You Are Having a Good Time

by Amie Barrodale

  Berryman said, “Really?”

  “Yes, you know. How those little things will matter. It’s really rather extraordinary.”

  “To me it seemed clichéd.”

  “The cliché makes it extraordinary.”

  Berryman raised his eyebrows. “Say more.”

  Greer swallowed. “Often, when he is … worried … a man … a bearded man, will, you know, sort of scrape his hands through his beard.”

  Berryman looked around at the other students. “Hm.”

  The classroom door swung open, cracking against the wall. Donald Burdon stood in the doorway. He was drenched with sweat. He wore golfing shorts that were too small. He said, “I am so sorry,” and began to pass out one typewritten page to each student. It was his poem.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said as he gave a page to Greer. “I’m dreadfully sorry. Please, bear with me. Mr. Berryman, please accept my sincerest apology. Please bear with me. Accept my sincere apology.”

  Greer looked down at the page Donald had given him. The poem began, “She dropped to all four paws, stood still and looked at me.”

  It was a poem about losing his virginity. Donald had slept with an older woman when they were driving her car to Colorado. She made him wait to penetrate her until the numbers on the odometer rolled over from 99,999 to zeros. It was a good poem.

  Donald was still explaining why he was late with his poem. It was due to his living situation, which sounded complicated.

  “Why’d you move in?” Berryman asked. He was sympathetic.

  “It’s actually pretty nice. Plus it was the first listing that I saw,” Donald said. “I’ve been having sort of a difficult time. We aren’t all famous professors. Some of us have tax liens. I have a tax lien, from a speaking engagement I did three years ago. I regret accepting it. I had to pretend to be Chickasaw. I don’t have any money to pay this lien, and now they’re trying to take it from my mother, who happens to be dying in a hospital—and my father, well, if you’d read my poem at all, you’d know that he is a rapist.”

  After a moment, Berryman said, “Well. What else. What did you like, what didn’t you?”

  Donald took a seat. He raised his hand.

  “Yes, fine, you,” Berryman said, “no need to raise your hand.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to read the poems.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “I’d like the opportunity to participate.”

  “Next time.”

  “Please, Professor Berryman. Please. Let me participate.”

  Berryman asked the students to pass the poems to Donald, and he flipped through the pages with theatrical irritation. He appeared to be reading first lines. Then he came to a stop. He raised his hand.

  “Yes, Mr. Burdon,” Berryman said. “Go ahead.”

  Donald read Greer’s poem aloud, from start to finish.

  * * *

  Later that week, Donald taught Greer about cocaine. He said, “To get it, and this is not something I tell you with pleasure, we will have to go into Brown Town. I know that it would be better if I had a dealer, but you see once one has a dealer one runs into the problem of becoming an addict, at least this way—watch your step.”

  Donald pointed to a pile of dog shit. He took Greer to a part of town Greer had never seen or heard of before. He was pretty sure no one knew about it, and he even wondered if perhaps it was a place that Donald had dreamed. It was a ghetto.

  Donald stopped at a payphone and picked up the receiver. “Quit pacing! You look like a narc.”

  A few minutes later a man in a leather coat walked by. He had his hands in his pockets. Greer put his hands in his pockets.

  “Come on,” Donald said. He walked Greer around to the other side of the street. On the corner he handed a young woman money. They returned to the phone. Donald picked up the receiver. A few moments later, the man in the leather coat walked by again. This time, he spat at Donald’s feet and said, “Be back, bitch.”

  Donald dove down and grabbed the small wad of tin foil. He took a cosmetic mirror out of his pocket and emptied the coke onto it. He sniffed half and passed the mirror to Greer. He said, “Come on.” They went to Kenney’s Bar, where they saw Berryman.

  “Absolute fucking shit,” he said.

  “Mr. Berryman?”

  “Go home. Get a fry cook. Thas a profeshun.”

  “May we join you?” Donald said. “May we buy you a drink?”

  Berryman took a long drink, leaving beer foam in his beard. “You there in back!” he shouted. “Black man!”

