Joe felt stupid after he said it, but Brendan didn't laugh. "It's beautiful," Brendan said.
It surprised Joe that Brendan should see it too. Then he realized: Of course he saw it. It was why he had been rushing here in the first place.
"Yes it is," Joe said.
"I knew you would understand. Not everybody does."
"You know, what I don't understand is how this place could be beautiful? It's horrible, really. This incredible old building left to fall apart."
"I don't know why. It's totally fucked up that this would ever happen to a building. This should never happen anywhere. But I see something like this and I want to try to find the beauty in it, make some sense of it, give it a reason, to fill it with something. Meaning."
Joe raised his camera to his eye and scanned the great room. He took a lot of photographs. He wanted to remember this.
"It looks different through the lens, doesn't it?" Brendan said.
"I don't know why. It just makes more sense this way. It's easier to take in."
"Uh-huh. Sometimes what I'm looking at is too intense for me to understand without a filter, a way to view it. The camera helps." Brendan leveled his camera at the stage and squeezed off a shot.
"Why is this so magnificent? What's wrong with us?"
"I told you," said Brendan. "The verity of decay." He reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt and extracted a loose joint and a purple plastic lighter. He lit the bent end of the cigarette, took a long hit, then passed it to Joe.
"I still don't get you," said Joe, taking a small hit. He had to have his wits about him if he was going to walk out of here without sustaining injuries. He passed it back to Brendan.
Another massive toke, smoke held in for many seconds, then exhaled through tightened lips. Brendan closed his eyes, then opened them. "This building is the truth about us all, forced right in our face. Look at the fuckin' world out there. Everyone loves to surround themselves with the newest and the shiniest and the brightest. The newer, the better. The farther out in the suburbs, the better. It makes us feel safe, yo, like we're going to live forever." He paused, then took another hit and held it in. His head tipped back after exhaling. "This building is what's going to happen to all of us. That's why it's so fucking hard to look at, but why we can't look away. It's why some people hate this city and it's why other people are still drawn to it and keep believing in it. The fear and the fascination. Monk called it ugly beauty. The same reason we look at car accidents and horror films. We want to be reminded. Something in us still seeks the truth, even though it's easier to hide behind the lies and the shiny surfaces." Brendan stopped; the joint had gone cold between his fingers. "Things die. This building is dying. Yet we need to look upon it. Bellow said that death is the dark backing a mirror needs if we are to see anything. The death helps you see the life. But you have to be willing to see it all."
"You think not everyone sees it all?"
"No, I don't."
"Yet somehow I don't feel so special right now," Joe said, starting to reel from the view and the toke and an encroaching paranoia.
"It's not about feeling special. It's about the knowing."
Brendan relit the joint, took a hit, and passed it to Joe, who didn't know what to say anymore. Fuck it, he thought. He just nodded and took a long drag. He started to cough, then couldn't stop coughing. Finally, he gathered enough saliva in his mouth to soothe the burn. He swallowed and caught his breath.
"Come on, bird lungs," said Brendan, laughing. "Let's bounce. I'm getting too high to be walking around in this crazy shit."
Joe was already there.
28
Attempted Dinner, Part 2
That afternoon, Ana decided to cook. Even though there were still the remains of almost an entire dinner in the refrigerator. It was the one she had made over a week ago, the night that she had told Joe about quitting her job and everything else. Neither of them had touched the meal that night, so she had wrapped it up in foil and plastic containers (except for the wine-soaked salad, which she pitched), all while sobbing over what had occurred. Even then, she realized that most people would have just left the food on the table, but she couldn't do that. So she had cried and wrapped the food, cried and put it away in the refrigerator, cried and cleaned up the table. Emotional anguish apparently made her more efficient. This was something her bosses at various advertising agencies had probably figured out a long time ago.
Since that night, neither she nor Joe had eaten any of the leftovers. They had been in the fridge all that time, perfectly edible but tainted by the circumstances of the dinner. So today, she opened the container of ratatouille and dumped it into the garbage bin under the sink. She did the same with the foil packages of pork loin and polenta.
