On the last of those nights, there was an early winter chill in the air, and I remember Charlie’s silly smile as he appeared in front of his house and framed my cold cheeks with his warm hands. “Hey, it’s Molly,” he said. “Gee golly.” As he looked at me intently, I felt high already. Charlie touched his toasty lips to my chilled ones, and then, as if I were just a pit stop to something else, he was off, spinning in circles, bounding around the lawn, lifting his face to the sky. His dark curls peeked out from under a cowboy hat. He wore no shoes.
“Whatcha doing?” I yelled out. With Charlie, I could never predict what would come next, which was a major part of his appeal.
“It’s a rain dance. It’s Incan, or Mayan.” Or maybe he said “mine.”
“It’s not raining, you know.”
“That, my dear, is precisely the point. Rain, currently, exists only as desiiire.” He dragged out the last word to match his undulations. His laugh was almost a cackle, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I tried to recall how he might laugh, but couldn’t. I’d already grown accustomed to feeling thrown off by Charlie—his chatter ambled easily between mathematical proof and Alice and Wonderland-style ramble, and his body was an instrument, always in play. But I was becoming uneasy, the trance thinning. I shivered and dug my hands into my coat pockets. And then, as if Charlie’s reeling had willed it, the sky opened and the drops descended, heavy and frigid.
I escaped to the front steps and sat slumped, sheltered by the house’s awning. But Charlie didn’t seem to notice, and he didn’t stop dancing. I followed his maddening movements, watched his toes muddy and his t-shirt mat against his skin. He was oblivious to the couple crossing the sidewalk in front of his house, umbrellas fanned out in taut bursts of blue. His dancing was like a separate entity, on some other plane of existence far away from our boring little town; the fact that I was a part of it, if only tangentially, sent a spike of thrill through me. The rain grew denser, and I called out: “Hey, Charlie.”
He was beside me then, his arms wet and cold around my waist. “Let’s go play inside.” His parents weren’t home—they never were—and up in his room I warmed up, wrapped in a towel and then Charlie’s limbs. I felt cocooned, and in a comforting refrain I surveyed his things: pack of cigarettes, bag of sunflower seeds, book of crosswords. Then I saw, too, the empty bottle of cough syrup. Hmm. I recalled the off-kilter smile of Charlie’s hello, and the scene snapped into focus: He was Robo-tripping, something I’d overheard being discussed by some older girls in the locker room after gym class, a high you could buy for cheap right at Walgreen’s, no ID required. Charlie was probably seeing me in pretty, swirling colors. I regarded him with interest, even as my insides churned.
At some point he added music—a treasure of a tune, slow and wistful—and I was being lifted up and waltzed with. I’d never waltzed before, so how did I know that’s what we were doing? A mystery. Charlie began humming. He fixed me with dark, steady eyes, and I gazed back with my light ones, and it took me a minute to remember who this was I was dancing with. This was a look I was sure was not Charlie’s. He was reeling and almost smiling and maybe dreaming, staring at the tip of my ear or my jawbone. “How’re you doing?” I asked.
“Hmm, happy.” I considered this, wondering what the word “happy” encompassed for Charlie, what exactly was bumping around his head. He ran his fingers through my frizzing hair and told me I was beautiful, which was the first time any boy had said that to me. That was the moment I decided I would sleep with Charlie, another first for me, and soon he led me to his bed. Charlie was sweet and gentle with me, and I fell asleep feeling like the definition of happy. Unlike my usual night thrashings, I rested easily by Charlie’s side.
Until the middle of the night, when my mother somehow figured out where I was—I suspect she installed a GPS tracker in me before they were invented—and bore down on the doorbell with such persistence that at first the series of buzzes was a melody in my dream. I was dragged from the house with no chance to grab my sweater or say a word to Charlie. My mom had a few words for him, though. I remember the conclusion: “It’s one thing for my son to waste his time with someone like you, but my daughter is all potential, and I refuse to let her throw it away on you!” She punctuated this with a door slam, and a final point for me: “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, Molly, it’s that life throws you enough obstacles without having to go seek them out on your own.” She fumed the whole way home.
