Any Man

by Amber Tamblyn

  “Tell me, Nancy. About what?”

  “Well I have three boys who are all grown up now—all very successful, might I add! Proud mama over here!—but hearing Mr. Sands just made me really think about how I contribute. In both the negative and positive sense of the word. I realize, more than ever, we need to keep fighting and protecting our kids, not just from predators but also from a society and a culture that feels kind of predatory ya know? I mean, that lady did the crimes, but we publicized it. We capitalized on it. We exploited it for ratings or whatever, for stories, with our memes and GIFs and tweeting and all that. We jump on the train. We show their pictures on live TV. We make clever hashtags. We find ways to, like, absolve ourselves from responsibility or say we’ve helped out with a retweet or something. We’ve helped because we’ve mentioned an injustice in passing to our neighbor and we both got to shake our heads. We’ve helped because we painted a sign. Like, I look at my boys and I think, what if this had happened to them? Or worse . . . what if any of them had done this to someone? And it made me realize that my job as a mother is never done. I must always—ALWAYS—teach them how to treat women. Even as grown men. That is how I can contribute. That is how I can really help.”

  “This is such a great point Nancy and I believe it’s on all of us to think this way—to be introspective this way and ask ourselves the hardest questions we’ve ever had to ask. Thanks for calling in.”

  “Caller, you’re on the air, this is Donald.”

  “Hey Donald, my name is Eric, from Arizona. Born and raised.”

  “Hey Eric from Arizona! What’s your question for us today?”

  “Well, first, thank you so much for having Mr. Sands on your program today. I was laughing and also crying when he told the story about Mr. O’Sullivan giving that poor toast at his wedding and bombing with his bad cake jokes.”

  “Yeah that got me good too, Eric.”

  “Yeah, I bet, buddy. The crying part came, for me, when Mr. Sands talked about his son. Naming his son Pear last year after Mr. O’Sullivan passed away from cancer. I wanted to say, as a survivor of suicide myself, as a person who made it through two attempts, who still sometimes wonders, who sometimes just wonders if it would’ve been better, you know? To’ve followed through? I wanted to say that Mr. Sands’s perspective on life, and cheer despite—despite all of that, made me feel less alone. I do hope Mr. Sands goes through with that tree-planting ceremony to honor his friend. I liked that a lot.”

  “Me too, Eric. I never met Pear but talked to him once over the phone many years ago. I tried to get him to come out and protest with us but I got the sense he wasn’t ready for that. Even on that short phone call, I could tell he was very funny and very kind. Whether he believes it or not, he’ll be missed by many. So many.”

  “Hi there, caller, this is Donald.”

  “My man, Donald!”

  “Hey! My man . . . who’s my man here?”

  “Ronnie, man! From Pittsburgh!”

  “Oh Jesus, Ronnie! Why didn’t I recognize your voice?”

  “Got a little cold, man. Makes me sound like a real baritone.”

  “I’ll say. Thought I was talking to Barry White’s grandfather for a second.”

  “Ha well I could be, let me tell you, I’m older than cloth wiring brother, let me tell you.”

  “That is old, Ronnie. Very old.”

  “Listen, D . . . What a show, man, what a show. I hope you have that brother on again, man. I’m sure you’re getting a million calls right now, man, but let me just say quickly that I’ve worked at a crisis center for almost a decade now, man, and I can’t tell you how important this kind of work is, man. Even if you never share it publicly like my man Jamar just did, even if you never make a thing out of it publicly, it’s so important to do the work and take care of yourself. I hope folks come out of the woodwork today because of Jamar’s story. I hope they come out, if they’ve been sexually assaulted or experienced anything that made them feel like they need to hide. Or they can’t speak. They can go to RAINN.org and get lots of information on the steps they can take for self-care.”

  “Yeah self-care is the motto! I say it and practice it all day, every day.”

  “Yeah, man. The bottom line, like I always tell my patients, man, there are many things in this world that are not on your side, especially after being raped. The law is not on your side. Public perception is not on your side. Sometimes your own body isn’t even on your side. But I’m on your side, man. I’m on your side, and clinics are on your side to help you do you. To heal what you can and say fuck all to the rest. Shit, sorry, can I say fuck on the air? Shit, I just said shit, too. Man!”

