I Wrote This Book Because I Love You

by Tim Kreider

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  Contents

  Epigraph

  A Note on Veracity

  Death-Defying Acts

  Kind of LoveI

  Oof

  Our War on Terror

  The Feast of Pain

  The DilemmaI

  A Man and His Cat

  The Strange Situation

  On Smushing

  OrientationI

  The Uncertainty Principle

  I Never Went to Iceland

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  * * *

  I. Note to Mom: do not read.

  For my sisters—adoptive, half, and chosen

  One of the greatest gifts you can give anybody is the gift of your honest self.

  —Fred (“Mister”) Rogers

  Whatever is done out of love always occurs beyond good and evil.

  —Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

  TIM, our Narrator.

  ANNIE, an Invalid.

  ZACH, her scorned Betrothed.

  LOU, a Clown.

  ZOEY, a Harlot.

  HAROLD, a Rascal.

  MISHKA, a Rogue.

  LAUREN, an Artist.

  LARS, her Husband.

  GEORGE, a Fool.

  KATI JO, a Libertine.

  LUCY, Friend and Counselor.

  T.J., a Polyamorist.

  KEVIN, a faithless Husband.

  THE QUETZAL, a Cat.

  MARGOT, a Journalist.

  SILVIA BELL, a learnèd Doctor.

  ROSALIND, a Youth.

  GINA, an Actress.

  DIANA, a Clergywoman.

  FRIEDRICH, a Philosopher.

  Circus Troupe, with Animals, and assorted Students and Bohemians.

  SCENE—In AMERICA, with an Excursion to MEXICO.

  A Note on Veracity

  Although I am scrupulous about sticking to the truth to the best of my recall, and am bad at making things up, this isn’t to say that other people featured as characters in these essays wouldn’t have different, sometimes conflicting recollections. But almost all of them have read the essays in which they appear and more or less graciously given their approval.

  I have in a few cases elided or altered details in order to disguise people’s identities. And I’ve changed everybody’s names, except for those of public figures like Nietzsche and George.

  As always, I had to keep all the best stuff out.

  Death-Defying Acts

  “Say, I think if we got married you could ride the circus train to Mexico with me for free,” Annie wrote in a P.S. to a postcard to me in 1998. “Think about it.” The card’s front bore a Richard Avedon portrait of William S. Burroughs, whose shriveled visage will always be associated in my memory with my first proposal of marriage.

  Annie had run off to join the circus after breaking up with her last boyfriend, who was, among other things, a unicyclist and a juggler. I’d driven the getaway car when she’d left all of his belongings and everything he’d ever given her on his porch with a melodramatically worded note placed atop the pile. She’d answered a cryptic classified ad for a teaching position in the Miami Herald, gone in for an interview, and unexpectedly found herself working for the famous Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, living on a train with roustabouts, clowns, and hippopotami. She was actually employed by the same agency that provides teachers to child actors on movie sets; by law, all U.S. children have to have 180 days of schooling a year, whether they’re starring in a Spy Kids sequel or being publicly flung from one parent to another fifty feet above the ground, and Annie’s job was to ensure that the children of aerialists got the same education as their earthbound peers. She had complained to me that education wasn’t especially valued in the circus; the general attitude was: What do you need with some diploma? You’ll always have the trapeze. But she loved her life on board the train, riding the rails from city to city, setting up her portable one-room classroom in the dingy innards of downtown arenas. I’d visited her at Baltimore’s civic center when the circus had come to town, where, to get to her classroom, I’d had to sidle between tigers sacked out in their cages like half-ton house cats. It provided her ideal living situation, she explained: “Constant change within a framework of structure.” Annie had always liked road trips, sleeper cars, hotels and room service; her childhood heroine had been Eloise, the little girl who lived in the Plaza.

