The Weight of Air

by David Poses

  Jane comes home at three o’clock. She asks if I’ve been writing all day. I nod and she plants a kiss on my cheek and leaves. She comes back after dinner.

  “I miss you.”

  “I miss you.”

  “I start working with Frank on the photo show on Monday.”

  “Cool.”

  “Think we’ll see each other before then?”

  “I hope so, but the way I write is like barfing on a page. Can’t stop midstream.”

  Sometime after midnight, I get into bed and Jane rolls over and kisses me. I go along. She reaches into my boxers and feels around.

  “You’re not into this.”

  “I am. It’s just . . . I think I’m wiped out from writing all day.”

  Jane groans. A minute later, her body jerks as she slips off to sleep.

  Daniel calls from Mom’s house.

  “I can’t take it here,” he says. “Any chance you’ll come down before I go back to school?”

  “I’d love to, but my hours at work are crazy and I have to write a screenplay.”

  By five o’clock, the bag I opened this morning is empty. I open another. The sun sets. Crickets and birds and cicadas perform a symphony of nighttime summer music. Fuck the apocalypse. I get a better idea for a screenplay.

  A former Nazi guard at Buchenwald is now a patient at a nursing home somewhere in America. He escaped Germany after World War II and maintained his secret for decades—until the nursing home director, a half-Jewish man, learned the truth and ordered his staff to torture the monster.

  At the end, when the Nazi is dead, we find out he was a Holocaust survivor with Alzheimer’s.

  I create an outline and a list characters—nurses, a maintenance guy, a kitchen worker—and their backstories, values, and beliefs, contrasted with the edict at work. I start writing the story as a novel as opposed to a screenplay.

  In the morning, Sol peers into a clear plastic bag of day-old bagels. Traces of condensation drip inside. He reaches in, separates a cinnamon raisin from an onion bagel, and takes a bite. “Eew!” he says, spitting it in the trash. “Grossy gross gross gross.” He wipes his tongue with a paper towel.

  “I guess that’s why they don’t make cinnamon raisin–onion bagels,” I say. “Or cauliflower-pineapple. Scallion–dog food. Nacho cheese–marshmallow.”

  Sol laughs. Jane doesn’t crack a smile, her face buried in a book about the Bosnian war with sticky notes stuck to most of the pages.

  “You know,” Sol says, “I thought you were a complete dick when we first met.”

  “Now you think I’m a partial dick?”

  “I just think it’s funny. You seemed all stressed and Jane was so bubbly. Now she’s a basket case—when she’s here, which is never—and you’re totally chill.”

  twenty-two

  I open the second to last bag, take a small hit, and drive into town. Arianne is in front of the bike store, leaning against a parking meter.

  “Nice day for a drive to Holyoke, don’t you think?”

  “What happened to ‘this is a one-time thing’?”

  “It is. I got a bundle and ended up with eight bags. Technically, I owe myself two.”

  Arianne rolls her eyes and sweeps her cup off the sidewalk. We get in the car, and OK Computer is playing in the tape deck. “Climbing Up the Walls.”

  “Y’ever listen to anything besides Radiohead?”

  “My girlfriend says the same thing. With the same look on her face.”

  “Christ. Does your girlfriend know you’re on dope again?”

  “No, and she’s not going to find out.”

  “Good luck with that.” She ejects the tape and twists the radio dial to “Intergalactic” by the Beastie Boys. Tapping rhythmically on the window, she says, “I’m pretty sure that all the dope in Holyoke comes from a dealer in the Bronx.”

  “Aha! That’s why I went through those bags so fast. It’s stepped on—twice.”

  “Duh. And these bags are probably lighter than you’re used to.”

  At the curb by the dealer’s house, I take all the money out of my wallet—$200. When I try to hand it over, Arianne says, “What the fuck, David?”

  “Equivalency matrix. I figure I owe myself eighteen bags.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It makes sense.”

  “Yep.” She snatches the cash. “I’m sure it does.”

  Days blur together. I don’t know how many bundles have gone up my nose, nor do I care. I know this can’t last forever, but right now, my pain is gone.