Ana started again. It wasn't going to be much of a dinner, but it would be something. It would make her feel better. There was a jar of homemade pesto in the fridge that she had made a month ago on a rare Sunday off, but it was still perfectly fine. In the pantry, there was a box of linguini. In the depths of the crisper were some carrots that she could peel and sauté. A frozen garlic bread in the back of the freezer. It would do.
After a while, she did feel better. Just the activity of preparing food had that effect on her. She had already sautéed the carrots in butter and a little orange juice. They just had to be reheated. The water was simmering. All that was needed was to put in the pasta. The oven was on at a low temperature to defrost and slowly bake the garlic bread and the kitchen was warm and fragrant. She was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a glass of wine, flipping through Atomic Ranch, hoping Joe would show up, when she heard his key in the back door. It was about four thirty and she realized that she had no idea where he had been all day. The thought saddened her.
"Hey," she said as he walked into the kitchen.
Joe made a noise that may have been a greeting or just a grunt, then looked at the set table, the pot of water bubbling on the stove, ready for the pasta. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Ghettoblaster ale, went into the silverware drawer for the bottle opener. She noticed that the sleeves of his Carhartt and one of the legs of his jeans were really dirty.
"You hungry?" she said. "I made dinner. I just have to drop the pasta. It'll only take a few minutes." She just wanted him to sit down with her. She didn't know what her plan was after that, but it would be a start.
Joe opened his beer and looked at her. "No, I'm good. Thanks."
He started to leave the kitchen. Ana grabbed his arm. "Joe, please. Stay and eat with me, okay? Please?" She could see that he was considering it, rejecting it, considering it again.
"No, I'm going up to the study." He pulled away from her.
"Joe. When are you going to start talking to me again?"
"I'm talking to you right now."
"I mean talking. Like we're us again."
He set his bottle of beer on the table. "Are we us now? When have we been us lately? Seems like we haven't been us for a long time."
"I know. And I want to fix that."
He placed his hand on the beer bottle, his thumbnail digging into the label, tearing it. "I doubt if you can."
"Let me try. Come and have dinner with me, please?"
He lowered his head. "Why do you think dinner is going to help so much?"
Ana let out a small breath. "I don't. I just—"
"Then stop trying to lure me to the table with food. What do you think I am? Some dumb man that you can win over with a hot meal?"
"No, of course not." Ana leaned back against the kitchen counter and crossed her arms tightly against her stomach.
He stared at her. "Look, I think I found a place to live. I'll find out tomorrow. I'll try to be out by the end of the month."
It was news that she had so hoped not to hear.
"Don't cry," said Joe sternly.
"I'm not crying."
"Yes you are. Stop it. I don't care if you're crying."
He didn't
need to say it, but she could hear it in his voice: This isn't going to work. It wasn't why she was crying. Ana hated it when she cried. She had never tried nor wanted to control men with her tears. (Yet she now realized that Joe was right: she had been trying to tempt him with food into loving her again, so oblivious was she to her own intentions.) It was just this whole time catching up to her. She had felt so bad this week, then she felt strong, and then she went right back to feeling bad. Stupid and bad and wrong.
"Damn it, Ana. Stop."
"I can't stop," she said. "If I could stop, I would. Just get out of here if you're so anxious to go."
"Fine."
Ana followed the sound of his footsteps up the stairs and into the study, where he shut the door, not so much with a slam as a firm, airtight whomp. Ana turned off the boiling water, then sat down on the kitchen floor, pulled her knees up to her chest, leaned back against the cupboard doors, and wept until she fell asleep.
