This is random, but I am in Greenpoint. Are you maybe bartending right now?
I respond:
I’m not, but I could meet you at Lulu’s.
You respond:
IT IS ON BABY! Sorry for all caps. I am just excited!
I wait twelve seconds nine minutes and no hours before writing back:
Haha. On my way. 5?
You don’t write back but I have to take two trains to get there and the Hannah and Her Sisters soundtrack is playing in my head, all the songs at once, so loud that I can’t listen to the music on my phone or the music on your phone and all I can think about is our first kiss, which will likely take place in eighteen seconds nineteen minutes and three hours when we are both drunk in a cab on Bank Street and I get it now, why dudes jerk off on trains sometimes. But I don’t. I have you in my future. The train can’t go fast enough and engine engine number nine and look how much we share already and we haven’t even fucked and I got you a present too. I’m bringing you The Western Coast. And it’s inscribed:
Engine, Engine, Number Nine
On the New York transit line
If you go in a nursing home
This here book will be your tome
It’s not perfect but it’s close and I had to buy you something, reward you for stepping up, and the train is here and I hope that Prince eventually got to be where I am, pounding up the sixteen steps and two blocks and one avenue toward the rest of his life. But I’m only halfway up the subway stop stairs when your phone beeps. There is a lot of information to process and I have to sit down and I do. Things have changed. Quickly, too quickly. Nearly two weeks after your mass e-mail announcing your new phone number, Benji has e-mailed you back:
Hi.
And you wrote back:
Come over.
And he wrote back:
And then you e-mailed me:
Ack, I had to go to a school thing. Reschedule for next week? Sorry. Sorry!
And then Benji wrote to you:
Give me an hour, work thing came up.
And you wrote back:
You’re smiling because you want life to be like it was before your father messed up on Nantucket, without secrets, without danger. You write about how safe it is there, how claustrophobia and comfort go hand in hand. Your family never locked the doors to the house or the cars and they left the car keys in the ignition but come March, you’d give anything to see a stranger. You tweeted a few weeks ago:
The island of #Manhattan is like the island of #Nantucket: Groceries are expensive, drinks are expensive & in winter, everyone goes nuts.
That’s cute, Beck, but the island of Manhattan is nothing like your precious Nantucket. Let me tell you what I did last Tuesday.
On the island of Manhattan, you have to lock your shit up or some streetwise guy might just stop by a friggin’ club soda factory for a tour on a Tuesday when he knows the boss isn’t around (special thanks to Benji’s Twitter feed) and excuse himself to use the bathroom and bypass the bathroom for Benji’s office (which is unlocked), and bypass the rest of the club soda tour for a private tour of Benji’s computer (which is also unlocked), and learn that Benji keeps a calendar with links to @lotsamonica’s performance schedule. She’s on today, live-doodling at a converted fire station in Astoria (bite me). As a verified fan of hers on all social media platforms (oh the things I do for you, Beck), I am granted access to the live coverage and though I don’t see Benji the man (the place is too crowded), I see bottles of Home Soda in all the filtered pictures. He’s there. A comment from some chick with bangs and pink glasses proves it:
Benji rocks for bringing club soda. #organicforlife #homesoda #drinkfreeordie
So there it is. Your precious Benji doesn’t show up at your reading but he treks all the way to Astoria in the middle of the day because he thinks Monica is superior, because she’s tall and blond and he mistakes her doodles for art. I have to calm down. You don’t know about this. You’re not a fan of Monica’s because you’re not an imbecile. But you need to know and I can’t get out of that bloated factory fast enough. I need to save you.
I am the kind of guy who prepares for emergencies like this, so I already have an e-mail account called [email protected]. You don’t do your research so you don’t know that Nathan Herzog is the food critic at Vulture’s new Eats section who sucks the tit of pretentious beasts like Benji and his Home Soda. I read the guy’s stuff; I’m not impressed. But Benji kisses his ass, tweeting his reviews in a flagrant effort to get his own puff piece on the site. And over at the exhilarating news blog on HomeSoda.com, “fans” of Benji’s pussy water grumble incessantly about why Home Soda has yet to be featured on Vulture.
