As we were walking back to the subway, I had a revelation, and then I got angry. “Wait a minute,” I said. “What were you cracking up about before?” “Before?” “When you were talking to that woman the first time, you were cracking up. Both of you.” “I don’t know,” he said. “You don’t know?” “I don’t remember.” “Try to remember.” He thought for a minute. “I can’t remember.” Lie #77.
We bought some tamales that a woman was selling by the subway from a huge pot in a grocery cart. Normally I don’t like food that isn’t individually wrapped or prepared by Mom, but we sat on the curb and ate our tamales. Mr. Black said, “If anything, I’m invigorated.” “What’s ‘invigorated’?” “Energized. Refreshed.” “I’m invigorated, too.” He put his arm around me and said, “Good.” “These are vegan, right?” I shook my tambourine as we walked up the stairs to the subway, and held my breath when the train went underground.
Albert Black came from Montana. He wanted to be an actor, but he didn’t want to go to California, because it was too close to home, and the whole point of being an actor was to be someone else.
Alice Black was incredibly nervous, because she lived in a building that was supposed to be for industrial purposes, so people weren’t supposed to live there. Before she opened the door, she made us promise that we weren’t from the Housing Authority. I said, “I suggest you take a look at us through the peephole.” She did, and then she said, “Oh, you,” which I thought was weird, and she let us in. Her hands were covered with charcoal, and I saw drawings everywhere, and they were all of the same man. “Are you forty?” “I’m twenty-one.” “I’m nine.” “I’m one hundred and three.” I asked her if she was the one who made the drawings. “Yes.” “All of them?” “Yes.” I didn’t ask who the man in the drawings was, because I was afraid the answer would give me heavy boots. You wouldn’t draw someone that much unless you loved him and missed him. I told her, “You’re extremely beautiful.” “Thanks.” “Can we kiss?” Mr. Black stuck his elbow in my side and asked her, “Do you know anything about this key?”
Dear Oskar Schell,
I am responding on behalf of Dr. Kaley,
who is currently in the Congo on a research expedition.
She asked that I pass on her appreciation
for your enthusiasm about her work with
elephants. Given that I am already her assistant
– and budget limitations being what they are,
as I’m sure you’ve experienced – she isn’t now
able to take on anyone else. But she did want me
to tell you that should your interest and availability
remain, there might be a project next fall
in Sudan that she will need help with. (The
grant proposals are just now going through.)
Please forward us your résumé, including
previous research experience, graduate and
postgraduate transcripts, and two letters of
recommendation.
Best,
Gary Franklin
Allen Black lived on the Lower East Side and was a doorman for a building on Central Park South, which was where we found him. He said he hated being a doorman, because he had been an engineer in Russia, and now his brain was dying. He showed us a little portable TV that he kept in his pocket. “It plays DVDs,” he said, “and if I had an e-mail account, I could check it on this, too.” I told him I could set up an e-mail account for him if he wanted. He said, “Yeah?” I took his device, which I wasn’t familiar with, but figured out pretty quickly, and set everything up. I said, “What do you want for a user name?” I suggested “Allen,” or “AllenBlack,” or a nickname. “Or ‘Engineer.’ That could be cool.” He put his finger on his mustache and thought about it. I asked if he had any kids. He said, “A son. Soon he’s going to be taller than me. Taller and smarter. He’ll be a great doctor. A brain surgeon. Or lawyer for the Supreme Court.” “Well, you could make it your son’s name, although I guess that might be confusing.” He said, “Doorman.” “What?” “Make it ‘Doorman.’” “You can make it anything you want.” “Doorman.” I made it “Doorman215,” because there were already 214 doormen. As we were leaving, he said, “Good luck, Oskar.” I said, “How did you know my name was Oskar?” Mr. Black said, “You told him.” When I got home that afternoon I sent him an e-mail: “It’s too bad you didn’t know anything about the key, but it was still nice to meet you.”
Dear Oskar,
While you certainly express yourself like an
intelligent young man, without ever having met
you, and knowing nothing of your experience
with scientific research, I’d have a hard time
writing a recommendation.
Thanks for the kind words about my work,
and best of luck with your explorations, scientific
and otherwise.
