I don’t need to spell it out do I? I mean I’m in love with someone else. It’s cliché, it’s monotonous, but, goddamn it, it’s the truth. And I hate her. Honestly, I hate her sometimes. Never when I’m around her. Then I just keep looking at her. Right at her face. Then she turns towards me and I look at something else. I can always sense when her head is going to turn. Isn’t that funny? But, like I was saying, I hate her. She has such a goddamn hold on me, John. Really. I want to fuck her so hard and I want to love her for the rest of my life. I can’t believe I’m telling you this. Don’t tell Denise. That’s funny. I will tell you what is funny and what is not.
Ok, scratch that, start again, Jimmy thought. He was trying to tell his best friend that he was in love with his sister. Not his sister as in incest, but his sister as in John’s sister. It was hard as hell to say it. He started again.
You know this, I’m sure. The girl is practically begging to have it.
Jesus, he thought. What am I trying to do here? Ok, start again.
Fuck.
He quickly drew a few lines through fuck and decided to call John instead. Ask him over for a beer, he thought, and tell him after the fifth.
I gotta just lay it out. Just tell him the truth. Ok, I can’t do that, but I will tell him most of it. John, I’m in love with your little sister. Yeah, dude. She is hot, I know. The thing is I want to marry her and fuck her. Yeah. Well, not in that order, but. Dude, thank you. You don’t know what this means.
Come in man. John was here.
He entered the musty apartment with apprehension. Jimmy had been acting unlike himself recently and he had his suspicions. His suspicions were right, but he didn’t know that yet. He, of course, did not want to be right.
Hey John. Jimmy was shaking inside. Everything about this felt wrong. Asking him over, the letter, liking his sister, the other night. I got some Bud, as usual, he said. Would you like a Big Bud?
I would admire that Big Bud, thank you so kindly, said John. He took a seat in the corner, picked up the Bass Fishing magazine, as usual. And an hour went by, without any new conversation, and without a little beer.
After the fifth: Hey John, what’s that sister of yours up to tonight?
John: Why do you ask?
Not any reason at all.
Where’s Denise at, Jimmy?
Who gives a fuck, do you want another? He held up the brown bottle. John did not want another. Jimmy brought out two bottles and handed one to John.
After taking the bottle and placing it next to him on the cluttered end table, John asked the question he had wanted to ask the entire evening. The question he dreaded to ask. Why did you ask me over here, Jim? Why all the forced beer, the beating around the bush. Just say the stupid thing.
It’s not so stupid after all, John. Really. I mean not really. It isn’t. I love her man.
Cut the shit, Jimmy. Seriously, please cut that out right now. Give me that beer. Just stop drinking and tell me what’s on your mind.
John already knew what he was going to say. He just needed to hear it from Jimmy.
I want to see her, can I see her, John? Can I see her tonight? Call her.
Jimmy, fuck. Don’t.
No, I need to see her. Just call her up. Say hey baby. No hand me the phone. Dial her number, I know it if you need it, and then hand it to me.
Jimmy this is my little sister. We watched her grow up.
I know, but you got to call her and let me talk, ok? This is why I called you over. Be my best bud and call her on my phone. Here. He got up and handed John his cellular phone. Just hold down the 2, ok? I got her on speed dial.
John pushed back Jimmy’s hand and got up. He looked Jimmy in the eyes.
See, John said, I already talked to her today. She called me out of the blue, in fact. Said you already called her. Last night. Now I had to ask myself, why would my best friend, who I have known since the fucking 1st grade, call my baby sister? Did he need help getting on the internet? Did he need directions to the fucking mall? No, Jimmy, I don’t think I’ll be holding down that number 2 for you. I’d just as soon break your motherfucking phone than call her for you.
Jimmy got a chance to talk. John, John, it’s not even like that. See, I called her by mistake. I tried pressing three to call the movies. Look, I called the movies to find out the times and I hear your sister. Well, I didn’t even know it was her. Where are you going, John? Just hold on a second. Let me explain something.
John heard Jimmy inside say his name two times. He filled his lungs with the suburban scene and waited for Jimmy to come outside. Jimmy was drunk and John had no plans to stay. But his keys were inside next to the bass magazine.
Jimmy stumbled meekly out the door and stood on the porch. He stared at John’s back, where he stood at the end of the twisting paved path. He could feel his friend’s hostility.
I know you’re upset with me, John. I would be too, I guess. But what am I supposed to do? Are you able to shut stuff like this off? Can you just ignore what plays over and over inside you? How do you shut shit off? She’s like a fucking broken record, playing the sweetest melody inside my chest.
