Four Letter Word

by Joshua Knelman

  I can see how you didn’t understand, but when I got to your parents’ and the police were there, do you know how that FELT? And didn’t it say something about how much I love you, that I didn’t give up, even then? It took three of those PIGS to bring me down, that’s got to mean SOMETHING, doesn’t it? Sure the stun gun finally got me (it felt like someone set my blood on FIRE) but even then, on my knees, did I really seem beat? And the MACE? Of course it blinded me but still I could sense you, halfway up the stairs, in a crouch, your knees pulled to your chest with that beautiful look of a child you sometimes have when you get scared. I could feel you there, and as I rolled around blind, covered in my own spit and snot and tears, as they creamed me with their night sticks, it was YOU I was still reaching for.

  Of course once I was out cold they did what they wanted with me and I can only imagine their scrawny arms struggling to get me off the ground, my ass or heel dragging on the concrete of your parents’ walk as they hauled me to the rear door of their cruiser, tossing me to the back seat next to the puke stain of some highschooler brought in from a keg bender, and you, baby, forced to watch from the steps of that house, that place I once rescued you from, and that’s what feels the worst, sending you back to THEM after all they did to you. I remember when you first told me, that night at Frazier’s brother’s with the rum punch (remember the back porch, the two of us with the stars so bright they were reflected in the pond and you told me you felt safe and I said you should because I’d fucking pummel anyone who even looked at you wrong and then you smiled?). It KILLS me to think I ruined all that, to think that now I seem worse than them, worse than your mom constantly telling you she’s prettier and your father silent forever. I haven’t forgotten, I remember everything you said that night and I’d do anything to get that back, to have you feel safe again. ANYTHING.

  I know what you’re saying, you’re saying it’s more than the night in the shower, you’re saying what about when you punched the shit out of the brand new microwave and we had to bring it back and lie and say it came that way in the box? What about the time you threw the mug through the window in the back door? And what about the hole in the bedroom door or the hole in the mudroom wall or the radio you shot with a RIFLE? I know, I KNOW I get crazy sometimes, you don’t have to beat me over the head with all that shit, I’m not retarded, I remember it fine. It’s like some switch gets hit and I go nuts, like I’m Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Fucking Hyde and I don’t know what it is but I’d do anything not to be that way, I’d take a steak knife to my brain if I knew what part to cut out. I don’t want to be that way, baby, BELIEVE me, I want to be better for you, I want to be NORMAL, I want to take you back from your parents and forget this ever happened.

  I know they’re telling you I’m no good, that you have to finally leave me for real, but what do they know? Do they know how good it was between us like ninety-nine point nine nine percent of the time? Do they know that, thanks to them, you’re no peach either (especially with a few cocktails under your belt)? The time you scratched that girl’s face and threw her on the floor just because she was standing too close to me at the bar, did you mention that? Or the time you got drunk and swore that Jenny and I were fucking and screamed at her in front of everyone until she started crying and eventually admitted she only liked girls just to get you to quit and then her roommate moved out as a result of her being a lesbian and she couldn’t cover the rent by herself and had to move back home? I bet you didn’t mention that, or the fact that I stood by you through all of it, no matter how many of my friends told me what a complete fucking WHACK-JOB you were.

  I want to remind you that this all started with one twist of the wrist (YOUR wrist) baby, and I know what you’re saying, you’re saying it started before that, with me and Kelly, but there’s nothing between me and Kelly and besides, you can’t just go and burn a guy. I don’t know what’s going on between you and her, but there’s nothing between us, CHRIST she’s practically like my sister and when I spent the night at her place, it was on the COUCH, and it was only because I had too much to drink and unlike SOME people, I don’t want to lose my license. I’m not trying to say that this is your fault but I’m not trying to say this isn’t your fault, or that it isn’t my fault either, because I think we both got nuts and I think we’re both fucked up and I think that’s why we shouldn’t split because if we can’t understand each other, WHO is ever going to? You with some Beaver Cleaver type and me with a prom queen, come on, who are we kidding? They wouldn’t last a week with the likes of us.

  We were made for each other baby, so just hurry up and say goodbye to your fucking folks and come drop the charges and get me out of this shit hole of a cell before I have to kill the stinking old man in the corner who keeps looking at me and rubbing his crotch and we’ll go home and we’ll have a bonfire and light off some fireworks, the BIG shit you like from the catalog and we’ll sit in the lawn chairs just like it’s Fourth of July only it’ll all be for us, star crossed and crazy exploding lovers, and if the neighbors complain, we’ll be NICE for a change and apologise and invite them over and it will be the start of something new for us, something different and BETTER. We’ll try, REALLY try, and it will work this time, I KNOW it. I PROMISE.

  Love,

  Gerald

  M. G. VASSANJI

  My Friend,

  It’s drug mischief that’s brought you back … so painful. Or I would not trouble you. Again. It was so long ago. Another world. I betrayed you then, didn’t I … you couldn’t have forgotten that … wherever you are.

  I see a boy walking diffidently up the curving hill of United Nations Road in Dar es Salaam, eyes fixed on the ground in front of him … Remember?

