If movies are to be trusted, you don’t have much space, either. Even doctors and lawyers live in a space that, back home, would be considered kind of like a trailer. But here, put that trailer in the sky and call it magic.
But Milo Hesse does not live in a trailer in the sky. Milo Hesse lives in the kind of place they don’t even show in movies because if they did, you’d never believe it. If they showed this place in movies everybody would stand up in the theater and say, “No way! Un-unh! I don’t believe it!” before storming into the streets and throwing cars everywhere to protest the fact that anybody gets to live like this.
This was Remy’s idea. She thought we might enjoy a little sojourn to “the city.” I guess there must not be any other cities on earth if this one is simply called “the city.”
But there is one place, this place belonging to the family of Milo Hesse, that makes it seem like, of course, there can be no other places.
First and foremost, there is art. And not just any art. No, no. Art that you see in museums. Example: You know that guy who does those paintings of just black with a white date written on the front? I know, I know, they seem ridiculous and like something any fourth grader could do, but they’re worth a zillion dollars. Because art. Well, there are two of them, hanging up on the first floor of what essentially looks to be the top two floors of the building, gutted into an empty space, with a spiral staircase at the other end leading to what I can only imagine to be the villain’s lair upstairs.
Not your taste? Okay, how about this? There’s a giant screen print of Jackie Kennedy, staring across the space at a giant screen print of Marilyn Monroe. Both by that guy with the crazy white hair. There’s a sculpture in the middle of the room that looks like a balloon animal, but it’s as big as an elephant. And the coup de grace, the pièce de résistance, is the entire back wall. It’s taken up by a giant black-and-white photograph, with red writing on it, like you see on those T-shirts. It says: “We Don’t Need Another Hero” in giant red letters, in front of a little girl and a boy flexing his muscles. But they look like a little boy and a girl from the ’50s. And it’s cool. All of it is beyond cool. All of it is designed to make itself look cold and daunting.
And then there’s Milo. He just walks past it all like he’s at the subway station, ignoring entirely the vast trove of contemporary art, and up the staircase.
“I’ll be right back.”
He bounds up the stairs to the devil’s lair, leaving Remy and me to contemplate the giant painting with the kids on it.
“What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know. But it’s pretty cool, don’t you think?”
I nod.
“Barbara Kruger. She’s awesome.”
We both nod, looking around.
Across from us, there’s a black-and-white photograph of a little Latino five-year-old in a Mexican wrestling mask. He’s sort of tubby and happy as a clam. He’s so happy you can’t help but be happy with him.
“That’s a Nan Goldin. Milo’s favorite.”
“Oh.”
“Milo’s parents have a wing named after them at MoMA.”
She senses my vague confusion.
“The Museum of Modern Art. His mom is pretty serious about art, as you can see. And orphans. She’s always doing charity stuff for orphans.”
“Jesus.” I continue to stare at Happy Chubby Boy.
“I know. Don’t ask him about it, ’cause it’ll just embarrass him.”
And now I get it. You can come from this. You can have all of this. But you can’t care about it. Like, you have to shrug it off like it’s no big deal and act like you’re just like the rest of everybody and don’t live in a museum and don’t care that your family’s name is plastered on the side of MoMA and don’t care that everybody can trace your folks back to the Mayflower. That’s how you do it. You just gotta shrug it off. You just gotta pretend the whole thing embarrasses you.
“Don’t you think maybe we should get back to school or something? I mean, we didn’t sign out or anything.”
Remy looks at me and smiles. “Well, we could . . . but I already lied and said we were going to my parents’ house for the weekend.”
“What?! You did?”
“Guilty.”
“And they believed you?”
“Yeah. They pretty much do whatever I want. My dad’s on the board.”
“Huh?”
“The board of trustees, remember?”
“Oh, right. Of course he is.”
I walk around, inspecting the giant balloon animal.
“Jeff Koons. So overrated.” Remy rolls her eyes.
If you live like this, I bet they teach eye-rolling in pre-K.
Standing in the middle of that cavernous space, looking around with the art swallowing me up, it dawns on me that I am a zillion miles from home and light-years away from any world I have ever known. This is a world I kind of didn’t even know existed. I mean, maybe every once in a while I’d catch a glimpse of this world in the past. Like in a Katharine Hepburn movie. But here. And now. In this time. I didn’t really realize there were people who lived like this. And it’s like a wash of sadness comes over me. I’d like to think it was a wash of empathy, sympathy for the huddled masses, and everyone else out there living in a trailer, or a shack, or a tiny hole in the wall, scraping by. But that’s not what it is. If I’m honest with myself.
It’s not that noble.
It’s that I’m never gonna have this. It’s that no matter what I do, or how much I succeed in the world, or how much I struggle and maybe even someday grab the brass ring and somehow end up in a place like this or even bigger than this, I’m never gonna be the one to casually shrug and walk my way past it and act embarrassed and just let it roll off my back like it’s nothing. I’ll never grow up with Andy Warhols staring at me. I’ll never be in the Social Register. I’ll never have the same last name as a president. And even though I spend half my life cracking jokes and making fun of it all . . . the fact of the matter is . . . deep down inside . . . as ashamed as I am to admit it . . . I’m jealous.
