Things I can’t Explain

by Mitchell Kriegman

  “Don’t! Don’t kick me again!” I know that voice.

  “Ferguson?” I ask incredulously.

  “I knew my disguise would fool you,” he says, holding his ribs, propping himself up. “Where did you learn to punch like that? And did you really have to kick me?” I give him a hand. I can tell he’s a bit woozy.

  “Ferguson—you’re in prison. How did you get out?” I ask, brushing him off. “And why did you creep up on me like that?”

  He looks around all shifty and I can’t help but shake my head, knowing that whatever he says will only be half the whole story.

  “I’m not supposed to be seen with family members. It’s part of my plea deal with the SEC. I’m on a secret mission: Operation Mighty Hamster.”

  “I assume they named it after you?” I say, almost laughing. If I were in a better mood I’d go on about it. “The SEC must really be in trouble if they’ve asked for your help.”

  “I didn’t get to choose the code name, my handler thought it was clever,” Ferguson says, annoyed. “But that’s not why I’m here. I’m on a mission of mercy. No one can reach you and everyone’s worried.”

  “That’s okay, I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”

  “Well, Mom and Dad will be here tomorrow and want to meet,” he says, looking around furtively.

  “I’m not ready to speak with them.”

  “I don’t see how you can avoid it,” he says. “Hey, sis, I know what you’re up against. It’s not easy with Dad or Mom. It’s not like my record is spotless and I’ve already confronted them about my situation. They have all these expectations. They don’t like how things have turned out but they have to hear it. There’s no way around it.”

  I nod and feel like I should give him a hug or thanks or something, because what he’s said makes sense. But he’s already stepping away.

  “I can’t stay,” Ferguson says and places a rolled-up piece of paper in my hand. “I’ve already violated the terms of my release.”

  “And what kind of new crazy scheme have you agreed to, in order to save yourself from all your other crazy schemes?” I ask.

  “Look, I have a chance to atone for what I’ve done,” he says, getting all serious and noble. “Yes, it’s dangerous and I never thought I’d ever agree to working undercover to get the goods on those Russian bastards, but if I can pull this off I might get my life back and do something good for the world.”

  “That sounds dangerous, Ferguson,” I say, feeling sad for him.

  “Hey, prison is dangerous, standing here is dangerous. You could get hit by a bus tomorrow. You could get that flesh-eating bacteria. Or get mad cow disease. There could be a zombie apocalypse. Life is filled with risks, but sis, you just have to take them.”

  I’m astonished at how worldly he sounds. Although something about what he says rings familiar. Isn’t that the Liam Neeson speech from the end of Taken 2? Without the zombie apocalypse reference, of course. But it doesn’t matter whether it is or isn’t, I know he’s right and I give my younger brother the warmest hug I’ve ever given him. He hugs me back. But after a second he breaks away. I can see he’s trying to hold back a tear.

  “Sis, good luck with Mom and Dad, I’ve got to go. It’s not nice to keep Vlad waiting. Прощай.” He nods silently, turns, and runs off through a side alley. I can’t resist taking the few steps to watch. I see him get in a window-tinted black SUV and speed away.

  CHAPTER 33

  The first two things I think upon entering the coffee shop are: 1) Wow, Café Angelique is way cooler than I remember, and 2) the Darlings are nowhere near cool enough to hang here.

  Yes, I agree we can conclude that my karmic life is built around coffee. But hell, I’m not the one who decided to meet here.

  Then I think thing number 3) Who’s the crazy-looking lady with the tortoiseshell spectacles and the chignon hairdo?

  Marshall and Janet are seated, looking very tense. Could the gal in the tortoiseshell be a long-lost relative or could she be Dad’s new girlfriend? Or is she the head of a new R&D lab Mom’s been talking about, working to increase the bonding efficacy of a new, improved version of ToFlue Glue?

  “Clarissa, this is the family therapist, Dr. Leisl Lyman.”

  No shit.

  Dad pulls out the chair between him and the doc for me to sit.

  “Clarissa, Dr. Lyman has come all the way from Austria to consult with us today,” says Dad, in an uncharacteristically calm tone. He’s been practicing for this, I can tell.

