Friend Is Not a Verb

by Daniel Ehrenhaft

  Gabriel shrugged. “To tell you the truth, Hen, I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A Fist Bump from the Unseen Hand

  I never made it to Emma’s that day. Something happened after I left Gabriel’s apartment—something that made wonder if his freakish brand of mysticism wasn’t so far off the mark. Maybe there is an Unseen Hand that manipulates all the baffling coincidences in our lives, pushing us toward Enlightenment or smacking us if we try to figure out who recorded the backward Satanic messages on “Stairway to Heaven.”

  Petra called.

  I was about a block from the subway. For the first couple of rings, I stood there on the sidewalk and stared at the caller ID, debating whether or not to answer. I hadn’t spoken to her since the night she’d fired me. I wondered what would happen if I told her that Sarah had come home. I wondered if she would care. Finally, curiosity got the best of me.

  “Hello?” I answered.

  “Hey, Hen? Guess what? Bartholomew Savage got us a show at the Bimbo Lounge!”

  Wow. I wondered what had compelled her to share this wonderful news with me, her ex-bassist/boyfriend. The sheer joy of it? That she’d really meant what she said, that we were still friends? None of this mattered, though, because it was impossible. For one thing, Bartholomew Savage couldn’t get anyone a show anywhere. He was fourteen. Besides, the Bimbo Lounge was one of those trendy Lower East Side bars where indie legends like Iggy Pop and A&R guys from major labels were rumored to hang out. You definitely needed a demo or a reputation to get on their bill, and PETRA had neither.

  “No kidding,” I said. “How’d he manage that?”

  “His older brother is a bartender there,” she said breathlessly.

  “Really? I had no idea.”

  “Yeah. He’s really a cool guy, too. Victor. I was hanging out at their apartment, and Bartholomew introduced me to him. He told me that they’re starting this new thing this summer: Underage Talent Night. The first one is June twenty-fourth. It’s a Wednesday. We’re gonna be the opening act.”

  I chewed my lip. Taking this call was a mistake. “Are you putting me on?” I asked.

  “No! Look, Hen, I’m calling because I want you to be in the band again.” Her voice was still bubbling with excitement.

  “You do?”

  “Well…yeah. I mean, I have to be honest with you, though. I asked George Monroe if he wanted to be in the band, and he said yes.”

  A smile curled on my lips. I deserved a gold star for being so smart, didn’t I? I wondered if they’d made out yet. “So what does that mean? We’re going to have two bassists?” I thought of the bass face-off I’d just had with Gabriel. I wished I hadn’t. The opening riff to “Jeremy” began to echo in my head in a continuous loop.

  “No, he’s on vacation with his family in Europe until July Fourth. But here’s the deal, Hen. I gave this a lot of thought. If you practice really hard, and we kill this gig, I’ll tell George that I’ve changed my mind. Okay, sweetie?”

  “Ah. So this is one of Life’s Second Chances.”

  Petra didn’t answer right away. If Emma had been on the phone, she’d have taken the cue: “Indeed, my friend. Are you man enough to accept the challenge?” Then again, Emma would never have fired me from a band in the first place.

  What Petra eventually said was, “This doesn’t mean that we’re back together, though. Like as a couple. I just want to be clear. So it doesn’t get awkward or anything.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind,” I replied, which was true.

  “Hey, Hen, are you all right?”

  “Fine. Why?”

  “I don’t know. You sound sort of weird.”

  “It’s been a weird couple of days,” I confessed.

  “I know. And I’m sorry I don’t want us to be, like, involved anymore, but—”

  “No, no. It’s not that.” I paused. In spite of everything that bugged me about Petra, I knew that if she made a promise, she stuck to it. “Listen…if I tell you something, will you swear not to tell anyone?”

  “Uh-oh. I don’t like the sound of—”

  “Yes or no,” I interrupted.

  “Well…okay. Yes.”

  “Sarah’s back,” I said. “She came home two nights ago.”

  “Oh, my God,” Petra whispered. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. She won’t tell me why she ran away, though. But the good news is that I’m taking bass lessons. So the timing sort of works out perfectly.”