  Greer followed Berryman’s gaze to a window to the kitchen, where a cook was making hamburgers. “Now thas a man. That black … guy. Monsieur Le Chef! Salud!” Berryman raised his glass and smiled, then began to sing along with the jukebox in a high, slushy voice. The cook ignored him.

  Berryman tried to roll a cigarette. Most of the tobacco ended up on his hands and jacket. He smoothed his oily hair, then he padded his pockets in search of a lighter. The bartender slid one down the bar. Berryman didn’t notice.

  Donald Burdon picked up the lighter and held it before Berryman, who clasped Donald’s hand and took his time.

  Donald said, “Professor Berryman, may we join you?”

  Berryman inhaled. He coughed and swallowed.

  “Mr. Berryman?”

  “Wha.”

  “May we join you?” Donald said. “May we buy you a drink?”

  “You there!” Berryman shouted. “Black man!”

  Greer started.

  Berryman knocked over his beer.

  “That’s okay. That’s okay,” Berryman said. “I’m okay.”

  “A scotch,” Donald said.

  The bartender poured a scotch, and Donald placed it on a coaster before Berryman.

  “A gentleman! Thank you, kind sir.”

  Berryman held up his glass. “You there! Black man. First sip for the chef!” He took a sip of scotch. “Now thas a man. That black … guy. Monsieur Le Chef!”

  Berryman turned his head and looked at his students. After a few moments he recognized them. He put his arm around Donald and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “These are my students,” he said to the bartender.

  The bartender frowned. Berryman waved a dismissive hand at him. He turned back to Donald and Greer.

  “New York City. Thas a lesson. Sit down with the editors. Then you’ll get a lesson in cocksucking.”

  “Well, of course,” Greer said. He sipped his beer. “But first I want to master the form.”

  Berryman caught himself on Greer’s shoulder and left his hand there.

  Greer said, “Mr. Berryman, writing isn’t a choice I made. I mean, it just sort of happened. I guess I was lonely, and I didn’t get along with people, and I was inspired by—or I was imitating—poems like yours. Then one thing led to another, and here I am.”

  Berryman laughed long, loud, and hard into Greer’s face. He slapped a worn-out drunk beside him. The man had a long, red, dimpled potato nose and he wore a zip-up felt jacket.

  Berryman spoke to the drunk. The two murmured back and forth. He was done with the students. Greer took out his wallet.

  “I’ll tell you one … thing,” Berryman said. “The writer is slime.”

  “You’re drunk,” Greer said.

  Berryman turned.

  “I’ll tell you why you write.”

  Greer was frightened.

  Berryman said, “You went to a party one time. You were sort of maybe half invited. You spoke to a girl, and you felt like she ignored you. You spoke to another girl, and it seemed like she ignored you, too. Then a third girl ignored you. That’s it. Everything spun from a habit you formed one night, at a party when you felt you were ignored. So don’t you talk to me about imitation. Don’t you talk to me about imitation.”

  “Let’s go,” Donald said.

  “Sit down!” Berryman shouted. “Learn something!”

  It was the last time either of the young men saw him. Lat
er the same night Berryman was unable to get his key working in the door of his apartment. He woke up his landlord, singing, “I know that you hate me, John Lansman. You have hate in your heart.” When his landlord refused to open the front door, Berryman pulled down his pants and defecated on the porch. He did not return to school. Later the boys learned that he had been fired.

  * * *

  After graduating, Greer was hired at Columbia. He went from assistant to associate professor quickly. At twenty-seven, he was on the campus-wide promotion and tenure committee.

  He was still single. He went to bars looking for women. It was at the bar across from his office that he saw Donald, who sat alone in the corner fingering the lock on an expensive crocodile briefcase. Greer brought him a scotch.

  “Monsieur le chef, salud!” Greer said.

  Donald looked up and laughed. He explained that he had a job as a research assistant to an old woman who was writing a memoir about her father, a Hollywood producer. “A scion,” Donald said. “These shitty memoirs are always about someone’s famous great-grandmother.”

  “And your poetry?” Greer asked.

  “I’m off it, fuck poems.”

  “I spend most of my energy on my students. C’est la vie.”

  “Yeah, well.” Donald tipped back his drink. “You know any parties?”

