I'm with Stupid (36 page)

I’m about to collapse. I yawn again. I try to keep Barbara in focus but all I can see is a white light. I’ve died, haven’t I? I’m dead now. “Right. Okay,” I answer.

Barbara sighs: “He told me he’d be honored to let me treat him to dinner again. He would be absolutely honored.”

“You don’t say.”

Barbara squeals: “He’s coming to the office this evening to pick me up. I’m on cloud nine. He’s so sensitive and romantic.”

I give Barbara a thumbs-up as she informs me that Freddie is a gentleman sweetheart and a keeper and that she can’t wait for me to meet him. I tell her that meeting Freddie sounds great even though it sounds terrible. “Love is wonderful,” she offers. “It finds you when you least expect it.”

Later that morning I get an e-mail from William that should be donated to science.

Subject: mo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

no tim 2 loos. Iam goig 2 find an agant 2day--I think I cane seel mi bok on mo 2day!!!!!!! wish mi luk. Iwill now news when u get hom 2nite. I am goin 2B an publihsd auto r. Ilov u buterful !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!willy//-can i borow 100dolarz 2 help wth/expensis????

Can he borow 100dolarz? No, he fucking can’t borrow . . . “Hey,” I hear someone say. I press delete and look up. Henryk. He asks if everything is okay. He observes that I look like I’m about to start crying. I close my mouth. Don’t ever have sex with people, Henryk, don’t ever do it, I want to tell him. I pick up a stack of manuscript pages and pull a pack of cigarettes out from underneath. I throw the pack at my brother, who extends his arm and stops it in midair. He’s a toad catching a fly. I stand up and tell him we’re going out for a smoke and some lunch.

“But I don’t . . . ,” he starts to protest.

“Don’t give me that,” I tell him. “I was just starting to like you.”

Henryk takes a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket. “I don’t smoke your brand, that’s all I was going to say.”

It’s an unseasonably warm day and Henryk and I decide to dine alfresco. After grabbing sandwiches we take a seat on a park bench near a guy wearing reindeer horns. “Lovely weather we’re having,” he says to himself. As the sun warms my cheeks, rather like an interrogation lamp at the police station, I tell Henryk everything. I recall the graphic circumstances under which I met William and explain how he came to live with and mooch off me. I spare none of the gore. I tell him that I accidentally blurted “I love you” after my one-night stand, that I enjoyed the feeling of power that came with being associated with a hot specimen. I tell him that William has been buying me gifts I don’t want and declaring his love, which I don’t want, either, and that he thinks I’m helping him turn dreams into reality while he deprives me of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Basically I feel sorry for him: He has this dead uncle he’s always trying to impress, he has all this devotion to causes that mean nothing to me, he was a virgin when we met. But now that he’s broke he has to leave. I have to kick the altruist to the curb.

Henryk rewraps the uneaten portion of his sandwich. He tells me that if William wants honesty than I should be honest with him. If I don’t love him I should say so, and if I don’t think he has a writing career ahead of him, I should say so, too. He shrugs: “Just tell the truth.” The innocence of youth! Henryk is right about one thing, though: William will never sell that book. He looks at me. “I mean there’s no way, right?” he asks. I nod. Right. Henryk gets up. “You’d think he’d want to write about South Africa. Maybe apartheid . . .” I give him a good-bye hug. Enough already. I don’t care. Before he has time to run off I ask what classes he missed today. He chuckles: “English and geography.” Ah. How very American. I toss my sandwich wrapper into the garbage. I’m not going back to work just yet. I’m going to get some coffee and think.

“You are so bad,” I hear Barbara laugh when I finally return to the office to collect my things. “I’ve never met anyone like you.” As I approach her desk I see that there’s a pasty man with a comb-over sitting atop her desk like a wilted Thanksgiving centerpiece. Barbara, who certainly is re-imagining that dress code, has changed out of the black-and-white-checkered number and is now wearing a tight, cleavage-baring white top. I can see her nipples. Why me, Lord? Barbara’s boobs need their own rented storage space. Avoiding them proves surprisingly difficult. I attempt to focus all my energy on her right earring as a way of coping. It doesn’t work. There, I peeked again. Fuck! I would like to go in the corner now and rock myself gently until the voices in my head grow quiet.

