by James Greer
Had we but world enough, and time, I’d explain the starry sky into a glass of wine we both could drink, and understand.
-You’re an ass.
-There’s a difference between borrowing and stealing.
-It’s not my ambition to be some kind of gangster’s moll. You’re not Clyde. I’m definitely not Bonnie. Stealing and killing don’t turn me on.
-I can start with a line from Marvell, but if I change its meaning and context, and finish it with an original thought of my own, that’s borrowing. What’s the phrase? Genius borrows, less-than-genius steals. Obviously that’s a paraphrase.
-The odds of you getting caught are extremely high. Especially with Billy.
-What’s wrong with Billy?
-You mean besides the fact he’s an idiot?
-Okay.
-Okay what, okay?
-Okay, yes, he’s an idiot. But he’s not a drunk, or a junkie, or… He’s a good kid. He’s just… he gets things mixed up.
-At least a junkie’s motivated. At least a junkie has to learn how to be smart, to steal without getting caught.
-Billy will be fine. It’s not like he actually has to do anything.
-Billy not doing anything doesn’t scare me. Billy doing something scares me. And he’s perfectly capable of doing something. That’s the problem.
-That’s one of the problems. The other is you simply don’t trust me.
-I trust you with some things. I don’t trust you with this.
-But the definition of love is trust. Mutual trust.
-The definition of love, Guy, is love.
-Why won’t you marry me?
-Because you’re not serious. And if you were serious I wouldn’t hang out with you.
-I’m serious as a kitten with a beach ball.
-You need to call off this stupid plan.
-Too late. Wheels are in motion. As we speak, there are literally wheels turning.
-If you don’t call it off I might be forced to take drastic action.
-All action is drastic. It’s just a question of timing.
-And you’re incapable of taking anything seriously. Because you’re afraid.
-I suppose that’s true. But I don’t suppose it matters.
-Why?
-Because I can’t do anything about it.
24. BILLY EXPLAINS TO GUY, SITTING IN THE BAR, THE ABSENCE OF GREGORY, WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO MEET THEM AT THE BAR, WHICH HE MANAGES, TO DISCUSS DRIVING THE GETAWAY CAR, THREE DAYS BEFORE THE KOREAN CHECK-CASHING FIASCO
It’s complicated. He thinks his wife and daughter have been replaced by imposters.
-Have they?
-I think that’s something only Gregory would know.
-Because he’s the only one who knows them well enough.
-There’s that too.
-Okay, you’re holding something back.
-Gregory’s an enlightened person. He has… certain insights.
-Insights.
-He’s connected to higher energies than you and me. He gets messages. Important messages. Save-the-planet kind of important.
-Gregory has information that can save the planet.
-I believe that to be possible.
-You believe anything to be possible. You’re a believer. Your name should be Believee, The Boy Who Believes.
-I’m credulous, it’s true. I don’t think that’s necessarily bad.
-Of course you don’t. Believee. Note that down somewhere for a T-shirt idea. We need more T-shirt ideas. The Boy Who Believes.
-He’s got these wedding photos he carries around, and then some current photos, and he makes you look at both sets, and he won’t let up until you agree that the woman in the current photos is clearly a duplicate. And really, by the time you’re done looking, it seems somehow… plausible.
-What’s the thinking behind this?
-What do you mean?
-Well, why would someone replace his family with imposters?
-I think he thinks it’s to distract him from his mission.
-I thought his mission was to drive the getaway car for us.
-Not that mission.
-Although I’m starting to think we could find a better candidate.
-He’s an excellent driver.
-Are you trying to be funny?
-I don’t think so.
-Okay. Well, the world is full of excellent drivers. Some of these might not even be entirely insane. How about let’s say we look for one of those.
-I’d like to give Gregory a chance.
-We gave Gregory a chance. And from what you’ve told me, I really don’t think it’d be fair to distract him any further from his save-the-planet mission. Or his find-his-real-family mission. Either of those two are more important than helping us rob a check-cashing place.
