by Drew Magary
God, please don’t fuck this job up.
When Anna finished, she rushed to the bathroom to grab a washcloth and some tastefully packaged supplies of gauze and bandages adorning the sink, and then cleaned the wound. It was a gruesome sight, but at least it wasn’t that dreaded logo anymore. She had stanched the bleeding, but that made her slightly worried she hadn’t cut deep enough. Once she finished wrapping up Lara’s arm, she rubbed it gently to help spur some extra healing. Lara kissed her on the cheek in gratitude.
“Thank you,” she told Anna.
“I feel like you should cut something into me to make it even,” Anna offered.
“We are even.”
“That’s good because I didn’t actually want you to do that. Are you okay?”
“Not really.”
“You need that wine now?”
“I think I’d rather just sleep tonight,” said Lara.
She just wants to sleep. She just wants nothing. Shit.
Anna popped open the minibar fridge, grabbed a precious energy drink, and slurped it down.
“How are you gonna sleep if you drink that?” Lara asked her.
“I dunno. I never worried about that before.” Anna looked out past the mall to a strip of shops and restaurants that were still open. “I guess we could go out to eat?”
“We can’t be seen, Roomie.”
“Right.”
“You’re still not quite used to being infamous yet. It shows.”
“Gimme time! We need dinner, man!”
“Check the minibar,” Lara suggested.
Anna did. All it had to offer was a cursory assortment of candy bars, kettle chips, overpriced artisanal beef jerky, and top ramen. Anna had just spent four months alone with top ramen yet still loved it dearly. She held up the Styrofoam cup of noodles.
“Ramen?” she asked Lara.
Lara nodded. “Ramen.”
Anna filled the cup to the line, stuck it in the microwave, and jabbed at the buttons. Nothing. “The fucking microwave is busted.”
“Do you want me to call down to the lobby?” asked Lara. They had bribed the clerk into keeping her mouth shut about their presence at the hotel. She was theirs to boss around.
“No. I have a much worse idea.” Anna drained the cup and filled it back up with tap water as hot as she could get it from the faucet. She set it on the table as Lara went to the bathroom, showered off the ordeal, redressed her arm, popped some complimentary ibuprofen, and came back out in a short terrycloth robe. Anna did likewise. Clad in their robes, they stared at the ramen cup. The noodles were still a brick, steeping in the water like bad tea.
“How long you think it needs to soak before we can eat it?” asked Lara.
“I don’t know. I’d say sorry about this, but—”
“No more sorrys.”
“Right. I guess we’ll just poke at it.”
“Let’s watch some TV while we wait.” Lara walked over to the plate glass window to pull the shades closed. They screeched with every inch, like they had never been closed before.
Anna stood there watching. Maybe the tonight she wanted would have to wait. Ah, but Anna didn’t save the world just to wait for what she wanted. Not this time. She risked it all, and she won. The rest of the world—hell, the rest of time—could jolly well wait right now instead.
Let’s get irresponsible.
“Lara,” she said quietly.
Lara paused drawing the blinds. “What?”
“Lara, I don’t know if we can be roommates right now. Even tonight.”
“Why not?” Lara asked.
“Because I wanna touch you.”
“I wanna touch you, too.”
Every step they took toward one another was as quick as a shiver. Suddenly they weren’t so tired anymore. The two of them met in the center of the suite, where Lara wrapped her arms around Anna and opened her own lips. It was effortless, their mouths fit together so perfectly. Anna wanted to live inside this kiss. This is the tonight. She smelled the hotel’s aromatherapy conditioner in Lara’s hair and heard the heavenly clickety-clack of Lara’s neon bangle bracelets jangling as the two of them kissed and made each other whole. First hands, now lips. Soon, bodies.
Lara nipped at Anna’s ear and then, in a fragile whisper, told her, “Anna, I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“I’ve always loved you.”
“Promise me you’re not lying.”
“Look at me.”
Anna slipped back, but not far. Their noses were still touching, their faces occupying each other’s entire field of vision. Lara didn’t have to say a word. Love was all over her. They kissed so hard they couldn’t breathe.