  “Damnit Ronnie, last time I told you I wasn’t going to cry the next time you called but now I can feel the tears coming on . . .”

  “I always get you, man, I got your number, man!”

  “That you do, friend. You’ve been listening—”

  “—to you for almost eight years, damn straight I have, D, and I’m looking forward to you and that book you promised us you’d write one day. You and your novel, man. I hope you get back into that glorious writing of yours again, it’s what you were born to do, brother.”

  “Thanks Ronnie. That means a lot.”

  “Alright next caller, you’re on the air.”

  Hi. Hey. My, um, my name’s Ezra. Ezra Fisher. I’m calling because . . . I’m calling from Somerset. Somerset State Correctional. I’m an inmate here, so thank you for taking this call. I’ve been here for two years on charges . . . On robbery and aggravated assault and . . . and some other things. I’m calling . . . I’m calling because . . . thank you, Mr. Ellis. For your show. For your . . . for everything you do. I listen to your show here when I get the chance. A few months ago I read the op-ed you wrote in the Prospect Times, the one where you gave us, like, a good spell to cast on ourselves? I felt like . . . I felt like you were speaking directly to me, Mr. Ellis. I did. And, like, I know we never met before, but . . . I guess today I wanted to tell you something. I’m ready to tell you something. That . . . that I was assaulted. By her. But I never told no one. I never told. And I probably should’ve, you know? I should’ve, because I saw her, Mr. Ellis. I saw her face.

  IX

  To whom it may concern:

  I looked up Last Will and Testament online last night to find examples of how to write one. I found a few various forms and also a porn movie about a guy named Will and a guy named Testament and . . . you get the idea. Anyway, my name is Pear O’Sullivan and I’m dying of cancer. But you already know that, because you’re the person who will allocate my nonsense after I’m gone! I don’t have much, but what I do have matters to me, so what the hell. Maybe it will matter to someone else as well. Okay, here we go.

  To my ex-wife Patricia Lorenzo I give my collection of 45s, LPs, CDs, and vinyl. She hated me but she loved my record collection. X’s Los Angeles, rare R.E.M., the Quadrophenia soundtrack. She especially loved my comedy vinyl, for some reason. Richard Pryor, Dick Gregory, Lenny Bruce, Joan Rivers, David Cross, Hicks, of course. Give them all to her. She deserves them.

  To Bobby M. Johnson from group, I give my forest-green ’95 Toyota Camry. It is the ugliest piece of shit ever created and still the most reliable. Just like you, Bobby.

  To my mother, Pearl Olympia O’Sullivan, I am sorry you outlived your only son. This should happen to no mother, ever. I am sorry I never made much of myself or gave you grandkids or could buy you a house. Please know that despite everything that happened in my life, I loved you so much and I was happy. At the end of it all, I went happy. Jesus, this is starting to sound like a suicide note, okay, so to Pearl I give my collector’s items, which include my collection of bobbleheads, comics, and my American silver quarter from 1970. Ma, DON’T SPEND THE QUARTER, okay? Please tell this to my mother! The quarter is extremely valuable due to a misprint, and you can get good money for it. Those idiots in the Treasury were so cheap they decided to use Canadian quarters from 1941 and print o
ver them, so if you look closely at the back side of the ’70 quarter where the American eagle is, you’ll see a “41” ever so slightly coming through.

  Sell all these things, Ma. (Except the quarter.) Then I can say I bought you a home.

  To the Upper Valley Haven social services organization in Vermont, I give all my furniture, clothing, and kitchen items, except for one thing, which is listed below.

  To Pamela from group, who made the best waffles I ever had. Thank you for your kindness over the years and for making a bunch of rejects feel like kings. To Pamela, I give all my potted plants and flowers. Including my teal sweetbay magnolias. Side note, Pam: If for some reason I’m not found for a few days—my body—and those magnolias have died, please do NOT throw them away. It is my wish to be cremated with them.

  Speaking of which, it is my wish to be cremated. Please place my remains in a Coca-Cola cup and leave me under a bleacher at Fenway Park during the next World Series. I mean it. Don’t take me out after the game. Leave me there and just let me be swept away with the empty beer bottles and hot-dog wrappers. That trash always made me so happy. Made me feel like I was in a place where people were really living.

