“Nice setup,” she said. Then she giggled and told me how bewildered she'd been this morning. She'd awoken when she heard me walking up the stairs and, not having time to get dressed or run away, had decided pretending to sleep was her best bet. She'd been prepared for the worst—for a date rapist, for a freak, for a skeezy middle-aged businessman.
“So are you a vegetarian or something,” she asked, gesturing at the tray. “No bacon or sausage? No ham in the omelettes?” She cut into hers and twirled a piece around on her fork.
“Yeah.” I said. I stammered. “Actually no, that was a lie. Sorry. I wanted to play it safe—in case, you know, you were.”
“Is your first instinct always to lie to a girl once you get her home?”
“Yes, minus the 'once you get her home'.”
“That probably makes the whole operation simpler.”
We both laughed. She relaxed, resting her elbows against the windowsill. We talked through breakfast and continued into the afternoon. Memories exploded like land mines as our conversation ventured deeper into the fenced off territory of the past. Her first kiss under a dock at summer camp, the pain I felt when my first girlfriend broke up with me because I was too boring. In middle school. We agreed that someone needed to build a monument where people could hang the collars of their childhood pets once they passed away—in honor of the thousands of selfless hours devoted to their fickle masters; who, incapable of appreciating true love, abandoned them in favor of the opposite sex and higher education, abandoning the poor dogs and cats to waste away in old age.
We tried to reconstruct the previous night, agreeing on a single rule: it had to sound respectable, absurdly so.
I started. “I serendipitously came into possession of a bit of legal tender and, not wanting to leave such a splendid opportunity by the by, hastily locomoted toward a favored watering hole so that I might in solitude imbibe a mug of mead. Forthwith, I found myself accosted by a coterie of older ladies, intimidating in posture and seemingly possessed of a sterling nature. I pledged myself to conquering the heart of at least one of these fine birds. Unbeknownst to me, however, their characters were merely silver plated, and these innocent damsels were in actuality nothing less than disguised harpies, abandoning me to rot in a vodka soaked prison upon the arrival of their ogrish retinue.”
I paused and she motioned for me to continue, chin cupped in her hands. “Then it becomes hazy. I vaguely remember drinking some more, alone, and spying the swell barista of a tea house I frequent. You were there with him, I've surmised, and he was none too pleased by our aggressive colloquy. Then there's a blank. Then me catching a car. Then I woke up next to you Mary, a precious treasure dropped in my lap. That leaves one knot untangled. How could a broken scalawag such as myself, dripping with pity and self-remorse, nab a princess? And what kind of companions would let you venture home a cad like me? And why were you in Brooklyn to begin with?”
She clapped her hands, laughing. “That was good, except for when you broke character. I don't know if I would call your description respectable—it was more like an epic, and I imagine it comes from a childhood spent reading too much fantasy.”
“You pierce my soul,” I said. It sounded flat to my ears, I bit my lip, waiting for her inevitable cringe, but it failed to materialize.
“Let me give it a try. I'll show you respectful.” She coughed into a closed fist and spoke in the feathery voice of a duchess in a 19th century period piece.
“Upon recusing myself from daily labor, I found my soul stressed and in need of respite from the internecine gossip that pervades the quotidian life of an insulated, collegiate community. In high spirits, I left Manhattan for the quaint, truncated skyline of Brooklyn on a rather ordinary social call to the roommate of my freshman year. She cuts an impressive countercultural figure and, upon ascending the steps of her stoop, I naturally found myself apprehensive in manner and my bearing unnerved. One never feels quite 'cool' enough upon entering such a manor, no matter how congenial the host may be.
“Feeling underdressed next to her stylish red and black checkered shorts and gossamer tights, I humbly suggested that we might perchance enjoy a girl's night in. Sensing my discomfort, she assuaged my fears, assuring me the boys at the local establishments had nothing going for them besides over-sized egos accessorized with questionable hygiene and daft facial hair. Fortified by her sympathies—and a pre-outing bottle of wine—my misgivings receded, and we gaily proceeded to 'The Den,' the most pretentious libatory I have ever had the misfortune of gracing.
“My self-esteem tempered by an additional shot and Lisa's accurate description of the faux-leonine clientele, I enjoyed myself, unable though I was to shake my sympathy for the teddy bear mounted on the wall. If your barista was the same man I remember... was he wearing a striped t-shirt and suspenders, with an absurd French beret?” I nodded. “Yes, this fellow knew Lisa through a mutual acquaintance. He generously purchased for me several glasses of wine, which he insisted quite boisterously were from a geographic and temporal location most excellent, and which he'd had the good fortune to visit on his tour of France the previous summer.”
She was getting into her story, lifting her nose and hand in unison during her most cultured affectations. “Lisa excused herself to quarrel with her significant other via cellular phone. The hour was late, and I began to experience the gradual transition from intoxicated to wrecked, as Barista ensured my cup runneth over. Then, and I do believe this is the point where our two stories do converge, a fool wandered over and slapped my new companion on the back, dislodging from his hand his drinking vessel.
