11
I don’t get home until seven and I’m not out of the shower until 7:15 and I stub my fucking toe on one of my typewriters and there’s blood but I won’t see this as an omen. The typewriter—Hector, an ’82 Smith Corona I found in an alley off Bushwick—was in the way, but I’m nervous and maybe a little bloodshed’s good for the nerves and fuck, maybe Hector’s nervous too. You’ll meet them all soon, Beck, all the typewriters I collect because one day, the computers will all blow up and I’ll be the man with twenty-nine (and counting) beat-up machines and everyone will be standing in line to get into my apartment and buy one. Because obviously, one day, the world is gonna reverse and I’m just waiting.
You like that movie with that guy who pulls a rickshaw around Canada and that dude’s mostly about the white T-shirt so I’m going for a classic white V-neck tee and jeans and the belt I found at the Army Navy store. The buckle is big, but not in a bullshit Ryan Adams kind of way. It’s the real deal and it’s old and dented and you’re gonna wanna touch it when you see it because it’s just like the one the cowboy in your story wears.
I get onto the subway and I text you:
Running a little late.
You text me right back:
Me too.
The road goes by in a slow flash because I’m not really on this train. I’m so excited to see you that the world doesn’t even exist right now. I get off the train and send a tweet from Benji:
I’d fuck Miley Cyrus. For the record. #deepthoughts
And I’m done with my work and the air is perfect and when I arrive in Union Square I hide behind a kiosk and watch you arrive at the steps and look around for me and sit down and wait for me. It’s 8:35 and you were lying, you weren’t running late. You were just as excited as me. I text you:
Sorry. Be there by 8:45.
And I watch you text me back:
No worries. Me too! See you at 8:45.
You care what I think and you’re nervous and I’m nervous and at 8:52 I take my first step toward you and I can hear my heart in my throat, I can’t believe it’s happening, us, together. You see me coming and you smile and wave and you stand up to greet me and you look so fresh and clear-eyed and ready and you bite your lower lip and you smile with every part of your body and you play. “You’re late, mister.”
“Sorry about that.”
You can’t stop smiling and I let you wait the right amount of time where you think I’m cool, not rude, and you take a deep breath and look up and then down. “You also said we’d go somewhere when it got dark and, well, it’s already dark out.”
“I know,” I say and I sit down and pat the concrete and you plant your sweet little buns beside me. This is nice. This is it and I deliberately waited until it was dark to walk up to you. You are a woman and I am a man and we belong in the dark together and you smell good, pure. I like this.
“You really should try cleaning your shoes once in a while,” you say and you tap your ballet flat into my brand-new white Adidas.
“That’s why I was late,” I say. “Had to shine these puppies for an hour.”
You laugh and we fall into talking so easily, about Paula Fox and sneakers and the weirdo homeless dude who’s talking to a trash can. There is chemistry. We win! We’ve been on the steps I don’t know how long but there’s no rush to go. You like it here.
You like to be on display. And whenever there’s an unexpected silence, we joke about my sneakers.
“Now those are seriously white, like Ben Stiller white.” You laugh.
“Yeah, I’m gonna tell my shoe-shine man you said so.”
“Well, I should hope so. He did a bang-up job, Joe.”
You said bang and you said Joe and that has to mean something, it does.
“I tipped him,” I say and you start telling a story about accidentally stealing shoes from an outlet and we’ve been on the steps for almost twenty minutes and you’re so nervous and excited that you keep talking about shoes as if you have to keep talking about shoes or you might jump me right here, on the steps. I chose this spot because my whole fucking life I’ve walked by these steps and seen couples that make me feel alone, rejected. And now there are loners passing by you and me, jealous, and you’re still talking and fuck, it’s hard to listen when I can smell your body wash.
“So I’m like, I didn’t steal these. I accidentally kept them on. I mean who steals from a shoe store on an island, right?”
“A very brave and lovely lady who goes by the name Beck, apparently.”
I said lovely and you smile and it was just right. You think I get you and all my reading was not for nothing.