-This will not make Gregory happy.
-I don’t mean to seem callous, but I think Gregory’s got bigger problems. I think he’s got a long way to go in the direction of happiness before he can even call himself depressed. My mom always told me that you can’t depend on someone else for your own happiness. We’d be doing him a favor, Billy. And more importantly, we’d be doing us a favor. We don’t do enough favors for us, in my opinion.
-Maybe you’re right.
-You understand this isn’t really about Gregory.
-I guess.
-I’m sure Gregory is a great guy.
-Yes.
-He runs a nice bar, even if it’s a little too clean.
-He does! Plus he’s figured out a way to construct a supercomputer using enormous crystals.
-Of course he has.
-More like a spiritual computer, but still based on science. Something to do with a quantum mechanic.
-You mean quantum mechanics?
-He made it sound like there was only one.
-You should really be talking to Marcus about all this.
-Oh, sure. He’d just dismiss me as a crackpot.
-I doubt he’d actually use the word “crackpot.” That’s not a word you hear very often in conversation.
-Well, whatever word you use to dismiss someone with a possibly insanely great idea but which you don’t believe is insanely great, but maybe only insane… that’s the word he would use. You know I’m right.
-Anyway—and I would never demean you by calling you a crackpot, by the way, whatever else you want to say about me I offer equal time to all points of view—quantum mechanics is probably not going to help us in this particular situation.
-Okay.
-I might know a man who can drive the getaway car.
-Who is it?
-Some guy I met at a party a few weeks ago.
-Who is it?
-A guy who’s proved himself extremely helpful to me in many ways, most of which would be tedious to iterate now. He seems okay. He’s not worried about his family being replaced with sinister doubles. He doesn’t collect crystals. He knows how to drive. He even has a car. And… I get the impression he wouldn’t mind participating in some well-paid criminal activity.
-What’s his name?
-That reminds me of a joke. Two would-be Islamic terrorists crash a flaming jeep full of gas canisters into an airport in Scotland. Due to a combination of incompetence and luck, the canisters fail to fully ignite. One of the blokes gets oot the jeep, on fire, and starts throwing punches at the cops.
-How is that a joke? Didn’t it actually happen?
-That part’s not the joke. You’re too impatient. Anyway, they found out the names of the fellows what done it.
-Weren’t they actually doctors or something?
-Stop. Just stop. Forget what may or may not have happened in what you like to call “real life.”
-Okay. Sorry. Go on.
-You’ve made it almost impossible.
-I’m …
-I said almost. Stop talking. Okay, so, they found out the names of them as what done the job: Sinjdin Majeep and Maheed Zaroastin.
-That’s weird
you would say “them as what done the job.” That’s not American phrasing.
-Of course it’s not. I’m setting up a Scottish joke. A joke that only people who are familiar with British phrasing would find funny, and even then many would find in poor taste at best, completely irresponsible, racist, and unfunny at worst.
-Okay, so when’s the joke?
-I did the joke.
-I don’t get it.
-Sinjdin Majeep and Maheed Zaroastin.
-Means nothing to me.
-Okay. Good.
-You’re not going to explain it?
-No, I’m not, Billy. Life is already too long as it is. I don’t want to make it any longer.
-Name of the driver.
-I said I wasn’t going to …
-No, not in the joke. The man you met at the party.
-Oh. Right. His name is Sven.
25. THE TRUTH ABOUT VIOLET, AS RELUCTANTLY DISCLOSED BY THE NOT ENTIRELY OMNISCIENT BUT VERY RELIABLE NARRATOR, STEPPING OUT OF THE FRAME OF THE STORY FOR AN INSTANT
In India, women of a certain caste whose husbands die are forced to remain in mourning for the rest of their lives. They’re no longer allowed to wear makeup or jewelry. They’re made to shave their heads and wear only white. Their shadows are considered bad luck. Eventually, many of them end up in a particular city—whose name I forget since having read the CNN article—where they can at least congregate and take comfort from their own accursed kind. This place is called the City of Widows.
