Perforated Heart

by Eric Bogosian

  And so there we were, the literati of New York, circa 2006, decked out in linen and starched cotton, packed like sardines onto the grounds of Leon’s miniature estate, a patch of carefully manicured lawn, replete with a tiny pear tree and a brick wall covered with climbing tea roses. The whole thing maybe forty feet by twenty feet. In the corner stood an antique lawn mower. Leon loves irony.

  Leon himself was playfully adorned in a chef’s cap and apron, doling out burgers and hot dogs and skewers of sushi-quality tuna from behind his brand-new five-thousand-dollar gas grill. When I arrived, he made a cynical remark about “the recluse” deigning to make an appearance and then promptly turned his back on me to huddle with his current bestselling discovery, a colorless WASP who writes unreadably dense semifiction inspired by maritime law.

  An attractive young woman found me and it took ten minutes for me to figure out that this babe was Leon’s grown-up daughter. I’d last seen Nina fifteen years ago in her Halloween costume. She was a novelist now, of course, and approached me as a fan before confessing that she hadn’t yet read A Gentle Death. It hurt, but I pretended an avuncular amusement. Why should I care if the novelist daughter of my editor is so incurious about my work that she can’t be bothered to pick up a major effort of mine? I can only imagine the dinner table conversations, Leon and Nina, dissecting my career while passing the steamed asparagus. “Whatever happened to Richard? He used to be so good!” “He’s lost his edge. It happens.” I ducked away from Nina and searched out more drink. Over my shoulder I saw her moving in on the maritime guy.

  Because Leon thinks of himself as an old anarchist in the Bob Dylan mold, he had invited not only the moneymaking luminaries but the anonymous old dogs who were the young rebels of their day. Most of these characters have secured cushy jobs at well-endowed universities and have a safe manger from which to bark. A few have left the profession altogether. I guess I fall somewhere in between. Neither here nor there.

  Juggling my plate, I managed to consume half a tuna shish kebab and two mouthfuls of wild rice while listening to a discussion regarding the legal transgressions of the Bush regime pinging between Doris Kearns Goodwin and Jane Mayer. Jane confided that Dick Cheney had been a bed wetter until he was ten years old and with that knowledge, I moved on to my third plastic cupful of a very tasty red.

  As the bartender handed me my wine, I scanned the crowd for a smoker from whom I might cadge a cigarette. Suddenly before me stood Zim, like Marley’s ghost.

  As if picking up on an ongoing conversation, Zim launched into a critique of the crowd. As usual, he was hilarious. In a sea of luminaries Zim is an alchemist who can transmute every atom of their sacred being into pure caricature. And like a dummy, I stood next to him, grinning into my wine, chuckling along at his rancorous fusillade. I knew I looked stupid and I didn’t care.

  Then Zim lobbed a grenade in the direction of Sharon Woodward, an old girlfriend of mine. Sharon writes small novels about isolation and probity and suicide. A kind of mini-Woolf. We slept together off and on for about a year after Elizabeth and I broke up. In those days, Sharon was still pretty and buxom. Now she was menopausal and sagging. Zim dug in: “I fucked her once. She saves her passion for her crappy writing. I gave her a couple of helpful hints, but she was too dumb to take them.”

  I hadn’t read Sharon’s last two books because I didn’t feel I needed to. Nonetheless I’ve always been her cheerleader, enthusiastically composing letters of reference for MacDowell and Yaddo and the Guggenheim. I’d done so with absolute candor. Her work should be supported. I was grateful it was out there. Writers like Sharon are the bread and butter of…something.

  So here was Zim, demolishing her cottage stick by stick, lighting up her straw roof with his Zippo of sarcasm. He was right, of course, about everything he was saying. Her work is dreary and prim and self-pitying. But fuck him. And so I defended her. “Sharon is an innocent, but she is an authentic innocent.”

  Zim nursed a brimming glassful of iceless iced tea. When he grumbled, “What the fuck do you know?” I could smell the tang of whiskey on his breath.

  “I know.” There was danger in this conversation.

  “Richard, you wouldn’t know authentic if it fucked you up the ass.”

