The Bus Driver Who Wanted to Be God & Other Stories (9 page)

in which Mordy meets a real friend and loses a game of pool

I
met Uzi Gelfand at Stiff Drinks, almost by accident. He acted real friendly. Bought me a beer and everything, which weirded me out cause I figured he must be trying to stick it to me or something. But pretty soon I saw he wasn't onto me at all, just bored. He was a few years older than me, and going bald, so the little scar—the one on his right temple where the bullet went in—stuck out even more, and so did the other one, which was much bigger, on the left side, where it went out. “Used a dumdum,” Gelfand goes, and winks at two girls standing at the bar right next to us drinking Diet Coke. “I mean if you're gonna do it, do it right.” It wasn't until after those two ditched us for some
blond guy with a ponytail that he admitted he'd only chatted me up cause he thought we were together. “Not that it makes any difference,” he says, and head-butts the bar—but not very hard, just trying to chill. “Even if you'd introduced me they'da gone off with some blond guy in the end. That's just how it is. Every girl I meet—they always have a blond guy waiting for them somewhere. But I'm not bitter. No way. A little desperate maybe, but not bitter.” Four beers later we were shooting pool, and Uzi started telling me about himself. Turned out he was living not far away from my place, but with his parents, which was pretty weird. I mean most people live alone here, or with a girlfriend maybe, or a roommate. Uzi's parents had committed suicide five years before him. His mother had some disease and his father didn't want to go on without her. His little brother was also living with them. Just got here. Shot himself too, in the middle of basic training. “Maybe I shouldn't say this”—Uzi smiled, and potted the eight ball right into the left pocket, on a fluke—“but when he got here we were really stoked. You shoulda seen my dad, a guy who wouldn't bat an eye if you dropped a ten-pound sledgehammer on his foot. Grabbed the kid and cried like a baby, no shit.”

in which Kurt starts bitching and Mordy's had enough

E
ver since I met Uzi we hit the bars every night. There's only like three of them here and we hit all three each time just to be sure we don't miss out on any action. We always wind up at Stiff Drinks. It's the best one, and it stays open latest too. Last night really sucked. Uzi brought this friend of his, Kurt. Thinks the guy's really cool, 'cause he was the Nirvana lead and everything. But the truth is he's a big-time jerk. I mean, I'm not exactly sold on the place either, but this guy, he wouldn't stop bitching. And once he gets going—forget it. He'll dig into you like a goddamn bat. Anything that comes up always reminds him of some song he wrote. He's gotta recite it for you so you can tell him how
cool the lyrics are. Sometimes he'll even ask the bartender to play one of his numbers, and you just wanna dig yourself a hole in the ground. It isn't just me. Everybody hates him, except Uzi. I think there's this thing that after you off yourself, with the way it hurts and everything—and it hurts like hell—the last thing you give a shit about is somebody with nothing on his mind except singing about how unhappy he is. I mean if you gave a flyin' fuck about stuff like that you'd still be alive, with a depressing poster of Nick Cave over your bed, instead of winding up here. But the truth is that it isn't only him. Yesterday I was just bummed out. The job at the pizza joint and pissing the night away at the bars, it was all getting pretty tired. Seeing the same people with their flat Coke every night, and even when they'd look you straight in the eye you'd feel like they were just kinda staring. I don't know, maybe I'm too uptight, but when you look at them, even when you feel the vibes in the air like something's really happening, and they're dancing or making out or having some laughs with you, somehow there's always this thing about them, like it's never a big deal, like nothing really matters.

dinner at the Gelfands

O
n Friday, Uzi invited me over to his parents' place for dinner. “Eight o'clock sharp,” he said, “and don't be late. We're having bean and potato
cholent
with
kishke
.” You could tell the Gelfands were from Eastern Europe. The furniture was a DIY job that Uzi's father put together, and they had these god-awful stucco walls. I didn't really wanna go. Parents always think I'm a bad influence. I don't know why. Take the first time I had dinner at Desiree's house. Her father kept looking me over, like I was some punk trying to get a driver's license and he was the guy from the DMV who wasn't going to let me pass. By the time we got to dessert, he was ragging on me—but trying to
make like it was no big deal—to see if I was into getting his daughter to do drugs. “I know how it goes,” he said, giving me that undercover cop look—the kind they give just before they cuff you. “I used to be young too, you know. You go to a party, dance a little, things get heated up, and next thing you know you're in some room together, and you're getting her to take a kote.” “A toke,” I tried to tell him. “Whatever. Listen, Mordy, I may seem naive, but I know the routine.” I lucked out with the Gelfands though, 'cause those kids were so far gone that their parents had nothing left to worry about. They were really happy to have me there, and kept trying to stuff me with food. There's something nice about home cooking. I mean, it's hard to explain, but there's something special about it, a feeling. As if your stomach can figure out that it's food you didn't have to pay for, that someone actually made it out of love. And after all those pizza joints and Chinese takeouts and junk that my stomach's taken in since I got here, I bet it appreciated the gesture. To thank me, it sent these heat waves up to my chest every once in a while. “She's a real shark, our mom,” Uzi went, and hugged his tiny mother real tight without even letting go of the silverware. Uzi's mom laughed and asked if we wanted some more
kishke
, his father got in another lame joke, and for a second there I actually started missing my own parents even though before I offed myself, their nagging used to freak me out.

