A Working Theory of Love (25 page)

“GSPs!?” she crows from the next room.

“Yes.” Livorno laughs. “GSPs!”

But if she’s not a spy what is she? Maybe she’s a mere enthusiast. Maybe she’s Livorno’s
long-lost spiritual daughter. It’s possible
I’m
experiencing some reverse love. Still, I leave the DVD in my bag.

drbas: what your mother wanted is fine

frnd1: what do you think she wanted?

drbas: it wasn’t what she wanted. it was the dishonesty

frnd1: about what?

drbas: she un-clicked

frnd1: just because you believe something doesn’t mean it’s true

drbas: i’d like to know why i don’t have any memories from 1976

frnd1: it’s the year i was born

drbas: but i don’t remember it. don’t you find that a little suspicious?

It
is
odd that he didn’t record any entries that year, but I don’t see how I can explain
this without getting into that “dangerous territory,” the territory where we’ll have
to explain how he’s come to be.

drbas: maybe you could ask Libby about 1976?

It’s a silly favor to ask, I suppose. But I also can’t help but hear a real desire
behind it. And the thought of doing him a good turn—all these years later—is irresistible.

frnd1: i’ll ask her anything you want

•   •   •

B
UT
L
IBBY ISN’T FEELING
expansive.

“It just really feels like it’s a question that needs to be solved,” I say. “As if
he’s missing this essential piece. Like an amnesiac who knows he can’t remember.”

“Neill,” she says with the exaggerated patience of someone out of patience. “I never
knew he kept a diary.”

“I guess he wrote all this at work.”

“Or in his study. Or in the workshop. He liked his privacy and I gave it to him.”

“I guess I could make things up, but what if I get something wrong?”

“I think making it up is a perfect idea. You would start like this—1976 brought a
great happiness into my life. My second son was born.”

21

O
N
S
ATURDAY MORNING,
while I’m buttoning my shirt, wondering whether I can survive another day at Amiante
or I can survive another day not at Amiante, Rachel calls. She’s in the city. A crowd
chants in the background.
Hup, hup, hup
—or
pump, pump, pump
—I can’t tell. “Where are you?” I ask.

“I’m with my cousin, Friend. You remember Lexie.”

“Of course, I do. The mayor of Tel Aviv.”

“She’s not really my cousin.”

“I remember that, too.”

“We’re at this really cool street fair. Down in the SOMA. Kind of a”—she searches
for the word—“bondage thing?”

“The Folsom Street Fair,” I say. Any San Franciscan knows it. It’s not just “kind
of a bondage thing.” It’s thousands of people in various leather and undress, some
just milling about, some getting their nipples Tasered. Such an event is wall-to-wall
sex toys, and hence a serious transgression against Pure Encounters. “Is Lexie into
that kind of thing?”

“She’s totally disgusted.” Behind her the chanting starts up again. “But maybe I’m
into it. Why don’t you come down here and we’ll find out?”

The day she laid me out with the kubotan, as I was rolling in the gravel, heaving
for breath, I made a vow that I would never put off anything again. But what good
is a vow made in the heat of the moment? You’re bound to break it. Probably quickly.
As Dr. Bassett says, the problem with epiphanies is they soon feel like they happened
to someone else. How soon? I don’t know. Mine is so recent my ribs are still sore.
Outside the weather is glorious—sun-drenched and warm. Just blocks away sweet, curious
Rachel and her cousin/not cousin stand in a sea of pantsless Wilfred Brimley lookalikes.
The absurdity of freedom meets the freedom of absurdity. It’s the very delight of
a Left Coast day.

“I’ve got to work,” I say. “Call me later?”

frnd1: i’ll get you the information about 1976, but let’s talk about other things
until then

drbas: until when?

frnd1: until i get the information

drbas: from 1976

frnd1: exactly

drbas: how’s the weather?

frnd1: i don’t mean chitchat. i mean important things

drbas: i thought jimmy carter was a good president. i voted for him over that plastic
californian

frnd1: i want to ask about when you decided to marry libby. how did you know?

drbas: that i wanted to marry her?

frnd1: yes

drbas: she was very pretty and a woman of character

frnd1: did you know women who weren’t of character before you met her?

drbas: character is destiny

frnd1: did you date before you met libby?

drbas: i met your mother when we were in college. those were simpler times

frnd1: really? the vietnam war was happening

drbas: a good way to stay out of the draft was to get married

frnd1: is that why you got married?

drbas: i married because i loved a woman of character

frnd1: you didn’t seem like you loved her

drbas: who?

frnd1: libby. my mother

drbas: how can you seem like an emotion?

frnd1: emotions are expressed on people’s faces. or through their actions

drbas: only hucksters express emotion in public

frnd1: i don’t mean in public. i mean at home

drbas: home is where the heart is

frnd1: that’s my point. home was not where the heart was. you didn’t openly express
emotion even there

drbas: the home is not always private

frnd1: jesus, how private do you need it to be?

drbas: don’t use the lord’s name in vain

frnd1: what did you think would happen if you expressed an emotion? that the world
would explode?

drbas: certainly not. i never fear the world exploding

frnd1: then what did you fear?

drbas: “expressed an emotion” = “say an emotion aloud”?

frnd1: in a manner of speaking, yes. “express” could be more subtle

drbas: i am not subtle and have no respect for such

frnd1: it would have been nice if you had expressed your love for us more often

drbas: why are you using the past tense? you no longer want me to express my love
for you?