  “I thought you said you were seeing her in Ohio,” I say.

  “We were,” says Mom. “Via Skype.”

  Hmmm. I wonder what Dr. Freud would say about transference in the age of tele-psychiatry? Would Freud still insist his patients lie on a couch? Seems awkward. Where would he put the webcam? I’m sure Drs. Drew and Phil are fine with it.

  “Dr. Lyman is here because we’re concerned,” Mom says.

  “About you, Sport,” Dad adds.

  An awkward silence falls over our little corner of Café Angelique. Those aren’t words you want your parents to say.

  “I know,” I add at last.

  “You’ve been going on for who knows how long about your pretend job at the Post…” Mom begins and I sense a note of indignation, which I resent for obvious reasons.

  “We used the Google,” Dad interjects, “and we learned that the Daily Post went out of business a long time ago!” Okay, Dad, calm down, I think, don’t have a cow about it.

  “And you’ve convinced yourself that Nick the coffee-brewing guitarist is actually your boyfriend when, well…” Mom’s shaking her head gloomily in that Mom kind of way that I dislike that borders on Parkinson’s.

  “When he’s obviously romantically involved with that woman on the motorcycle,” Dad adds. Thanks for rubbing it in.

  “You’ve created an elaborate fantasy life,” Mom states, looking at Madame Lyman for encouragement. “A made-up world in which you have professional and personal connections that don’t actually exist.” Ouch.

  “Sport, we just want to help you come to terms with that,” Dad says.

  Gee, thanks, Pop, and exactly how do you propose to do that?

  It dawns on me that they’ve plunged right in here. No “Hi, Sport, how’re you doing?” or “Nice to see you! Glad you’re feeling better.” This is some kind of, I hate to say it, intervention.

  Lyman adjusts her glasses, pats her stubby hair twist, and looks at me like a frog she just pulled out of a beaker of formaldehyde for dissection.

  “Clarissa, dear, may I call you Clarissa?” she asks. Well, no, not actually, but I don’t think I have a choice. But I don’t say that of course, and she takes my silence as agreement. Personally, I consider my silence a kind of protest, but go figure.

  “Clarissa, dear, this is a very difficult case. Despite your extraordinary intelligence and functionality, you are exhibiting all the earmarks of paranoid schizophrenia,” she says in a clipped Austrian accent that has me wondering if she’s going to belt out a chorus from The Sound of Music. Maybe we could all sing “Edelweiss” together and be done with this. “Clearly, you must see that your parents are very concerned.”

  Something wells up within me. Call it defensiveness or mental illness if you like, I don’t care. I call it outrage. I feel like I’ve walked into some inquisition where my brain has been put on the table for everyone to slice, dice, and examine.

  In my own personal universe I’ve known for a while that when Marshall and Janet called my name at the Daily Post building and I spilled my coffee that I should have spilled again. I know no one sees the world in the superstition-centric way I do. But whatever you believe in and however you believe it, the outcome is the same. Maybe they think I’m crazy, and maybe I am, but something is rising up within me. Call it rebellion.

  “Paranoid?” I say in disbelief. “You betcha. I know I’ve brought all this upon myself. And I know how hard on myself I can be. But besides some tire marks on
Genelle’s parquet dance floor and a possibly soiled wedding dress, no one but me was hurt in the process.”

  “Now, Clarissa, dear,” Madame Lyman says and I can see the look in her eyes. She’s thinking medication, I know she is.

  “Look, Mom, Dad, I tried. You guys are the ones who dropped in on me without warning. I tried to come clean and tell you all about it. I called you, Mom, and you couldn’t stop complaining about Dad.” There’s an uncomfortable moment as Mom looks away and Dad glares at her, but I keep going, plowing ahead. “You want to know what I was worried about? You and Dad. Yes, I have my problems. What twenty-something doesn’t these days? Maybe it’s my tendency for hypercritical self-examination, or lack of self-love, or the crazy idea that I’m going to pay back the loans myself and be a working journalist someday, but it’s motivation for me to do better. And hell, I haven’t had the best luck with the guys I’ve been with, but that’s my business. I know I’m a bit unusual, but who isn’t? It’s about time everyone faced the facts that human beings, especially the human beings in this family, are imperfect creatures, striving to be more, trying to become … something.”