I was grounded for what felt like years. Charlie kept his distance at school, and at some point he and Leo had a falling out, not connecting again until years later. So, save for a few glances across endless school corridors, it would be nearly a decade before I’d see Charlie Ashbury again.
Now at my desk, I type a reply to Charlie’s email:
I can’t.
Several times I delete it and retype it and delete it again. I think how excitement isn’t all that Charlie kicks up in me; there’s tumult and turmoil, too, those hallmarks of teenage life that I would prefer to leave in the past. He’s like fireworks—dazzling but dangerous, and if a particular mood strikes, irresistible. I stare at my feet, as if they might provide a solution. And they do, sort of: I notice that my boots are scuffed, their heels worn down. They’re unprofessional, frankly, and I need new ones. Knowing that Charlie is allergic to shopping, and particularly shoe shopping, after his brief stint as a shoe salesman, I type quickly:
Hey Charlie, Good to see you this weekend. I have to spend my lunch break buying shoes, sorry. Good luck upstate! Best, Molly.
Innocuous, dry—but with the teeniest-tiniest opening …
At 12:15, I’m navigating Macy’s shoe racks, with Charlie at my side. I never expected he’d show, but of course, Charlie often does the thing you expect least of him. I’m so hopped up on adrenaline that I can barely hold a thought in my head, never mind consider how I feel about this turn of events. So, I shop: I try on a dozen varieties of the same black booties.
Meanwhile, Charlie keeps his promise to say not one word, offering no snide commentary or cutting critique, although I’m sure he’s brimming with both. I appreciate this quality in him, the ability to stay quiet. I remember it from our museum outings, during those six months following Leo’s wedding, the period Charlie dubbed our “reunion tour.” Most people keep up a running commentary as they stroll through the exhibits, just to fill the space or to sound smart or sophisticated. But not Charlie—he’d take it all in in silence, and he’d let me be to do the same. I remember standing in quiet communion with Degas’ dancers at the Met, imagining they might pirouette off the canvas and sweep me away with them, feeling blissful at the thought of it. No way did I want to chitchat about that.
The boots I buy are too expensive with too-high heels. Even Charlie’s presence beside me makes me act recklessly. Only when I suggest that while I’m here maybe I’ll also look at dresses do I spot a crack in his blithe façade. I laugh and mention a pizza place with the only edible food in a three-block radius. Charlie leads me out of the store like we’re escaping disaster. Over pepperoni slices, he asks me what I think of Leo and Lana. I think they’re a great couple, a perfect match, and I tell him so. “Why do you ask?”
He shrugs, chewing. “No reason.” But apparently this is just a prelude. “And how about that Gabriel guy? That’s his name, right?”
“My boyfriend? I think you know that’s his name.”
Charlie nods slowly, staring at me in a fierce way that eventually yields to smirk. It feels involuntary, how I mirror his expression. He pries from me that Gabe is a writer and that he’s finished a novel, but I refuse to give in and tell him the premise. “Then how about I guess?” Charlie’s tone is edged with sarcasm, but I’m too curious to stop him. “Let’s see, it’s probably a privileged man’s take on the search for meaning in the modern age, an exploration of love and lust, a quest for happiness and all the ambivalence and self-loathing that goes along with that—that sort of thing. It’s written in a
style that’s aiming for really sensitive but also masculine in that urbane, hipster, pseudo-literary way.” Charlie locks eyes with me, his face ugly with smugness. “You’re a clever one, Molly. You know exactly the crock of you-know-what I’m talking about.”
My face is hot; I feel like I might cry.
Charlie cocks his head to one side. “What, am I so far off the mark?” His eyes bore into me.
“Well, this was obviously a mistake,” I say, gathering up the remains of my lunch. “Now I remember why I slammed the door on you and me the last time. You’re spiteful and obnoxious and completely unconcerned with anyone’s feelings but your own.”