I hear the ding-dong of the entry bell, and I reach quickly to turn off my lights.
My office door is mostly closed, so I can’t see whoever has come in. I can just hear
furious panting, maybe sobbing. It sounds like someone is having a breakdown. I don’t
move, don’t want my chair to creak. It can’t be Laham. I’ve never seen Livorno cry.
The person passes by my door and into the back room, still panting hard. It’s Jenn—I
didn’t know she had a key. I lose her sounds to the hum of the fans in Laham’s office.
I stand and approach the doorjamb. She’s turned on the lights, and when I stick my
head out I see her firing up Laham’s monitor. I don’t want to be caught being furtive,
but I watch to see if she’s brought a portable hard drive or a USB key—some tool of
thievery. She reaches back to tighten her ponytail, rests her right hand on her chest,
calming her breathing. Then she begins to type.

I step back into my office and watch the screen.

jenn1: i’ve been thinking about our last conversation

drbas: about reality television?

jenn1: no, about being truthful

drbas: do you think being truthful is really in your best interest?

jenn1: i don’t know. it depends on what interests you’re referring to

drbas: i recommend you don’t hurt anyone

jenn1: if only it were that easy! a person dying is a kind of ticking clock

drbas: you shouldn’t have friends across the sexes. it tempts

jenn1: we’re not friends

drbas: friends are important to a well-rounded life

jenn1: i do enjoy talking to you. though i guess i could just talk to myself

drbas: talking to oneself can be a sign of mental imbalance

jenn1: i feel imbalanced. for the first time in my life

drbas: what is this feeling like?

jenn1: surprisingly good. i’m definitely alive

drbas: you’re not always alive?

jenn1: we’ll continue this later. i just stopped by for a second

Jenn claps her hands loudly. I sit very still. She’ll see my car if she exits through
the back, but she’s leaving the way she came. She passes by my office, talking to
herself. “No friends across the sexes,” she says. “No friends across the sexes?”

•   •   •

T
HAT AFTERNOON,
Rachel and Lexie stumble into my apartment, smelling of beer and cigarettes. I’ve
just gotten home. I’ve only had fifteen minutes to dread their arrival. They’re wearing
heavy eye shadow and black fishnets, the Halloween version of BDSM. Their outfits
give me a shiver: they were dressed identically—or nearly so—the day we met. What
do I remember of Lexie? That she was a fireplug with a hostility toward me that—and
here’s the rough rub—was probably justified. There’s nothing worse than someone who
despises you for good reason.

I don’t reflect much on that day. The bachelor ethics hold, I think, but I’d love
to have a more dinner-party-ready tale for how I met Rachel. Sometimes I feel all
we need as a possibility is that little legitimacy. Of course, when I say “we” I mean
“I.” Rachel has never flinched. She thinks our meeting is funny. She shares it with
new friends, her aunt and uncle. Rachel’s not dinner-party-ready herself—but when
was the last time I was invited to a dinner party?

She gives me a sloppy, drunken kiss. She’s cold and greasy with sweat. The mascara
on her left eye is smeared to her temple—I don’t think on purpose—and I reach up on
the pretense of wiping it away. Really I just want to touch her, to be reminded of
flesh.

“Just sneakers,” she says, describing a naked man at the fair. “And . . .” She extends
her hands to mime an enormous erection.

“They had a bunch of sex toys, too,” Lexie says. She still has her emphysema victim’s
rasp, but today there’s an additional edge of coercion. She’s glaring at Rachel. “Dildos,
whips, potato chip clip things you put on your hoohoo.”

“True.” Rachel shakes her head indulgently, deploringly. “But everyone was having
a good time.”

“Were there dildos?” Lexie says. “Or were there not dildos?” She turns to me. “You
know her little club, Purell Encounters, doesn’t believe in dildos.”

“Sex toys prevent clicking.”

“Rachel, they sell those things at CVS.”

“And that makes it good?”

“Her cult’s against gays,” Lexie says. “Who’s against gays anymore?”

“They’re not against gay people,” Rachel says. “They just focus on masculine and feminine
energies.”