Until now.
Obviously, I use my new e-mail account to impersonate food fuckwad Nathan Herzog. And soon, Benji will receive an e-mail from Nathan Herzog, who just sipped the most fantastic club soda of his life and realizes he is late to the party but remains desperate to meet Benji. He writes:
Is there any way you could meet now? There’s a bookstore on the Lower East Side, Mooney Rare and Used, and it’s a great place to start. There’s a café downstairs; nobody knows about it.
Sincerely,
N.
It takes Benji only nanoseconds to reply:
Absolutely, Nathan. I’m flattered and I’m en route.
I don’t respond. What kind of an asshole says en route?
I am on the subway thinking about you when I realize that I have fucked up. Something is missing.
The Western Coast.
With my signed inscription.
I left it on the sidewalk when I took a minute to recover after realizing you blew me off and Mr. Mooney was right. I will never be fully capable of running the bookstore. I am not a multitasking businessman at heart. I am a poet, which is why I know that I am four stops, one transfer, three blocks, two avenues, and one flight of stairs away from stopping at my apartment to pick up some treats for Benji. I text Curtis:
No need to come in today, I got it covered.
He writes back: Sweet.
9
I round the corner and see Benji yanking on the door to the shop and I caught him too, even better. I smile broad. I own this fuck. “There he is,” I call. “The Home Soda man!”
“Mr. Herzog, it is a true honor,” he coos, that fucking kiss-ass in a Brooks Brothers blazer and for what?
“Sorry I’m late,” I say and I fake a fumble for the keys. Food critics who are part owners of café-book hybrid places are, by nature, a clumsy folk. “But it’s worth the wait. I promise.”
I unlock the door and we’re in and Benji is too nervous to notice that I lock the door behind me.
“This place is a gem,” he marvels. “They serve coffee here?”
“Now and then,” I say and I could work for New York Magazine’s bullshit website. I watch Mad Men and know about Jay Z and overpriced ramen. “For now though, would water do?”
“Excellent, Nathan.”
Excellent, Nathan. So while Benji prattles nervously about how much he loves books and bookstores and people who read books I am pouring a baggie of crushed Xanax into a glass of water. He’ll gulp. He’s nervous. He takes the water. He thanks me. He can’t even say thank you without sounding like a phony. I let him go on and say I’ve just got to tend to something behind the counter and he is all apologies and that’s perfect, Nathan and I cleared my calendar for this and I’m moving papers around and listening to the Xanax overtake him. Did I put enough in? He’s woozy and he wants to sit down.
He almost wobbles toward the counter. “Do you mind? Is there somewhere I could sit a minute?”
Punching him is gratuitous. But then, he did use the word excellent a dozen times in twenty fucking minutes. He’s out cold and on the ground and I walk into the main floor and lift his feet. Here he goes, down the stairs. He doesn’t wake up while I drag him into the cage and I lock him in there and smile. Excellent.
His Brooks Brothers
blazer provides a wealth of goods. There’s his drug purse, packets of heroin or coke or Ritalin or whatever the kids are doing these days and a plastic key card (I leave that). There’s his wallet (I take that). And then there’s the grand prize that is his phone (I don’t have to tell you that I take that). Benji is as fearless as you, Beck, and within seconds I have access to his Twitter, his e-mail, and the Home Soda blog on the website. Naturally, his phone is full of pictures of the Monica performance artist person. She is nauseating, splayed, always posing. I pick a “sexy” one and tweet it from Benji’s account. Two words accompany the photograph:
#Beautifulovely #Yes
You are meant to interpret this as Benji’s way of calling you
#Inadequate #No
And you do. Oh, Beck, it hurts to see you cry, feel so rejected. Don’t you know how much I’d like to go hug you and prop you against that green pillow and fill you with love and mass-produced club soda? I want all that. But I can’t intervene. You need your space to detach from this asshole and I wait for your sadness to turn into anger. And then it does and you write like a snake, you slither:
I am not your fucking plaything, Benji. I am not a no-hearted phony piece of shit performance artist cum Dumpster. I am a human being. A real human being, just like the song, and you do not blow me off. Do you hear me? This is not how my life goes. Treat me like you treat your soda. Or you know what? Better yet, fuck your soda. Give that a shot. Stick it right in there into that glass bottle and fuck your soda because that’s what you love. You don’t love me. You don’t love anyone.