“You must think I’m a psycho,” you say. “Why did I even tell that story?”
“Because it’s a first date. Everybody has an anecdote they tell on a first date. It’s always funny and it’s always based in truth, but it’s always a half-truth.”
“So I’m a lying bitch,” you say, and then you smile and you cross your legs and even though you’re in jeans two motherfuckers check you out as if they can see through denim. New York.
“No,” I say. “You’re a thieving, lying bitch.”
You laugh and you blush and I laugh and you stretch and you’re in your red bra and your white tank and your Thursday-night jeans and your pink cotton panties teasing me as you reach for the sky and uncross your legs and lay back and rest your little head on the cement and I want to mount you right here on these steps, at this inappropriate hour, in front of the motherfuckers checking you out and the Rasta hawking hemp bracelets and the angry bitches going home to read Doctor Sleep on their iPads. I want you here, now, and I can’t get up when I’m this hard.
“You seem young,” you say and just like that I’m soft.
“Huh?”
“No, no, no. Don’t get upset, Joe. That came out wrong.”
“Good, because I just turned seventeen and I’d hate to think I look sixteen because then you’d look like a pedophile and that’s no good.”
You slap my leg and you like me more all the time and you hunch, you bite your lip the way you did at your reading, when you’re about to make a little revelation. “I just mean that a lot of my friends are in a rush to be settled,” you say. “They seem old to me sometimes, like they lost that thing, that openness that makes a person seem young.”
“How much weed did you smoke before you got here?”
I get what I wanted, another light slap and I love to make you laugh and I love you for giving me what I want without losing your focus. Like a laser beam, you go on. “See, I started to feel old my junior year of college. I was gonna go to Prague and I backed out at the last minute and a lot of my friends, they made me feel old, like I’d missed out on something I could never get back, as if Prague was going out of business. As if that was it, forever, as if you have to be in college to go abroad.”
“We could go now,” I say and my joke isn’t funny and please stop talking about college because it makes me lose my game.
“Anyway, my point was that you have a young vibe. It’s good. Like anything is possible and we could still theoretically run for president or learn sign language or visit every castle in Bruges.”
All I heard was we and I smile. “You want me to gas up my NetJet?”
“I’m serious,” you say and you move your body closer to mine. “What about you? What did you want to be when you were little?”
“A rock star,” I say and I follow your lead and lean back, closer to you and now we’re both looking up at the sky. I bet we look great from above, lit by stars, in love.
“When I was little, I wanted to be a singer.” You sigh.
“Is that why you like Pitch Perfect so much?”
You turn your head and sit up. I fucked up.
“How do you know I like that movie?”
“I was just guessing.” Fuck. “I know it’s really popular.”
“Huh,” you say and fuck. “Do you like that movie, Joe?”
“I don’t know,” I say and I’m beet red and fucked. “I haven’t seen it. But if you like it, I mean, it’s probably good.”
“Note to self,” you say and you’re not looking at me. “Become less predictable.”
You don’t say anything and I don’t know what to say and fuck that Anna Kendrick, it’s on her. I can’t tell if you feel bad about yourself or creeped out by me. How could I be so careless? I worked so hard to prepare and I blow it on a movie when you finally look at me there’s new sadness in your eyes and it’s my fault. I did that. And there’s only one way to fix it.
“You’re not predictable, Beck. You’re just on Facebook.”
“So you’re stalking me,” you say without a trace of sadness and you smack my leg, you like me, you do.
“Well, I wouldn’t call it stalking.” I smile. “It’s not like it’s private or anything.”
You laugh and smack me—again!—and you stand up and stretch your arms above your head. I see your belly button and I like looking up at you and we both know that you liked being looked at and you stretch this way and that way and slap your hands on your hips.
“Did you look at all my pictures?”
“Only a couple hundred, you know, just the ones from last weekend.”
You hang your head and wave your arms. “No. No. I don’t want to be predictable Facebook girl with her whole life out there.”
“That’s not your whole life.”
“It’s really not.”
“You save a lotta that shit for Twitter.”
