The Fuck Up

by Arthur Nersesian

  “I love her,” I lied angrily. “I want you to apologize to her.”

  “Well, that’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard, ‘cause she can’t love. You better get that straight, right off.”

  “Just apologize to her. We’ll let it go at that.”

  “No, I can’t,” he replied. “I’m not as much of a liar as you or her. So the both of you can just go fuck each other.”

  The kid no longer reminded me of me. He was far more principled. I stood there a moment wondering whether he would apologize to her if I gave him a hundred dollars. But I didn’t think he’d accept it. Besides, I didn’t have a hundred dollars. After a silent moment, I decided that I still wanted the car and this kid’s pride, which stood in the way, was just too weak a thing. “Are you going to apologize?”

  Mimicking me, he stood up, crossed his arms, inhaled, and replied with an assumed lisp, “For the last time, coach, no!” I couldn’t just hit him. I partly admired him. So I walked right up to him and shoved him onto the bed. He bounced off it and lunged at me. I had about fifty pounds on him, so I shoved him to the floor, pinned his arms around his back and held him there. “Are you going to apologize?”

  “I’m gonna kill you,” he seethed with the little air he could muster. I didn’t want to hurt him but I had to break him.

  “HELP!” he started screaming. I clenched his arms behind his back with one hand and with my other hand I gently covered his mouth so that he wouldn’t yell.

  “I want you to nod yes when you’re ready to apologize,” I explained carefully as he squirmed.

  He twisted and kicked and tried biting my hand. With the hand that I had used to gag him, I clamped tightly over his mouth. Desperately he tried breathing through his nose. Leisurely I got around to pinching his nostrils. Then I wheeled my body around so that I was fully on top of his collapsing and ethical lungs. I could see a drowning look in his eyes as his body writhed and twisted. As his smothered face turned redder and redder, I felt my conscience shrivelling tightly until it was just a dry little pit inside of me. Time slowly passed, and I realized that there was no worse sound than gagged pain. Finally his head whipped up and down; he was ready to apologize. I helped him up to the edge of the bed where he caught his breath and stared despondently at the floor like someone who had just been violated. After a moment, I watched him calmly rise and tug off his shirt, then he opened the top drawer of his cabinet. I thought he was replacing his sweaty T-shirt, but then he suddenly turned around. His arm was over his head and a long knife was plunging down.

  “You’re dead,” he said and dove dizzily at me. Snatching a pillow off his bed, I shoved it out and felt a stabbing deep in the cushion, which I think he did deliberately for effect. Before he could recoil, I grabbed his elbow and twisted it behind his back. The impaled pillow fell to the floor, and I kicked it across the room next to the bong. He looked up at me calmly, probably expecting me to be civilized about the whole thing. But in a single rehearsed football motion, I bowed low, grabbed him around the knees, hoisted him in the air then threw him headlong onto the floor. After the big bang, he curled up in the corner and started crying painfully. Yanking him out to the middle of the floor, I shoved him on his back, uncurled his arms and sat on his chest.

  “Get the fuck off me!” he screamed. I hit him and hit him again and again and again, and soon I was frenzied and couldn’t stop. The screams and cries for pity, the begging and blood, all that background crap didn’t obstruct that lustful lava of cruelty that spewed out. I lost control and didn’t stop until my hands were moist and my arms trembled.

  In complete exhaustion, he was cowering, trying to shove his head under the bed frame, holding his hands over his face. I pulled him out and saw his nose bleeding; both his eyes were swelling and I thought I broke his nose.

  “Apologize, yes?”

  “No. Fuck no!”

  Taking several deep hard breaths, I jumped on him and swung him to the floor. He obeyed all force without resistance. I held his arms in a full nelson and rested my mouth just above his ear. Calmly, in a throaty whisper, I said, “When I’m done and out of here, you’re going to spend the rest of your life trying to forgive yourself for what you let me do now…”

  “ALL RIGHT! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” He started screaming and flaying his arms and legs so convulsively that I thought he was having a convulsion. I jumped off him, terrified that I had done something irreversible. But when he rolled under the bed, I realized that he was even more petrified than I.

