Super Sad True Love Story (6 page)

They grabbed him by both arms and tried to drag him to his feet, his vast bulk passively protesting. The American passengers instantly turned away, but the Italians were already hollering: “
Que barbarico!
” and “
A cosa serve?
”

The fat ugly man’s fear washed over the cabin in putrefying waves. We felt it before we even heard the sound of his voice, which, like the rest of him, did not conform to the standards of our time: was weak, helpless, despicable. “What did I do?” he was stammering. “Look at my wallet. I’m Bipartisan. Look in my wallet. I have a first-class ticket. I told the beaver everything he wanted.”

I snuck a glance at the fat man’s tormentors, standing evenly around him, fingers on their triggers. Their uniforms were adorned with hasty insignia, a sword superimposed over Lady Liberty’s crown, which I believe denotes the New York Army National Guard. And yet I sensed these exurban white guys were from nowhere
near
New York. They were slow and unwieldy, tired-looking, as if someone had poked them in their pupils and then circled their eyes. “Your äppärät,” one of them said to the fat man.

“I left it at home,” the man whispered loudly, and we all knew he had lied. As the soldiers finally pulled him to his feet, the cabin filled with the sound of a grown-up’s out-of-practice whimpering. I looked back to see his baggy, ill-fitting pants, too big for his oddly tiny legs. And that’s all I saw or heard of the criminal passenger on UnitedContinentalDeltamerican Flight 023 to New York, because somehow the soldiers had made his crying stop, and all we could hear was the slap of his loafers among the steady thump of their man-boots.

It wasn’t over yet. While the Italians had begun their angry crowing about the state of our troubled nation, murmuring the name of “
il macellaio
” or “the butcher” Rubenstein, whose blood-smeared, cleaver-wielding visage could be seen in poster form on every Roman street corner, a second group of soldiers had returned to our cabin. “U.S. citizens, raise your hands,” we were told.

My Ohio-shaped bald spot felt cold against the headrest of the seat. What had I done? Should I have kept my mouth shut when the otter had asked for Fabrizia’s name? Should I have said, “I don’t want to answer this question,” as he had told me was my right? Had I been
too
compliant? Was there time to reach into my äppärät for Nettie Fine’s info, so that I could present it to the Guardsmen? Would they drag me off the plane too? My parents were born in what used to be the Soviet Union, and my grandmother had survived the last years of Stalin, although barely, but I lack the genetic instinct to deal with unbridled authority. Before a greater force, I crumble. And so, as my hand began the long journey from my lap into the fear-saturated cabin air, I wanted my parents near me. I wanted my mother’s hand on the back of my neck, the cool touch that always calmed me down as a child. I wanted to hear my parents’ Russian spoken aloud, because I always thought of it as the language of cunning acquiescence. I wanted us to face this together, because what if they shot me as a traitor and my parents would have to hear the news from a neighbor, from a police report, from a potato-faced anchor on their favorite FoxLiberty-Ultra? “I love you,” I whispered in the direction of Long Island, where my parents live. Deploying the satellite powers of my mind, I zoomed in on the undulating green roof of their humble Cape Cod house, the tiny yuan valuation floating over the equally minuscule green blot of their working-class backyard.

And then I wanted Eunice next to me, sharing these last moments. I wanted to feel her young powerlessness, my hand on her bony knees stroking the fear out of her, letting her know I was the only one who could keep her safe.

Nine of us had raised our hands. The Americans. “Take out your äppäräti.” We did as we were told. No questions asked. I held out my device in a particularly supplicating gesture, like a shamed young cub showing the mess he had made in his cage. My äppärät data were sampled and scanned to a military äppärät by a young man who seemed to be missing a face beneath his cap’s long green visor. All I could make out were his arms, ropy with lawnmower strength. He cocked his head at me, sighed, then looked at his watch. “All right, people, let’s go!” he shouted.

The first-class cabin disembarked with great haste. We ran down the stairs and onto the cracked JFK runway, which shuddered beneath the armadas of armored personnel carriers and roving packs of luggage carts. The summer heat stroked my wet back and made me feel as if a fire had just been put out all over my body. I took out my U.S. passport and held it in my hand, fingering its embossed golden eagle, still hoping it meant something. I remember how my parents would talk about the
luck
of their having left the Soviet Union for America. Oh God, I thought, let there still be such luck in this new world.

“Please wait underneath the ‘security shed,’” one of the stewardesses sobbed to us. We walked toward a strange outcropping, amidst a landscape of forlorn, aging terminals heaped atop one another like the vista of some gray Lagos slum. We surveyed the tired buildings of a prematurely old country; in the far distance, away from the tanks and armored personnel carriers, construction cranes loomed over the half-built futuristic complex of the China Southern Airlines Cargo Terminal. A tank rolled over to us, and the nine first-class Americans instinctively raised our hands. The tank stopped short; a single soldier in T-shirt and shorts popped out of the hatch and planted a highway sign next to it, black letters against an orange background:

IT IS FORBIDDEN TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE EXISTENCE OF THIS VEHICLE (“THE OBJECT”) UNTIL YOU ARE .5 MILES FROM THE SECURITY PERIMETER OF JOHN F. KENNEDY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. BY READING THIS SIGN YOU HAVE DENIED EXISTENCE OF THE OBJECT AND IMPLIED CONSENT.

—A
MERICAN
R
ESTORATION
A
UTHORITY
,
S
ECURITY
D
IRECTIVE
IX-2.11
“T
OGETHER
W
E
’
LL
S
URPRISE THE
W
ORLD
!”

