Did you ever notice that the fingers on my right hand are crooked? Yep. You can tell I’m getting a lot done over here. Anyway . . . how’s work?
And sometimes, there are no words, just pictures, intense close-ups of my favorite places on your body, of which there are so many. You never make me wonder and you write back to me while I’m writing back to you and we never run out of things to say. Nobody’s ever known me this well. Nobody has ever cared. When I tell you a story, you have questions. You are rapt.
How old were you? Oh come on, I won’t get jealous if you tell me about your first time. Joe, please. Tell me tell me tell me!
And I tell you, tell you, tell you! Ethan says the first few days of any relationship are intense but Ethan doesn’t understand that this is not a relationship. You say it’s an everythingship. And what do I do with that adorable word after you come up with it? I buy a box of cake mix and a disposable silver pan and a can of frosting and three tubes of icing. I bake a cake for you and I write on the top of it:
Everythingship (n): a meeting of the minds, bodies, and souls.
And I carry that cake down the block and down into the subway and on the subway and up the stairs and up the street and up to your door and you squeal and you take about a million pictures of the cake and then we get into bed and eat the cake and have sex and watch old home movies of your family on Nantucket and eat more cake and have more sex and this is the only everythingship I’ve ever had.
I am on the ladder at work and Ethan is passing me unpopular books to hide in the high shelves and he says I can’t expect for it to stay this good and I am quick to respond, confident, bold. “I know it’s not gonna stay this good.”
“Phew,” he says.
“It’s only gonna get better.”
He goes to help a customer and the what-ifs crawl into my ear, right out of Shell Silverstein in Poetry. I text you:
Hi
And I tremble and sweat. What if Ethan is right? What if you don’t write back? What if you don’t miss me anymore? But you text me immediately:
I love you.
I could fall off the ladder and crack open my skull and it wouldn’t matter. Like Elliot says in Hannah, “I have my answer.”
My answer is you.
43
IT’S a good thing that I took a screenshot of your I love you text. Something changes after that night and it’s like I’m standing so close to a pointillism painting that I only see the dots, not the picture. You are still my girlfriend—you are. But . . .
You don’t e-mail me back right away, which would be fine if you weren’t making excuses:
Sorry, I was in class.
Sorry, I was on the phone with Chana. . . .
Sorry, do you hate me?
I try every kind of response:
No worries, B. Did you want to get dinner?
No sorries allowed. Unless, of course you’re not wearing your robe . . .
Hate you? B. I love you.
But no response is the right response because as soon as I hit SEND, the wait begins again. My thoughts turn dark and my mind wanders into Nicky’s beige den of rock ’n’ roll and lust. But you’re not seeing him. Were that the case, you’d tell someone or write to him and you don’t. I still have your old phone and I still check your e-mail and your Facebook. You love me. And one of these days, I’ll find a way to get you to admit that your mother still foots the bill for a phone you lost months ago. We’re getting there. But I love you so much that I can’t willfully close down my portal to your communications. When I worry that you’re drifting—and I do worry—I hold your phone and will you back. It sounds crazy, but I think it works. We need all the help we can get right now. Relationships get like this; I know that. But I’m allowed to be frustrated. Your word is sorry and my word is no and what happened to the time when our word was everythingship? Ethan says not to worry.
“She’s nuts about you, Joe! Blythe says she’s practically writing pornos in class, you know.”
Only Ethan would call it porno and Ethan doesn’t have to wonder where he’s eating dinner or when; Blythe is in it with him and since when did that relationship seem stronger than our everythingship?
My toothbrush is dry. You’re not using it anymore and I can pinpoint the moment you stopped. When I want to watch Pitch Perfect you are tired or you just watched part of it on the train. When I want to go out for pizza you had pizza for lunch—once upon a time, I knew your lunch at lunchtime—and when I want to have sex you want to wait just a little while longer.
“Just let me finish writing this paragraph. I am so late. So bad, I know.”
“Just give me a few minutes. I ate falafel and I think it was not a good idea.”
