Everything Changes (14 page)

Clay threw office equipment and kicked the walls, but I’m thinking that maybe there are other, quieter ways of losing your mind.

Rael and Tamara’s wedding. Jed, Rael, and I were leaning against the bar, drunkenly toasting our friendship, while Tamara and her bridesmaids posed for some impromptu photos on the dance floor. Jed caught me watching them and said, “Oh, no,” waving his hand in front of my eyes as if to break a trance. “Don’t do it, man.”

“Do what?” I said, still staring across the room.

Jed put down his gin and tonic and turned to face me, grinding an ice cube between his teeth. “I have one rule about dating,” he said.

“No you don’t,” I said.

“But I do.”

“This from the man who lost his virginity to his aunt,” Rael said, snickering.

“Ex-aunt,” Jed clarified. “She was already divorced from Uncle Phil.”

“Oh, well, then that’s okay.”

“Listen,” Jed said. “It’s a good rule.”

“Fine,” I said. “Do tell.”

Jed leaned back and took another sip from his drink. “Let me start by saying that rules for dating are like rules for being mugged at gunpoint. The very concept is flawed, since it flies in the face of one simple fact: you’re not in control.”

I leaned back and sipped at my own drink, a whiskey sour. “And yet, you have a rule.”

“Five words,” Jed said. He placed his drink on the bar, fixed me with a somber look, and paused for dramatic effect. “Don’t date the fucking bridesmaids.”

Rael and I nodded sagely. “Wow,” Rael said.

“Brilliant,” I concurred.

“Go ahead, make your jokes,” Jed said, shaking his head sadly. “But remember this moment, because one day you’ll be sorry you didn’t take heed.”

“Explain,” I said.

“Bridesmaids are an optical illusion, aglow with excitement and ripe with sexual promise, an idealized version of the true woman beneath. It’s false advertising. Their hair and makeup are professionally done. Those gowns are designed to accentuate the positive, while any flaws are hidden beneath all that puffy crinoline. How else can you explain why they look so good in such ridiculous dresses? Plus”—he paused and held up his empty glass demonstratively—“you’re probably drunk.”

Rael and I looked at each other and laughed.

“I’m serious,” Jed insisted. “You get them out of that getup and it’s all there: the bad skin, the sagging breasts, and an ass that has somehow, magically doubled in size. And the tragedy is, if you’d met her like this to begin with, you might still have been interested, but the contrast to her idealized self is simply too much to overcome.”

“Tamara was a bridesmaid when I met her,” Rael said with a grin.

“The exception that proves the rule,” Jed said dismissively.

But Jed had it wrong. It wasn’t the bridesmaids at whom I’d been staring. It was the bride, smiling as she came toward us at that moment, her hair pinned back to expose the graceful descent of her cheekbones, her tan skin luminescent above the scooped neck of her dress. In the year or so that she’d been dating Rael, I’d grown close to Tamara, and I was certainly aware of her beauty on an instinctive, male level, but she was my best friend’s fiancée, and I’d never taken it personally before. All through the ceremony, I’d been too wrapped up in my duties as best man to really pay her much attention. Now, though, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. “So, Zack,” she said, grabbing me by the arm. “You going to dance with me or what?”

“Go ahead,” Rael said, leaning against Jed. “I’m just catching my breath.”

The song was “Wonderful Tonight,” and as we danced, reflections from the ballroom chandelier sparkled like Roman candles in her eyes. “Rael told me about Lisa,” she said.

Lisa, whom I’d been dating for the last few months, had broken up with me last week because, as she put it, we’d “maxed out our emotional connection.” I didn’t disagree, but I’d been hoping we’d last a little while longer, so that at least I’d have a date for the wedding.

“I’m over it,” I said with a shrug.

Tamara fixed me with a look. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I told Rael.”

She stopped moving and looked up at me, eyes wide and demanding. “Zack,” she said. “Rael and I are married. We haven’t merged into one being. After all the long nights I put in talking to you about your love life while Rael was snoring away, I would hope that you’d look at me as a true friend, and not simply an extension of Rael.”

“Point taken,” I said. “I guess with the wedding only a few days away, I didn’t want to rain on your parade.”

She nodded, mollified, and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek. “You’re too sweet, Zack,” she said, resting her head on my shoulder as we finished the dance. “Lisa didn’t deserve you.”

“Who does?” I said.

“I don’t know. But she’s out there. And we’re going to find her.”

“We?”

