The Narcissism of Small Differences

by Michael Zadoorian

  "No, you're right."

  "Well, it doesn't matter anymore. I'm glad you're here now." His eyes widened in excitement. "So. What did Bruce have to say after you quit?" he asked, not bothering to hide his glee.

  Ana raised her head and took a long, aching breath. "There's something else, Joe."

  * * *

  He didn't know where to go, what else to do, after she told him the real reason why "we have to talk." Ana told him everything that had happened with Bruce: the kissing, the touching, the fondling, the unzipping, the unbuckling, the pawing away of clothes, and finally, finally, finally, her actually doing what she should have done in the first place: saying no. As much as he wanted to tell himself that Bruce was the aggressor in all this, that Ana was some kind of a victim, he knew it was not true. Ana was as responsible as Bruce was for what happened. She said as much.

  He could not stop running it through his head over and over, as if forever stuck on digital repeat. The two of them outside of some fancy hotel room in Grand Rapids, dry-humping like a couple of horny high school kids.

  "We did not have sex, Joe," she had said, like the Bill Clinton defense was somehow going to comfort him. "I swear it."

  He could not even look at her at that point. "Oh, that's wonderful, Ana. So it was just the hand job?"

  "No, it wasn't anything like that."

  "No, just you two necking, and grinding, and groping each other and all up in each other's junk."

  Ana's face was a mess at that point; all the color had drained out. The nice meal she had prepared sat there ignored and getting cold, the smell of the pork tenderloin starting to sicken Joe before long.

  "It just got out of control," she kept saying. "I had drunk too much."

  "Out of control? It got out of control? Are you fucking kidding me? What? You only meant to peck him on the cheek instead of grab his cock? What does 'out of control' mean?"

  "I didn't mean that. I just meant—"

  Joe hit the table. He hit it hard with the flat of his hand. His glass tipped over, spilling the wine all over the salad. He was glad. He had wanted to make noise, break something. It was the first time in all their years together that he finally understood how a man could strike a woman. He had been taught all his life that this was never supposed to happen, but tonight he understood how it could. He hit the table again.

  "Why did you stop, Ana? Seriously, at that point, you might as well have just fucked him. I mean, what's the difference? That's what's so insane about all this. Seriously, why did you stop?"

  She stared at him, her eyes red and glistening, as if she were deciding whether or not to tell him. Finally, she said it: "He told me what to do. He told me what I wanted and I didn't like that he did that. It shocked me into realizing what I was doing and that I didn't want to be doing it."

  At that moment, everything felt so painfully and irredeemably true to Joe. He knew that this was indeed exactly what had happened. This was so like Ana, who never liked to be told what to do or what to think. "Even though you wanted to do it," he said.

  "I can't lie, Joe. I came very close to wanting to do it."

  All that violent energy suddenly whooshed out of him. He shook his head, now exhausted. "I don't even know what that means."

  He felt collapsed inside. He just got up and walked out of the kitchen. Ana sobbing and running after him, telling him how sorry she was, that she hadn't meant it to happen, that it just happened. Why didn't this feel real? Why did it feel like he was stuck in some mumblecore indie flick?

  Him just stopping at the doorway and saying: "Sounds to me like you wanted it to happen."

  Her crying. Him crying. Him leaving. Not sure where he was going to go, only knowing that he could not be in their place with her for the time being. Now him drinking by himself at the Midlands, feeling so numb even after only a single sip of the pint of Two Hearted in front of him with the untouched bump of Knob Creek next to it. It had just felt like the thing to do. He assumed that's what men in Detroit had been doing for the past century after hearing bad news, only they didn't have microbrews or fancy bourbon. The only thing he knew was that he wasn't going to get drunk. If he got drunk, he would only feel much worse.

