by Adam Wilson
• Then she lived a life of quasi-luxury that was luxurious enough for a poor girl from Lynn. Saw herself in mirrors, liked what she saw. Arranged the photos to reflect the family she wanted to have, pretended to have. Slept well.
• Dad fucked it all up.
• Our lives aren’t so different.
eleven
Money:
• Safe to say I wasn’t instilled with respect for the dollar. Let’s not play the blame game.
twelve
Amy’s Baseball Card Heaven was still standing, tucked between the Verizon store and Starbucks on the Grande Street drag. Back in the day, Grande Street was mom-and-pop central, center of Q-town social life, semi-quaint, filled with indie shops run by locals, mostly South American and Middle Eastern men who spent their days chatting up stay-at-home stroller moms and watching staticky soccer on bunny-eared portables.
Delightfully uncorporate: Five Alive Pizza, Tom’s Deli, I Scream (for Ice Cream and Soy-Based Ice Cream Alternatives), Espresso Express, Hair and Nails by Patricia, Video-rama, Magazine Bistro, Grande Street Hardware, Homer’s Oddities.
Mothers sat on benches pushing strollers, comparing dye jobs, complaining about au pairs. Little League went down in the park: kids in oversized caps, eager dads looking on in collarless linen shirts, mandals.
Teenagers smoked butts by the T stop. Set off stink bombs, cherry bombs, assessed each other with scrupulous eyes, imagining hidden treasures under folds of fat; got stoned, wore homemade tee shirts emblazoned with declarative ironed-on statements like “I Brake for Retards,” “Jesus Hates Me!” and “Jesus Breaks Retards.”
Kids hung at Amy’s. She sold Italian ice, cards, comics. A local girl with blond bangs, stonewashed jeans. Liked the Dead and Zeppelin, still dropped acid once or twice a year. Seemed like someone who could have been a schoolteacher, but was too distracted by shapes in the lava lamp. Amy liked me because I stood alone, away from the other kids, examining the Beckett Baseball Card Monthly price guide with academic rigor. Same rigor, applied to my schoolwork, would have made me a B student at least, might have saved me from the very journey I was about to make.
I eventually transitioned from the card store to the teen smoking area. Amy wasn’t doing much business anymore. Baseball cards were over. Rest of Grande Street was changing too. Same guy owned all the lots, increased rents in conjunction with rising property values in the area. Shops were pushed out by high-end restaurants, spas, boutiques, etc. Blockbuster underpriced and outstocked Video-rama. Espresso Express couldn’t compete with Starbucks. Little League took a loss; soccer was the new sport.
Amy’s survived because Amy, surprisingly, had good economic sense. Cards were over, true, but video games were a whole new market, as yet untapped in Quinosset. Nostalgic Amy still sold a few cards and comics, but rent money came from the first-person shooters, the high-megabit outlets for adolescent aggression.
Dan and I pulled up.
“I can’t go in,” I said. “You have to do it for me.”
Suddenly overwhelmed by the prospect of facing Amy. Didn’t want to let her down. She’d watched me all those years. How could I explain the bathrobe, unshaven face, bloodshot eyes? How can one apologize for not living up to expectations you might have only imagined they’d had for you?
“What?”
“I can’t see Amy.”
“Don’t be a pussy.”
“She’ll know I’m all fucked up.”
“Who cares?”
“Can’t you just go in and sell the cards?”
“Fuck that. I won’t even know what they’re worth, if she’s ripping me off or not.”
“She’s a fair woman.”
“She likes you. She’ll give you a better deal.”
“I used to be in love with her.”
“Don’t be a fag.”
“I just said I was in love with a woman. How can I be a fag?”
“You said you used to be in love with her. Now you’re a fag because you won’t go in.”
His logic was sound.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
Walked in, stood to the side while Amy scraped fluorescent ice. Mothers took me for a potential pedophile, stared me down. I grinned, flicked a comic book.
