“A newlywed came in,” he says. “Her husband died on their honeymoon, and she needed the money to fly his body home to the U.S.”
I step back from the counter. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say.
The owner shrugs. “Give yourself more time.”
I feel sorry for him then, and am glad I’ll soon be able to leave this place and its forlorn trinkets behind. I apologize, and explain I have a plane to catch. Then I thank him, saying I hope his stepson has a happy graduation and a nice life. He nods, shakes my hand, and stands there as I leave, lanky and dispassionate. On my way out, I ask him how he does it, working in a place where dreams come to an end.
“I think of it as a place where new dreams begin,” he says.
I make it to Nashville International with just minutes to spare, and can’t believe my luck when security doesn’t pull me aside to search my sax case, the way they did on my way out. As I reach Gate B5, I break into the full sprint I haven’t had occasion to use since my high school track days. The plane’s air-conditioning hasn’t kicked in yet, and I’m lightheaded and breathing heavily when we start down the tarmac. All I know is that leaving the ring behind feels like the right thing to do. As does flying home to Catherine. In fact, as we gain altitude and the air-conditioning comes on and we break through the clouds, slipping the surly bonds of Earth, all I can think about is the sight of her face.
DOUBLE-BLIND
Saepe ne utile quidem est scire quid futurum sit.
Often it is not even advantageous to know what will be. —Cicero
The day we chose to meet happened to fall on Avery’s birthday; perhaps that added to my nervousness. For the first few years after my sister’s death, I wouldn’t do anything on her birthday. I suppose it was some form of adolescent protest. I let the phone ring, didn’t show up to school or work, didn’t turn on the computer. Some years, I didn’t eat. But after a while it started to feel pointless, and I dropped the hollow exercise. Avery didn’t much care what I did when she was alive; why would she care now that she was dead? Still, the date didn’t escape my notice, and I wasn’t surprised to find its iambic rhythm pulsing through my head as I traveled the walkway, climbed the steps, and pressed Ben’s buzzer. November twenty-first.
A bleary-eyed, heavyset redhead answered the door, holding a piece of chalk. I pretended not to notice the enormous sweat marks extending like moist continents from both armpits. He took one look at me and said: “First of all, let’s talk about the subatomic world.”
This was a blind date—“double-blind,” Ben had joked on the phone, when he’d heard I was working as a clinical epidemiologist on my way to a degree in psychology. We were both from the suburbs of Boston, both grad students, and both on shoestring budgets. I’d met his roommate Wolfgang at a costume party at the Design School three weeks earlier and had agreed to let him set me up. I was dressed in black from neck to boots and had pinned bras, socks, underpants, and dryer sheets all over myself. Wolf liked my costume—not the concept so much as the bras. Now the date was turning out exactly the way my mother would have predicted, an object lesson about what happens when a girl leaves the house wearing not only her heart but her panties on her sleeve.
I tried to act natural and offered my hand. It was then that I overheard a voice from inside the house: “That’s why you don’t give Franco the chalk! You’ll never get it back!” Relieved, I realized this was the voice I knew from the phone. Following the voice came a man wearing a shirt with a quote from Nietzsche on it. His hair looked as if it had been styled in a wind chamber, and he was holding a lone chopstick.
“May we help you?” he said.
“Kim,” I said. When this still appeared not to register, I added, “We said Thursday the twenty-first, right? You’re friends with Wolf?”
“Right,” he said, and quickly glanced from me to Franco, then back to me again.
“Does this mean you didn’t bring the egg rolls?” Franco said, examining his chalk. Ben seemed torn, as if trying to choose from among several bad alternatives.
“Would you like to come in?” he said finally, prompting an expression of shock from Franco.
“Now?” Franco said. I could have invented a spontaneous migraine, or a sudden bout of narcolepsy, and perhaps I should have. But there was something about Ben that made me want to stay. He had one of those open, inquisitive faces most often seen on babies.