I don’t want to hear about this, Jim. He now turned his back and faced the porch. Why did you call my sister? She wouldn’t tell me, but if it’s why I think you called her I will never talk to you again. No more Big Buds or fishing Saturdays for us, pal. Fucking midnight phone calls to my little sister? Jesus, Jim. This isn’t right. Can’t you see this is all wrong?
John, I feel what you’re saying. But I feel her too. I feel Denise and I feel my best friend’s sister all at once and I don’t know what to do.
¶ 7:54 PM 2 comments
"Me too."
"Do you cry?"
"Of course."
"How often?"
"Just this morning."
"Wow. Yeah, me too."
"Movies, what about movies?"
"I love 'em. Which ones?"
"Directors, whose your favorite?"
"Goddard."
"Hmm. I don't know."
"It was just the first one I thought of."
"Do you like Wes Anderson?"
"No. Not anymore."
"Good. Good."
"He's too, I don't know. His movies are too much anymore."
"I know what you mean. But you used to like him?"
"Oh yeah, definitely. Absolutely."
"Me too. Which movie was your favorite?"
"Probably Rushmore."
"Oh god yes. It's amazing. Max Fisher is such a good character."
"I always had a crush on the Asian girl."
"Did you know she was in Slackers?"
"Hmm. Really?"
"Yeah. It's a minor role. Great flick."
"Eh, it's ok."
"Oh, I know. Nothing spectacular. But Schwartzman is a genius."
"Yeah, I wonder why he hasn't done anything else with Wes."
"They did this American Express commercial together."
"Oh yeah? I'll have to check that out."
"My favorite was always Royal Tenenbaums."
"I could watch that anytime."
"When Margot gets off the bus."
"Which one is she?"
"Jesus. Gwynyth Paltrow, man."
"Right. Sorry."
"Is this your stop."
"No, next one."
"I really enjoyed Life Aquatic too."
"I have to say that Bottlerocket is the best. I mean overall."
"It's too bad he's not good anymore. I really like his movies."
"Me too. Me too." ¶ 8:35 AM 3 comments
"What does that mean exactly; " said Stacy, "What does it entail?"
"You know how trapezoids are always left sided and your brain has that light and right side thing going? It's like that. The trapezoid was introduced by Mayans, which were the first known civilization to pay writers for stories, "said Mac.
"Ok, I didn't know that," said Stacy.
They were sitting in her leathery office, which used to be the dining room. Mac was in his rust colored bath robe, even though Stacy preferred him to dress as if he did not live in the next room and surrounding house.
"Yes. That is what I am saying. Traps go back to early stuff like mammoths and ants or whatever. And that's when writing started too. Back with mammoths and ants or whatever," said Mac.
"Did you pay the electric bill?" said Stacy.
"Yes and I did do that, "said Mac.
Stacy got up from behind her desk and walked to the window. The front lawn was covered in leaves. Underneath them somewhere was a rake and black garbage bag. She closed the blinds and looked at Mac. She could see his cock and it depressed her.
"Ok, explain this again, " said Stacy, sitting back in her chair.
"I need to go back. To bring it home. If I write side stratally, you know, with real groove numbers and, like, prehistory, I think I can make some real money," said Mac.
Stacy rested her head on her hand and looked at Mac as if it were the last time.
"I think we can make some real money. Do you understand? With my writing," said Mac.
"No," said Stacy.
Stacy leaned back. She stared through Mac and thought about their life together. Her marriage to Mac's brother, their affair, her divorce, their marriage, his writing throughout it all. She never understood his writing. It was such gibberish that people thought he was original. Some kind of savant. He made enough money for her to quit her job and take up her present one.
Stacy told him to go upstairs and put on some clothes. That she did not understand anything he was saying, that she never would and that he should probably shut up. She was trying to get a response out of him, something human.
Instead he said: "This is soothe, this is real soothe. This is writing for me. I think we can make this work on the page too. Let's just quit," he got up, "let's just stop the soothe style and make this work," he was talking to himself, walking up the stairs, "I need to get this down and around the page. The soothe."
Stacy picked up her phone.
"I can't do it baby, " said Stacy, "I can't fake this. I can't do any of it. Mac. He was talking some bullshit about mammoths. Yeah. I don't know. Well, I can just be his editor. I can't fake it. I just. I know. I can't right now. I don't think I want to come over. I just feel like staring. Staring. It means I can't come over. Thank you. Soon. Yes."
Stacy laughed, said I love you too and hung up the phone. She got up and paced the room. She opened the blinds and then closed them. She looked at the pictures on her bookshelves. Pictures of Mac and her in various foreign countries. She walked up the stairs, being as quiet as she could without actually caring about how quiet she was being. She saw that Mac was hitting his punching bag. He would hit the bag about ten times, bouncing up and down the whole time and then sit down at his type writer. She thought about the pretentiousness of the typewriter and how he was nothing like a typewriter. That he was living and breathing art. She smiled as she looked fondly at Mac, walked down the steps and out the door. ¶ 4:41 PM 1 comments
"With him," you are saying, "it feels so comfortable. Not like sex or lust but just comfortable. Like your favorite pillow, ya' know."