You slap my knee and you like it and I like it and skaters pass by and a toddler screams about chocolate ice cream and a hippie plays a banjo and a gainfully employed cunt in heels is talking too loudly on her phone. All of it is for us and your voice lowers.
“I looked for you.”
“Yeah?”
“I was gonna look at your pictures, but you’re not on Facebook.”
“I used to be,” I lie. “But I burnt out on it. Some people, it’s like they care more about their status updates than their actual lives.”
“So true,” you say. “One of my best friends is like you, big time anti-Facebook.”
“I’m not real anti.”
“Well, you’re not on it.”
I know that you’re talking about Peach and now you think I’m like Peach and nobody likes this Peach so this is a bad thing. I panic. I get quiet. The toddler is silenced by chocolate ice cream and the wind is picking up and it’s getting darker, darker by the second, and the skateboards land hard and you want to look at your phone, I can feel you wanting to tell your friends, This guy I’m with just announced that he stalked me on Facebook. That is all.
“So, you wanna eat something or what?” I say. I stretch and remind you that I got biceps and I’m ready to kill anyone who’d dare to look at you.
“Or what?”
“I figured you’d wanna eat something. I don’t have an ‘or what’ lined up.”
“Do you ever notice how many words we waste?”
“Yeah,” I say and I almost mention you and Chana and Lynn’s bullshit talk about hate-watching New Girl but I catch myself.
“I want to be more careful with my words and only say what I mean. Cut the fat out.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I get that.”
“So yes. I want to eat something.”
I stand up and offer my hand even though you don’t need it and you take it. “You first,” I say and you know I want to watch your ass as you walk down the steps. “What are you in the mood for?”
“I’m flexible,” you say and you look back. “As long as it’s near my place because I have to be up early tomorrow.”
WE’VE had Corner Bistro burgers and fries and the vodka and the whiskey and I let you steer the conversation. You did tell me about Benji, “my druggie ex, I push him away but he always comes back. But let’s not talk about that.” I agreed (I’m agreeable!) and we moved on to your childhood (yours on Nantucket, mine in Bed-Stuy, your defensiveness about being a townie, my prepared knowledge of your island, which impresses you because I’ve never actually been there). You exclaim, “Joe, you’re so smart, you’d almost think you work in a bookstore!” You reference college often, “Ivy League bullshit” and “Yale guys.” Finally, you’re lit enough to ask me what you really want to know.
“When did you graduate?”
“I didn’t,” I say. “I didn’t even start.”
You nod. You are never around guys like me. I start to laugh. You start to laugh. I am never around girls like you and I start another round of who’s-read-more-books.
I win again and you are flabbergasted. “S-sorry,” you stutter. “I feel almost rude saying this, but, you didn’t go to college and you’re probably more well read than half the people in my workshop. It’s insane.”
I darken. “Don’t tell the kids at school.”
You smile and wink and we have a secret. I know how to talk to you and I fucking killed it, and the proof is that we’re the last ones here and you understand why I insisted we sit in the way back. We’ve got the room to ourselves. We’re at a four-top and the other tables are cleaned up and the chairs are stacked on the tables. You sit against the wall and I face you. You look to the left, to the right, and then at me. You ask me for permission to lie down on the bench but I have a better idea.
“You could do that,” I say. “Or I could just take you home.”
You slow blink on purpose and you sass, “And then what?”
“Whatever you want, Beck.”
You grin. “So, you’re a gentleman?”
I don’t answer that and you’re shy and drunk at the same time. The irony of your intentionally chalky eyes is that the more you drink, the more you rub your eyes and the more you rub your eyes, the less you look like a brunette Olsen twin and the more you look like you.
“Lie down,” I command.
“Yes, sir,” you say and your cheeks flush and your nipples harden and your panties are soaked right now. You lie down. I want to grab on to you but there’s no way I’m even kissing you tonight.
“Put your hands on your head.”
“Are we playing Simon Says?”
