by Blake Crouch
Four years ago, I carved a deep gash into my chin with a razor. On purpose. It bled for six hours before I realized I needed stitches. It took four to close the wound, but I got what I wanted—a quarter-inch scar on the left side of my chin nearly identical to the one on Jansen’s.
It looks like the footprint of an eight-legged caterpillar now, and the twin with short hair is touching it as we sit in the backseat of a cab, en route to their pad, as they call it.
“That is the most precious little scar I’ve ever seen,” she says. “Look at this, Dawn.”
“Oh God, that’s cute. How’d it happen?”
“I walked into the corner of a car door on the set of Greener Grass.”
These women can’t keep their hands off me. I’m sitting in the middle of the backseat, one on either side of me, focusing on their luxurious smell rather than the cab funk.
“Where the fuck are you going, dude?” Dawn yells at the cabby. “I said East Thirty-Seventh and Lexington—”
“We go there.”
“You’re taking the long way. I want the short way. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m paying the scenic route fare.”
“What is scenic route?”
“Unbelievable,” Dawn mutters. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. We aren’t fucking tourists here!”
Heather places her right hand on my cheek and turns my face toward hers. Of the two, she has sweeter eyes.
“Baby, why can’t we stay at your pad tonight? I know you must be shacked-up in some killer suite.”
“I’d love to,” I say. “I really would. But I’m here with my girlfriend. Now she expects me not to come home. That’s all right. But showing up with two buxom ladies like yourselves would get me thrown out on my ass. You understand.”
“Shit, I’d sleep in Central Park if it was with you.”
Heather and Dawn live in a two bedroom apartment in Murray Hill. I have a hunch they’re models, but I don’t ask. I mean, they have to be, right? How do two twenty-year-olds afford a place in Manhattan?
It’s 1:15 in the morning when we step out of the elevator onto their floor. The building is dead silent. I’m walking behind them, and they keep looking back at me with these wicked grins. I know it should’ve occurred to me long before now, but it hits me suddenly that we’re probably going into their apartment to be naughty. And my head’s spinning so much from this wonderful, inconceivable day which began more than eighteen hours ago, that I can’t even assess whether or not I’m ready to live out this fantasy. I’m not a terribly sexual person in real life. There are guys out there, who I’m sure think about it much more than me. I don’t even look at that much porn. I’ve only slept with one person in my entire life—this nice girl I dated my freshman year in college, when it still looked like I might turn out like everyone else.
So as Heather unlocks the door to their apartment and we stroll inside, I’m kind of wondering whether I’m up to this.
Man, these women must be in love with themselves. When the lights flick on, I notice that the living room walls are adorned with enlarged photographs of Heather and Dawn. The one over the couch is a photo of one of them (can’t tell which), in a cowboy hat, sitting bareback on a very lucky horse, and looking sultrily into the camera. Over the flatscreen, they’ve hung a collage of all the magazine covers they’ve appeared on.
“Thought I recognized you two,” I say as my eyes pass over the collage. I don’t really recognize them. Just being nice. “Been in the city long?” I ask, moving through the living room and to the window which peers out over the fire escape and into another apartment building. Through an open window, I see the red digits of an alarm clock in a bedroom. I’m sure a couple sleeps somewhere in that blue darkness, and for some reason, the thought of this makes my chest ache for half a second.
“Nine months,” one of them says, answering my question. They’ve disappeared into the kitchen, and I hear ice cubes dropping into glassware.
When they return to the living room, Dawn takes my jacket and Heather hands me a glass of bronze liquor.
“Hope you like scotch,” she says. “Best thing we got.”
I sip it. Tastes rotten and fiery, in a good way.
“It’s fine.” When you’re famous, people open the good stuff.
“You’ve got a nice place here,” I say.
Heather walks over to the window and takes my hand. She leads me back to the couch, and the three of us sit down with our drinks. I’m nervous, but the scotch is helping. These girls are so gorgeous. Almost too gorgeous. If you saw them from a distance, you’d think they were sophisticated, too, but sitting here beside them, I see they aren’t. I’m not saying they’re stupid or anything. Just not as deep as I first thought. Maybe because they’re young. I guess everybody you meet is eventually a letdown.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Twenty,” Heather says. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-eight.” Shit. Jansen’s thirty-nine. But I don’t think they know that.
Heather begins to run her fingers through my hair. They’re both looking at me sort of funny, and you can tell they don’t really want to talk.
My scotch is gone.
“How does it feel?” Dawn asks me while Heather touches the cool tip of her nose against my cheek.
“How does what feel?”
“Out of that entire crowd of scrumptious men, we picked you.” She brushes her hair behind her shoulders and tilts her head, waiting my reply. Her dress glitters, rose and gold.
“You do this often? Is this your thing? Finding guys at parties and bringing them home with you?”
“It’s not like we’re whores,” Dawn says.
“I don’t think he means that,” Heather defends. “Jim, when we see a guy we both like, we bring them home and make them feel good and let them make us feel good and make each other feel good. It’s a triangle of goodness. You see anything wrong with that?”
“No.” Feeling pretty aroused now.
Heather nibbles my ear and stands. “Come on.”
