by Shane Jones
PRAISE FOR VINCENT AND ALICE AND ALICE
“Shane Jones is brilliant.”
– Helen DeWitt, author of The Last Samurai
“This diaphanous novel beautifully elucidates the experience of living a life we’re not sure how we got into, what we miss when parts of that life disappear, and the ever-present desire for what we don’t have.”
– Melissa Broder, author of The Pisces
“In its intimate rendering of marriage, work, and a kind of archetypal American despair, Vincent and Alice and Alice feels fresh, raw, and funny, even in its most tender, saddest moments. It reads like a beautifully pinched nerve.”
– Kristen Iskandrian, author of Motherest
“Vincent and Alice and Alice contains my favorite combination: laugh-out-loud funny and knife-in-your-heart sad. Inventive, surprising, and tender. No one writes like Shane Jones.”
– Chelsea Hodson, author of Tonight I’m Someone Else
“Shane Jones is our 21st century Jane Bowles.”
– Catherine Lacey, author of The Answers
“Vincent and Alice and Alice has everything I’ve always loved about Shane’s work—the vivid imaginative force field, the mordant humor—while marking a commanding departure. This is a novel of great intimacy and heart, one that held me close and moved me deeply.”
– Laura van den Berg, author of The Third Hotel
VINCENT AND ALICE AND ALICE
Tyrant Books
Via Piagge Marine 23
Sezze (LT) 04018
Italy
www.NYTyrant.com
ISBN: 978-0-9992186-7-9
Copyright © 2019 Shane Jones
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical reviews and articles.
This is a work of fiction and any similarity to persons living or dead is coincidental.
First Edition
Book design by Adam Robinson
Cover design by Nicole Caputo
VINCENT AND ALICE AND ALICE
A NOVEL BY
SHANE JONES
CONTENTS
ALICE
JUNE 1, 2037
VINCENT
JUNE 1, 2017
JUNE 2
JUNE 3
JUNE 4
JUNE 5
JUNE 6
JUNE 7
JUNE 8
JUNE 9
THE WEEKEND
JUNE 12
JUNE 13
JUNE 14
JUNE 15
JUNE 16
THE WEEKEND
JUNE 19
JUNE 20
JUNE 21
JUNE 22
JUNE 23
THE WEEKEND
JUNE 26
JUNE 27
JUNE 28
JUNE 29
JUNE 30
THE WEEKEND
JULY 3
JULY 4
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ALICE
JUNE 1, 2037
He said he could show me my ideal gate. In my empty apartment I saw nothing, maybe the room became brighter, less filthy. In the light, he rolled a pill between his thumb and finger. It was the day after he left that I understood what, or who, he wanted me to see.
Now I’m alone and living in reality. It seems like few people are nowadays, but they’re productive and happy. You would know more about the modern work force than I would. Is this what you wanted to hear?
VINCENT
JUNE 1, 2017
It’s difficult to cook an exceptional scrambled egg because your brain thinks it’s simple so you’re overconfident and mess the whole thing up – dry them out, over-salt, drop an eggshell in the yolk. A lot can go wrong with eggs. And if you think about it, cooking eggs is a lot like living life. It’s part of the adventure.
My marriage was an adventure, but it’s not something I want to tell everyone about. It wouldn’t make a good movie because the last forty-five minutes would be Alice and I silent in the kitchen, eggs twitching in a pan. Besides, I’m trying not to think about her anymore. I’m starting my life over.
But I’ve only known Alice as my life. You could say since the divorce I’ve been floating, suspended, in my days. I need to concentrate on what the world has to offer and move forward. So from here on out no more thinking about Alice.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about conference calls, which is when everyone lives in different places but you call a number and you’re on the phone together. How the phone’s fibers can withstand so many voices I’ll never understand. Typically, two or three people do all the talking. It’s never the smartest people. And if you want to be taken seriously you need to talk over everyone else. You need volume. The louder you are the more powerful you are.
When you arrive at work today shout, “Good morning!” and walk in exaggerated strides while staring intensely at your phone. If done correctly and with enough force you’ll be left alone for hours.
I don’t remember how long I wasn’t paying attention on the conference call, but I woke up when I heard my name, Vincent. In my professional voice I said, “Please repeat.”
Imagine thirty separate laughs rushing through a single hole and into your ear. Imagine working seventeen thousand hours in the same office. Imagine Alice saying she’s leaving you and you know it’s your fault.
I put the nail clippers back in the medicine cabinet. When I closed the door I was looking in the mirror.
“Vincent,” my boss grumbled. “Your opinion?”
Certain images you remember forever. Every person has maybe ten slots to fill and you die and the slots, the images, flicker around your eyeballs before it’s dark. What would I see? Dirty cubicle walls, Xerox light, neon screensavers, Mom and Dad driving, their sunny funeral, the podium incident, coworkers eating zucchini bread, Alice saying it’s over, and me, standing at the bathroom mirror on a fucking conference call.
