The Best American Short Stories 2020

by Curtis Sittenfeld

  Tyler shivered under the ceiling fan. He could ask his dad; he’d understand. It was in service of art. Didn’t his dad work random jobs after school? A deli in Alameda? Sweat beading on his nose, Tyler called.

  “Hey, Ty!” his father said. There was a muffled chewing sound. “Mom says hi. We’re eating lunch at the vegan place. Enough sprouts to kill a horse.”

  “Just call me back.”

  “No! I can talk. You never call. What’s going on? How’s the money holding up?”

  Tyler gripped one of Octopus VII ’s limbs, which had become scalding hot in a streak of sun. He felt nauseous and sat down, curling around his stomach. Suddenly cosmetology or even hair school sounded effeminate, pathetic. He couldn’t say it. Wincing, he started bullshitting. “Well, I got into this artist residency. Super-competitive. It’s like, new media. But there are costs associated.”

  “Wow! Jill, he got into a residency—” Tyler heard his mom’s high-pitched congratulations in the background. “What’s it called?” said his dad.

  “L.A. Modern Directions in New Media.”

  “Wow—​new media, like film stuff? You know, Mom and I went to SFMOMA last week, and half of it was video.”

  “Exactly.” Tyler felt his sweat condense and start to stink. “Look, it’s a lot to ask, but could you lend me five grand? I’ll pay you back.”

  “Five grand? If you think you’ll make it back,” said his dad, pausing. Tyler closed his eyes. If his dad was going to shoot him down, it might as well be now, when he was curled on the floor. “That’s fine, Ty. You’re on a roll with that octopus. Just keep at it.”

  “Thanks. I will.” Tyler let out a breath. His dad loved this; he thought visual art was more authentic and sudden than writing, so of course if you got inspired and made a bunch of shit, people would buy it and put it in museums for its aggressive truth.

  “Great. How’s that girl, that Kelsey?”

  “Kelsa. She’s all right.” Tyler grimaced. “She got a haircut.”

  His dad gulped soda, then coughed. “Well, it all sounds great.”

  * * *

  For months the rainless days ran together until a few drops fell out of soft clouds in the middle of January. At L.A. Modern they were learning the DevaCurl system. The school was in a converted warehouse, chairs lined against a wall, perfumes clashing, the eyebrows of the many nineteen-year-old girls raising in unison when the instructor cracked a joke. Tyler wished he had someone to commiserate with, but some days it didn’t matter. It was so strange, so unweighted by the personal accountability of art, that the hours snapped away like drumbeats.

  Nights, he walked miles through the darkening neighborhood, which felt virtuous in L.A. Sometimes he felt an idea for a sculpture coalescing like grains of sand in the corner of his mind, barely visible behind a thick fog, humming with potential. But he was afraid to really look at the idea, because it would probably be disappointing.

  On a Monday in February, Tyler walked past windows, lamplight straining through shades. In front of a small pink house he smelled Kelsa’s old laundry detergent and kept striding fast. It wasn’t hers—​she lived at least two blocks over. Topiary cast shadows from a streetlight. A muffled argument in a stairwell, a door clattering shut. Then he felt his phone buzz and his chest contracted, but it was just his dad, and he reflexively shut off the ringer. He’d been avoiding talking, just sending texts implying he was making art in a manic state. Maybe he’d call back, tell him about hair school. Final exams were in a month. But then, he should wait, because one of these nights it could happen—​he could start bending wires, constructing an eighth octopus, or something larger, swallowing the whole room. Then he wouldn’t have been lying.

  Tyler walked until the houses faded into a string of shops, their facades dim. Nutri-Pro Supplements, Pinkberry, Pure Barre. A girl leaned against the far end of the building, sharp chin in a sliver of streetlight, smoke trailing from her hand, an apron tight on her waist.

  “Tyler!” Kelsa pushed away from the wall. “What the hell?” She grinned. Her hair, pulled into a frayed ponytail, caught the light.

  He wanted to run across the street. He said hello and accepted her hug tensely, the smoke winding into his hair. There was a sickness in his gut; the attraction felt perverse, ill-willed.