  Greer did know of some faculty parties. At the first party, in the English department, Donald drank several water glasses full of scotch. It didn’t seem to affect him at all, except that his mood brightened. When the party began to wind down, Greer took Donald to a second party around the corner, where Donald switched to red wine. After midnight, he buttonholed the host’s wife.

  “Ish like my frien the great John Berryman tole me. You … The man taught me to be honesh. Alienation … We lie to our parents, and we tell them, ‘I love you.’ But really I jus want her money when she dies. I want her stone mashion. I lie to my frensh. I say this work is promishing. I lie to my colleagues, same way. My bosh. Ish really promishing. Someone shows me a DOG TURD! An I say, you know, ish really promishing. You know how it ish. Course you do, you’re a woman.”

  The professor’s wife was nervous. She said, “Well, that’s interesting. I think we’ve all—”

  Donald railroaded her.

  “I’ll be honesh. William Shawn, if you want my opinion, is a faggot. That’s my opinion, if I can be honesh. I had a tremendoush hard-on. Just like steel, I mean, lishen. We men—”

  Greer suggested they go downtown to a bar he knew, where they could dance. When the bar closed, Donald was angry. He didn’t want to go home, and so they took a cab to Greer’s. Donald was sobering up.

  Greer said, “Can I tell you something? And you can’t make fun of me?”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s a bakery downstairs. It opens at seven, but if I knock on the door they’ll usually let me in. Some late nights I go down and get a cookie.”

  “I’d love a cookie!” Donald said. “I could eat a whole cake.”

  Down in the bakery, Greer picked a half dozen cookies, pointing through the steamed glass, while Donald blew into his hands and stomped his feet. When they were paying, Donald pointed out a six-layer chocolate cake with ganache icing and slivered almonds pressed to the side.

  He said, “And that.”

  As the woman boxed the cake, a blue child’s birthday cake caught Greer’s eye. He pointed to it. “Did you ever have one of those when you were a kid? I always wanted one of those.”

  “Get it. Why not?”

  Upstairs, the two men sat on Greer’s bed—Greer didn’t have a table, he didn’t usually have guests—and they took turns with Greer’s fork, eating their separate cakes.

  Greer said, “I really like Valentino Bucchi.”

  “Who?”

  Greer put on the pianoforte album. Donald stood up after a few bars and said, “It’s terrific!” He danced around Greer’s apartment, acting out the moods of the songs—by turns longing and monstrous. When Greer fell asleep he was still doing it.

  At sunrise Donald was fast asleep beside Greer. The mattress was bowed by his weight, and he had kicked the sheet down, so the wool blanket was on his skin. Greer lifted the blanket and pulled up the sheet for Donald. Then he slipped out of bed.

  When Greer returned to his apartment later that day, he noticed that Donald had left his briefcase behind. He opened it and found a manuscript. It wasn’t the memoir about the old woman’s famous father. It was about a society of men.

  Greer was jealous. He sat at his own typewriter and began to write. He imagined another world, one like this one, but more. In this world there were only men. Close to midnight he looked up from his typewriter.

  “I have something here,” he said.

  Donald never called about the briefcase, and after hanging on to it for a few months, Greer thought it was best to throw it away.

  * * *

  Mensworld was stuck in edits. Greer’s first editor left the company, and his second suggested that they begin again. “Let’s not be afraid to get our hands dirty.”

  And then something awful happened. Donald hadn’t given up on his novel. He had just begun fresh. Or maybe it had already sold. Greer didn’t know. He just saw fifty copies of Boys Boys Boys by Donald Burdon sitting in the window of a bookstore. Then he read the rave in the Times. Then he saw Donald on the cover of a magazine. He wore a beautiful white jacket, and had his arm around Gore Vidal’s shoulders.

  Greer’s book came out quietly, during Donald’s paperback release. At Greer’s book party—an elegant affair, held in Philosophy Hall—his students stood and knocked their fists against the tables.

  When students asked him about Donald Burdon, Greer deflected. He told them the story about Berryman in the bar, which always got a laugh.