I’m fucking jealous.
God, my dad would be so disappointed in me right now.
He really would. He’d lecture me about gratitude and being a good person and never making comparisons. And he’d be right. I know he would be. But that doesn’t change the fact that in the pit of my stomach there’s this sinking feeling that somehow I just lost.
I lost. And nobody even told me we’d started the game.
“Okay, who’s first?”
I look over and there is Milo. He’s standing between Remy and me. And he’s holding out his palm. And on his palm is a pill. Three pills, actually. One for each.
Remy looks at me and smiles.
“I’ll go first.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing bad. Just X.”
And here we go again. It’s not like I didn’t think it was coming. I guess I just didn’t know how I’d feel about it.
But now I know how I’d feel about it. Here, in this place.
There’s something in me. Something that has to do with that last thought. That feeling that I already lost. That feeling that—why not?—what’s the point anyway?
“Let’s do it together. Like, all of us.” It comes out before I know I said it.
Remy nods. “Good idea.”
Milo grabs some water while Remy and I stare at each other, waiting.
“Don’t worry. Milo always has the best stuff. There might not even be a crash. Seriously.”
I’d like to think that this makes me feel good. But it doesn’t. I don’t like what I’m doing, but somehow I’m still doing it. Thinking maybe, just maybe, that little pill will give me the same thing I just lost in this room about five minutes ago. Whatever it is. I want it back.
It’s almost like I don’t want to see this. Like there’s a truth here I don’t want to know. In this place. But if I take the pill. If I take the pill, I don’t
have to see it. Everything will be just great! I don’t have to even care.
Milo comes back and the three of us each take a pill. I notice Milo decides to take two. Guess he had extra.
Remy smiles at me with a twinkle in her eye. I smile back, but I can’t help but wonder, what’s the price this time? What’s the price for this ride?
TWENTY-EIGHT
So I guess if you live in New York in the most perfect place ever with the coolest stuff ever, the first thing you’re supposed to do is leave. I mean, seriously. Why would we want to stick around a giant, empty, superfantastic space in the middle of this whirling dervish of a town? We couldn’t be bothered. How gauche! No one actually stays anywhere superamazing. I mean, why would we want to do that when we could get into a cab and go to Brooklyn to a packed, greasy space filled with weirdos and smoke and something that looks like smoke but kind of smells and tastes like cotton candy and projections everywhere and a zillion people dancing to some kind of throbbing, repetitive mating call?
In case you can’t guess, I’m not happy to be here.
There are a couple of reasons for that.
Whatever this drug is supposed to do, it’s not really doing anything but making me feel like I’m about to throw up, and then I’m okay, then I’m about to throw up, then I’m okay. Remy says it hasn’t kicked in yet. Maybe she’s right. Not sure. But if I am gonna be feeling like this, the last place I want to be is around a bunch of people who you have to wonder what they are doing with their lives to be here in the first place.
And then there’s Milo. Something odd and tantalizing just happened with Milo. On our way into this godforsaken place . . . there was an incident. You see, there was a girl. And not just any girl. Like, a supermodel-looking girl. With long dirty-blond hair and a gap between her teeth. But a foxy gap. Like, she’s the kind of girl that makes a gap between your teeth look glamorous.
Now, normally, this is the kind of girl you would see all sorts of guys rushing over to, but that’s not what happens. No, no. Remy and I both step back and watch as this girl bum-rushes Milo, plants two palms on his chest, and literally pushes him back with brute strength.
“WTF?!”
Milo looks vaguely amused but a bit nervous.
“WTF?! WTF?! WTF?!” Just those letters over and over. And now she is just pushing him backward and he is getting pushed. And people are starting to look over. Remy and I exchange the international look for OMG.WTF.com
“Hi . . .” Milo trails off, his cheeks flushed.
“Hi? That’s all you have to say to me? HI?!”
“Um . . .”
“Yeah, whatever, HI. You know what . . . fuck you!”
And gap-toothed-yet-beautiful storms off.
Now there is just a circle of people staring at Milo, who looks around sheepishly.
“Sorry . . . that was my dentist.”
A few chuckles, a few eye rolls, and everyone gets back to the party.
So, as you can see, Milo is becoming more and more mysterious by the minute. I mean, I thought it was pretty clear that he was the most excellent swoon-worthy person of all time, but maybe he isn’t after all. Maybe he’s a jerk? I mean, that dentist comment wasn’t the nicest. Also, I thought it was pretty clear that I was supposed to be in love with him and all, but that’s not what’s happening, either. And he is presently transforming into some kind of weird turtle who is quiet, withdrawn, and only answering questions with one-word sentences.
Guess that dentist really had an effect.
If you don’t believe me, even Remy is noticing. It’s like he can’t even look at us.
Maybe I shouldn’t have admitted I’m from Iowa. He probably just thinks I’m some dumb hillbilly. I mean, the art on my dad’s walls is not on loan but was straight-up bought from maybe a garage sale or the ROSS Dress for Less, and there’s a kitchen witch involved and also something depicting a cat sleeping in a meadow outside a barn at sunset. There are no giant paintings of Campbell’s tomato soup, but there actually is Campbell’s tomato soup. If you open the top cupboard to the left, you’ll find it.
