“It’s more fun to just play with my lightsaber.”
“I have no doubt. But grappling with your lightsaber isn’t in your contract.”
“I thought you got me the grappling clause.”
“You should have mentioned it,” she said. “Too late now.”
“I suppose it is,” I said. “Next time I’ll ask.”
“There’s no next time, Bryce, if you screw this up. This is the life ring they’ve tossed you. It’s grab and live, or … sink.”
“Am I on the Titanic, Mavis?”
“You are the Titanic, Bryce. It’s up to you to avoid the iceberg or plow smack into it. And the water’s damn cold.”
“I can imagine.”
“I’m not so sure you do,” she said.
“No, I know,” I said after a moment.
“It’s high stakes poker,” she said.
“I liked the Titanic analogy better, Mavis … more drama.”
“You want drama, Bryce? Go ahead, have the movie people ask for their money back and watch yourself become forever associated with the third novel that not even the Jedi could fix.”
I had the sudden desire to never watch Star Wars again.
Black Kitty appeared and went to the deck door and looked out. The nearest tree was full of chattering crows perched precariously as wind made the branches bob up and down.
“Still there, Bryce?” Mavis said.
“Yeah, sort of. Barely.”
I sniffed loud enough for her to hear. I felt like crying but choked it back.
After a short pause Mavis said, “Bryce, are you afraid to go outside?”
“Yes.”
* * *
And so I had fixed one problem, drinking, but created a new one—fear of going outside. Fear of reality. Fear of … life. That sucker had really snuck up on me. Blindsided me like a quarterback with a shitty left tackle. I hoped that fear would prove too strong a word—that apprehension would be more precise.
I was pulling for apprehension. Fear seemed like a tough cookie to defeat.
I recalled a day back in the dead of winter when snow fell thickly and the side door had been open for a moment and Black Kitty had been behind me, assessing the opening and deciding not to go through it, despite his wild nature. I knew that the cold and falling snow contrasted against warm food and a warm bed had much to do with his decision, but I wondered if he, too, had a fear of going out into the world again. For Black Kitty, maybe it was merely a case of instinctual practicality. Emotion without intellectual analysis. For me it was much more complicated. For a human, the world could not be ignored forever. Could it?
Of course, in order to address my apprehension, I would need the world to yet again come to me. Janis arranged for a therapist from the building she worked in to visit me at my house. Paula Santorelli was fortyish and quite attractive, with long dark hair and large expressive eyes. Sort of like Cher playing a therapist back when she had a movie career. But I didn’t mention that to Paula, who turned out to be related to the Santorelli family that owned the pizza parlor I had helped to stay in business throughout the winter.
Even though it was not snowing or very cold outside, I made a small fire and lowered the house temperature a few degrees to compensate. I recalled hearing that Richard Nixon did that in the White House. But the days of making a fire were almost at an end. Spring had one foot planted firmly from around the corner.
Paula wore a burgundy sweater and black slacks. She was about five-six and slender but curvy in the right places.
“I sometimes wish I had a fireplace in my office,” she said as she sat on a living room sofa and gazed into the fire a moment. “It would have a soothing effect on clients.”
“A fire’s comforting,” I said. “Seems ironic, though … comfort from such a destructive force.”
She nodded and appeared to be processing that idea when Black Kitty came down the stairs and bounded onto the sofa next to her.
“Do you mind if he checks you out?” I said.
“Not at all. I have a cat at home. He must smell her.”
She petted Black Kitty and he preened and rubbed his face against her hand.
“He answers to Black Kitty,” I said.
“Very straightforward.”
“Does that seem … unimaginative?” I said.
She looked thoughtful.
“As a writer, does it worry you that his name might seem so?”
“Not really. I just felt it suited him. It was sort of a neutral way to start us off in the beginning and it stuck. He was a stray.”
“Then it’s the right name,” she said.
“What’s your cat’s name, Paula?”