  Grabbing the kid by his collar, I pulled him out, led him into the bathroom, and said, “Wash.” Now that the problem had been repaired, I was returning the goods nice and clean. All that remained were the red marks that by tomorrow would be swollen into blue and black bruises and then they would fade. I took some nice clothes out of his closet and put them on the bed. When he came out of the bathroom cleaned, I pointed at the attire and said, “Dress.” He moved clumsily and drunkenly. Holding his collar, as if I were walking a big dog, I took him downstairs to his inspector.

  “Glenn,” I casually called out when we hit the bottom landing. “Your son would like to have a word with you.” I plopped him down on the sofa next to me.

  “One second,” she called back from out of the kitchen, completely unaware of the pain and violence that had occurred.

  While waiting for her, I took a cigarette from a crystal bowl sitting on an end table. Clipping it with my lips, I realized that the cigarettes in the jar were only part of the decor, like a bowl of wax fruit, offering only the illusion of generosity I smoked the stale tobacco nonetheless and exhaled the smoke over the kid. He sat painfully straight, a pride to his trainer. Soon the mom entered and looked at her boy, “Yes?”

  “Go ahead,” I prompted him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “All right,” she replied curtly.

  He rose to go but I quickly caught him. I wanted Glenn to get her money’s worth. “Sit down,” I told him. “What are you sorry for?”

  “For being mean to my mother.”

  “And now are things going to change around here?”

  “I’m going to do as she says from now on.”

  “Good boy. Now say good night to your mother and run along.”

  “Good night, Mom.”

  Glenn arose and gave her son a proper peck on the cheek. “I don’t like having to go through this. We’re going through tough times, both in our own way, and both have certain rules to obey. All I ask is to be treated with the same respect that I give you. Is that unreasonable?”

  “No,” he shook his head expressionlessly Nothing she could ask would be too unreasonable after our reality session upstairs. I watched him return to his room and I couldn’t imagine what he would do once he got up there. When the Romans destroyed Carthage, leveled its buildings and enthralled its people, they founded a final form of peace. However, when Napoleon dictated terms at Tilsit, peace only lasted until one side was strong enough to overpower the other. I wasn’t sure which kind of peace this would be, but that wasn’t my job. The real bruises wouldn’t be fully visible until tomorrow, and by then I’d be long gone. I had earned a nice automobile, Glenn would have to worry about the rest. As soon as all was still and I was sitting across from Glenn, I stubbed the decayed cigarette and announced, “Now if you’ll just give me the title, I’ll be on my way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m getting the hell out of here. I did what I agreed to do and now I’m leaving.”

  “Look, I insist that you at least have a drink.” While speaking, she arose and went behind the bar and poured some wine. Soft music was audible and the lighting was indirect. She had a drink and handed me one.

  “It’s a Chardonnay from Sonoma Valley,” she said, and I watched her take a tiny sip. I downed the drink, went over to her rolltop desk and started searching for the signed title.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, but I think she kn
ew.

  When I found it, I realized that she hadn’t signed my name to it, she had only gone through the motion.

  “What the fuck is going on, Glenn?”

  She snatched the title out of my hand, shoved it down into her bra, and childishly hid behind the sofa. I jumped over the sofa and pushed her up against the wall. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

  “Nothing,” she replied. “I just want you to stay.”

  “I didn’t tell you this, but a friend of mine, his name was Helmsley, he committed suicide the other day by jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  She didn’t say a word, then she pulled the title out of her bra. Going to the desk, she signed it and handed it over to me. “I’ll give you two hundred dollars to spend the night. You can sleep in your own room.”

  “You know that guy, Adolphe, who was cheating on you? I’m no better than him,” I replied. “I cheated on my girlfriend. Her name was Sarah and she threw me out of the house.” Silence, and then resignation. When she finally gave me the title, I grabbed my jacket and left the house.