Most sincerely,
Jane Goodall
Arnold Black got right to the point: “I just can’t help. Sorry.” I said, “But we haven’t even told you what we need help with.” He started getting teary and he said, “I’m sorry,” and closed the door. Mr. Black said, “Onward ho.” I nodded, and inside I thought, Weird.
Thank you for your letter.
Because of the large volume of mail I receive, I am unable to write
personal responses. Nevertheless, know that I
read and save every letter, with the hope of one
day being able to give each the proper response it
deserves. Until that day,
Most sincerely,
Stephen Hawking
The week was incredibly boring, except for when I remembered the key. Even though I knew that there were 161,999,999 locks in New York that it didn’t open, I still felt like it opened everything. Sometimes I liked to touch it just to know that it was there, like the pepper spray I kept in my pocket. Or the opposite of that. I adjusted the string so the keys—one to the apartment, one to I-didn’t-know-what—rested against my heart, which was nice, except the only thing was that it felt too cold sometimes, so I put a Band-Aid on that part of my chest, and the keys rested on that.
Monday was boring.
On Tuesday afternoon I had to go to Dr. Fein. I didn’t understand why I needed help, because it seemed to me that you should wear heavy boots when your dad dies, and if you aren’t wearing heavy boots, then you need help. But I went anyway, because the raise in my allowance depended on it.
“Hey, buddy.” “Actually, I’m not your buddy.” “Right. Well. It’s great weather today, don’t you think? If you want, we could go outside and toss a ball.” “Yes to thinking it’s great weather. No to wanting to toss a ball.” “You sure?” “Sports aren’t fascinating.” “What do you find fascinating?” “What kind of answer are you looking for?” “What makes you think I’m looking for something?” “What makes you think I’m a huge moron?” “I don’t think you’re a huge moron. I don’t think you’re any kind of moron.” “Thanks.” “Why do you think you’re here, Oskar?” “I’m here, Dr. Fein, because it upsets my mom that I’m having an impossible time with my life.” “Should it upset her?” “Not really. Life is impossible.” “When you say that you’re having an impossible time, what do you mean?” “I’m constantly emotional.” “Are you emotional right now?” “I’m extremely emotional right now.” “What emotions are you feeling?” “All of them.” “Like…” “Right now I’m feeling sadness, happiness, anger, love, guilt, joy, shame, and a little bit of humor, because part of my brain is remembering something hilarious that Toothpaste once did that I can’t talk about.” “Sounds like you’re feeling an awful lot.” “He put Ex-Lax in the pain au chocolat we sold at the French Club bake sale.” “That is funny.” “I’m feeling everything.” “This emotionalness of yours, does it affect your daily life?” “Well, to answer your question, I don’t think that’s a real word you used. Emotionalness. But I understand what you were trying to say, and yes. I end up cry
ing a lot, usually in private. It’s extremely hard for me to go to school. I also can’t sleep over at friends’ apartments, because I get panicky about being away from Mom. I’m not very good with people.” “What do you think is going on?” “I feel too much. That’s what’s going on.” “Do you think one can feel too much? Or just feel in the wrong ways?” “My insides don’t match up with my out-sides.” “Do anyone’s insides and outsides match up?” “I don’t know. I’m only me.” “Maybe that’s what a person’s personality is: the difference between the inside and outside.” “But it’s worse for me.” “I wonder if everyone thinks it’s worse for him.” “Probably. But it really is worse for me.”
He sat back in his chair and put his pen on his desk. “Can I ask you a personal question?” “It’s a free country.” “Have you noticed any tiny hairs on your scrotum?” “Scrotum.” “The scrotum is the pouch at the base of your penis that holds your testicles.” “My nuts.” “That’s right.” “Fascinating.” “Go ahead and take a second to think about it. I can turn around.” “I don’t need to think. I don’t have tiny hairs on my scrotum.” He wrote something on a piece of paper. “Dr. Fein?” “Howard.” “You told me to tell you when I feel self-conscious.” “Yes.” “I feel self-conscious.” “I’m sorry. I know it was a very personal question. I only asked because sometimes, when our bodies change, we experience dramatic changes in our emotional lives. I was wondering if perhaps some of what you’ve been experiencing is due to changes in your body.” “It isn’t. It’s because my dad died the most horrible death that anyone ever could invent.”
