Little Disasters

by Randall Klein

  “And what did you say?”

  “Nothing. I kept my mouth shut. I listened and pretended to be passively in on the conversation. I’ve never faked an orgasm in my life. Fuck that. My body responds. I don’t have mental hang-ups and I’m not sexually blocked from some meddlesome uncle. Everything works if you’re competent. Obviously. I’m supposed to offer positive reinforcement when you don’t deserve it? I’m supposed to pat you on the head for a mediocre job? Who does that benefit? Stupid fucking girls. Can’t even figure out the right things to lie about.”

  *

  • • •

  Rebecca snaps pictures while Jolie props my son up in her lap. He enjoys none of this. “Michael, you hold him,” Rebecca instructs. I tuck my phone away and cuddle my boy close. He starts crying, and it’s not his hungry cry, nor his dirty diaper cry, nor his exhaustion cry. This is a pure fuck you howl, so I grin as wide as my cheeks go for Rebecca to take one for framing. Click.

  *

  • • •

  It isn’t just sex, I remind myself. It’s not a Douglas Sirk movie come to life, with bored housewives and jaunty charmers. For the first few weeks it was the safe space where we dwelled, a green zone in the vicinity of the bed. We talked but avoided topics, listening to the notes we weren’t playing. She didn’t mention Paul; I didn’t mention Rebecca or Jackson. I told her stories of growing up in Brooklyn and how it’s changed—that filled hours. She talked incessantly about her editorial work.

  “How did you get into that?”

  “Just something I know how to do,” she mulls. “I like correcting the way other people speak and write.”

  “Seriously.”

  “I like rules.”

  “Clearly.”

  She rolls over onto her stomach, lays her chin on my shoulder. “I used to cook. I used to be a very good cook, actually. And then Paul said you must be tired, let me cook, and I said sure enough times that he took over all the cooking, and I’d wash the dishes. Then he’d say I cooked, I should have to clean up after myself and I didn’t argue, so soon he both cooked and washed the dishes. I thought I’d married a progressive man, so I’d sit and watch him. Who knows? Had it not been for Paul, I might have my own show on the cooking channel. If I keep you around long enough I reckon you’ll stifle my dreams of becoming a carpenter.”

  “What does that have to do with being an editor?”

  “I’m really good at it. No one else I know is as good. So it’s mine. All mine.”

  “That wasn’t so hard.”

  “Is our time up, doctor?”

  “Almost. Tell me about your novel.”

  She kicked her legs behind her. “I’m hungry.”

  “Let’s get lunch.”

  “… out?”

  “Sure. Come on, I’ll take you out for pierogies. Fried or boiled.”

  Jenny chewed me up and spat me out with a look. “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Take you to lunch?”

  “Pretend we’re a couple. I know we’re not a couple.” She sounded hurt, and I stammered to buy time, replayed the conversation at warp speed, determine whether I’d actually said anything hurtful.

  Finally, I run my hand over her nipple and say, “Just because we’re not making more of this than it is doesn’t mean we need to make less of it. I like you. Let’s get lunch.”

  This happened. I was there when this happened. When I stopped being able to think of Jenny Sayles as the mistake, early-midlife-crisis-variety-other-woman with whom I was living out some Mr. Bovary fantasy. I saw that door shut and lock and blend invisible into the wall, trapping me on the inside. I was there, in her bed, and I knew it the instant after, a realization so blunt and heavy it should have set off a puff of smoke.

  Twins dressed as mice! Twins dressed as mice!

  How old?

  No clue. Soooooo cute!

  “You text like an adolescent girl. My girls at the school, that’s how they peck out love notes.” Jolie mimics me, unwraps another bite-size Snickers bar. Rebecca can’t stand that we give out mass-produced candy instead of her cookies on Halloween, but it turns out all the PSAs we grew up with about random strangers sticking razor blades in anything and everything has birthed a generation of new parents who practically check the candy in front of us.