Your e-mails are true and beautiful. But there’s a problem. They all get stored in drafts. You don’t have it in you to send them. You’re still holding on to this townie fantasy that this shaggy-haired camping tourist will throw away his ideals for you. You want that. There is not a lot I can do. So I stand by. I read your e-mails.
Chana is right: Honestly, Beck. It would be nice if Benji loved you, but he doesn’t. So it’s not surprising when he bails on you and cheats on you and pulls that weird Daddy shit. You know? This will sound weird, but I am happy for you. Let this end already.
Lynn chimes in: I think there are no good guys in New York. It’s not like I’m in some rush to get married, I love it at the UN. And I would rather go work in Prague than get married, but honestly, I don’t think there are good men here. They’re all Benjis.
Chana writes back: Get off eHarmony, Lynn. Seriously.
I am optimistic until you have a separate private e-mail exchange with this Peach person. You’re different with her.
You: I sound like such a girl, but I haven’t heard from Benji. He kind of bailed on me. He’s probably just busy but what if . . .
Peach: What if you got so busy writing something awesome that you forgot about him. It’s like in yoga when you put all your energy into one sacred place: you.
You: You are soooo right. Thank you, wise one!
But it doesn’t matter what your friends think. You’re still drafting e-mails to him. And now you want to know where he is and when you’re going to see him. You want him. Still. You need my help and I forge an entry in Benji’s Home Soda blog:
Spontaneous trek to the ACK. New inspiration, new flavors with the help of a lovely companion.
He is the kind of asshole who would refer to Nantucket by its airport code, ACK, and of course he didn’t invite you. He didn’t tell you he was going. He just left. He’s no good. And he used the word lovely and you’re supposed to think he’s with Monica and write him off once and for all. Still, you send the link to Peach, and you are sad, not mad. She writes back:
Sweetie, he’s an entrepreneur. And he’s probably referring to Rascal, his family’s Lab. Don’t jump . . . to conclusions!
We are at an impasse. None of this has worked. You forgive this fucker who tweets a filtered photo of the come-fuck-me soda cunt. There were no cases of gratis Home Soda at your reading, Beck, but you still want him and I still have to fix this. I send you an e-mail from Benji:
Long story. Be well, kid.
You open the e-mail seconds after I send it. You don’t forward it to your friends and you don’t draft another violent fuck-you e-mail. Now you are still and I am not surprised when my phone alerts me that I have a new e-mail an hour later. It’s you:
Thursday instead?
I did it. Finally. I have only one word for you:
Yes.
WHEN the little pansy wakes up, I don’t know how much time has passed but he’s yawning like it’s been a century. He doesn’t seem to get it at first and he makes awkward small talk about the cage—is this mahogany?—and then he talks about parrots. Finally, it dawns on him that there are bars separating us. He reaches for the door and for the second time today, I watch this prick yank a door handle.
“You don’t need to do that,” I say. I try to keep him calm. I am kind.
“Let me out,” he snaps. “Now.”
“Benji,” I say. “You need to settle down.”
He looks at me. He is puzzled. Candace’s brother was also puzzled. The assholes are always puzzled when the order of the universe is restored, when they are held accountable for their cowardly, pretentious, loveless ways.
10
IT’S Thursday morning and our date tonight is my reward for the past three days. Babysitting Benji is no joke, Beck. I don’t even know how many times I’ve locked and unlocked and locked the basement doors as I’ve come up and down. Curtis knows he isn’t allowed in the basement and he doesn’t have a key. My hand is cramped from gripping the key like it’s my lifeline. And it is.
