Adverbs

by Daniel Handler

  “Hey,” the guy said.

  “Hey,” Joe said back. Some people had been talking in the bigger room but Joe had just sat and let the eggs take care of things for a while. Maybe now though, Joe felt summoned to do some talking.

  “Do you mind it,” the guy said, “if I talk over the pros and cons of working the night shift?”

  Joe tried to decide. The guy had big fluffy earphones down around his neck like he might listen to some music later. The vest had stains. On one hand, it would be boring. On the other hand, also boring. “Sure,” Joe said.

  “I’m not working right now,” the guy said. “Are you working?”

  “I work at Stop AIDS Now,” Joe said.

  “AIDS?” the guy said. Also, he was ugly. “The thing fags get?”

  Joe decided that fighting bigotry wasn’t his job that day, what with jury duty. “Yep.”

  “That’s rough,” the guy said. “You gay?”

  “Nah,” Joe said. There had been three or maybe four very attractive people in the larger room, not relevant to the case.

  “So I’m not working,” the guy said. “Not a lot of jobs since the catastrophe, but I’ve been offered a couple of things and they’re night shift. You know?”

  “Where?” Joe said.

  “Supermarket,” the guy said. “It’s night shift. There’s things to load but they’re not that heavy because you have a thing to wheel them around in. You know, here’s the lettuce. I did that before. But the place is crawling with rats.”

  “Well,” Joe said.

  “Yeah,” the guy said.

  “Rats aren’t nice,” Joe said.

  “They suck is what. They suck is what the rats are doing there, so what do you think?”

  “I don’t think you should take that job,” Joe said.

  “There’s more you need to know about my situation,” the guy said.

  “I’m not going to give you any money,” Joe said.

  “That’s not it either,” the guy said, “but my other choice is medical transcription.”

  “Okay,” Joe said, but only because it seemed like he should do something while the guy wiped his lips with the palm of his hand.

  “I sit in a room and listen to tapes,” the guy said. “That’s all I do. That’s the whole job. The Jewish people work there. Everything that the doctors say, like white male with no preexisting conditions. Appears to be cysts. Stuff like that. Very rare case. Nomenclature and incision, surgery right away. I do this and I look at all of the Jewish people and even though it’s nothing personal I know they are going to steal me blind. I’m surrounded by the Jewish people who want to steal all the money is what’s happening. They are Jewish and they are willing to break the law.”

  Joe felt willing to break the law, although there are so many laws it is essential for the purposes of this case to differentiate. Joe was ready to break the law prohibiting prayer in government buildings. Joe didn’t want to decide something for himself, like could I please move somewhere else. He knew the odds. Not when there’s a flag. Nonetheless the longing, the prayerful sort of longing that does not stop when you know the house is empty and the last of her stuff is gone. The longing for the decision to be made for you, while you lie with the minions on the floor, please, please, please. Please powerful something. Some sword of justice. Some truthful brass gong. I will light any incense. I will renew my driver’s license fifteen times. I will never ask for any other toy, this is the only toy I want, please please will someone lift me out of this room. Could I please be lifted. Could today be the one. Could some large fist stop it for a second and open up the great palm of everything I started dreaming of as soon as I knew this would not last, could I be plucked, could something just pluck me out and up and over and through and away and any other parts of speech you would demand of me. Judgmentally judgmentally judgmentally I would believe in you and swordfight others who did not, any necessary sacrifice if you were in the mood for that. I would give anything. Open my wallet and lungs. Take anything, you requisite criminals, you summoning thieves of this terrible place where every story seems to be set. I will drive you to the airport, O Lord our God, first thing in the morning if that’s when the plane is. Take all my breakfasts away from me but let the jury duty end. Don’t make me listen to the guy any longer. The guy keeps talking. Will not the King or Whatever of Hosts read my name out loud from the Book of Love?

  “Attention if I read your name out loud,” the woman said too loudly. “Then you are excused from official jury duty for the year. If I read your name you are excused. Joe is excused. Several other people are excused. I will read their names out loud incorrectly and real slow.”

  Joe! For the year! He stood up while other people were talking. They could not move their legs fast enough he was stumbling over them out of the bench so quickly. “I thought all week,” some people said. “How come her, and not me? Why couldn’t you tell us in the big room, and not me? Why are babies dying in faraway lands?” Not Joe. Joe didn’t ask a thing. He had after all promised not to in his prayers. Below the portrait of the father of the United States: In God We Trust. If we trust Him then we don’t point out that he doesn’t exist. It is rude. We promised. We take his impressive hand and we go out of the revolving doors to the sunlight of the bus stop of the downtown district of the city. The light shining on Joe is the prettiest thing in any book you have ever read. Thank you, thank you, thank you, you are dismissed.

  They say love’s like a bus, and if you wait long enough another one will come along, but not in this place where the buses are slow and most of the cute ones are gay. “I could take the bus,” Joe said out loud, “but a taxi is better. Taxis are better than buses.” This felt good and a taxi pulled up due to the fact he was raising his hand, which in the United States means please pull up, taxi.