“No,” I say and imagine if we fucked in here. Imagine. The air smells like beer and bacon and Murphy’s Oil and I breathe it in and you put your hands on your head and there is a God because a little old Bowie plays now and you smile and I watch you smile and think about you naked and because I’m a little drunk I stand up and you hear my chair move and you open your eyes.
“Close your eyes, Beck.”
You do what I say and you speak. “I was just gonna tell you about this album.”
“I don’t wanna know about this album,” I say. This is me training you to treat me special. I’m not some Ivy League asshole who’s gonna respect you because you know about an obscure David Bowie album and I sure as hell ain’t gonna let you tell stories you told Yale guys. You’re mine now and you’ll do as I say and Bowie sings about strangers coming, staying, and you murmur along to prove that you know the words. What a horrible time you’ve had with the Benjis of the world who care about shit like that.
I walk around the table and sit right next to your head. You giggle and keep your eyes closed and you’re not murmuring anymore and you’re throbbing with want. I slouch and kick my feet up on a chair. My cock is inches from your head and your mouth and you can smell it and your little nostrils flare and you swallow, nervous, and I look down at you with your eyes closed and your mouth just slightly open as Bowie crows as if humans are a letdown. He sure wasn’t singing about us, Beck.
“This is nice,” you say before the song is over. “Maybe they’ll forget we’re here and lock us in.”
“Yeah,” I say and fuck it if my brain doesn’t go right to Benji. I want to stay with you forever and yet I have to feed my new pet. Even locked up he’s getting in the way of us.
“Hey,” you say. Your eyes are wide open and the song ended and it’s Led Zeppelin now, too loud for where we are and you know how to give an order. You learned from friends who grew up with maids. “Walk me home.”
“Yes, miss.”
We walk two blocks without a word and both of us have our hands in our pockets as if they have to stay there, or else. We’re both too turned on to make small talk and the night is quiet down here and there’s nobody around and we reach your stoop and you walk up two steps so that we’re standing face-to-face. But I would know that you’ve done this before even if I hadn’t seen you do this with my own eyes. This is your bullshit game. I’m not gonna kiss you, Beck. You’re not gonna tell me what to do with your body.
“This was nice.” You purr.
“Yeah,” I say. No purr. “You got an early morning so you better get in there.”
Conflict suits you, Beck. You see a high school graduate who, in theory, should be trying to jump your bones. You also see a guy who’s read more books than everyone in your workshop. I rock your world and I won’t kiss you and you nod, what choice do you have? You’re pissed and your green pillow’s gonna take a fucking beating tonight and you’re gonna think about me and you’re gonna wait for it, and get sick with want for it, for me, the same way that toddler screamed and waited for his ice cream, the same way America waited for Stephen King and I waited for Curtis, and Benji’s across town waiting on me. You’re gonna wait.
“Sweet dreams, Beck.”
“You want a water for the road?” you say while you’re standing at the door and holding it open, your invitation to come inside, your last attempt.
“I’m all right,” I say, and I don’t look back. You are fucking obsessed with me and honestly, I’m kind of relieved that I gotta deal with Benji and his organic apples and club soda right now or I might follow you inside and wait for you to unlock the door and throw you onto the couch and give you what you want, what I want. But no. You will give me water, but not a fucking plastic bottle as I’m hitting the road. When you quench my thirst, it will be after our first fuck, in your bed and you will bring me a glass of water and we will share the glass and it will be the first of many. I don’t have the strength to turn you down when I want you so bad, but I do have a pansy in the cage.
Fucking Benji: a savior. Who knew, right?
I smile all the way home and at home I tell my typewriters about the night and I rub one out in your honor and shower and slather up in Kiehl’s and download Bowie’s Rare and Well Done so I can listen to it on my way to the shop. I have to go out again. How the fuck am I supposed to sleep when I’m waiting for you to e-mail your little friends about our date? I stop at the deli and pick up Cheerios and milk because Benji deserves a treat too. I’d whistle if I knew how and I enter the shop and trot down the stairs and find Princess Benji pouting and picking at his fingernails. I can tell by one glance at Doctor Sleep that he hasn’t even opened it. I am a professional. I slide the Cheerios to him through the drawer along with a pillow. How nice am I, right?
