by Simon Rich
He was trying to remember the name of her favorite perfume when a thought entered his head: maybe he was thinking too small? His machine could transport him to any time and place in human history. Why go back a few hours when he could go back a few centuries?
He knew Emily loved Shakespeare. She’d written her senior thesis on one of his tragedies. Why not travel back to the Globe Theatre and swipe her an original script? It wouldn’t be too difficult, he reasoned. All he’d have to do was dash backstage and grab one. It would be the most impressive gift she’d ever received in her life!
But which tragedy had Emily written her thesis about? He knew it was one of the king ones. Richard the something or Charles the something. But there were a bunch of those. What if he got it wrong? It was too risky.
There was always jewelry. He knew the general construction dates for Tut’s tomb. He could park in front of the pyramid, run inside, and snatch a jadestone. Some Hebrew slaves would probably chase after him, but as soon as he made it back into his orb, he’d be home free. He entered in the coordinates and was about to push the lever when he started to second-guess himself again. Buying women jewelry was always chancy. Emily had very specific tastes. What if she didn’t like jade? It wasn’t like he’d be able to go back and return it.
He thought back to the night they met. He was finishing his PhD at the time and his lab had closed early because of Easter. He’d stuffed his papers into his briefcase and shuffled through the rain to the 116th Street station. It was 4:05 a.m. and the platform was deserted, except for Emily. It had been several days since Xander’s last conversation with a human. And when she started to speak to him, he felt the stirrings of a panic attack. But Emily’s friendly smile managed somehow to put him at ease. She was awfully cheerful, given her circumstances. Her MetroCard had expired, she said, and the machines were broken. She’d been stranded for over twenty minutes. Would he be willing to sell her a ride? Xander nodded and watched as she rooted around in her purse for some cash to pay him back. It was a minute or two before it occurred to him that she had given him a chance to be gallant.
“You don’t have to reimburse me,” he said. “I’ll swipe you in for free.”
She thanked him enthusiastically and then—shockingly—wrapped her arms around his torso. Xander wasn’t used to physical contact, and although the hug was brief, it caused his entire body to tingle, from head to toe. It was a startling sensation, like walking through an electrically charged field. He still felt that way whenever she touched him.
Xander was an atheist and believed fiercely in random causality. But by the end of their shared subway ride, he was sure he’d experienced a miracle. This wonderful person had shown up out of nowhere and given him a chance at love.
And in return, he’d given her three years of misery. He thought about all of his Saturday nights at the lab, ignoring her calls, making excuses. He thought about the way she’d cried when he handed her the tulips.
How could he make up for three years of romantic ineptitude with a single birthday present?
Maybe the solution was simpler than he thought. There were a pencil and pad on his desk. He could go back a few hours and spend the morning writing her a card. He would tell her in a plainly worded note how much he loved her—how much gratitude he felt whenever he saw her smiling face.
But Xander wasn’t much of a writer. His sentences would come out poorly, he knew, like the wooden prose of his grant proposals. It was pointless to even try.
He closed his eyes and concentrated. There had to be a right answer.
Cleopatra’s crown.
Joan of Arc’s sword.
A baby dinosaur.
What was the greatest thing he could give her, the very best present in the world? It was the hardest problem he’d ever attempted to solve.
But then, as always, the solution came to him.
Xander parked his time machine on 116th Street and dashed into the subway. It was 3:45 a.m., a little over three years in the past.
Emily was standing by the turnstile, swiping and reswiping her expired MetroCard. It took Xander a moment to recognize her. In his memories, she’d worn a tight angora sweater and bright red lipstick. But in reality, she’d been dressed more casually. A T-shirt, a raincoat, and jeans.
He took a deep breath and approached her.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Expired MetroCard.”
She chuckled.
“How’d you know?”
“I had a hunch,” he said. “Come on, I’ll swipe you through.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll just go to the machine upstairs or—”
“The machines are all broken,” he said, cutting her off.
He could hear a train approaching in the distance.
“You better catch this one,” he said. “The next won’t come for another twenty minutes.”
Before she could protest, he took out his MetroCard and swiped her through the turnstile.
She smiled back at him with confusion.
“Aren’t you coming?” she asked as the train pulled into the station.
Xander averted his eyes. He was worried that if he looked at her he would start to cry.
“I need to take a different train,” he said.
“Well, at least let me pay you for the—”
“That’s all right,” he said, his voice breaking. “It’s a present.”
He was about to turn away when she leaned over the turnstile and hugged him. It was exactly as he remembered it, her long brown hair brushing softly against his neck, his entire body tingling with warmth.
“Thanks!” she said.
He tried to say “You’re welcome,” but the words got caught in his throat. He waved good-bye as she boarded the train. Then he marched out of the station alone.
Children of the Dirt
ACCORDING TO ARISTOPHANES, there were originally three sexes: the Children of the Moon (who were half male and half female), the Children of the Sun (who were fully male), and the Children of the Earth (who were fully female). Everyone had four legs, four arms, and two heads and spent their days in blissful contentment.