  There was a pause. “What do you mean?”

  “One of Sarah’s friends, one of the guys she ran away with, came back, too,” I explained. “He’s hiding out in the East Village and giving me bass lessons.”

  “Are you serious?” Petra asked again.

  “Yeah. I think I might have even told you about him. His name is Gabriel Stern. He was in a nineties nostalgia band. They were called Friends.”

  “Oh, my—That’s genius!”

  My forehead wrinkled. “It is?”

  “Yeah, that name!” she exclaimed. “And the whole concept! It’s such a coincidence! I was thinking that nineties retro was totally our thing, but we never, like, identified it. And this whole time, I’ve been looking for a better word than ‘retro.’ Or ‘tribute.’ But that’s it. ‘Nostalgia.’ A nineties nostalgia band. It’s so warm and fuzzy. Genius!”

  I blinked. Genius? Really? And was nineties nostalgia “totally our thing”? I guess it was, if you chose to drink this freshest batch of Petra’s Kool-Aid. Most of our songs were rap rock. I’d always described PETRA’s sound to Emma as midcareer Beastie Boys—but only when played on their instruments, and with a female singer (minus their talent, too). Petra’s excitement scared me. It meant I had even more in common with Gabriel than I’d realized. This was bad.

  “Oh, Hen?” she said. “One more thing. I changed our name.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. PETRA is too me-me-me. What do you think of Dawson’s Freak?”

  Hmm. I liked PETRA better. It summed us up perfectly, and in all caps no less. But I didn’t say anything. Mostly I marveled at how Petra could ignore the news that Sarah had returned, when until two days ago I’d been “the guy whose sister disappeared” and whose “edgy mystique” had attracted Petra in the first place. Oh, well.

  “You don’t like it,” she said in the silence. “Don’t you remember the show?”

  “Um, yeah. Dawson’s Creek, right? It was the one with Katie Holmes when she was our age.”

  “Yeah. Pre–Tom Cruise. And Michelle Williams, pre–Heath Ledger. But, listen, I’ve gotta go. My dad’s back in town. Did I tell you I’m staying with him over the summer? He lives in SoHo. Hey, why don’t you come over tomorrow night? I’ve got some new material. I want to get it tight before we rehearse with Bartholomew.”

  “Um…sounds great.”

  “Cool. I’ll text you his address. Bye, sweetie.”

  I hung up. My bass felt very heavy on my back all of a sudden. The sun was hot. I stepped out of the East Village sidewalk traffic into the shade of a nearby tree to call Emma.

  “You’re not gonna believe this,” she answered.

  “You’re not gonna believe this,” I replied.

  “What?”

  “You first,” I said.

  “Sarah got me a job at New Beginnings,” Emma said. “You know, the homeless shelter where she used to volunteer?”

  My eyes narrowed. I did know. I just didn’t know why Emma would possibly want to work there.

  “I’m thinking that I might be able to find some clues,” she said, answering my unspoken question. “Maybe she told her colleagues stuff that she didn’t tell anyone else. She worked there right up until the day before she disappeared.”

  “And Sarah is cool with all this?”

  “Well, I didn’t tell her that part. But she was really psyched. She told me I’d make a great social worker. It’s a volunteer gig, but even my dad is i
mpressed. He said he’ll start giving me an allowance again, so I’ll have spending money.”

  I shook my head. “When did all this happen?”

  “Just now. I saw her out my bedroom window, you know, working out back in your garden. I decided to drop by and say hi. She made me promise like a zillion times not to tell anybody that she’s home, especially my parents—even though they can see her if they look out their window. So what’s your big news?”

  “It’s um…well, I guess it’s just as weird in its own way. Petra asked me to come back to the band. She got us a gig at the Bimbo Lounge.”

  “You didn’t say yes, did you?” Emma asked sharply.

  I frowned. “Actually, I did.”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “What do you mean, why? She needs a bassist.”

  “Does this mean you’re gonna start shtupping again?”

  I rolled my eyes. “We never shtupped in the first place. But, no. She made it clear that we were broken up for good.”