But the princess sniffs the bowl and backs off. “Is that almond milk?”
“Just read your book and eat,” I say. “The test will be on the first hundred pages. Go.”
I trot upstairs and sit down for a nice long Beck sesh, which consists of listening to Rare and Well Done, looking at pictures of you I stole from Facebook, watching scenes of Pitch Perfect on mute. I get so lost in you that it gets bright in the shop and I should be tired given all the drinks, all the excitement, but I’m high on you and I want to take you to the London that Bowie sings about in the album you love. But what I have to do right now is go back downstairs to see if Benji learned to follow the directions.
What a sight, Beck. He isn’t just reading King. He’s devouring the new book like a chubby kid with a candy bar. I start to applaud and of course he drops it and fakes a yawn. I tell him it’s time for a test and he doesn’t want a test—no duh—and I tell him it’s time for a Club Soda Test.
“But you said to read the King.”
“That’s right. And you did. Congratulations.”
And now comes the sissy rant. He doesn’t want a club soda test because he has a stomachache and a headache and he thinks he’s allergic to something in the books and he needs a Band-Aid (is this camp, asshole?) and a B vitamin and a cream for his eczema, which is aggravated by the “cheap” coffee (of course the milk is from a cow tit, Benji) and he’s tired and he doesn’t want to be tested anymore.
“It’s time to get started, Benji.”
“I need more time. I’m telling you I’m intolerant of dairy. This cereal is like poison,” he tells me.
“Club soda will settle your stomach.”
“Please,” he begs.
“You never read Brief Interviews either, did you?”
He doesn’t say anything and I’m shaking my head and I feel like calling Yale Fucking University and telling them that their product is bullshit.
“I’m not a bad person,” he says.
“Of course you’re not.”
And you know, Beck, he’s not an asshole. He’s just so fucking insecure he has to drop the King he loves. I give him another shot.
“So, how’s that King?”
“Eh,” he says and he still hasn’t learned a thing.
I line up three identical red Solo cups, each full of club fucking soda, on a tray.
“You didn’t read Brief Interviews and every day there’s a test.”
“I have serious money, Joe, family money. I have a car, a mint Alfa Romeo. Do you want a car? Because I can get you a car.”
I pull the drawer open and lift the cups off the tray and into the drawer, gently, Joseph, one by one.
“All right, Benji, it’s time to get started.”
“Joe, wait. Don’t do this.” He falls to his knees. “I mean it. I have money.”
He really is an idiot and can’t read a situation and I almost feel sorry for him and I motion for him to stand and he stands. Good dog.
“Benji, I’m not drugging you.”
“Thank God.”
“This is a test. Each cup contains club soda,” I explain. “And you’re gonna take a sip from each cup and then you’re going to tell me which cup has Home Soda. We’re going to see if you recognize your own product.”
He crosses his arms. “I need something to cleanse my palate.”
I’m a step ahead and I reach into my bag and pull out a stale bagel.
“Were all three bottles opened at the same time? Club soda changes as it’s exposed to air.”
“They were, Benji.”
“I need glass cups because plastic interferes with the chemistry.”
“Drink.”
I hand him the first cup and he takes it and closes his eyes and gargles and swishes and I want to smash his head into the cup. He spits it in the piss pot and stretches and walks around.
“You know my father has access to a jet. I can get you anywhere in the world. I can get you anywhere and then we forget this ever happened. He’d never even know it was gone. He expects me to blow money, I mean that wouldn’t raise a red flag at all.”
“Bite the bagel, Benji.”
“Thailand. France. Ireland. You could go anywhere. Everywhere.”
“Bite the bagel.”
He bites the bagel and I pick up the second cup.
“Joe, please. Think about what you want here.”
“Take the cup.”
“The test still isn’t valid because the yeast from the bagel compromises my taste buds and I should gargle with salt water.”
I never raise my voice so it scares him pretty good when I do. “Take the fucking cup.”