He looked at me and I looked at him. I promised myself that I wouldn’t be the first to look away. But, as usual, I was.
“What would you say to a little game?” “Is it a brain teaser?” “Not really.” “I like brain teasers.” “So do I. But this isn’t a brain teaser.” “Bummer.” “I’m going to say a word and I want you to tell me the first thing that comes to mind. You can say a word, a person’s name, or even a sound. Whatever. There are no right or wrong answers here. No rules. Should we give it a try?” I said, “Shoot.” He said, “Family.” I said, “Family.” He said, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I explained this well. I’ll say a word, and you tell me the first thing you think of.” I said, “You said ‘family’ and I thought of family.” He said, “But let’s try not to use the same word. OK?” “OK I mean, yeah.” “Family.” “Heavy petting.” “Heavy petting?” “It’s when a man rubs a woman’s VJ with his fingers. Right?” “Yes, that’s right. OK There are no wrong answers. How about safety?” “How about it?” “OK” “Yeah.” “Bellybutton.” “Bellybutton?” “Bellybutton.” “I can’t think of anything but bellybutton.” “Give it a try. Bellybutton.” “Bellybutton doesn’t make me think of anything.” “Dig deep.” “In my bellybutton?” “In your brain, Oskar.” “Uh.” “Bellybutton. Bellybutton.” “Stomach anus?” “Good.” “Bad.” “No, I meant, ‘Good. You did good.’” “I did well.” “ Well.” “Water.” “Celebrate.” “Ruff, ruff.” “Was that a bark?” “Anyway.” “OK Great.” “Yeah.” “Dirty.” “Bellybutton.” “Uncomfortable.” “Extremely.” “Yellow.” “The color of a yellow person’s bellybutton.” “Let’s see if we can keep it to one word, though, OK?” “For a game with no rules, this game has a lot of rules.” “Hurt.” “Realistic.” “Cucumber.” “Formica.” “Formica?” “Cucumber?” “Home.” “Where the stuff is.” “Emergency.” “Dad.” “Is your father the cause of the emergency, or the solution to it?” “Both.” “Happiness.” “Happiness. Oops. Sorry.” “Happiness.” “I don’t know.” “Try. Happiness.” “Dunno.” “Happiness. Dig.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Happiness, happiness.” “Dr. Fein?” “Howard.” “Howard?” “Yes?” “I’m feeling self-conscious.”
We spent the rest of the forty-five minutes talking, although I didn’t have anything to say to him. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be anywhere that wasn’t looking for the lock. When it was almost time for Mom to come in, Dr. Fein said he wanted us to make a plan for how the next week could be better than the last one. He said, “Why don’t you tell me some things you think you can do, things to keep in mind. And then next week we’ll talk about how successful you were.” “I’ll try to go to school.” “Good. Really good. What else?” “Maybe I’ll try to be more patient with morons.” “Good. And what else?” “I don’t know, maybe I’ll try not to ruin things by getting so emotional.” “Anything else?” “I’ll try to be nicer to my mom.” “And?” “Isn’t that enough?” “It is. It’s more than enough. And now let me ask you, how do you think you’re going to accomplish those things you mentioned?” “I’m gonna bury my feelings deep inside me.” “What do you mean, bury your feelings?” “No matter how much I feel, I’m not going to let it out. If I have to cry, I’m gonna cry on the inside. If I have to bleed, I’ll bruise. If my heart starts going crazy, I’m not gonna tell everyone in the world about it. It doesn’t help anything. It just makes everyone’s life worse.” “But if you’re burying your feelings deep inside you, you won’t really be you, will you?” “So?” “Can I ask you one last question?” “Was that it?” “Do you think any good can come from your father’s death?” “Do I think any good can come from my father’s death?” “Yes. Do you think any good can come from your father’s death?” I kicked over my chair, threw his papers across the floor, and hollered, “No! Of course not, you fucking asshole!”
That was what I wanted to do. Instead I just shrugged my shoulders.