Violet is a widow. True, she killed her husband, but it was an accident, and though she did not love him she was sorry for having caused his death. Most of her actions in the five years since can be seen as a kind of American version of the City of Widows. Call it the City of Windows: Violet became a flagrant and habitual exhibitionist, a willing slave to the erotic whimsies of the Nation of Men, not because she enjoyed it, but because she decided—whether consciously or subconsciously is not the issue—that if she were not to be paired with one man only she would be paired with all men generally. She decided that she would, in the words of one of her favorite pop songs, fuck the pain away.
You can’t fuck the pain away, of course. Like all successful pop songs, the central conceit is a beautiful lie. But you can try, and Violet tried. She had been married for five years, and unmarried now for the same, but in her mind still married, still unable to sleep in a shared bed unshared. Five years of practice had unprepared Violet for solitude.
Her old apartment too, impossible. Every inch imprinted with the presence of the dead man, corners of rooms and even cobwebs brushed with faint breath. It can all go to hell. The plants can die from neglect, now. Framed photos smothered under dust. Now. What energy’s left she summoned to wake, and walk, and fuck. All else is definition of useless. Scrape remains of food into crammed trashcan, pile dish onto pile of dishes in sink. She used to be tidy. Now she’s only ever tired. Any help sleep provides removed by the reeling void of waking up alone, without light or heat or right, in darkness made still darker by indifferent empty space. The void, of course, merely Violet’s stomach grumbling from hunger. Empty is as empty does.
Shame. What you feel when you’re not afraid. Rare’s the peace that preempts either, rarer still the feathery tickle of contentment (that is to say happiness, Violet, don’t be shy, a thing does not disappear from earth just because it disappears from your own little life). We ought to be better learned of the selfishness of gentlemen: the oblique glances, the question-mark eyebrows, appetites to sate, egos to salve: enervation itself.
The last thing dies in a woman is hope. Even unreasonable fancy, in place of hope. One jar in the back of the malodorous fridge, never opened. A token but of what. Symbolic but of what. The jar labeled Jam, the label handlettered, unspecified as to flavor or provenance or date of purchase. As long as she can remember, that jar has sat. Absorbed the passing of time as a process of refilling. Violet likes to think that sealed in the jar are the years. Time itself, gone bad.
26. BILLY, STRANDED ON A HILL-SIDE BY GUY, HAS AN UNFORTUNATE ENCOUNTER, LESS THAN AN HOUR AFTER THE KOREAN CHECK-CASHING FIASCO
Billy stood for a few moments staring in disbelief at the top of the hillside where Guy had just gotten into his stolen Mini Cooper and sped off at an unsafe speed up the treacherous curves of Larkin Heights.
-Well, that’s just fine, he said to no one. -That’s just fucking fine.
He began scooping up the scattered bills Guy had flung willy-nilly into the brush. A small shower of rocks fell from an outcropping directly above Billy, hitting him on the head.
-Ow! he exclaimed, peering to the heavens. -Haven’t you done enough for one day?
Which is when he saw the mountain lion, standing on the outcropping not ten feet above, eyeing him with more than casual interest, and growling ominously.
-I guess not, murmured Billy.
The mountain lion crouched, then jumped, and landed directly on top of Billy. Snarls from the animal and high-pitched yelps from Billy ensued, along with a fair amount of desperate flailing of limbs.
At that moment, higher on the hill, a pair of backpackers paused in their climb to stare at the commotion below. One of them whipped out a camcorder.
-Shouldn’t we, you know, try to help? asked the nonfilming hiker.
-After I get this. We can throw rocks at him, scare him away. Looks like he’s just toying with the guy anyway.