He falls on his knees, the fucker, and he’s probably overidentified with the title character in Doctor Sleep. Ignorant Benji probably doesn’t even realize that Dr. Dan Torrance is a character that originated in The Shining, a character that struggled, and Benji’s never worked a day in his life, not really, probably made it halfway through The Shining and turned on the movie and never even held an ax. Benji is not a real man. You can’t call what he does work.
“Stand up.”
“Salt water. I’m begging you.”
“They don’t give salt water out in those Coke and Pepsi tests.”
“Do you know what distinguishes club soda from seltzer and sparkling water?”
I groan.
“It’s salt, Joe. Sometimes it’s sodium bicarbonate. Other times it’s sodium citrate or disodium phosphate.”
“Just drink it, Benji. You’re not bullshitting your way out of a test.”
“I’m not bullshitting you,” he says. “No bullshit this time. This is what I know.”
“Drink it.”
He sips from the third cup. He gargles. “This isn’t my product.”
I ignore his calls to find out if he passed or failed and walk up the stairs. Suspense is good for people. It makes us stronger. This is why America loves Stephen King so much; he keeps us on the edge of our seats until it hurts. He also knows that all people, whether groundskeepers at Fenway or privileged young fucks, are capable of going insane if placed under the right circumstances. Stephen King would appreciate my work with Benji and I smile as I lock the door.
THE deli around the corner has salt and they have Mason jars, and I stock up on both. The guy at the deli is cool and gives me a box, which makes the walk back to the shop easier. The more time I spend on this club soda project, the less surprised I am to know that a few idiots buy into Home Soda. And the more time I spend with Benji, the more I understand why a million other rich idiots don’t buy into it. Home Soda will never be as popular as Stephen King. You win over consumers by showing you understand them. And you can’t market a product if you don’t understand the potential buyer for said product.
Benji doesn’t know shit about marketing. Coke has tried every marketing strategy known to mankind. That’s why Coke is hip and classic, original and new, and dietetic and caloric. Coke is wild-eyed J. Lo’s favorite and it’s also the whitest, blandest American drink we got. It’s a contradiction. It’s fucking genius. And Coke spent a shitload of money to be everything to everyone. Your boyfriend Benji’s got it all wrong. He thinks it’s all about being special, scientific, but you don’t get anywhere in this world unless you know how to blend in.
“Gargle,” I tell Benji when I get downstairs.
He gargles like he’s at the dentist and it’s not like I’m not trying to give him a chance. I think most pricks deserve a shot at being something other than a prick. For instance, I know that Benji was, quite literally, spoiled by his family, raised by a mother who never said no and a father who never said boo and a series of nannies who quietly let the little fucker do whatever he wanted. He told me all this shit the second night in here, the night he failed the quiz on Gravity’s Rainbow and admitted to paying for every essay he ever wrote at Yale. He said he read the first five pages of the book and loved it so much that he couldn’t read any more. He said he’s too sensitive to read, too moved, that he’s built for small doses. For someone so fucking sensitive he sure does take a long time to gargle the salt water.
“Drink it, Benji,” I command.
He pinches his nostrils and sips and I don’t know what I’m gonna do with him. This kid who was never grounded or beaten or locked up for any sin he ever committed. He cheated his way through college and he’s trying to make a living by cheating pretentious fucks with his upmarket soda. Now, for the first time in his life, Benji is being held accountable. Accountability suits him. He’s got wrinkles and he doesn’t look like such a pansy. He’s not perfect, obviously. He still crosses his legs like he’s Woody Fucking Allen. He blows his hair out of his eyes, still a pansy after all these tests.
“Which cup was Home Soda?”
“It doesn’t fucking matter because I’m selling a vibe. I’m selling health and wealth.”
“It always matters. Any idiot can tell Coke from Pepsi.”
“That’s different.”
“Which cup was Home Soda?”
“How do I even know you’re telling me the truth?”
“Because I’m not a fucking liar.”
“You’d never actually kill me,” he says, trying again to have the authority. He thinks I’m the kind of sap who wants to be seen by the all-knowing wealthy pussy.
