44
THERE are only so many times you can tell a person that you’re happy for them. I have been happy for Ethan a lot lately and it’s starting to get a little old. Every day he has good news of some kind and today is no different.
“You’re not gonna believe this, Joe.”
“Try me.”
“Blythe wants to move in together!”
He beams and I smile. “That’s great, E.”
He’s gonna miss Murray Hill. He’s the only person on earth who would feel an attachment to Murray Fucking Hill and I say my line: “I’m happy for you, kid.” And I mean it.
But I think your competitive streak is starting to rub off on me, Beck, because suddenly, I feel like life is a race I’m losing to Ethan and Blythe. I want life to be like Chutes and Ladders. I want us to climb a ladder as they slip into a chute. I’m starting to be kind of a dick and I throw a dart at his balloon. “Are you sure you want to move all the way to Carroll Gardens?”
“Blythe doesn’t like Murray Hill.” He shrugs. “It’s a no-brainer.”
“I hear you,” I say and I can’t help but try and one-up. “I don’t remember the last time I spent the night in my place. It’s all West Village, all the time.”
It’s a dangerous thing to put out in the universe, because naturally, you e-mail me a few minutes later:
Can we do your place instead of mine tonight? I’ve had a crazy day and my apartment is a disaster.
I tell Ethan I have to go outside. I call you up. You don’t answer. You never answer anymore. I pace. I panic. There are pieces of you that I collected along the way, souvenirs from my journey. I call you again. Voice mail. I lean against the glass front and it hits me: I’m scared for us, Beck. When we move in together, which we will, I am gonna have to choose between you and the pieces of you currently stored in a box, in the hole in the wall I made because of you. The walls in the building are terrible (surprise, surprise) and the plaster is cracking and the hole is bigger and I keep meaning to tell the super but I don’t want to tell the super because I want your things in my hole. I’m being a lunatic. You’d have to climb into the wall to get at the box and no girl in the world would do that. Breathe, Joe.
My phone buzzes. I answer. “Hi.”
“Joe, listen, I really can’t talk because I’m so late.”
“Where are you?”
“Here,” you say and I turn and there you are and you smile. I like it when you surprise me at the shop. There’s nothing like throwing my arms around you when I least expect it. I reward you with a kiss. You kiss me back, no tongue. You’re in school mode.
“I can’t stay.”
“You sure? I got Ethan in there. We can grab coffee.”
You put your hand out, palm open. “Can I grab your keys?”
This is an everythingship. I shouldn’t hesitate but I do.
“Joe, think about it. I’m gonna get home before you do.”
You called my place home and I give you my keys. You kiss me. Again, no tongue.
“Don’t you have class soon?”
“Yes,” you say and you hug me and it’s good-bye. “See you later!”
You’re gone, along with my keys and Ethan is chuckling when I get back into the shop. “So should we flip a coin?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Blythe just called and told me about how the girls have the day off from school because of the bomb threat.”
“Yeah,” I say but this is news to me.
“So should we draw straws?”
“No need,” I say. “Beck’s got a friend in town. Get outta here, have fun.”
He’s gone and I text you:
Hey. You got a second?
Ten minutes go by; still no response. I put up a sign in the window: BACK IN TEN. I go down to the cage. I pace. Why didn’t you tell me class was canceled? Why didn’t the bomb threat bring us together? I’ve never been so scared in my life and I wish Nicky wasn’t a bad guy because I could really use a talk right now. I plod up the stairs, broken, uneducated, sad. I tear the sign off the window and unlock the door. Still no response from you and I’m losing my mind. I slump into the chair at the register and my head is a bomb that might explode. But that’s when she walks through the door. A girl. A customer. Her eyes are giant chestnuts and she’s wearing a SUNY Purchase sweatshirt, a short skirt and kneesocks and sneakers; frisky. I check my phone; still no response.
She waves hello and I do the right thing and respond. I check my phone; still no response. I put on some tunes, Robert Plant and Alison Krauss. In no time, she’s singing along, somebody said they saw me swinging the world by the tail, bouncing over a white cloud, killing the blues and I check my phone; still no response. I lower the volume and she responds by singing even louder. She’s as good as any of the Barden Bellas, if not better. She pokes her head out from behind the stacks and I hit PAUSE.
“Was I singing out loud?”
“You’re fine.”
“Were you about to close up?” she says.
“Nope.”
She smiles. “Thanks.”
She disappears and I check my phone; still no response. I walk around to the other side of the counter so I can get a better look at those legs and Justin Timberlake’s “Señorita” starts. Fucking Ethan, fucking shuffle. I scramble to get back behind the counter and change the music.