  TWELVE

  At night you have to wait forever for a train, so I took a cab over the bridge, up Church Street, and through West Broadway. Janus wasn’t home, so I went over to Ternevsky’s bar looking for a sufficient cure. Nothing was as potent as his ashtray, which was filled with Thai stick. I lit up and faded away.

  The next morning, I had this strange and tender dream; it was actually more of a sensation. I was slipping through a warm, slimy ooze and although I could breathe I was entirely immersed. There was no claustrophobia. In fact, I felt as if I was speeding toward some strange liberation. I was rising high and higher, fast and faster…. Laughter interrupted me: I was laughing and slowly pulling out of my subconscious state, the oozy warmth was part of me: I was ejaculating into Janus’s hand.

  I slithered out of bed. As I dressed, she watched me with eyes so clear. “I honestly like you and I’m attracted to you. When I saw you this morning, you were tossing and turning; I just wanted to comfort you.”

  “You don’t do that to a person.”

  “It’s not like that. I felt close to you from the first.”

  “That’s not even the point. You just don’t do that to a person.”

  “Well, Sergei says that there’s no better way to be awakened.”

  “Well, not me,” I replied and cleaned up, dressed, and left to go to a nearby coffee shop. As I drank coffee at the counter, squeezed next to a couple eating their breakfast, I wondered how I was going to spend the next couple of hours before work.

  “Do you smell a water buffalo?” the girl sitting next to me asked her companion, loudly. Her boyfriend, who seemed embarrassed, tried changing the topic, but she persisted. I supposed she was right. Tight places are plentiful in New York and lately while in elevators, subways, and even bars, I had become aware of a recent hostility from strangers. I abandoned my coffee and left to a pharmaceutical discount outlet. There, I purchased generic bottles of mouthwash, underarm deodorant, toothpaste, dental floss, and other hygienic offerings to society. Noticing a box of prelubed Trojans, I thought about Ternevsky’s darling. She was gorgeous.

  Crossing Astor Place, the vendors were out in full force. After a quick browse, I bought a baggy old sharkskin suit for five bucks and a new pair of shoes. Then I bought dinner, pizza on Third Avenue, and a sixteen-ounce can of Bud. I feasted on the corner of Saint Mark’s and the Bowery under the Optima cigar sign while watching the punks, whores, addicts, and sightseers all clogging eastward. By the time a bunch of Jersey kids asked me where McSorley’s Bar was, I had finished the crust and decided to go to the Zeus.

  I turned on the night lights and picked up the drops from the box office. As the closing time rolled around, I carefully rolled back the counter, stole the required sum, and waited to go. As I flipped through the Voice, I thought about Ternevsky’s chick. I had to go back there, and I wasn’t sure how to deal with her. I went to the bathroom where I utilized my body aids. I brushed my teeth, flossed, used a mousse, combed my hair, sprayed on underarm deodorant, gargled and, taking off my cheesy socks, applied foot deodorant. Then I changed into the sharkskin suit that I had purchased earlier that day. Some young buck that was cruising the lobby kept dipping into the john, leering as I was transforming. I then went back into the office, where I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to rehearse an imaginary dialogue with Janus.

  But it was ridiculous. I was jeopardizing my living situation. Enough time had passed to heal the tear between me and Sarah. She would be saddened to hear about Helmsley. She’d known what he meant to me and would want to console me. I decided to dial her. After three rings, the answering machine gave a message. Her voice sounded bouncy and far happier than I had ever made her. I could never make her as happy as she now sounded on the recording so I hung up before the beep. Looking through my shirt pocket, I found some loose change and the wrinkled title to the Mercedes. I picked up the phone and held it awhile. Who could I call? Thoughtlessly I dialled some familiar digits and listened to the recorded announcement, “the number you dialled is out of service at this time, please check the number and…” I had dialled Helmsley.