I follow the twins into their bedroom. Feel like I’m straddling this fence, and on one side is fear, on the other, pure sensuality. They sort of go hand in hand I think.
“Ladies,” I say as we enter the dark bedroom, and Dawn lights three candles on a dresser and turns on a lava lamp. “I know you probably think I do this all the time, but I’ve never had two. I just don’t—”
“We’ll take care of you, baby,” Heather says as the bite of the struck match fills the room, and I kind of love her for saying that.
They step out of their glittery dresses and climb onto the bed. They’re naked in the candlelight, on their knees facing each other. Long hair. Short hair. Miles of smooth skin. Like one creature. More beauty than I have ever seen. They hold hands. The comforter is black silk. They begin to kiss, and then wave me over to join them.
This moment, this night is so much more than Lance deserves. As I undress, I can feel him beginning to fade. I won’t fight it. I think I’m beginning to understand now.
Some things, you just let die.
In the morning, I climb out of bed before they wake and walk into the kitchen, fully intending to prepare a breakfast of historic proportions. But when I open the fridge, I see that this is not in the cards. There’s a bag of lettuce, several dozen bottled waters, and more Yoplait than any human being should ever see at one time.
I open the freezer, praying for a bag of bagels, something, but it houses only trays of ice and frozen dinners. Low-fat, no salt, low-calorie, cholesterol-free, organic, soy, vegan meals, to be specific.
My head feels like a bowling ball on my shoulders, and yogurt isn’t going to remedy this hangover. I walk back into the twins’ bedroom. They look lovely curled up back-to-back, and I stand there for a moment, just taking them in. I couldn’t do this if they were awake, because last night is over. Last night wasn’t about a connection, or liking, or loving. It’s awfully sad, and I’m doing all I
can not to give a shit, but that’s difficult for me. So I stand at the foot of their bed for five minutes, watching them sleep, loving them as much as one can when under the gun of these callous rules.
Then I take my horribly wrinkled clothes out into the living room and dress. I’ll need to get my suit pressed before I go anywhere important. It’s 8:10, and I’ve got to have some coffee, something greasy.
I don’t even leave a note.
So it’s 8:30 and I’m strolling down the sidewalk, and I’ll bet everyone who walks past me is thinking, man that guy had a big night. And I did. It’s true. My suit looks like shit, and I’ve got these dark sunglasses on, a script under my arm, and even though I feel pretty rundown, I’m floating.
I cross E. 40th Street, and there’s a diner on the corner called DINER, so I step inside and claim a stool. I go ahead and take the sunglasses off so people don’t think I’m an asshole. It’s okay to wear them outside at this hour of the morning if you’re a Star, but inside might be pushing it.
I order so much damn food it takes up more than my allotment of counter space, but who gives a fuck, you know? I’m just in that kind of a mood this morning, and that’s pretty rare for me. Normally, I’m highly concerned about what people think. Even strangers.
I’m not used to being this happy, and I can’t imagine it lasting all day. If I’m still this high in ten hours, I’ll be hurting, like at the end of an orgasm when it all becomes too much. You know, it’s kind of sad being this happy, because it can’t last. And the second you realize that, the joy begins to wane. And once you start coming down, you wonder if you were really happy at all, because shouldn’t real happiness withstand the knowledge that it can’t last? And once you realize you weren’t really happy, it occurs to you that what caused this interval of euphoria was nothing more than a bunch of chemicals floating around in your brain.
Fuck me. I’ve talked myself out of being happy.
When I finish the short stack and the bacon, I get my coffee refilled and pull out the script. It’s only a twenty-eight page play. My lines begin on page fifteen and end on seventeen. Matt’s gone to the trouble of bolding them for me.
As it turns out, my character is a therapist—the absolute worst therapist you’ve ever met in your life. And in my scene, Gerald brings Cindy (they’re the main characters in the play) to have a session with me because Cindy has mistreated the love of Gerald’s life—his dog, Poopsie.
I’m Dr. Lovejoy, and the scene goes like this:
ACT ONE
SCENE FIVE
AT RISE:
The following morning. GERALD and CINDY are sitting beside each other on a loveseat, alone in the office of a psychiatrist, DR. LOVEJOY. DR. LOVEJOY walks in and sits down in a chair before the couple. GERALD is visibly upset.
GERALD
Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Dr. Lovejoy.
DR. LOVEJOY
Yes, well, my time is extremely limited, so why don’t you tell me the problem.
CINDY
(sarcastically)
I’m the problem.
DR. LOVEJOY
I’ll decide that.
GERALD
No, she’s right, Doctor. She most certainly is the problem. She’s an enormous problem.
DR. LOVEJOY
(to Gerald)
So. You initiated this session. What would you like for me to say?
GERALD
What do you mean?
DR. LOVEJOY
What did you come here to hear? Everyone who comes into this office has something in mind they want to hear. Some behavior they want rationalized. Permission to cheat on their wife. Write off their parents. What is it that you want?