“Just wait a little while. I put our robes in the washer at the Laundromat and I should go back sooner rather than later.”
I bring you A River Runs Through It and The Things They Carried because you never knew that both books have more than the title stories. I write inscriptions in each and I don’t tell you. Four days go by and both books are still on the counter. There are no loving chocolate smudges, no highlighted paragraphs, no pages marked. You don’t love them, you don’t know them and at times I feel like an intruder.
Me: I was just looking at that picture of that place on your thigh.
You: Ack, hang on. Bad signal.
Me: Do your thing. I’ll catch you later.
And then you don’t write back to me and I slowly descend into insanity because
What
The
Fuck?
You’re not talking smack about me to Lynn and Chana. You’re not cheating on me; you’d never be able to pull that off with my access to your e-mail. I know. I know that you don’t have a lot of work at school and setting Ethan up with Blythe really was a bad idea because he comes into work telling me about the fun they had last night at the golfing range—I shit you not—and I can’t even get a response from you when I write to discuss the odd coupling of Ethan and Blythe.
It hurts, Beck. I don’t know what to do with your absence. You’re not mad at me. I know you well enough to know when your tail starts pounding the floor, and you’re not happy at me, either. I ask you if you want to get into our robes and you kiss me and tell me we’re beyond robes. You wrap yourself in me and hold on to me but what does that mean exactly?
Beyond robes.
We still have an everythingship because you still do things. I wake up with my dick in your mouth at least once a week. You still let me know when I’m on your mind for no reason:
Solipsistic (n) thinking of you and your hot bod
And you rave about me when you write to your mother:
This is different, Mom. He’s on my level. And yet he shouldn’t be technically because our lives are so different. But when it works . . . it works. You know?
Your mother can’t wait to meet me and I close my eyes and see us in Nantucket, in love. I even ask you about it one night when you’re laid up with cramps.
“So you think this summer we’ll hang out in Nantucket?”
You giggle and I burn. It wasn’t supposed to be funny and you feel bad. “Joe, baby, no, no. I wasn’t laughing at that. Of course we can go to Nantucket. It’s just that you don’t say in Nantucket. You say on Nantucket.”
I can’t think of a witty comeback and I used to be so good with you but maybe Ethan was right and you ask me to run up to the store and get you Advil and I do. The curtains are open and I see you open up your computer and start replying to an e-mail. I know that I shouldn’t look at your e-mail as much now that we’re together but it’s a cold night and a long walk so I refresh your outbox.
Nothing.
I look in drafts.
Nothing.
And that’s not possible because I saw you writing an e-mail with my own eyes. I buy the Advil and start home and decide to confront you but when I let myself in—you gave me a key a couple weeks ago—you aren’t in the apartment. I call your name but you�
�re gone and I panic. But then I hear the water turn on and I walk into the bathroom and you’re wet hot, mine.
“Well, get in here already,” you say. And I do. You fuck me like an animal and we get into our robes and I don’t think about the e-mail and maybe I was wrong, maybe you deleted it. We are close that night and the next day I wake up and you’re already gone and I text you.
Me: That was fantastic. I woke up thinking about you in the shower.
You: Good good.
Me: Let me know when to come over. I have a feeling you’re gonna need another one.
And then it happens, the most dreaded response in the world, more terse than any word, more withholding than a no, and strictly verboten for someone as in love with language and me as you claim to be.
You: K
I get the dreaded K and I ask Ethan to fill in for me for the rest of the day but he can’t. The day doesn’t go by and I’m losing it and I’m looking at pictures of you and losing my patience with customers and I close early and call you but I get voice mail and I leave you a message asking when you can come over. I’m home when you finally respond and as it turns out, there is something worse than the dreaded K.
You: Long story, honey but I gotta bail. Call you tomorrow xoxo
I cry and watch Pitch Perfect and sing along with the Barden Bellas. I don’t want to be a person who knows the name of a fictional a cappella group in a chick flick but that’s what love has done to me. When it’s over, I jerk off in the shower like a lot of unhappily married men in this world. But I cry harder because I’m not even married to you. Yet.
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.”
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