  “You’re still here,” she said. “Same apartment?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Doing more wire work?”

  He looked at the sky, smog blurring out the stars. He nodded. He knew his question should come next—​how was her work—​but he couldn’t ask. He didn’t want to hear.

  “You have a day job?” She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her Pinkberry apron, rocking on her heels.

  “I’m cutting hair.” It came out like a confession. He hadn’t meant to say it—​he needed to get out of there.

  “You’re kidding,” she said. “Seriously?”

  “Sorry, I have to go,” Tyler said. “I’m meeting people from work for drinks.” It wasn’t true, but it could have been.

  “Good seeing you—”

  “You too.”

  Breathing hard, he walked home and kicked off his shoes. It was weird seeing her silhouette in the streetlight but feeling no tenderness, no need to hold her shoulders or smell her skin. She was abstracted by all the ways he’d belittled their relationship since she left. Part of him wanted to roughly unbutton her shirt, to touch her, but it would be ruined by resentment. Stumbling through the dim room, he caught one of the octopus’s wire arms on his big toe. He wrapped a sock around it to stop blood from pooling on the carpet. Noticed that he’d left a sweaty T-shirt draped over the intricate arm that curled into the air. He turned into the kitchen, and Octopus VII stayed in place, frozen in a pathetic flailing motion.

  * * *

  Over the summer the jacaranda trees bloomed, and the street turned purple and smelled like someone’s memory of home. Tyler arranged the tools on his shelf: diffuser, defining gel, antifrizz serum, scissors. The salon was decorated with retro wigs and ’70s film posters, and all their shampoo smelled like orange creamsicles.

  Even out in Van Nuys, he made okay tips. He’d learned how to wash hair, holding the base of the skull and letting warm water graze the hairline, and not talking too much, because most people wanted to close their eyes. The customers were mostly young and hopeful—​going on dates, having their first headshots taken. He snipped tangled lengths, chiseled texture, and watched people in the mirror look relieved, like they had already accomplished something.

  The stylist with a round face and septum piercing sauntered over. “Hey, my kid had a meltdown at playgroup and I have to pick her up. Can you cover my four thirty?”

  “Nope,” smirked Tyler. He’d only been at the salon a few months, but he played a specific part: the tortured artist, friendly but gruff and sarcastic. He hoped it was clear that this was a day job, an aside to his art career.

  “Right,” she said, grinning. “Have fun.”

  Alone, Tyler pressed the tip of his scissors to his palm. He’d stolen them from hair school right after exams. Soon the door chime jingled and the four thirty walked in, slightly out of breath. She looked like Kelsa from the side—​wispy blond hair, sharp chin. But she was lightly sunburned and made eye contact. Her name was April.

  “I’m filling in, if that’s okay,” said Tyler.

  “Can you cut hair?”

  “I mean, I got my license three months ago.”

  “No, no, I was kidding!”

  Tyler held the nape of her neck and ran the water till it was warm. She looked right at him a few times. He felt his heart race for a second, then it calmed down, and he kept massaging the shampoo into her scalp. She let out a little sigh.

  In the chair, with the black cape around her, she laughed. “I always look like a floating head in these things.”

  “Everyone does,” said Tyler. He wanted to say something funnier, better. “So I’ll take off a couple inches,” he said.
“Here?” He held a finger close to her neck.

  “Perfect.”

  He started the cut, scissors making the hssk sound.

  “I had a terrible day at work,” she said. “This will help.”

  “Right, no pressure.” Tyler snipped the strand in front of her face, letting it fall to her cheekbone. He accidentally touched her chin.

  “It was just a bad day. I might play hooky tomorrow and lay on the beach with a box of Wheat Thins. I love Wheat Thins.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “HR at Anthem Blue Cross. I take requests for standing desks and those fancy mousepads so people don’t get carpal tunnel. Turns out most people have it.”

  “You like the job?”

  “I don’t know, I wanted to live near the beach and drive around in my crappy sedan with the windows open every day. So I started applying for every administrative thing in L.A. And they let me leave at 4 P.M. and I get free vision insurance. Yay, right? It’s not the last job I’ll ever have, but it’s all right. I just had a gross day and I’m going to drink a beer and not think about it. Is that healthy?” Her cheeks flushed. “Sorry. You’re not my therapist.”

