest starts to heave and at this point the words are just coming out, I have no control over them. “I’ll tell you what the biggest one-liner of them all is, man, it’s you and your clown-faced girlfriend who puts on lipstick with a paint roller during an earthquake in front of a fun-house mirror.”

Richard again glances at the bathroom door. “You—” he starts to say.

I cut him off. “What? I what? Please enlighten me. Because that last bit you delivered was news to me.” I take a drink of whiskey. My hand is shaking. I urge him to go on. I’m listening. “Perhaps it’s a problem of garrulity,” he says. I stare at him. Grrrrrrrr what? “You talk too much,” he says in a whiny voice. “Everything is about you. I don’t feel like I’m being heard.”

I lower my cup. Who talks too much? I talk too much? I talk too much! What am I talking too much about? “Richard,” I say, “let me ask you a question. What’s the name of the company I work for?” Richard just stares at me and shrugs. “Uh-huh,” I continue. “Good answer. But I, I know the name of the company you work for. And do you know how I know that?” He again shrugs disinterestedly. “Because the last time we went out you talked about your job
for three hours straight
!”

Richard makes a face and again rubs his forehead. I’ve always hated that big forehead. The forehead talks too much. All of a sudden I realize that Richard is not at all attractive—it’s like someone flipped a switch. His hairline looks like it’s receding, his brown eyes are too close together.

I look beyond his shoulder and see the ghoul. She’s coming toward us. I look back at Richard. I consider pouring my drink over his head but don’t. I’m better than this; I’m out of here.

I start to turn around but can’t get out of there fast enough. The ghoul is now upon us and seems intent on a chat. She demands to know what is going on. I try ignoring her. Obviously she feels threatened because, unlike some people, I actually combed my hair before showing up to the club. “Nothing,” I mumble in her direction, “I was finishing up with your boyfriend, I’ll be on my way.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” the ghoul abruptly states. I look at her. Man, does she have too much makeup on. I can see the right angles of foundation. The ghoul thrusts out her cat-woman nails in my direction. I take a step back. Easy, my dear, I’m not here to fight you. My eyes trail upward, in the direction of her thick wrist. I am staring at a colored glass bead. What is it, a memento from Cancún spring break? You know, people will buy anything after consuming a tray of Jell-O shots . . .

“I’m his fiancée, Noreen,” she clarifies. “Richard and me are getting married next month. Who are you?” I hear Richard grumble that the grammatically correct way of saying it is
Richard and I
, not
Richard and me.

Fiancée? I look from the ghoul to Richard and try to process what just happened. I point out that Richard just got through telling me that they had only recently met. Is that not true? Upon hearing that she just met her fiancé the ghoul drops her left hand to her side. I’d get that ring appraised if I were her. She gives him a hard look: “We’ve been engaged for two years,” she says.

My mouth drops open. Is she actually reminding him that he’s engaged? I’ve been dating him for two months. Richard points to me: “She’s a woman I recently met,” he tells her, which is when my head jerks back involuntarily. I am? Where did we meet, in my bed? I hiss that he needs to stick that finger up his asshole. Richard drops the finger. Good idea. He tells the ghoul that this is all a misunderstanding. He wants to leave. As he starts to get up from the stool I push him back down. Not so fast, cheapskate, you and me ain’t through.

The ghoul responds by pushing me. “Don’t you push my fiancé!” she orders. I shout that she needs to get her hands off me and go join the navy if she’s such a muscleman because this part doesn’t concern her. I look down at my drink before taking a swallow. I’m not appreciating Richard right about now. “You lying piece of shit,” I say with a nod, as if understanding what those words mean for the first time. “You tried to make a fool of me.” Before I can curb the impulse I raise my plastic cup over his head and turn it upside down. I’m waiting to see the look on his face as liquor runs down his cheeks, hopefully into his eyes. Only problem: My cup is empty. I shake the cup over his head. Not one drop. I shake it again, just to be sure. I lower the cup. Ah, hell, how thirsty was I? I’m a fucking camel.