“Suzette.”
“Very feminine.”
“She’s milky white and sometimes finicky,” she said. “A little spoiled, no doubt. Suzette seems to suit her.”
“It has cachet,” I said. “By the way, I love Santorelli’s pizza.”
“That’s my uncle’s place. I had lunch there this week.”
“Delivery for me, of course.”
She nodded. “Yes, the reason for our chat today.”
“Thanks for agreeing to come by. I know it’s not the usual.”
“Given your predicament, I couldn’t insist you come by the office.”
“If I could come to you,” I said, “I guess I wouldn’t need you.”
“A fair point.”
She produced a pen and notepad from her purse.
“I like to jot down a few notes, Bryce. Will that be too distracting?”
“Whatever works. Would you like some tea?”
“No, thanks.” She looked around the room a moment and rested her gaze on the bookshelves against the wall leading to the stairway.
“Have you caught up on your reading this winter?” she said.
“Exile offers a lot of time for that, yes.”
“What have you read lately, Bryce?”
I pointed to Dubliners on the coffee table.
“Early in the winter, Joyce,” I said. “Just recently, Gatsby and A Farewell to Arms.”
“And do you measure your books against them?” she asked.
I hoped I wasn’t that delusional. I was pretty sure I wasn’t.
“Do you know my books, Paula?”
“I read Golden Slumber a few years ago. It was funny. It was supposed to be, right?”
“Yes.” I smiled. “Thanks.”
“I liked the main character,” she said.
“Gavin.”
“Yes, Gavin. He was often unpredictable. In a good way.”
“How did you come across it?” I said.
“Someone had mentioned it was by a local author.”
I nodded, felt good. “That was my first novel.”
“How many are there?”
“Three,” I said. “Two good ones and a stinker.”
“Wasn’t there a film made of one of them?”
“The first one—Golden. It was a minor film. No real big name actors in it.”
“But satisfying nonetheless, I would imagine,” she said.
“Oh, sure. I actually got paid a chunk of money, so yeah. It paid for this house.”
I looked around the living room, quickly assessing what I had. It was a small but cozy house. More than enough house for a man and a cat.
“Did you like the film, Bryce?”
“It was okay … sure. Not bad at all. Faithful to the book, for the most part. No real complaints. I even got paid as an adviser.”
She looked down and wrote on her notepad. I watched her hands. They were small, delicate. I liked them and her long hair, too.
“Is money the measure of your writing, Bryce?”
I decided to think a moment, to seem thoughtful, but I knew how I felt about that.
“No,” I said. “I wouldn’t say that. The first two sold well and made money, but that was unexpected, sort of. I mean, I didn’t write them thinking I would make money. Certainly I
didn’t expect it.” I forced a smile. “It’s a combination of skill and luck, and maybe luck is more important than skill these days.”
“How so?” she said.
“Look at the stuff they crank out now … all this Opus Dei conspiracy stuff. All formulaic intrigue and no character development.”
She wrote some more notes.
“I’ve learned not to try and remember everything,” she said. “Earlier you said one of your books was a stinker. Why?”
“It didn’t sell. That’s the definition of stinker.”
“You said money wasn’t the measure, though.”
“True, but I mean, it didn’t sell at all. The publisher had to eat that one a bit.”
“How so?” she said.
“It isn’t any good. It’s crap.”
“But it was published.”
“That’s no longer an indicator of quality, trust me,” I said. “I once had a name, a rep—even a following. Fans, for God’s sake. When there’s a following, a name, all sorts of crap gets published. Now it’s all about furthering a brand instead of literature. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not claiming my books are great literature like Joyce and Hemingway and Fitzgerald. But they aren’t fluff, either, until that last one, anyway.”
“What happened?” she said. “With the last one. What’s it called?”
“Reflections.”
“Why is it a stinker?”
