131 Different Things Read online

  Francis yelled, “HEY! FLANNERY!”

  Flannery and Big Timmy were right behind Blake.

  “HEY! FLANNERY! Guess what!” I called, pointing two triggered fingers at Blake. “Bland here is schtupping Vicki.” Then I waved. “See ya!”

  I was already running alongside Francis. I didn’t care how it looked. I heard something hit something that sounded like ham on concrete. Running was within code as the ugliness that was about to happen was the kind that brought cops.

  We stopped around the corner and I leaned into Francis. The freezing air burned my throat and I pulled Vicki’s scarf over my mouth to breathe through. It smelled of beer and spittle and Altoids.

  “What the fuck? Do you think Vicki would do that?”

  Francis poured more of his coke onto the webbing between his index finger and thumb, brought it to his nostril. “Anybody will do anything. Always.” He looked up at me seriously, wiped his face up and down from his hairline to his chin, paying extra attention to his eyes. “No, wait . . . Everybody will do everything. ALWAYS.”

  He offered me the almost-empty baggie. I waved it away. When we were dating, I didn’t mind the thought of Vicki fucking someone else. I acted jealous on occasion because I thought she’d look down on me if I didn’t. But now that I wasn’t there, the one she’d go home to, I was madly jealous. Jealous and wide awake to the infinite world of cocks that had been invisible or merely theoretical. Revelation was a feral bitch.

  “I need to talk to Vicki, Francis. I need to talk to Vicki.”

  five

  places

  I went

  to be

  alone

  1 New York 2001

  2 hong kong 2013

  3 marrAkeCH 2011

  4 hong kong 2013

  5 New York 2013

  seven bars

  one nightclub

  one loft

  & a diner

  1

  (AGAIN)

  When Vicki walked out, after less than half a year of what I considered total bliss, it was the first time in my adult life I’d been dumped, and not just dumped but completely Batman’ed upon: no note, just a sharp “Goodbye, Sam” that I’d declined to believe; left the apartment for me to ride out the lease; erased me on MySpace and Facebook (which I’d just joined to make her happy). I soon realized that she wasn’t even going to pick up the clothes that she’d left behind, so I made pillows of them, spread them over the bed like a child’s stuffed animals. She told mutual friends that I was “emotionally unavailable” and, worse, “in sexual and spiritual stasis.” So I started going to AA meetings. Well, actually, to coffee shops and bars near AA meetings. I didn’t know what meetings she was going to, and I wasn’t a stalker. I’d just hang out across the street from church basements, from the West Village to Williamsburg, drinking coffee, watching people with problems, people with problems who were actively looking for solutions. And I should mention, AA was like NA in the eighties; people were good-looking. I mean, from across the street. I saw some really attractive girls. And a lot of guys I used to know. They looked great too. Sobriety lent some of these dudes a wolfishness that they’d lacked when they were sloshing along Avenue A.

  I also went to Film Forum by myself a lot. Really caught up with all the depressing things that had happened in Eastern Europe for the last forty years.

  There were also days when Sanita and Sarita had to come to my apartment—our apartment—and throw me in the shower to get me to work on time. I was a wreck, but I ascribed it to everything else besides Vicki. I hollered about principle, about back rent, about Sanita and Sarita’s failure to fully appreciate what I was going through. I may have even thrown out the fact that I’d left my wife for Vicki. Not sure what kind of sympathy I was hoping to gain there. Francis used to laugh into a half-full bottle of Maker’s Mark when I got on that jag and change the channel. I had four channels. The cable was disconnected. The cable box was smashed. When I walked to the nearby Internet café, my e-mails were short. I only wrote to Vicki. None returned. She was gone from all social media, like a monk or zealot. I cried whenever Francis went out to get more cigarettes. I kept the apartment far longer than I could afford.

  Then I stopped missing her. I mean, I thought I did. I should have taken it as a sign that I didn’t even sleep around and then pull the classic “I’m not over my ex” as an excuse to not call. Done right, girls will even thank you for your honesty. But I bothered no ladies with my penis and lies. So I figured I was dully mature as far as that went. Hearing Vicki was back tonight made me miss her again as if the island of Manhattan was tipped and broken like the Titanic, and there I was, romantic and cold, really, really cold, standing on the top. I was sinking but it felt more exciting than life had been in months.

