After getting his creative writing degree, he had actually aspired to the life of a freelancer. Journalism had seemed like a great way to support himself, so he could have the time to write short stories, though it never quite worked out that way. After three years of constant rejection by small literary magazines, he finally did get something accepted. The Bellwether Journal liked his story, which wasn't so much a story as a collection of humorous fragments about a suicidal man with a big nose, a kind of cross between Gogol's "The Nose" and Fitzgerald's The Crack-Up. He was thrilled about the story's acceptance and told everyone at work about it, but it turned out that people who worked at Blockbuster Video weren't all that interested in his literary achievements. Which turned out to be a good thing when the magazine went under before his story was published.
The following year, Terraplane Review accepted his story "Detroit Pastoral," and then a month later quietly closed its doors. After he killed one last quarterly, the poor, innocent Kerfuffle, Joe, without really even acknowledging it, just stopped working on his cursed stories. He considered writing a novel, but then thought about all the people who would be left unemployed and homeless if he happened to put down a major publisher. That was what he told himself, at least.
About the only writing successes he'd had were the "New in Video" capsule reviews for the Independent. (Finally, his credentials from clerking at Blockbuster were paying off!) While he wasn't about to become the next Lester Bangs or Roger Ebert, it was a start and the editor encouraged him be funny or snarky in the reviews. He began hanging around the office when he wasn't doing shifts at the video store, taking any writing job they would give him, no matter how shitty. Eventually, he became the utility guy, the one they could always count on to write something. When they got a new editor, he liked Joe's tastes in what he called "kooky, artsy, kitschy stuff" and decided that his talents resided in mining the depths of old and weird pop culture. He offered Joe a short column every week where he would recommend obscure or forgotten books, videos, music, and anything else of interest to him. Joe grabbed it, even though it was just slightly more than no money. For the past fifteen years, he'd been doing different versions of the same column, albeit with the occasional name and format change. It wasn't really all that popular, but he did have a following, considering Detroit's taste for the arcane, the old, and the crumbling. And since they weren't paying him very much, they just kept letting him do it. Later, when they needed content for their website, the column was exiled there, which became a good thing as the digital version soon outpaced the actual newspaper.
These days, though, he had gotten lazy, doing the occasional feature, but mostly churning out his column as well as 500- or even 200-word reviews. It was as if everyone else's dwindling attention span was actually making him dumber.
Joe read a little more. He had just started his second beer when his friend Chick walked up to the bar.
"Hey," said Joe, closing his book, placing it on the bar facedown. "What brings you here?"
"Just thought I'd stop in for a quick one."
"What's up?"
"Boned. The Man is sticking it to me again."
Joe laughed. This was pretty much the story of Chick's life, according to Chick. The Man was forever sticking it to him.
"Our friends out on the coast?"
"Who else but fucking Hollywood?"
Chick was an odd bird, at least for Detroit. He was a screenwriter, and not for small independent films or short art flicks. Chick wrote blockbusters and sci-fi fantasies and animated films. And he wrote them for big Hollywood studios. From what Joe knew of them, he was quite good at it. Actually, Chick was one of those friends that Joe had written about. The "Local Boy Strikes It Rich in La-La Land" sort of angle. Not that his friend had ever mentioned any figures, but Chick had sold a number of scripts, many for "mid-to-high six-figure advances." Joe had read this on various film biz websites (while experiencing a curious emotional admixture of envy, contempt for Hollywood, and pride for his friend). None had ever been produced because Chick wrote the kinds of high-concept projects that were expensive to actually make, so the studio cowards were always spending a lot of money to buy the script so nobody else would get it, and then somehow everything would fall apart, much to Chick's frustration. Basically, he would make a truckload of money, then nothing would happen.
Chick looked at Joe's beer. "What are you drinking?"
"Stroh's."
Chick made a face. "Ugh. How can you drink that swill?" He motioned to the bartender. "I'll have the Two Hearted."