Zeus became jealous of the humans’ joy, so he decided to split them all in two. Aristophanes called this punishment the Origin of Love. Because ever since, the Children of the Earth, Moon, and Sun have been searching the globe in a desperate bid to find their other halves.
Aristophanes’s story, though, is incomplete. Because there was also a fourth sex: the Children of the Dirt. Unlike the other three sexes, the Children of the Dirt consisted of just one half. Some were male and some were female and each had just two arms, two legs, and one head.
The Children of the Dirt found the Children of the Earth, Moon, and Sun to be completely insufferable. Whenever they saw a two-headed creature walking by, talking to itself in baby-talk voices, it made them want to vomit. They hated going to parties and when there was no way to get out of one they sat in the corner, too bitter and depressed to talk to anybody. The Children of the Dirt were so miserable that they invented wine and art to dull their pain. It helped a little, but not really. When Zeus went on his rampage, he decided to leave the Children of the Dirt alone. “They’re already fucked,” he explained.
Happy gay couples descend from the Children of the Sun, happy lesbian couples descend from the Children of the Earth, and happy straight couples descend from the Children of the Moon. But the vast majority of humans are descendants of the Children of the Dirt. And no matter how long they search the Earth, they’ll never find what they’re looking for. Because there’s nobody for them, not anybody in the world.
Trade
BEN HAD ALWAYS KNOWN, on some level, that it was possible for him to get traded. He’d seen it happen to dozens of guys over the years, including some of his closest friends. It was part of the game. Still, he had never been traded himself and he was having some trouble accepting it. He kept expecting someone to tap him on the shoulder and tell him the whole thing was
a joke.
“Here’s your stuff,” Hailey said, dropping a duffel bag at his feet. “Good-bye.”
Ben stared at her for a moment, expecting some kind of encouragement or sympathy. But Hailey just stood there.
“So that’s it, then,” Ben said. “After three and a half years.”
“What do you want me to say?” Hailey snapped.
He picked up the bag and slung it wearily over his shoulder. There was nothing he could do. When your girlfriend decides to trade you, that’s it. You’re through.
“I just don’t get it!” Ben shouted over the din of the jukebox. “I thought things were going really well.”
“They weren’t,” his brother, Craig, informed him. “The writing was on the wall.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. Your record’s been sinking all year. You told me yourself you had a five-argument losing streak. And then there were all those errors.”
Ben nodded ruefully. There had been a lot of errors this year. Forty-five Missed Compliments, three Forgotten Events, twelve Accidental Insults—he’d been playing like a rookie.
Craig squeezed his little brother’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Ben,” he said. “Believe me, I know what you’re going through. Remember in oh-four-oh-five? When Zoe traded me?”
Ben nodded. They’d come to the same bar then.
“I was devastated,” Craig said. “I’d just taken her to Henry’s Inn for her birthday—you know, that fancy place with all the candles? Got her a steak, gave her a necklace, took her to a show, massaged her feet…”
“You hit for the cycle?”
“Uh-huh. Then I wake up the next day and she’s giving me my marching orders. Tells me she needs to ‘shake things up’ if she wants to remain a contender.”
“Unbelievable.”
“It was right before Valentine’s Day.”
Ben nodded.
“The Trade Deadline.”
“Exactly. You know what the worst part is? I know the guy she traded me for. And he’s garbage.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he’s some kind of banker. Always looking at himself in the mirror and fixing his goddamn tie. It’s like, ‘Come on, you traded me for this guy?’ I mean, okay, his stats are pretty good. He’s got me beat in Money—and his Sex Numbers are pretty impressive. But what about intangibles? What about attitude? Intelligence? Effort? Those things gotta count for something!”
He ate some potato chips and wiped the grease off on his jeans.
“Who am I kidding?” he muttered. “These days? The only thing they care about is the bottom line.”
When Hailey offered Ben his contract, he was so excited that he barely bothered to read it. He realized now that he should have perused the fine print. According to the Trade Clause, he had seventy-two hours to get his stuff out of her apartment. After that, he wouldn’t be allowed to set foot in her home. His Sexual Privileges were revoked, along with Hugging Rights and Injury Sympathy. It was insane. Why had he given her so much power in the first place?
He was struggling to get through the clause on Mutual Friends—the footnotes alone were five pages—when he heard a loud knock on the door. He took a long, slow breath and opened it.
Hailey’s new boyfriend smirked down at him. He had tattoos on his neck and was wearing a scarf and shades, even though it was summer and he was indoors.
“ ’Sup,” he said.
Ben forced a smile. There was no reason to be impolite. It was an awkward situation—but what could he do about it?
“ ’Sup,” he responded.
The two men shook hands, reached into their pockets, and exchanged keys.
“This one’s for Hailey’s lobby,” Ben explained. “And this one’s for her door. You have to kind of push it in and then twist.”
The tattooed man nodded.