  He just didn't know what had happened. When he and Ana first got together, they were well matched. But little by little, Ana had grown out of his league. He had noticed that of late, but had conveniently ignored it. While she had gotten more successful, gradually climbing the ranks in the agency world, winning awards and promotions, he seemed to flounder more, growing increasingly aimless in his writing and work habits, searching for some nebulous and ever-more-elusive creative project, finally ending up at the Dollar Daily, which now felt like a sadly appropriate place for his dubious talents. As he started to lose his hair and thicken around the waist, she had actually gotten more attractive. Her success and the confidence it had given her had made her more beautiful. The money she pulled in hadn't hurt either, especially when it came to clothing and personal grooming. Even though he was forty now, he still pretty much dressed like a twenty-three-year-old in Chuck Taylors and jeans and thrift store shirts and T-shirts with the names of stupid bands on them, bands that most people hadn't heard of, which allegedly made them cool.

  Joe thought about the stares he and Ana got when walking into a nice restaurant. Men looking at Ana (because they did still look at her and she was well worth looking at), then their eyes shifting over to Joe. He now understood what they were thinking when they saw the two of them. They were thinking: What is she doing with him?

  Is it any wonder that Ana was attracted to a successful, good-looking, charismatic asshole like Bruce Kellner? What was probably most surprising about this whole thing was that it hadn't happened sooner.

  His cell phone rang. It was Malcolm. He muted it. Joe did not want to talk to anyone at the moment.

  He heard a voice behind him: "Well, I guess I know how I rate."

  Joe turned to face a smiling Malcolm, holding a beer in one hand and his iPhone in the other.

  "Oh shit. I'm sorry, man," said Joe. "I just kind of wanted to be alone."

  Malcolm stopped smiling and put his hand on Joe's shoulder. "You okay?"

  He was not sure if he wanted to talk about any of this, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. "Something happened. With Ana."

  Malcolm sat down on the stool next to him. "I heard about her quitting. Quite the performance."

  "What? What do you mean?"

  Malcolm was obviously confused by his confusion. "She didn't tell you that she dumped a beer over Bruce Kellner's head in Chicago right in front of the client?"

  Joe sat back on his barstool. "Really? No."

  "Oh yeah. I guess Adrienne quit today too. I don't know what was up with her, but there goes the whole W2W division." Malcolm raised his hand and waved. "So long, ladies. Everyone at the agency is all abuzz. It would have been gone anyway. I heard we lost WomanLyfe too."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, some nonsense about not respecting their wishes about putting Jesus's teachings in the advertising. Really it's just because they want all the footage and content we shot for their commercials and website. They'll just put it all together themselves. This way, they don't have to pay an agency and they can do anything they want. I guess they're pretty notorious for that sort of thing."

  "Wow. Nice business."

  "Pretty standard stuff, actually. Good riddance. It was a crap account."

  Joe took a pained breath. "Mal?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Did you ever hear anything about anything going on between Ana and Bruce?"

  The long pause that Malcolm took before answering told Joe everything even before he spoke.

  "Look, you hear all kinds of stupid things floating around an agency. Mostly it isn't true. I had heard stuff about Adrienne and Bruce too. Anytime anyone gets promoted and someone feels slighted, people will gripe about it, especially if there are women involved. There are people who practically do nothing but g
o from cube to cube spreading rumors."

  Oh, what the hell, thought Joe. "The reason I'm asking, Mal, was because, uh, there was something going on there."

  Malcolm inhaled sharply. "Oh shit. I'm sorry."

  "It's okay. It's not exactly what you'd think, but almost what you'd think. If that makes any sense."

  "I'm not sure it does, but that's okay. We don't need to get into it."

  "Thank you." Joe took a sip of his beer.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I don't really know yet."

  "Well, whatever was going on with Bruce is obviously not going on now. And at least she told you. If she didn't care, I don't think she would have done that."

  Joe nodded. "I know."

  "Don't do anything that you'll—oh god, you know what I'm saying." Malcolm took a breath and started again. "Look, I know this isn't the guy thing to say at a time like this, I know I'm supposed to call her a fucking bitch or something, but we both know that's not true. Maybe she just . . . made a mistake."

