I'm with Stupid (38 page)

The men in the kitchen, by the way, are definitely straight. They flirt with us and give us free food. We sit down for a while and eat thick burgers and potato wedges with ketchup. Afterward we get back up on our chairs. Max and Phillip are no longer on the dance floor. I scan the bar and almost fall off my chair when I see Max atop the mechanical bull, waving one arm in the air as a pack of men cheer him on. When he goes to scratch himself he loses his balance and is thrown from the bull onto the edge of the blue mat underneath it. He gets up and is momentarily consumed by a fit of itching. He scratches at himself wildly. I see him ask Phillip to help him out. This time Phillip just stares at him.

Libby and I leave. Before heading home we walk to the front entrance and say good-bye to the bouncer. “Can I have your number?” he immediately says to Libby, already holding his phone.

“Sure thing, babe,” she tells him. There’s a twinkle in her eye. He’s definitely her type.

By Sunday the dust settles and the cigarette smoke triumphantly rises again. Max, Libby, and I come together at my place and have champagne in the afternoon. Max is a little worn—he has a few self-inflicted scratch marks on his arms and one on his cheek—but in good spirits, the itching having stopped. Phillip gave him the cowboy boot soon after he fell off that mechanical bull. He became highly suspicious of the itching and was convinced that Max had crabs or some other venereal disease that he didn’t want to catch. Not only is Max off the hook, he was told by Phillip never to call him again. Max’s only problem now is the scratch mark on the cheek. He keeps slathering glistening Neosporin gel over it. If he asks me one more time if the mark is noticeable, I’m going to punch him in the mouth. Vanity. I’m glad I don’t suffer from it.

Libby, meanwhile, received a letter from Manuel. It is written in calligraphy. In it Manuel reveals that he is moving to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career. He adds that he and his father (formerly his uncle) are starting to see eye-to-eye, thanks in large part to the wine-tasting class Manuel signed him up for. He closes by telling Libby how much he is looking forward to his twenty-first birthday. He calls her the most beautiful girl in the world. “He is so weird!” Libby says with a giggle. “He’s counting down the days!” That this genuinely surprises her, surprises me.

Max, as expected, mocks me for keeping the mouse. “How can you keep that cage on the kitchen table?” he asks with a frown. “I would not be able to eat.” I jump to the mouse’s defense. It’s cute. I don’t know. I can’t explain it. It’s not something I’m known for, saving animals. Maybe William did have a positive effect on me. Regardless, the mouse seems to like me. I even opened the cage to give it an opportunity to escape, and it just stayed put. After that I was trying to think of ways to make it comfortable in its new home, which is when I remembered what William said about first noticing the mouse when it was chewing on his shoelace. So I bought a pair of black shoelaces. I put one in the cage to see what the mouse would do. And what do you know? This mouse likes shoelaces. It grabbed it and started chewing on it. I think it thinks it’s a toy.

Max stands up and walks to the kitchen. He leans over the cage. “You’re disgusting,” he says to the mouse. “And fat.”

“Hey,” I protest. “Don’t say that.”

He walks back into the living room holding the cage. “You think it understands what I’m saying, Dr. Dolittle?” I chuckle. I tell him to bring the cage here, I want to see Butterball. He sets it on the coffee table and sits back down. “You named it Butterball?” Max says. “Good, encourage its obesity.” He pours himself another flute of champagne and tells us he has a secret to share. I inform him that I can handle any type of news that doesn’t involve William’s disgraceful return. Although the guy did send me a thousand dollars in cash fastened with a rubber band. I got it in the mail yesterday.

“So what do you want to tell us?” I ask as my pet mouse drags its shoelace across the cage.

“I paid for our trip to South Africa,” Max confesses. “I didn’t get it from my dad.”

Libby sits up. “Babe, you did that?” she asks in disbelief. “Why?”

He nods: “I wanted to take a trip with my girls. And you two never have money. I thought we’d have fun.” He explains that he was going to tell us when we got back but then William happened. He rubs his temples. “The hysterics over that compelled me to wait. I hope you’ll forgive me.” I give him a hug. We forgive him, we love him. Always have, always will.

As we sit around sipping bubbly Max grows reflective. He points out that it’s been an active several weeks. “We’ve changed for the better, haven’t we?” he asks. He looks at Libby and asks how she’s changed. Libby sighs. “Well,” she answers, “when I tried to file for unemployment last night I was told that it was my last week.” She lets out a whimper. “I have to get a job.”

