by Jason Starr
“Where the hell’ve you been?”
I’d almost forgotten about Rebecca and all our problems.
“Where do you think I was?” I said. “I was at work.”
“Work, my ass.”
I noticed the empty bottle of wine, on its side on the dining room table, next to a few empty beer bottles. She was acting like she was coked-up too.
“I’m not gonna deal with this shit again,” I said.
I headed along the hallway toward the bedroom, watching over my shoulder for flying bottles, but Rebecca was following me.
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on, why can’t you be a man and tell me? What’s the bitch’s name?”
“Leave me the hell alone.”
We were in the bedroom.
“Who is she?” she asked. “How long has it been going on? Have you been cheating on me since we met? Is that why you never want to go out with me anymore, why you want to break up with me, because you started screwing some ho? Come on, tell me who the bitch is. I have a right to know the slut’s name.”
In the middle of taking off my sweatshirt, my face covered, I said, “I know you’re dying to fight with me again, but it’s”—I finished taking off my sweatshirt and glanced at my watch— “shit, four-thirty, and I’m going to sleep.”
I took off my jeans and plopped onto the mattress. The pillow against my head would’ve felt so good if Rebecca weren’t still standing there, shouting.
“I should’ve known you’ve been getting some on the side. Making it out like you have all these problems with me—I go out too much, I spend too much, I do this, I do that. Meanwhile, it’s you—you’re the bad one, not me.”
I ignored her, hoping she’d leave me alone.
“So who is she?”
I was starting to conk out, but I knew she wouldn’t shut up if I didn’t answer her.
“There’s nobody,” I mumbled.
“You’re lying,” she said.
“I’m not lie . . . li . . . lying,” I said, my voice fading.
“Do you work with her? You screwing some cunt at your office?”
Her voice jarred me awake.
“No,” I said crankily. “Will you just stop with this already?”
“So where were you tonight? Her place?”
“What the hell’re you talking about?” I said, burying my head under the pillow. “You know where I was.”
“No, I don’t know.”
“I was at work.”
“What?”
She couldn’t hear me through the pillow. I pushed the pillow up slightly, revealing my mouth, and said, “Work. Work, all right?”
“I called work. Your voice mail kept picking up.”
“That’s because I was working. That’s what people do when they’re at work—they work, but I guess you wouldn’t know about that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I didn’t want to get into another senseless argument, so I didn’t say anything. The room got quiet. I was hoping I’d hear footsteps and the door slamming, but instead she said, “I called your cell too, but you didn’t pick up. Why didn’t you pick up?”
I waited, then said, “I didn’t have my phone on.”
“Bullshit. It was on because it rang—the first time I called anyway. You didn’t answer, then you turned it off. You didn’t bother checking your messages either—I left, like, five of them.”
“I didn’t know it was you calling.”
“You have caller ID.”
“My battery was running out.”
“Bullshit!”
I burrowed my face deeper into the mattress, the pillow still atop my head. But Rebecca wouldn’t let up.
“What were you doing at work?”
“Working,” I said, “what do you think? Now can you leave me the hell alone?”
“I thought you just had to give them a file or something?”
“The whole system crashed, and I didn’t back it up after all. I had to rewrite it from scratch.”
“Why didn’t you check your messages?”
“Because I didn’t,” I said, angry that I’d been explaining my whereabouts to some crazy girl I didn’t even want to be with.
Rebecca grabbed the pillow.
“Give it back,” I said.
“Not till you tell me her name.”
“You’re so pissed off, what’re you waiting for? Why don’t you just leave me? Get out of my life!”
“I want to know her name!”
She stopped, staring at something to her left. I realized what it was right away. Before I’d taken off my jeans I’d put my wallet on the dresser.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“What’s what?”
“That . . . Your wallet.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “It was returned to me.”
“By who?”
“I have no idea.”
“What do you—”
“Somebody dropped it at the office—I don’t know who.”
I reached for the pillow, but Rebecca yanked it back away.
“Can you please give me my pillow back?”
“You’re such a liar,” she said. “Your wallet wasn’t stolen— you just made that up because you thought I wouldn’t be able to use my credit cards. You thought if I didn’t have any credit cards I’d leave you, because that’s why I’m with you, right? Because you’re like my sugar daddy or something.”
“A woman found it on the First Avenue bus.”
She swung the pillow hard against my head. The force jerked my head back, stunning me.
“Are you cheating on me?” she said.
“Yes,” I said, dazed. “I’m cheating on you, all right?”
She glared at me with the pillow cocked, ready to belt me again. Then she said, “With who?”
“I don’t see what difference that makes.”
“I want to know her name.”
“I’m not telling you her name.”
I was ready to raise my arms to block the blow.
“Do you love her?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I love her.”
She would belt me with the pillow again at any moment, or maybe she would forget the pillow—go for the picture frames on the dresser. She would fling them at me one after the other and there would be more broken glass, and this time there wouldn’t be anything I could do to stop her. She would keep coming after me, or maybe she’d pick up pieces of broken glass and try to cut me. I’d try to fight her off, and maybe I’d get her in a headlock. I’d just be trying to defend myself, but I’d lose control and start ramming her head against the wall.