“At this point my memory breaks down, although if I recall correctly this court jester was barely capable of formulating a coherent sentence. Barista and the fool engaged in a heated disagreement, and I do believe the latter shoved the former into the bar, whereupon you were either forcibly ejected or departed voluntarily. I do not, however, remember leaving with the fool, though I must have. I recall walking—no car—back to someone's apartment, and I awoke dreading to find myself curled up next to Barista,” she finished, with an exaggerated shake of her head.
“So it would seem we were two drunk people fortunate to find one another at the end of a wonderful night.”
“Yes, except for the fight.”
“I had to establish my dominance of the pack.”
“Obviously.”
I offered her a cigarette. I didn't normally smoke in my room, but this was a special occasion and special occasions merit rule-breaking. She paused, and I thought she would say no, but took it between her thumb and forefinger. Her nails were painted a bright blue, in between the shade of the color of her eyes and the streaks in her hair.
We smoked in silence, the perfect picture of contentment. I hadn't felt this much at peace for a long, long time. New York is a lonely city, even in the best of times. And our world was anything but.
When she finished she leaned over on one arm and looked straight into my eyes. “I want to tell you something,” she said.
“What's that?”
“You have to promise not to laugh.”
“Is it something funny?”
“Just promise.”
“I promise.”
“I'm psychic,” she said defiantly, daring me to disbelieve.
“Um...” I stammered. Was this some sort of a joke? God, you're gullible. Hardy-har. Her face was dour, but her eyes were worried, and I think she would've been hurt if I'd scoffed outright. I'd been expecting her to tell me she had cancer, or maybe an STD. I didn't know why she'd think I'd laugh at either of those, but it's always best to go straight to the worst possible scenario.
This, however, was pure silliness. It occurred to me I would've reacted differently had James told me the same thing. I would've laughed in his face and called him an idiot.
“All right,” I said. I didn't feel like laughing, but a lecture about the rational nature of reality was in order. Although I doubted she'd appreciate that
response any more. “Before I start grilling you... why did you feel the need to tell me that? It seems like something to keep to yourself. Especially around someone you just met.”
By the time the sentences were out of my mouth I understood her intent, and felt foolish for not seeing it earlier. She was trying to scare me away, to keep me from calling her. And I was a dope who thought we'd been having a great time. Maybe she had a boyfriend.
“Don't worry,” she said, and laughed. “You think I don't like you. That's too cute,” she said, which only deepened my embarrassment. Her face became somber. “I told you because... because... well I don't really know why. I just had a feeling I should.”
“So it was, like, a psychic thing?”
“Exactly.” She smiled as I worked through a puzzle that to her was both obvious and simple. “Do you have any, uh... playing cards, or something?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Those'll work.” She pointed at a pile of junk mail and unpaid bills poking out of the half-closed drawer of my nightstand. The utility bills James couldn't pay, student loan and credit card bills that I took care of online, and a cable subscription in the name of my cousin that I couldn't cancel because I didn't have his Social Security Number. The worst economy in a hundred years couldn't kill these behemoths—their inefficiencies and debts continued piling up while the companies rotted on the inside.
A baker's dozen all told, some unopened, others with their contents stuffed back inside. She grabbed them and turned them face-down on the bed.
“I've never seen tarot done like this.”
“It's a conduit, nothing more. The cards aren't magic or anything.”
“What about astrology?”
“It's garbage.” She rearranged them into a circle, each one corresponding to a different hour on a clock. The thirteenth she discarded. It was the electricity bill James couldn't help out with.
“It's convenient there are twelve, don't you think?” she said. "One for each hour of the day."
“But there were thirteen,” I said. She rolled her eyes.
“Pick one.”
I pointed at the envelope positioned at twelve o'clock. “Seems good as any.”
“You have to keep an open mind about this. Otherwise it's not going to work,” Mary said, but turned over the envelope anyway. It was an unopened cable bill.
“So what does that tell you?” I asked.
“Shut up. Pick another one. And don't cloud the room with your negative energy.”
I looked over the bills, took a deep breath, and tried to let in whatever psychic forces she thought were present. I didn't feel anything, except silly for going along with this charade.
“Two o'clock,” I said. That's what time it would be in a few minutes. Seemed logical.
She flipped it over. Another cable bill. “Are you doing that on purpose? Picking out the envelopes you know?” she asked.
“I'm not. I swear.” She allowed me to pick another.
The upturned envelopes collected in front of me, and Mary's frustration mounted as whatever sign she sought failed to appear. Five bills, then seven, and after nine she looked ready to cry. She had her head cocked to one side, like she was trying to identify a song being played in another room. I believed she believed she was psychic, and for a second after I picked the tenth envelope—last month's internet bill—I believed she was as well. A look flashed across her face like she'd learned a secret, and a deep chill spread throughout my body. The patterns were there, but a unifying thread was beyond her reach. She threw up her hands and gave up.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I thought this was going to work. Otherwise I wouldn't have told you about it. You must think I'm so stupid.”