  May becomes June. The cash in my Smith Barney account dips below $1,000. Rick, my financial adviser, encourages me to sell shares of Silicon Graphics.

  I give myself a budget of a thousand dollars for dope while I finish writing the book. Then I’m done.

  Halfway to Holyoke, Arianne asks if I want to come in and meet the dealer.

  I shake my head. “This is my last bundle.”

  “You’ve been saying that for two weeks.”

  “The book is almost done.”

  “I don’t know how you can write on dope. I can barely keep my eyes open.”

  “I’ve written three hundred pages on dope.”

  “And you’re just gonna stop when you finish the book.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I’m sure you believe you.”

  “That’s why I don’t want to meet the dealer—so I can’t score when I quit.”

  “You sound like this girl I used to know. She went to rehab, then started going to AA and got super preachy and tough lovey. ‘You’re powerless. It’s a disease.’”

  “Sure, and the only way you can go into remission is by replacing science and medicine with God and a support group—an anonymous one. That doesn’t exactly scream, ‘You have nothing to be ashamed of.’”

  “You think it’s all bullshit?”

  “Experts without medical qualifications treating a medical condition? Tough love? Painkillers cause pain? If quack medicine and shame are bullshit, then, yes, it’s bullshit.”

  “So why don’t you come in and meet the dealer?”

  Clouds part after two days of thunderstorms. Steam rises from the pavement outside the kitchen window as Sol sings to the tune of “Leaving on a Jet Plane,” his early-stage pubescent boy’s voice breaking.

  “I’m lea-ving for my parents’ place—in Virginia Beach. I do know when I’ll be back a-gain . . . Sept-em-ber.”

  He peers into a container of leftover Chinese food, stabs a piece of bone-white chicken with a chopstick, pops it in his mouth, and raises an eyebrow at Jane and me.

  “Not to be crass, but you two are obviously a couple of sex ninjas, doin’ the nasty-nasty without making a peep. These walls are thin and I’m a light sleeper, but I see that look on David’s face.”

  Jane buries her head in her hands.

  Two days later, I can’t find Arianne in town. There’s an empty bag in my pocket and nothing in my stash. Someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around. Jane.

  “I got out of work early. Want to hang out?”

  When she starts talking about renting a movie and snuggling, my first thought to avoid another war documentary and the possibility of sex is an excursion to the top of Mount Tom, our local mountain, which might technically be a tall hill. Jane agrees.

  As we drive off, I try to think of a reason to stop at home so I can scrape the empty bag. I pull up to the house and make a point to leave the engine running and get out before telling Jane, “I’m just going to grab my Super 8 camera and some film.”

  “Great.” She twists the key in the ignition. “I’ll change out of this uniform.”

  The bathroom door doesn’t lock. I jam my foot into the base, rip the bag open, and lay it flat on the sink. I scrape the corners with the bottom edge of a toothpaste tube and flush the toilet and snort the miniscule hit. Then I eat the empty bag and tell myself I’ll be fine without dope.

  We drive to Mount Tom’s summit a
nd walk around the lookout deck. On the Vermont side, sun drills into the lush, green mountains. To the south, clouds darken what is probably Holyoke. I stuff a roll of black-and-white film in the camera and ask Jane to lean against the rail and pretend I’m not here.

  I burn two rolls of film and get irritated about it. Nobody makes eight millimeter anymore. Rolls are expensive—when you find them. My legs are cramping. Is the air thinner up here?

  Jane natters on about the scenic majesty. “It’s gorgeous,” she says. “You always think of the coolest stuff.” Through the viewfinder, I see the outline of her underwear through her sundress. Would I be more interested if she wore thongs?

  We stop for Chinese takeout on the way home. In the car, the smell of veggie lo mein is nauseating—even with the windows down. When we get to the apartment, I tell Jane I don’t feel well and I’m going to take a shower.

  The claw-foot tub has one of those European-style heads at the end of a hose. The basin is against the wall, with a small window and narrow shelf with barely enough room for our toiletries. I’m still in my boxers, waiting for the water to heat up when Jane knocks on the door.

