Текст книги "The Fuck-Up"

Автор книги: Arthur Nersesian

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

TWO

The F trainstopped at the Carroll Street station in Brooklyn. Once again, I was off to stay with Helmsley. His apartment was the only place I could go without having to ask permission; I had his key. Neither of us had any immediate family, so we were brother orphans.

He also happened to be one of the most intelligent and determined people I had ever known: he was one of the youngest people ever to attain a professorship at Bryn Mawr. I later learned that he was also one of the youngest professors ever dismissed from Bryn Mawr. Helmsley said they found him a threat to convention; an old colleague quietly confided that it was psychological instability.

I had met him on the F train two years earlier. He was reading Ulick Varange’s book Imperium.It was a very hard book to find and few knew about it. Whether it was worth getting or knowing about was another question. He claimed that it was a mild poly-philosophical work but it was wonderful prose satire. When I asked him how he could dismiss a poly-philosophical work as satirical prose, he explained that he viewed our present era as nothing more than a retrenched “Age of Reason.” He showed a preference toward the animist perspective, which preserved the life-force, to man’s harnessing perspective, which was simply a castrating method analysis.

And we spent the night riding around on the F train with him usually talking and me usually listening. I had a lot more patience back then and was easily dazzled by bullshit.

Beyond maintaining his life functions, Helmsley spent almost all his time on two activities: writing and reading. He explained to me that he used to write more than he read but lately the scale had been tipping the other way. He had had two thick and confusing books of poetry published in an extremely limited and costly edition by the now-defunct Necro Publications.

Helmsley claimed that the two works quelled all further desires to be published. But occasionally I’d find form rejections in the garbage can, and I strongly suspected him of being a closet submitter. He actually had a decent reputation as a reviewer and had a growing reputation as a translator. Inexplicably he regarded this as hack work, published under a pseudonym, and never boasted about a publication.

He still wrote and wasn’t shy about the creative process. When he was working on a project, you knew it. He would completely immerse himself in the subject. Although everything was poetic in form, he was paying more and more attention to different cultures through history. He would frequent the museums, attend seminars, study languages, and although he never did, he always longed to visit the subject country. Usually he tried the next best thing, which was re-creating the psycho/eco/politico/-environment and wrestling with the questions that might occupy one of his poetic foils.

He took this study to all ends. One time, while he was studying revolutionary France, he spent a week attempting to re-create the heartburn and gastritis of the time. Could a mushy crepe significantly contribute enough fury to provoke a revolution? I did my own cooking that week.

Due to the ten-percent money-market return that existed in 1983, in which he had invested his parental inheritance minus only the pittance that he lived on, he was actually able to save a little each month and had no need for a job.

“Just from the garbage America throws out,” he once said, “one could live like a well-to-doer in a third-world country.”

His thrift often breached into pettiness. His rent controlled apartment was stocked with charitably resold bargains, irregular discounts, and damaged goods. He pedalled an old cast-iron bike around the town, and his pockets were usually lined with hurriedly snatched packets of sugar and other assorted sealed condiments which he would habitually take when the opportunity arose.

Although he was a passionate lover of all arts, literature was what he tried to produce. To hear him casually rattle off a favorite passage or stanza in which each intonation had been rehearsed to a grace—I would imagine it was like listening to Caruso sing his favorite opera. He easily could sound pompous but he was actually very modest. In fact, he preferred relating to the arts alone. On those occasions when I bore witness, he seemed to go beyond propriety with his eyes rolling and his body swaying like a Shaker in a spiritual fit. I’d get nervous, and try to snap him out of it.

I would usually see a lot of Helmsley for a couple of weeks and then a stretch of time would pass without so much as a phone call. I hadn’t spoken to him for at least two months, but whenever we resumed our friendship it carried an instant familiarity as if only a day had gone by He always seemed glad to see me and always had a place on his couch if I needed a bunk. When we first met, I was writing my premature memoir. He was impressed by the idea, and the amount of time and attention I was giving to it. Because of that I think that he convinced himself I would someday be a bona fide writer.

The subway screeched into the Carroll Street station. It was cold and late and my arms were full with my belongings as I trudged to Helmsleys house. When I knocked on his door, he mindlessly threw it open wide. Despite his under-heated apartment, he was completely nude and bathing in sweat. In his right hand was an old Modern Library copy of Light in August.When I first met Helmsley he explained how he had put together his own anthology of selections and which, for the sheer pleasure of reading, he would reread, again and again.

“You mean you just reread excerpts? Is it fair to take a work out of context like that?”

