First You Try Everything

by Jane McCafferty

  This must be the key to happiness, Evvie thought, walking behind Ruth in the dark. Below her in the lamplight the sidewalk glittered, and when she bent down to pick up a lone gray stone, she was amazed to feel how cold and soft it was. She ran it along the side of her face, closing her eyes, the wind rushing through the trees like dark water.

  Ben

  In the Squirrel Cage, Ben sat in a booth with Paul, who was home from Chicago for a week, staying with his mother. Paul, in a black sweater, his head shaved, his skin ruddier, and his large, dark eyes calmer than they used to be, sat drinking his nonalcoholic beer. He’d told Ben about getting fired from the prison where he’d been head of a choir, the venture he’d been most proud of in his life. A guard had decided he was gay and began to hound him, poking him in the chest whenever he could, asking him all kinds of profane questions, demanding answers, until one day, after a month of this harassment, Paul punched him in the face, and that was that. “I hadn’t punched anyone since I was a kid. And I’d never punched anyone in the face. And the guy was a lot smaller than me.”

  “And this happened?”

  “Last month.” Paul sighed. His eyes traveled around the bar for a moment. “I miss those guys. Prisoners can sing like nobody else.”

  Ben sat digesting this story. It was strange how big his friend’s life was now, that something like this could happen and take its place alongside other events—who knows what they were—and not be worthy of mention in a phone call to Ben. For years they’d spoken on the phone at least a few times a month, but life had changed. Paul had a large circle of recovering addict friends out in Chicago, and their bond surpassed, Ben imagined, Paul’s bond with him.

  “You seeing anyone?” Ben asked, changing the subject to banish a wave of jealousy, a feeling of being suddenly stranded.

  “I’m seeing someone. But it’s so new I don’t want to say much.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Paul shook his head. “Not yet.” Ben would normally enjoy this display; he understood Paul’s need to be mysterious, to guard what still felt fragile, but right now he felt strangely bereft.

  “All right. Linda. Her first name is Linda.”

  “OK. Linda. How’d you meet her?”

  “She’s the sister of one of the prisoners. The sister of the guy who had the best voice. Sang like, I don’t know, Al Green. But I won’t be hearing him anymore. Thanks to an asshole I’d like to kill. But I’m called to forgive that asshole. And I’m going to.” Paul smiled like a maniac.

  “Impressive,” Ben said. “I don’t think I’d have it in me.”

  “It won’t be me doing the forgiving. It’ll be him.” He pointed up to the ceiling. “He works with anyone.”

  Ben recoiled, having had enough God talk. A dull anger rose to the surface. “I was surprised you came to town and visited Evvie first, Paul. That stung me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sting you. It’s just, she’s the one who’s devastated.” Paul’s long fingers spread out against the table now. “I’ve been devastated three times before, as you know. I know where she’s at. And you, luckily, do not.”

  “I just hope you know where I am too. I’ve tried to tell you. If you think this is easy—”

  “But you seem to be doing really well, dude. And you look great. Better than ever.”

  Paul’s eyes held a complex expression that changed before Ben could say what it was.

  “It’s not been a joyride. Believe me. It’s not like that.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Anyhow, I like Lauren,” Paul said.

  “You met her for only ten seconds. How can you like her?”

  “I got a good feel. You know that’s how I am. I either get a good feel, or I don’t. Lauren’s solid. I can see that. And obviously loves you. I mean, really. And very pretty. What’s not to like?” Paul drummed the edge of the table with his index fingers. His legs were moving up and down too.

  “It’s still incredibly hard.” Ben looked out of the booth toward the bar, where an old man sat alone with his head in his hands. “I don’t recommend the experience at all,” he said, and wanted to be out of the booth now. Wanted to be as alone as he felt. Taking a walk somewhere. Paul had never had to leave anyone; he’d never understand this pain, how heavy it could be, how entwined with guilt and confusion.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not unsympathetic,” Paul said. “Maybe I’m even a little jealous.”

  “But you’ve met someone.”

  “You know how that goes. I’ll fuck it up. Give me a month or two.”

  “That was the old you. You’re no longer Eeyore on a binge, pal. This is you meeting someone as a sober guy who has all this hope at your disposal. You have a life.”

  “I hope so. I hope I have hope.”

  Ben softened. He was lucky to have this friend of twenty years.

  “I’m sorry it’s been hard, Ben. I don’t mean—”

  “I know you don’t.”

  “Why do you think that guard thought I was gay?”

  “Uh, because you’re nicer than most men? And better looking?”

  “That’s exactly what Evvie said. Anyhow, it wasn’t a great visit with her. I got her to sit down with me at the computer to check out Match dot com. I was trying to do you a favor and convince her that the world was teeming with great guys and that she really needed to move on. But it was a bad Match dot com night or something. We kept coming up with guys named Beefcake and Hornytoad. Guys who forgot to put their shirts on.”

  Ben laughed, but this gave him a pang. “God.”