“Lisa likes it from behind,” he offered.
Ben nodded awkwardly.
“Okay,” he said. “I guess that’s it, then.”
“Good luck.”
“You too.”
“What do you mean, an artist?” Craig asked. “Like, in advertising or something?”
Ben swallowed. It was taking him a tremendous amount of effort to get his words out. It was like his tongue was coated with clay.
“He does performance art,” he mumbled. “Based on Camus… and Sartre.”
“Jesus,” Craig said. “I can’t believe she traded you for that.”
He ordered them another round of drinks.
“Is it all finalized?”
Ben nodded.
“We both passed our physicals.”
He banged his fist against the bar.
“Damn it!” he said. “I know I’m not an all-star, all right? My job is boring, I spend too much time doing crossword puzzles, and I like bad TV. I just… I thought I was worth something.”
He shook his head.
“She must have really wanted to get rid of me.”
A mousy girl with glasses opened the door and looked Ben up and down.
“Is now a good time?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said, her voice a little shaky. “Come on in.”
He laid his bag down neatly on the rug and looked around. Her apartment was a lot smaller than Hailey’s, but at least the TV was bigger.
“Is that a plasma?”
Lisa laughed.
“Keanu said it was making him stupid. It was one of our biggest fights.”
Ben nodded.
“Hailey hated TV. Especially my favorite show.”
“Jersey Shore, right?”
Ben winced.
“I didn’t know that showed up in the stats.”
She held up a copy of his old contract.
“Everything’s in here.”
Ben held his breath while she adjusted her glasses and flipped through the pages.
“You really should have negotiated for more,” she said. “I know you were just a draft pick, but this is ridiculous.”
“What do you mean? It’s not a good deal?”
“It’s terrible. I mean, look at this. Your Sexual Privileges are almost nonexistent.”
Ben sighed. He had always suspected Hailey had screwed him with that clause—but he didn’t have any other long-term contracts to compare it to, and he’d been too embarrassed to ask his brother if it was normal.
“And this Emotional Support clause is pathetic. One Career Pep Talk a year?”
“That’s low?”
“Yes. Girlfriends are usually required to give at least one a month. Why didn’t you hire a lawyer?”
Ben threw up his hands in frustration.
“Because I’m an idiot,” he said. “Because I’m a worthless idiot.”
He picked up his duffel bag.
“You know, you don’t have to take me,” he said. “I know there’s a release clause. You can just put me on waivers.”
Lisa laughed.
“Why would I put you on waivers? I traded for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“The trade was my idea.”
Ben slowly put his bag back down.
“It was?”
“Yes! I mean… Hailey didn’t exactly argue when I made the offer. But I set the whole thing up. I don’t have a lot of relationship experience, but I can spot a good deal when I see it.”
Ben felt a swelling in his throat. He realized he was about to cry.
“You think I’m a good deal?”
She flipped through his contract.
“Sure,” she said. “I mean, some of your stats are low. Like… these Sex Numbers. It’s something to work on.”
Ben nodded.
“But your crossword skills are through the roof. You’ve got a solid job. Great taste in TV.”
She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.
“And you’re cute.”
“I am?”
“I think so.”
She crumpled up his old
agreement and tossed it in a wastebasket.
“But that thing is ridiculous. I can’t hold you to it.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah—I’d feel like a monster.”
He was so grateful he grabbed her hand and pressed it to his lips. She giggled.
“But wait,” he said. “What are we going do about a contract?”
She ran her fingers through his hair. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a blank piece of paper.
“Let’s start from scratch,” she said.
He wrapped his arms around her, laughing with relief. There was nothing like joining a new team; there was nothing like Opening Day.
Acknowledgments
This book would not exist without the support, advice, and encouragement of Daniel Greenberg, the best book agent on earth! I feel so incredibly lucky to have him in my corner. I also want to thank my wonderful editors, Reagan Arthur and Laura Tisdel, for devoting so much time and care to these stories. Their skilled edits (and judicious cuts) drastically improved this collection.
Thanks to everyone at Serpent’s Tail, especially Rebecca Gray and Anna-Marie Fitzgerald, for continuing to believe in my writing, even as it gets increasingly weird. And thanks to Susan Morrison and David Remnick, for letting me write for The New Yorker.
Brent Katz, a fantastic writer and friend, came up with the title for this book. He also pitched me over a dozen “backups,” some of which are too good not to print here. My three favorites:
Cupid Kills Himself
Men Are from Brooklyn, Women Are from Brooklyn
Love in the Time of HPV
Alex Woo nodded politely when I cornered him once at a party and ranted for an hour about the general concept of this book. And Jake Luce, as always, provided valuable insight at every step of my writing process.
I know next to nothing about science but stubbornly insist on writing about it. Luckily, I’m friends with the brilliant (and patient) Pat Swieskowski. He always takes the time to talk to me when I call him with questions about “chemicals and robot stuff.” If it weren’t for him, these stories would be even more ridiculous.