by Adam Wilson
Walking – Pros: They can hold hands. They can stop at a bar at any point to refuel. Cons: Walking takes the longest and they’ve already walked a lot today, feet beginning to tire, especially hers, and especially if she’s wearing heels. It also extends the conversation, which means Greg has to come up with new shit to say when he’s basically out of material. Walking is not ideal.
Luckily, there’s a fourth option, which, though imperfect, has become a go-to for Greg. That option is Mhustle. Unintuitive? Perhaps. Risky in its betrayal of Greg’s membership in the privileged elite? Certainly. But here’s how it works: first, it’s very important that Greg wait until his date proposes the idea of heading elsewhere. Under no circumstances should Greg make the suggestion himself; if it doesn’t happen, so be it. If his date does make this suggestion, however, Greg will momentarily hesitate, not because he’s not up for it—the last thing he wants to do is make her feel rejected—but because the transport options are so shitty. But then Greg must act like he’s had a revelation, which is that Communitiv.ly has a Mhustle account that its employees are encouraged to use as a funky job perk. And, OMG, it’s so easy. He just has to punch his touchscreen and five minutes later they’ll be nestled into the tiny back seat of a sun-gold ’68 Camaro.
If she doesn’t know about Mhustle, all the better. It’s sort of like Lyft, Greg will explain, but instead of Teslas and Priuses, the company owns a fleet of vintage American muscle cars. The service is mostly used by businesses to provide clients with a novel way of getting around. Soon, the service will blow up and the novelty will wear off, but for now it’s a fun and semi-original way of making his date feel less weird about Greg paying for the ride. Besides, Mhustle is a model of corporate responsibility, hiring displaced cabbies and Arecibo guys whose knowledge of the city’s valves and arteries means they can provide an authentic sans-GPS transportation experience.
Back at his place, he’ll jokingly give her a tour of the apartment, joking because it’s so small that really there’s no tour to give, but here are some photos of his family, and here’s his record player, and why doesn’t she pick out some music while he runs to the bathroom?
He actually does need to pee—has for hours—and now he unloads, flushes, then a touch of hair gel to thicken his waves and re-cover the tiny bald spot she probably hasn’t noticed. He washes his hands, gargles a capful of mouthwash, not so much that the mint will be obvious on his breath, but enough to hide any buildup of reflux. When he exits the bathroom there’s music playing and maybe she’s reaching toward the shelf to thumb through a book. Greg approaches from behind and wraps his arms around her waist. Next thing he knows, either he’s going down on her or she’s saying she’s not really into that so why don’t they try something else, and either way, an hour later they’re parsing delivery options in bed.
Of course, things don’t always work quite so perfectly. It’s obvious that they won’t, today, within ten minutes of meeting Sophia.
She’s certainly attractive, half Greek with walnut skin and those oversized Mediterranean eyes that look like figs or dates or just big-ass raisins. She has medium-sized breasts that he will not do the injustice of comparing to fruit, yoga-buff arms, strong thighs, a great wide ass, sexily coffee-stained European teeth, and good fashion sense. She’s wearing a sort of couture safari dress matched with patterned tights and heeled black bootlets that give her upwards of six inches on Greg.
None of this is the problem. Greg has dated gorgeous women before and is not intimidated, though he does prefer women who aren’t quite so confident. Height isn’t a problem either; women tend to be impressed by Greg’s Napoleonic confidence and the fact that he really makes being short work for him, style-wise. No, the problem today is that after they made their introductions, Sophia offered him a hit from her pen. If he declined, that would mean he was boring, and if he accepted, that would mean he’d be stoned.
Greg chose the latter, and Sophia encouraged him to take not one but something like five or six hits, and now they’re in the modern wing of the permanent collection.
“What do you think Rauschenberg was after with this one?” asks Sophia. “What was he getting at?”
Greg takes a long moment before answering, hoping the pause will be read as consideration of the question as he examines the piece and synthesizes his insights on some important connection between its texture and composition, rather than what it is: a bid for time while Greg tries to pull something vague and opaque enough out of his ass that she won’t realize he has no idea what he’s talking about.