* * *
Ana's throat was sore and dry and she reached around for the bottle of water she kept next to her nightstand, but couldn't find it. She coughed hard when she tried to breathe. Her stupid alarm would not shut off and it was so annoying. Finally, she opened her eyes and coughed again. Her face was stuck to the floor. This was obviously not the bedroom. It seemed as though she were awake, but somehow lost in the middle of some bizarre dream sequence or a flashback from a movie where everything was soft-focus and hazy. Then looking around, her eyes finally focused in on what seemed to be the source of the haze. Two feet from her, smoke was streaming out from the sides of something and rising in coils to the ceiling. It reminded her of the stage at a Slayer concert that some jerk took her to in the eighties. Fucking hair metal. How could she have liked it as much as she did? Ana now decided that this was perhaps not a dream, yet if it was, it had just shifted to her kitchen. Then there was Joe standing over her, his eyes red and streaming tears. He was holding a vintage striped dish towel over his mouth.
"Ana, Ana!" He was shaking her, rather roughly. She didn't like him doing that.
Ana coughed, then coughed again. Then she couldn't stop coughing. "What?" she finally said, still drowsy and very uncomfortable. Her leg was asleep. Her eyes hurt. Her throat was so sore.
"Are you okay?"
She was coughing as if she wanted to bring something up, but nothing was coming. Joe stood up and opened the kitchen window over the sink. Cool air entered the room, dissipating some of the smoke, which was still billowing out of the oven. She heard a faucet run for a moment, then stop. The alarm was still blaring, though now she could breathe a little easier. "What is that noise?" she said, after she stopped hacking.
"It's the smoke detector, Ana. It went off upstairs right next to the study. How could you not hear that?"
"I heard it."
"Did the downstairs one go off?"
"I don't think so." Her voice cracked as she spoke. She tried to clear her throat.
"Are you all right?"
Joe had his hands on her shoulders (it felt good now) and was helping her to sit up against the bottom cupboard. He handed her a glass of water and fanned away some of the smoke.
"I think you left something in the oven."
She coughed again and tried to stand up.
Joe held her down and handed her the dishcloth. "Just stay, okay? I'll get it."
Ana had another sip of water, covered her mouth with the dishcloth, and tried to breathe. Her lungs hurt. Her eyes stung. After a few moments and another rush of smoke into the kitchen, Joe kneeled next to her, coughing, holding a small flat ingot of black matter between two oven mitts as if he were displaying the carbonized result of some lab experiment gone terribly wrong. There was still smoke rising from it. It smelled awful.
"Garlic bread," croaked Ana.
Joe tried to twist his face into some semblance of anger, then just started to laugh. "You idiot."
Ana began laughing too, which made her start coughing again. It hurt, but she didn't care.
"It's not funny," said Joe, half scolding the both of them as he set the smoldering plank up on the windowsill. "I thought you were dead." The alarm finally stopped.
Ana took a sip of water, then looked at him. "From garlic bread smoke inhalation?"
"I'm sure it's happened," he said. "Somewhere. Italy."
"Do they even make garlic bread in Italy?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. But it would definitely be the stupidest way to die ever." He fully gave in now to his laughter. "Jesus, Ana."
It was the first time they had laughed at anything together in what felt like a year. Ana set the glass of water down and awkwardly leaned forward to put her arms around him. "I'm so sorry, Joseph."
Joe rested her head against his neck and shoulder. "Shhh," he said.
5
29
A New Sincerity
Malcolm had called to see if he wanted to have a beer. Joe wasn't sure if he wanted to, wasn't sure if he should. They had just gotten home from a weekend trip up north to Traverse City. Ana was unpacking her suitcase in the bedroom and getting together a few loads of dirty clothes for the wash.
"Hey you," said Joe. "Feel like getting a drink with Mal and Chick instead of doing laundry? I could do that tomorrow."
"Yes, you could. You'll screw it up, but you could do it."
"All right then, fine. You can do it tomorrow."
Ana thought for a moment. "Eh, you just go. Go see your friends, it's okay."
Joe touched her arm, tilted his head toward the door. "Come along."
She kept sorting clothes in separate piles on the floor. "I don't want to keep you guys from having your man conversation or anything like that."
"What the hell do you think we talk about?"