The ghoul pushes me again. I can’t believe she’s pushing me. I’m not the one she needs to be attacking here. I extend my free arm like a linebacker to keep her at bay. “Let’s switch gears,” I announce, trying to accomplish two tasks at once. I turn to the ghoul. I now have the palm of my hand pressed against her collarbone. “First of all,” I say to her, “your dreamboat here slept with me not three weeks ago. He’s a filthy pig. I would advise against an expensive wedding.” The ghoul gasps. It’s like staring at Munch’s
The Scream
. I turn to Richard: “As for you . . .” Richard tries to defend himself but it’s too late. Before he can stop me I smash the plastic cup against his gigantic forehead. I crush it like an aluminum can, fraternity-style, then throw the cup in his face. “Don’t fuck with me,” I warn as a big red circle forms on his forehead. “There’s your scarlet letter, dickhead. Eat it.”

I let go of the ghoul and stumble off to find my friends. My mind is reeling. As I make my way across the bar I look over at the bartender. He smiles at me. I start thinking of all the times Richard stood me up at the last minute because he was “busy at work”; of all the errands I ran with him; of the time he told me that he hates condoms because sex doesn’t feel as good—I was this close to letting him not wear one! I lean over the bar. “You want to know why?” I ask. The bartender looks at me expectantly and nods. I lean in closer: “Because he saw the salad dressing. That’s why. It’s an old joke, and it’s not even funny.”

Max, Libby, and I abandon the club in favor of a dive bar around the corner. I cry like a baby out of humiliation, even showing them the card, still in its envelope, that Richard sent to say how much he likes me (like a loser I’ve been carrying it in my purse). Max points out that there are flecks of Wite-Out visible by my name. Libby rubs my back to comfort me. “I can’t stand people like him,” Max says, quickly growing impatient. “He is the sort of human being who makes people afraid to trust. He is a liar and a cheater, and don’t think he hasn’t done this before. The difference is that now he got caught.” He picks up the envelope. “Is this his address?” he asks, pointing to the left-hand corner. I nod absently. He leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head. “It’s on,” he says with a nod, “and he begged for it.”

“What’s on?” I hopelessly ask. “It’s off.”

He puts the envelope in his pocket and orders a round of drinks.

. . . And that’s how it happened. But today is February 17, and for now I am leaving Richard behind—albeit slowly.

Max returns sans flyers. We inch our way forward in the check-in line for another twenty minutes. He notices that the lace of Libby’s left gym shoe is untied (she’s usually in heels; the gym shoes were bought especially for the trip) and tells her to tie her shoe. “I don’t feel like it,” Libby responds. “You tie it.”

“Next!” the ticketing agent finally calls. Max maneuvers past us with his cart. “Hello, lover,” he says to the man behind the counter from a distance. “I’m on Flight Twenty-nine Thirty to South Africa. First name Max. That’s
M
as in malaria,
A
as in Arlington Cemetery . . .”

As soon as we board the plane Max begins looking around nervously. I can read his mind: He’s trying to locate the children. He already mentioned that he doesn’t want to be stuck next to any screaming toddlers. There’s some irony in this, considering his highly evolved personality; right before we boarded he entered a magazine kiosk and pulled subscription cards out of thirty-some magazines—
Cat Fancy, Dog Fancy, Car Enthusiast
, et cetera—so he could fill them out in Richard’s name and drop them in the airport mailbox. “Tie your shoe,” he again says to Libby, whose shoelace trails behind her like a dying but still-faithful dog. We are walking down the narrow aisle, trying to find our seats. Libby abruptly stops. I run into her, Max runs into me. “Don’t tie it now! Get with the program,” he says. “Tie it when we sit down.” She turns around. “I’m not tying it. We’re a few seats back,” she explains, holding up her ticket. “I misread.” I turn around. A line is starting to form behind us. Oh well. We push back against the current. I hear Libby behind me saying sorry to everyone as we pass. She is holding her carry-on in her arms like it’s a newborn. She accidentally hits a few passengers in the stomach. I know this because I can hear people moaning when they pass her. Followed by a “You hit me in the stomach. Watch it!” and an “I am so sorry, babe.”