This is Greg’s fifth date since Lillian took over his Tinder and matched him with women whose profiles suggest involvement with #Occupy. The plan is for Greg to disseminate a rumor about Jay Devor’s connection to the Gatsby Murder. He doesn’t know why Lillian wants him to do this, but he isn’t bothered; so far all the dates have been hot.
It was Sophia’s idea to hit the permanent collection. Greg would have preferred to see the group show from Palestinian photographers on the front lines of occupied Gaza because (a) his knowledge of Middle East politics, though by no means comprehensive, is much stronger than his knowledge of modern art, (b) he took two photography courses at Tufts and can fake his way through a discussion of the difference between journalistic, artistic, and portrait photography, perhaps pointing out that one of the photos—intentionally or not—seems to echo a famous Cartier-Bresson in terms of its indifference to light and angle at the behest of capturing emotional truth, and (c) the bigger exhibition would have been more crowded than the mostly empty modern wing, allowing Greg to express his previously practiced observations about the strangeness of art as public spectacle, and the impossibility of really seeing the work in this context, what with tourists snapping photos and kids running and crying; the sacred turned commercial, the exhibition a highway that leads to the gift shop where you can buy Jackson Pollock children’s paint sets, and Warhol temporary tattoos, and Keith Haring sneakers, and truly ugly kitchenware designed by Jeff Koons.
But Sophia wanted to escape the crowds and space out in front of the Rothkos—which, Greg must admit, look cool when you’re stoned—and get deep by discussing the true meaning of certain works like the Rauschenberg at which they currently stare.
“I think it’s about America,” Greg says, realizing as the words come out that it’s one of the more obvious and uninteresting observations ever made on the subject of art.
20.
The movie is set in a near future where, instead of being buried, skeletons are cut into small pieces, and bones and fragments are given as souvenirs to families of the deceased. The fragments are turned into key chains, coat buttons, necklace pendants, and smartphone cases. Teeth are worn on dental-floss bracelets. Heads are pickled and displayed on mantels. Hearts are hardened into molds and carried as talismans in heart-shaped pockets within heart-shaped purses. Coach was the first to produce this design. The film’s protagonist, a teenage girl, carries her dead father’s heart wherever she goes, and is dismayed when imitators begin carrying faux hearts in faux Coach bags because, unlike hers, their fathers aren’t dead. Coach spent millions on product placement and a rewrite that further emphasized the film’s anti-counterfeiting message. The New York Times called it Catcher in the Rye for Gen Y.
“Great flick,” says Michael. He got to the Berkshires this morning. The funeral’s not until Saturday, but after last night, he thought it worth giving Wendy time to cool down. She’ll take the bus tomorrow night, or early Saturday morning. Rachel looks up to reveal for the nth time, though it’s always a shock, the scorpion tattooed across her right cheek.
“Is it?” Rachel says.
Enter their mother. Lydia looks the same as always: elegant and slim, with razor-thin eyebrows, and a touch of mascara. A sweater-dress emphasizes her beanpole physique. She says, “Oh good, I’m glad you’re both here. I need to know what you want for dinner. The options are Chinese or
pizza.”
Never an enthusiastic chef, Lydia gave up cooking when Michael went to college. Rachel was raised on boxed mac and cheese and foot-long subs. It might be why she’s a candidate for Type 2 diabetes. Michael doesn’t know his sister well. He left home just after her bat mitzvah, and by the time he returned for Christmas break, Rachel was unrecognizable, a purple-haired freshman who rarely showed up for school. The siblings never managed to reconnect. Rachel bore the brunt of their parents’ bad years, and she resents Michael’s absence during that difficult decade. Now she’s in her mid-thirties, stuck in Pittsfield doing drone repair, and living with Donny, her boyfriend, a short-order cook whose passion is extreme body mod. There’s not an inch of Donny’s skin that isn’t pierced or inked, and he recently had magnets implanted in his wrists for purposes that are unclear to anyone.
