Chapter 8
The whole time I was in Mooney’s office defending you and your scatological children’s book and promising to deal with Angus, I was only half there.
Mostly I was watching the little TV, the security camera footage.
The Dylan was still on, faint, and there you were checking your makeup in a little mirror, nervously facing the possibility of a lonesome night without me.
I needed that, Vail. A sneak peek at you in your own torture chamber. And we did it!
I got out of work, as promised, and we’re on the street.
Arms linked. Heading north to Serendipity, to frozen hot chocolate…
sex. I feel calmer. No more manic Moleskining in my journal like a reporter.
We know each other a little better now, and it feels different.
Like I was right to be so down because now I am so up.
“And that’s another thing,” you say, still grinding about my bossy boss. “Even the way he says your name. Joseph. Such an asshole, and I’m so glad you got outta there.”
I don’t like it when you call him an asshole, but I like your hot pink bra straps. The ones from the night we didn’t make it to Serendipity. You came here to start over. Same outfit, less makeup. “Best part is, Vail…I’m not Joseph. On my birth certificate, it’s plain old Joe.”
You swing my hand and smile. “My middle name is Colorado because I was conceived—”
“In Vail, Colorado.”
The sense of getting closer as you effusively lament your behavior in India.
You’re at your worst with that barista because he reminds you of your parents, who are always going on about some fucking trip.
I quote my favorite line about traveling to San Francisco from A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius and you hold my hand so hard it might break.
“I might have to read that, Joe.”
“Oh no you will not. And there’s no shame, Vail. Everyone poops.”
You squeeze my hand even harder. “You know, Joe, the way you put out the fire with your boss, how you’re so fast on your feet…
” Your voice trails off, and I know where you’re going, where you want us to be, and you’re right.
I will be a really good husband, and you will want to pull on my hair while I fuck you.
And then you blurt, “You’d be a really good assistant. You totally have what it takes.”
I know you mean that as a compliment, but that’s what you do. Not me. Gently, Joseph, and I force a fake smile. “Thanks.”
Silence. Tension. Seren-DO-ME-IN-HOT-CHOCOLATE-AND-CALL-IT-A-LIFE.
“So how long have you worked in that bookstore? It’s so depressing. The angry guy, the hours—I don’t know how you do it.”
“A few years.”
“And how did you meet the old man?”
Can’t tell you that, Vail. Can’t tell you that I was twelve years old when my parents got back together for the millionth time and took off for AC.
On day four with no money and no food, I left the house.
I wandered into Mooney Books, and the “old man” gave me a cold slice of pepperoni and The Catcher in the Rye.
“I dunno. Just kinda happened.”
You shrink a bit, and I’m losing you because girls are curious. That sixth sense, that extra hole, and why oh why can’t we just fucking love people? Why do you want to know all my secrets? Why can’t love mean that you don’t give a fucking fuck about my past?
“Joe…Never mind.”
A puddle in the sidewalk and we break apart, and is that what’s happening to us? “Vail, come on. What’s up?”
“Well, it’s just…I want to know you, you know?”
And I want to fuck you and no one ever really knows anyone and I nod. “Me too.”
“You say that, and I’m sure you mean it, but sometimes it feels like…Okay, like at the Indian place. I know that was shitty on my part. I’m a terrible person.”
We settled this and I don’t know why girls go backward when life goes forward. Push fucking push. “You were just nervous, Sitcom. We’re past that.”
You nod because you need me, because you’re scared of losing me. “The thing is…The whole time we were sitting there…I know you felt sick and all, but I’m telling stories and barista dude is telling stories and…I want your stories, Joe. I do.”
It’s a test. Life is always a test, and you’re doing it.
You’re testing me. Twirling your red scarf like a witch with a scepter.
It’s like that other guidance counselor I had in middle school, the one with a tight perm who said my mother had two days to get me new sneakers.
If I don’t open up to you about something right now, I’m going to lose you.
But it’s not fair. All the stories I have are bad and sad.
No family dinners. No crazy plane rides to places like Turks and Caicos.
You take my hand. “Are you okay?”
I’m sweating and you know it. You feel my sticky palms. “Of course.”
“Phew,” you say. “No pressure, Cusack.”
You hold my hand. Tight. And then your phone rings. You groan. Cynthia.
You take the call, and I wipe my hands on my pants.
“Slow down…. Well, why didn’t you just leave?
Well, I told you. The answering machine is broken…
. Did he leave a voicemail on your cell?