  “And you really want to play a gig at the Bimbo Lounge?” Emma asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “It’s a dump, for starters. But that’s not what worries me.”

  Amazing: For the first time in my life, I regretted making the Emma call. “What worries you, Emma? Do tell.”

  She sighed. “This isn’t some big, momentous turning point in your life, Hen. A film crew isn’t about to start making the PETRA rockumentary.”

  I laughed. “How can you be so sure? By the way, we’re not called PETRA anymore.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No. Now we’re Dawson’s Freak. We’re a nineties nostalgia act. Not tribute. Not retro. Nostalgia. Just like Gabriel’s old band, Friends.” I almost giggled.

  “Does that mean you’re going to start wearing wool caps and beepers and flannel shirts?” she asked with a big glob of fake sweetness.

  My face soured. “Why are so you pissed about this?” I asked.

  “I’m not. I’m disappointed,” she said.

  “Jesus, Emma! You sound like my dad.”

  She sniffed. “I’m glad I do. You’re setting yourself up to get hurt at a really weird time in your life. You should know better. I would say Petra should, too—but she’s too wrapped up in Petra.”

  “The person or the band?”

  “Whatever,” she groaned. “Maybe being back in the band is just the distraction you need. Chances are, you’ll never find a job, anyway. I’m not gonna worry about it.”

  “That’s kind of you,” I said flatly.

  “I should go. I need to bone up on my social work skills. I start tomorrow.” Her voice brightened. “Wish me luck!”

  “Good—”

  Click. She hung up without saying good-bye.

  I shoved the phone in my front pocket, feeling out of sorts. Were Emma and I in a fight? I was half tempted to call her back, but thought better of it.

  All of a sudden I noticed a sign taped to the tree trunk next to me.

  DOG WALKER NEEDED!

  What do you know: a job. Just like that. Out of nowhere. The Unseen Hand, fist bumping me! At the very moment I needed it most. And I loved dogs. Woof, woof. I tore the paper off the trunk and shoved it in my back pocket without bothering to read the rest.

  I hurried toward the subway, suddenly feeling much better. Dog walking. That was funny. It was better than funny. It was the opposite of “getting my foot in the door” anywhere (except maybe veterinary school). Best of all, it was good material—a nice tidbit for the rockumentary that a film crew would make someday, the one that would prove Emma and every other person in my life wrong about everything. I could already picture the trivia spot on the VH1 Classic network:

  Before Hen Birnbaum became a world-famous bassist, he was…

  A) A referee

  B) A topless house cleaner

  C) A dog walker

  We’ll be back with the answer, right after this commercial break!

  That night I read the rest of Gabriel Stern’s Diary of My Life on the Lam cover to cover. It took me about an hour—an hour of my life that I’ll never get back. If this was a “very long love letter” to my sister, then Gabriel Stern and I had a very different idea of what a love letter was. I honestly felt sorry for him. It was clearer than ever that he needed the kind of help only institutionalization could provide.

  He was right, though: The manuscript didn’t have an ending. None of his meandering gibberish, not a single word, had anything to do with the crime they’d committed. I still wasn’t any closer to figuring out why they’d ended up stuck together in a house haunted by Balinese demons.

  Here’s an illustrative excerpt—which stuck in my mind only because February 25 happens to be my birthday:

  February 25

  Today Madeline ran amok and destroyed the living room.

  When we first arrived, the living room was completely barren. Then Sarah bought two huge mirrors and mounted them on opposite walls, facing each other. She said she wanted to make up for the lack of windows by creating the illusion of space. And I have to hand it to her, it really worked. The optical effect was the same as in a barbershop: you would see a line of mirrors, front and back, stretching into infinity.

  But today Madeline snapped. Cool, dry, detached Madeline…she tore the mirrors off the walls, shattering the glass and leaving hideous gashes in the plaster. “How’s that for Second Empire?” she shrieked. Then she bolted from the house.

  I got nervous. I’m still nervous. “How’s that for Second Empire?” What the hell is that supposed to mean?