“Doesn’t matter,” says Michael. “Either is fine.”
“I’m eating out,” says Rachel.
“Eating out where?” says Lydia.
“Eating out your pussy,” says Rachel.
Their mother doesn’t bat a lash, she’s so used to this shit. “Pizza, then,” she says, and leaves the room.
Michael sinks into the couch. He studies the room which, despite bearing the same wall-hangings that have been here since his parents bought the house over thirty years prior, feels strangely different.
“New curtains?”
“New TV,” replies Rachel. Which should have been obvious, a fifty-inch monitor in place of the boxy old one. “And a new stereo, and lamps, and desk, and the couch you’re currently sitting on.”
Michael looks down. He finds himself on a leather sofa.
“Where did all this stuff come from?”
“Dad bought it.”
“Why would Dad buy living room furniture? He doesn’t leave the game room.”
“Beats me,” says Rachel, occupied by something on her tablet.
“What are you doing on that thing?”
She turns it so Michael can see. Rachel appears to be operating a remote drone that hovers outside Donny’s window. Donny makes himself a sandwich, slathering too much mayo on both slices of bread. The slats from the shades slightly shadow the image, but otherwise the picture is clear.
“Does he know you’re watching?”
“I think he gets off on it.”
As if on cue, Donny looks into the camera, makes a V with his fingers, wags his tongue between them.
“Do you get off on it?”
“I just want to make sure he isn’t doing anything sketchy, like cooking meth.”
“Right,” says Michael, unsure if this is a legitimate concern.
The scorpion covers Rachel’s acne scars, but they’re still visible, and she still has a thin layer of down on her chin, and brown eyes so light they’re almost clay-colored, and the habit of unconsciously biting one side of her lip in a way that makes the other puff out like it’s been punched, and slightly elfin ears, the tips of which poke through her stringy hair. She’s wearing an old T-shirt of Michael’s and a pair of their father’s moccasins, and as he stares at his sister in the blue TV light, Michael realizes he’s crying.
He covers his face with his hands. Rachel doesn’t say a word or make a move to touch him. She doesn’t turn off the TV. Donny doesn’t have crying jags often, but occasionally they come. Early on, Rachel tried to comfort him during these outbursts, but quickly realized that a hand on his shoulder or trite words of consolation made him angry. Men don’t want their sensitivity acknowledged or condescendingly soothed. They prefer to be politely ignored.
Rachel can’t imagine how Michael feels. She, herself, always felt a kinship with Ricky, who, like her, was unapologetically weird and usually high. He was also unjudgmental, whereas Michael always seemed to want something more out of Rachel, was always so transparently disappointed in the person she’d become. A person—she might add, if she and Michael ever actually talked—who despite her appearance and disinterest in words like career, is fairly happy and surprisingly mature; a person who has become an adult under adverse circumstances; who’s built a real, if occasionally difficult, relationship with a complicated guy; a person gainfully employed and good at her job; a person who has her shit semi-together.
After a moment, the sobbing stops. The siblings watch the movie in silence. The protagonist’s anti-counterfeiting crusade has taken her to the Oval Office where she gives an impassioned speech on the inviolability of the human heart. Her dead father’s, in this case, calcified, and clenched in her palm like she’s about to chuck a curveball.
“Tell me something about Donny,” says Michael.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, a fact or something. I want to get to know him as a person. The man behind the magnets.”
“Why?”
“Because my sister loves him. So there must be something special about him.”
“Barf.”
21.
That was the East Coast, an earlier life. Broder BC, as he thinks of it—Before California.
Rehab wasn’t an initial success. Five stints in as many years. Between, there were halfway houses, friends’ couches and basements, a quasi-girlfriend’s West Hollywood condo where he found a dozen infant turtles dead in the pool. He nodded off along the Venice boardwalk with dreadlocked white dudes and their hemp-collared dogs. He worked at a car wash and brought paper-bag lunches, Oscar Mayer turkey with mustard on rye, and he watched the clean cars emerge into sunlight, and for that brief moment he believed in redemption. He took the bus and he pitied the other riders, and he pitied himself the squandered promise of his stupid pedigree: highborn Broder breathing bus fumes, crumpled over the wheel well, chugging along. Soon he was stumbling: bar-lit, street-lit, kicking clumps of sod from pristine lawns. His sponsor hooked him up with a busing gig at a Koreatown steakhouse and Broder did Oxy with the chefs in the back. He copped. He called his father. He returned to rehab.