I’m not having it. I make that clear and I continue, “Which cup was Home Soda?”
“You’re too smart to kill me,” he says, belligerent. “You know someone like me, I have parents that are gonna find out what happened. You’d never really do that to yourself.”
I don’t say anything. I know the power of silence. I remember my dad saying nothing and I remember his silences more vividly than I remember the things he said.
Benji starts to shake and he picks up Cup One again. But his hand is shaking and when he brings the cup to his mouth, most of it rolls down his chin and onto his Brooks Brothers shirt. I can’t get over how many people miss this guy, how many people love him. You should see his e-mail, Beck. He disappears for three days and everyone in the world acts like he’s Ferris Fucking Bueller. The e-mails pour in, where are you how are you are you okay, guy? I don’t respond to any of these people; they need to understand that Benji has gone off the rails. Don’t they see his tweets? In any case, it’s an indictment of our society, this outpouring of curiosity for this liar’s whereabouts. Whoever distributes love in this world is doing a bad job. The beloved Benji bites the bagel and I scroll through your phone to calm my nerves. You didn’t e-mail anyone about our night yet, which means you’re still busy with your pillow or passed out wasted, and he sips from Cup Two and he gargles and he spits.
“Definitely not Cup Two,” he says, and he’s so obviously trying to cheat, trying to get a hint out of me. I ignore him. You gotta ignore people until they get in line, especially spoiled rich kids. When I was in this cage, I was good. I didn’t fuss and shake like a little girl.
He picks up Cup Three. “Salute,” he says, and somehow that’s the most offensive thing he’s ever said. He’s not Italian. What right does he have to say salute? He takes a sip and licks his lip and strokes his chin and paces around the cage.
“Well?”
“You know these aren’t ideal circumstances for a taste test.”
“Life isn’t always ideal, not for most people.”
“The air is dank. Musty.”
“Which cup was Home Soda? One. Two. Or Three.”
He clings to the bars and shakes his head and he’s crying. Again. I check your sent mail. It’s nine in the morning after our date and you are awake. I know this because you have just written to some dude in your class about how much you liked his story. I breathe. You have to do that kind of thing. That’s just about school.
“Benji. Which fucking cup?”
He lifts his head and backs away as if he’s gonna pass out—yeah right—and he wipes his eyes and crosses his arms and spits out, “None of ’em.”
“That’s your answer?”
He grabs at his shaggy blond hair that’s darker every day—sweat.
“Wait.”
“Either that’s your answer or it’s not.”
“They all tasted like shit. Okay? They all tasted like bottom of the barrel ninety-nine cent store chemically enhanced club fucking soda. You’re setting me up to fail. This is wrong. This is injustice.”
“Is that your answer?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry, Benji,” I say and his lower lip shakes. “But you’re wrong. They’re all Home Soda.”
You get an e-mail. The asshole in your class:
Thanks, Beck. I’m reading you right now, this is your best yet, nice, very nice.
Benji flares. “No.”
And who is this pretentious asshole? I’m reading you. The fuck he is, Beck. Come on. Write to Chana. Write to Lynn. You had the best date ever and you’re gonna e-mail with some hack from class?
“Joe, there’s no way that those were mine.”
“Well, they were,” I say and now Benji isn’t just Benji, he’s everyone bad, all the educated liars. “It’s called quality control and if you knew anything about business, you’d know that if you don’t have quality control, you don’t have anything.”
He sits down and crosses his legs and I can’t help but feel bad for the kid. The world failed him and didn’t prepare him for adulthood. Now he’s jammed up with a tear-stained shirt and a bellyful of club soda and cow milk. His blond hair and his vocabulary have finally let him down. He speaks. “So, what now?”
But he doesn’t deserve an answer. He failed his test. I shut off the lights and walk up the stairs and he rants about needing light and it’s obvious he’s hooked on King and you’re firing e-mails at this dude and all I want is a Coke in a can and a text from you. I turn around and give him his fucking light. He’s gonna read a whole book for once in his life.