I’m not sure why, but what I did was laugh. Not laughing at the call itself, but at how I appeared in the mirror, and the idea I participated in something like a conference call. No one would be holding the phone if they knew it was their last day alive. Those who preach carpe diem repeat the same tasks their entire lives. Like a weekly conference call. But this was our job and we were doing it, and hanging on the line by its claws was the meaning of life – strange, terrible, and slipping.
My eyes were just watery, not crying over Alice, I told myself.
“Everything will be fine,” I answered.
“What?” my boss replied, followed by more laughter.
I wasn’t thinking about Alice.
“I’m on it,” I continued.
My boss sneezed. “Um, elaborate?”
I placed my mouth an inch from the mirror and spoke into the phone, “Going forward I will implement synergy to achieve results.”
I didn’t want to be there, but I didn’t want to be anywhere.
“Thank you,” said my boss, relieved. “Thought we lost you there for a second. Everyone hear Vincent?”
My breath created egg-shaped fog on the mirror so I wrote my initials on the glass, and over my initials a question mark. Then I said goodnight and hung up.
JUNE 2
Alice slept with someone else because I wanted her to be happy. People are like bags, and the more problems you have the more holes in your bag. Not like a I want peanut butter but don’t have any in the house kind of problem. More like Every 24 hours I lose another day so I’m closer to death. Most people don’t think about their end. Another hole in their bag. For Alice, the label of marriage was a hole constantly torn larger.
She often asked if she was destined to a life of unfulfillment. I’d say something like, “I’ll work on it” to which she responded, “But what if this is your best?”
Here are some holes in my bag that I wrote into a PowerPoint slide because I was at work but didn’t want to do any work:
• Alice
• Alice
• Fear of public speaking
• Alice
• Alice
• Alice
• Alice
• Alice
• Alice
• Alice
Before working from home I had the best cubicle in the office, located in a back corner where the cubicle walls were so high I was invisible. The light was always dim because I didn’t have a window, but I didn’t care. I had my own space that no one from where they sat could see into.
I called my spot the Zone. It felt far away from everyone else because it was. My coworkers would be discussing things like the weather, local crime, and meatball recipes in their open, middle-of-the-room cubicles and I didn’t feel the need to respond because they didn’t know if I was there. I was somehow in the office and not in the office, a body gone but living behind cubicle walls.
When my boss called my words slurred like I was waking from a dream. From what I recently read in Sarah’s email they haven’t filled the Zone yet, so there’s the chance if I ever go back everything will be like before.
Along with conference calls I’ve been thinking about bodies. If you work an office job then you already know what I’m about to say. But I’m going to say it anyways because I need to concentrate on something besides Alice.
Bodies worsen if you work for the State like I do. Lots of workers dragging a leg, seemingly shoved by a version of their current self who wants nothing to do with squeezing through the security portal again. I’m not sure how they survive the day.
I rode the elevator one morning with a man who pressed an entire side of his face against the gold-colored doors and when they opened he muttered, “Lillian? Are you still with me?” and walked forward groping the air.
Eight hours of sitting is barbaric and in two hundred years everyone will agree. We’re just not far enough in the future to understand what we’re doing now. I forget who it was, but someone famous visited an office in the 60s and said it was like entering a crypt. She said the workplace crushed not only the individual, but the possibility for romantic love. I’m not entirely sure I agree.
Because I had a moment with Sarah and never told Alice. I liked Sarah because she would laugh when everyone else was serious. During a meeting my boss said he didn’t want to be “the memo police” but if he had to, he would, and Sarah placed her hands over her face, pretending to rub her eyes. She’s also the only non-white person in the entire office. Maybe the entire building. I think she keeps to herself because she understands what the place is. When my coworkers are at their worst she disappears.
Sarah and I were discussing how in ads featuring shirtless men the camera focuses on a man’s abs because abs are the definition of sexy. Men don’t care about women’s abs, but everyone knows that. Sarah said something about Brad Pitt, and what I did randomly, trying to be funny I think, was lift my shirt up. I don’t have abs, just a deflated goose-bumped space with black hair. I felt so dumb and began lowering my shirt. But what Sarah did was place her hand, flat, on my stomach.
It was a weird moment with no talking, standing next to Sarah in her padded swivel chair holding my shirt up. Everyone else was eating hot dogs but we were connecting. It lasted somewhere between five seconds and two minutes, I can’t remember, time gets strange when you’re far away from it.
Now I’m waiting for a conference call. And because I’m thinking about time, it’s taking forever. I need to do more. I should drink eight glasses of water because everyone says it’s important. I live alone and sit when I pee. I could stand now but I can’t stop the habit. As a kid, I’d stand in my driveway with my eyes closed aimed at the sun and think so hard about being alive I’d have a panic attack. I can’t do that anymore.
