by Wizner, Jake
“I think our strengths really complement each other,” she says. “Your writing is just so…so…incendiary.”
Incendiary? Any relation to Alejandero?
“We could work at my house,” she says.
Hello. Now here is an interesting development. “That sounds good,” I say.
She takes off her glasses, polishes them on her shirt, and puts them back on. “So I’ll meet you at the lockers after school, okay?”
“Sounds good.”
I spend the rest of the day vacillating between giddiness and extreme anxiety. By the time I meet Celeste, I feel ready to throw up.
“I have my mom’s car,” Celeste says as we walk outside. “My parents are away until tomorrow.”
My stomach lurches, and I have to exert a tremendous amount of effort not to fart.
“How much of your memoir did you bring?” she asks.
“Just one chapter, the one about my dog. Everything else makes me look like a sexual deviant.”
She laughs. “The dog your dad got drunk?”
“That’s the one,” I say.
It’s a short drive, and soon we are sitting on the couch in Celeste’s living room reading each other’s memoirs.
“Your parents are hysterical,” she says, flipping a page.
“Keep reading. It gets worse.”
She looks up and smiles that disarming smile. “This reminds me of James Thurber. Have you read My Life and Hard Times?”
I shake my head. Who is this girl? She’s like some kind of literary savant or something. I force myself to concentrate on the pages in front of me.
The ambiguity of that night imprinted a series of fragmented images, which, when viewed through a lens already distorted by time and distance, leaves me hobbled in my attempts to construct a truthful account and to deconstruct my younger self.
“Who are you?” I mutter.
Celeste looks up, radiant. “That’s it exactly,” she gushes. She scoots closer to me so she can look at her paper. I feel her thigh press against mine. “Where are you?” she asks.
I put my finger on the word ambiguity.
She leans in closer, and I can feel her breath on my arm. “Is it clear what I’m trying to do?”
The words on the page blur together, and I have to remind myself to breathe. “I think so,” I say. I don’t look up. I don’t move. And neither does she.
“What could I do to make it clearer?” she says at last.
Smaller words. Shorter sentences. Sit on my lap.
I turn my face and we begin to kiss.
Alejandero.
THE TIME MY MOTHER USED EMOTIONAL BLACKMAIL TO DEPRIVE ME OF THE ONLY THING I EVER REALLY WANTED
I had been begging for a dog for years, and finally, when I turned eleven, my parents relented.
The dog we picked out was brilliant. She was a newborn golden retriever, almost small enough to fit in the palms of my hands. She would slip and slide across the floor, urinate everywhere, and cry whenever she was left alone. I suggested we name her Killer.
“Here’s the thing,” my dad said. “Your mom and I never got the chance to name a girl, so we were thinking we would name the dog.”
My mom nodded vigorously. “We’ve actually had a name in mind ever since Gandhi turned out to be a boy.”
“No way. You’re not giving this poor little puppy some freak name.”
“You can’t name her Killer,” my mom said.
“She’s my dog.”
My dad pulled out his wallet. “How much will it cost to turn over the naming rights to us?”
“What? You’re gonna pay me to let you name the dog?”
“How about twenty dollars? That seems fair.”
“Are you serious?”
“Okay, we’ll make it thirty.”
“Thirty? You’re gonna give me thirty dollars?”
“That’s right.”
I wondered if I could hold out for more, but decided not to press my luck. “Let me hear the name first,” I said. “Then I’ll decide.”
My father hesitated and looked at my mother. She took a deep breath, then nodded.
“Onomatopoeia,” my father said.
“Forget it. You’re both insane.”
My parents wore me down in the end by paying me the money and agreeing to move a painting of a naked woman from the living room into my bedroom.
The worst thing about owning a dog is cleaning up her droppings. My parents had insisted that if I wanted to keep Onomatopoeia (whom I called Pee for short), I had to take care of her. This meant feeding her, walking her, and cleaning up after her.
“I don’t want to see any dog shit in our backyard,” my dad said.
“And no letting her shit in the neighbors’ yards, either,” my mom added.
I saw how other people cleaned up after their dogs. They would take a paper or plastic bag along, scoop up the droppings, and carry their bag of feces to the nearest garbage can. Clearly, this was out of the question.
I approached Gandhi in his room that night. “Mom told me to tell you that you have to clean up after the dog from now on.”
He did not even look up from the comic book he was reading. “I’m not cleaning up your dog’s shit,” he said.
I gritted my teeth. “All right, I’ll pay you.”
He smiled, but still kept his eyes lowered. “How much?”
I hesitated. “A dollar a week.”
He shook his head and laughed. “I’ll do it for a dollar a turd.”
“Are you crazy? That dog is a shitting machine.”
Now he looked up for the first time. “Then make a counteroffer.”
My brother had not yet turned ten, but already he was a cutthroat businessman who had amassed a small fortune through negotiations just like this one. His success hinged on his willingness to perform those tasks that others deemed too unpleasant to perform themselves. And there was absolutely nothing my brother would refuse, provided the price was right.
“Five dollars a week,” I said.