  I took her proposal less seriously than you might think, and not only because it came in a P.S. I knew a number of people who had believed themselves, at various times, to be engaged to Annie. She was famously once engaged to two men at the same time: our friend Zach, who had a history of moving across the country to begin his new life with Annie only to find himself dumped on arrival, and Poor, Poor Ted, a very sad avant-garde composer. Annie downplays that whole episode as a miscommunication or slight overlap in timing. Zach is philosophical about it now: “Annie was more excitable in those days,” he sighs. She and I had nearly gotten married once, too, in the Mall of America’s wedding chapel, but this was more in the nature of a caper, and in any case we were foiled by the state’s buzzkill twenty-four-hour waiting period.

  Annie and I knew each other and ourselves too well to delude ourselves that we would do anything other than drive each other insane if we were ever to attempt to date. We were like each other’s evil twins: we were both adopted, both had mitral valve prolapse, our younger sisters were both named Laurie, and our fathers had both died of cancer when we were in college. Our relationship was partly predicated on unrepentant selfishness; the tacit shtick between us was that neither of us really cared about anyone but ourselves, so around each other we could quit faking and relax. I’d once watched with interest as a New York City con artist had tried to exploit Annie’s sympathy and guilt; it was as though he were dealing three-card monte for the blind. The only thing that reliably made her weep was the poignant theme from the old Incredible Hulk TV show.

  I’d also been Annie’s traveling companion before, and knew to be wary of hidden agendas. On a cross-country trip a few years earlier—the same one that began with our leaving the pile of possessions on her ex’s doorstep—we’d detoured a whole day’s drive up into the Idaho panhandle before she revealed, over beers, that we were there to perpetrate another caper: I was to photograph her gloating in front of her ex’s summer cabin, where he had never once taken her, which photo she would then send to him.

  So I was unsurprised to learn that the real reason she wanted me to travel to Mexico, and to marry her, was for protection. She’d been hearing about how dangerous Mexico City was and been told that, as a single woman, she could expect to be ceaselessly harassed, so she thought she might be safer with a husband along to escort her. I was not anyone’s first choice for a bodyguard—in fact, I had a history of being assaulted abroadI—but I was well known to be unemployed and always game for a caper.

  Annie was either more acutely conscious of her mortality or less able to deal with it than anyone else I’ve ever known; she feared it in the same visceral way that other people are terrified of spiders or heights. One night in college, when she was having one of her panic attacks ab
out death, she flipped frantically through the TV channels trying to find something to distract her, and she happened across a Ginger Rogers/Fred Astaire movie called Carefree. Annie was entranced. The film did exactly as advertised: made her forget herself for a couple of hours in a lighthearted dream of elegance and grace. Human beings never were more lovely, more perfect in motion. Annie is not a halfway kind of girl, and for the next several years she became obsessed with Ginger Rogers: she talked incessantly about Ginger Rogers, amassed as complete a collection of Ginger Rogers movies as could be found on VHS, and made a pilgrimage to Ginger Rogers’s ranch in Oregon, which was not open to the public. (A very polite personal assistant gave her a tour of the grounds and an autographed photo before shooing her off.) Ginger Rogerism was a perfectly serviceable religion: Annie did not try to convert unbelievers or burn heretics alive; she’d found solace in a harmless fantasy of athletic perfection and deathless beauty, in frivolous spectacle.

  But in this case Annie wasn’t (just) being paranoid; the Mexican economy had collapsed in 1994, and over the next three years crime in Mexico City increased by nearly 60 percent: by 1997 there were an average of three murders, ninety-four assaults on pedestrians, seventy-eight assaults on drivers, and twenty-five home invasions per day. For a while there was no nightlife in the city; bars, restaurants, theaters, and clubs all shut down at dusk because no one would venture out after dark. In 1998, when Annie invited me to go, the U.S. State Department reported that violence “had reached critical levels.”

  The official State Department warnings on Mexico, which took some time to print out, cited recent incidents of Americans being murdered, kidnapped, raped in taxis, drugged in bars, and accidentally slammed into the sides of hotels while parasailing. They made it sound like open season on gringos down there. Annie told me everyone at the circus had been studying this same printout. I figured people who walked on the high wire and got into cages with wild animals nightly probably had more accurate risk-assessment skills than civilians, so I asked her: “So, do people at the circus seem worried, or . . . ?”