Billy fought with the mountain lion for what seemed to him like an eternity. He could see blood dripping down one of his arms. Billy had always been scared at the sight of blood, but he was now past the point of phobia. He was fighting for his life. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the rocks that had tumbled down from the outcropping as the mountain lion approached. He stretched his bloody arm to its limit, and grabbed hold of the rock. With all his remaining strength, he bashed the mountain lion on the nose with it. The mountain lion was neither fazed nor amused, and furthermore Billy’s balance had been affected by bashing the mountain lion with the rock. He fell backwards, and landed headfirst with a considerable thud.
-Huh, said Billy, still holding the rock, still dripping with blood, just before crumpling to the ground and losing consciousness.
The two backpackers came scrambling down the hill.
-Hey, man, are you okay? said the nonfilming one.
-You’re in the frame! said the one with the camcorder. -Move!
Billy stirred into consciousness. -What happened? he asked.
-I don’t know. The mountain lion just sort of pawed and sniffed at you and then went away. Maybe he figured you were dead.
-I think I need to go to a hospital, said Billy, now in a state of shock, covered in scratches, bruises, and bleeding from several open wounds.
-Can you walk? asked the nonfilming backpacker.
-I don’t know.
-We’ll help you. It’s not far to Larkin General.
-Sweet! said the backpacker with the camcorder. -Put your arm around him and help him up the hill. I’m gonna get the whole thing. Dude, you’re gonna be a YouTube star!
-Okay, said Billy.
27. WHAT VIOLET SAID TO CHARLIE, FOUR DAYS BEFORE THE CHECK-CASHING FIASCO, IN THE BACK ROOM OF THE KOREAN CHECK-CASHING PLACE, AFTER HOURS
You understand this is just a one-time thing, Charlie. -I understand.
-And that I’m not actually attracted to you or anything. Strictly speaking, this is a bargain. I fuck you, and you fuck Guy and Billy. The first fuck is meant literally, the second metaphorically.
-I understand.
-We’re not going to see each other ever again after this. Or probably not anyway. Life is strange.
-I understand.
-Don’t you even want to know why I want to screw up Guy’s plan to rob your store?
-No.
-And you don’t care about losing your share of the money?
-No.
Violet considered Charlie’s answers for a moment.
-Not good enough, she finally replied.
-What’s not good enough?
-Why don’t you want to know anything about my motivations? It suggests to me that you don’t have any intention of following through with Guy’s plan, and that for me to fuck you would just be … superfluous.
-I don’t know what that means.
-It means you’re a creep. But that’s not important. I figured you for a creep. I didn’t figure you for an untrustworthy creep.
-I’m trustworthy.
-So you intend to follow through with this ridiculous and almost-certain-to-fail plan to rob your check-cashing place?
-I do. Or I did. Until now. Why do you think it’s almost certain to fail? Guy’s got everything worked out.
-Yeah, he’s good at that. He’s also good at the gang aft agley part about best-laid schemes. I mean in the original Burns poem, not the Steinbeck version.
Charlie gave a look expressing puzzlement.
-Don’t even bother, she continued, before Charlie could protest. -I don’t know why I’m talking to you like this. I think I might actually be nervous. Which is odd. I’m almost never nervous.
-Maybe you actually care about him?
-Yeah, replied Violet softly, surprising herself at her own half-admission. -I … it’s just with Guy, he’s always got these grand projects, he’s so busy trying to make something out of nothing that he can’t see the something he already … Anyway, I want him to be happy. I want to try to make him happy. I don’t do this, as a rule. I don’t get involved. That’s how my husband got killed.
She reacted to Charlie’s shocked expression with an impatient toss of her head.
-If he goes through with the plan—which I did my best to talk him out of, but to be honest my best is not very good, so I kind of figured he wouldn’t listen—he will get caught, or worse, and from what I understand, your part in all this is central, so if you don’t do your part, he will still fail, but on a much smaller scale. Call it damage control.
-Damage control, repeated Charlie.