…Cynthia, I did not erase the messages….
You do not have a yeast infection…. It’s okay…
. It’s fine…. I would but…Okay. Okay, just eat something…
. Yes, H?agen-Dazs is a good thing, vanilla…
. Yes, babe, it’s good that it wasn’t Rocky Road or mocha chip…
. You just need to shower…. Yes, okay…. Okay, bye, honey. ”
You hang up. You sigh. “Sorry.”
“Do I wanna know?”
“Ha,” you say. “Well, if I have to know, you do too. She just woke up with some guy and she was glued to the sheets. I guess she blacked out with a quart of ice cream, and they were getting weird with it and…I think I am not in the mood for frozen hot chocolate.”
It’s all I’ve wanted to do since the day you kissed me, but sure. It’s okay for Cynthia to have nothing but bad, sad stories, and yet it’s not okay for me. None of this is okay. “Okay.”
You nudge me. “Don’t worry, Cusack. We’ll get there. We will. But if you’re not okay and you really wanna go…”
I’m not doing a good job with my face. You see the letdown. I put on a happy face. “Sitcom, I mean it. It’s fine.”
You lick those lips, the ones that came for me on Houston and Mercer.
“So obviously, my place is out of the question, but your place…Whaddya say, Cusack? Do you guys have HBO?” You say that like it’s my place, like Dumb and Dumber are my buddies, and nope.
Plus, they’re home tonight. They found new astrology sluts at a frat party.
I can’t let you see my cardboard box with the mattress I pulled off the street.
It’s one thing to get the runs in public, but to be living in a box…
in a cardboard box. It’s the story of my life.
I don’t have a place. Never did. But oh to be with you on a sofa, your boots off, your head on my lap.
“Yep, we can do that.”
You are happy now. You can’t wait to see where I live, but you can’t see where I live. I need to buy time. I point at a diner.
“Oh,” you say. “I’m good with snacks at your place. Or later tonight after…you know, we can order Benny’s Burritos or something.”
That’s code for I WANT YOUR PORTNOY TO FUCK ME SIDEWAYS, and this should be a good thing, a great thing. You want Sex and sex.
“So which way do we go? You said you’re downtown, right?”
I’ve never seen you like this. Openly pawing at me with those big eyes. I am the attraction, and you want me to come, but where are we supposed to go? The subway is two blocks away, but I can’t take you home because I don’t have one, not a real one.
“God,” you say. “I am so that girl, you know? I can’t wait to see pictures of you, baby pictures and school pictures and all that. Yee!”
I can’t show you those things because I don’t have those things, and I thought I was in the clear. In all the books, the girl wants the guy to go to her place. But you…You want my sofa, my bed, my Portnoy, my past. You squeeze my hand. “You okay, Cusack?”
That question again, and I make like a man who knows where he lives. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m just wondering if we should take a cab or the subway.”
“God, I love it up here. It’s like being in a Woody Allen movie, and I keep thinking Nora Ephron is gonna pop up around every corner.
” You lean your head on my shoulder. “But, Joe, seriously, I’m not a princess.
I’m good with the subway. I just want to get to your place in time for the opening credits, you know? ”
No, I don’t know, and why don’t I have a friend?
A buddy who would let me use his place. Cusack has his Piven, and you need a buddy when you’re in a jam.
The temperature is dropping. The clock is ticking.
The traffic sign turns white. Walk. As if I know where the fuck we’re going.
As if I have a home, an apartment, a bathroom without a Dumb and Fucking Dumber poster taped to the wall.
Fix it, Joe. Fix it.
STOP IT, JOE. brEATHE.
All men lie for love. We improvise. Cusack and his sidekick didn’t give up on getting the girl. They went to Bloomingdale’s, and they went to The New York Fucking Times, because when you want the girl, when you need the girl, you do what has to be done.
I take you past the subway, not down its steps, and am I doing this? I am doing this. We turn south down Amsterdam.
It’s a risk, but that jumpy spring in my step is a sign.
I’m manning up, putting love first and going that extra uphill, possibly prison-bound mile for the one I want.
Guys like me have to work with what we have.
And I may not have a nice home, but I do have the code to a good home.
And you are damn well worth the nerves and the paranoia that are the price of fucking admission.
I squeeze a little, just to make sure. “Sorry if I’m a little sweaty.”
“Oh, Joe,” you say, and you swing my arm. Frisky. “Just wait till we get to your place.”