Franco yanked him aside, and with a ridiculous flourish of clandestine urgency, the two held a private powwow three feet away from me. I checked the door lintels for hidden cameras, figuring I must have been on one of those prank TV shows. Girl shows up for blind date. Date pretends to have forgotten and wants to let her in, but prop bystander protests: Now? During the opening rites to dungeon bondage role-play?
As it turned out, it was just like one of those shows, only much, much worse. Ben led me into a room full of strangers, an extremely hot room. Everyone in it was expecting Chinese food, and I didn’t have any. I had a bag of Twizzlers in my purse, but I knew it wouldn’t suffice; the very air in the room felt possessed of appetite. People were sprawled out everywhere: on the floor, on a Naugahyde couch, and in beanbag chairs. They all looked as if they’d either just woken up or had been drinking since noon. In the center of the room was a two-sided chalkboard, completely covered with drawings and quotations. At first I thought I’d walked in on some sort of Olympic-level game of Pictionary. What I didn’t know then was that it was a free-form interdisciplinary brainstorming session, or FIBS, and that it happened the third Thursday of every month.
The point of the exercise, as it was explained to me, was simple: All the participants were expected to share something interesting about themselves or their field, and whoever’s contribution was deemed the most indispensable to life on the planet that night didn’t have to pay for his or her share of the takeout. Ben seemed vaguely apologetic as he explained all of this, as if he expected I might laugh myself into an epileptic fit at any moment, and kept taking in my reactions with earnest, searching eyes. But from the standpoint of a dissertation-writing psychology student, it was oddly intriguing, and I was already playing with such phrases as “Jungian impulse” and “tribal mind.”
“This is Kim,” he told the group, with one hand at my lower back as if I were a specimen. I gave a brief wave from the wrist, à la Miss Massachusetts. I expected that what would happen next would be people would go around the room introducing themselves, and I might be offered a glass of wine or maybe a cracker. Instead, Franco produced a blindfold.
“What’s that?”
“What’s it look like?”
“An off-duty dust rag. What’s it for?”
“You’re uninitiated. We have to initiate you,” he said. I looked to Ben for reassurance, and he gave me a nod, the way a lion might nod at an antelope.
Franco began securing the bandana around my eyes. It was opaque and smelled like pipe tobacco.
“This seems a little creepy,” I said.
“It’s just a silly ritual,” said a woman’s voice. “We all had to do it.” The words had the ersatz reassurance of a dentist calmly describing what he’s about to do to your teeth.
“If there’s going to be a sacrificial offering, I don’t mind telling you, I’m not a virgin,” I said. Nobody laughed, except for Franco, who guffawed wildly, which was worse than no one laughing. I wondered if my armpits were on their way to looking like his, then I realized I wasn’t actually scared. The room had the odd comfort some great libraries have; it was hot, and populated with strangers, but safe-feeling.
Which was good, because now someone had taken me by the shoulders and was turning me in a circle. When he was done, he let go of me and spoke.
“The goal is to discover things that sound impossible when you first hear them but seem self-evident when you’re finished,” he said.
A moment later, it was someone else’s turn to grab me by the shoulders and play spin-and-speak.
The next to approach was a woman; I could smell a hint of gingery perfume.
“When dreams come true, they often don’t look like you thought they would. Be prepared for that.” Was this meant to suggest that my dreams were going to come true tonight? If so, things were going to have to take some drastic turns mighty quickly.
“Those who are given great gifts are also given great obstacles.”
“Wherever you are is the entry point.”
“Use your intuition. There aren’t many things that aren’t best done intuitively.” I wasn’t sure suspension bridges were best built intuitively, but I held my tongue.
“The greatest truths are those whose opposite is also true.” This from a man whose voice sounded a lot like Ben’s. I considered an investigatory pawing of his face, but before I could act, it was someone else’s turn.
This went on for about twenty minutes, each person in the group standing up, rotating me, then telling me something the likes of which you might expect to see on the bumper sticker of a flying car. I don’t know if they had these things written out on index cards, or what. All I knew was that if they asked me to take the special pink drink, I wasn’t drinking.