The beer appeared almost immediately before the bartender walked away. She was a tall woman, with blue-black hair and a tattoo on her back, just above the exposed low beltline.
Chick shook his head, as if disgusted. "That girl is fire. She's killing me. Jesus. That tattoo probably says do me in Celtic."
"So talk to her."
"A woman like that would have nothing to do with me. She's too cool for me. Too tall for me."
"Too cool? Because she has a tramp stamp? Might I remind you that you're a rich screenwriter in a town where no one is a rich screenwriter?"
"That doesn't matter. I'm still this." Chick frowned, splayed his hands, and gestured at his body like it was something he had picked up at the dollar store.
"What? You're fine. Look at you, you work out and everything."
"Typical short-man syndrome. You can't get taller so you go wider."
Joe laughed. "What are you, like, 5'7"? Isn't that supposed to be average?"
"They say it is, but it isn't. You have no idea what it's like because you're tall. You tall fuckers get all the breaks. You don't even deserve to be tall. You practically slouch. It's wasted on you. Why couldn't I have gotten some of your tallness? But no. Joe Keen, height hog."
Joe shook his head, half laughing.
Chick took a long sip as he watched the bartender. "Oh my god. Would you look at her? She's killing me."
Ana, who surprisingly found Chick quite amusing, once told him that he had "the most objectifying male gaze" she had ever seen. Chick's reply was, "Thanks!"
"You're worked up tonight. Heard something on a script, I take it?"
He gave Joe an exasperated stage frown, then exhaled loudly. "No. They're taking forever to respond. Bad sign. I'm never going to get a movie made."
"Maybe it's time to bite the bullet and move on out there," said Joe, deciding to goad Chick. They both knew what he was doing, but Chick was happy to play along.
"Yeah, I'm going to go live out in Hollyweird with those nutjobs and their fucking Bentleys. That's a great idea. Some friend you are, Keen." He peered over at Joe, mock-disgusted, trying to keep from laughing.
Joe shrugged innocently. "Just a thought."
"You son of a bitch. I don't even know why I'm sitting with you."
Seeing Chick was raising his spirits considerably. Oddly enough, Chick was probably the most "normal" of all Joe's friends. Chick watched sports, even wore the occasional article of athletic apparel, unabashedly loved big action movies and mainstream music, didn't read many books, and didn't care about art. He also had seen every episode of Seinfeld at least ten times. All Chick really wanted was to be married and have a family. To be normal. That, and to have a movie made.
The not-so-normal thing about Chick was his persona of the grumpy, dissatisfied, chauvinist misanthrope who often made inappropriate remarks in mixed company, but who was in reality a sensitive guy. The problem was that he was so good at playing the misanthrope that sometimes people forgot that it was just a persona and got angry with him.
Actually, it was pretty easy to forget that you were dealing with the persona. You had to constantly remind yourself that there was more to him. Joe had once told him that he was like Andy Kaufman, the comedian who invited everyone in the crowd to beat him up. Chick was pleased at the comparison.
Joe had seen it happen many times before: a group of politically correct liberal men and women all taking verbal potshot
s at Chick for one of his simple but incendiary comments like, "Why's everybody so down on porn? I love porn!" or, "How can you not like Ted Nugent? 'Wang Dang Sweet Poontang'? That's my jam!" Chick would put it out there and then just enjoy the fireworks. It seemed to be the only way he could be the center of attention and be comfortable with it. He could deflect the abuse (and also deflect the attention he got from being the guy who sold screenplays for major coin in Hollywood) and even make it funny.
"What are you doing here by yourself, Keen? Seems kind of dipso of you. Sitting at a bar, drinking, reading your fancy-pants novel for all the world to see, like Johnny Intellectual." He put on an upper-crust lockjaw accent and tipped up his pinky finger. "Look at me! Crown Prince Sonny Boy is reading."
"Are you done?" said Joe.