  Sarah sobbed uncontrollably for hours. She kept saying over and over, “Madeline should pay.” She gestured hopelessly at the shards of broken mirror on the floor. “She should pay for something.”

  As it turned out, she did. Six hours later Madeline returned with a huge bronze sculpture that looked like a giant dog turd. She wheeled it into the living room on a dolly. Apparently, she paid 52,000 pesos for it—roughly $4,000. She claimed that a famous Dominican artist had made it and that it was supposed to represent Jean-Paul Sartre’s head.

  I learned an important lesson from all this. Madeline is to be left alone. None of us have mentioned the incident since it happened, and I don’t see any of us speaking up soon. As far as I know, she won’t pay for any repairs, either. No, with one violent outburst, she brilliantly established her isolation from the rest of the group. The five of us are not a family, and we never will be. Don’t imagine that you’re close to me. That’s what Jean-Paul Sartre’s head reminds us—in the same way a huge missile silo in the middle of nowhere reminds passersby of the potential for nuclear holocaust.

  It bears mentioning that Madeline has been acting strange lately. She recently took a cue from Sarah’s past and began volunteering as a nurse’s aide at the Karl Funkhausen Free Clinic in Puerto Plata. She works in the pediatric oncology unit. Maybe it’s the act of caring for terminally ill children that keeps her so beautiful—inexplicably and perfectly preserved, while the rest of us slowly begin to wither. Either that or the sex. She claims she’s only working at the clinic to meet Dominican doctors. Whatever the reason, her skin still glows. She still wears her brown curls past her shoulders.

  I suppose it also bears mentioning that Karl Funkhausen, Madeline’s boss, is our only neighbor. He lives about a hundred yards away in a gorgeous, sensibly built mansion that is probably full of leyaks. He is eighty-four years old.

  At fifteen, he was a troop leader in the Hitler Youth. At twenty-five, he was an officer in the Stasi, the East German secret police. At fifty-three, he stole a large amount of Nazi war treasure from the East Germans; sold it on the black market; and moved here, where he founded the eponymous Karl Funkhausen Free Clinic.

  He is also very good in bed.

  Or so I’ve heard. Madeline shared this information with everyone seventeen weeks ago. Since then, she and Karl have hooked up on a regular basis, often in her room. I know, because I can alw
ays hear her quite clearly through the vent next to my bed, screaming, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God…”

  Whenever this happens, I lean close to the vent, take a deep breath, and shout at the top of my lungs “Blasphemy is a sin, too, you know!”

  Most of the diary was like this. Right up until the final entry.

  About the final entry…well, I’m still not sure what it really means. All I know is that it made me sadder and more confused than I was before, and I even laughed and cried a little at the same time, which I never do. It proved that my parents hid even more from me than I’d previously suspected. It showed me that Sarah really was a stranger.

  Most of all, it taught me that what I’ve always taken for granted about my family—that however screwed up we may be, however many secrets we may keep, at least we don’t lie to each other—isn’t true.

  But there’s no point in trying to describe it. It’s one of those things you have to read for yourself.

  May 19

  Sarah got another letter today. She’s the only one of us who receives mail on a regular basis. Her parents write her once a week.

  This time the Birnbaums sent pictures. Sarah showed them to me just now in the living room. I had a hard time focusing because she smelled so bad. She was wearing her gardening clothes. She puts on that same noxious outfit every afternoon. Everything is covered in filth: her boots, her Columbia sweat suit, even her sunglasses. Then again, Sarah has every right to stink. Thanks to her, our backyard is a colorful wonderland, like a spread from House & Garden. She proclaimed herself a vegetarian farmer upon our arrival, in honor of the little brother she’ll never see again. The garden is another one of her fantasies come true.

  The first picture Sarah showed me was of the five of us. I remember the night it was taken very clearly. It was about three weeks before graduation, still long before we had any clear notion of the awful step we were about to take. The Birnbaums took us out for a fancy meal, along with Henry. We were all dressed formally, sitting around a candlelit table at Caffé Pertutti on Broadway and West 112th Street, two blocks from campus—arms around each other, smiling broadly.