“Because I was drunk, mostly, when I wrote it. Never write while drinking—literary rule number one. Even Hemingway waited until after working each morning to jump into the Whiskey River.”
“But you haven’t been drinking since then … since Christmas?” she said.
“Not a drop,” I said. “And there’s none in the house. That’s the whole point of exile. I even had my car taken to Janis’s house.”
“Impressive willpower, Bryce. Will it continue?”
I shrugged and then smiled.
“It’s been a good run so far,” I said.
“Any doubts?”
“Sure. It’s a crapshoot. You know that. You work with people who go through this stuff, right?”
“Drinking, yes,” she said. “Exile, no.”
“Maybe I’ll become a journal article for you.”
“Do you think it could rise to that level of issue, Bryce?”
“Let’s hope not. Who knows? People can only try to keep doing what they’re doing if it works.”
“And for you, what works is exile … in your house.”
“For now,” I said. “We both know that will have to change.”
She jotted down more notes. When I was writing a novel I certainly wouldn’t have allowed anyone to look over my shoulder, but I certainly would have liked to see what she was writing at that moment.
“Sorry,” she said, glancing up once, quickly, as she finished writing.
“Does it sound weird,” I said, “exile?”
“No,” she said. “It’s a choice you made to help yourself.”
“A choice to save myself, I guess.”
“Do you feel weird about it, Bryce?”
“I’m not sure how I feel, now. It seemed to make more sense in the beginning.”
“And now?”
I leaned back in my chair and glanced up at the ceiling.
“Now,” I said, emitting a long sigh, “it just seems long. It seems … long. Long is what keeps coming to me, Paula. It’s been a long time, a long process. If I write a new novel, maybe I should call it, Long.”
“Do you plan to write a new book?”
“I was just paid to write a screenplay.”
“How nice,” she said. “About what?”
“An adaptation of my last novel.”
“The stinker?”
“Surprising, right? And ironic.”
“Were you … surprised?”
“Flabbergasted. Flummoxed. Dumbfounded. Dazed. Confused. That about covers it, I guess.”
“And how’s it going?” she said.
“I haven’t written a single word. And I might not write a single word. But I did give them a title.”
“That’s a start, Bryce. What’s the title?”
“Jedi Mind Trick.”
“Really?” she said. “And why that title?”
“It’s what came to me,” I said. “It’s what the old wishing well of a subconscious served up. What do you think?”
She closed her notepad.
“I think we have plenty to start with next time.”
But there wasn’t a next time. Maybe if I had mentioned Elsa and her crotchless body stockings, and her 23-year-old shaved vulva, there would have been a next time. Maybe a whole series of next times. But I kept Elsa to myself, and when Paula called to see if I wanted to talk again, I thanked her and said that exile isn’t a condition but a choice, and a choice for me to wrestle with while still in exile. Hashing it out with a partner defeated the whole purpose of exile … whatever that was.
* * *
I told Elsa about the mysterious envelope the next time she parachuted onto my driveway wearing a new white crotchless body stocking beneath her coat. The notion of her actually parachuting onto my driveway was awesome: I would be looking up as her 23-year-old shaved vulva got closer and closer, more distinct, the lips glistening and ready to engulf me whole upon landing. In the fantasy, the color of body stocking didn’t matter as long as it didn’t clash with the white of the parachute itself, I supposed, though I did prefer the black body stocking because it contrasted nicely with her pale skin. Any color was quite serviceable and nicely framed the 23-year-old shaved vulva. Working as a teacher’s aide apparently paid enough to keep Victoria’s Secret in business. An actual parachute and lessons were likely beyond her budget.
But back to the mysterious envelope.
“That’s weird, Bryce,” Elsa said.
“What’s weird about it?”
“Someone sent you a letter and you don’t know who it’s from.”
“They didn’t actually send it,” I said. “It was just put in my mailbox.”
“Even weirder.”
“I guess so.”
“You guess?” she said. “Maybe someone is seriously stalking you and this is just the opening move.”