  He got in. Filthy but so what? Taxis are better than buses. “Where to?” the taxi driver said who was a young lady hoping maybe this day might be the miracle.

  “Um,” Joe said. “I don’t know. I just got out of jury duty. Everybody thinks I’m in it for the rest of the week. I could go anywhere.”

  The lady said, “Look, buddy,” and then she turned around and the milk of human kindness flowed into her veins. “Well,” she said, and smiled at his grin. “Where are we going to go?”

  “The best place in the city is the Black Elephant,” Joe said.

  “On Grand?” the lady said. “That’s your favorite place?”

  “It’s the best place,” Joe corrected. “The places in the city are ranked as follows. The Black Elephant. The Shanghai Express. Stirrup Park. My friend Mark’s apartment. The Eden Fruitery. Lambchop’s Diner, why did I not have breakfast there this morning? I’m crazy. It’s the sixth-best place in the city and the best place to have eggs.”

  “Lou’s Kitchen is better if you want eggs,” the lady said.

  “I don’t want eggs and no it isn’t. Then comes the museum and then movie theaters, all in a row: Rialto. Cinema Experience. And so on.”

  “You seem very sure of yourself,” the lady said, and they smiled. It was a judgment call to smile but they did it. They smiled like they already knew each other and the way the story goes, like they already liked each other but hadn’t been in each other’s company for years and now—now—now was their miraculous chance, but first they would pretend not to recognize each other, because why the hell not.

  “I am,” Joe said, “certainly sure of myself. I am certain.”

  “So you want to go to the Black Elephant?”

  “I never want to go anywhere else in my whole life.”

  A squawk on the taxi radio distracted the lady from maybe realizing anything more about Joe for the moment. She picked up the speaker device and spoke into it, saying “Yes” and “No” and “No” and “The Black Elephant” and “The Black Elephant” and “Down near Wyatt” and “No” and “No” “Eleven” and “Nowhere near there” and “No” in a voice curdled with talking to someone she did
n’t like. Joe loved the listen of it, the beat of her annoyance, and realized he was syncing it up with the song he was thinking about anyway. The song is called “Lady Cab Driver” and the real lyrics are like this:

  Lady cab driver can U take me for a ride

  Don’t know where I’m going cause I don’t know

  where I’ve been

  So just put your foot on the gas—let’s drive

  Lady don’t ask questions, I promise I’ll tell U no lies

  Trouble winds-a-blowin’ I’m growin cold

  Get me outta here I feel like I’m gonna die

  Lady cab driver, roll up our window fast

  Lately trouble winds are blowin hard

  And I don’t know if I can last

  Lady I’m so lonely I know that’s not the way to be

  I don’t want isolation but the air it makes me cold

  Drive it baby drive it, drive this demon out of me

  Take me to your mansion honey let’s go everywhere

  Help me girl I’m drowin’ mass confusion in my head

  Will U accept my tears to pay the fare

  Lady cab driver, roll up your window fast

  Lately trouble winds are blowin’ hard

  And I don’t know if I can last

  and that’s it. Those are the whole lyrics. “Did you hear that guy?” the lady asked. “That’s Drecko. He tried to fire me last night and now he wants me to do him a favor.”

  “He’s a terrible person,” Joe said. “I challenge him to a swordfight and anybody else who tries to fire you.”

  “I like you,” the lady said and laughed with her hair needing combing.

  “I like you and I like taxis,” Joe said. “Taxis are the best way to travel. I’m only going to take taxis from now on.”

  “That’ll be expensive,” the lady said.

  “I should be earning twelve times my current salary,” Joe said. “I’m doing the most important work on Earth. People are dying every day and people are still stupid about it. Those people—it’s a long story—are the worst people on Earth. Drecko is one of them.”

  “He sure is,” the lady agreed. “You know, I’m not sure the Black Elephant is even open now.”

  “Sure it is,” Joe said. “An impressive hand is carrying me through all seemingly locked doors.”

  “You’re acting kinda kooky,” the lady said. “Are you drunk? A religious nut?”

  “I guess I’m feeling religious,” Joe said. “I guess I’m starting a religion that believes taxis are better than buses and tipping you fifty dollars is a religious sacrament. Why can’t I start a religion? Lots of people did it a long time ago, and where are they now?”

  “Dead,” the lady said.

  “When you were talking to Drecko,” Joe said, “I was thinking of that song ‘Lady Cab Driver,’ do you know that song?”

  “Everybody sings it to me,” the lady said.

  “It’s the best song on Earth,” Joe said. “I’ll buy it for you on CD. It’s my new hymn. It’s the best song there is and it makes me happy just to think about it. How many happy people do you think there are in the world? Twelve?”