  “Sam, I don’t like you right now.”

  “What?” Francis was being very strange and not making fun of me. We were walking quickly west but he wasn’t making jokes and, most worrying of all, he wasn’t swerving.

  “I’m the one who’s supposed to be a jerk about girls. You’re supposed to be nice or at least pretend to be nice.”

  “I am nice!”

  “Well, for a guy who left his wife for a teenager, sure. For a guy who dropped all his friends when he was enraptured, sure. You talk a good game and it’s one I value. I need a self-righteous friend because otherwise I’m sure to die by choking on someone else’s vomit. I need you to be boring. And when Sara’s mom died and you didn’t say anything because you were too sad and then wouldn’t go to the memorial Sara threw because you didn’t want to run into Vicki—”

  “I didn’t want to make a scene! I was hurting.”

  “Yeah, okay, but, you know, one way to not make a scene and still be there for your friends is to, you know, just not make a fucking scene. And that’s all fine. Really. Because you’re the feelings guy in this partnership and I’m the bad boy and it’s okay if I had to take a backseat when you were with Vicki and put up with a professional crybaby afterward. But then it’s important that your PC front of feminist tut-tutting is maintained. If you’re going to be rude to Aviva and shitty about big-boobed bartenders, which is my job, then I don’t know. I just don’t know what’s happening.”

  Francis was red in the face. I hadn’t seen him show so much emotion in years. It really got my attention. The first time Francis slept with a girl in our scene and then blew her off, we were in our teens. She was a little older and booked basement shows that Francis played. Francis was new to being in a popular band and new to how good-looking he could be. He didn’t do anything terrible, strictly speaking, but she was hurt. She told people he was a shit, but, this being hardcore and the world, everyone sided with Francis. No one wanted to hear about it. But I was truly angry and I confronted him and made him apologize, for whatever that was worth.

  Now Francis said I was violating the spirit of grand adventure, that romantic heroes weren’t supposed to be small-dicked in spirit, that I had to step my game up, bring love to the hoop, stop being so garden-variety.

  “You done?” I asked. He’d gotten to me, and he knew it. I’d fallen into habits I’d once despised. It was too much to apologize for. Luckily, apologies weren’t really our thing.

  “Yeah.” He looked at his phone. We were almost back at Pym’s, where Sara Seventeen had gone after her swing shift at Ironweed, and where, according to the twenty texts Francis had received, she was planning to drink every flavor of vodka and make out with Virgil until Francis came to collect her.

  “Well. Rest assured that I’ve been judging you harshly all along too.”

  Francis sighed. “Perfect. Just be better than me. That’s all I ask.”

  Pym’s Cup was having a late-night lull. All the stools were taken but there was room to move. Virgil was playing with Sara Seventeen’s hair and Sara looked like she might have been crying, but with the weather outside and the heat in the bar, so did most of the girls. Maybe they had been; people could be cruel.

&nb
sp; Virgil slid us each a Jameson and a beer before moving down the bar. I moved with him to give Francis and Sara a little alone time.

  “Virgil, I’ll tip for Francis and myself. He hates you right now.”

  “Oh, that white nigga is stupid. I started touching on Sara when I saw you nerds coming. She’s not my type. I won’t fuck a girl who can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery. My mom would kill me.”

  “Right. My mistake. You keep a strict covenant.”

  “Well, it ain’t exactly sacrosanct. But that’s Francis’s girl. I know that. Don’t matter if she is currently not on his dick. She will be again, and forever, amen.”

  “Amen. Virgil, I can’t find Vicki. I feel like I’m losing it.”

  We’d gotten down to Sanita and Sarita’s end of the bar. At the sound of Vicki’s name, they both emitted low moans, followed by a “Still!? Fuck!” in unison. Then they yelled, “Jinx! Buy me a Coke!” at each other and clinked glasses. I knew they were really on my side. They’d have frozen me out by now if they weren’t. I was lucky to have such stalwarts in my corner. Drunk Fireman came out of one the bathrooms and patted me on the back too hard.