  "I know."

  "You want to talk more?"

  Joe shook his head.

  "I'm really sorry about this." Malcolm gripped Joe's shoulder again, then let go. "I'm going to take off."

  Joe grabbed his arm to stop him from leaving. "Before you go, could you do me a favor?"

  "Sure, of course. What do you need?"

  "You know how you have your talent? How you can tell someone's secret truth?"

  "Yeah," said Malcolm warily. "That was mostly bullshit. I was probably drunk when I said that."

  Joe could tell that Malcolm didn't like where this was headed. "I need you to tell me mine."

  "What? No. Absolutely not."

  "Seriously, man. I think I need to hear it. I need to know my truth or my fear or whatever. I think it will help me. I really do."

  "No, I don't think about that stuff with my friends. I wouldn't know."

  "Yes you would. Just give it a moment and it will come to you."

  "Quit it, Joe. I'm not going to do that."

  He watched Malcolm, who now looked very uncomfortable. "You've already thought of it, haven't you?" There was another long silence and Joe knew he was right. "Please? I know you think this isn't the right time for it, but I really think it will help."

  Malcolm peered skeptically at him. "Are you sure? Are you going to hate me after this?"

  "I don't think so, but I can't guarantee it."

  Malcolm's gaze shifted to the back bar, where he idly examined the bottles. He took a long breath. "You're afraid that there's nothing real inside of you. No pain, no craziness, no brilliance. You think all great artists are fucked up and you know you're not. You're ashamed that you're a nice guy, that you're pretty normal. You think it means that you're not authentic. So you hide behind other people's accomplishments. You see greatness in other people's work, but instead of inspiring you, it paralyzes you. You're so afraid that you won't create something great that you don't create anything. So you've talked yourself into believing that knowing about things is as important as doing them. It's just easier for you."

  Joe nodded, as if to say, Keep going.

  "You drop names and make references. You talk about songs, but rarely does a song speak to you. You laugh at cleverness because you recognize that it's supposed to be funny, not because it is funny. You know about things for the sake of knowing about them, because you think you're supposed to, because you're afraid of being left out, not because they interest you. You're a dilettante, a potterer. You simply stopped trying to be anything more."

  "I'm a coward," said Joe.

  "And then there's that," said Malcolm, exhaling.

  "Thank you," whispered Joe.

  26

  The Exterminating Angel

  The fact that their town house was only 850 square feet made it difficult for them to avoid each other. Yet that was exactly what she and Joe had been doing for the past week. He had been spending much more time at work lately. At least Ana assumed he was at work. He would leave in the morning and not come home until nine or ten at night.

  When Joe did come home, he just went up to their study and stayed there, either on the Internet, reading, or watching DVDs with his headphones. On the night of their talk, he had shut himself in the study where he blew up the air mattress that they used for overnight guests. Ana was in their bedroom with the door closed, feeling numb as she listened to the whistled huffs of Joe's breath as he inflated the mattress. It went on for at least twenty minutes. She wanted to get up to talk to him, but worried that it would start all over again. She wasn't sure what she feared more—ultimatums or silence.

  Since that night, he had slept in the study. That room was his area now, Ana supposed, and the bedroom, their old bedroom, was hers. The kitchen and the bathroom were the demilitarized zones, where both could tread, albeit warily, but they were hardly ever in the same room at once. Ana didn't know what Joe's future plans were and she was afraid to ask. Walking up to the bathroom one night, she did peek into the study and saw that he was looking at apartment listings online, which did not bode well.

  The strange thing was, Ana suddenly had all this spare time, most of which she was devoting to regret, depression, and slumber. She didn't much leave the house, spent a lot of time in bed, sleeping twelve to fourteen hours at a time, but there were still the other ten to twelve hours of the day to account for, so she tried to busy herself, filling them with trivial tasks. Like putting all her music, photos, and personal files from her work computer onto a separate hard drive. After that, she wasn't quite sure what to do with the computer, since no one had contacted her about it yet. Ana assumed that she'd eventually get a call from the agency's IT department, but still hadn't heard anything.