  Rebecca stayed inside with Jackson. Jolie and I sit on the front step, mostly to prevent anyone from ringing the bell, and we hand out candy to the trick-or-treaters of Red Hook. In deference to the troop of monkeys that hang from Jolie’s slender back, we sip herbal tea from a thermos. She wears thigh-high tights, cargo shorts, and a T-shirt that says I GAVE MY WORD TO STOP AT THIRD, promoting Abstinence Day. She’s got temporary tattoos supplementing actual tattoos, and has drawn a thick, expertly curled mustache on her face. She is, in a manner of speaking, a sexy hipster. She’s not going out later, she insists, this is just what she wore to see her nephew, then sit on our front step and hand out candy to our neighbors. Parents have been, for the most part, standing back at the sidewalk and sending their kids forward like panhandlers. More than a few solo fathers have approached, though.

  She nudges me again. “Who are you texting? Does Michael have a giiiiirrrrrrrrrrlllllfriend?”

  “Of course. Nothing makes girls wetter than a guy who smells of baby formula and fresh-baked cookies.” This either placates her or she grows bored, walking (on spiked heels) to the curb, looking in both directions. “Where the fuck are your neighbors?”

  “We’ve given out a lot of candy. We may be done for the night.”

  “It’s so boring here, Michael. How can you live in such a boring place?”

  “Red Hook isn’t boring.” I bristle. “There’s a lot of crime, and it’s the first neighborhood to flood in a storm.”

  “How is my little sister so old? Where was I when that happened?”

  Court-ordered rehab? Court-ordered prison? A litany of snotty, mostly truthful answers scroll through. “How are things going with the boyfriend?” She shoots me a nasty look. “Sorry I asked.”

  “All right, I’m heading to Bushwick. Tell Rebecca I’m off, please. I’ll call her.”

  “You don’t want to come up?”

  She’s shivering, though it’s not cold. “Nope. Jackson’s probably asleep. Have a spooktacular Halloween.” With that, she scampers off and into the night, leaving me perplexed but alone on the front step. I chomp into a Snickers and pull out my phone.

  I see you in two days.

  I know!

  I’m counting the minutes.

  That must be very time-consuming.

  Let’s go somewhere.

  Like where?

  Like a museum. Or a movie at the very least.

  OK.

  I want to go somewhere with you.

  I’d like that.

  I like every minute I spend with you.

  No response. I work caramel out of my teeth with my tongue.

  I’m being a cheeseball and thinking about you. I think about thinking about you and then I think about you some more.

  I jam another bite-size candy bar into my mouth as acid roils in my stomach.

  No response? No witty comebacks?

  Response bubbles don’t appear. My notes sit there like brackish puddles.

  Hate to sound like a high schooler here, Jenny, but if you feel the same, could you let me know?

  I wait. I wait a full five minutes.

  Oh God! I was in the shower! Ooooooh nooooo! I could hear my phone going nuts but I was all naked and soapy and missing you. Yes, yes all the same and more. Two days. Two days too long, harrumph.

  Harrumph.

  Stay away from ghouls and goblins, Mickey.

  She calls me Mickey Gould, like a 1940s gangster. I’m her Mickey Gould. I can’t get enough of that name. It’s more my name than my own name, I respond to it more readily, with all of my being.

  I climb the stairs back inside and leave the half-filled bowl of Snickers on the counter. Jenny might boil them
all down and make scrap-heap cookies out of them. I mean Rebecca. Rebecca, who bakes. My wife. Rebecca. Jesus.

  Upstairs, Rebecca stands over Jackson’s crib. He’s back in his pajamas, wrapped up and shaking his little fist in his sleep. His face is the most perfect thing in all of the world. Its shape, its size. My son’s face is the reason art was invented. He reminds me that I need to get back to painting. His room is entirely void of abstract expressionism—what kind of Thomas Kinkade bullshit will he get into if I’m not guiding him?

  Rebecca wraps her arms around me from behind, stands and spoons me at Jackson’s crib, rubs my chest as my breath seeps out in a grateful hiss. She kisses the spot between my shoulder blades. Kisses it over and over and over again until I turn around and kiss her back. And kiss her back. And kiss her back. Her faithful husband, wearing his costume.