“When you want to hear a song, do you feel compelled to always listen to an entire album?” The particular tune that I had walked in on was the last two pages of Chapter Eighteen—the execution and castration of Joe Christmas. It was high on Helmsleys hit list.

“What’s up?” he asked as soon as I dumped all my worldly goods onto his hard couch.

“Sarah gave me the old farewell.”

“What happened?”

“I fucked up.”

“You got into a fight?”

I went into his kitchen, filled a glass with water, emptied it in a gulp, and replied, “No, I transgressed.”

He stopped asking questions and just gave me a wide-eyed expression.

“I drew water from the well of another.”

“I hope she was worth it.”

“That, I’ll never know.” He gave me another of his curious expressions.

“Are you telling me that you lost everything for her and you didn’t even score?”

I lay on my smelly worldly possessions. “It was a turgid punishment; a flaccid crime.”

Helmsley marched back into the living room fully dressed in his second-hand clothes. “I was about to go for a walk. You’re invited if you like.”

I needed to stew for a while, so he left. I turned off the lamp and thought about Sarah. I had always wanted to believe that love was a hypnotic and sustained state of lust, respect, etc., but that never happened with Sarah or anybody else. We did have a good relationship. Sarah was a nice, attractive, intelligent girl. We functioned well together. To be young and alone in New York City meant you either had to have a lot of parental assistance or have a lot of luck, and I had neither. Entry-level salaries for most good jobs could not pay for basic living expenses. Unless you wanted a quirky roommate, the economy encouraged you to find a lover. Sarah and I complemented each other well. We were emotionally matched and although things never got too sweet, they never got too sour.

At first, as always, the sex was sublime, but after a couple of months that petered out, and if we were lucky, which was about once every two weeks, one of us would discover or rediscover some novel aspect that would serve as arousing. We enjoyed each others sense of humor and knew each others moods, and how to provide mutual comfort. But also I think we both understood that appreciation grew with distance and every so often a controlled neglect was healthy.

But I had damaged the works and proved myself the adulterer and probably gave the impression that I didn’t give a damn about her. All I could do was sit there and brood.

Soon Helmsley returned and attempted to start me talking. “So what did you mean when you said you lost your job?”

“I got canned.” I was preoccupied and didn’t feel much like elaborating.

“Why?”

“I forget, I was implicit or something like that. I don’t want to think about it now.”

“Well, excuse my persistence, but how will you live?”

“Are you kidding? With a year of ushering under my belt I can go anywhere.”

“I know an opening as a packer at the Goya plant.” It was a warehouse near his house.

“Look, I’m still basking in disgust and self-pity. Can we rebuild my life tomorrow?”

He thoughtfully retired to his room, but before turning out his light, he placed a half-full bottle of Scotch on the night table along with an old shoe-box filled with K-Tel hits of the seventies that he had purchased through a TV commercial. “If you’re going to listen to mood music, do it on the headphone, and if you want to cry do it in the pillow.” And then he left.

I thought for a while about the real tragedy of the breakup. Of course, it was deeply rooted in vanity; I had slowly regained a normalcy that I had lost years ago when I first left my parental home. Under Sarah’s tutelage, I had been redeveloping healthy habits like brushing my teeth and hair. I was also sleeping and eating well. I had lost the bulge of pounds that I acquired when I first came to the city. I was going to NYU Dental School for cut-rate, semi-annual checkups and, most of all, I was finally conquering that Himalayan peak of unlaundered clothing. Once a week I would push all my things—which were presently sprawled along Helmsley’s couch—into a seventy-five-cent machine and read a magazine. Everything was slowly coming together; a decency was winning; people were slowly coming to treat me with more respect; I was in less general pain and was finding greater comforts. I even thought more lucidly. As the mercenary and the maniac were slowly being exorcised from me, life was becoming both more peaceful and productive. For not even a nipple’s pinch, I’d lost it all. Strapping the headphones over my scalp and taking a painfully long guzzle of that mouthwash Scotch, I listened to an unknown band singing depressing tunes of the seventies.

The next morning, I got up slowly and found a note from Helmsley informing me that he had gone to some arcane exhibit. I showered and began to shave, but after doing significant damage to my features I conceded I was still too wobbly. With Helmsleys toothbrush I scrubbed my teeth. Closing my eyes I must have dozed as my hand mechanically kept brushing. When I came to a moment later and tiredly inspected myself in the mirror, my face was snagged with nicks and my traumatized gums were lined with blood. I cleaned up, dressed slowly, and boarded the F train, returning to Manhattan.

While on the train, I thought about my imminent grand appeal. First, I would beg for my job back, and next I’d explain to Sarah that one misadventure didn’t warrant a breakup. One sexual excursion was the permitted allowance in any modern relationship, and I hadn’t even gotten that.