  “Evvie was going right down the tubes, and I kept saying, ‘Wait! Stay with me here. We’ll find a gentleman or two. You gotta weed through frogs on Match.’ First I put on the Byrds to protect us from despair.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “I cranked up ‘Eight Miles High.’ She loved it.”

  “Good.”

  “Then we sat on the floor with her laptop and zeroed in on Made4luv. And Sugar-man. And Lance No Pants, and The Abomination. What kind of guy would call himself The Abomination? We got hysterical laughing. It was great, actually, we were laughing so hard. Finally I found Keith, who looked sort of like he was freaked out by the whole game, but Keith, who liked sitting by the fire, long walks on the beach, was spiritual, not religious, and was looking for hot babes in their forties, had to go and list his favorite foods.” Paul paused, his eyebrows raised before he delivered the verdict. “Rocky Mountain oysters and cow tongue.”

  Ben laughed. “You’re making that up.”

  “Evvie laughed so hard she cried.”

  Ben laughed a tight laugh, his chest constricted.

  “I was trying to make it easier for you, dude. If she could meet someone, someone she really liked, everything would settle down, and you’d be off the hook.”

  Ben ordered another beer. “Here’s to Rocky Mountain oysters,” he said.

  “And cow tongue,” Paul added.

  A silence fell into the booth as Paul peeled the label off of his bottle. He had long, strong piano-player fingers. His eyes were narrowed, as if the peeling took all his concentration.

  “You know,” he said, when he looked up, “I tried to tell Evvie she’d made you into an idol. That nobody should come before God. That she has all this ability for ecstatic love, but only God deserves it.”

  “OK. And what’d she say to that?”

  “She said that would probably ring true if
only she could believe in God.”

  “She’s still claiming she doesn’t believe?”

  “She doesn’t.”

  “Sure she does. She’s just in some kind of holding pattern.”

  Paul looked at him, confused, then raised his bottle. “Someday you’ll believe, brother.”

  “Maybe in hell.”

  “Here’s to one very befuddling life, my friend.” Paul set the bottle down. “Did I mention that nonalcoholic beer is another name for horseshit?”

  “I thought meeting in the bar was a bad idea. We should go out and walk.”

  “It’s a way to get stronger, Ben. If I can be sober here, I can be sober anywhere.”

  But Paul’s face was shadowed by a sudden exhaustion that made him seem, for the first time, seriously middle-aged.

  On the way home from the bar, Ben saw Evvie and Ruth out front of the mini-mart gas station. He pulled his car over alongside the air pump, turned off his lights, and watched Evvie walk with Ruth toward the door of the convenience store. She told Ruth to stay put and entered the place. Ben got out of the car and ran toward Ruth. Maybe it was the beer, but he felt he could sob, just seeing the dog. Ruth jumped up the way she hadn’t in years, and licked his face. Ben needed to get some joint custody deal going soon. He hadn’t had the heart for it yet.

  Evvie was looking better. He stood by the door, petting Ruth, watching her move around under the assault of soul-sucking lights, loud colors, and abundant junk food. The place was a little sickening. He watched her like she was the star of this show. A peculiarly compelling actress. He almost knocked on the glass.

  She had her video camera with her. She was probably here to get some footage of the convenience store saint, as she’d once called him. Was it that Indian guy behind the counter?

  Evvie walked over to where a plastic case of cinnamon buns sat next to the coffee and grabbed herself a snack. Ben watched her approach the guy at the counter, who smiled in his cage of bulletproof glass. Then Ben went and opened the door to the store, just a crack, so he could hear what she was saying. He stood there in the dark, waiting, but she said nothing at all.

  And then, “So, you’re the star of my next movie. I’m a documentarian.”

  The clerk took a step back, and an exaggerated look of shock spread over his face. “Who, me?” He’d spoken into a mike. He was already acting! Evvie knew how to pick ’em. Ben watched the clerk step forward, one arm across his waist. “And what is this movie’s name?”

  “The Man Behind the Counter, or maybe, The Counter Man.”

  He laughed. It was both a soft and full-bodied laugh, unexpectedly rich. Evvie loved people with rich laughs. A customer behind Evvie said he wanted a lottery ticket; he was gruff, with a bashed-in-looking face under a green cap, and he pushed Evvie to the side. This pissed Ben off, an old habit that made him want to walk into the place and tell the man off, but he steeled himself. Then Evvie must have sensed him. There she was, looking right at him. But somehow, she didn’t see him. She looked right through the glass, in his direction, and didn’t see him at all.

  A shudder went through him; he was invisible to her out here in the dark. Ben put his face down into Ruth’s head, breathed the scent of her coat, and turned to go.

  Ruth barked in protest, but he told her to stay, and she stayed.

  Ranjeev

  The woman called Evvie has visited a few times before, the last time explaining that she is interested in filming the people of the community, especially him. He had been wondering about her. Now it’s two in the morning, and other than Boris, his coworker, they have the store to themselves. Even the gas pumps outside are unused, the empty lot made emptier by the metallic light raining down. And she has her video camera with her again. She takes it out of the case and holds it.