  I tried to stare into Zim’s flat, rheumy eyes. Having made his move, he assumed a poker face, as if he hadn’t just stabbed me to the spiritual core.

  Did I mention Zim is a full-blown alcoholic now? If he isn’t juiced round-the-clock, he gets the DTs. A few years ago, his espophagus detached from his stomach and he almost died vomiting his own blood. Thus his own unimpeachable “authenticity.” He is an authentic drunk and so his work is “grounded” in a way that every college sophomore loves. And editors embrace him because his writing is always nasty and easy to read. That is, when he manages to write at all.

  I took the bait. “Hey, asshole, in what way is anything you do more authentic than what I do?”

  “Richard, you’ve never had defeat or disappointment. All you know is pussy and money. You are soft and you are decadent and you are addicted to fame and what it can bring you. So you write what the academy wants you to write. They tell you you’re a genius and you believe it. But believe this, my friend, you’re nothing more than court jester. You can’t tell the truth. It’s not in you. Your job is to distract from the truth.”

  “Are you accusing me of being commercial? Because I’m not.”

  “No, you fucking idiot, I’m talking about your total lack of spine. The academy only recognizes ass-licking, nonauthentic, pseudo-intellectual, grade-A bullshit like yours. The frightening thing is that you believe in your bullshit. It’s actually your worldview.”

  A nauseating fatigue set in. Why had I come to Leon’s? To please him? To network? To remind people I have just published a new book? Zim needed an answer. “This is a rhetorical point, one I can’t dispute because it’s based on vagaries and syllogisms. You are jealous of me, so your entire argument is poisoned.”

  “How could I be jealous of a man who doesn’t even know what he is? A man who writes and writes and writes only the most empty and soulless self-reflexive prose. You haven’t written one honest word in twenty years. In your coward’s heart, you know that. When did you last take a risk? When?” His lips were screwed into a sneer.

  I smiled to cover my anger and said, “It’s moot. I’m not writing anymore. I have heart problems.”

  But Zim wouldn’t quit. “No, my friend, what you’re saying is, ‘You and me, Zim, deep down, we’re the same.’ But that’s not true. We live different lives, Richard. It’s wonderful to be rich and famous. It’s intoxicating. And the intoxication has ruined you.”

  “Intoxication? Speak for yourself.”

  “I will, my friend, my good old friend. For myself and for you. Because when I leave here today, you won’t give me another thought. You will return to your favorite topic, yourself. But nobodies like me, we must keep you in mind always. We have no choice.”

  How much fun were we having? Two old bums struggling to land a good square punch, staggering, falling down, finally forced to retreat to separate corners or worse, shake hands. Obviously, that’s what I should have done. Walked away. But I’d been drinking too. Leon kept an eye on us from across the yard.

  “You’re drunk, Zim. You’re not making sense.”

  Zim faced the milling crowd and shot me a sideways glance of pure red-eyed disdain. “Sure. That’s right. Fuckin’ wimp.” Then he poured what remained of his drink onto my shoes.

  Jane Mayer stood only a few feet apart from us. After the briefest of pauses, she and her companion resumed their conversation.

  I saw Leon look away. Something in my chest swelled and puttered. Was I going to have a cardiac event right here in front of everyone, on Leon’s perfect little estate? Over my dead body!

  Without saying goodbye, I entered the house, walked straight through it, down the front steps and out to my parked car. Fifteen minutes later I was on the BQE, dr
iving drunk, aimed for Connecticut.

  November 1, 1977

  So this tall, red-haired guy wearing a London Fog raincoat came to my reading down at Franklin Furnace. I heard about him when someone “backstage” said there was an FBI agent in the audience. Typical downtown paranoia. Why would a government agent give a shit about what we had to say? This isn’t tsarist Russia and there were no Dostoyevskys here.

  The red-haired guy approached me after the reading, told me he liked my story very much. Handed me his card. “The William Morris Agency—Blake Lansford, literary agent.” Okay. We strolled up to SoHo and I conned him into buying me a triple espresso cappuccino in the Cupping Room. We sat. He was very nervous. Like we were breaking the law by sitting in a coffee shop talking. I began to think he might really be an FBI agent.