But Rebecca wasn’t coming after me. She was staring at me, looking wounded, and then she shook her head slowly and turned and left the room without saying a word, closing the door quietly behind her.
I felt like I’d finally gotten through to her. Later, or even right now, she’d start packing her things, and by the end of the day she’d be gone. I wished I’d thought of the “other woman” breakup technique sooner.
I fell asleep quickly, but it felt like I’d been out for only a few minutes when I was jarred awake by a nightmare. I was carrying Ricky’s body down the stairs in Charlotte’s building, but the body in the dream weighed much more than the actual body, and the stairs were at least twice as steep. I wasn’t making any progress; it felt like I was trying to go down an up escalator. As I became more frustrated, I realized that Ricky was alive, squirming in my arms. He kept saying, “You fucking my lady?” Then he was behind me—chasing me, his head hanging to the side, as if it were attached to the rest of his body by a piece of string.
I waited for my heart to stop throbbing and for my breathing to return to normal, and then I glanced at the clock on the night table. It was 4:58, meaning I’d been asleep for only about twenty minutes. The light in the bedroom was still on, and the door was still
closed. Rebecca was probably in the living room, sleeping on the couch, or maybe she’d gone to a friend’s apartment or, better yet, a boyfriend’s. Hopefully she’d move out by later today and I’d never see her again.
I turned out the light and tried to go back to sleep, but I was too wound up. I kept thinking about Ricky’s body, lying there against the garbage can. Anybody who’d passed by until now had probably assumed it was just another strung-out junkie, but as the morning went on there would be more people on the streets, and eventually someone would realize that Ricky was dead and call the cops. Then the cops would go talk to Charlotte, and I had to count on her to keep her mouth shut. I didn’t think she’d turn me in on purpose, but if the cops started putting pressure on her, she could blurt out my name. Or what if Charlotte’s next-door neighbor told the cops he saw a guy in Charlotte’s apartment? Charlotte would have to think fast and make up some story, and I knew I couldn’t count on that.
I lay on my back, my mind spinning. I wished I could call Barbara, or go over to her place. She would’ve told me exactly what to do.
“I have a surprise for you,” I said.
It was late one Saturday night. Barbara had been working long hours at her job, promoting a new IPO, and I’d been working hard too, having returned that afternoon from a business trip to San Francisco. I went to a video store on Columbus and rented the DVD of Barbara’s favorite movie, Pretty Woman, and bought a container of her favorite Ben & Jerry’s flavor, Chunky Monkey, then went to her place on Eighty-fourth Street.
“It’s not a good time,” she said into the intercom.
“Come on, buzz me up,” I said. “I’ve got Chunky Monkey and Pretty Woman. It doesn’t get any better than that.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said.
I remained in the vestibule, suddenly getting a bad feeling, making up stories to myself. Maybe someone was robbing her apartment, tying her up, about to rape her.
I rang the buzzer again.
“Buzz me up, Barb.”
“Go away.”
“Buzz me up,” I insisted.
A few seconds passed, and then the buzzer sounded. I went up to her apartment, and she talked to me with the door open a crack, with the chain on.
“Is everything okay?” I said.
“I have someone here.”
“Who?”
“Just someone.”
“Let me in.”
Then the door closed. I heard Barbara saying, “No, don’t, come on,” and then the door opened all the way and Jay was standing there with that slicked-back hair and that fake tan.
“Your sister said she didn’t want to see you,” Jay said. “Can’t you get the message?”
“Stop it,” Barbara said to him.
“I thought you two broke up,” I said to Barbara.
“We got back together,” Barbara said.
“When?” I said.
“It’s none of your business,” Jay said. “Why don’t you just get the hell out of here?”
“Don’t talk to him like that—”
“Shut up,” Jay said to Barbara. Then he said to me, “Your sister’s sick of you. She doesn’t want you coming by here anymore.”
“I never said that,” Barbara said.
“Shut up,” Jay said to Barbara. Then he said to me, “Why don’t you get the hell out of here before you get hurt?”
“You okay?” I asked Barbara.
“I told you to go,” Jay said.
“I’m talking to my sister,” I said.
Jay pushed me.
“Stop it,” Barbara said.
“Your sister wants you to leave,” Jay said.
“Jay!” Barbara shouted.
“You deaf?” Jay pushed me again, almost knocking me down, and then I went after him. He was taller than me and stronger, but I didn’t let up. I tackled him, punching him in the face till his nose was gushing blood and there was blood all over my fists and he was squirming on the floor, trying to get up.
“Get out of here!” Barbara screamed at me. “Go!”
I turned over onto my side and punched the bed as hard as I could.
I lay awake for a long time, sweating and agitated, until grayish-blue light started filtering into the room through the blinds. Then I watched the ceiling brighten—it was after six already—and I was expecting the phone to ring at any moment, or the police to show up, banging on the door. I’d given up on trying to sleep, but I stayed in bed until eight o’clock anyway. I’d been planning to take the day off to get some rest, but I wasn’t getting any, and I decided it might be a good idea to go into work. When the police investigated, it would be better to show that I was going about my normal, everyday life.