  “Everyone’s petrified.”

  Although I didn’t suffer from the same sort of acute thanatophobia as Annie, I’d always been uncomfortably conscious of what Francis BaconII called “the potential disaster that stalks us every day,” even before I got stabbed in Crete. The morbid imagination we shared had always been another bond between us. (I’d once reduced her to weeping with glee by delivering a mock funeral oration for her: “But, in the end, it wasn’t her deviousness, or even her perversity that made her so ornery; it was the malice of the woman.”) And Mexico offered no shortage of material for the morbid imagination. The “Dangers and Annoyances” section of the guidebook I consulted ran to several pages, covering annoyances from Cholera to Volcanic Activity. I was advised by friends that I would inevitably contract dysentery from the food, and told “your mucus will turn black” from the air pollution, the worst in the hemisphere. So I was, understandably, a little skittish.

  Nevertheless my policy has always been, whenever someone proposes I marry them and ride the circus train with them to Mexico City, to say: Yes. And Annie’s postcard had found me convalescing on my sofa in the aftermath of a romantic imbroglio known to history as “Armageddon ’97,” so I was in need of a distraction. An adventure. Something to get a man up off his couch and moving again. It was one of those situations in which you get to pretend you’re coming to someone’s rescue when secretly they’re coming to yours.

  Although I was not required to legally marry Annie, I would at least have to pose as her husband, since only spouses were allowed to ride the train, not boyfriends or other freeloaders. The plan was that I would meet the circus train in Roanoke, Virginia, and we would ride it together for three days down to the Mexican border. The train no longer traveled all the way to Mexico City, because back when it did they’d had to erect a fence around it and post guards to protect it against thieves. Now everyone disembarked in San Antonio and flew the rest of the way down, while a shorter section of the train carrying the animals and equipment continued on to Mexico City. Annie and I, in deference to her flying phobia—which she always emphasized was not a fear of heights or falling or incineration but of “loss of control”—would be taking the bus, a twenty-hour journey.

  In Roanoke, I found Annie in road-trip mode, her long red hair braided into two Pippi Longstocking pigtails, wearing denim overalls over a striped shirt, which left small triangles of pale midriff exposed on either side that were very hard not to poke. One of the first things she did after I arrived was to make me feel a lump on her back. She had mentioned this lump several times on the phone. She was certain it was a tumor. Annie had suffered from a case of hypochondria for years, which had been triumphantly vindicated the year before when she’d been diagnosed with lupus, the disease that killed Flannery O’Connor. Back in O’Connor’s day it was generally assumed that if you had lupus you were going to die young. This was no longer necessarily true by the 1990s, but it was still incurable, and had “a significant morbidity rate.” Survival rates decreased steadily over time, so that although Annie was 90 percent likely to be alive five years from now, in 2003, she was less than 70 percent likely to make it to the year 2018. Her doctor had strongly recommended that Annie stop researching her illness on Internet message boards.

  You’d think that controlling a chronic disease would provide an outlet for her hypochondria and obsessive tendencies, but by now Annie wasn’t making a big deal of the lupus anymore. She had to take antimalarials and aspirin for inflammation after eating, and periodically had blood drawn to monitor her antibody levels. The condition was also a convenient excuse to avoid the sun and the outdoors, both of which Annie had always hated. Whenever anyone, learning about her diagnosis, asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?” she always answered: “You could give me fifty dollars.” (My ex-girlfriend Margot had sent her a check along with a note: Dear Annie, I am very sorry you have lupus. Here are fifty dollars for you.) She still found the energy to worry about other, unrelated anomalies, such as the suspect lump.

  She pulled up the back of her shirt, felt around for it with her arm twisted up between her shoulder blades, and pressed my fingers into it. The lump was about the size of a Junior Mint, and jiggled slightly under pressure. My own diagnosis was that it was one of those weird things that just appears for no reason and would probably go away on its own. Her doctor had told her it was “adipose tissue,” which I knew very well meant it was a fat lump. Annie preferred to refer to it as adipose tissue and continued to monitor it closely, regarding it as premalignant at best.