  Blake asked me where I thought all this was going, my writing. I wondered why he asked this, but when I told him I was writing a book of short stories that would be very different from the usual collection out there, he got interested and wanted to know more.

  I’m not sure if Blake followed what I was saying. But he said my work should be in magazines. That if I could get three more pieces published, he could swing a deal for the book I wanted to put together. He said he could get me an advance of five thousand dollars! So we shook on it. And now I guess I have an agent.

  Blake said he would hook me up with this editor at Esquire, Leon Koppler. Guy’s supposed to be “hip,” probably means he sniffs cocaine and dates models. I haven’t read Esquire since I was in high school but Blake says it’s a good place to sell material. If I do do this, it will just be for the money. I figure, make the money writing for Esquire, then write what I really want. I told this agent guy I could write a short essay about a Talking Heads concert gig at CBGB. He said “Leon would love that.”

  So, who knows? Maybe I can make money doing this. And more. Get a book published. I wish Mom could be here for this. I miss Mom. Where is she?

  November 2, 1977

  What does an artist think he’s doing when he attempts to make art “successfully”? What is “success” in art making? An artist is successful when he’s BLASTING THE WORLD! There is no other kind of success. Money and power mean nothing. There is no power but the power to write. To create. To attempt immortality.

  Katie’s show opened. Hundreds of people crowded into the gallery. She was surrounded all evening and we barely got to talk. Every time I got near her I could see she had a wild look in her eyes. Excitement. Fear. Madness.

  Everyone was telling her the work was terrific. But I also heard people whispering in the corners. They were laughing at her. Myself, I don’t know. I didn’t get it. It had something to do with the alphabet and poorly executed paintings of naked women. It was a lot of effort but in the end it was very art school. No, worse than that. It was mediocre. I don’t care what anyone says or if she gets a good review in Artforum, the show sucked. Sorry. But if I can’t be honest, what’s the point?

  I didn’t know what to say to her. This is a problem now. How can we have a relationship if I can’t tell her what I think of her work? Who is she if the things she makes are awful?

  I saw Zim at the opening. He was standing in front of a huge letter V composed of spread legs. When I asked him what he thought, he said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Being an artist isn’t just a matter of wanting to be an artist. It isn’t just about wanting to share a point of view. It’s about the logic of being and that logic must be aggressive, undeniable. Katie wants to share her insecurities and anger with the world. It’s not enough.

  What is enough?

  August 12, 2006

  I’ve been asleep in bed or catnapping on the couch for two days straight. Waiting for Leon to call. One would think he’d be curious as to where I’d disappeared. But no one has called. I could die here in this decaying house and unless Nat happened by to mow the lawn, that would be the end of that. This is an untenable situation. I don’t have a solution. I am alone. That’s it. Why?

  My barbecue hangover has forced things to a head. Woke yesterday completely wrecked. Despairing. Sick. Burning with fever, my chest hurt, I vomited. I was afraid that I was having another heart “episode,” but I didn’t call anyone. No one to call. Nothing to do. Took it easy all day, made myself some Lipton’s chicken noodle soup, read, drank tea. Dragged the quilt from room to room, filled in the crossword. Slept as much as I could.

  I’m too sick to drink. Fruit juice, tea, rest. I’m not trying to figure anything out. Not yet. I don’t give a shit if Leon calls. I’m going to gather up my strength and head for Cape Cod. I need to watch the waves.

  August 20, 2006

  Drove for two days. Stopped overnight in West Dennis at a tourist hotel, an overpriced, industrial-strength human warehouse packed with chubby sunburned kids and eyeless (sunglassed) smokers. Avoiding the drab breakfast, I took a walk and discovered a charming pancake house down the lane. A simple bungalow painted yellow and white, surrounded with gnarled pines and sea sand. I walked in. The place smelled great, fresh-roasted coffee and baked goods. The sun-drenched walls were festooned with shark jawbones, plaqued trophy fish, and hand-painted signs boasting “the BEST coffee this side of Cape Cod Canal” and “No IOUs accepted.”

  Crisp bacon and maple syrup is good for the soul. As I watched the sunny, lithe waitress (probably a college student up for the summer) glide from table to table with a grace and serenity only innocent women have, I wanted to reach out and touch her. This wasn’t horniness. This was devotion.