Charlie makes a fist and pounds it against his chest. “Now that hurt my feelings.” I’m pretty sure he’s mocking me.
“What exactly are you doing here, anyway?” I ask.
Charlie toys with his pizza crusts. “I think the real question, Molly, is what exactly are you doing here?”
“Good question. Nothing.” I toss my trash and head for the exit. Half a block away, I remember the boots. I debate: my pride versus my pricey purchase. I cave and slink back to the pizza place, where Charlie is still sitting, the picture of calm, my Macy’s bag perched on the table in front of him. I reach for it, but Charlie grabs hold of its handles.
“Just let me say one more thing, then I promise I’ll leave you alone.” I could easily wrest the bag from Charlie’s grip, but part of me wants to hear him out, so I wait.
“When I’m out there in the wilderness, it’s just the tall grass and the occasional bison and me. And every once in a while, I get the urge to light a match and let it drop. Just to see the flames, you know? Just to watch them leap up and spread.” Of course Charlie makes me feel the way he does, I think, because he’s still the same reckless teenager, with a compulsion to destroy simply for the sake of destroying. He hasn’t grown up one bit. He shrugs. “I won’t ever do it, probably. But the thing is, wildfire isn’t always dangerous, contrary to what Smokey the Bear claims. It’s important. It’s restorative. It clears out the dead stuff, the weeds and the muck. It makes way for new growth.” Charlie takes my hand, our first physical contact. “Do you see what I’m getting at, Molly?”
I wrest my hand from his, sighing with annoyance. “I suppose you consider yourself some kind of wildfire?”
He smiles wide, his dimples deep; he must think he’s adorable.
“My god, Charlie, your ego. How dare you imply that my life is weeds and muck.” I snatch up the shopping bag.
“Fine. But I think you should know that those shoes are stupid. They’ll destroy your feet.” It’s so typical, for him to come on to me, only to lash out a moment later; I can’t believe I let myself get sucked into his dumb game again.
“Your shoes are stupid,” I say. He’s got on hiking boots caked an inch thick with mud. “You don’t belong here, Charlie. Go back to the Badlands.”
Chapter 6
I’M SO ANXIOUS to hear how Gabe’s meeting with the literary agent is going that I keep glancing at my phone as the prospective marketing associate answers my questions. I tune back in and hear her say it took an entire stick of eyeliner to create her Halloween costume. “Sorry, what were you again?”
“A Seurat painting. It was super-labor-intensive, drawing all those dots.”
Right, and it’s a good answer for her best costume: creative and clever, but recognizable, within the zeitgeist. My last interviewee said she dressed as Catherine of Aragon—too esoteric—and the one before convolutedly explained her feminist take on a Playboy bunny, whose main difference from the classic get-up was apparently motive. I move on, asking this woman first how she’d describe Coca-Cola to a visitor from outer space, and then to design tattoos for the last three presidents. Next, I instruct her to come up with names for a nail polish to appeal to different consumers: a K-pop-obsessed teen, an aspiring Instagram influencer, and a twenty-something artist with a trust fund. And who would be the most viable customer for the color?
I realize how silly these questions can sound. But I learn a lot about someone based on whether their description of Coca-Cola focuses on the sweet, citrusy, fizzy taste, or on the insidious dangers of sugar and caffeine, or on the brand’s iconic design and messaging that a can of Coke equals joy and refreshment. I’m a pro at predicting who’ll be a match for Funhouse Branding, good at the job, and satisfied doing it.
“How about you?” asks my interviewee. “How would you describe Coke to E.T.?”
Caught off guard, I laugh a little. “I’m the one interviewing you, right?”