Once back in the East Village, I called Sarah but only got the dispassionate recording. I figured that she was probably there and a whiny plea would only alert her that I was back on the prowl. I still had her key, so I decided to go straight to her house. It was late in the afternoon and now that school was over, there was no reason that she shouldn’t be at home. When I finally reached her apartment, I knocked politely. When there was no answer, I tried inserting my key in the lock.

In the few business hours that I had slept through that morning, she had called a locksmith and had her lock cylinder changed. It was only then that I realized the unshakeability of her resolution. I got pissed and started to kick the door, but after a while I calmed myself and decided to leave a note: “All is not as bad as it seems. I swear that in the course of our relationship, I never made love to anyone but you. If you don’t believe me you can ask the popcorn girl. I love you dearly and it pains me that you won’t even talk to me. I am staying at Helmsleys. Please give me a call when you can. I love you.”

When I left her building, I was so confident that everything was repaired that I marched full steam over to the cinema to reclaim my lost job. When I got there, I asked the box office girl if I could see Pepe. She spoke to him on the intercom and then said go right in. As I passed through the theater, I saw some new kid holding a flashlight and laughing at the film. He had obviously just been hired to fill my spot. When he noticed me heading for the office, he intervened.

“What the hell do you want?”

“Pepe,” I replied.

“Oh, you’re Pepe.” He didn’t even have the brains to figure out that I was probably too young to own a theater.

“I’m sorry boss, go ahead.” This kid wasn’t going to last the week. Pepe was at his desk reading something when I opened his door. Without looking up he asked, “What is it?”

“Pepe, if I could have my job back …”

“No.”

“Just hear me out. I can work twice as hard and you can even lower my pay. How’s that?”

“No.”

“But look, it would be a better example, because if you just fire me I might go and get another job with better pay. But this way you can degrade me and then people will never think twice about even asking for a raise.”

“No.”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll work here for two weeks free and then you can decide.”

Pepe thought about it a moment and then in the same bland tone repeated, “No.”

He never told me to leave; for that matter he didn’t even have the decency to look up from whatever he was reading. He just kept repeating that word. As I despondently retreated down the stairs, the usher who had effortlessly replaced me dashed up.

“Are you having a good day, boss?”

“No, you’re fired.”

“What?”

“You’re fired, now get the hell out of here!” I yelled. By being so available he had conspired in getting me fired.

“But…but…” Inarticulation turned to rage. I watched his face turn red and redder. He was taking it even worse than I had.

“I’m fired, huh? I’m fired, huh?” he screamed in duplicate. I promptly realized my cruelty. But he was quicker in reprisal than I was in rectification. Instantaneously he grabbed his jacket and dashed into the lobby.

“Wait a second,” I said, and pursued. I was about to hire him back, but before I could I heard the sudden crash. Rushing out to the lobby, I saw that he had toppled the new cigarette machine to the floor, and before dashing off he yelled, “Go fuck yourself!”

“What the hell is going on!” Pepe appeared a moment later amidst a crowd that had formed around the smashed machine. He asked the candy girl what had happened.

“Da new usher, he say … he say bam! to dat machine and den he say go fuck you and den he run off.”

Pepe was confused. The new guy was working out well. All were baffled. I felt bad. With nothing else to do, I slowly walked down the Bowery and over the Brooklyn Bridge to Helmsley’s house.

Fumbling for the key outside his door, I could hear Helmsley within, holding some frantic kind of recitation. I knocked. Letting me in, he interrupted me before I could tell him about the theater mishap.

“I have bad news for you.”

“What?”

“Well about a half an hour ago, Sarah called.” He paused with a bleak expression. “She told me she got your note and that she didn’t care to see you again.”

“What?”

“She said that this seemed like a good place to end the relationship considering she was going to graduate school and all.”

“She told you this?”

“Well, I told her to speak to you; I said that I really didn’t want to get involved in all this.”

“And what did she say?”

“Just that if I didn’t take the message, you’d never find out.”

“Didn’t you plead my case at all?”

“’Course I did, I told her that you truthfully told me that you never screwed that little candy tramp and that underneath it all you were one of the finest people I had ever known.”

“What do you mean underneath it all?”

“You know, underneath all the crap that life does to us.”

“And what did she say?”

Helmsley sighed. “It didn’t go well. Why don’t you come with me tonight? Find a new girlfriend.”

“What did she say when you told her I was one of the finest people you know?”

“She said that I could have you.”

“She said that?”

“Well, that and more.”