I give her a merciful look. That sucks. Max volunteers to do her résumé. “I’m telling you,” he says, “list skills you don’t have. By the time they figure it out it will be too inconvenient to fire you.” She objects, which is when he offers to get her a temp gig at his gym, answering phones.

“Do I have to lift anything?” she asks with concern.

“Um, the phone?” he answers.

“We’ll talk about it later,” she responds. It’s great how lazy people get when they’re unemployed. Even the phone—as an idea—starts to feel heavy.

Max next asks how I’ve changed. I take a sip of champagne and begin to muse aloud. I’m pretty sure we have not changed in the least as friends. In fact, we’ve come full circle: We are the same assholes, and that’s nice. We like it that way. But a lot has happened in a short amount of time, and my reality has shifted. I discovered that my mother, when not behaving like an android programmed to remind me to marry before thirty, is like any other human being—with vices to match! Most importantly, I was introduced to a new man by the name of Henryk. He’s like no one I have ever met, in a manner of speaking . . . and guess what? He’s my fucking brother. I couldn’t be more excited to get to know him better. His brain is like an encyclopedia. The other day he told me that he’s already at work on a second novel. He’s so impressive.

Max pats my knee. “That’s precious.” He opens the Neosporin tube and rubs more ointment on the scratch on his cheek. “Do you know what I learned?” he asks. “I learned two things. One, don’t mess with the library system. And two, always tighten the cap on your itching powder. Always.”

I lift an eyebrow. “That’s all you learned?”

He takes a drink from the flute and, while he thinks, rinses his mouth with champagne like it’s mouthwash. He swallows hard. “I’ll admit there’s a lesson in all this about Karma. And it might be good for me not to always demand a hand in everything that happens. But who’s to say?”

I get up to open another bottle of champagne at the kitchen counter. If I have learned anything it’s that friends and family are where it’s at. You can run the globe, you can go to South Africa, but the most important people you’ll ever meet are those you already know.

“Hey, Kas,” Max tentatively says.

I turn around. Their faces are pressed against Butterball’s cage. Libby has her mouth covered.

“Yeah,” I cheerily answer. “What’s up?”

“Remember, oh, five seconds ago when Butterball was fat?” Max asks.

I look at Max like he’s crazy: “What are you talking about?” Just then Libby pulls her hand from her mouth and squeals with delight.

Max looks up at me. “Butterball just gave birth to six babies in her cage,” he reports with a laugh. “I hope you like roommates because this apartment is about to get seriously crowded.” His cell phone rings as I approach the cage. He doesn’t answer it. I look inside the cage. Oh dear. Butterball is a mama. Max begins rapidly texting. He’s pounding the buttons. When he receives a text back he heads for the door. “Okay then, this ended better than expected,” he says. “I’ll be on my way now. Enjoy your mice.” As he opens the door I ask where he is going. He answers that he has an appointment. I tell him to come back later for dinner. I’ll invite Henryk, too. He nods, begins texting again, and closes the door. I look back at the cage. I am living with a single mother of six.

I don’t hear from Max for the rest of the day. I call him but he doesn’t pick up, which is strange because he always takes my calls. He once answered during sex. I leave him a message. I call Henryk a few times, too, but each time my mother informs me that he’s not home. Where the hell is everybody? I wait half an hour, then yell to Libby to find out if she wants to go in on a pizza. I hear her through the wall: “Totally! But no olives, babe!”

I order a large. No olives. While waiting for the pizza I watch Butterball and her six kids in the cage. The babies already look to have personalities. One is off in the corner alone, another is climbing over its mother like a mountaineer at the South Pole. When there’s a loud knock on the door I reach for my purse and pull out my wallet. The knock is followed almost immediately by several more, louder knocks. I close my wallet. The knocking starts again. But even louder this time. Take it easy, I’m coming. The persistent knocking continues. Knock Knock Knock Knock Knock Knock Knock. Go knock yourself out, idiot, because you just knocked your way out of a tip. I throw open the door. I look at the person standing in front of me. It’s definitely not my pizza man. “I have to talk to you,” Richard says. I panic and slam the door in his face. Shit. I don’t need a confrontation with Richard. I light a cigarette. I barely escaped the last time.

I walk into the bathroom and study my reflection in the mirror. I rest my palms against the sink and take a breath. My left eye begins twitching. There’s another knock on the door. “I’ll be right there,” I call out, pulling at the skin under my eye, “just give me a minute.”

I’d better get over there and have it out with him. I’ll just play dumb. I’ll tell him I have no idea who’s been making doctor’s appointments and ordering pounds of takeout in his name. And I certainly don’t know who left a banana peel in front of his door. I come out of the bathroom; Richard knocks loudly. I throw open the door. I’m right here, shut your pie hole already.