  For several minutes neither of them talked; she looked out the window and Tyler did the layers in the back, lifting the hair with pins. He finally asked how she normally styled it—​standard question—​and she laughed and said barely. They talked coffee, tacos, sunburn. Her voice was smooth and round, like a dinner bell, like a public radio host.

  When the cut was done, the blow dryer filled the room with noise and her cheeks got pink in the heat. Her hair fell around her face decisively, skimming her collarbones.

  “Awesome.” She looked at Tyler in the mirror. “You know, you’re really good at this. You’re lucky you figured that out. I don’t mean to be weird. I just—​it’s cool to have a thing.”

  “I’m actually a sculptor,” Tyler heard himself say. His voice felt falsely low and condescending. Why bother lying to her too? “I mean, I went to school for sculpture. But I’m doing this now, basically.”

  April’s eyebrows tensed for a second, then relaxed. “Yeah, of course you’re a sculptor. That makes sense. Hair is the thing you’re sculpting. Your medium, right? And you get paid for it. Speaking of ! Hang on.”

  She rifled around in her purse, fumbling with a pen and bills. Tyler let out a breath. He wasn’t supposed to be fulfilled by this; he should be dead broke and sculpting out of found metal. He took the broom and swept up the delicate strands spilling across the floor.

  “Please keep the change,” she said, handing him the bills. “Thank you. Seriously.”

  After she left he splashed his face with cold water and the smell of orange shampoo filled his whole body. He sat in the chair and thumbed through the cash. On the extra ten, April had written her phone number.

  * * *

  That night the sun set orange and glowed into Tyler’s apartment when he opened the door. It cast Octopus VII in the dramatic backlight it had always needed. Its shadow spidered over the beige carpet, obscuring littered socks and mail. He bent the arm, and with a strain it gave, even as the wires pressed dents into his hand. It had been too long. All looking at it did was remind him of how he’d felt like a boy genius, and how of course he wasn’t. How the impulse to bend wire was replaced by a grinding anxiety in his ribs. How after years of art school, maybe his calling was cutting hair in Van Nuys.

  Tyler’s jaw tensed and he grabbed the arm, ripping the connecting wires from the body in a rush. His heart smacked his rib cage. It felt so good, the pain in his hands. He was making money, paying the rent, pouring coffee through his cone filter in the morning, showing up at work in a clean T-shirt. Almost satisfying, like biting into a burrito—​simple gulps of starch and meat. He grabbed another arm and snapped it. Then another, another, until he hit the dismembered metal cylinder with his fist, metal against his knuckles, scraping the skin.

  He was shaking, blood itching his limbs. Before the stinging feeling in his hands could turn into real regret, Tyler crammed the arms inside the cylinder and hefted the solid chunk of metal down the stairs, out behind the building. As Tyler set down the remains, a pale man with yellow teeth hovered by the trash bins, fixed on the tangle of metal. Tyler couldn’t watch; he felt a pull at his chest, a thick quiver in his throat. He could have sold it at that show in Oakland—​two, three thousand dollars in seconds. As Tyler turned, the man dragged the scrap metal away.

  Inside, he opened the window and sat on his chair in the freckles of orange light. He was drained. The carpet was tamped down in places where the sculpture had been, but the space was huge. The smell of the jacaranda trees came in as the air cooled and the traffic died down. It would be good to tell his dad what he was doing. He’d probably laugh in a short bark, the way he did when he heard something idiosyncratic.

  Tyler lifted a mat knife and twirled it in his hand. Was this how it happened to people? How your life gets going, making a living, watching TV at night, the whole thing tapping out in a nice rhythm, a little simple and a little sad—​but that’s what people did. Fidgeting, he carved a slice of wood off the table’s edge and watched it curl. He cut another, revealing the raw wood under the varnish. Another cut, deeper, scooping a canyon, a ridge. It felt good. He paused and blood rushed through his arms and hands. He picked up his phone, then laid the day’s tips on the worktable, the bills crisp and flat, one with numbers in loops of ballpoint pen.