Store was different. Not just the display, but the store itself: depth of counters, length of walls, brightness of overhead lights. She’d expanded, taken over the lot next door. Extra space was filled by beanbag chairs and gaming consoles, eyes-wide preteens hooked in, headphoned.
Could have been a TV studio set—a space remade to resemble a rich kid’s basement, but out of context—no accompanying hallways leading to kitchens where maids mope before ovens, mothers lean in—hand-over-receiver—listen to fathers sugar-croon to future wife twos, threes. Here everything sounded like bam, tweet, bing. Kid heaven.
But the kids didn’t look happy. More like overworked employees: angry, beyond focus, dreaming digital fires, flames flaring up on their flatscreens. Trade the consoles for laptops, Italian ice for espresso, you got a de-stubbled version of the Wi-Fi Starbucks, where out-of-work office dads spent afternoons rewording resumes, cruising job sites.
“Can I get watermelon, sour apple, honey vanilla, green tea, banana, and black cherry,” one of the kids said.
“I can’t fit all those flavors in one cup,” Amy said. “I can only do two at a time.”
“Better give me a bigger cup.”
His mother—black-clad, booty-less, attractive—texted on her cell phone and talked to another kid’s mom at the same time.
“That’s soooo Marni.”
“Can you believe it? I mean, O-M-G.”
Wondered how old they were, if they’d gone to QHS, class of ’89, married twin varsity wrestlers who were now accountants, never left. Did they IM bored from home each day:
HoTMom713: I’m bored
KSpade4Eva: Let’s get Brazilian waxes!
HoTMom713: But I have to drop the kids at karate
HotMom713: and then go to Spoga class!
Were they into bisexual furry porn? Did they write Martha Stewart in jail? Take pole-dancing classes? Watch The Hills? Like to have sex during their periods with the lights on so they could watch the blood cover their husbands’ bodies, imagine it was his, warm and dark, a sign of both life and impending death?
“I want them all,” the kid said. “The healthy ones and the good ones. I need a balanced diet.”
At “balanced diet” his mother snapped into action.
“What’s going on?”
Gave Amy a look similar to the one she’d given me so I wouldn’t molest her son.
“Your kid wants like ten flavors in his ice. Some are flavors I don’t have.”
“She doesn’t have all the flavors,” mom said to the kid.
“I want them,” the kid said.
“Remember, we talked about this,” mom said. “Sometimes you can’t get everything you want.” Then, to Amy, “Just give him the flavors you do have.”
“I can only fit two in a cup,” Amy said. “How about sour apple and watermelon?”
“That’s it?” mom said.
“That’s not a lot of flavors,” the other mother added.
“What about green tea?” the kid said.
“Green tea is a type of tea,” Amy said. “It’s not an ice flavor.”
“He needs his antioxidants,” mom said.
“How about I add half a scoop of banana?”
Kid started crying.
“Fine,” mom said, produced an Amex. “Whatev.”
The new superheroes all had six-pack abs, no nipples. Evil bioterrorist was bearded, turbaned. I was shaking from the coke. Pages of the comic were glossy, felt nice. Tried to spin the comic on my finger. It fell.
“You bend it you gotta pay for it.”
Picked up the comic. The mothers had ushered their sons back into the world, ready to crush it.
“It’s me.”
Amy gave me the once-over.
“Who’s you?”
“Amy, it’s me.” Walked toward her.
“Eli?”
“Yeah.”
“My God, you look like shit. What’s with the bathrobe?”
“I don’t know. It’s comfortable.”
Noticed the console kids noticing me, avoiding eye contact. Dug through my pockets, pulled out the cards.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“I need to sell these.” Laid them on the table.
“I don’t really buy cards anymore.”
“Please.”
“You’re broke.”
“I know.”
“I mean, you’re not really broke, I guess.”
“I’m rich-people broke.”
“What happened?”
“We moved.”
“Most people move eventually.”
“I prefer to stay still.”
“You’re shaking like a leaf now.”