  Virgil said, “Sam is getting existential about his MIA pussy. His heart is breaking. Let’s do shots.”

  Sarita leaned into Drunk Fireman. Large as she was, he dwarfed her.

  Sanita said, “Virgil, I can’t believe you’re still standing. Last round. Seriously this time.” I could tell she’d been saying that for a while.

  Virgil made a round of something weak and lemony. Customers were yelling at him, and even compounding cardinal rule violation 1,001 by waving money at him. I avoided eye contact so they didn’t mistake me for someone on their team just because I was on their side of the bar. Want prompt service in this world? Know someone, idiot.

  There was a crash of broken glass and we all looked. Francis was shouting. “I love you! I fucking love you!” at Sara Seventeen. He picked her up by the waist and put her on the bar, knocking over her drinks. Sara laughed and wrapped her legs around him. She bit his neck. The entire bar held its breath and watched Francis put his hand up her skirt.

  “I haven’t wiped the bar in hours,” Virgil said.

  We did our shots. Francis carried Sara to the bathroom and yelled over his shoulder, “Sam, I believe in love again! As soon as we’re done in here, we’ll go find Vicki! Watch the door!”

  I put my scarf on the bar. I thought about Seb and Bland and Patterson. It was no great thrill to contemplate what they had and I didn’t. Even Virgil got recognized on the street by skateboarding trainspotters. He got flown all over the country because people liked his fucking blog. He was someone. I had one picture in one skate book and I hadn’t been paid for it and I was pretty sure I’d been included only out of a larger, more universal sense of pity that I could only hope to someday tap into again. I was a blogless moron, unlovable by reasonable standards. I hadn’t wasted my potential. Potential had passed me by, preferring the company of other men.

  When Sara and Francis emerged twenty minutes later, I had gotten thoroughly anxious again. The clock was ticking on my salvation. I at least needed to visualize and then actualize the kind of success that Francis and Sara Seventeen shared so audibly. I rushed into the bathroom after their exit and relieved myself while Francis held the door for me and shared a cigarette with Sara. At that point, what mattered? I came out and dried my hands on Francis’s sleeve.

  “Okay, Sam. Meatpacking District.”

  Sara grabbed me. Her just-fucked (or something akin to it) flush got to me. Bodies are wildly attractive when you know what they’re capable of. I had to remind myself not to lean into her.

  “I want Francis back in an hour,” she said. “Bring him back to me or I’ll cut your balls off.” She reapplied my scarf and tightened it.

  seven

  salad

  days

  1–2 brooklyn 2000

  3 brooklyn 1996

  4 brooklyn 2001

  5 New York 1996

  6 New York 2004

  7 brooklyn 1998

  seven bars

  one nightclub

  one loft

  & a diner

  9

  Waiting in line at East Egg sucked. I was stewing. Francis was stewing. Standing in line to get into a club is not something that lends itself to inspiring introspection. The soul is diminished and the company is irritating. It’s easy enough to see why they’re not getting in. And if one is honest with oneself, it’s easy enough to see why the people getting in ahead are getting in ahead. They are more attractive, famous, or cool. You can tell yourself that the door guy is a fool, that money talks, and that if there was justice in the world, you’d be inside, being fellated by management. But if you can’t stand the system, and the violence inherent to it, then you have no business going to a club. Stay home, play some nice house music, put the TV to static.

  Or wait in line.

  Francis somewhat subtly finished his coke. He and I were moving quickly through a new pack of Camel Lights. Quicker still thanks to the losers bumming cigarettes off of us. Some of them were attractive and, really, neither of us smoked anymore.

  Francis mused, “There used to be white people in this town worth knowing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Look, I’m as racist as the next guy, no doubt, but I know people should move to a city to ape the blacks and the gays. I’m for that. Electroclash didn’t bother me. I got tipped in more pills and BJs than I knew what to do with. But this? All these Stephen Stills–looking motherfuckers with their V-necks that seem to go lower every year, talking like they’re black? No thanks.”