  After breakfast, I paid my hotel bill, and headed north on the two-lane that leads to P-Town. The ride relaxed me. Dunes, clapboard-sided liquor stores, a length of black asphalt and the steady, streaming traffic served as a kind of narcotic elixir. Every now and then, through the pitch pines and scrub oak, I caught a glimpse of the indigo sea. The only radio station featured oldies but goodies. In this peaceful state of mind, all other emotions were checked. I could do this forever. But following a highway on a peninsula is a doomed agenda. Sooner or later one must arrive at the sea.

  In Provincetown I found a B&B twenty paces off the main drag. The proprietess, possibly a lesbian, handed me a steel skeleton key and I shuffled up the wainscotted stairwell to a dry, pleasant room, freshly painted in a cheery pastel. It lacked a phone, had no air-conditioning, and shared a bathroom with the neighboring room. Good, I thought. Simplicity. All I needed was here. Entering a rented room is about a new beginning. An empty slate. No need to be anywhere else, and so, peace. The calm of the room settled me.

  I lay down on the firm spring bed and immediately fell into a dreamless nap, waking an hour later to the sound of water running in the bathroom. Of course my bladder ached but I lay still and waited until I heard the slamming of the opposite door, then rose up off the bed, snuck in, peed and rinsed my face.

  I strolled the main drag. To what end? None. I could have marched into the sea and no one would have known or cared. I visited a men’s shop on the pier and bought a light pullover. As I stood before the dressing room mirror I wondered what Elizabeth would say about me in lavender cashmere.

  Across the street I bought a cup of coffee, and took a position on the pier. The gulls circled the lobster trawlers. The sea breeze swept over me.

  I considered the deep water and all that the ocean implied: infinity, rot, adventure.

  At first I didn’t hear my cell phone when it beeped, only sensed the almost imperceptible vibration in my pocket. The world beckoned.

  Leon’s number on the screen. Finally! I hesitated. I didn’t want to seem to be waiting for him to call me. But fuck him. I needed to speak to someone, anyone, and that took precedence.

  “Yeah?”

  “Richard?” He sounded like he was standing behind me, whispering into my ear.

  “Leon?” The gulls circled.

  “Are you in Connecticut?”

  “No.” I refused to be generous. It was his turn.

&nbs
p; A pause. Leon didn’t seem to want this call either. He murmured, as if afraid of being overheard by someone, “Listen, uh, Zim is dead.”

  “I wish.”

  “No, man, he died. Last night. I guess it was his liver. Did you know he had Hep C?”

  “Zim died.” The gulls became more than gulls. They turned into portents, signs, metaphors. But I couldn’t decipher their meaning. The gulls were Zim? What kind of idea is that? The fishing boats bobbed in the rising tide, not the same boats of minutes ago.

  Leon’s voice formed buttery shapes. This was his area of expertise, human communication. “That’s what I’m saying.” Pause. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Why?” I felt as if Leon killed Zim as a way to indict me. And why should I feel guilty about Zim?

  “I don’t see him for a year. He dies the next day? I almost didn’t invite him. He was such a mess. When was the last time you’d seen him?”

  “Didn’t Zim have some kind of book deal with you?” The gulls, the trawlers. For one moment, I had been in the center of everything. Now I was on the outside looking in.

  “What deal? Years ago, Richard. Years ago.”

  “So, what happens now?” Keep it to the practical. Get off the phone. Gulls. Waves. The air in Provincetown is imbued with a soft light. That’s why the painters came here. Was it the humidity that thickened the air?

  “The funeral. Tomorrow morning. Downtown, Old St. Patrick’s. Apropos of nothing, where the fuck are you, Richard? What’s that sound?”

  A hundred feet away a swordfish trawler reeled cable onto a massive pulley system. Puffs of soot from its smokestack melted into the pale sky. The gulls screeched. “I’m away. I’ll come down.” I hung up.

  November 20, 1977

  It’s time to work. I’ve quit drinking. Quit smoking weed. No more distractions. I must finish my book. Writing a book is like preparing for a prizefight. I’m so focused, I’m not even masturbating. How else can I make the work that will pierce the world?