"I don't know," she said, tossing a black T-shirt in a pile of darks. "I guess sports." Joe could see that she was trying to keep from smiling as she said it.
He played along. "No, not a lot of sports talk, I'm afraid."
"Well, if it's not that, then it's got to be pussy." Ana didn't even look up when she said it.
She could still surprise him. Smiling, he said, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but we are sensitive gentlemen of refinement. The female pudendum only occasionally enters the conversation. And even then, it's commented upon with much respect and dignity."
Ana gave him a deadpan look, and then shook her head. "I forgot that you guys are barely men."
Joe laughed.
She peered at him from over her glasses. "Yes, well, it's funny because it's true."
He had missed this. Ana could always make him laugh. For a while, he had forgotten how funny she was. It seemed like she had forgotten it too.
Ana dropped a pair of white socks into a pile of lights. Then she walked over and kissed him.
* * *
At the bar, Chick regarded the two of them as if they were out of their minds. "So you both quit your jobs? Now you're both middle-aged slackers?"
Joe nodded, then Ana.
"Sweet baby Jesus. I cannot believe this. So have you decided which mother's basement you're going to move into? Or are you going to alternate? Joe's one week and Ana's the next? I can see the two of you down there now, half-blind and pale from lack of light. Sweaty albinos subsisting on Funyuns and Mountain Dew, too fat to get up off the couch, playing Halo online with the rest of the stay-at-home senior nerds. For fuck's sake, Keen. I thought you had at least grown up a little."
Joe cast his eyes downward in pretend shame. "I thought so too, Chick. But I guess not."
"He's really wound up tonight," said Malcolm to Ana.
Chick was fun to watch when he got like this. It was all part of the act, but Joe was wondering if there was a scintilla of sincere indignation in there somewhere. It was hard to tell. He was just so good at ranting.
Then Chick started in on Ana: "And you! Lovely Ana. I thought you would have known better. Him, I expect it from." He jerked a thumb back at Joe. "But you? Oh, Ana."
; "I'm sorry to have disappointed you, Chick."
"You have. Profoundly. Please know that." Then he started back in on Joe: "What did you do to her, Keen? How did you ensnare her? How did you weave your evil spell over her? You dragged beautiful, employed, mature Ana down into your abyss of joblessness, irresponsibility, and, and—"
"Morning bong hits?" said Joe, finishing his sentence.
"Yes!"
"Are you done?"
"Almost. My only regret is that I won't be here to witness the inevitable descent into complete and utter sloth. I won't be able to find you two huddled in a gutter somewhere and say, I told you so."
"Wait. What?" said Joe. "Why won't you be able to find us in the gutter? And FYI, it will probably be under the 8 Mile overpass."
Chick gestured at Malcolm. "Didn't this bum tell you?"
"I thought you'd want to tell him yourself," said Malcolm.
"I'm leaving for the coast next week. I got a gig. I sold a script and they want me there to rewrite. And then they'll probably fire me and hire some other asshole. I'll be an official Hollywood hack instead of a Motor City hack."
Ana walked up to Chick and gave him a hug. "Congratulations, Chick. I think it'll be good for you."
"Well, it's only for a couple of months."
"That's what everyone says," said Joe, shaking Chick's hand.
"Let me have my fantasy for a while, Keen."
"Next time we see you, you'll be all tan and talking about colonics."
"And up to my eyeballs in poon!" Chick sheepishly turned to Ana. "Sorry, Ana."
"I wouldn't expect anything less of you, Chick."
"That's probably not really going to happen anyway."
"Probably not."
Chick went over to the bar to retrieve his almost full pint when Todd walked into the bar. He had a stunned look about him.
"What's up, Todd?" said Joe.
"They tore down the Chin Tiki. They're finishing up right now. I was just down there. It's gone."
"Are you kidding?" said Chick, his voice getting louder. "It's Sunday night. They don't tear things down on Sunday night."
The Narcissism of Small Differences Page 25