  Paul Fenniger

  Present Day: July 19, 2010

  12:50 PM

  The noises behind me sound almost like frightened dogs. Sharp, shrill yips. It’s the rats retaking the tunnel behind the crowd. They grow bolder, and their scurrying is more audible than our footsteps. Though I see a bit more than shapes, I don’t spot the man as I pass him. It’s his labored breathing that draws my attention. He’s rowed himself to the banks from farther ahead, let the current go past. Now he sits in a carved nook on the side, some dug-out area possibly for the track workers to tuck themselves into when trains pass. He pants. I’m reminded of a Saint Bernard my parents had when I was young, when he was old. When he was dying.

  “You okay?” I ask loudly. It reverberates through the tunnel.

  “Just need to rest for a minute.” His words come out staccato. I put my hands on his chest and he flinches, the social contract among New Yorkers—to be constantly in each other’s space yet not deliberately breach it—now broken. I feel along to unbutton the top two buttons of his shirt, constrict his considerable bulk less. He doesn’t stop me. While the masses shuffle forward, following that strafing flashlight, I remain back with this man. When he notices that I’m not moving, he pats me on the arm. “You go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

  “I can wait. What if you needed help? No one could find you.”

  “Someone will be through. It’s procedure. They’ll look for stragglers. Trust me, I drive a bus.” Does he say this for my benefit, or for his own? He hunches over, conserving what strength he has. He mutters, “People will be down here soon enough.”

  His face is obscured by darkness, nearly invisible. He continues to pat my arm. “Go,” he repeats.

  “My dad is a bus driver.”

  He laughs, hacking and sputtering. “No kidding? What’s his route?”

  “Not here. In Cadott.”

  “Where the hell is Cadott?”

  “Wisconsin. It’s small.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Yeah, the whole town is like fifteen hundred people.”

  “My apartment building is fifteen hundred people.”

  “My dad is the bus driver. The only one. He takes kids to school in the morning, and he does a little route for old folks. He’s more like a taxi driver most days.”

  A bright light catches my eye. Some people have camera phones, complete with flash, and they’ve been giving the intermittent instant of vision to the crowd. The light hurts like hell and shows nothing new, but still there’s a flash every few minutes.

  His hand comes to rest on my forearm and he leans farther forward, dragging me down with his weight. He smells sweet, like burned sugar. “Give me a minute,” he whispers. I don’t know if I can carry him. The alternative is to run ahead, to navigate my way through the sea of people, jostling them in the dark, to get help more quickly. If it’s another major disaster in Manhattan, though, every EMT will be on location there. A team of volunteers will be waiting for us on the platform with ice packs. “What does the son of a bus driver do?”

  “I’m an actor,” I apologize. He rasps out another laugh. Down the tunnel the flashlight beam seems to grow closer, a buzzing of voices making its way back to us. “Look, I’ll stay with you. When they come to find you, they’ll find me too.” My mouth is so dry. I strip off my dress shirt all the way and let it fall to the tracks. I’ve passed articles of clothing, stepped on jackets and shirts, hats and bags on my way through already. People move into survival mode silently, like slipping into sleep, discarding their vanities and their possessions along the way. No one takes off shoes, though. Even the women in heels. Any layer between feet and ground or feet and rat remains a necessity.

  The man no longer argues with me, just leans with both hands on my arm, reaching for his next breath. That he’s not clutching his chest seems like the best of signs at the moment.

  “What do you think happened?” I ask. Keep him talking.

  “I know what happened. Train on train.” He coughs and spits to the side. “That’s why they’re making us walk. Signal failure, two trains get a green light and boom. Terrible thing.”

  The beam of light works its way back to us and shines in my face. “Come on, hero, you both need to keep moving.” It’s Perry, the subway worker.

  “This guy can’t keep going. He needs medical attention.”

  “A lot of people do. We need to clear the tunnel first.” Perry shines the light on the man and I see him for the first time. Swollen and clay red, he doesn’t look anything like my father. He looks stitched together and stuffed, his dark skin slick, a puddle of sweat at his feet. “Come on.”

  “He can’t go.”