“I could use the money.”
Amy picked up the cards, gave them her attention. The players looked aged: uniforms out of fashion, of another era with their high stirrups, skin-tight pajama pants. Clemens was skinny, idealistic. Griffey Jr. sat smiley with stiff-brimmed cap and laundered jersey, an exemplar of Clintonian economic security. Neither knew about the future—steroid scandals, back injuries, etc.; they stood frozen in early ’90s early season optimism.
“How’s your mom?”
“Same old,” I said, as there was no way to explain it.
Amy looked at me like she understood. I remembered something about a mother of her own, Alzheimered, eating Amy’s savings in a rest home off Route 16.
“Those mothers,” I said. “It wasn’t like that when I was a kid.”
“It was. You just don’t remember.”
She looked at the cards more closely. Knew she didn’t need them, but she was like an older, enabling sister—part of her loved part of me. She loved the part of me I worried was gone.
“The Maris is the only one that’s worth anything.”
“Not the Shaq rookies?”
“The card market’s gone down a lot in the past few years.”
“I’ll take anything.”
“I still know some people at the conventions. I can give you seventy-five for the Maris, another seventy-five for all the rest?”
“People always said these things would be a good investment.”
“I’m being generous,” Amy said, handed me the cash.
Felt like there was more to be said between us: loss of innocence, evil swiftness of time, unbeautiful demands of late capitalism. But mostly I wanted to get the fuck out of there, pretend it never happened, purchase cocaine.
“I have to go.”
“You better come back. None of you guys visit anymore.”
“Okay,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t.
Spent the afternoon into evening snorting, watching The Surreal Life. Dan liked Vanilla, but I was partial to the surprisingly sweet relationship between MC Hammer, now a reverend, and Emmanuel Lewis, still, physically, an eight-year-old. In the midst of all the cameras, superficiality, and surface-level grotesquerie, they’d managed something close to love.
Nikki showed up at ten p.m., done with work, shivering.
“Let’s take a Jacuzzi.”
Invitation wasn’t meant for me. I left. Something about Nikki made me uncomfortable, anyway, the way she looked at me, secretly hated me. I’d always be a customer.
thirteen
Flashback:
V.O.:
I watched girls mostly, bodies partially illuminated by the dancing fire like dancers themselves upon a darkly lit stage.
Cut to: We’re out by a bonfire, deep as we can get in the shallow suburban woods. Keg on the tail of a pickup, cops coming soon, kids all drunk, disorderly, everything in slow-mo. Me, John, and Matt sit stoned, simultaneously part of the performance and spectators, mumbling clichés halfheartedly—“This town sucks,” “As soon as I graduate I’m out of here,” “In college we’ll get plenty of ass.” Matt zones out with headphones. John flicks an issue of High Times. I watch the party, finger my forearm hairs, unconsciously clutch my gut, attempt to lick the chappedness from my lips.
V.O.:
There was something urgent in the way they stood, offered themselves to the few acceptable takers. It was as if now, with the moon obscured by trees, details of faces muted, body temperatures polarized—left side warmed by the fire, right side chilled by night—they could do nothing but cling to those larger bodies, football and basketball bodies; with their backs laid out across backseats, they could let themselves be smothered.
fourteen
Streetlamps on, lighting the icy sleet that fell in clusters like Cupid-antidote arrows on my weak helmet of hair. Thought about tomorrow’s Thanksgiving football game I wouldn’t be attending. Hadn’t even gone while I was in high school, or the first year after grad, when everyone goes wearing sweatshirts of their colleges. They hug each other with rosy cheeks, as if there’s nothing so great as to be outside in November and have that feeling you’re really in New England, a feeling they have even though it’s the suburbs and the team never wins.
When I was a kid, remember thinking it would be me one day, on the field, absorbing cheers. Maybe that’s why I never went to the games during high school: because it wasn’t me with dirt in my cleats, sweaty, perfect locks hanging out the back of my helmet. Would never be me on the field, or hugging long-lost friends in the stands, or as an old man with a faded letter jacket.