  We were in a line of about forty people. Most of the men were white, facially scruffy, expensively hoofed. In the summer, old-man hats and V-neck T-shirts had been de rigueur for straight men who deejayed or graphic-designed. Even in the cold, some clubgoers were holding onto the look. Their gold hoop earring–wearing girlfriends pressed their pale skin up against the fur of the men’s unzipped hoods. An Escalade drove by pumping Biggie and one of hippies started singing along. “It was all a dream.” Then it was all of them, in unison. I knew all the words too. I felt so ashamed.

  “And you KNOW these cocksuckers are banging out their girlfriends to white music. The whitest. Coldplay. Nobody means anything.”

  He discreetly fed himself a fresh bump, from a bag I didn’t know he had. “Somebody needs to tear down the veil on these chumps. Their concerns are too varied.”

  “In the land of the dilettante, the dedicated hobbyist is king.”

  “Hodgepodgers to the last. The hodgepodge has many tricks and they all fucking suck.”

  “Agreed, but chill on that race shit. Seriously.” I was glad his anger had moved from my failings to his usual foil of Hipsters Who Are Not Us, but I was also taking to faith his request that I go back to being a scold.

  Francis rolled his eyes. “Grow up, Sam. I was making a point. And that shit isn’t racist anymore. Black people told me.”

  “Anecdotal evidence can’t set policy, dude.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Fine. Fuck it. Do what your racist ass wants. I don’t care.”

  A girl behind us was describing a deli in her neighborhood as “totally ghetto.” Francis gave her and her boyfriend a hostile stare. They didn’t notice. They probably had their own bags of white powder in their pockets to insulate their worldview. There were veins of ice all over the sidewalk but nobody in the line was shivering.

  I said, “Man, I can’t believe Vicki would get with Bland, that fresh-faced goon. His cheekbones hate Jews. I didn’t think I hated him as much as I hated Flannery, but maybe I do. Vicki has terrible taste.”

  “Present company excluded?”

  “It’s like, I like slutty girls. Sure. Girls know I like slutty girls. Girls know that I have the capacity to truly love and desire, even once marry, a slutty girl. So what does that do to a girl’s self-esteem when I really love them? Sometime
s being an asshole can just creep up on you.” I took a drag on my cigarette. “I hope Bland didn’t get killed.”

  Francis said, “That right there’s your problem. In a fucking nutshell. Some dude loves your girl up and down, excuse me, and you hope he’s not dead? Fuck that. Hope he’s dead. I do. And I don’t even care.”

  We’d been in line about twenty minutes. Neither Francis nor I were accustomed to waiting in lines. We knew people or we didn’t go. All our friends were at bars where there were no lines and we were here. With no respite in sight. There were two doormen like there usually were, one white and one black. The yin and yang of the universe providing balance and order to Saturday night. The black man had his hand on the velvet rope. He was the muscle. The white man had a clipboard and a phone. He was the mouth of judgment. Together they were the godhead. They seemed miles away.

  “There’s something about a grown man with a clipboard that makes me want to kill,” Francis said.

  “That’s why you’re never getting into heaven.”

  “Fuck you. I am. You can be my plus-one.”

  We lit another cigarette.

  If the Underground was avoided for its cheesiness or inauthenticity, then East Egg was avoided for the opposite. It got too many things right. It was only a year old and wasn’t built with staying power in mind. It was a Futurist painting, grabbing every movement currently in vogue and throttling the juice out of it. The bartenders were mixologists and had Doc Holliday armbands. It was difficult to get a drink without ginger or something “muddled.” The bathroom attendant was a former Tompkins Square Park bench character. I didn’t like that he was in there shucking and jiving napkins and peanut M&Ms for a bunch of society-page interns whose claim to fame was that they’d blown Julian Schnabel’s ski instructor in ’02, been an extra on a Showtime series, or, more likely, were just born rich and running with it, from Vassar to publishing to marriage. Those were the women. The men were mostly deejays and party promoters.