  You would look away into the sun’s glare determined to avoid me, your face scrunched up, and when you could bear it no longer you’d turn your head back, just in time to miss me passing in that glorious blue Citroën like a princess in a chariot. But one day our eyes met. I had you. Do you want a lift? – I said. And the shy dark boy dripping sweat looked startled, allowed himself just one step closer and stopped just long enough to sink his eyes in mine … and spoke in a dry voice, No thank you, and walked on. What did you feel? Your heart went thump, thump, thump, I could feel it. I, who was insulted. The next day you were not there, and the whole week; my driver sneaking sly looks at me in the mirror as I shamelessly scanned the sidewalk. I who was the insulted party. You were teasing me? No. Shy, only shy; I was so embarrassed, you replied – when you did finally appear on that road and accepted my lift. Where shall the driver drop you? Just there, opposite the mosque is fine. Here? – or closer …? No – yes … You didn’t want me to see your home, did you? And I, naïve European girl, couldn’t understand why. How nervous you looked, each time we let you out, and without even a glance behind you ran as if for your life!

  You’re so white; I mean – not pink. Is that what you first noticed about me? Not pink? No – that hair – no, before that – Yes? The car – it’s so majestic, the best car on the road. You noticed the car first and not me? But your hair – blazing, like a fire!

  Flatterer. Yes, the brown head of curls, and the green eyes, how could you have missed them in the Citroën. The eyes are dimmer, but the hair is short and black, fashions change; and yes, dyed; and yes, thin too. You truly didn’t know where I came from; Sweden you mentioned once, and I pretended as if it were true; you didn’t know the flag on the car hood, the blue and white with the star in the middle that had been the badge of my people for so long, and how that endeared you to me. European, sure, but a Romanian refugee, smuggled through the border aged two.

  I had not a friend in town, and this boy comes along; shy, serious, thoughtful. That’s the first thought that came into my mind when I saw you – what is he thinking in that head? And he’s had his hair cut. It looks funny. What is there to think about so seriously with that haircut-head of his? And dark, he doesn’t care about the sun roasting him, turning him darker. His skin will wrinkle sooner, Mumm
y might have said. I told her I had met this nice boy from the boys’ school who had agreed to teach me Kiswahili, and after some discussion she and Father agreed. You can bring him after school on Saturday … The first time you came to our house you fell from the rattan chair. I laughed, I cried, for you. Almost everybody fell off that ill-designed chair, how could you have known. I could have told you but didn’t. Forgive a girl her whimsy.

  You taught me calculus, my friend, I taught you Shakespeare; you did my physics for me, I gave you tennis … And when I said let’s sit out in the sun and came out in my yellow bathing suit, your brown face turned maroon. I am sorry. But didn’t you borrow my mother’s Lady Chatterley; just to find out what the fuss is about, you said. Sure. That too. I told her a friend had borrowed it.

  Sure there was the exotic to you; the dark. And I was lonely. Not that there wasn’t other game in town. Little, but there. Hofner, also from Israel; the American twins who arranged a tryst under Selander Bridge to do the dirty on us diplomats’ daughters. But you were my special; your name I’d say over and over at night, happily; a king’s name; no, an imam’s; … but precious music all the same, always, Hoo … ssen, Hoo … ssen …, until that Scud-firing monster came along and put his stamp on it.

  The war came; the sixty-seven one. And we were non grata, more or less, because of my father’s job. He was a spy. African governments did not like us any more. And you never saw that Citroën again. I disappeared. No goodbye, no notice. How rude, how heartless. But not heartless, please believe me. I had no choice. Mother told me, What’s the point? You are going far away where he can never belong. And you are both young. Et cetera. What I might have told my own children later. And yours.

  It’s the drugs, you see that have stirred you up like a genie from some dark recess of the mind … of the heart? … Yesterday I saw a boy blow himself up into shreds and here I am. I am well, just in shock, but it’s the drugs. The boy’s young face. And this precious thought: I wish I could send it to you, this thought of love and friendship; this sorry apology. I wish I could write it before it disappears. Again.

  Tova

  Tel Aviv

  TESSA BROWN

  Dearest Randolph,

  I am writing in reference to the string of voice mails you recently left me. Although I understand that there were outside forces acting upon you, your messages nonetheless sounded rash and not fully thought out. I want to take this opportunity to go over some of your main points and offer a response, since your means of communication left me no obvious path by which to do so. I assume, of course, that you have all of our previous communications for reference, including, but not limited to, letters, electronic mail, phone messages, and transcripts of conversations crucial to the progress of our relationship.1

  Message 1: Confusion

  (a) [Exhalation] Jess [sic], it’s Randy [sic]. (b) I’ve been thinking a lot about us and, well, I just don’t know if it’s the best thing for me, well, for both of us right now. (c) I know we’ve talked about it – well, kind of – but I really think I need to take a break. Call me back. Bye.

  1A. [Exhalation] Jess [sic], it’s Randy [sic].