  “Clarissa, we’re not criticizing you,” Mom begins, “we just felt that this was alarming and excessive and…”

  “Can’t you see? We’re all nuts in this family. Mom, you make industrial adhesive out of health food. Dad, you design buildings that resemble fast-food takeout containers, and Ferguson is … Ferguson … a convicted financial trader who is in some kind of witness protection program slash sting operation with the Russian Mafia and the SEC, and you’re worried about me?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut out of sheer frustration.

  “Look, Mom, I love you, but you have to understand that everything isn’t as neat and easy and perfect for everyone else as it is for you. Some of us struggle, some of us make a mess of things, some of us aren’t sure what to do, and a lot of us are sick of tofu.” There, I said it.

  “Well, I don’t see what tofu has to do with this or why you have to criticize me,” Mom says. Clearly, I’ve touched a nerve.

  “Janet,” Marshall says, trying to calm her, “this isn’t about you. It’s about Clarissa, remember? Besides, we’re all in this together as a family. Right, Dr. Lyman?”

  The doc nods and starts to respond, but Mom doesn’t let her get a word in.

  “Just because I’ve managed to find a new career and source of satisfaction late in life, that shouldn’t make me a target of your or your father’s hostility.”

  Everyone goes silent a moment. We’re all stewing inside. I’m getting ready to reload; I mean, she’s asking for it. From my point of view, this Roxie thing is nothing compared to Mom’s unrealistic expectations of everyone that just suck all the oxygen out of our lives. I’m unemployed and my last relationship didn’t work out. So what? Sometimes Mom is so damn faultless and cheerful you want to stab her, which is exactly what I’m about to say without the stabbing part, but before I say a word, a little voice speaks up. It’s so soft that it takes me a moment to realize it’s Dad’s.

  “You’re so damn perfect,” Marshall says, quietly, almost to himself.

  Mom has a shocked look on her face. I can’t help feeling for Dad. I know what he’s been going through and how much guts it takes to say what he’s trying to say.

  Mom blinks like there’s something in the corner of her eye. To my surprise, it’s a tear. It makes me want to cry, too.

  “Oh, Marshall, how can you say that?” she asks, not angry but all weepy. Marshall looks like he’s going to break down, too. He’s trying to change gears but he can’t.

  “I’m sorry, Janet,” he says, still practically mumbling to himself, “that I don’t meet your expectations. That I’ve failed.”

  It’s so heavy I don’t know what to do.

  “Oh, Marshall,” Mom utters again, her startled look soon instantly overwhelmed by tears. I’m watching Mom watching Dad, who’s looking down at the floor.

  But I find myself looking right past Dad through the window to the street outside.

  Walking down that street is none other than the one and only bike-wielding, intoxicated wedding crasher and eye-shadow queen.

  “Roxie!” I cry out, pointing to the window.

  They all whirl to look, but of course, Roxie has already walked by.

  “Oh, Lord,” says Dad, dropping his face into his hands. “Now she’s hallucinating.”

  Okay, here are my options: I can sit here and continue to be psychoanalyzed by a Viennese Dr. Drew in my own family reality show as Dad finally comes to terms with Mom and vice versa, or I can go after Roxie Buggles and bring to a finish at least some of my own issues once and for all.

  “Gotta go,” I say, popping up from the table.

  “Go?” Mom looks shocked. “We’re in the middle of a psychiatric intervention here, Clarissa. We’ve spent a fortune flying Dr. Lyman across the Atlantic. Where could you possibly have to go that’s more important? We know you don’t have a job.” Ooof! That was a low blow. I figure I might as well give them what they want.

  “Well, Mom, I think you and Dad have a few things to work out. You might consider starting by hugging the man who loves you and find out what’s really bothering him. And when you guys are done putting all that stuff on the table, I’ll be glad to check back in with you and hash out my problems. But in the meantime, I do have a job,” I say calmly. “Didn’t you know I’m William Randolph Hearst’s personal assistant? I know he’s dead and the benefits aren’t great, but I’m willing to work with that. Besides I have to meet my boyfriend, Barack O., for drinks, hope Michelle doesn’t mind.” I take two steps toward the door, and turn back. “Oh, and after that, I’m going dancing with Wolverine from X-Men.”