“What more?”

Well, if you insist, she said that after a month of living with you, I’d get to know…”—he looked up a moment and recounted each adjective on his fingertips—“…the snot-nosed…egotistical little cocksucker…that she had to put up with all these months. She also made it clear that she didn’t want to see you again. I don’t remember that part exactly. She might’ve just been in a disagreeable mood but I think she despises you.”

I dropped to the couch. I was a snot-nosed, egotistical little cocksucker? “Did she actually say all those things verbatim or was that just the gist of it?”

“Look, I’m going to a very promising party tonight. Why don’t you come along?”

“No thanks.”

“Look, there will be other people there like Sarah, other girls.”

“I’m in no mood for a party.” I felt hollow. We had lived together all these months. I had no idea she had been bottling up all that hostility.

“You’ve got to come with me,” Helmsley insisted. “I have no intention of coming home tonight and finding you dead in the tub. That once happened to me, you know. I found someone dead in my tub.” He went on to inform me that I’d be able to exchange my sob story for a date with any girl there.

“Try to get a tear in your eye by the time you come to the part about how your girlfriend dumped you and how you’re a frustrated, unemployed orphan. It’ll be a clincher.”

All of last night’s mouthwash Scotch was gone. If they had nothing else at academic parties, they had booze. They needed it to loosen up. I was about to complete the shaving job that I brutally initiated that morning, but Helmsley stopped me. “Don’t even comb your hair.”

“Why not?”

“You haven’t got a chance for the slick look. You’re going after the shaggy dog appeal. If you’re trying to show that you’re a mess you’ve got to look and act like it. So let’s go.” We both grabbed our jackets and were gone.

We took the F train to Fourteenth Street and walked through the long uriney tunnel that passed from Sixth to Seventh Avenue. There, we took the IRT up to Columbia-land, 116th and Broadway. It was the winter intercession for most schools. This particular party was a graduate affair filled with doctoral candidates, master’s students, all affiliated with Columbia’s anthropology department—enthusiasts of mal-developed skull fragments found around Kenyan lakes.

At first I tried. I found girls who reminded me the most of Sarah personalitywise and tried to joke around comfortably with them. I panicked about the shaggy dog appeal, matted down my hair and small-talked with one young protégée of Margaret Meade who, when she asked me about myself, I provided a thickly veiled description of the truth. “I was just transferred”—instead of fired—“from my job at a corporate law firm”—instead of stinking movie theater—and had “recently moved into my own apartment”—instead of being dumped by my girlfriend…and so on. She quickly dusted around the old bones of truth and realized that my tale of mediocrity was actually of woe. Instead of a safe bet I was a loser.

I drank some alcohol and looked for prospective girls while considering a new approach. Tolstoy—Helmsley had informed me—before marrying his wife, Sophia, had let her read his hold-nothing-back journals to show her that he was just another slime bag. It was a deliberate effort to destroy any romantic notions his eighteen-year-old bride might have of him. This was my next strategy my new approach. I sat down alongside my next victim, who was standing innocently alone by a partly opened window, unprotected. I quickly introduced myself and launched into the new approach, “Isn’t this something?”

“What?”

“My girlfriend dumps me, I lose my job and apartment, and it’s the third anniversary of my being an orphan.”

“Poor you,” she replied sympathetically. It was working.

“I tried to sleep with another girl, but that’s another story. See here,” I pointed to my raw gums that I overbrushed earlier, “and here.” I pointed to the barely visible cracks in my facial flesh. “I felt so bad last night about her leaving me that I got drunk this morning and then I woke up and did this to myself.”

“Oh,” she replied.

“My father died in a plane crash, but don’t feel sorry for me,” I remarked.Some guy wearing a turban heard me. He joined us uninvited, holding two drinks.

“A plane crash?” he said, “Oh, my!” He handed his girlfriend one drink, and she pointed to my gums and jowls and informed him about my recent misfortunes. I excused myself as they continued their conversation about me. I drank some more, but I didn’t really try socializing. I think stories started circulating about me. I think someone pointed at me. Eventually a bevy of cute girls entered together. They couldn’t have heard about me yet. They were dressed to the hilt, hair cut and colored like tropical birds, with the smells of perfumes named after TV stars. I shagged up my hair again and introduced myself to the most extreme of them. She was a delightfully perfumed pet who said she was in her last year at FIT, and then she asked me what I did. Confident that the new approach was working, I replied truthfully, “Unemployed, unconnected and unmotivated.” She was uninterested and vanished. With that strike, I was out. I promised Helmsley I wouldn’t pull a Jim Morrison in his bathtub and left.