My brother sighed. “Shakespeare, have you ever noticed that sometimes Pee’s turds area little bit wet and slimy?”
I felt my anger rising. “Fine, ten dollars, but I get to punch you every time I pay.”
My brother pointed to a chart he had made several months earlier after I had beaten him up and begged him not to tell our parents. “Three dollars per punch in the arm, ten dollars in the stomach, twenty dollars in the face.”
I socked him as hard as I could in the arm and forked over thirteen dollars for the week.
Pee was my best friend, and with Gandhi responsible for cleaning up her shit, ours was a love with few complications. We played together, ate together, even slept together. One of my great pleasures was to climb into bed with wet feet and then lie back as Pee licked furiously at the water. I would squirm and giggle and let out an occasional shout.
“Stop molesting the dog,” my father would call from the living room.
“It’s called a foot massage!” I would shout back. “And the dog loves it.”
One night my dad got drunk and spilled his beer. “C’mere, dog,” he slurred.
Pee began to lick the floor. My dad stood propped against a wall and cheered her on.
“Jesus, Dad, she’s just a puppy,” I said.
Pee began to stagger around the house, bumping into walls. Then she threw up on the living room floor.
“Clean up your dog’s mess, Shakespeare,” my dad said.
“You’re the one who got her drunk.”
“I’ll do it,” my brother said. “Five dollars.”
There was nothing Pee wouldn’t eat, but her absolute favorite food was my mother’s brisket. She would sit motionless at my mother’s feet as my mother cooked, staring up at her, and if my mother even glanced in her direction, she would begin to wag her tail furiously.
“No brisket,” my mother would say. “Your dinner is in your bowl.”
Pee’s tail would thu
mp and she would wriggle in excitement.
“Look,” my mother would say, holding out her hands. “No brisket.”
Pee would jump up and lick her empty hands.
“What do you want from me?” my mother would shout. “You’re a dog! You’re supposed to eat dog food!”
Pee would be in an absolute frenzy, running around in circles and barking up at my mom.
“Oh, okay,” my mom would say. “You can have brisket tonight, but this is the last time.”
My mom was almost always the last one out of the house in the morning. When she would leave, Pee would press her face against the kitchen window so that if my mom turned around, even for an instant, she would see Pee staring at her.
Please don’t leave me all alone, Pee’s expression would say. Or at least that’s how my mom interpreted it. And so my mom, racked with guilt, would abandon her plans and return inside.
“We have to give Onomatopoeia away,” my mom announced at dinner one night.
I stopped eating mid-bite, a forkful of Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks dangling in the air. “What? What are you talking about?”
“The Singletons have a huge farm and four dogs. Onomatopoeia will love it there.”
“You’ve already talked to them? Dad, do you know about this?”
My father looked a little embarrassed. “Your mother feels guilty leaving Onomatopoeia cooped up alone in the house all day. She’s right, Shakespeare. Onomatopoeia will be happier with all that space to run around and all those dogs to play with.”
“And you can visit her whenever you want,” my mom added.
I shook my head vigorously. “No way. I’ve never asked for anything in my life except a dog. You can’t just give her away.”
“I can’t go on feeling like a prisoner in my own house,” my mom said.
“What do you go to therapy for?” I screamed.
“Maybe now isn’t the best time to talk about this,” my dad said.
Over the next few weeks, both my parents tried to broach the subject, but I was adamant. Pee was my dog, and I would not give her up.
In June, my mother went to Boston for the weekend to see friends. On Sunday night, she called and said she was going to stay a little longer. My father called me into his room.
“Your mother has decided not to come home until you agree to give Onomatopoeia to the Singletons.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
My father shook his head. “This is really a big deal to her, Shakespeare.”
I guess I was too shocked to be very angry. Was my mother serious about not coming home? Had she been planning this all along or had she just decided to do it when she got to Boston? I had been to the Singletons’ a few times. We had even brought Pee once, and she had galloped around the farm and played happily with the other dogs. Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible for her to live there. But there had to be something init for me.
“What do you think?” my dad asked.
“I think Mom is crazy.”
My father smiled. “Maybe, but the house feels kind of empty without her, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Let me think about it for a few days.”
My father looked around and realized there was no alcohol in sight. “I like the dog, too,” he said, “but a man gets lonely without his wife at night.”
“Don’t start that,” I said. “That’s playing dirty.”
He smiled. “Your mother does this little thing—”
“AAAAH, I’M NOT LISTENING!” I screamed.
“Are we giving the dog away?” he asked.
“YOU’RE A HORRIBLE MAN!”
“Are we giving the dog away?”
“This is child abuse.”
“Shakespeare, I’m about ten seconds away from telling you things that will haunt you for the rest of your life.”
I’ve blocked what happened after that, but I remember that at some point my mother reappeared in the house, my dog vanished, and I had a second naked-woman picture hanging on my bedroom wall.
DECEMBER
So I’m currently working on the thirteenth draft of my real college essay. That’s not an exaggeration. I told you my parents are crazy.