  “Your mom’s on the phone.”

  I put my shirt on and turn off the shower.

  Mom says, “Your brother drove his car into the fountain in front of Doral Greens.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Daniel is fine. His car isn’t. Neither’s mine. He tried to pull his car out with my car by tying them together with a hose. I got a call from security. ‘Uh, your son’s passed out in your car by the entrance.’ I ran over, and when he finally woke up and I asked him what he was thinking, he said he was going to live with your father and stormed off. David, he’s out of control. He reeked of alcohol and pot. You know, the biggest difference between you and your brother is that he doesn’t know how to be honest with himself. What are we going to do with him?”

  I hang up with Mom and tell Jane what happened.

  “Why does your mother always ask you what to do about Daniel?” she asks.

  I shrug, make a “how the fuck should I know” face, and get in the shower. A minute later, Jane knocks on the door.

  “Phone for you.”

  “Can you tell my mom I’ll call her back?”

  “It’s Dave Williamson. He said it’s important.”

  I turn off the shower, wrap a towel around my waist, and listen to Dave, a friend from Marlboro. He tells me a long story about an unplanned pregnancy with Ana, his sort of girlfriend. They’re getting married in September, on the Saturday before school starts, at the college president’s house. I wait for a pause to say “Okay, gotta go now,” but Dave segues into some crap about Ana’s old job as an au pair in New York City.

  “She got to be very close with the family and stayed in touch over the years,” he says. “Does the name Letty Aronson ring a bell?”

  “Kinda sorta.”

  “It should. She produced the last few Woody Allen movies.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “She’s also his sister.”

  “Holy. Shit.”

  “She’s coming to the wedding. Guess who’s sitting next to her.”

  “Holy. Fucking. Shit.”

  “Ana told her about you and your script. If I were you, I’d spank that puppy to perfection and bring it the wedding.”

  When I share the Letty development with Jane, she says, “It’s all that positive thinking. I can barely get Frank’s attention for the photo show, and you’re rubbing elbows with Woody Allen and his sister.”

  I call Mom. “See?” she says. “Put it out there, believe you’re worth it, and the universe makes it happen.”

  On the sun porch, I open Hypothermia and realize it’s a stupid title for a story about a Nazi in a nursing home. I read a few pages and think the story is stupid and the writing sucks. I do a “Save As” in Microsoft Word and delete everything except the title.

  For half an hour, I futz with the text. Left justified. Right. Centered. Helvetica. Times New Roman. Back and forth and back and forth. I type my name below “Hypothermia” and delete it. I type it again and delete it again. Then I type my first name and my mother’s maiden name: “David Poses.”

  My grandfather was Herbert Pesetzky until World War II, when relatives started getting killed in the Holocaust. By 1950, every Pesetzky in America was a Poses or a Perry.

  Of course Mom is thrilled when I call to tell her I’m changing my name. “David Poses,” she says, “you bring tears to my eyes.”

  As soon as I say goodbye, my resolve spills like sand through the narrow of an hourglass, and a mountain of doubt rises on the other side.

  I’m still sitting on the porch floor when Jane’s alarm goes off at four-thirty. She stumbles in a minute later.

  “You never came to bed.”

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  I flinch as she lays her arm around me. My heart is pounding. She rubs my back and makes shushing sounds in my ear. I start to cry.

  “David, what is it?”

  “I told my mom I want to change my name.”

  “To what?”

  “David Poses. Mom got all excited and I started thinking. How’s my father gonna feel? Is Mom excited for me or because she knows it’ll hurt him? Am I doing this for her? To honor my grandfather?”

  “It’s not like you have to decide right now. You’ll figure it out.”

  “I won’t figure it out. I won’t figure anything out.”

  “Hey. Power of positive thinking, remember? It’s gonna be okay.”

  “It’s not gonna be okay. Nothing is ever okay.”

  “Baby, I’m worried about you. Do you want me to call in sick?”

  I gulp a breath and keep it together long enough to say, “I’m just tired.”

