Everybody Has Everything (6 page)

James’s mind was a jumble of all the things that made this moment not so bad: the unwritten novel, the untapped potential, the upcoming summer.

He had suddenly thought of a parlor game he and Ana had played in the early years of their marriage. “Who are you? Four things only.” James, when he read aloud his own list, was always: “Husband, journalist, hockey player, future novelist.” He thought that listing his marital status first would flatter Ana, but she saw through it. When Ana did James, she put journalist first. But now what he had written had come true: He was mostly her husband.

Ana would know what to ask. Severance package. Legal loopholes. He got into her head, tried to emulate her thinking, as ordered as a plastic binder divided by tabs. James said some
adult-sounding things, and Sly gave answers. Sly even lowered his accent to something kind of Cockney for the occasion, as if they were a couple of British coal miners at a union meeting in the Thatcher years. Then, when Sly had wrung out every cliché, he leaned in, as if about to go for a hug: “I’m so sorry, mate.” He reached out a hand. James thought:
I’ve never heard him use the word “mate” in my life
. He noticed that Sly’s hand was shaking, and he felt bad for him. James had never had a job that required him to fire anyone.

A thought crept into his head, surprisingly, of his old favorite childhood thing, the rock tumbler—and how he would sit for hours in his bedroom watching the rocks go up and down the tiny conveyor belt, growing smoother and more similar to one another—and then he thought of his wife, of Ana’s ass, particularly, turned toward him in bed.
The first thing I will do is my wife
. And the ass image faded to be replaced by a face, that of the intern Emma. Emma: a name no one used to have, but now there were three Emmas working on his show.

This Emma’s face in his head was all lips, red, which of course meant baboon ass, and soon James was thinking about the fact that he was an animal and marveling at how base it was to be a man, waking up his goaty longing.

It was Emma who brought in a stack of collapsed cardboard boxes.

“At my last job, they, like, escorted this guy from the building. They didn’t even let him take his pictures or turn off his computer,” she said, standing near the open door. Her voice was shrill, pointed. It corrupted a unique silkiness in her body.

James had nodded. He took a framed picture of Ana from the desk and put it into the empty box, facedown.

“So you know, they obviously like you here,” said Emma. She was wearing all black—black T-shirt, a tight black skirt, black boots. But she looked naked to James. He could barely stand to look at her, the curve of her breast, her dark skin. What was she? Was she black? Asian? Some modern hybrid.

If she knew what he was thinking, he’d be called a racist, on top of being a sexual harasser. It was as if, by being fired, he was able to see new shapes in the picture, to really look at this woman without the echoes of workplace propriety seminars and interoffice “plain language” memos. He felt like a priest who had been handed civilian clothes.

“I don’t think I’m unliked, I just feel—” James paused. “Obsolete.” Before the word was out, he realized he had potentially bricked a wall between them. It was a word that drew attention to his age, which was about fifteen years worse than hers. But the repulsion he anticipated didn’t happen: Instead, she made a clucking,
aww
-ing sound, like she was tickling Finn under his chin. Then she turned and shut the door, faced him again in the sealed room. She walked toward the desk, smoothing her skirt at her hips. It was a surprising gesture, and it amplified for James the sensation that, with his firing, a range of previously unthinkable things could now occur.

“Can I say something to you?” she asked. She was quite close to him, eye to eye, with only the desk between, at the level of her crotch.

A peep escaped James’s throat. He nodded.

“I really love what you do,” she said. He tried to smell her, but his nose was useless from smoking. “I think it’s really important. Like, seriously, no one else is going to do the stuff you do. That piece you did on the Inuit film collective? I totally loved that. I think they’re making a huge mistake.” She
stepped back, shook her body a little, relieved to have unburdened herself.

James wanted to lean over, curve a finger, and say:
Come here
. He wanted to make her climb across the desk on her knees, put his hand between her legs. He wanted to shake her for her feeble attempts at consolation. He loathed her inexperience and her boots that were too pointy for walking. Then he loathed himself, too, the never-ending stream of hateful thoughts like these. A lifetime of images of women glorious and grotesque trotted beneath his eyelids, unfulfilled, ungrabbed hands and fists never inserted, things that occupied his mind, filled him up, kept him dumb. He wished she would leave.