But again there is no one listening. You are driving alone and saying the same things. You do this quite often. You rehearse lines from your life. You expect people to ask, maybe. Or just that it will come up and then you will be prepared. Although you also know it will never come up and no one will ask.
"I mean I had a dream about it," you look over into the empty seat, at what you judge to be eye level. "Yeah, I did. And it was the best dream I ever had."
And because of that it was the worst. You are involved with a serious boyfriend. He is not serious as far as personality goes, just serious about you. He lets you drive his cars around - he has quite a few, and they are constantly changing - he buys you presents for no real reason and he is never mean to you. You and him have been together for a long time. There is no reason for you to be unhappy. But the dream was about someone else: a guy you work with.
You are driving to work right now. You will see him and act the same as you always do, as if he is no different from anyone else.
You drive around the lot trying to find a spot for ten minutes. The rain clears just as you pull up the emergency brake. You think about what people say, about the mall being empty when it rains. You do not believe it, not today, and you are frustrated. The sky is a mix of white and grey and baby boy blue.
When you see him, you feel a quickening in your chest. This has happened to you ever since he handed you the application. You received a lot of applications that day and filled out two. The other one, which offered a quarter more an hour, is directly across from your current job.
It is not a good job. In fact, it is your first job. So you actually do not know anything about it. But you hate the work.
You quickly raise and drop your hand towards him, which is your way of saying, Hello I had this dream about you, but I have a boyfriend. You calm yourself. It is not difficult for you to hide what the inside of your chest is doing. You have done it all your adult life. In fact, the two are almost one response. Your chest quickening and you calming yourself.
Normally he checks your bag and, once you have put it in your locker, you work the floor. Today is different.
He walks right over to you and begins talking. He tells you Gary is sick and that he has to run the store today. You ask if Gary is ok. He nods and looks over your head, sweeping the store, biting his lower lip. You look at his lips.
"We are understaffed, so you will need to run register and set spring," he says.
You take your eyes off of his lips, look at his eyes, and nod quickly. You tell him yes, sure, no problem, that's fine, yeah-yeah.
He says good, breathes out and touches your shoulder.
"Thank you," he says, his hand still on your shoulder. "So much, really. This day is just, I don't know." He rubs your shoulder just before he lets go. He tells you to relieve Vicky. You are touching your shoulder as you head towards the registers. This is the first time he has touched you.
Your day goes by quickly. There are not a ton of customers, so running back and forth is not so bad. You do not mind the work today. You wish every day at work could go by this quick. Once a customer asks if you hurt your shoulder. This makes you blush, and stop touching your shoulder.
As you are leaving, he asks if you need a ride. You consider it for a second, though you have no reason to, and say no, thanks. I'm fine, you tell him. He says it's no problem. You say ok and immediately wonder why you said it. Then you smile to yourself and turn around to wait.
He is talking about sales as you walk out of the mall.
"We didn't make budget today, but we were understaffed, so it should even out," he says.
You look up at him and say yeah. His eyes look confused.
"My car should be right here. That's where he said he left it," he says. He takes out his cellphone and talks to someone named Silly. You wonder if it's a nickname.
The mall parking lot looks oddly beautiful to you at night. The emptiness of it. The way the pole lights light up select cars, the ones that are parked at the pole's base. It's as if that car has been selected, like it's won something. No matter how ugly a car is, put it next to a pole light and the night will bring out it's beauty.
"Ok-Ok, whatever. It's not here. Yeah. Yeah, Silly, I'll call you back," he sounds aggravated. You are thinking about a car's soul when he puts the phone in his pocket and looks at you. He says he doesn't know where his car is, that he is going to have to walk around and look for it. He tells you he is sorry and that you should take the bus or call a ride because, "I don't know where this motherfucker parked my car."
"How are you going to get home?" you ask. He says he doesn't know. "How did you get here?" You now realize that his car may have been stolen and that this is a big deal.
He rolls his eyes and his head and breaths loudly. "I don't know, it's a long story," he says. He looks at you, you wait. "Silly dropped me off this morning, he needed the car, he did what he had to do, parked it there," pointing, "got a ride, that's what he says," he said it so fast it took a second to understand.
You tell him you could drive him home if he needs a ride home. This, of course, takes some explaining, which you are not prepared to give.
"I just didn't feel like driving home tonight, so when you asked and, see there was this dream," you stop, move your hand quickly in front of your face. "Look, I just wanted a ride, but I can give you a ride. Do you want a ride?" you ask, making your face into a squint.