  Jane returns to the bedroom. I hear her aggressively opening and closing dresser drawers. She leaves without coming in for a kiss. I light a cigarette and rock back and forth, banging my head against the wall.

  “Craving” is inaccurate. Heroin isn’t ice cream. Right now, I crave it the way a drowning person craves air.

  twenty-three

  The smell of crack pummels the early morning air in the woods across the street from the public athletic fields. In a clearing twenty yards from the trail, I spot an orange tent and Arianne sitting on a rotted-out log. She’s with two guys—both look twice as old as me. One is tall, skinny, and pale, with a crew cut. The other has crispy red skin and shaggy graying hair. He raises a stem to his mouth and lights a blowtorch. When I stumble on a felled branch, he stops puffing and lowers the pipe.

  “The fuck’s there?” he howls.

  Arianne points at me. “That’s the guy.”

  “Well, well, well,” the crack smoker says. “If it isn’t Mr. Bundles—in the flesh.”

  Arianne introduces me to her boyfriend, Roy, with the pipe, and Henry.

  “So,” Roy says, “to what do we owe the pleasure at this ungodly hour?”

  “I was hoping Arianne might take a ride to Holyoke with me.”

  “No shit?” Roy says. “At six in the morning?” He unzips his fanny pack and pulls out a pale blue glassine envelope. “Yours for ten bucks.”

  I give him a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Sorry, boss, ain’t got no change.” Arianne glares at him. He glares back and enters the tent. “It’s fuckin’ impossible to find nothing in this bitch,” he says, his shadow punching at the nylon from the inside. He emerges with a surprisingly shiny spoon and a sealed bag of fine gauge syringes, which he offers in lieu of change. I accept without hesitation.

  “Do you have any water?”

  “We’re fuckin’ outside, chief,” Roy says, pointing the spoon at a nearby creek. “Fuckin’, it don’t get no fresher than that fuckin’ shit.” He hocks a loogie and spits.

  I roll up a dollar and snort a hit. Roy fires up the blowtorch and puffs on the stem. He exhales a monstrous cloud of smok
e. “Motherfucker’s hitting like a banshee.” He offers it to Henry, who passes it to Arianne, who eagerly accepts.

  “Baby,” Roy says, “you gotta really suck on it. Like a dick.”

  I step closer to Arianne. “Wanna go to Holyoke?”

  Roy pushes Henry at me. “He’ll go. She’s got business to tend to.”

  In the car, Henry thanks me for saving him. “I been trying to get out of there since last night. But with Roy, well, you just never know.” He coughs, a deep, raspy sound.

  “Back in the day,” he says, “before Roy mellowed out some, he picked me up this one night to go candlepin bowling, but first he wanted to go back to his place, over in Hadley, and get a buzz on—cheaper ’n paying for all them beers at the lanes. About eight o’clock, this crack whore from Greenfield come over and says she ain’t got no money, but she’ll suck Roy’s dick for some rock. Now, Roy being Roy, at first he’s all, ‘Honey, if you want some rock, you’re gonna have to suck my dick, my friend’s dick, and five or six other guys’ dicks. I don’t know who all else he had in mind since it was just the three of us there, but she agrees and Roy goes ‘hold on’ and leaves the room. When he comes back in with Brutus, this big old German shepherd, I get this bad feeling—you know? He’s got this big smile on his face and the leash in one hand and a hunk of crack the size of a beer can in the other. He goes, ‘Tell you what. I’ll give you all this if you let my dog fuck you.’”

  “Stop. Holy . . . Oh my God.”

  Henry shakes his head. “Don’t I know it, kid.”

  We ride in silence for a few minutes. I ask what happened with the dog.

  “Well sir, when she agreed to go through with it, I says to Roy, I says, ‘Roy, I’m going outside.’ I wun’t gonna bear witness to that.”

  “So . . .”

  “Oh, she did it, all right,” Henry says. “Roy come out the house later, laughing like a son of a bitch. I tell you what. To this day, I’m still not sure who I feel worse for—the girl or the dog.”