  To my neighbor Alison Beckett, I give my house, the only property I ever owned. It is small and worth nothing, I know, but it’s my intent that it be turned into a library/museum for artifacts, photographs, letters, and any memories from our community pertaining to Maggie the Magnificent Maple Tree. This is the greatest apology I have to offer, Mrs. Beckett. You might be wondering why I am apologizing, but let’s just leave it at this offering.

  To Jamar Sands, my friend, who is expecting his first kid, a kid I hope I get to meet before I leave this clogged artery of an Earth, I give all my journals. All of them. It is my hope that you find some funny bedtime reading in there for your little guy or girl, whatever she or he will be named. I miss you already, man, and I’m not even dead yet!

  I miss you. Love you, Bud.

  Last and definitely least, to the woman known as Maude, if they ever find her, please send my broom’s handle to her in prison with a note saying, “I’m waiting for you here in hell, Maude. I’ve saved you a cot right next to me, for eternity.”

  Sincereless,

  Pear Ronald O’Sullivan

  One

  I WASN’T PLANNING ON ENDING UP IN HERE AT TWENTY-TWO YEARS old. None of us ever are. I always gotta say that out loud to people because I feel like they see me, my record, they see these tattoos, and they think, “Yeah, he was a bad kid.” I was never a bad kid. Ever. I was into cars. Model cars. I had a collection of everything from Volkswagens to Ferraris. I grew up in Warren, Pennsylvania, lived in a nice neighborhood. Middle-class. White parents with some money, not a lot but enough. Happy kid. Outgoing kid, and all that. I was going to grow up and sell cars. Vintage ones. I was going to take shop. I was going to know a car inside and out. That’s the kind of kid I was. I had plans. Lots of friends, you know. My best friend’s name was Arthur Milwaukee, like the city. Man, I haven’t seen Arthur in a long time. Arthur was a redheaded retard. I don’t mean a retarded retard, he was just a retard. You know what I mean. A dumbo who got in trouble for bringing whoopee cushions to class like we lived in the 1950s or some shit. Arthur and I walked home from school together every day. He called me Rezzy instead of Ezra. So that was my nickname. Rezzy. We loved playing Final Fantasy and basketball. We didn’t know a damn thing about basketball, though, or how to play it. We’d get big glasses of milk from the fridge and take our shirts off and take turns running around in circles like dying chickens, then throw the ball into the hoop. We didn’t mind not knowing the rules. We made up our own most of the time. Arthur and I always had Saturday sleepovers. Me at his or him at mine. Arthur and Ezra. That was us. The car kid and the retard.

  One New Year’s Eve, Arthur’s parents were having a party. They had some weird friends over, you know, wearing lots of turquoise and shit. East Coast hippies. Wasn’t a big party, but enough for us to stay up and go unnoticed past midnight. I went to the bathroom to go pee, but the door was locked so I used the one in Arthur’s parents’ bedroom instead. That one was always strictly off-limits, but I really had to go. I was in the middle of peeing when I heard the door open and close. Before I could even turn around, there was someone there. Behind me. They put their hands on me. On . . . She took me, by my . . . she held it and took my hands off it, as I was going. She held it like that, from behind me. She asked me what my name was but I couldn’t speak. She asked again. I told her Ezra. She said it was nice to meet me, that I could call her anything I wanted to. I didn’t want to call her anything. I wanted her to let go of me. She asked me if I liked girls. I said I guess. She asked me if I like to play games with girls. I said I didn’t know. She asked if she could play with me. She asked if I liked it, her holding me like that. She asked if I wanted her to pull on it gently.

  I’ve never said this to someone out loud.

  I’ll just . . . tell you that she made me have sex with her, okay. She told me I had to or she was going to hurt my mom and dad. She told me I could never tell anyone because she’d come back and hurt me and hurt my family. She made me promise.

  She told me I could turn around and look at her, but then I had to go climb on the bed and not say a word. I had to be quiet or else I’d get in trouble. She said if my friend’s parents found out what I was doing in their bedroom they’d be really angry with me.

  Turn around, she said. I was crying and shaking. Don’t cry, she said. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want us to have fun. I’ll be very gentle. I didn’t want to, I said. Come on, she said. Turn around and look at me. I turned around.

  She was just a normal woman.

  She had brown hair and brown eyes.