GERALD
I want you to help us to—
DR. LOVEJOY
(standing and shouting)
Just stop! Let us dispense with you trying to make me think you really care about having this relationship healed. Let’s go right to the end of where all of this is going. What do you want? Permission to leave her? Go ahead. Leave. You want to change her. Knock yourself out. I don’t care. Just tell me what you want to hear, and I’ll say it convincingly and sympathetically, and give you my bill and you can go ahead and do what you were already going to do, with my four hundred and twenty-five dollar-an-hour blessing. So, Gerald. What. Do. You. Want. To. Hear.
GERALD
(tearing up)
Last week, Cindy microwaved my dog, Poopsie, for forty-five seconds. It didn’t kill her, but she walks diagonally now. I want to microwave Cindy’s Persian cat.
DR. LOVEJOY
(sits back down and leans forward, looking intently at CINDY and GERALD)
Ready?
BLACKOUT
Chapter 6
returns to Edenwald ~ in Central Park ~ oops ~ rehearsal ~ tries to act ~ fails ~ has an epiphany
After the night I’ve had, it’s a bit of a letdown returning to the Worst Hotel in the World. It’s nearly 11:00 a.m., and the sun already showering through the blinds. I can tell it’s going to be another blistering day. Laughter reaches me through the cracked window, and I stand peering through the blinds for a moment, watching the boys throwing dice down on the baking concrete steps of their apartment building. I wonder if they do this all summer long.
It feels terrible to be here, like a great, fat lie, so I change into a pair of khaki slacks and a white oxford shirt and get the hell out of this rank hotel.
Since I still have several hours before I have to be at Hamilton Studio, I catch a cab to W. 110 St., the northern boundary of Central Park, and follow a path until the smell of trees is stronger than the smell of traffic.
I wander off the path and find a place in the shade of a big oak. The grass is soft and warm. Through the foliage, I see pieces of blue, spring sky, and I smile at that joy swells up in me again.
I take the script out of my satchel and read through my lines once more. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little scared. Matt’s expecting an Oscar winner to pull off this scene in his play. Jansen’s a terrific actor. Sure, he does his share of suspense flicks that don’t call for the nuances of brilliant acting. But he’s also put out five or six Oscar-caliber performances, and it’s these against which I’ll be judged.
I’ve got my lines down cold, so I’m not worried about forgetting them. My memory is photogenic. What I’m worried about is me reading onstage with the other actors, and Matt and everyone in the theatre knowing instantly that I’ve never acted professionally in my life. I have the physical resemblance to Jansen to pull this off, and I can do his voice. But what concerns me is not knowing if I have the hardwiring to play this part. Sure I’ve said Jansen’s famous lines to myself in the mirror while shaving, and I thought I was pretty good. But honestly, what do I know?
I eat lunch at a Greek deli on Central Park N. Rehearsal is only an hour away, and my mouth runs dry just thinking about it. As I’m standing to leave, this woman saunters over to my table and says, “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Jansen, but could I trouble you for an autograph? I’m a huge fan.” She hands me a pen and a credit card receipt to sign.
“What’s your name?” I ask, turning the receipt over on my table.
“Lauren. I just loved you in My Last Day.”
I sign, “To Lauren,” but I can’t really think of anything remotely witty or charming to write. So I just sign my name, hand it back to her.
On my way out the door, I realize that I signed Lancelot Blue Dunkquist.
I hate that fucking name.
I arrive at Hamilton Studio at 2:05 and walk through the lobby into the theatre. It’s dark and empty except for the stage, where the director and two stars sit on the sofa set-piece, basking under that autumn-afternoon lighting.
I’ve never been in a theatre quite like this. Well, I’ve never been in any theatre since I did Thoroughly Modern Millie in middle school, so I guess that doesn’t mean anything. The stage is the low point of the room. Seats surround it on thre
e sides, each row a little higher than the one in front of it. For Love in the 0’s, the stage consists of several hardwood panels that jut out from the back wall. There’s no curtain. Set pieces are swapped out under the cover of darkness.
“Jim!” Matt calls from the sofa as I descend toward the stage between the rows. He rises, along with his actors, and we meet at the foot of the first hardwood floor panel.
He’s still dressed in black. I wonder if he’s one of those people, who, once they find a cool outfit, stick with it until the end of time.
“Good to see you again, man,” he says, sounding genuinely happy to see me. “I want to introduce you to Jane Remfry and Ben Lardner.” The actors look to be in their mid-twenties. I wonder if they were in grad school with Matt. Ben is tall and quirky-looking. He has a goatee, and I’ve never cared for people who keep goatees. They’re suspect.
“Ben, Jane,” I say, shaking their hands. “A pleasure.”
I’m turning it on now. I can feel Jansen flowing through me like a shot of adrenaline.
“I am so honored and excited to be working with you, Mr. Jansen,” Jane says.
She’s a cutie. Tall and slim. Short, blond hair. Very Icelandic.
“Call me Jim, please.”
“I feel the same way, sir,” Ben says, and he actually shakes my hand again which is pretty funny. They’re star-struck as hell.
“So,” Matt says, putting his hand on my shoulder, and grinning at me through those thick, black frames. “How’d things go for you last night after the party?”
I smile that I-slept-with-beautiful-twins smile, and he fills the empty theatre with his laughter.