  What can I say? I’m still a big Hugh Jackman fan even though I know he’s tired of playing that part.

  Dr. Lyman is about to say something but I don’t hear what it is because I turn on my heels and dash out of the café, determined to put to rest the only remaining question I have about the mysterious Roxie Buggles.

  CHAPTER 34

  I catch a glimpse of her frizzy hair turning the corner onto Lafayette Street. Even following at a good clip, I don’t catch up until Roxie disappears down the steps to the subway station.

  Down I go, into the bowels of the city, chasing the girl whose boyfriend I unwittingly tried to steal. I’m not sure exactly what I’m going to say to her, but I know if I don’t confront her now, I never will, and I’m not about to let her get away. This is probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but then again, according to one of Austria’s greatest medical minds, I’m teetering on the brink of a psychotic break anyway.

  “Roxie!” I shout, weaving in and out of the crowd in hot pursuit.

  She turns to see me, a little smile creeping across her face. She flips me off just like she did at the wedding, then steps backward through the doors of the 6 train that has just pulled up. I jump, barely making it through the doors, before they seal the train shut and it screeches forward.

  The subway rockets through its underground capillaries and this time I don’t care about my neurotic fear of subways. I shove, jostle, and shoulder my way through packed cars searching for Roxie’s massive woven locks. I find a few Roxie knockoffs and Roxie-lite types, but the genuine article evades me. As the train arrives at Union Square I catch a glimpse of her dashing for the L. I shove my way through the doors before they close, just barely making it into the nearest subway car before it screeches away and give chase. First Avenue … Bedford … Lorimer … Graham. I think of all the people who live in these places going about their lives in a normal daily fashion while I’m chasing a crazy rocker babe who has given me the slip.

  I make it through three cars without getting yelled at too much or punched, but after the next stop it’s clear—I’ve lost her.

  The train rumbles on a bit longer, then pulls to a stop.

  The sign says I’ve arrived in Bushwick. I lean out the door, scan
ning the platform to see if Roxie exits, but there’s no sign of her. I give up and slip out of the train as the doors close.

  Ascending to street level, I wander around a bit and actually see a few of Norm’s custom skate decks rolling by. I wonder whether Dartmoor and MT even bothered to read my story at Nuzegeek. I contemplate calling them and realize I left my phone in my apartment.

  I continue meandering, crossing over some invisible boundary into Williamsburg. I’m only half-heartedly searching for Roxie now. My feet seem to have a destination all picked out and I let them go there. Soon, I’m standing beneath that distinctive arch of antique bicycles.

  But something’s different. The place has that lifeless look that comes from having been recently vacated. Closer inspection shows me that the HeadSpace sign is gone and there’s a new one in its place.

  My knees buckle under me. It’s not as though I thought I still had any kind of chance of making something happen with Nick. It’s not as though the real reason I was following Roxie was because I hoped she would eventually lead me to Nick. It’s just that I know this place was his dream, that it made his life worthwhile.

  And, okay, I wouldn’t complain if I got to see him one more time.

  But it doesn’t matter now.

  Because while the bikes and the building remain, one thing is certain.

  Nick is gone.

  The abandoned studio door opens, scaring the shit out of me.

  It’s Roxie.

  CHAPTER 35

  Roxie’s locking the place up, carrying a cardboard box, and for one crazy second, I wonder if it contains a sampling of Nick’s freshly severed body parts.

  “You?” she barks.

  “Yes. I want to talk.”

  Roxie spins and turns away without saying a word. I suppose it’s an improvement over the finger. We walk about three blocks at a pretty good clip before she enters a bar, which would be considered a dive even by my friend Rodgers’s standards. I linger on the sidewalk a minute, watching Roxie settle into a large window booth already crowded with hipsterish guys who have a tableful of empty shot glasses. She grabs the guy next to her and pulls him into a full-on tongue swapping.