  She wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t ugly.

  She wasn’t really old but she wasn’t young either.

  She was just a normal woman.

  Do you know who I am, she asked me.

  I told her no.

  Good, she said.

  After she did what she did, she told me to count very slowly to whatever age I was and not move until I was done counting, and she left. I did the count twice because I was so scared it wasn’t enough time. It would’ve been only a count to ten.

  I was only ten years old.

  She hadn’t lied when she said she wasn’t going to hurt me. She didn’t. She was gentle. I said nothing. I think I held my breath the entire time. I just stared up at the ceiling. There was nowhere else to look. I remember feeling like . . . like if I didn’t move, if I just stared at the same spot on the ceiling, that I wasn’t even there, in the room. That I had disappeared. I could see where Arthur’s parents had water-damage stains above us. Big brown circles mapped across the ceiling. I traced the lines. Imagined they were different things each time. A race-car track. A dying snail.

  I left the room and went downstairs. She was nowhere. Everyone was drunk and laughing. Arthur was asleep on the sofa. I was fucking mad. He should’ve come looking for me. Why didn’t he come for me?

  That night I had a nightmare. I have it often. I’ve had it so many times, I know it by heart now. I can see it backward and forward. It’s part of my reality, even here in jail, that dream is more real than prison.

  In the dream, we are back in that bathroom. I turn toward her. Her face has every face in it. It’s everyone I’ve ever known or seen or imagined, combined into one monstered offering. Her hair is everywhere. All over the room, running down into the drains of the sink and bathtub and even overflowing out the window in the other room. It covers houses next door. And mountains in the distance. It’s alive. Her hair. And she is so tall. Her shoulders touch the roof. Her head is small and unnatural and bobs across the ceiling, looking down at me. Her eyes move rapidly on her face like caught flies trapped under glass. Her chin is bigger than the width of her body and has no skin on it. Like some kind of whale’s mouth. She has no lips but a kind of hole in the middle where . . . where plantlike vi
nes grow from her mouth and hang down. But they aren’t real plants, they are some kind of flesh. Strings of flesh. Flesh vines; thick, mossy nerve endings. And at the ends of those vines are flowers. Beautiful flowers covered in drool, drool dripped from her mouth. When she talks, the vines jiggle like she’s an earthquake rattling a potted plant or something. She tells me to get in bed. I walk through a giant unseen spiderweb that spreads across my face. The spider’s already inside me, I think. It’s already inside. Then I wake up.

  I went back home and said nothing to my parents the next day. I couldn’t go to the bathroom by myself anymore, but I said nothing about why. Couldn’t be alone, ever, for any reason. I didn’t sleep over at Arthur’s anymore. The more hurt he’d get, the angrier I’d get. I felt it was kinda his fault. I stopped hanging out with him altogether. Once he asked me why I was so mad all the time, so I punched him. It felt good to do that, to punch something. The school counselor asked me why I did it. My parents asked me why I did it. Arthur asked me why I did it. But I never told them. I made a promise to her that I would never tell.

  I traded out Rezzy for a new nickname, EZ, short for Ezra. I made new friends. My best one was a fat, short kid named Marley who we called Fat Short Kid. Fat Short Kid had a dad who smoked, so he’d steal cigarettes for us. First cigarettes a little, then on to the better stuff, stuff his older cousin could get for us. It helped me feel blank. Helped me forget stuff for a little while. By twelve I was already a different person. I mean, I was a different person the minute I walked out of that bedroom that night, but by twelve I was even more different. I cut school all the time. I got into a couple more fights, got suspended. My mother was a mess. By the time I was fourteen, I was the local fuckup. I was that kid, the kid all the neighbors feared. I was the bad seed, waiting to sprout. My pops barely talked to me and I thought, good, fuck you anyway. You weren’t there for me. You did nothing. Fat Short Kid and me started selling instead of just smoking. At first it was weed, then we moved on. Moved up and all that. Fat Short Kid’s parents had enough and sent him to boarding school. I remember his dumpy face with that mole near his lip, waving goodbye to me from his mom’s truck as they left school forever. I never saw Fatty again. I felt like anyone I cared about was taken away from me or didn’t care to stay. Jim Beam was the only friend I had left. Whatever was in whoever’s liquor cabinet.