I went out to tell Mom it was her turn. She asked me how it went. I said, “OK” She said, “Your magazines are in my bag. And a juice box.” I said, “Thanks.” She bent down and kissed me.
When she went in, I very quietly took the stethoscope from my field kit, got on my knees, and pressed the whatever-the-end-is-called against the door. The bulb? Dad would have known. I couldn’t hear a lot, and sometimes I wasn’t sure if no one was talking or if I just wasn’t hearing what they were saying.
We were quiet on the car ride home. I turned on the radio and found a station playing “Hey Jude.” It was true, I didn’t want to make it bad. I wanted to take the sad song and make it better. It’s just that I didn’t know how.
After dinner, I went up to my room. I took the box out of the closet, and the box out of the box, and the bag, and the unfinished scarf, and the phone.
Message four. 9:46 A.M. It’s Dad. Thomas Schell. It’s Thomas Schell. Hello? Can you hear me? Are you there? Pick up. Please! Pick up. I’m underneath a table. Hello? Sorry. I have a wet napkin wrapped around my face. Hello? No. Try the other. Hello? Sorry. People are getting crazy. There’s a helicopter circling around, and. I think we’re going to go up onto the roof. They say there’s going to be some. Sort of evacuation – I don’t know, try that one – they say there’s going to be some sort of evacuation from up there, which makes sense if. The helicopters can get close enough. It makes sense. Please pick up. I don’t know. Yeah, that one. Are you there? Try that one.
Why didn’t he say goodbye?
I gave myself a bruise.
Why didn’t he say “I love you”?
Wednesday was boring.
Thursday was boring.
Friday was also boring, except that it was Friday, which meant it was almost Saturday, which meant I was that much closer to the lock, which was happiness.
Why I’m Not Where You Are 4/12/78
The Sixth Borough
“Once upon a time, New York City had a sixth borough.” “What’s a borough?” “That’s what I call an interruption.” “I know, but the story won’t make any sense to me if I don’t know what a borough is.” “It’s like a neighborhood. Or a collection of neighborhoods.” “So if there was once a sixth borough, then what are the five boroughs?” “Manhattan, obviously, Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, and the Bronx.” “Have I ever been to any of the other boroughs?” “Here we go.” “I just want to know.” “We went to the Bronx Zoo o
nce, a few years ago. Remember that?” “No.” “And we’ve been to Brooklyn to see the roses at the Botanic Garden.” “Have I been to Queens?” “I don’t think so.” “Have I been to Staten Island?” “No.” “Was there really a sixth borough?” “I’ve been trying to tell you.” “No more interruptions. I promise.”
“Well, you won’t read about it in any of the history books, because there’s nothing—save for the circumstantial evidence in Central Park—to prove that it was there at all. Which makes its existence very easy to dismiss. But even though most people will say they have no time for or reason to believe in the Sixth Borough, and don’t believe in the Sixth Borough, they will still use the word ‘believe.’
“The Sixth Borough was also an island, separated from Manhattan by a thin body of water whose narrowest crossing happened to equal the world’s long jump record, such that exactly one person on earth could go from Manhattan to the Sixth Borough without getting wet. A huge party was made of the yearly leap. Bagels were strung from island to island on special spaghetti, samosas were bowled at baguettes, Greek salads were thrown like confetti. The children of New York captured fireflies in glass jars, which they floated between the boroughs. The bugs would slowly asphyxiate—” “Asphyxiate?” “Suffocate.” “Why didn’t they just punch holes into the lids?” “The fireflies would flicker rapidly for their last few minutes of life. If it was timed right, the river shimmered as the jumper crossed it.” “Cool.”
“When the time finally came, the long jumper would begin his approach from the East River. He would run the entire width of Manhattan, as New Yorkers rooted him on from opposite sides of the street, from the windows of their apartments and offices, and from the branches of trees. Second Avenue, Third Avenue, Lexington, Park, Madison, Fifth Avenue, Columbus, Amsterdam, Broadway, Seventh, Eighth, Ninth, Tenth…And when he leapt, New Yorkers cheered from the banks of both Manhattan and the Sixth Borough, cheering the jumper on and cheering each other on. For those few moments that the jumper was in the air, every New Yorker felt capable of flight.
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close Page 16