  “I don’t know,” the lady said. She shrugged and the two of them watched someone very old and very short walk slowly in front of them. Character description: Chinese. Old woman. Not lonely. Has groceries she paid for herself, Joe would judge. Anyone normal would judge. This is it, the job we are given, to form some specific and inexplicable judgment, to prefer the delicious food that is offered to the selfish money we might otherwise keep. Even that bird there, ignoring the Chinese woman in favor of something to eat or make into a nest, could tell you that in chirp language. Love is a preference, and Joe found one as he was summoned to do. He found the love story he preferred, although he didn’t render this judgment officially until three years later when he and this cabdriver right here lay laughing and naked over how giddy he was during the miracle, during the blatant afternoon they met. “My friends sure aren’t happy,” the lady said, thinking about what was said instead of what was walking which was her right as a citizen. “My friend Joe used to be happy I guess, but then he got heartbroken.”

  “I got heartbroken myself,” Joe said. “At the time we said it wasn’t anybody’s fault but it was mine. I’m guilty of that most certainly. But at least she got happy again. I’m happy to say she got happy again although it makes me sad to admit it, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean and what can you do?” the lady said. “My old boyfriend got sued by his own mother.”

  “I rule that the mother is at fault,” Joe said. “She’s a terrible criminal, that mother, and so is your old boyfriend unless you don’t think so and have evidence to the contrary. What are we thinking? A volcano could destroy this town tomorrow, or guys with guns. Or both. Of course there’s going to be another catastrophe.”

  “Of course,” the lady agreed, “but both? I don’t think that’s likely.”

  “Likely?” Joe said. “What are the odds that I’m in this cab?”

  The lady smiled the same smile, but Joe wasn’t tired of it. No one ever got tired of this kind of smile, this smile of recognition but pretending not to recognize one another, to keep it strung along, to make the story more interesting as everything happens. Like a song on the radio, if you know what I mean and who doesn’t. The right song, hitting your ears from the shuffle of everything else they play out there. The world could end waiting for it, just some song on the radio, but then one day you click the button and it’s on, and all the traffic in the world can’t matter. Nothing can drown out this song, and look! Out the window the two of them could see it: finally finally finally, a truck was pulling up in front of a café and unloading a mountain of potatoes, shiny with plastic wrap, so some wondrous chef could cook everyone breakfast. “From where I sit,” she said, “the odds are one hundred percent.”

  Joe leaned back in his seat. “You’re the best person I met today and I am going to the Black Elephant and I’m going to be happy every day beginning at eight-thirty sharp. It’s my job.”

  The street stopped whizzing by and the lady cabdriver turned around and pointed at a number showing on the meter in red electric lights. Electricity was invented in the United States if you believe such things but you don’t have to. Nobody has to. The lady pointed at Joe’s number and held out her beautiful, beautiful open palm. Never seen anything so beautiful, never never, Joe and the taxi in the middle of a big fat blessing.

  “You’ve arrived,” she said.

  About the Author

  DANIEL HANDLER is the author of the novels The Basic Eight and Watch Your Mouth, and as Lemony Snicket, a sequence of children’s novels collectively entitled A Series of Unfortunate Events.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  PRAISE FOR

  Adverbs

  “Handler’s killer hook is his gymnastic prose…what stays with you is the music: the elegantly rendered emotion, the linguistic somersaults, the brilliantly turned reminders that there are a million ways to describe love and none of them will be the last word.”

  —New York Times Book Review

  “[Handler] is very, very clever. And this time around, there is more to Handler’s ingenuity than his usual cheeky humor…. [Adverbs] has a cumulative power that is not fully evident until its final pages.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “[Adverbs] works brilliantly and poignantly, taking its ruminations on the complexity and fallibility of love to avian heights.”

  —Washington Post Book World

  “Handler’s third work for adults is a dizzying read, defying categorization…. People…who can handle the fun-house distortions will find wicked humor, odd refractions, and, occasionally, brilliance.”

  —People

  “With Adverbs, Daniel Handler, who’s always been a great stylist, goes ten steps further, to become something like an American Nabokov. He
and the Russian man share a rapturous love of words, a quick and delicate wit, and a lyrical elegance that makes every single sentence silly with pleasure. On a broader level, Adverbs describes adolescence, friendship, and love with such freshness and power that you feel drunk and beaten up but still wanting to leave your own world and enter the one Handler’s created. Anyone who lives to read gorgeous writing will want to lick this book and sleep with it between their legs.”

  —Dave Eggers

  “This lovely, lilting book…dramatizes love’s cross-purposes with panache.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “The stories are clever, unsettling, confusing, and often brilliantly moving.”

  —Library Journal

  “There are good books and there are great books. And then there are books like Daniel Handler’s Adverbs…. It’s a Bloody Mary for the hungover heart. I have such a crush on this book….With his third adult book [Handler] proves himself the master of the love story.”

  —BookPage

  “Brilliantly kooky and off-kilter.”

  —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “One of our most dazzling literary conjurers shuffles the deck of contemporary consciousness and desire. A thrilling feat of tragic magic.”

  —Michael Chabon

  ALSO BY DANIEL HANDLER

  The Basic Eight

  Watch Your Mouth