He looks at you for a second, laughs, and says sure. Your car is parked on the other end. He calls Silly, tells him, "I don't know what you did with my car. Yeah, yeah. Look, I'll be home soon. Well, its not where you said it was and I'm tired. I got a ride, I gotta go" he says, and hangs up.
The front of you car is an inch away from the pole, but the light is out. He says its weird and you ask what is. "Well, I have the same car," he says. That is weird, you say.
"What's wrong? What are you doing?" you ask. You are digging in your bag for the keys and he is standing still, looking at the back of your car.
"What is going on?" he asks. He looks at you, you haven't seen these eyes before. "What are you doing?"
You find the keys and open the door. "What? What's wrong, I don't understand," you say.
"This is my car. You have keys to my car," he says. His eyes look like fire. He pulls out his set of keys from his pocket. "These are my keys, what are you doing?" He looks angry and scared.
You say you don't understand, and he walks towards the driver side. You back away and stand by the pole light. He stands next to the open door, looking at you. He bends over and looks around the inside of the car. He gets in and checks the glove box, you hear paper rustling. He comes out of the car with a piece of paper in his hand.
"This has my name on it. It says that I pay insurance on this car. Not you, not fucking Silly, or whatever the shit is happening. This is my car, what the fuck are you doing," he moves towards you.
You are scared. More scared than you have ever been. You back into the emptiness of the lot. You tell him that your boyfriend has a lot of cars and that you were given this one to drive this afternoon. That you had never seen it before but that you were always driving different cars.
"So your fucking boyfriend just steals cars, has a different car for you to drive every fucking day and you don't question it?" He is standing by the pole. He punches the pole with the hand that holds the paper. "Did you ever open up the fucking glove box and see who owns the car? Did you ever do that you fucking bitch? Huh?"
He punches the pole again. The light flickers for a second and then sparks. You see that his hand is bleeding by the redness of the paper. He looks like dark fire, the shape of burning. You are crying and holding your bag to your chest. You are saying please and oh god over and over again. You back up more.
"Where are you going? No, come here, " he demands, and starts to walk towards you. You back up too quickly and fall on your hands. You lose your bag. You back up some on the ground, and then quickly get up and start to run. He is running after you.
You turn your head to see how close he is. Your chest is thumping. He has turned around and is running to his car. You run towards the mall. You get to the glass doors and slam your palms and arms on the glass. You cup your hand over your eyes and peer in. You do not see anyone. He has parked his car just behind you, the trunk is open. You stand with your back against the glass. You do not know where to run, who to go to, what to do. You want to stab yourself in the stomach.
He gets out and goes to the trunk. He turns the corner of the car with a wooden bat in his hand. "You are coming with me. You will get in this car and we will drive right over to your fucking faggots house right now," he says.
You yell for help and start to run. He is too close. He grabs you by the hair. You reach around for his hand. He has the bat to your neck. You think about him touching your shoulder earlier today. He is backing you towards his car. You cannot breathe.
You tell him that you cannot breathe, but he does not hear you. You cannot understand how this is happening. It feels like a story, or a movie, and you are outside of it. You tell him you cannot breathe. You feel him sit down on something as you come to a stop. He tightens the bat on your neck and screams. You see him screaming, with a bat to your neck. It's an aerial shot. He is sitting on the hood of his car with you held tightly to his chest.
Cut to his face. The screaming stops and you see him let go of the bat. The sound of it hitting the pavement echoes. You are limp against his body. He looks around the lot and then at you. He lifts you up and takes you to the trunk. There is a shot from inside the trunk as it closes. Then there is darkness.
But you do not want it to end there. You want a shot of him driving through the empty lot with every pole light flickering, turning on just as he drives away. You want the road he drives on to be dark save for his passing. You now, in your present state, want the lights to light his way and find his beauty. As he drives down this road, searching for your resting place. ¶ 10:59 AM 3 comments
"I don't know," said Tennis. "I don't remember any such thing."
"Where did you get it?" the doctor said. "You'd better tell me."
"Well, it could have been during the ball game," said Tennis. "I guess it was during the ball game. Some dude blew me while I was watching the ball game. I don't know who it was. I mean if I'd known who it was I would have killed him, but I was so interested in the game that I didn't notice. I love baseball."
"You didn't slip it up somebody's ass in the shower," [sic] said the doctor.
"Well, if I did it was by accident. We only get showers once a week and for a man, a tennis champion, who takes showers three or four times a day, when you only get into the shower once a week it's very confusing. You get dizzy. You don't know what's going on. Oh, if I knew, sir, I'd tell you. If I'd known what was going on I would have hit him, I would have killed him. That's the way I am. I'm very high-strung.'"
John Cheever