They met in the lunchroom on her twenty-first birthday. Three candles in an Entenmann’s donut. Powdered-sugar residue caked to paper plates. With a straw, she pretended to snort.
He hadn’t seen her before, but he knew the type. She of the stepdad’s Malibu beach house, of the solstice parties filled with C-list celebs skinny-dipping at dawn, coke-numbed to the cold. Her type lay on the porch and evened their tans. In Group, they rarely shared.
Broder didn’t condescend. His own weed grew from the same privileged garden. The only difference was age. At twenty-six, he’d reached recidivism’s terminal stage.
“My name’s Broder,” Broder said.
She asked if that was a first or last name. He said it was a mononym, like Prince or Madonna. Her laugh was high-pitched and horsey, a laugh-slash-neigh. Her teeth were corn-colored and metallically capped, and one was brown-stained with what looked like an H. Her T-shirt said Stay Gold in lamé. He liked that. Irony was hard to come by in California.
Broder was wrong about the stepdad, but right about the beach house. At first that’s where they stayed, at poolside remove from chemical temptation.
Aliana taught Broder to cook. Simple dishes: fried eggs, omelets, spaghetti with meat sauce. She was half Italian and he liked pasta, so they continued with pasta: baked ziti, gnocchi, linguine with clams. She had to convince him to try puttanesca. Broder feared anchovies. He was a culinary naïf from the sheltered suburbs. He grew up eating at chains, watching his mom pinball between binge and shame, with the attendant crash diets and quick-fix fads that always arced toward the kitchen at 2 a.m., eating fistfuls of sheet cake, tonguing frosting from palms. It was new to Broder, this idea of food as a rarefied pleasure, as a thing to be admired in the broad light of day. And, eventually, he mastered carbonara—the trick, Aliana explained, was to discard the egg whites and only use the yolks.
They jokingly called theirs the Fuck Atkins Diet. A
ll carbs all the time for the recovering junkie! Guaranteed to put color on a drug-ashened face! And how beautiful it felt to be mildly bloated, slicing heirloom tomatoes in a modular kitchen with sliding windows that gave way to Pacific infinity, smog pink sky.
Broder picked parsley and she taught him how to chop it correctly, knife like a seesaw. He picked basil for pesto, and she taught him how to crush it with a mortar and pestle. Broder liked her long, elegant nose with its flat bridge and nostril flare. The nose gave her just a hint of the non-California-native, a hint that she wasn’t born bronzed in a two-piece, shoulders to sunshine. Because all else about her appearance conformed to type: perennial tan, dirty blond hair that hung to her waist. The nose said to Broder that she was imperfect, not a goddess but a demigod. The nose said to Broder that this wasn’t a dream. The nose and the teeth.
A gardener named Jorge came twice a week and he called Broder Maestro for reasons unknown. And one morning, Broder watched Jorge gulp from a sweating can of Coors as he circled the lawn on the riding mower, and Broder imagined just licking the can, those musty-sweet drops saturating his tongue. He thought of kindly explaining that he was an addict, and she was an addict, and Jorge was working, so if Jorge didn’t mind, but instead he snipped flowers—lily of the Nile, African irises, big pink daisies that looked like windmills—and arranged them in bouquets for the kitchen island. He learned the names of the flowers from a gardening book, and he found it satisfying to repeat them aloud. It occurred to Broder that a florist was a bit like a DJ: a provider of context, a steward of taste. And he thought that in the fall, when they’d moved, as they’d discussed, to her place in Los Feliz, he could get himself a job at a small flower shop. He could be happy in that life.