When we finally take our seats I immediately wrap a blanket around me. But I have Max and Libby on either side and they won’t stop arguing about the shoelace.

“Tie it!” Max orders. “Pick up your leg already. You’re sitting down.”

“Forget it,” she responds, digging through her purse. “I’d rather leave it untied. We’ll talk about it later.”

“What’s there to talk about later?” he says. “You’re two inches from the lace. Move your fingers, you robot.” Max tries to pick up her leg.

She tries to pull it away. “What are you doing?” she yells. “It doesn’t bend that way! That hurts!”

He tells her that it doesn’t hurt and does it again. Libby makes a fist and swings repeatedly. A young girl in braids, about seven or eight years old, sitting across the aisle, glances over. If this keeps up we’re going to get kicked off the plane. Why do I have to be mature? I don’t like it. Maturity doesn’t suit me. Expensive clothing suits me. A monogamous rich husband who’s away 99 percent of the time suits me. “That’s it,” I say. I throw off the blanket, get out of my seat, and tie Libby’s shoe. I sit back down and rewrap myself. “You didn’t have to do that,” Libby says to me. “I don’t know what he’s on about. It’s just a shoelace.”

“It was annoying,” Max retorts. “Keep your shoes tied or wear Velcro.”

Libby slips a sleeping mask over her head. Max calms down and starts doing some kind of stretching exercise in his seat. By the end of the flight he’ll be using a NordicTrack. I bet there’s one in his carry-on. When his cell phone rings he jumps to answer it. “Hey, Peter!” he says. “Can you score those pigeons for me? Because I checked again and I think it’s possible.” Pigeons? He pauses, waiting for the answer. “Excellent news! You’re a stylish man, Peter. Very nice!” he says. “And listen, do me a favor, while I’m gone order Chinese food to this address every day.” He rattles off Richard’s address. “Order the craziest shit on the menu, lots of lo mien . . .”

The flight attendant walks by and sternly reminds him that we are about to take off. He ends the call—in his own good time, much to the flight attendant’s annoyance—and shuts off his phone. As the plane speeds down the runway he asks if we know what time it is. Libby slowly turns her head toward me. “Tell him it’s none of his business what time it is,” she says from behind her blindfold. “And tell him that he hurt my leg.”

“I’m sorry!” Max calls to her. “I just don’t get how you can leave a shoe untied. You wouldn’t leave your pants unzipped, would you?”

“Maybe I would, babe,” she says with a chuckle.

Many hours later, after a plane change in Johannesburg, we arrive in Hoedspruit, South Africa.

Af-reeeee-ka.

We are standing outside the airport, which is basically a shack next to a long strip of dust that serves as the runway. In the distance a single-engine plane is parked near a tree. Off to my right is a small parking lot with about ten cars. A group of drivers is chatting in a circle, presumably awaiting orders. One of them, a short black man in a white button-down dress shirt and black pants, takes the initiative and approaches. I smooth the gravel underfoot with my gym shoe: nice gravel, nice gravel. Max addresses him: “Hi-there. We-need-to-go-to-the-Ak-uji-Game-Re-serve.” He’s speaking slowly and incorporating a bit of pantomime, not being sure if the man understands English. The driver’s lips barely move: “Five hundred rand,” he says.

If it’s one thing a New Yorker is always suspicious of, it’s a stranger quoting a figure. “Five hundred!” Max challenges. “That’s way too expensive.” He turns to us. Not in a million years would it occur to him to buy a guidebook. It’s one of the things I like most about him, this insistence that life will lay itself out smoothly, somehow, someway, without the use of a guidebook. “Isn’t it? How much is five hundred rand?” he asks. “I can’t do this kind of math.”