Chapter 11 #2
He isn’t embarrassed by the admission, and that does surprise me, though I’m not sure why.
Perhaps it’s because of the football. Even though nothing I’ve observed has given me the impression he’s wild, the fact that he used to play quarterback implies the kind of mental toughness and machismo usually associated with debaucherous nights and frat parties.
I tell him I like early nights too, though I’m not completely sure whether it’s true or not.
It’s been so long since I’ve been out voluntarily that I can’t remember if I enjoy it or not.
I tell him I have a sister named Caroline, and what my parents do for a living.
I make no mention of the fact that they’re currently worried sick about me and don’t know where I am, and I sprinkle just enough personal peccadillos to be believable as a prospective roommate.
Because it seems relevant, I ask if he drinks or smokes, and he says no.
“Never?” I check, almost hoping he’ll trip himself up.
“Not anymore,” he says firmly. He has one arm slung over the arm of the sofa and the other resting in his lap.
He looks so relaxed and unaffected that I start wondering whether he’s purposefully trying to project that image of himself.
“I don’t mind if you drink, but I don’t want to live with a smoker. ”
“I don’t smoke,” I tell him. He bobs his head as though he’s proud of me. “Do you take drugs?”
It’s a stupid question to ask someone who doesn’t drink or smoke, but I don’t care. I want to know. Need to know.
“Yeah,” he chuckles like he’s making a joke I’m not in on. “I take lots of drugs, but don’t worry, I have prescriptions for all of ’em.”
I ignore that and pepper him with questions about his dietary preferences and workout routines. When I’ve asked everything I can possibly think of, I look around the room, taking in all the little things he’s arranged on the tall shelf behind the dining table.
“You have a lot of shi…stuff,” I say rather redundantly.
“Yeah. I do.” He looks at me and holds my gaze a lot longer than strictly required.
His expression is composed, bordering on serene one second, and then it’s not.
A tiny trace of menace or mirth flickers in his eyes.
Pale blue-green lights up. “What can I tell you?” he adds without a hint of apology, “I like beautiful things.” My face goes uncomfortably hot.
I have no idea how to respond to that, but it doesn’t seem to matter.
He keeps talking. “Want to see something cool?”
“Sure,” I reply, though given everything he’s told me about himself, I’m pretty sure he’s playing it fast and loose with the word.
He gets up and walks over to the shelf I was just looking at, the one behind the dining table, and lifts a tall, narrow glass cloche dome.
He puts it aside and retrieves the small China teacup it encased.
He comes back to the sofa holding it in both hands.
He sits next to me, curling a leg under himself, and holds out the cup to show it to me.
“When I was a kid, I used to go antiquing with my dad every weekend. I loved it. I loved spending time with my dad, and I loved the antiques. To me, it was like a treasure hunt—a magical experience, steeped in possibility. My dad taught me what to look out for, what to avoid, and how to negotiate pretty much as soon as I learned to talk. We had this deal that when I turned five, I could use my birthday money, find something I loved, and negotiate to buy it all by myself.” He holds the teacup out to me.
I look but don’t touch it in case it’s valuable and I break it.
“I found this. I negotiated and negotiated, and eventually, got it for fifty-seven dollars.”
The cup is small, dwarfed by his hands. Fine white China with blue chickens and a farm scene painted on it.
There’s a big crack running through it that’s been repaired with thick, liberal use of a metallic gold substance.
From the way he’s holding it, and the way his eyes are shining, I can tell it’s valuable.
“What’s it worth?” I ask when curiosity gets the better of me.
“Oh, one, maybe two dollars, if the buyer was being generous.” He laughs, shaking his head at himself.
“I thought it was a chicken cup from the Ming Dynasty. I thought I’d gotten the deal of a lifetime.
Fifty-seven dollars for a cup worth millions.
” He laughs again, a soft, gentle sound without malice or regret.
“Obviously, it’s fake. Not only that, it’s fake and broken. I got totally ripped off.”
I want to express some sort of emotion about the fact that some asshole was happy to rip a kid off like that, but I can’t decide which emotion to land on because he’s still looking at the cup with this shiny, glazed expression.
He loves this crappy teacup.
I don’t get him at all.
“So why do you like it so much?”
“Because I think it’s beautiful. When I look at it, I feel exactly as hopeful as I felt when I was five and I found it.
I feel like the world is full of possibilities, and that good things could happen at any time.
As I’ve gotten older, I see the crack and the shoddy repair differently than I used to.
When I was little, I thought the gold was pretty.
A little sparkle that made the cup blingy.
Now, when I look at it, I see it as a reminder that being broken isn’t always a bad thing. ”
Right.
Well. That’s me done.
I’m barely hanging on here. There’s no way I can handle this kind of shit on top of everything else.