  WILLIAM PEI SHIH

  Enlightenment

  FROM Virginia Quarterly Review

  Harvard, 1966. Abel Jones is in his third year. He is an exceptional student, head of the class. He is studying history. His area of focus, the eighteenth century. England and France. Still, there are days when he is lost. Days when he is perplexed. For one, he is excruciatingly shy, soft-spoken. A young man from the country. There are times when he even feels out of his depth. The university is distinctively male, overwhelmingly white—​a kind of white. It is marked by class. Even one’s residence defines him. The best rooms are on the second floor, where the most well-to-do reside. A scholarship student, Abel lives on the top floor. Sex is possible. It is commonly available in the bathrooms. At times he can’t help but think that he’s no better than a pervert.

  It is recommended that the undergraduates take a term off in order to find their place in the world. His classmates spend time in Rome. In Athens. He visits a psychotherapist in Cambridge, one who he discovers later is quite distinguished. He’s told that he can’t possibly be a pervert. Or a homosexual, but that he is having what the experts refer to as “sexual panic.” As soon as he succeeds in dating a woman, he will come to his senses. Everything will align.

  Her name is Daphne. She is in her last year at Radcliffe. She has radical beliefs, echoes the consciousness of Simone de Beauvoir and Betty Friedan. He takes her to see A Man for All Seasons. Dinner afterward. Daphne has flushed cheeks, auburn hair. Soft blue eyes that radiate with authoritative clarity. She is wearing a burgundy dress. She exudes beauty, not to mention confidence. Someone raised from noble ideals, and the best of intentions. Parents who know better. Someone from money. Her family had campaigned for Johnson and Humphrey. “More than awareness,” she says, “we need action. We need movement. Or else we’re only cursed to repeat the same mistakes with each successive generation.”

  The war, feminism, civil rights: all are at the forefront of her mind and heart.

  Abel can’t help but find himself entranced by the woman. Is this the makings of something more? Because he actually likes the person he’s becoming in her presence. He seems to be saying all the right things. How she counters with ease. He is unexpectedly at his best. It is a kind of achievement to be this in sync with the universe.

  Over coffee, over apple pie, he can see them together, ten years down the line—​they are married. There might already be children. They would be scholars, both at the top of their game. They’d have a home in the suburbs, host din
ner parties. Talk politics, the philosophy of Diderot. Most importantly, they would be happy together, a force to be reckoned with. He can already tell that she will be the type of woman who will pave the way, shine a spotlight on all of his best qualities. It would be easy for people to admire him, as they admire her. A lifetime, ripe with possibilities. Windfall after windfall. He would never have to fear the risk of losing his leverage in the world ever again.

  They end up in her room in Beacon Hill. Her roommate is conveniently gone for the weekend, visiting family in Washington, D.C.—​they have complete privacy.

  “What are you waiting for?” Daphne says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Kiss me already.”

  “All right.”

  He kisses her. She returns with a sudden heat. The scent of incense, bergamot perfume. They are already lying down on her bed. Some of their clothes are tossed to the side. He can feel the arch of her body, pressing closer against his. He wants to be overwhelmed. He wants to give in. But he feels himself pulling away.

  “What’s the matter?” The flash of unease in her eyes cripples him further. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry. I want to, I really do.”

  “Okay?”

  “I just can’t.”

  * * *

  And then he is sixty-eight. Already a thirty-year tenure at a college in Connecticut. Courses in European history, even in poetry. He’s largely lived alone. The West Village is home. The apartment is small but adequate. He’s filled it with the words of his heroes. Samuel Johnson, Edward Gibbon. Thoreau. Voltaire. He doesn’t own a television on principle; he believes the onset of cell phones to be the demise of civilization. Or at the very least propriety. He takes daily walks for exercise, for fresh air. There are parks, the crowded streets, having in recent years been infiltrated by a younger set—​those who possess a certain kind of entitlement, defiance against the unknown. He’ll peer into restaurants, peruse menus at the door. He barely recognizes the stooped figure in the pane of the glass. He is bald. He wears thick-rimmed glasses. There is a slight gap between his front teeth. His protruding belly, more pronounced than ever.