  My first night on board, Annie took me on a tour of the train. The hallways weren’t quite wide enough for two people to pass, so if you saw someone coming, you’d politely race to step aside in the bathroom alcove in the center of the car. Some of the doors were personalized with signs or stickers (“Still Pissed at Yoko”) or had homey little welcome mats laid out front. Each car had its own distinct smell, like each of your childhood friends’ houses, ranging from antiseptic to uric to sweet-and-sour pork. Annie told me this was the longest privately owned train in the world, over a mile from engine to caboose, with thirty-two coaches, not counting flatcars and animal cars. Highlights of our tour would include the Clown Car, the Ghetto Car, and the Pie Car.

  “Did you say ‘the Ghetto Car’?” I asked.

  “You’ll see,” she told me.

  The circus train constituted a stark microcosmic class hierarchy, wherein space = status. The stars of the show, the chief clown and the tiger tamer, each had an entire car for their families; the rank-and-file clowns got rooms the size of wardrobes, about three by six feet. Annie’s room was respectably spacious, though still tiny by normal standards. What Annie liked best about it was that she didn’t have to get out of bed to get anything; the minifridge, hot plate, sink, closet, tape player, VCR, and TV remote were all within reach, any loose items secured with bungee cords. (She warned me th
at the train would jolt violently at night.) It was an ideal room for an aspiring invalid.

  Because their rooms were so cramped, the clowns tended to leave their doors open and congregate in the hall; they called it a “dorm on wheels.” When we passed through the Clown Car, the clowns were all hanging out in the kitchen, making dinner and listening to a Michael Jackson tape. They were essentially theater kids—attention-getters and cutups—so someone was always singing, juggling, playing outdoor sports indoors, or whanging someone else over the head with a cookie sheet. There was a mosaic of photos on the wall in which, on a cursory inspection, I found two pictures of naked people in clown makeup. Only the faces were painted.

  Annie paused to brief me outside the door marked GENERATOR CAR, in which it would be too loud for us to talk. “The Ghetto Car is on the other side of this car,” she said. “We’ll have to blow through pretty fast so it doesn’t look like we’re there to gawk. Also,” she admitted, “it kinda scares me in there.” Then she opened the door to a clattering din and we clamped our hands over our ears and ran. When I had to unclamp one hand to open the door at the other end of the car, the noise physically hurt. As we walked nonchalantly but quickly through the Ghetto Car, I saw that people in there didn’t even get rooms, just sleeping berths with curtains, like sailors’ hammocks belowdecks. Once we were through, Annie explained that the circus would pick up itinerant workers—what civilians would call the homeless—keep them aboard for as long as they needed the extra hands, and then kick them off wherever they happened to be when they didn’t require them anymore. “They’re basically hobos,” she said.

  Pie car is circus slang for the dining car. There is no pie there. It smelled like greasy frying breakfast, brewing coffee, and cigarette smoke. The curtains were patterned with a row of pigs’ butts lined up at a trough. A TV was showing one of the two movies continuously running on the train’s closed-circuit system. Eavesdropping in the Pie Car was one of the only ways I had of getting any inside information about life in the circus. Because they’ve long been regarded as vagrants and pariahs, circus folk are an insular society; you’re either with the circus or you’re not. And being “with” the circus means for life; careers are hereditary, acts dynastic. A lot of performers come from old circus families in eastern Europe. Annie, who’d been here the better part of a year, was still viewed as a transient and an outsider. But in the Pie Car I could eat a Belly Buster (cheeseburger with bacon and a fried egg on top) and listen in on the roustabouts bitching about the boredom, the overtime, and the animal rights workers who demonstrated at every arena (“Yeah, like they’re not wearing leather shoes”). I got to hear the cotton candy man say: “When I finish makin’ that candy, man, I’m done.”