in which Mordy and Gelfand's kid brother do the dishes

A
fter dinner I sat in the living room with the rest of them. Uzi's dad turned on the TV. There was this boring talk show on, and he kept swearing at everyone on the show. Uzi'd had a whole bottle of wine with his dinner, and just passed out on the couch. It was getting pretty tired, so me and Uzi's kid brother Ronny said we'd do the dishes even though Uzi's mom said don't bother. Ronny washed and I dried. I asked him how he's makin' out 'cause I know he offed not so long ago, and people are usually pretty much in a daze when they get here, at least in the beginning. But Ronny just shrugged and said he thinks OK. Then he said: “If it hadn't been for Uzi, I'da been here
a long time ago.” We did all the dishes and we were putting them away when Ronny started telling me this really weird story about how once, when he was just ten maybe, he took a cab, on his own, to see the two Tel Aviv soccer teams play each other. He was dead gone on the yellow team, with the hats and the pennants and everything, and all through the game they were right on top of the other side's goal. Those guys couldn't keep the ball for two passes in a row. But then, eight minutes before the end of the game, the other team scored an offside goal. No two ways about it. It was such an obvious offside—like the replays they show on TV. The yellows tried to argue, but the referee gave the goal, and that was that. The other team won, and Ronny went home totally burned up. Uzi was hung up on fitness in those days. He was going into the army, and he was dead set on trying out for a combat unit. And Ronny, who idolized him, took his jump rope and tied it to the horizontal bar that Uzi put up in the yard. Then he shouted to Uzi, who was cramming for some final or something, to come right away, and told him the whole thing about the game, and about the goal and about how unfair it was and everything, and how he didn't see the point of going on living in a world that's so unfair that the team you love could lose just like that, even when they didn't deserve to. And that he was only telling Uzi because Uzi was probably the smartest guy Ronny knew, so unless Uzi could give him one good reason to go on living, he was gonna off himself, and that was that. The whole time Ronny talked, Uzi didn't say a word, and even afterward, when it was his turn to say
something, he just kept quiet, and instead of talking, he took one step forward and slapped Ronny so hard that it sent him flying two yards back, and then he just turned around and went back to his room to cram some more. Ronny says it took him a while to get over being slapped, but soon as he got up he untied the rope, and put it back and went to take a shower. He never talked to Uzi about the meaning of life again after that. “I don't know exactly what he was trying to tell me when he slapped me like that,” Ronny said, laughing, and wiped his hands on the dish towel, “but whatever it was, it worked fine till the
army.”

in which Mordy stops bar-hopping and starts losing it

I
haven't done the bars for almost two weeks. Uzi keeps calling anyway, bugging me about how I'm missing out on the babes, and the laughs, and that he promises not to bring Kurt along, but so far I'm sitting tight. Once every three days, he even comes to see me at like three a.m., helps himself to a beer, and tells me some funny story I should've heard at the bar or about some waitress he almost hooked up with. He never leaves anything out, like when some kid misses school and another kid comes over to tell him what they have to do for homework. And then, just before he leaves he tries to talk me into going out for a little espresso before we crash. Last night I told him I'd had it with those
places, that we never get anywhere with the chicks anyway, and that I just get bummed out. “As if you're not bummed out anyway,” Uzi goes. “Look at yourself, vegging in front of the TV every morning like a baboon. Get this, Mordy. The fact that nothing happens is a given. But as long as nothing happens, at least let it be in a place with babes and some music. Right?”

•   •   •

A
fter he left, I tried reading this really depressing book my German roommate loaned me—about a guy with TB who went to this place in Italy to spend his dying days. After twenty-three pages, I junked it and turned on the TV. They had a game show on, where the contestants meet people who offed on the same date, and they all have to say why—but it has to be funny—and what they'd do with the first prize if they won. I figured maybe Uzi was right—just vegging out at home isn't so hot either, and that unless something happened, and soon, I was going to freak out.