The reason I work from home now is because of the podium incident. Each May my boss gives a speech at the annual State workers picnic, sponsored by the Leaders who don’t attend. The picnic is catered with deli meat, and all the Michelle’s and Steve’s and Emily’s get wasted. There’s a pavilion and a stage with a podium and the sun is always shining, making Doritos look beautiful in neon plastic bowls.
And every April my boss picks one employee from a hundred and fifty to introduce him in what is supposed to be a light roast with some brown-nosing at the end. He chooses by pinching the name from pieces of paper he swirls around inside a jumbo-sized cheese-puff bucket. Of course my name was drawn. Of course I didn’t say I didn’t want to do it. I spent three caffeinated weeks writing my speech. The night before, I couldn’t sleep.
Steve, who wore an orange golf visor across his eyebrows shouted in my face, “Show the boss who’s boss!” as I walked to the podium.
I had on my favorite suit jacket, the one I got married in, the one I never wore to work because it was a tailored summer suit and baggy pants are popular in my office. Besides, my office was a refrigerator. Did you know the number one complaint in an office is that the temperature is too cold? And can you guess what the second most common complaint is?
Everyone waited for me to speak. All those bodies in flipflops and short sleeve button-ups gripping soggy paper plates of meat. My boss stood off to the side touching elbows with Sarah. I remember the air was cool and a few guys way in the back were playing cornhole on boards they had painted in the American flag. There was one cloud in the sky shaped like a moose. It fell apart as I thought about my life.
My face became flushed with rings of rising heat. My head was spinning, and the sky tilted until it became the grass and then the sky again. I tried imagining everyone in their underwear but I couldn’t because they wore cargo shorts.
Then Steve chanted my name. In this world we never say no to Steve. But some just pretended to mouth the chant, like I did in school chorus, standing in the back and moving my lips. I fainted once during Here Comes the Sun. I walked from the auditorium and into the school and just before the nurse’s office, I collapsed. Sprawled out on the floor with the silver line we had to walk single-file on and no one was near. I remember the fuzzy stars suffocating my face like a pillow and the janitor touching my face.
My boss stepped toward the podium and the chanting stopped. My boss should have known. I never really talked before, so why would I now? Why would I do a good job? It didn’t make any sense and everyone knew it.
I couldn’t read the speech because I was holding my wedding vows which had been in the summer suit for all these good, bad, whatever years. The speech was in the opposite side pocket, but I couldn’t stop re-reading the vows.
What I did at the podium was smile and put my professional voice on. I made a joke about my boss drinking so much coffee that during his heart surgery they ran an IV to the nearest Dunkin Donuts. It was idiotic but everyone laughed. I don’t think I had tears in my eyes when I made that joke. I don’t think I was still thinking about Alice. Then the sky was the grass again and this time I couldn’t right myself. My hands held the far corners of the podium but I was weak.
I told the blurry audience how my boss is the hardest working person I had ever met to no applause. No Steve power clapping in a deafening echo because my eyes rolled up in my head and the sound of a departing plane filled the air around me. I laughed at the disjointed moose in the sky and fainted. Losing my balance I took the podium with me; microphone, cord, water pitcher, plastic cups, off the stage we flew and toward the crowd and onto the grass where everything in my life collected in the dark.
Afterward, I sat in my car with the door open, supervised by paramedics, before being driven home by Sarah who owns a Mercedes even though we make the same salary. At a red light, she put her hand on my stomach and said everything wou
ld be fine. I pretended to be asleep.
Back home I received a call from my boss who said maybe some time off was a good idea. This is one tactic, out of many, when they want to fire you.
I should find a new way to live but my phone is ringing. Lately the conference calls have been getting shorter and less frequent, but more people are there. Maybe this time we’ll break the record for voices on a shared line. A hundred? A thousand? A million? Could there be a conference call with all of America on it? What would that sound like? Would it be comforting to know everyone was in one place together? Could you pick out your spouse and say that you missed them? Could you ask about dying? Could you ask a stranger what it’s like to live and get an honest answer? Through all the yelling and power grabs to be the loudest person in America could I find Alice and pull her through the voices and tell her that I loved her? Would America be on my side in weepy silence or would America just laugh?
After a conference call, I need to eat. Routine is important when you live alone because then you believe you’re accomplishing something. I’m walking to the grocery store, about five minutes from my apartment, with the sun throbbing above in the blue sky. In the middle of the road a man in a suit is vomiting. On the other side someone is recording him. I never noticed this stuff before.
Because life is swirling circles of hell and Alice was the comforting pools between. Ugh, I’m not talking about her anymore. I need to concentrate on my future. You can’t work on yourself if you’re thinking about the past. Georgia O’Keeffe said that, I think. She narrowed her eyes at the future she wanted and said, “I’m going to make you my reality.”
I want to be a healthy person but I buy junk food. There’s the produce section, sure, but it’s expensive and shrinking. The way the produce section is set-up now it’s something you walk through, not shop in. One of the cashiers here told me that at least once a week someone is caught stealing bags of frozen shrimp that they immediately try and return without a receipt.