Lara pulled away for a moment but Anna wasn’t ready to let go, ever. She wanted more.
“Lemme close the blinds all the way,” Lara insisted.
“I can’t wait that long,” Anna told her.
“I can’t either.”
Lara hurried to draw the white curtain shut as Anna walked over to the bed and sat down, gamely trying to stay cool but restless with joy. She was operating on euphoric autopilot, living outside her body and astonished at her current good fortune. Anna could have rocketed to the outer planets on adrenaline alone. This beat daydreams. No Lily Beach or piano serenades or ski lodges or shadow dimensions required. She never wanted to stop hearing Lara Kirsch say I love you. All the places in the world that she’d been and it was here, in a shit hotel on the way to Cleveland, where love made good on all of its outlandish promises. For the first time, Anna was exactly where she wanted to be. She was home. All of her senses were reborn.
The curtain was closed now. No one would see them. They were alone and ready for each other. Lara plucked a yellow silk tulip out of a welcome vase and held it out for Anna.
“Three feet on the floor?” Anna joked.
“No one will see us in the dark,” Lara said, her fingers grazing the light switch. Her voice had gone low again. Soft as her lips.
“Who said I wanted it to be dark when I touch you?” Anna shot back playfully.
Lara Kirsch flashed another devilish grin.
“Do you think I would just run away from you again, Roomie? Don’t you worry...”
She flicked the light off.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
You’ve read this far, so I may as well subject you to one last story while you’re still here. First of all, as you might have surmised, there is no Druskin Academy. At least, not that I know of. There is only Joe Druskin, my old jayvee football coach in Minnesota, who introduced me to Hüsker Dü and to Cyberball and who was kinder to me than I ever deserved at that age.
There is also no Sewell Hall. There is only Soule (pronounced sole) Hall, the dorm in which I resided when I went to a haughty dipshit prep school—one not-so-coincidentally similar to the haughty dipshit prep school depicted in this very book—back in the early 1990s. Why yes, that dorm DID have its own Shit Memoirs resting on the floor of the upstairs toilet. One time I cracked it open and was both honored and horrified to see that someone had made a list entitled, “Top Ten Things Drew Always Says.” One of those things was “The Saints are my dark horse team this year.” It was true. I did always say that, even though I’m not a Saints fan and even though this was back when they never won anything.
Anyway, the story. Back in April of 1992, Jerry Seinfeld hosted an episode of Saturday Night Live. This episode is probably best remembered for the immortal “Stand Up And Win” sketch where Adam Sandler answers, “Who are the ad wizards who came up with this one?!” for every clue. A couple of my dorm-mates attended that taping live at Studio 8H. When Seinfeld came out to do his monologue, they cried out “YEAH SOULE!” from the balcony. At least, it sounded like “YEAH SOULE!” to them and to those of us watching with elation back in the common room. To the rest of the audience watching in New York and at home, and to Jerry Seinfeld himself, it sounded very much lik
e they were screaming ASSHOLE at him. Seinfeld pointed up to the balcony with a smile, gave an ironic “Thank you,” and then carried on. That part of his monologue was cut from subsequent reruns of that episode, but I swear it happened.
I was only able to write this book thanks to the formative years I spent living in that dorm, and to the friends I made at school while I was there. Those friends include but are not limited to Howard Spector, Jesse Johnston, Steve Martyak, James Fisher, Winthrop Short, Robin Mahapatra, Matt Breuer, Scott Mitchell, Joe Urban, Ameet Thakkar, Moses Sabina, Enrique Smith, John Crisostomo, Virginia Corpus, Sam Brooks, Matt Addesa, Izzy Lawal, Sid Brown, Xander Hargrave, Josh Panas, Josh Dapice, Ettrick Campbell, Brooke Killheffer, Vivek Masson, Chris Sandeman, Scott Iason, Grant Whitmer, Brook Katzen, Ashwin Mehta, Anna Hochstedler, Linda Jenkins, and many, many others. Hoo boy, that’s a big list. Frankly, it makes me sound WAY more popular than I actually was.