“There are still two left,” I said. “Don't give up yet.”
“Fine, take one,” she said, picking at her fingernails. I chose an envelope, trying to will it to be meaningful. A student loan. I'd been enjoying myself—even if her psychic abilities were a sham—and wanted her to have a good time too. But she didn't even look to see my choice.
“And the final card in the clock?” I asked.
She peeked at it like a poker playing checking her cards, and flipped it. Another cable bill.
“Nothing?” I asked.
“Nothing. God this is dumb.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “It was fun.” I touched her face. The room was flush with energy, but it was anything but paranormal. Her eyes, blurry behind held back tears, met mine.
“I'm standing on a live wire,” she said. I kissed her ear.
We slept together for the first, maybe second time. I hadn't had sex sober in years. It was okay, but a letdown from the euphoric high of the second before. I don't think she came, but I didn't ask.
She fell asleep with her head against my chest. Through the window, I watched a tree sway. It was a scrawny thing, a product of the first stimulus following the Panic, an effort which one prominent economist had compared to “trying to dam a river equipped with a single shovel." The current had washed away the money but my tree remained, a monument to more hopeful days.
City workers had planted sixteen chestnuts on my block, eight on each side of the street. They'd been genetically modified to be resistant to the blight which had driven the species to the brink of extinction, but that hadn't helped when the delicate saplings were immediately abandoned and left to fend for themselves. Mine alone survived longer than a year, and every winter I was certain the cold and the neglect would finish it off, but each spring it sprouted a pitiful collection of buds—just enough to stay alive.
I bought an ax the spring after it was planted, intending to chop it down out of a mixture annoyance and mercy. But when I was confronted with its pathetic, half-bare branches and its scrappy will to live I couldn't bring myself to do the deed. Treating it like an unwanted child, I left it to nature to do as she pleased. She allowed it to live, and now its branches wove through sagging power lines.
I fell in love that afternoon, faster and harder than ever before. The unsatisfying sex was its own melodramatic coda, the remnants of a supernova that had flashed bright and disappeared in a hardscrabble and unforgiving universe. The debris left behind hinted at an original glory impossible to recreate.
Mary slept for about thirty minutes. When she woke up, she pointed at the journal on my nightstand and asked “Is that yours?”
“Who else's would it be?”
“Can I read it?”
“There's no one on the planet I would let read it.” I said, not wanting her to think I was being coy.
“Let me write you a message. In the back, that way I won't accidentally see anything embarrassing.”
I handed it to her, along with a pen. “Which is the end?” she asked.
“This side.” She paused for a second, biting at the end of the pen. “Aha,” she said, and scribbled her note.
“Okay. You can't read it until I'm gone.” I took the journal from her. “You have any roommates?” She absentmindedly curled one of my nipple hairs around her fingertip.
“Yeah. Two, sort of. One lives here, the other's crashing on the couch until he gets his shit together.”
“Am I going to meet them?”
“Sure. Ouch, that hurt,” I said. She had plucked the hair.
“It's so long.” She straightened it out against the bedspread.
“Yeah, I hate them.” I used to clip them regularly, but gave up when unexpected bedmates came to seem as remote as Tuva.
“I think they're adorable,” she said, blowing it off her finger.
“You'll meet my roommates if you aren't afraid of traveling to Brooklyn every once and a while. Dimitri—he's a sort of math genius. He just sits in his room all day...”
“I see. I see.”
“The guy on my couch, his name is James. He's going to try to steal you, and when he fails—which he'd better, by the way,” I said, with affected sternness, “he'll come up with some bullshit excuse like he's looking out for m
e. He wouldn't want me to date the wrong type of girl.”
“Sounds like it. So do you think—”
“He's not actually a bastard though. Like I'll think he's the most selfish person on the planet, and then he'll do something that destroys my entire conception of him.” She opened her mouth to speak, but I plowed on. “Once we were out and this girl—she was wasted, could hardly remember her own name—was wandering around outside a bar looking for her friends. I ignored her, but James flagged a taxi and paid the driver to take her home. But then later the exact same thing happened—with another girl, that is—and he tries to convince her to come over to his place. Her friends stopped him, and then there was a lot of screaming. I can't figure him out. It's like he has a formula for viewing the world that's different from any sane person's, and when he acts thoughtful you can't attribute it to decency—it's just his alien worldview. I really can't explain it. Does that make any sense?”
“Mmm.”
“Yeah, you'll see.” I propped myself up on my elbow and looked into her eyes. “So, beautiful, tell me about your dreams for life. Or your roommates, if they're more interesting than mine.”
She smiled, but it was forced. My skin tingled with embarrassment for boring her, and I wanted to dash out of the room and hide in the pantry until she left. But I stayed, my cowardice kept in check by pride and horniness. The homeostasis of my flaws allowed me to maintain a semblance of normalcy.
The Merchants of Zion Page 6