Finally: “Don’t be constrained by past thinking or seemingly immutable laws. Remember the flight of the bumblebee.”
“According to the laws of physics, bumblebees can’t fly!” someone—probably not a physicist—blurted out. I’d had enough. I was thirsty, I was hot, I was tired of wearing some grad student’s do-rag around my head. I’d heard of bad first dates, but this was a whole new universe of unexplored badness.
“Exactly what law of physics does the flight of the bumblebee contravene?” I said.
An indecipherable murmur moved through the room. “We’ll get to your questions in a moment,” said a deep, resonant voice. The cinematic portion of my brain pictured James Earl Jones sitting on a stool in the corner with a steaming cup of tea. “But first: Is there anything you wish to add to the collective knowledge of the group?”
The room went silent. I hesitated, but I didn’t panic. I knew how to play games like this. My entire life was a game like this.
“A pigeon’s feathers are heavier than its bones,” I said. A risky bit of wisdom, and one I’d picked up from the alcoholic vagabond who haunted the Au Bon Pain in Harvard Square, true. But it seemed the sort of nugget this crowd could take to the bank. The next thing I knew, a sinewy, pungent mathematician was untying me. The first thing I saw was his shirt, which was covered with rows and rows of pi:
3.1415926
535897932
384626433
832795028
841971693
993751058
209749445
“You’re in,” he said.
“That was weird,” I said. Ben and I were at the Middle East, a late-night coffeehouse in Central Square, where he’d just ordered an Irish coffee, a drink I’ve always considered to be a waste of all three ingredients.
He cocked his head.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve made a conscious decision not to use the word weird anymore.”
“That’s weird,” I said. “And this is because …”
“Everything is weird. Quantum superposition is weird. Electromagnetism is weird. Supersymmetric flip is weird. My parents have a friend who’s allergic to snow. My neighbor is convinced that the Earth’s weather patterns were fine until we punctured the atmosphere by flying into outer space.”
“Your neighbor may win the Nobel Prize some day,” I said, and took a sip of my hot chocolate. Ben’s face brightened.
“My landlady,” he said, “is convinced I’m stealing the fresh lightbulbs she puts in the hallway lamps and replacing them with my old ones.”
“And are you?”
“I hadn’t thought of it until Zarafinka suggested it! Now, if I ever need a plan to get rich sixty-five cents at a time, I’ve got one.”
I found myself scanning my brain for examples of bizarre behavior, eager to match his tales. “I knew a cartoonist who used to unplug all of his appliances at night, to save on his electric bill,” I said.
Ben stirred his coffee. “We should fix him up with my landlady. They could make frugal cartoons together.”
“We should,” I said. “My sister once set two people up, and then every year, on Valentine’s Day, they would send a card to her.”
Ben hesitated, and I could tell he was debating whether to comment on our own situation. We were, after all, on an arranged date ourselves.
“Of course, if it all went south, she could have gotten hate mail every year,” I said. “You never know with these things.” Ben’s eyes flashed. “I’m sorry, did that sound cynical?” I said. “That probably sounded cynical.”
“It sounded honest,” he said, leaning back. “I like honest.” His expression made me both happy and nervous. Usually I didn’t tell stories involving my sister—it was impossible to mention her without running the risk of having to say what happened to her—and I wondered why I had broken my own rule for him.
“I once went on a date with a guy who could recite Hamlet backwards,” I said, to bring us back to weirdnesses.
Ben set down his mug. “Telmah,” he said.
“Not a very marketable skill.”
“Wolf claims he used to go out with the boomerang champion of the world,” he said. “Back in Germany. I’ve seen a photograph. Picture Wolf with a seven-foot-tall Amazon.” I imagined Wolf with his palms pinned by a Teutonic huntress wearing nothing but a boomerang, and almost laughed.