"Not quite yet," said Chick. "Shouldn't you be at home snuggling with the little woman? Excuse me—snuggling with the common-law little woman, planning your next antiestablishment FU gesture?"
Joe lowered his head to the bar, laughing. "All right. Uncle. I give up. You win."
Chick, pleased with himself, held up his hands and tilted his head forward in a slight bow. "Thanks, I'll be here all week. Be sure to tip your waitress." A beat. "So why are you here? I have no life. What's your excuse?"
Joe raised his upper lip. "Eh, Ana's in one of her moods. She's decided that we're weird."
"So what's news about that? You are weird."
"Actually, I told her that we're disgustingly normal. There's nothing more normal than being with the same person forever."
"You're angling for a threesome, aren't you? Bring a little spice into the house. A little strange. Huh? Am I right?"
Joe glared at Chick until he stopped.
"Sorry," said Chick, sheepishly. "This happen often?"
"It's been happening more lately. I think its because she's coming up on her fortieth birthday."
Chick's eyes widened. "Holy shit, really? I knew you were older than me, but I had no idea you guys were that old."
Joe shrugged. "Yeah, well. No kids. We're not grossly overweight. Oh, and also age-inappropriate clothing. You'd be surprised how much it helps."
"So what's the problem? I thought you guys had it whipped. You two are the only couple I know that actually seem happy."
"Us? Really?"
"Yeah. Aren't you?"
"No, we're happy, I guess. It's just that sometimes Ana seems to want something . . . I'm just not sure she knows what it is."
"You sure she doesn't want a kid?"
"I don't think that's it." Though Ana had always made it very clear that she wasn't interested in having children, this had still been a recent nightmare of his. That she would suddenly want to become a parent at the age of forty. He had seen a few of those older new parents around the neighborhood. They always looked haggard and out of breath.
"Would you ever want one?"
Joe shook his head slowly. "Nah, I just never felt the calling."
Chick took a sip of beer. "I don't think men feel it like women do. Men just want to go spread their seed across the land."
"Probably true, but it seems like you should feel something. Even a little. I mean, I know you want a kid, right?"
"Absolutely."
"There you go."
"Yeah, but first I have to get someone to put up with me. I mean, come on, who could love me? I'm hideous."
Joe laughed, then smacked his friend's arm with the back of his hand. "Stop saying that. You're not hideous."
"I'm going to die alone. You know it, I know it."
"Yeah, you're probably right."
Chick shot him a look, then sighed loudly and took a sip of his beer. "Going to the tiki thing?" he said after a long silence.
"Who knows? That's months away. Spring may never come to Michigan. They're just going to find us all preserved in a giant ice floe a thousand years from now." Joe sighed. "Probably. How about you?"
"Sure, I'm going, I've got nothing else to do. I told you, I have no life." Chick downed the rest of his beer, stood up, and laid a five on the bar. "Ah well. I'm gonna head home. They're showing Kiss Me Deadly on Turner Classics."
"That's such a great movie. Maybe I'll do the same."
"You're welcome to come by."
"Nah, I should get home."
Chick creased his forehead, pursed his lips, and nodded. "Yeah, that would be less weird."
Joe shook his head. "Bastard. Way to use information spoken in confidence against me."
Chick smiled. "Next time you'll know better." He raised his hand and headed toward the door.
And just then, the turn of the conversation made Joe wonder about his life. While he was going to tiki parties or concerts or indie films or DIY craft fairs or gallery openings or literary events, most people his age were concerned with things like their kids' soccer games and parent-teacher conferences. Their children ate up their lives. He did not know much about parenting, but he knew it was really hard work. Most parents, he felt, were just trying to survive. (Someone at the paper had once said to him, "If my kids are alive at the end of the day, I feel like I've done my job.") It seemed like he knew so many parents who had given up what they really wanted to do in order to provide for their children. The fact that they didn't mind that enormous sacrifice was amazing to Joe. Even admirable. Yet it wasn't what he wanted for himself.