She laughs. “Leave it.”
She crosses the aisle holding a Bukowski and I swallow. I check my phone; still no response. She approaches the register with a stack of books, as casual as someone popping into the corner store for milk. I can’t check my phone; she’s a customer, she deserves my full attention. She sets her novels on the counter. Charles Bukowski is right on top, The Captain Is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship.
“I’m not one of those girls who buys Bukowski so I can be a girl who buys Bukowski. You know what I mean?”
“Oddly, yes,” I say. “But you can relax. I don’t ever judge anyone.”
“Then all my hard work was for nothing,” she says, and who’s the flirt now?
I scan the Bukowski and look at her. “Pardon my French, but this is one of the fucking best.”
She agrees. “I lost my copy in a move. And I know it’s stupid but I can’t sleep or function unless I have that fucking book in my possession, you know?”
“Oddly enough, I do,” I say and since when do I say oddly so fucking much? I lower the volume on Ethan’s dance party and I scan Old School by Tobias Wolff. I’ve never read this book and I tell her so.
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, after I finish maybe I’ll come back and tell you about it.”
“I’ll be here,” I say.
You still haven’t touched The Things They Carried and she claps as I ring up her final purchase: Great Expectations.
The universe has a sense of humor and I have to share. “You should know, there’s a Dickens festival in Port Jefferson every year, in December.”
“What goes on at a Dickens Festival?” she asks and her eyes are as open as Karen Minty’s pussy.
Oh no. I am flirting. I smile. “Just what you would expect. Face painting and flutes, costumes and cupcakes.”
She gets me, she agrees. “That’s why the terrorists hate us.”
I am not editing myself. I am blunt. “And that’s why God made terrorists.”
“Do you think there’s a God?” She too is different, hot. She is decisive. “There has to be a God. Only God would create something as awesome as Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch.”
I don’t even hear “Good Vibrations” and she reaches into her wallet and hands me a Visa covered in puppies. I run the pad of my finger over the elevated plastic letters. You would hate me right now. “So your name is . . . John Haviland?”
Her cheeks turn red. “I hope you don’t need my ID because I lost it. Misplaced it, I mean.”
I run the card. She exhales. “You rock.”
I shouldn’t care; I have you. But I pry. “So what year are you at Purchase?”
She shakes her head, no. “I hunt thrift stores and buy random college shirts,” she says, proud. “It’s sort of an ongoing social experiment. You know, I see how the world treats me based on what school I’m representing.”
I tear off the slip and she signs, fast, messy. I’ve never bagged books so slowly in my life and I blurt, “I’m Joe.”
She swallows. “I’m, um, I’m Amy Adam.”
“Amy Adams.”
“No s!” She grabs the bag and flies. “Thanks, Joe. Have a good one!”
I want to run outside and take her home to you. I want you to know that she came onto me, that she talked to me about God. I run to the door but she’s gone. The phone rings. I answer. Is it her? No. It’s a bank. They want to know about a recent transaction. The card she used was stolen, apparently. I don’t rat her out but the phone call kills my buzz; that’s what I get for flirting. I check my phone; still no response from you. And somehow the absence of a response from you is a signed permission slip to be bad. I search the Internet for Amy Adam, almost as a dare for you to get back to me.
It’s virtually impossible to find anything because of the actress, Amy Adams, and Ethan texts me a photo of him and Blythe on Coney Island. I don’t respond. I take my time getting home and I don’t need to check my phone for a response from you, because if you were responding to me, your response would interrupt one of my fruitless searches:
“Amy Adam New York”
“Amy Adam not an actress”
“Amy Adam sweatshirt”
“Amy Adam Facebook”
“Amy Adam SUNY Purchase” (You never know. . . .)
I walk home and plod up the stairs and I check my phone; still no response. I hear something from inside my apartment; you’re here. I smell pumpkin wafting from my apartment; you’ve been baking. I hear singing come from my apartment and I smile. You’re no Amy Adam. I love you for being off-key. I was wrong to doubt you and I knock twice on the door. There is a response, you cry out for me to wait.
You open the door and wow. This must be your second home because you brought the robes. You’re in yours (naked underneath) and you baked a pie (pumpkin underneath). You tell me I have twenty-five seconds to get naked or get into my robe. I pick you up, my impish little wonder, and you kiss me; you respond. You are so proud of your spontaneous surprise. You admit that your building was off-limits because of roaches and resultant exterminators. You decided to turn a bad thing into a good thing, a surprise. I eat your pie and I eat your pussy and when I get up in the middle of the night to brush my teeth, my toothbrush is wet with your saliva.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. And I am.