The Italians, convinced that the worst was behind them, had already started talking about the last ten minutes as if they had been through a thrilling geopolitical adventure; the women among them were already discussing handbag shops in Nolita where they could take particular advantage of the ailing dollar. And then I realized the fat man’s smell of fear had never left my nostrils, had become embedded in my trunk-like nasal hairs, the ones Eunice had gingerly pulled upon in my Roman bed while whispering, “Ugh,
so
grodacious.” And then, before I knew exactly what had happened, I was sitting on the floor of the security shed, my legs sprawled out beneath me, useless, my arms prodding the new American air, as if I were a sleepwalker or an athlete doing his stretches. My passport had fallen out of my hands. The Italians were saying something sympathetic in my direction. They were quite alert to illness, those gentle ancient people. The sounds Eunice called “verballing” were escaping from my mouth, but even if you cupped my mouth with your ear you would not be able to understand a thing I was saying.

THE ONLY MAN FOR ME

FROM THE GLOBALTEENS ACCOUNT OF EUNICE PARK

JUNE 5

Format: Long-Form Standard English Text

GLOBALTEENS SUPER HINT:
Harvard Fashion School studies show excessive typing makes wrists large and unattractive. Be a GlobalTeen forever—switch to Images today!

EUNI-TARD ABROAD
TO
GRILLBITCH:

Dear Precious Pony,

Sup, slut? I really wish you were here right now. I need someone to verbal with and Teens just ain’t cutting it. I’m so confused. I went up to Lucca with Ben (the Credit guy) and he was so super nice, paid for all my meals and this gorgeous hotel room, took me for a walk around the city walls and to this insanely good osteria where everyone there knew him and we had a 200 euro wine. I kept thinking about how he would be the perfect boyfriend and I sweated his hot skinny bod. But all of a sudden I would tell him like for no reason that his feet smelled or that he was cross-eyed or his hair was receding (which was a total LIE), and he would get all intro on me, turn down the community access on his äppärät so that I wouldn’t know where the fuck his mind was, and then just stare off into space. It’s not like we didn’t do it. We did. And it was all right. But right afterwards I started having this major bawling panic attack and he tried to comfort me, told me I looked slutty and that my Fuckability was 800+ (which it’s so NOT, because I can’t find anyone in Rome who can do Asian hair) but he couldn’t. I feel so much shame. I feel so undeserving of being with someone like Ben and whenever we walked down the street together or something I just kept picturing him with some beautiful supermodel or some really smart but sexy Mediawhore. Someone he really deserved instead of this fucked-up girl like me.

I got another GlobalTeens from my mom saying basically my dad was at it again. Sally had to sleep in the guest room upstairs and mom had to sleep in the basement, because when he gets really drunk he can’t really handle stairs, or at least you have a lot of warning when he does.

I tried to get Sally to tell me what’s going on but she only said something weak, like Mom spoiled the tofu and dad’s practice has been empty, so it’s mom’s fault, or it’s his patients’ fault, or anyone’s fault but his. Anyway, I’ve been looking at cheap air tickets, because as much as I love spending that bastard’s money here, I know I’m responsible for what happens to Sally and mom.

I think a part of me is falling in love with Ben, but I know it can’t happen, because another, sick part of me thinks that my dad is always going to be the only man for me. Whenever something wonderful happens with Ben I suddenly start to think of all the good things my DAD did and I start to MISS him. You know like he always helped out poor Mexicans when he had his practice in California and if they didn’t have insurance, which was basically always, he would just do their feet for free. I mean what if I’m the bad daughter for leaving him and going all the way to Europe? God, I’m sorry for all this verbal diarrhea. Hey, remember when we lived in Long Beach and you would sleep over? Remember my mom would wake us up at like seven in the morning the next day yelling “Iiiireo-na! Iiiireo-na! Early bird gets worm!” I miss you so much, Precious Pony.

GRILLBITCH
TO
EUNI-TARD ABROAD:

Dear Precious Panda,

Sup, betch? I got your message just as I was getting out of the car at the JuicyPussy in Topanga and I was way sad the whole time. One of the salesladies even verballed me if I were okay and I told her I was “thinking” and she was like “why?”

I don’t know what to tell you. I guess parents can be really disappointing but their the only parents we have. I mean we kind of have to respect them no matter what and if they do hurtful things we should try to get out of their way and be even ten times more loving. I wish you had an older brother like I do because he takes the brunt of everything in our family. It must suck to be the older sister in a family with no mails.

Anyway, as for Ben, I think you are definately doing things just right! He doesn’t know it’s all because of your inner turmoil, he thinks you’re just a real tough slut and that he has to work super extra hard to get you. Does his dick kinda curve down and to the side a little? Gopher’s does (he’s gotten his PhD—his Pretty Huge Dick!) and I was wondering if that was the case with all white boys, the curving. See what a virgin I am? Ha ha.

You know you can verbal me anytime day or night. I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing half the time anyways, but I’m so glad that we can confide in each other, because the world sometimes feels so, like, I can’t even describe it. It’s like I’m floating around and the moment anyone gets near me or I get near anyone there’s just this STATIC. Sometimes people verbal me and I just look at their mouth and it’s like WHAT? What are you saying to me? How am I supposed to even verbal back and does it even matter what comes out? I mean, at least you got up and left home and went to ROME! Who does that? BTW, do they sell this brand of pop-off sheer panties called TotalSurrender in Italy? I think they’re from Milan but I can’t even find them on TeenyBoppers or AssLuxury. If they have navy blue I’ll pay you back, I swear. You know my size, slut. I miss you so much too, Precious Panda. Come back to sunny Cali! I think I get crotch itch when I’m on the pill. What is UP with that?