I am introduced to Fred Freddie Stewart, who tells me I’m as young as a schoolgirl. I don’t answer. Barbara proudly explains that Freddie is always flirting with everyone because he’s “a ladies’ man.” Is that what he is? Really? He reaches over and squeezes Barbara’s breast. I feel like I’ve been sexually harassed from two feet away. “I don’t have to flirt,” he says. Barbara tells him to behave. Maybe he should take his own behavior manipulation course. Freddie picks Barbara’s purse off her desk. “Let’s get a move on, Barbie,” he offers, “we’ve got a lot on our plates.” Barbara applies an entire tube of lip gloss and turns off her computer. I accidentally glance at her big sagging boobs again. This is a shameful day. Freddie tells her he knows the perfect dinner spot. She asks what it is. She can’t wait. “It’s called my apartment”—he squeezes the other breast like he’s milking her—“it’s got great atmosphere.”

As they lock arms Barbara imparts a bit of sage advice: “When you find a good man, hold on to him.” I’ll remember that, yes. Go get your groove, Barbara.

As I watch them walk out it dawns on me that this is the first day in the office that Barbara has not been hostile to me. Maybe Freddie ain’t so bad. If he gives her an orgasm she might bake me a cake.

I stand in the hallway of my apartment building and light a cigarette. The nasty reality of what I am about to do sinks in. I push open the door and see William on the floor. My first thought is that he’s too weak to move, having been verbally violated by every literary agent in the business. He’s wasted a day aimlessly roaming around town trying to sell his book idea and it is now my job to console him as he uses the thin pages of his opus as a hankie.

I survey the heaps of tracksuits crowding the floor. It looks like a piñata exploded in my face. Why has he pulled all his Desert Sand, Carnation Pink, Fuzzy Wuzzy Brown, Cadet Blue, and Vivid Tangerine–colored belongings out of the closet? Oh God, he’s so out of it he’s decided to sell his clothes to make rent. This is awful. Now I have to tell him he’s a bad dresser, too. Even Goodwill would reject him. When I ask what he’s doing he jumps up and gives me a hug. “I have wonderful news about my book about the political situation in Monaco!” he shouts. My lit cigarette accidentally touches his arm, burning a hole in his sweatshirt. He looks down and mumbles, “My hoodie.” Is it possible he found someone interested in his book? Who would buy his writing—who could decipher it? A fellow park ranger? A lonesome divorcée? I can’t imagine any agent would be interested. Or would she? His physical prowess already made a fool of me. Who’s next? As he takes off the hoodie I ask for an explanation. “I’m going to Monaco!” he exuberantly exclaims. “I’m finally going to fulfill my dreams! Everyone believes in me and wants me to succeed.” I take his beloved hoodie, toss it on the couch, and invite him to explain. I am waiting for the words
self-publish
and the question
Can I borrow ten thousand dollars?
but they never come.

Apparently that morning, when walking out of the apartment building, his musings on Monaco’s political situation tucked under arm like a weapon of mass destruction, William was stopped by a scout from a modeling agency. The man was captivated. He asked William if he’s ever considered a career in modeling; William, of course, shook his head no. Modeling isn’t part of the dream. He elaborates: “I told him I wasn’t interested in being a model. The man looked very disappointed that I wouldn’t even consider modeling. He said I would be making a lot of money. He said I was a natural player. I told him that I couldn’t model because I was writing my book, which is my dream. I explained to him about my book on the political situation in Monaco. He said, ‘Monaco? We send models to Monaco on photo shoots all the time. If you’re going to write about Monaco you should go there to see it for yourself. If you become a model you can go for free. Think of it this way, the agency will be paying you to write your book!’ We talked about Monaco for three hours! He was so concerned! The owner of the modeling agency even has a house there, so it’s like fate! I’m going to become a high-paid supermodel so that I can become an award-winning writer. And I’ll get my big advance after all! The book is really moving along, too. The acknowledgments page is almost finished!”

If I had a penny for every time I’ve heard Paul Auster say that.

William hands me the scout’s business card. I look at the name. For some reason I recognize the name of the modeling agency. I watch too much bad entertainment television. I need help. “I have to go to Monaco,” William continues. “Remember how Miss Celeste told me a new person would come into my life?” I nod. “Well, that person was not Bob, it was Randy Sexton from the modeling agency! He’s such a nice man, and so interested in Monaco!” I return the card. Randy Sexton and Willy Johnson, together at long last. “Are you upset?” he asks, touching my cheek. I shake my head no: I respect your dreams, Martin Luther King Jr. hyphen Jesus Christ, even if you are becoming a model, doing the very thing you said you would not do.