Too cold to walk home. No reason to go there anyway. Found myself moving toward Kahn’s house.
The weather had killed all the plants, and the yard was flooded with dead leaves like in the years after Dad left, when Mom stopped hiring the landscapers. I could see the dining room through the window. Walls were bare. Wasn’t expecting the same old decorations, but figured Kahn would have replaced them with mementos from his own life. Nothing. Just white walls. Felt like a statement, like Kahn’s whole life amounted to an empty, tableless dining room; nothing led to anything else, even our objects were impermanent.
Our mezuzah was still in the doorway. A relic, not just from my old family, but from an old world where God existed. Rang the bell. No one came. Waited a minute, jiggled the handle. Door open. Walked in, began taking off my shoes before remembering it wasn’t the rule anymore. Kahn didn’t even have a doormat.
Music from the living room, jazz again. Expected a scene like last time: Kahn lounging, drinking scotch, watching porn. Kahn was in the same chair, but his body was obscured by a gyrating, thonged ass. Beth Cahill turned so I could see her right nipple in profile.
“You’re just in time,” Kahn said, enunciating like always, as if onstage, spotlit, spilling soul-juice on a thirsty audience.
“The darkness falls, and Dionysus emerges in all his ragged glory. In your case, my friend, that glory is particularly ragged on this chilly eve.”
“He means the robe,” Beth said. “He always talks like this when he’s fucked up. He’s my little fucked-up old man.”
Then, turning to Kahn, “Aren’t you?” in a baby voice. Thought she might pinch his cheeks. Maybe that’s what he paid for.
“I may be in a chair, but I’m not in diapers yet.”
“Weren’t you at that party last night?” Beth said.
“Yeah, I was, wait … how do you two…”
“Know each other?”
“Internet, kid. Wave of the future.”
“I advertise on the web.”
“I know. I’ve seen your ad.”
“Give the kid a dance, will you. He needs some loosening up.”
“I’ve had an eventful day,” I said. “Can we do some drugs first? Not sure I’m up for a dance right this moment.”
“Fine with me,” Beth said. Kahn stared at me, played air drums against his knees, winked. Beth was nothing like her FB pic. Thin trail of dark hair led from top of black thong to
bellybutton.
Took out the eight ball I’d bought from Dan.
“So he comes equipped. That’s why I like this guy, never empty-handed.”
Cut lines on the coffee table that was actually our old glass coffee table we’d decided not to take because it was chipped.
“This is my house,” I said to Beth, by way of explaining my presence. “My mother’s coffee table.”
“Man does not possess property,” Kahn said. “But we screwed that up when we killed all the Indians.”
“I used to live here.”
“You used to jerk off here.”
“That too.”
“You guys,” Beth said.
“No use thinking about what we used to do,” Kahn said.
“That’s all I think about,” I said. “I can’t even imagine the future.”
“Flying cars,” Beth said. “Nuclear war.”
“Maybe I’ll become a dancer,” Kahn said. “In the hazy orange light of postapocalyptic dawn, I will dance across the earth.”
Didn’t smile when he said it. Instead punched himself in the kneecap. He was thinking about the past even though he’d said not to. The only places he’d ever walk: the past and the imagined, impossible future.
“In the postapocalypse, we’ll all be dead,” I said.
“Unless we build a society underground,” Beth said.
“You two are young,” Kahn said. “You’ll never die. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Only old people and cripples die.”
“Let’s get high,” I said. Kahn nodded.
Coke, then Oxy. Lifted a framed photo that had been turned facedown on the side table. Erin and Natasha. An old pic because Erin has braces. Natasha is very young, but her face still looks like an adult’s. Arms wrapped around Erin in protection.
“It’s a nice picture.”
“Put that away,” Kahn said. “I don’t want them to see this.”
Beth stuck out her tongue, closed her eyes. Kahn turned up the music.