I’m also working on the twenty-sixth draft of a poem for Celeste. That is an exaggeration, but not by much. I’m crazy, too.
I never imagined going out with a girl would be so much trouble. Three weeks after our first kiss, I bring Celeste to the table where Neil, Katie, and I eat lunch every day. What a disaster! Celeste goes on and on, explaining the need for more diverse representation in the literary canon. Five minutes into it, I glance at Katie, who looks about ready to punch her in the face if she doesn’t shut up.
Neil and Katie corner me later in the day by my locker.
“What’s up with Celeste?” Neil asks. “Does she always talk like that?”
I shrug. “I guess. To be honest, half the time I have no idea what she’s talking about.”
“She better give unbelievable blow jobs for you to put up with that shit,” Katie says.
“I wouldn’t know,” I say, feeling sheepish. “All we’ve done so far is kiss.”
Katie stares at me in disbelief.
“We’re just taking it slow,” I say. I don’t want to admit that every time I’ve tried to do more, Celeste has pulled away. I’m nervous that if I keep pushing, she’ll dump me and file a restraining order.
“You’ve got to be the most pathetic person I know,” Katie says.
“Whatever,” Neil says. “At least you’re getting something.” He looks at Katie. “That’s more than either of us can say.”
Katie sneers. “You want to see what you’re missing?” She takes Neil’s head between her hands and kisses him long and hard on the mouth. Then she pushes him away.
“Wow,” I say.
Neil is too stunned to move or speak.
“No big deal,” she says, though her tone is softer and she seems to be trying to suppress a smile.
What I’m hoping is that if I write something for Celeste that she loves, she might be more open to my advances. So I started reading up on famous writers and jotting down funny observations about each one. Then I got bored and just started making things up. Twenty-six drafts later, here’s what I have:
This poem, I do hope, is not an intrusion
I mean it to please, not disillusion.
I know of your deep love for literature
So forgive me for being a bit immature.
We can start way, way back with the epic bard Homer
Who wrote about Helen while nursing a boner.
And even though Homer was totally blind
He was blessed with something beyond a sharp mind.
Shakespeare (the first) while writing King Lear
Got totally hammered guzzling beer.
And in between poems, word has it that Keats
Liked to cavort betwixt oft-soiled sheets.
Milton himself was a mischievous louse
Whose favorite hobby was to egg Shakespeare’s house.
And with whom did Milton engage in this fun?
Sometimes Ben Jonson, sometimes John Donne.
Dante’s Inferno housed souls hot and sweaty,
But his own hell was worse after too much spaghetti.
Every great writer needs inspiration—
Dante’s came from acute constipation.
Not many folks know that George Bernard Shaw
Could often be found wearing a bra.
And rumor has it that E. Allan Poe
Took a trip out to Walden to visit Thoreau.
Emerson looked on norms with defiance
While alone in his room he pursued self-reliance.
And many years later, there followed Ayn Rand
Who did more than write with that self-absorbed hand.
I don’t know much philosophy, but I know that Descartes
Was renowned in his day for the way he could fart.
> But even Descartes was not nearly as smelly
As that malodorous scoundrel Percy Bys she Shelley.
I heard a recording of the brilliant James Joyce—
Did you know that the man had a real girly voice?
But Melville was manly, his neck was real thick,
He had hair on his back, and of course Moby-Dick.
In her great depression, Sylvia Plath
Neglected to take either shower or bath.
And while Spenser revised his great Faerie Queene
He failed to maintain good oral hygiene.
Dorothy Parker caused quite a stir
When her agent came over looking for her.
“Go away,” she called out, “I’m fucking busy
And vice versa,” she moaned in a delirious tizzy.
I thought I might take some time to peruse
A few books that were written by my fellow Jews.
I knew after reading Portnoy’s Complaint,
Roth may be a Jew, but kosher he ain’t.
And what about Isaac Bashevis Singer?
He didn’t eat pork, but he sure was as winger.
As a young man of twenty he shunned other Jews
And partied all night with his man Langston Hughes.
Winter nights in New Hampshire you could find Robert Frost
At the local saloon, where he liked to get sauced.
And in his spare time, old Joseph Heller
Liked making up jokes about Helen Keller.
Not many folks know that the great Norman Mailer
Grew up in Kentucky in the back of a trailer.
And while in Connecticut touring Mark Twain’s,
I looked in his closet, saw handcuffs and chains.
I’m still trying to figure out how to end this thing. Maybe the reason it’s so hard is that once I finish I know I will actually have to give it to Celeste, and I have no idea how she will react. Neil says if she doesn’t like it, she’s not worth dating in the first place. Katie says even if she does like it, she’s not worth dating.
It’s funny. The person I’ve been thinking who would really appreciate this poem is Charlotte White. We’ve become friendlier over the past month, though with Charlotte it’s hard to get too close. She comes to school late a lot, sometimes arriving during our morning math class, and always keeps herself at a bit of a distance from everything going on around her. Ms. Rigby has held her after class a few times, and she’s seemed upset when she’s come out, but when I’ve asked her about it, she’s said it’s nothing, just some work she owes.