“Thanks for saying that,” said James. She stood there, as if waiting for something.

James doubted she was waiting for the same thing he was. Without looking at the title, he pulled a book from the shelf and handed it to her.

“You should have this.” She flipped it this way and that, like she had never touched a book before.

“Thanks.” She held it out to him: “Could you write your number in there?” James hesitated: It was the phrasing. “Could” he? Well, he could. And so he did, his cell phone number in red ink, right on the title page, like an author’s autograph under the title:
Televisuality: Style, Crisis and Authority in American Television
. It was the first time he’d cracked its spine.

James had walked home with the box of books dragging down his arms, his back moaning. He had decided to carry the box
because it was the first really, truly nice afternoon of the year, the kind of day when he would usually leave early anyway. He walked with purpose, wondering if anyone in the windows of the cubic building where he’d worked for years was watching him go. Perhaps there was someone standing at a revolving door, under the propaganda-size posters of the network’s news anchors, head shaking sadly:
Glad it’s not me
. James was almost certain this was not happening, but still, he couldn’t bring himself to look back.

When he was far away, and standing in a grassy area near the art college, he dropped the books and smoked a cigarette. Then he called Ana on his cell phone. He left a message: “It’s just me.”

James heaved the box back into his arms, felt the sweat at his forehead. He had not gotten fat yet, but it was coming. Oh, he was old, old, old. He still couldn’t fathom that he was forty-two. He felt seventeen, always, expected to see seventeen every single time he looked in the mirror.

The sweat trickled down his forehead, needled him in the eye. His arms weren’t free to rub so he squinted, shook his head. He deduced that he looked crazy. The students walked around him, giving him space.

He liked to cut through this campus, wondering if the art school girls mistook him for a hip young professor. Academia was one of the few professions where forty-two seemed relatively young, he thought. In television, even public television, it was ancient. Why did this suddenly come as a revelation to him? Why had he never prepared for this moment? It occurred to James that he might be in shock.

He put the box of books down on a bench and sat next to it, breathing heavily. A mother—squat, rigid with anger—walked
by quickly, dragging a toddler by the wrist. Both of them were silent, the mother staring straight ahead and the boy blank, inert. They had just exited a fight and were moving fast through its plume. The boy wore a backpack with the tail of a lion poking out of the bottom.

James walked in the opposite direction from the pair, carrying his box through the fish gutter chaos of Chinatown. The crowds thickened and thinned as he passed McDonald’s and the hospital. A new organic chocolate store had opened up where a Chinese grocer had been.

James’s arms were aching by the time he reached the bottom of the street. He passed the two-in-one semidetached houses, his neighbors joined at the hips, with shared yards and little fences between.

He knew that Ana would be home soon, and he was pleased to see a parking space right in front of their lawn. Ana had taken the car to work so she could grocery shop after, and she would need a place to park.

The neighborhood was permit-only and in the throes of what James had labeled, in his letters to the city, a “parking crisis.” He had considered pitching a piece to his producers on the absurd parking situation in the city (There was no logic to it! No system! No grand vision!), but couldn’t figure out the right angle. And it was too blatantly antienvironment for Sly. Who had sympathy for drivers these days?

But James loved the car, a leased black Jetta. He wished it were here right now. He would get Ana to pack one of her wondrous picnic lunches with the white cloth napkins, a glass bowl of green grapes, her chicken sandwiches. He would drive her anywhere she wanted to go, out of the gridlock, maybe to Niagara Falls to look for barrels, suicides, get a drink in a horrible
restaurant with gigantic plastic menus and cream sauce on everything.

This was, he realized, a memory from their twenties.

Suddenly, a silver SUV pulled into the space directly in front of James’s house, a space James presently thought of as Ana’s. Now where would she park?

James hated the silver SUV. It was a bully. The cars on the other side of the street had garages and no reason to take up perfectly good parking spaces that were meant to be used by those on James’s side of the street, where there were no garages, just small gardens backing on to other small gardens. But this particular guy—a loud, brickish Portuguese construction owner whom James called Chuckles to his friends—used his garage as a woodworking shop and cannery, and paid for permit parking (James had done some sneaking around the lane to figure this out). He had a large van, too, which often had two-by-fours sticking out the back, taking up even more spaces. All of this infuriated James, who loved rules when they worked to his advantage but was otherwise an anarchist. Ana had pointed out that he might be a libertarian, but James bristled, picturing people in mountains with war-painted faces arming themselves against immigrants.