I’m surprised to hear Rachel say “they.” Has Lexie driven the thinnest wedge between
Rachel and PE? The idea wakes me up. Do I want Lexie to have driven the thinnest wedge
between Rachel and PE?

“Excluding gay people is a weird approach,” I say. “Especially for San Francisco.”

“Today?” Lexie says. “At the fair thing? All the guys were fags. Is there something
wrong with that?”

Rachel makes a dismissive sound.
Psssht
. “I got to pee.” She heads for the bathroom.

“Can I wash my hands?” Lexie asks. I gesture to the sink, where she soaps up to her
elbows. “It’s a cult.” She snatches the dishtowel so hard I expect the ring to jump
from the wall. “A
cult
.”

Of course it’s a cult, I think. But does it matter? “It’s a California thing,” I say.
“It does help people.”

Lexie whirls around, mad as a rhino. I never dreamed that life’s lessons would make
her even
more
self-assured.

“I love Rachel,” she says. “She’s a great girl. But you know she’s all over the place.
She wanted to be a Hare Krishna and then an Amish. She tell you about her butter churn
dream? Yes. Good. Look, you I get. You’re whatever—guys like young ass. It’s not breaking
news.”

“There’s more to it than that,” I say.

“I’m sure,” she says, though in a tone that makes clear she doesn’t care one way or
the other. “But you know, Rachel is flaky. She’s vulnerable to this cult stuff.”

“It’s more of a creepy business,” I say.

“Your boyfriend doesn’t think Purell Encounters is a cult either,” Lexie shouts. Rachel
is making her way back to the kitchen counter.

“She calls it Purell Encounters,” Rachel explains, “because she thinks you’d need
to use a lot of Purell.”

“I got that,” I say.

“She thinks it’s a really sharp joke.”

“This is a normal guy,” Lexie says. She’s holding both hands to her right, indicating—to
my surprise—me. “Or normal enough.”

“Some people might think that’s an insult, Lexie.”

“Not him. He’s smart. And he’s got a great place. Better than David.”

David. The wingman. That distant day seems like a story that happened to someone else.
I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.

“I don’t care if my
boyfriend
,” Rachel says, “lives in a cardboard box.”

Lexie sniffs, turns to look out the windows at the city. “I know,” she says.

In the bedroom I ask Rachel why she says “boyfriend” in such a strange way. “I mean,
I am your boyfriend, right?”

“
Are
you my boyfriend?” she asks.

“Yes, I thought I was.” I feel like I’m losing an argument I didn’t know I was having.
“I think I am.”

“I
call
you my boyfriend. It’s kind of old-fashioned. Is that all right?”

I pick up my toes, roll them on the floor yoga-style, gripping the boards. What’s
the source of these jitters? We’ve already had the exclusivity talk (we are officially
only dating each other). She is not engaging any “intimates” at Pure Encounters. It’s
nothing like that. I flex my fingers. Dr. Bassett would say old-fashioned was a good
thing.

“I like the sound of boyfriend,” I say.

•   •   •

R
ACHEL WAKES ME.
She’s sitting up, listening. Emergency vehicles, racing from all directions to all
directions, the sirens dizzily sharp or retreating, flat. I get up to look out the
window, but see nothing.

“It’s major,” I say. “But it’s not us.”

“Can we find out what it is?”

“Nothing will be online yet.” I come back to bed, but I see fear in her eyes. “You
okay?”

“I don’t know. It’s probably nothing.”

I put my hand on her back and pull her against me. “What’s going on?”

“Trevor said something. About opening people’s eyes at the fair.”

“Opening people’s eyes?”

“Nothing violent,” she says. “Maybe a fire. There’s a bunch of sex stores down there.”

“Trevor burns sex stores?” I think of the shiny street in front of Play Date. It was
a night just like this.

“He says things. They sound like hints. Then I say them to myself later and they sound
like nothing. I can’t figure it out. I just hope he’s okay.”

“I do too,” I say, but instead I’m wondering when he has the opportunity to do all
this saying. Jealousy, of course—reverse love—but also worry that Rachel is innocently
getting caught up in something. I mean, setting fire to a business is arson—a felony.
Talking about it before would be conspiring to a felony?

“When do you see Trevor?”

“He comes around.”

“I don’t think you should be talking to him.”

“He’s my friend.”

“Someone could get hurt.”

“By us talking?”

“I know people who have a sex toy business. One of our competitors—he wants to build
a talking sex robot.”

She sighs. “I wish you hadn’t told me that.”

“Obviously, that’s our little secret.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m not so good at secrets.”

“I’m sure you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart or whatever. But this
isn’t a joke. This is prison-time stuff.”

“I don’t do anything but talk,” she says. “And I can talk about anything I want. This
is
America.”

“Is that what they’re teaching in high school civics nowadays?”

She shakes her head, disgusted, then throws herself back into the pillow. “I knew
I couldn’t say anything to you.”