  “But you can.” Perry takes a step toward me. “Come on. Get out of the tunnel, buddy.”

  I put my hand on the beam, lower it as gently as I can. This is not the best place to start a fight. Perry hisses, “Hey, asshole, I can’t get out of the tunnel until everyone else gets out of the tunnel. That includes you. I’m not going to be held up because your daily Bible verse told you to help those less fortunate. Now get the fuck out of the tunnel and I’ll deal with this guy once we’re on the platform.” He shines the beam into his own face so I can see how far he is from messing around. The man stops leaning on me, takes a wet breath, and leans back into the cubbyhole. I glare at Perry but keep moving forward. A few moments later, he passes me with the flashlight, making his way back to the front, a beacon. He mutters “fucking hero” as he goes by. I look back in the tunnel and the darkness has swallowed the man whole. He’s gone.

  Paul Fenniger

  Eight Months Ago: November 2, 2009

  Foh, you filthy Toad, nay now I’ve done jesting.

  “Let’s pause there.” The three of us turn to Ted Gilles, who stares at his vibrating phone, contemplating his next move. “Break for a cigarette. I need to take this.”

  Elspeth flops down onto the floor as if dropped by the puppeteer. A thin, flat-chested woman named Marie rounds out the cast, playing all the roles that Elspeth and I cannot. She leans against the exposed brick wall and whips her phone out as well. Anything beyond what the three of us can handle has been cut, characters have been amalgamated, and Ted keeps trying to set up time to film us for the YouTube videos, requesting random, inconvenient times like early Sunday morning. Credit to Ted for one ingenious workaround to our meager budget—his day job is as a real estate agent, so he knows which apartments are empty and has keys to all of them. Every day we get a text message on where to go, and once he’s done showing empty spaces, the three of us congregate and rehearse. Tonight we’re in an obscenely expensive waterfront condo on the edges of Williamsburg, a new construction that’s been halted, waiting for the economy. The lower floors have already taken a more or less final form, as if built by a lazy child with an Erector set. All of the most expensive apartments and all of the cheapest apartments are taken. The unleased midrange is where we strut and fret our hour upon the stage.

  Foh, you filthy Toad, nay now I’ve done jesting. Elspeth turns her face up to me. “Do you think I should do this with an accent?”

  “Ask Ted.”

  “I
’m asking you.”

  I give her my best slow-churn cockney, replete with Johnny Rotten sneer. “Cor blimey.”

  Marie slinks off to the balcony to smoke. Her view of Manhattan runs panoramic from its southern tip all the way up to Harlem, with only a bridge or two in the way. Elspeth stretches her hamstrings, raising her legs and tugging them back, holding her pose, looking at me catlike and satisfied. I’ve seen her onstage a couple times, mostly the experimental work she did at NYU and continues to do. She has a perfectly ovoid face, a platonic ideal of symmetry. I assess her as I run my lines, project her career over the next ten years. She already has Ophelia somewhere on the back of her headshot, probably Laura Wingfield as well.

  Elspeth and I are getting along well, playfully teasing each other when one of us screws up a line, which happens often, since we’ve had to memorize the majority of a play. Over cigarette breaks she’s been talking about how fluid female sexuality is, building up to the casual admission that she’s now dating a woman. Marie remains a tough nut to crack. I haven’t had a conversation with her in the past two weeks that has gone longer than three sentences. She lives in Queens. She was born in New Mexico. She likes pizza. I shared these factoids with Jenny and she quipped, “Two truths and a lie.”

  Ted rallies us back and restarts the scene. Elspeth and I stand opposite one another. I’m playing Horner in this scene, she’s Mrs. Squeamish, a woman I am seducing by pretending to be impotent and, evidently, therefore harmless. Marie plays Old Mrs. Squeamish, as well as Sir Jasper Fidget. Ted reads the lines that will be prerecorded, reciting them in a droll monotone that Elspeth says makes her feel like we’re acting, for a brief moment, in porn.

  “Prythee kiss her,” Marie instructs, “and I’le give you her Picture / in little, that you admir’d so last night, prythee do.”