  “We could start.”

  “Oh.” He flashes his smile, then looks down. She always reminds him of someone. He can’t say who.

  “Is that OK?”

  “It’s OK.” He steals another look at her face, looks down again. She may be drunk. Or maybe it’s just insomnia making her a wreck.

  “Do they really call you Apu?”

  “Oh yes. For two years, I am Apu.”

  “Do you watch The Simpsons?”

  “Five times I am watching The Simpsons.”

  Ranjeev didn’t really talk like this. He was imitating Apu. People liked it. A way to please the customers. Certainly this woman, Evvie, liked it. She couldn’t get the smile off her face.

  “Can you tell me what’s hard about this job? I mean, can we start there? Because you’re a pro. You’re the guy who makes everyone want to come in out of the rain.”

  He smiles, shaking his head; he knew how to transmit a drastic humility.

  “You are!” she says. “You’re like a magnet! Is it some kind of mystical thing? Never mind, let’s slow down. I’m sorry. I’m sort of exhausted. Have you ever not slept much for a long time? Your mind starts to go.” She makes loops around her head. “You start to think you’re someone else. And maybe you are. Anyhow! So.”

  Her dark eyes are both soft and somehow penetrating, but she makes no sense. This evening she is wearing a black coat and her face is too pale.

  He himself is in a sky-blue jacket with a satin sheen to it. A customer said this is like something a greaser in a gang would wear in the 1950s. He’d had to stop himself from telling the customer to fuck off, because the jacket had belonged to his favorite uncle. He was glad when another customer said, That ain’t no greaser coat.

  “You don’t mind me filming you like this? Just a little?”

  “If you must,” he says, with a sweep of his hand and a smile he intends to be encouraging. He feels a strong urge to help. If he can help by being in her movie, this is fine. He will be Apu for her. Why not? It’s the least he can do. She’s got something in her face, some sort of beauty

  She pulls out her camera.

  “The way you’re looking at the camera right now,” she says, “it’s like you feel completely at ease. Am I right?”

  He widens his eyes. Is she right? Is this easy? Ease, he wants to say, is relative and hard to come by. He feels at ease compared to what he felt when his mother had cancer. At ease compared to what he felt when he watched a kid die on Rippey Street, thirteen and shot in the head. At ease compared to what he feels when he stops to consider the nature of the world.

  “You are right,” he tells the camera, and the woman named Evvie. “I am at ease.”

  “What’s the secret to your happiness?”

  “Who is saying I am happy?” Then regrets saying it, because the woman looks nervous.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t mean to assume that. But you seem happy.”

  “For me, it is privilege, to serve the people coming in and going out. I am seeing humanity. All the humanity is coming for candy, tobacco, the lottery ticket. I am thinking when I look at them, they are sometimes forgetting who they are. Many have their eyes bloodshot. Still, for me, it is privilege. Sometimes they are hating me! Hating life! Still, it is privilege.”

  He isn’t sure these words are complete bullshit. Saying them, they start to feel true. He would like to say them again.

  “That’s beautiful,” she says. “People must feel that.”

  He smiles at her. It is hard to resist smiling at this woman who seems to love him. For no reason. This woman who sometimes come
s with her beautiful dog. This woman who one night last week was drunk and told him she liked his missing tooth because it’s like a tiny dark door that makes her imagine herself as a tiny person, an almost invisible person who could walk through the door in that mouth and disappear inside of him. He laughed when she said that, even as it was nuts. She laughed too. He walked her home. She said she was sorry. She lived in a room. She said he could come in. He thought that was a very bad idea. She said she thought he was a saint. He said she was drunk and needed to sleep and good luck in the morning when she remembered telling him she wanted to walk through the door of his missing tooth. And she laughed and laughed.

  She thinks she is making a movie. Maybe she thinks she is some kind of Hollywood director. He isn’t sure she is 100 percent crazy (like some of the customers are—one man thinks he’s a horse), but she is also not quite right. But is there harm, he asks himself, in pretending to be a director? He sometimes enjoys pretending to be her star.

  A week later she is back. She’s out there with her camera. He leaves Boris the coworker on the cash register and quietly steps outside for a moment, then leans back against the wall in the darkness, spying on her. He is fairly certain she’s aware of his presence. He can’t say how. It’s as if he can feel her sixth sense attending to him there. She seems not to mind. Her sixth sense seems to be the happiest of all her senses tonight.

  She asks a boy, “Do you have any connection at all to the man you just bought those chips from? You seemed to talk to him for a long time. I’m working for a local TV station on a story about clerks in the city.”

  The tall boy is wearing long shorts and enormous white sneakers that are not tied. His black chest is strong and narrow, and his face, handsome atop an unusually long neck, seems to hover above his body. It is a face ready to detach and float up into the dusk like a balloon.

  “Channel what?” the boy wants to know.