“What do you call a boomerang that doesn’t work?” I said. Ben waited. “A stick!” I said, slapping the table. I think this is incredibly funny, even though no one else ever does. Ben smiled, charitably, and I decided I liked him; there was a genuine warmth about him. I hadn’t been on a date since the guy at the dry cleaners asked me out while paying for his shirts, then took me to a whodunit dinner theater. Ben seemed full of potential: brainy, attractive, entertaining. My own young Richard Feynman.
“What’s the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to you?” he said, drawing his chair in closer.
“I thought you didn’t use that word,” I said. Under the table I nudged his foot, to show I meant it in a friendly way.
“What occurrence is the most standard deviations away from your normal range of experience?” he said.
If he hadn’t asked, I’d have been able to cover the tablecloth with my list. But of course in that moment, I couldn’t think of a single abnormal thing. I stared at the menu, as if the words baba ghanoush were memory’s shibboleth. The only thing that came to mind, bizarrely enough, was a third-grade paper titled “The Miraculus Miracle” that had been unearthed recently when my parents’ basement flooded.
“I’ve never gotten over the sheer improbability that I was born,” I said.
Ben’s chin was resting on his hands. “I’m afraid that won’t do,” he said.
I glanced about the restaurant. By the front window, two men were playing klezmer music, one on the clarinet and the other on an accordion. All the tables had little tea lights on them and most were occupied by couples or small groups. Toward the back, a Sephardic-looking woman sat at a table draped in black velvet; in front of her was a crystal ball and a sign that said READINGS BY RENATA.
“I once had my palm read, in Venice, and the woman said: ‘You’re going to be famous, but not in the way you think.’ Does that count?”
“What do you think she meant?”
“I have no idea. That’s what makes it weird,” I said. I gestured in the direction of Renata. “Do you think she got her crystal ball off the Internet?”
“Do you think you’re going to be famous?”
“I hope not. I feel bad for famous people. They can never enjoy their falafels in peace.”
“F
ame as inconvenience,” he said.
“You think it’s easy being Eartha Kitt?”
“Eartha Kitt is dead.”
“Exactly. First you’re famous, then you’re dead. What good does it do you?”
The third-grade paper that survived the flood was about a girl who loved so strongly, she could bring things back to life. First a butterfly. Then the family dog. Then the man who gave her Budweiser stickers who always went jogging on her street. But when the newspapers found out about her power and broadcast it, she lost it, and was unable to bring back the thing she loved most of all.
“Here’s something weird,” I said. “I know a guy who dreamed he died and went to heaven, and at the pearly gates, Saint Peter asked if he had any regrets. He said: ‘Yeah. I could have been a great accountant.’ Before the dream, the idea of accounting had never entered his head. After the dream, he took classes, got certified, and now crunches numbers for a loyal cadre of New Yorkers who swear by his expertise.”
Ben poked my hand with his finger. “But that isn’t something that happened to you,” he said, pressing my skin as if it held an invisible buzzer. I’m sure his touchy-feely curiosity was intended to open me up and put me at ease, but it had the opposite effect, and I withdrew. It was disturbing to realize how much I wanted to impress him. I wasn’t used to trying to impress people; that had always been Avery’s domain. She’d been so good at it that I simply bowed out of the race, became the pensive little sister with her face in a crossword puzzle. Now here I was, cheeks flushed, lips laced with chocolate, scouring my life for odd events. And all I could think of was Avery.
“What’s the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to you?” I said, feeling ingenious. I always forget that it’s possible to turn the tables.
“The strangest thing that’s ever happened to me is still happening,” Ben said in a low voice.
When I was twelve, I spent a summer learning how to raise one eyebrow—time that now felt wisely invested.
“Oh really,” I said.
He took my hand. “Come downstairs,” he said. Then he led me down the stairs and over to the men’s room, where he tried to get me to go in with him. Never have I so rapidly amended my hopes for an evening.
I Knew You'd Be Lovely Page 14