  Your introduction (‘Jess, it’s Randy’), preceded as it is by a pronounced exhale, suggests that you are unsure about how to proceed; perhaps you feel socially or otherwise obligated to distance yourself from me. Consider your motives in calling: If you are responding to pressure from friends and/or family, please remember that the only feelings on which this relationship is contingent are yours and, of course, mine. I here refer to a comment from your mother that states, ‘Randy, are you sure about this one? She seems, oh, I don’t know, eccentric.’2 This comment and others lead me to believe that you are acting on the advice of your peers and relatives, who have led you to believe that they have your best interests at heart.3

  1B I’ve been thinking a lot about us and, well, I just don’t know if it’s the best thing for me, well, for both of us right now.

  You make clear that you are confused about the direction of our relationship and the benefits it bestows upon each of us. The advantages of our partnership arise in all spheres of our lives. First, recall that the acquisition of your current job at Benson Atwater, Inc., was based on an interview procured for you by the husband of my dear friend. Second, consider the incontrovertible sexual benefits you have been receiving from me, arguably since our sixteenth date and undoubtedly since our twenty-third.4 And finally, since we began seeing each other, you have lost thirteen pounds, raised your annual income by more than $10,000 a year, and present a much more appealing odor than prior to the commencement of our relationship.5 Further, if you are cheating on me, as I presume you are, I would also add that no woman besides me would have engaged in sexual intercourse with you four years ago.

  1C I know we’ve talked about it – well, kind of – but I really think I need to take a break. Call me back. Bye.

  Your dismissal of the conversation to which this sentence refers makes clear that you have not been investing the energy that a successful relationship demands of the parties involved.6 Putting more effort into our sexual life would also help things out. You may or may not be aware of this, but you have really been dropping the ball in the bedroom lately.7

  Message 2: Doubt

  (a) Jess [sic], it’s Randy [sic]. We really need to talk. Frankly, things haven’t been going so well lately. (b) You can’t say you don’t feel it, too. (c) Oh – and sorry about all that stuff with your guinea pig. Bye.

  2A. Jess [sic], it’s Randy [sic]. We really need to talk. Frankly, things haven’t been going so well lately.

  Actually, Randolph, things have been going great, but you insist on sabotaging our healthy, thriving relationship because you subconsciously want to ruin your life. I’ve been worried about you for a long time now. You seem to enjoy harming yourself. This is called masochism. I believe it has a great deal to do with your mother. I would suggest distancing yourself from her while the wounds heal.8

  2B. You can’t say you don’t feel it, too.

  You are right, Randolph; I can’t say I haven’t felt it. I have felt the tension in our relationship from the stress your self-loathing behaviors have caused. I have felt the tension caused by your staggering home at four in the morning reeking of alcohol. I have felt the friction caused by our emotional estrangement. But I digress. This tension stems not from some deep-rooted problem but rather from the healthy growth of our relationship. Strong partners work through problems together, which is why I am here to help you work through yours. I know that you have issues with intimacy, with women, and with erectile efficiency, plus an anal-expulsive fixation,9 but I am here to guide you as we address these profoundly disturbing ‘issues’, of which you seem to have an endless supply.

  2C. Oh – and sorry about all that stuff with your guinea pig. Bye.

  Let us clarify what ‘all that stuff’ is: Your dog, jealous of my beautiful guinea pig from the start, mauled Tootsie II, while you, horrified by what your ‘best friend’ Boxer’s vicious hatred could do, stood idle. I was sympathetic enough to be conscious of your feelings and have Boxer put down while you were at work the next day, in order to save you unnecessary heartache. Further, to support you through the grieving process, what could have been better than an adorable new guinea pig? I understand your surprise on finding Boxer gone, replaced by Doodles, a beautiful new guinea, but I assure you that it is for the best. When you finally come to your senses and return home, you will be moved by the tenderness that exists between Doodles and Tootsie II – now a triple amputee.

  Message 3: The Worst Mistake of Your Life

  (a) I think I’m going to crash with Jay for a while, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t come by or call me. (b) Um, bye.

  3A. I think I’m going to crash with Jay for a while, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t come by or call me.

  It is here that I realize what a strong influence your friends, especially Jay, must have had on the decision you clai
m to have made independently.10 There have been numerous actions on their part over the course of our relationship that have made it quite clear to me (as I assume was their goal) that I do not meet their ‘standards’ for you.11 I believe the fact that you are ‘going to crash with Jay’ strongly supports my hypothesis that the opinions of your ‘buddies’ have been critical in convincing you to leave me. I implore you to rise above their petty lies.

  3B. Um, bye.

  Whenever you do something you know is wrong, you speak about it with a proliferation of ‘um’s. For example, two years ago, when your friends whisked you away to Atlantic City for the weekend, your explanation upon return was riddled with ‘um’s – fifty-three, actually, in a four-minute period. These ‘um’s increased exponentially when I exposed, from deep within your jacket pocket, a casino gambling chip and a cocktail napkin with a phone number on it.12 From the ‘um’ in your phone message, I can therefore infer that you are fully conscious of the mistake you are making.