in which Mordy accidentally foils a robbery and almost wins a reward

T
he day everything began changing started with me foiling a robbery. I know it sounds like I'm making it up almost, but it really happened. I'd just finished buying some stuff at the supermarket when this fat guy with red hair and a thick scar on his neck slammed right into me, and about twenty TV dinners fell out of his coat. Both of us just froze. I think I was more shook up than him. The cashier next to us yelled: “Simon! Come over here, quick. Thief! Thief!” I wanted to tell the fat guy I was sorry, and that I was happy for him that he wasn't really fat. That I only thought he was on account of the TV dinners in his
coat, and that next time he shoplifts he should stick to vegetables 'cause meat always comes out wet and disgusting in the microwave. But I just shrugged, and the fat guy, who was looking pretty skinny by then, shrugged too, the way only someone with a broken neck can, and then he bailed out. Right after that, Simon came running over, waving a stick, and gave this really sad look at the TV dinners that were scattered all over the floor. “How could he?” he whispered, getting down on his hands and knees, half to me and half to the frozen peas that were rolling all over the place. “How can anyone do a thing like that? Shoplifting's one thing, but stepping on moussaka?! What good is that?” Before I could get outta there, the cashier was all over me. “Boy, was that lucky! Good thing you were here! Look at him, Simon, this is the guy who caught the thief.” And Simon's like, “Terrific,” but he goes on staring at the crushed moussaka. “Terrific. Superdeal Stores thanks you. If you would be so kind as to step into my office and leave me your name and
 . . .” “
They'll make it worth your while,” the cashier pitched in. “There's a reward.” Simon was busy trying to pick up the TV dinners and work out the damage. I smiled at the cashier and told her thanks a lot, but never mind, and besides I gotta be somewhere and I can't wait. “You sure?” she asked, disappointed. I could tell she was really cut up about it. “It's a pretty neat reward. A weekend at a hotel.” When I told Gelfand, he nearly shit a brick. “A weekend at a hotel?” He peeled himself a banana. “Couldn't be more obvious than that. The girl's got it for you.” “Chill
out,” I said. “It's just store policy.” “What did she look like?” Gelfand ignored me. “Was she hot?” “She was OK, I guess, but
 . . .” “
No buts,” he insisted. “Spit it out. How old did she look?” “Twenty-five,” I gave in. “Visible scars? Slash marks? Bullet holes, that kinda thing?” “Not that I could see.” “A Juliet!” Gelfand whistled in admiration.
Juliet
's the word they use here for anyone who did it with pills or poison, like me, the ones who get here with no scars. “Young
and
a Juliet
and
hot too
 . . .” “
I didn't say she was hot,” I protested. “C'mon.” Gelfand wouldn't let it go. He put on his grody leather piece. “Where to?” I asked, trying to stall. “Superdeal,” he announced. “Let's go get the reward they owe us.” “Us?” I asked. “Just come on and stop jawing,” Gelfand commanded, doing his Mr. Big thing. So I shut up and went. At Superdeal they had a new shift. Simon and the cashier weren't there anymore, and the others didn't know what we were talking about. Gelfand tried arguing for a while, but it was becoming a real drag, and I went to get us some beers. Next to the carp tank, I met Hayim, who was my roomie when I was still alive. I certainly wasn't expecting to see him here. I mean, like, Hayim was just about the sorriest excuse for a human being that I'd ever met, the kind of roommate who could get all pissed off over a couple of hairs in the sink or if you ate some of his cottage cheese. But he was also the last person in the world you'd ever expect to kill himself. I made like I didn't see him, and just kept on going, but he spotted me and shouted, so I had to stop. “Mordy! I was hoping we'd
meet up sooner or later.” “Hey, man.” I forced a smile. “Hayim, wassup? What're you doing here?” “Same as everyone else,” Hayim mumbled. “Same as everyone else. It's even got something to do with you.” “What happened?” I asked. “Did I forget to clean up the kitchen before I offed, or something?” “You always were a million laughs, Mordy,” Hayim said, and then he went into every detail of how he jumped out the window, straight from our apartment on the fourth floor to the sidewalk below. And how the whole time he kept hoping it would be over right away, but he fell lopsided—half on a neighbor's car and half on this hedge—and it took, like, hours till it was over. I told him I still didn't get what it had to do with me, and he said it didn't exactly have anything to do with me, but in a way it did. “Y'know,” he said and arched his back till his head reached the cereal shelf. “You know how they say suicides always happen in threes? Well, there's something to it. People around you start dying, and you begin to ask yourself what the hell makes you different, and what's keeping you alive anyway. It hit me like a Scud. I mean, I just didn't have the answers. It wasn't you so much, it was more Desiree.” “Desiree?” I cut in. “Yeah, Desiree. About a month after you. I was sure you knew.” Behind the counter, one of the Superdeal workers was whacking this carp on the head with a mallet, and I could feel the tears streaming down my face. I hadn't cried even once since I got here. “Don't take it so hard,” Hayim said and touched me with his sweaty hand. “The doctors said she didn't feel a thing. Know what I mean, it was over right away.” “Who's taking it hard,
man?” I kissed him on the forehead. “She's here, get it? All I gotta do is find her.” I could see the shift manager in the back, explaining something to Gelfand, who was nodding and looking kind of bored. I guess even he finally figured out we weren't getting any
reward.