So there’s that.
That might explain the fact that my mysterious future imaginary husband Milo might as well be in Timbuktu right now, let alone standing right next to me in the middle of this sweaty party or bacchanalian festivity or whatever this is. I am noticing that some of these people are probably too old to be doing this. I mean, like . . . I’m not sure what the cutoff point is for gyrating in sparkly clothes, but I can tell you some of these people are really pushing it.
If you think this is Remy’s cue to look over at me and say, “C’mon, isn’t this fun?!” and then start dancing crazily with that spangly stranger over there in short shorts, then guess what? Wrongo.
Remy looks just as annoyed as me. She’s yelling into Milo’s ear over the music and he’s shrinking and looking around a bit, at a girl wearing what can only best be described as a zebra sequin bathing suit minus the stomach part but with a silver circle attaching the top to a skirt. It’s very confusing. And the girl herself looks confused by it. Or maybe she’s just wondering where the rest of the zebra went.
Milo nods at Remy, and suddenly I am whisked out as if on a kind of people–conveyor belt back into the brisk Brooklyn air.
“God, that was horrible.”
I think it’s the first time I’ve ever heard Remy say anything negative.
“I know. So B and T.”
“B and T?”
“Bridge and tunnel.”
“Like, the people that have to take a bridge and/or tunnel to get here,” Milo fills in.
“Wait . . . didn’t WE have to take a bridge to get here . . . to Brooklyn?”
“NO!”
But definitely yes.
Still, they both say it. I think this is the most emphatic they’ve been all night. Possibly ever.
Here’s the good news.
Our Ecstasy is kicking in.
Here’s the bad news.
Now Milo is puking in the gutter.
TWENTY-NINE
Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that Ecstasy is fun and doesn’t make you puke. But trust me. It does. Or trust Milo. He’ll tell you.
But that’s over now. All of it. The puking. The nausea. The general grodiness. And what seems to have replaced it is the part that everybody goes through that first horrible part for.
Oh, I forgot to tell you what happened. Milo puked, Remy hailed an Uber, and next thing you know we were back in Manhattan, but this time in a place I didn’t know existed. Remy’s place. Or Remy’s family’s place. In Manhattan. Where no one is. Because they are all somewhere called Amasandwich or Amahamburger or something. But whatever the place is, it’s not here, and that means they are not here, which is a good thing because Milo is still looking a little green around the gills. In a cute way. Like if Jared Leto were a space alien. Which doesn’t seem quite outside the realm of possibility.
Basically, what happens is you walk into this French-blue room with white molding everywhere, even up two feet off the ground. So the French blue just kind of looks like these panels, on the top part of the wall. And there’re paintings on them. Discreet ones. Nothing like at Milo’s place. Nothing gigantic and modern. No, no. This is shy, coquettish. The floor is wood, but an elaborate wood design with little squares and shapes in it. And there’s a cherrywood table in the middle with flowers on it. Also, sconces are involved.
That’s just the first room.
The second room, the room with the fireplace that Milo is tinkering with in an effort to either make a fire or burn down the building, has a lot of Chinese-looking panels all around it, but there is also molding and there’s a warm glow coming from somewhere and a grand piano in the corner in case you decided to take up the piano. Really, what’s odd about this room is that you could actually have a ball in it. Not that you could have fun in it. No, no. You could actually have an actual ball in this space. Like with w
altzing and swirling poofy skirts and everything. There are seriously three different seating areas, and that’s not even counting the sort of off-to-the-side seating areas, which seem to consist of two chairs and a little table obviously meant to be used whilst conspiring against the queen.
What I love about Remy is that if you saw her on the street you would never, ever know this. She would never tell you. She might look like she grew up in a laundry machine on tumble dry, but you’d never guess she came from this place. It’s not this place that makes Remy who she is. It’s the fact that she doesn’t seem to notice.
The main event seating area is in front of the fireplace, where Milo is busy at attempted arson and can be seen in the giant mirror behind, which was probably taken from Napoleon some time ago. If you’re wondering where Remy is, she’s rolling on the floor. That’s not an expression. Well, it is, actually. But that’s not what I mean here. Remy is literally rolling around on the floor, not too far away from the fireplace in question.
If you’re wondering where I am, I am on the floor beside Remy and I, too, seem to be rolling around.
What am I doing here? I don’t know, but it appears to be all we can muster at the moment.
So, this really turns out to be a very gendered evening. The two girls are rolling around in front of the fireplace whilst the boy is busy building the fire to provide warmth and, also, an activity for himself. Boys are weird. I never would in a million years be trying to build a fire right now. Or tinkering with flammables in any manner.
But there he is. And I must say, for someone who was just puking his face off an hour ago, he’s doing swimmingly.
I’m doing swimmingly, too, for that matter, in that I feel like I’m swimming. In this room. In this warmly lit, vaguely playful yet delicate Chinese-paneled room.
The Fall of Butterflies Page 10