Maybe all the things that were whispered about childless couples were true, he thought, that they were selfish and shallow, emotionally arrested, incomplete adults. Maybe those people were right. But what about he and Ana, or their other childless friends? They all supported themselves (question mark after Joe), had relationships and friendships, not to mention cars, furniture, rent or mortgages (more question marks after Joe), and led what appeared to be essentially adult lives. But then how come he often didn't feel like an adult? Was that because he had no child? Or was it because people perceived him as one because of that very fact?
Perhaps the advantage of kids was that they made you feel your age. You looked at little Zoe or Seamus and saw that five, eight, twelve, sixteen, twenty years had passed and you knew that you were old. Which raised the question: was it all that great to know you were old? Was it so wrong to deceive yourself for as long as possible? (Like the helpful way we deceive ourselves into forgetting that we're going to die in order to get through the day.) It seemed to him that a little childlike self-delusion really came in handy sometimes.
Joe picked up the flyer again, which was now ringed with welts from the pint. Should you be going to tiki parties in your forties? Was it possible to maintain ironic distance for that long, or should you have outgrown it by then? How long before you needed an irony supplement?
Still, he got the distinct feeling that his peers, many of whom were younger than him but already feeling old and out of it, weren't going to give up a goddamn thing. Children or not, they would happily take irony into old age and off to the graves with them.
* * *
When he got home, Ana was waiting for him. Joe could pretty much tell as soon as he walked through the door that she wasn't mad anymore. She looked up from her book (Calvin Trillin's American Fried) and smiled, just slightly, her eyes softer now and a little sad.
"Hey, I'm sorry," she said as he approached. She took his hand and guided him toward the couch, next to her.
"That's okay."
She tilted her head, then let out a long breath. "I don't know what my deal is sometimes."
"I wish I knew. When you're like that, I just start to assume that the problem is me."
"You're not the problem." She paused. "At least not this time." She smiled at him. "I don't know. I think I'm just freaking out because of my birthday."
"That's weird, I was just saying that."
Ana let go of his hand. "You were talking about this with someone?"
Oh shit. "Uh, I sort of mentioned it to Chick. I saw him over at the bar."
Ana's head fell forward and she stared at her lap.
"Damn it, Joe. Can't we have a private discussion without you broadcasting it all over town? You have to go around telling everyone that I'm going to be forty?"
He tried not to sound too defensive, but it wasn't working. "Since when do you care? It's never bothered you before. Anyway, I didn't broadcast it. I was upset and I was talking to my friend."
Ana got up from the couch. "Fine. Forget it. I'm going to bed."
Joe leaned back in the couch until he was lying down. He put a pillow over his head and stayed that way for a couple of minutes. Finally, he groped around on the coffee table until he found the remote.
4
Be Careful
Thursday morning, Ana pretended she was dozing until Joe got up to make coffee. After he moved into the study to work, she roused herself out of bed. It was still only eight fifteen. She could take a quick shower, throw on enough makeup to make herself presentable, a little product on the hair (the short do—a boon to womankind), and still get to work by nine fifteen or nine thirty. It would be fine. Loose starting times were one of the many insubstantial but pleasant perquisites of working at an advertising agency. You hardly ever left the place on time, so no one really cared when you came in.
Mostly, she just didn't feel like talking to Joe. She was still pissed at him for blabbing her age all over town and pissed at herself for caring and for being such a big baby about this whole birthday thing. Everyone was getting older. It was ridiculous and vain and silly to worry about such things. She was ashamed for being so girly about it.
After she showered and got dressed, she walked over to the door of the study. Ana could hear the vague clatter of computer keys as she approached and it made her feel less annoyed at him. There was something about Joe seated at his desk, writing, that she had always liked. He was bundled up in yet another old sweater. She thought again of that vintage cardigan he was wearing that night they met, long since worn through at the elbows and discarded.
The Narcissism of Small Differences Page 2