“I have to talk to you,” he sternly repeats.

I step out into the hall and close the door behind me. He’s not getting into my apartment. Richard takes a step away from me. I can see that he is holding something behind his back. He’s got a gun, I just know it. He seemed nervous and jumpy the last time I saw him, and he does not look better now. I should give him Max’s address. That’s who he should be spraying with bullets. I’m not the one who threw a carton of eggs at his windows at 4 a.m. Okay, so maybe I watched and laughed. That’s still not the same thing. “Listen . . . ,” he begins to say. How can I listen? I TALK TOO MUCH.

“What is that behind your back?” I interrupt. “I don’t need any trouble. What’s done is done, Richard.”

I grab the doorknob. It feels cold.

“We broke off the engagement,” he says. “Noreen and I would never have worked out. She’s not the woman I want. I realized that when I saw you that night at the concert.”

“You did?” I ask. I let go of the door handle.

He nods. “She’s not even the person I thought she was,” he says. “She’s been crank-calling my apartment, soaking my doormat in water. She even sent me an envelope full of itching powder. I thought it was anthrax and reported it. They quarantined my apartment for three days. And don’t even get me started on the pigeons. When it dawned on me that she still had keys to my apartment I changed the locks. But it was too late for some of the damage. I know she was letting herself in. She stole all my forks, rearranged furniture, filled my shampoo bottle with vinegar. I nearly went blind. I should sue her. I just can’t prove any of it.” He pauses. “I mean what kind of immature person would stoop to that level? This woman spray-painted a penis and balls on my door.” Richard looks to me for an answer. I shrug: “How should I know?”

Richard shakes his head: “It’s been a horrible few weeks. So many things have gone wrong and it’s not just Noreen. I’m starting to feel like I’m going crazy. I think people are spying on me from the bushes, I’m being shadowed by strange bearded men, my neighbors are giving me dirty looks, no one will talk to me. Not too long ago a cop showed up at my door. He said someone complained about my loud music. He said, ‘Turn down that U2 album.’ I don’t even own a U2 album. I looked at him and asked, ‘What music, Officer? I’m not playing music.’ And then he eyed me suspiciously and said, ‘You can’t hear that music, sir? It’s coming from your apartment.’ And I couldn’t hear it because there was no music and he looked at me sternly and said if it happens again he’s going to issue me a ticket. And then after he left I thought, maybe I am playing music and I just can’t hear it. It was very disturbing. I had to go see a psychiatrist after that.” He pauses. “I want to get my life back on track, I want to make it work with you this time.”

Richard pulls a gorgeous bouquet of flowers tied with a yellow ribbon from behind his back. It’s the first bouquet he’s ever brought me. He once told me flowers remind him of funerals. “These are for you,” he says, holding out the bouquet. I remind him that he doesn’t “do” flowers. “I made an exception,” he tells me. “They were expensive but you’re worth it. Say we can work things out. I never meant the things I said that night at the club . . .”

Richard goes on to explain that he loves everything about me. Noreen, whom he was marrying out of obligation, as a result of family pressures, is boring.

I take the bouquet. Roses, lilies, tulips, freesias . . . I close my eyes and inhale deeply. They smell so nice, so fresh. How did he know I love freesias? I reluctantly open my eyes. Richard smiles. Oh, Richard. I tell him that I’m touched. Richard winks: “Is that a yes?” I nod. It’s a yes. Why not? Yes! I tell Richard to come closer so we can kiss. I haven’t felt this energized in weeks. I’m so glad he showed up here. This is what I’ve been missing. I’m sorry I ran from him the last time.

“This is good,” he says, leaning in.

“This is great,” I admit. I smell the flowers one last time then start beating him over the head with them. “You idiot,” I hiss, whipping him with all my strength, “what do you take me for, huh? What do you take me for?” I say, whacking him across the face. “Get your stinking ass out of here and never come back. Bringing me weeds like I give a shit about your tired life and your itching powder. You should be embarrassed, you malformed menace!” I whip him like a dying mule a few more times. I swat him on the back, on the shoulder, near his eyes. And then I start hitting him over the head. Richard is wearing a stupid beret on his head and I give that a few licks as well. What’s with everyone wearing dumb hats? First William and his fez and now this. I’m sick of dumb hats! I continue beating him relentlessly. “This one is for Noreen, I know for a fact she broke it off with you,” I say. “And this is for the other girls . . .”