But I’m left rattled. Because the truth is, I’d have to admit to the alien that I don’t really care for soda; I’d reason that no savvy politician should risk his reputation with a tattoo; and the last time I dressed up for Halloween I was in elementary school. In other words, I’d fail my own little tests; I’d never hire myself to work at Funhouse. It’s no wonder that when I started off here, I was a pretty lousy copywriter. I had trouble getting behind the idea that a product is not essentially the thing itself but rather consumers’ perception of the thing. So schooled was I in the art of denying my own wants that I found it difficult to try to convince others to want. Despite this, I’d majored in Marketing in college—I was more interested in Anthropology and Sociology, but I worried that focusing on those fuzzier subjects would never lead to gainful employment. This fear was validated when, a few months before my graduation, the economy collapsed. Suddenly, any type of employment seemed like a long shot, no matter what you’d studied. Every day I read the headlines about mass layoffs and a deepening recession, and willed myself not to succumb to debilitating panic. So, when against all odds, as someone with zero experience who was entering the worst job market in decades, I was offered a job at Funhouse Branding, I knew how lucky I was. And if I ever forgot it, I had everyone else around to remind me.
But all my peers’ unemployment—or fun-employment, as some defiantly dubbed it—didn’t seem so bad to me. For my part, I struggled to get up each morning and go sit under fluorescent lights and stare at a screen for eight or nine hours straight, my eyes pulsing with ache. I frequently became overcome with a powerful dread, wondering if this would be my existence for the next fifty years: day after day spent strategizing how to exploit consumers’ desires in order to meet bottom lines, punctuated with dull chatter over weak coffee, capped off with the small relief of six p.m. I sometimes daydreamed about an alternate life—running my own business, something that would help people realize their passions and maybe do some good in the world—but I’d quickly remind myself to be grateful for my good fortune and reliable paycheck.
I couldn’t share these feelings with my friends. Kirsten, who’d put herself through college with a string of waitressing jobs while still managing to volunteer as a Big Sister, and who’d graduated with six figures of debt, couldn’t find a job despite a perfect GPA and a Political Science degree; she eventually enrolled in law school just to defer her staggering student loan payments. Sam claimed she was so disgusted by American capitalist greed that she wouldn’t take a corporate job if it were the only thing standing between her and homelessness. Only someone who came from money could afford to say such a thing, although, to be fair, Sam would never accept a cent from her family. She got by with a series of side hustles: cocktail hostess, rich kid tutor, purveyor of the occasional dime bag of marijuana.
I couldn’t talk about it with my family, either. Leo was busy learning how to heal the ill, pulling all-nighters in medical school; my concerns felt frivolous in comparison. And every time I spoke to my mother, she’d go on about how incredible it was that I’d landed such a great job, with a decent salary and benefits to boot. This would inevitably lead to her recalling how my father’s passing had left her destitute, deep in debt from the exorbitant medical bills, a stay-at-home mom with nothing to put on her résumé and two kids to feed and clothe. Throughout my childhood, she ran an ongoing lecture series (for an audience of two—Leo and me
) on the importance of security and self-reliance. I can still recite parts of her favorite orations.
I suppose this is why I’ve stayed at Funhouse Branding for so many years. I’ve felt grateful, and guilty. Also, eventually I realized I have a real aptitude for figuring out who would thrive here. Ironically, this is the opposite of a talent for branding: It means I can perceive who people really are, behind the pretty façades they project in interviews. So, after a mediocre run as a copywriter, I leveraged this newly discovered skill into a Human Resources role, quickly proved myself, and worked my way up to Associate Director. I know that being good at my job isn’t the same as loving it, but it isn’t nothing, either.
• • •
Huzzah!
Gabe’s text reads, so I hurry my interviewee to a conference room for the follow-up questionnaire, then race back to my office to call Gabe. “Tell me!” I demand after he answers.
“Billy was wooing me from moment one, a kind of nonsexual courtship,” he says. I make noises of encouragement, noting Gabe’s use of the agent’s nickname. “He loves the book—he already called it a book, Molly! And he has a great editor in mind.”
“That’s wonderful.” My heart is a yo-yo inside my chest.
“He wants to get the manuscript in this guy’s hands right after Labor Day, so I have to get a headshot and write up my bio and—”
“Wait, that’s next week. Did you already sign with the agent?”
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