  At first, she planned to transfer all the files to the home computer, but then thought better of it. She did not want to upset the delicate balance by invading the small territory that Joe had taken for himself. Anyway, it was probably better if she had her own computer. So Ana actually left the house, braved the mall, and bought herself a new Mac laptop. She rationalized the purchase by telling herself that she would need it to put together a website for her portfolio if (and that was a big "if") she decided to try to get another advertising job, though that was not something she was even thinking about yet.

  The money for the computer wasn't a problem. Money wasn't a problem at all, and wouldn't be for quite some time. Ana had been saving since well before her promotion, and she hadn't really done much of anything besides work for the past five months. There had not even been time to buy anything. Basically, she could comfortably afford to not work for at least a year and probably more like two. Here was the shameful truth: she actually had a savings account. It was one of those quaint Midwestern things about herself that she didn't necessarily share with other ad folks because they would find it, well, so quaintly Midwestern. She wasn't sure if women in their twenties could even grasp the concept of having money and not spending it, but this woman recently arrived in her forties had always felt the need to save. It was her Fuck You Money. Ana had always loved that expression. Amazingly, she had never used the money until last week, when she said fuck you to Bruce Kellner.

  The computer turned out to be a good idea. Besides getting her out of the house, setting it up occupied her for a good three days, helping to keep her mind off everything. Except when she transferred her photographs and got caught up in the vacation shots—she and Joe in Austin, she and Joe in Guadalajara, she and Joe in Amsterdam, she and Joe up north, and so on. The subsequent meltdown put her in bed in a depressed, somnolent state for an entire afternoon.

  The next day, she was still recovering when she got a call from Sue Smithick, the agency's human resources director (a.k.a. "The Exterminating Angel," as Joe had dubbed her after Ana had told him about her blandly sweet face, and how she coolly and efficiently oversaw all hirings, firings, and layoffs at the agency like some death-camp commandant).

  Ana's initial reac
tions were those of a dutiful corporate citizen. Why would Sue be contacting me? Am I in trouble? Was it the computer? What did I do?

  Then Ana remembered that she was no longer a corporate citizen. What a relief.

  How could she be in trouble? She had quit. Fuck you, agency.

  "Ana, I hope you're well," Sue said, all cheery and cordial. "Getting some much-needed rest, I bet?"

  "I'm great, Sue. Fantastic." And just saying it made her feel fantastic, or at least closer to it.

  "Good. Glad to hear it. Look, I was wondering if you'd be willing to come in. At your convenience, of course, for a little exit interview."

  It sounded ominous at first, and Ana again wondered if she was in some trouble. Why would they want to conduct an exit interview with her? What would they have to gain? What were they trying to find out? Why was Sue being so nice? They shouldn't even want to talk to her. She had disgraced a CD in front of a client. Then the truth of it jabbed her in the ribs like some sharpie from a thirties screwball comedy: Wise up, sister! They're shiverin' in their boots!

  "Um, that would be fine, Sue. I'd love to. How about today?"

  "Wonderful. Is three p.m. okay?"

  "See you then."

  For the first time in the past week, Ana felt strong. She was actually able to motivate her moping, depressed, excessive Food Network watching, compulsively oversleeping self. So Ana closed up the computer, turned off the television, pulled herself off the couch, showered, applied makeup, then donned her black D&G meeting pantsuit that she had scored at the Neiman outlet last year, to go talk to The Exterminating Angel.

  In the car on the way there, all the stories about Bruce came back to her. Everything she had conveniently suppressed when she was infatuated with him, all the stories about the young art directors, the rumors of quietly settled sexual harassment suits, the vaguely inappropriate jokes at which she had blankly smiled, all the hands on the shoulders, not to mention the fact that he'd had relations of some sort with both her and her partner. All of it came back to her, and just thinking of how stupid she was made her face burn. Yet it also made her crave revenge.