And I’m tired, Beck. It took me a solid hour to pry up the false-bottom floorboard where I keep my machete. I had to take a train all the way to New Haven to use his ATM without raising any flags. I’m not saying it’s not worth it and I did come up with a good plan. I decided to use Benji’s phone to construct a narrative. I know, it’s a fucking brilliant plan. Because you follow him on Twitter, you will now bear witness to his descent into drugs and idiocy. It all started in New Haven, where I got two grand out of his account and tweeted a photo of the bullshit Yale bulldog mascot:
The original #bulldog is back. #whatupnewhaven #meandmolly
So now everyone (you) will think Benji’s gone back to his alma mater for a bender. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Ivy League people, Beck, it’s that you all really like going back to school for reunions. This is a good plan and I can’t let his fancy-boy bellyaching get to me. It’s like you know I’m at my wit’s end and you text me:
Hey you. Up early. No idea why. So what are we doing tonight?
Benji barks: “Is that Beck? Joe, if that’s what you want, she’s all yours.”
We’ve been through this. About an hour after he came to, the fucker recognized me from the cab. So now he thinks he’s figured me out. He thinks I’m obsessed with you. He thinks I trapped him in here because of you. The truth is so much more complicated and self-satisfied chirpers like him don’t know that it’s always wiser to be quiet in lockup. He laid his cards out and he talks about you like you’re his. But you’re not a beat-up BMW, you’re not his to give away. I bark, “Do your test.”
“Joe,” he says, which is dumb because every time he says my name I’m reminded of the fact that he knows my name, an obvious complication going forward. I compose myself and I write to you:
Morning, sleepyhead. Hope you had sweet dreams. See you at 8:30 on the steps at Union Square. When it gets dark we’ll go somewhere else.
I hit SEND and I can’t wait to see you and I pick up the list of Benji’s five favorite books because we’ve got work to do:
Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon. He’s a pretentious fuck and a liar.
Underworld by Don DeLillo. He’s a snob.
On the Road by Jack Kerouac. He’s a spoiled passport-carrying fuck stunted in eighth grade.
Brief Interviews with Hideous Men by David Foster Wallace. Enough already.
The Red B
adge of Courage by Stephen Crane. He’s got Mayflowers in his blood.
Benji has already failed tests on Gravity’s Rainbow (duh) and Underworld. He keeps saying he would have made a different list of books if he knew there was a test coming. That’s how privileged people think: Lie unless you know that you can’t get away with lying. You’re nothing like him and you write again:
There’s no fucking way I’m responding to a smiley face and I can’t anyway because Princess Benji wants a soy latte and a New York Times and some Kiehl’s and his fucking Evian and his Tom’s toothpaste. I tell him to make do with what I gave him: coffee from the Greek diner, a New York Post, a small tub of Vaseline, and a scoop of baking soda from the centuries-old box in our employee restroom.
You write again:
Where are we gonna go after it gets dark?
I can’t be mad at you because you’re obviously just hot for me. You wouldn’t be mirroring my words if you weren’t excited and I write back to you:
You’ll know when you need to know. Wink-wink.
The wink-wink might have been a mistake and I feel sick.
“Look, Joe, I can’t take a test on a book I haven’t picked up since high school without being amply caffeinated.”
I make an executive decision because I can’t listen to him anymore. “Forget On the Road. Tear up the test. We’re done today.”
He lifts his head up and looks at me like I’m God. “Thank you, Joe. I never read On the Road and, well, thank you.”
He’s thanking me for making him admit to being a complete, total liar. Even while fighting for his life, he’s lying. I want this kid to understand and I try.
“You didn’t read On the Road?”
“Not exactly.”
“But you put it on your list.”
“I know.”
“I told you to make a list of your favorite books.”
“I know.”
“Unbelievable. Don’t you realize you’re in the bottom of a bookstore? That you’re in a cage? You don’t come in my store and lie. You don’t do that.”
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