  Soon the film was over and the guys went home. I locked up the theater and made the night drop. As I walked back down Third Avenue, I felt an increasing pain in my leg, a stabbing from a metal barb. I pulled the contents out of my pocket and found a bunch of loose change and a big ring of keys. Examining the keys, I recognized the two keys to Helmsley’s house and a lump arose in my throat. I had never even noticed them before and now they were all that was left. I let them slip through my open fingers, clinking onto the pavement. The locks they once opened had probably already been replaced. Glenn’s house key was the next key under scrutiny, and as I walked the next block, I relived each punch and kick of the previous night. I held the keys to the Mercedes, her garage, and front door. I threw all three keys into Third Avenue traffic. By tomorrow they would all be irretrievably ironed into the tar. All the six remaining keys were still active, four were for Ternevsky, and two were for the theater. I halted and of course turned back. Waiting until the light turned green, I ran into the street and searched until I found the key to the car. Tiredly I made it back to Ternevsky’s place.

  When I entered, Janus was wearing headphones, lying on the director’s circular bed watching his VCR. I quietly went to the most distant part of the place, the reading area. I sat in the great director’s reading chair, which was adjacent to his great custom-made magazine rack filled floor to roof with great periodicals. If we were what we read then Ternevsky was a voyeur, a connoisseur, a bodybuilder, a midget wrestler, a numismatist, a philologist, and there I stopped. Most of the magazines were current, and even though they were broad in scope, most of them were crisply unread.

  I glanced at an old copy of the SoHo Weekly News, which had gone out of business, and then a copy of the East Village Eye. I didn’t want any confrontation with Janus. I just wanted to go to sleep. Finally curiosity conquered and I peeked over at her. Her back was toward me. With headphones on, she watched the large-screen TV When I glimpsed past her to the TV, I realized that she was watching something pornographic. I discreetly watched it awhile; it was actually some kind of avant-garde film. Something caught my eye in one of the many vanity mirrors. I realized that she was watching, studying me. I looked away, back at the magazine rack.

  She rose to her feet and I could hear her walking a bit.

  “Want anything?” She was standing over at the bar, pouring herself a drink.

  “Thanks no.”

  “What you up to?” she asked.

  “Just reading the magazines.”

  “We just got a copy of New York Native. See it there?”

  “No, but its all right.”

  “Aren’t you gay?”

  “Not right now.” I replied, not caring for any tongue-in-cheek crap. Why couldn’t she just leave me alone. I gazed at the lingerie ads in one
of the many woman’s fashion magazines.

  “What is your problem?” she finally asked.

  “You.”

  “What’d I do?”

  “I feel as if you’re testing me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What the hell was that handjob this morning?”

  “You looked as if you could use it.”

  “And now you’re watching porno when you’re just watching me, asking me if I want to read the Native, all of it.”

  “All right,” she finally conceded. “You’re right, and I’ll tell you why, I think you’re a goddamned fraud and the thing that bugs me is that you don’t have to be.”

  “If I am a fraud,” I nibbled, “why don’t I have to be?”

  “Because,” was all she said for a moment, and then she elaborated. “You kind of remind me of me.” She paused awhile, but I still wasn’t going to show any cards. She had to show more than that.

  “If you think that I gave you a handjob just to prove that you’re straight, well, please, I’m not that disgusting. But you are straight.”

  “How the fuck can you be so certain. Why can’t I be gay?”

  “Well, first of all, I’ve known gays all my life. My father was gay, and you just don’t act gay. Also you behave with this kind of repressed quality; you lurk. You’re afraid that if you let yourself go, I’ll see the truth. And you’re always looking at me in this way. And lastly because I’m really attracted to you.”

  “So what now? I mean assuming I am straight. Are you going to tell Ternevsky?”

  “If I wanted you out of here, it wouldn’t matter if you were gay or not. All I would have to do is say that I don’t like you.”

  “So is that what you’re going to do?”

  “No, don’t you understand. I’d like to become friends…”

  “Friends? Like how?”

  “Well”—she moved alongside me and put her hand on mine—“Ternevsky’s a great accommodator. But he’s greasy, slimy and unromantic and he makes me feel ugly and cheap.”