“Who would waste time stalking me?”
“A fan.”
“A fan? I don’t have fans anymore, Elsa.”
“More than you know, probably.”
“Maybe one—in all of Kalamazoo. Besides, I’m a sitting target. Where’s the fun in stalking someone who is always in the same place? Where’s the challenge in that?”
“I don’t think stalkers do it for fun, Bryce.”
“What do they do it for?”
“They have to. It’s an obsession.”
“Maybe,” I said, “or maybe the stalker wears crotchless body stockings,” I added, slipping my hand inside her thigh and lightly tracing a finger along the lips of her 23-year-old shaved vulva.
“Stalkers probably don’t wear crotchless body stockings,” she said. “They wear black knit caps and dark clothes and smoke a lot of cigarettes in their car outside someone’s house.”
“You know many stalkers?”
“I’m just saying that stalkers are probably dark, shadowy figures … something like that.”
“You’re thinking of spies,” I said. “Spies wear dark clothes and smoke lots of cigarettes. Stalkers can be cops, or insurance adjusters, or batshit crazy women who head the local PTA.”
“Do spies wear crotchless body stockings?” she said.
“Of course. Female spies are horny as well as crafty.”
“Am I horny enough to be a spy?”
“You’re certainly horny enough to be a stalker,” I said. “How’s that?”
“I’d rather be a spy,” she said.
“How about a teacher’s aide who wears crotchless body stockings?”
“Somehow that falls short,” she said.
“Not if you h
ave perspective,” I said. “Being a spy is a lonely and dangerous life … especially if it’s in a Tom Cruise film.”
After a moment she said, “Am I a stalker?”
“Do you think you are?”
Another moment passed.
“I don’t know what I am … yet,” she said.
“There’s no hurry, Elsa. You’re twenty-three.”
“Am I an old twenty-three, or a young twenty-three?”
Now it was my time to pause and think.
“I don’t think twenty-three can be either.”
“That’s very diplomatic, Bryce.”
“I’m an exile. Remember? You should ask someone out in the real world.”
“Like who?”
“Tom Cruise.”
“He’s not available.”
“Then ask Matt,” I said.
“Matt doesn’t live in the real world either.”
“Then you’re screwed.”
“No,” she said, climbing astride me. “You’re screwed.”
As she moved up and down on me, I said, “Have you ever considered taking skydiving lessons?”
“I’m diving on you right now,” she said, grinding her hips faster.
* * *
Later, I watched Elsa walk down the driveway to her car, imagining that flawless 23-year-old shaved vulva hidden and warm and protected and also lurking beneath her coat. I looked up briefly, to visualize her descending from a parachute, legs far apart. I always watched her walk to her car and I always watched her pull away from the curb and drive down the street until the taillights disappeared around a corner. I always watched her leave, knowing each time could be the last time.
And I knew, each time, that if it was the last time, I would be okay with it.
We both needed to find our ways back to the right paths.
But in the interim, we also need our diversions, our detours. Detours don’t last.
They don’t need to.
Spring seemed to just appear one day unannounced, but definitely invited and welcome. The wind fell apart and green grass began to grow and the yard was no longer soggy from melting snow. Chirpy raccoons climbed onto my deck at night scavenging for food. I would slide open the door and pour dry cat food onto the steps and they would eat and peer inside at me. Black Kitty often sat at the door watching them eat and perhaps remembering them as fellow travelers in the night when he had been homeless.
I began to see the outside world—nature—as also living in exile, as living in a perpetual and natural cycle of exile and freedom, exile and freedom. The grass would be exiled into dormancy each winter and then eagerly rise up each spring, free of the wintry shackles of its exile and ready to pursue a new life. New leaves would erupt soon on the branches and the trees would no longer be bony skeletons and would awaken and be full and thick, their leaves casting cooling shadows during the warm days to come.
Exile on Kalamazoo Street Page 13