We embrace. “You’re definitely going to see your name on the acknowledgments page,” he tells me. “Though it’s only right that I dedicate the book to my dead uncle Dale.” I pat him on the back. I am tempted to admit I’d rather not be acknowledged. “Say good-bye to Libby and Max. I can’t acknowledge them because all those names just won’t fit, but I’m sure if you explain it they will understand what it’s like to be a writer . . .” I ask when he plans to move out. “Oh, today,” he answers. “I have to go to the agency right now. They are going to put me up in an apartment with some other male models. But it’s only a matter of time before I get to Monaco. Maybe next week.” He takes a moment of silence to consider his achievement. “I am officially a writer! This is so fantastic! I’m going to change the world!” He sits back down on the floor and continues packing. Good-bye high-tops, good-bye nylon parachute pants and Giants pendants. Good-bye pumpkin-colored hoodie. “I can’t wait to interview and help the citizens of Monaco,” he gushes. “It’s going to be great! It’s what I need for inspiration—to be there. You know? I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. It seems so simple now.”

William closes his suitcase. I stand up. He tenderly strokes my cheek before hugging me again. He then picks up his suitcase—“It is time,” he says—and carries it to the kitchen, which is when I notice the hamster cage on my kitchen table. I give it a second look. What is in there? Something gray darts across the cage. I let out a scream as gallons of blood begin pounding in my head. I run for the door. “What is that?” I scream while jumping in place. “What is that, William?”

“The mouse,” he whispers, slapping his forehead. “I almost forgot. I trapped the mouse.” He puts down his suitcase and walks over to the cage. “Earlier today while I was on the couch he just came up to me and started nibbling on my shoelace.” William explains that he tried to release the mouse outside but that it followed him back into the apartment, which is when he carried it to the pet store in his pocket and bought a cage. He adds that he paid for the cage with forty dollars he found in a drawer. Great, my emergency money. “This mouse is meant to be here,” he tells me. “It has a very unique aura.” I peek at the mouse from a safe distance. It stares back at me with tiny black eyes. That’s some unique aura, for sure. Why don’t we find out its sign and maybe do its romance compatibility diagram. “I think it will have a wonderful home here,” he says with a nod. I open the door. We’ll see about that.

William and I walk outside and I immediately hail a cab. William gets in and waves to me through the window. I stand at the curb momentarily overwhelmed by the brightness of his blue eyes. He is so pretty—so much prettier than I. For old times’ sake I run over and put my hand through the open window, palm-side up. William touches it with two fingers. “You have an artist’s hand,” he observes and smiles, a tear in his eye. My eyes are as dry as the Sahara Desert. “I will write to you as soon as I get to Monaco,” he promises. “And someday, when I am as big as Tom Clancy, I will be back in New York. I am going to try to be as good a writer as your brother. I may be better. I know I can do it because I have so much faith in the goodness of the world!” I blow a kiss. Anything is possible. And I mean that in the most abstract sense.

The cab pulls away then stops at a red light some twenty feet away. I move back to the curb and stare at William, who sticks his head and arms out the window. He puts on his fez. “Monaco, here I come!” he exclaims just as a car comes racing down the street and smashes into the back of the cab, whose trunk folds like an accordion. Hubcaps pop off like buttons off a fat man’s coat while gray clouds of smoke rise into the air. The cab’s curved tailpipe dangles from the wreckage before falling off. It rests on the ground like a comma, as if to signal that the day is not yet done—we are merely transitioning.

But the last thing I need now is a
but
. . .

“I’m hurt!” William shouts from inside the cab. Hurt? Oh no. I run to him as both drivers, cell phones at the ready, stand in the middle of the street screaming at each other. A dazed William stumbles out of the cab. His shoelaces are untied, his fez is missing its tassel. “Help me,” he moans as a crowd begins to form, “I think I broke my arm. It stings.” Broke his arm? Oh my God, he’s going to have to stay with me longer! I’m never going to get rid of him. He is worse than herpes. “Can we go back inside?” he asks. “I need to apply a compress.” I shake my head frantically as he tells me he loves me. No, you don’t. You don’t need to love me and you don’t need a compress. Another cab pulls up behind the accident. I wave my arms. When it stops I reach into William’s cab, pull out his suitcase without assistance using superhuman strength miraculously mustered for the occasion, and throw it in the back of the other cab. Now I need a compress. I hold my back as William holds his wrist and asks where we are going. We? We’re not going anywhere. “You’ll be late for your scheduled appointment with Randy Sexton,” I say, acting like it matters. I push him into the cab. Godspeed! He looks at me pleadingly through the window. “But my whole arm is . . . ,” he starts to protest. I see that there is a bit of blood running down his forehead. Stigmata? It’s no big deal! The rugged look is in this season. He’s at an advantage. I smile at him. I’ve turned from Florence Nightingale to Doctor Death. William’s kindness has brought out the very worst in me. “No pain no gain!” I yell as the cab slowly maneuvers around the accident. “This is Monaco we’re talking about after all! Turn the other cheek!” William nods in confusion as the cab speeds off. I needn’t say more and for once I don’t bother. Who the hell goes bankrupt after two weeks, by the way? Ask William.