I left the bedroom, on my way to shower, when I decided to check the living room to see if Rebecca was there. Sure enough, she had crashed on the couch, still in the clothes she’d been wearing last night. I hoped she was planning to move out today, although I realized it didn’t matter what she did if I wound up in jail.
Showering didn’t relax me at all. Afterward I shaved sloppily, cutting myself in several places. Looking in the mirror, I appeared, appropriately, as if I’d been through hell. My lower lip was still swollen—although not as badly as yesterday—and my eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles underneath.
Riding downtown on the crowded 1 train, I felt like it could have been any morning. People’s pissed-off faces were inches apart, everyone trying to avoid eye contact, and when the one-legged, homeless ex-vet with AIDS came through the car, pushing through on his crutches, rattling his cupful of change, everyone groaned and muttered curses. But instead of getting annoyed or depressed about my commute, I enjoyed every second of it. I knew if I wound up in jail I’d spend years missing shitty mornings just like this one.
When I got to my building I had a scare when I saw two cops waiting in front. My first instinct was to turn around and run, but then I realized I’d seen the cops in the area before, and they were just on their normal beat. I walked by them and headed into the building through the revolving door, moving quickly because a guy was turning the door fast behind me. In the elevator, I imagined some guy in Alphabet City saying to his friend right now, “Hey, I think that guy over there’s dead,” and his friend saying, “No he’s not.” But the first guy would insist, and they’d take a closer look, and the friend would say, “Holy shit, you’re right,” and that would get the ball rolling. The police would question Charlotte and her next-door neighbor, and it wouldn’t be long before they questioned me. They could already be on their way over.
In the Manhattan Business office, I went right to my desk and booted up my computer. Peter Lyons had sent me a revised version of my story. I started proofreading it on the screen, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking about all the ways I could be caught, even if Charlotte or her neighbor didn’t tell the police about me. I could’ve left physical evidence on the body—hair or fibers from my clothing. There was a chance I’d stepped in something in the hallway or outside the building—I vaguely remembered my sneakers sticking slightly against the stairs—and for all I knew I’d left a footprint somewhere. Or someone could’ve seen me—a neighbor who’d heard a noise and looked through a peephole out to the hallway. And then there was my bruised lip and the cut on my arm. If the cops questioned me for any reason it was doubtful they’d believe my falling-in-front-of-the-bank story, and the more explaining I did the more convoluted my story would become.
A noise behind me startled me. It was only a creak in the floor, but I wheeled around in my chair as if a bomb had gone off. Angie was standing there.
“Sorry,” she said, “didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” I said, catching my breath.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“No reason.”
She came into my cubicle and sat down in the chair, mindlessly sifting through a stack of magazines. She was wearing her red-blouse-with-a-shor
t-black-skirt-and-shiny-black-boots outfit that I’d always thought she looked really cute in.
“So what’re you doing?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing much,” I said. “Just looking over Peter’s idiotic edits.”
“How’s the damage?”
“Listen to this,” I said, looking at the computer monitor. “My original sentence was ‘Byron took a major risk last year, expanding abroad in the face of fierce competition at home.’ The schmuck changed it to, ‘Byron took a terribly odd gamble last year, spreading its operations too thinly abroad, while competition from industry leviathans swelled in the States.’”
“You know what he did to my last story?” Angie said. “He said the company I was writing about had ‘indefatigably gained market share.’”
I laughed. It felt good to have something to laugh about.
“I wish we could do something to get even with him,” Angie said, “like expose him somehow. Like maybe we could start a Web site—Peter-Lyons-is-a-fucking-asshole-dot-com, or something like that. We could post all this trash about him and everybody in the world would know what a prick he is. . . . What’s wrong?”
Laughing with Angie had managed to distract me from my real problems for a while, but it had all set in again.
“Nothing,” I said.
“God, you scared me,” Angie said. “For a second I thought you couldn’t breathe or something.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Maybe it’s allergies—pollen. I’ll have to stop by the drugstore later.”
Angie still seemed very concerned, and I wished I could’ve opened up to her about everything that was going on in my life. It would’ve been great to have someone to talk to.
Wanting to change the subject, I said, “So how’re you and the frat boy doing?”
“Please,” Angie said, blushing.
“What? You and Mike are dating, right?”
“No,” she said, overly defensive. She got up and peered over the tops of the cubicles to make sure Mike wasn’t around, and then she sat back down. “We went out last night to dinner at City Crab on Park. I had the shittiest time. He kept going on and on, talking about some hockey game he went to with his friends, even though he knows I couldn’t give a shit about hockey. Then he starts taking all these cell phone calls. Just stupid calls from friends of his—‘Hey, man, what’s goin’ on?’ ‘Not much, dude—just sittin’ here chillin’, havin’ dinner with this hot chick from my office.’”