  * * *

  Greer took no satisfaction in it when Donald couldn’t handle success. There were those people who did, who cravenly traded in “Donald stories.” Greer always did his best to defend Donald. But he knew Donald better than anyone else, and so he often had the best stories. “Donald had explosive diarrhea on the way to the bathroom at Elaine’s and refused to go home.” “Donald developed a painful, public, unrequited crush on Susan Sontag, and showed up on her doorstep morning after morning to recite Florentine verse.” “Donald mailed William Shawn flowers each Monday, along with contrite apologies for ‘the thing about your penis.’”

  Once, Donald woke Greer close to 4 a.m., banging on his door, shouting, “I want to reach out to you with honeyed hands.”

  Greer pulled his head inside and closed his window very slowly.

  Several years after his first book, Donald took a teaching position in Ireland. And then for a few years, the only peep from Donald was an occasional book review. He was like an angry bear who only came out of his cave to tear bestselling books to pieces. If something was doing well, if it was regarded as a work of art, then you could count on a blistering essay from Donald.

  Greer rarely heard from him. For months, he forgot that there had ever been an alligator briefcase with a manuscript inside it. Had he stolen anything at all? Wasn’t all writing, all so-called inspiration, just borrowing?

  Then Donald came back to the city.

  * * *

  Greer made his mistake. He felt guilty. He started singling Donald out for praise. When he was asked publicly to name his favorite writer, he eulogized Donald. Then he hired Donald for a visiting appointment at Columbia.

  And now, on the first day of the semester, Donald had already been disruptive.

  “Thank you, Guillermo,” Greer said. “That was very helpful. Okay, well. If there’s nothing else.”

  Greer was about to wrap up the meeting.

  Donald raised his hand.

  “Professor Burdon,” Greer said. “Yes, Professor Burdon, uh.”

  Donald lowered his hand. He stood up. He held the floor in silence for a long time. His raincoat was bunched at the elbows. His eyebrows were
long and wild. He looked out from under them, at the students and faculty. Then he said, “Do you remember the night we went to a donkey show together?”

  “Donald. If that’s all, I think we’ve concluded the meeting.”

  “For those who don’t know, this is when a woman is having sex with a donkey. Don’t go, everyone,” Donald said. “It sounds good, but in reality it’s just gross. Ben knows what’s coming. Don’t you? I wanted to kill myself, Ben. Valentino Bucci was on the radio.”

  Greer looked at the other faculty members, trying to silently form a coalition. Surely Donald wouldn’t accuse him in front of his peers. But Donald had them.

  “I wanted to kill myself, and it was all because of you. Do you know how little I had? I had nothing. I had nothing. And then through hard work and toil—blood and tears—I manage to shape something, and then you saw it, all formed, and you stole it. You think because I didn’t say anything that you got away with it, and nobody knew?” He looked slowly around the room. “You built your house on a lie. You’re a liar, Benjamin. You’re a thief. You’re a mediocrity. And everyone here”—he gestured grandly around the room—“everyone here knows it.” Then he took a small bow and sat down.

  Greer had dreaded these words for so long. When they were spoken, and in the nightmarish context, he was surprised to see the effect they had, of making their speaker look ridiculous. Someone coughed. A couple of his students snickered.

  All Ben had to do was adjourn the meeting.

  Rinpoche

  My mom and I were in the apartment we shared in Seattle. It was summer. It was the middle of June. I was sitting on the couch looking out the window and my mom was in the kitchen making bone broth. She was going through a phase of making pho. She had made a pho and brought it into work, and it confused her that nobody ate it.

  My mom’s cell phone rang. I held it up and said, “It’s Jim.”

  She wiped her hands and took the phone out of my hands. She said, “What’s up?” into the phone. I heard Jim ask her how she was doing.

  When she got off the phone, she was jealous. She said Jim told her Rinpoche had called him. Jim and Rinpoche had an hour-long conversation, according to Jim, whose wife, Eileen, was sick. He never talked about it. His wife was sick, and she’d had two knee surgeries over the winter, and she’d continued to work through most of it. She drove a school bus. It was a part of her job to put the chains onto the tires. Jim never told anybody about Eileen, really, and so people had decided she was going to be all right.