That list also includes the actual Paul Bamert, who has nothing in common with the Paul Bamert you just met in these pages, except that he’s a great dude AND that he enjoys Clemson footbaw. So thanks to the real Bamert for letting me swipe his name for this. I owe you an Edible Arrangement for your trouble.
This book hopscotches all over the world, so I’m also deeply grateful to all the family members, friends, and colleagues who gave me loose field reports from many of their travels beyond the horizon. Is it time for me to list off another bunch of names? Dear reader, it is. My eyes and ears around the globe included my wife, my parents, and my brother and sister, plus Megan Greenwell, Laura Wagner, Patrick Redford, Barry Petchesky, Giri Nathan, Libby Watson, Steve Czaban, Howard Spector, Erica Wishnow, and Spencer Hall. One day I hope to go to all of the places that these people have gone to. For now, they remain pleasant dreamscapes: out of reach but not despairingly so.
We’re not done here yet. This book is based on what is, charitably speaking, a scientifically implausible premise. I toil in a real world where hoverboards for sale don’t even hover. It’s total bullshit. Despite science’s miserly ways, I did rely on an actual physicist, Matt Bellis, to physicist this book and to give me a rudimentary course in quantum mechanics that IMMEDIATELY sailed over my head. You have Matt to thank for the idea of portclaps, portwinds, and other phenomena in this book that are not coming to your future but at least sound like they could be. Science is MAGIC.
There is some car shit in here and since I’m not a car guy, I wanna thank all the car people in my life—my in-laws, my brother-in-law Greg, and Patrick George—who chipped in to make sure that other car people wouldn’t throw their ratchets at me over the mechanics detailed herein. I’m sure I still got some things wrong but I swear I did the best I could. Your cover and interior design come courtesy of the fabulous Dennis Padua. I can write a zillion words but it’s the art that pumps fresh oxygen into everything, so thanks to Dennis for that.
While Anna Huff is NOT based on my 14-year-old daughter, both girls are avid divers. So thanks to my kid for giving me a vital lesson in diving technique when all I know how to do off the board is an underwhelming cannonball. Furthermore, no characters in this book are based on my two sons, which is for the best since no fictional character could ever do those boys justice.
I also need to thank everyone who gave me notes, in particular Kelsey McKinney, Jesse Johnston, and Mary Pender. Bonus feedback and inspiration came from Mari Uyehara, Matt Ufford, Tim Marchman, Tim Burke, Justin Halpern, Byrd Leavell, David Roth, Chris Gayomali, Rob Harvilla, Lauren Theisen, Luis Paez-Pumar, Rob Grabill, and many more. I was only able to write this book because Megan and Susie Banakarim gave me a sabbatical from Deadspin in 2018 to go finish it, so I thank them both for the time and also for so much more beyond that.
Finally, about my wife: I spent the majority of my time writing this book remembering what it was like to be a lovesick teenager. I was desperate for a girlfriend back then. That was all I ever wanted and all I ever thought about. And lo and behold, I found my wife. I love her and she loves me, and that remains impossibly fucking cool. We’ve been married seventeen years and have three kids. Our marriage is, itself, a teenager. That is also impossibly fucking cool. If I sound like every cornyass dad on Twitter when I say all that, so be it. I don’t mind corny things now. I never want to forget how lucky it is to be loved. It’s the fucking greatest. I may get old but being in love never will.
And to Byrd: Thanks for the lift.
About The Author
Drew Magary
Drew Magary is the author of The Postmortal, Someone Could Get Hurt, and The Hike. This is his third novel. He lives in Maryland with his wife, three kids, and a dog. In a past life, he was a writer/flamethrower for Deadspin and GQ. Nowadays, he’s an in-house columnist for Medium's GEN magazine. He also won Chopped once and will never let you fucking forget it.
Books By This Author
The Hike
A simple boy meets talking crab story
Someone Could Get Hurt
A memoir of 21st century parenthood, dick jokes included.
The Postmortal
Drew's first novel and one of the most terrfiyingly realistic dystopian visions ever committed to the page.
The Rover
Drew's rambunctious short story about a minor alien invasion.