Chuckles got out of the car, pulled up his pants over his hips. He had a Bluetooth clipped to his ear and was gesticulating, but James couldn’t make out the words. When James got closer, and Chuckles disappeared into his house across the street, James saw that, of course, he had taken up nearly three parking spaces, parking smack in the gravitational center between two cars, leaving emptiness on either end much too big to be acceptable, much too small for anything but motorcycles. Now Ana would probably have to park a block over, which
meant it would take her longer to get back and comfort him, and also the extra walk with groceries would be hard for her after a long day.

James staggered up onto to his porch and dropped the box of books. He unlocked the door to the smell of cut lilies and last night’s olive oil. He threw his jacket on the ground. In the kitchen, he found a black marker and, in the recycling bin, an old photocopied flyer for a maid service. On the back of the flyer, he wrote:

WE HAVE A PARKING CRISIS ON THIS STREET. PLEASE RESPECT YOUR NEIGHBORS AND PARK NOSE TO TAIL—YOU ARE TAKING UP SEVERAL SPACES.

James wrote fast, wetting the paper, letting the ink leak through onto the countertop.

He paused.

YOU HAVE A GARAGE—WHY DON’T YOU USE IT, YOU FAT FUCK

He looked at the paper.
More?
He added punctuation:

YOU FAT FUCK!

James stood beside the car, humming profanity under his breath. He placed the note under the windshield wiper and went inside, sat on the white club chair facing the window, and waited. Soon, surprising himself, he fell into a deep sleep. When he woke up, darkness had come to the room. His cell
phone beeped from somewhere. He had missed a call from Ana, who was on her way home. She had texted:
Anything else from the store?

He looked out at the SUV, the flyer paper flapping in the breeze, and a deep pull of panic set in his stomach. No, no, no! In his stocking feet, he got up and ran to the door, down the stairs, looking both ways, wondering if the fat man would appear, or Ana, or—this was the worst image—both at the same time. Both of them, dots far away coming into focus, rolling in from two different directions: Ana’s puzzled face as the fat man pulls the paper off the car; Ana, looking up at James in the window as the fat man shows her his handwriting—

James grabbed the paper from the windshield and ran to the porch. But then he saw the box of books there, and remembered his day. He looked at the paper and tore off the bottom part, crumpling “YOU HAVE A GARAGE … YOU FAT FUCK!” and sticking that portion in his pocket. Then he walked back to the car, calmer now, and placed the rest of the note, the part he told himself was neighborly, on the windshield.

Then he went into the house and waited for his wife.

The firing didn’t seem to gut him today, James noticed. There wasn’t the same pleasurable pain in reliving it, and he left his bench.

At a café, James drank his second Americano of the day. Bruce had suggested that he update Finn’s enrollment, “considering the circumstances.” James felt like he was applying to grad school, filling in the sheaf of forms: phone numbers and work schedules, dietary restrictions, religious practices. He signed in the space marked “Parent/Guardian.” He circled the
latter. Below his and Ana’s numbers, he put his mother’s as the emergency contact.

“Is there any information that would help us get to know your child better?” James considered writing: “Mother in a coma; father in a drawer.” He didn’t, but smiled at the possibility, then accepted the sorrow on the other side of the smile.

The door of the café opened, and a red stroller appeared. It stuck in the door, then jiggled this way and that until, finally, a seated young man clicked shut his laptop, pulled out his earbuds, and loped over to pull it through. A flushed woman on the other end thanked him, and then immediately behind her, another red stroller stuck in the doorway. The young guy pulled that one through, too, and accepted the thanks. And then, finally, a third one appeared, this time green. The women laughed loudly. Chairs scraped, and tables banged. James relinquished an extra chair. The young man packed up his laptop and left. When finally this swell of bodies settled, the room’s tininess had lost its charm. James was now wedged too close to the espresso machine, which stopped and started with a go-cart revving in his ear. He attempted to finish his papers while the women talked. There was such panic in their voices, such urgency, as if they had just had duct tape stripped from their mouths. It seemed to James that there was nothing linear in this talking, no distinguishing one voice from the other, no call and response, just call.