“Damn right, we,” she said, pulling back to look at me. “You’re my best man too, and that makes you my responsibility. Now, dip.”

“What?”

“It’s the end of the song,” she said. “Dip me.”

And so I dipped her, taking in the triangle of soft flesh beneath her upturned chin as she threw her head back, and when I pulled her back up, Rael was there to dance with his bride. “I’ll take it from here,” he said, grinning at me.

“She’s all yours,” I said, and then watched as he led her away from me, vaguely troubled by the intense feeling of loss that momentarily came over me. But then Jed stepped up behind me and threw his arm over my shoulder, and the feeling disappeared as suddenly as it had come on. “And then there were two,” he intoned gravely, steering me toward a group of women in lavender taffeta congregating near the bandstand.

“Don’t date the bridesmaids,” I said dully.

“Don’t date the fucking bridesmaids,” Jed corrected me, maintaining our course.

“The swear is integral?”

“Imperative.”

“Why’s that?”

Jed sighed and downed the rest of his drink in one savage gulp. “Because we never fucking learn.”

I get off the train at Eighty-sixth, but rather than go home, I walk slowly toward Central Park, relishing the cold sensation of the rain soaking my skin through my clothes. Wet weather has always seemed to me to be an invitation to extreme action, and, having just behaved extremely, the stinging spray is a welcome, retroactive justification. Leaving work in the middle of the day is erratic behavior, to be sure, but nothing that can’t be explained away. Kissing Tamara, on the other hand, was just plain reckless, and it leaves me feeling perplexed, ashamed, and undeniably excited. I want to take it back and do it again, all at the same time. I think of Hope in London, sifting through recondite paintings in a musty basement, dust mites collecting on her designer clothing, and I feel a deep pang of guilt. I think of Tamara and wonder what she’s thinking about me, if she’s reliving that kiss over and over again the way I am. Best not to think about that too much. But still . . .

I step into the living room an hour later, teeth chattering, to find Matt and Jed napping in front of the television, Matt sprawled on the floor and Jed on the couch. A romantic comedy plays itself out on cable; a mistaken identity has been perpetrated by the woman in the name of unrequited love, but the deception will ultimately be forgiven, since both parties are just so good-looking and because only a fool would overlook the soundtrack and lighting cues that make it clear where the happy ending lies. A worn copy of Nabokov’s Laughter in the Dark lies facedown on Matt’s chest. Despite the tattoos, earrings, and other assorted accoutrements of his trade, Matt’s not at all what you’d expect from a punk rocker. He’s passionate about literature, is majoring in it on his protracted route through college, which explains the Nabokov and why, mixed in with songs like “Bring Your Sister” and “Jerk-Off Jimmy,” you’ll also find ones like “Vonnegut’s Weed” and “Mr. Palomar” in his body of work.

I tiptoe upstairs to my room, peeling off my wet clothes as I go. As I rub the rain out of my hair with a towel still damp from this morning’s shower, I enter into a staring match with the toilet. I’ve managed to avoid it all day, since this morning’s agonizing unpleasantness, but the telltale throbbing in my groin says that I can run, but I can’t hide. I decide to go sitting down. My piss is razor sharp, and in the mirror over the sink, I catch a glimpse of my face contorted in pain, the cords of my neck standing out in protest as I gasp through the stream. But then it’s over, and in retrospect, it wasn’t as bad as this morning, although I don’t know if that’s actually the case, or if I’ve only taken the element of surprise out of it. There’s definitely less blood than this morning, although that’s hardly a cause for celebration.

There’s a message on my machine from Hope, telling me that she’s arrived safely in London. She sounds somewhat put off, no doubt wondering why I didn’t call to check on her and why I’m not at work and not answering my cell in the middle of the day. She leaves me the number at her hotel, says she loves me, and hangs up. I should call her right now. I really should.

Matt stirs when he hears me come into the living room, and then sits up with a grunt. “Hey, man,” he says groggily.

“Hey,” I say, pulling on a sweatshirt.

“You puked in our van.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

He shrugs, a seasoned veteran of wayward regurgitation. “It’s raining out?”

“Yep.”

“What time is it?” he says, sitting up slowly, groaning at the stiffness in his ribs.

“It’s one thirty,” I tell him. As he turns to face me, I can see the dark shadows under his bloodshot eyes, the gaunt lines of his face. Not for the first time, it occurs to me that my little brother is slipping away, being slowly devoured by the anger that propels him. The healing bruises from a loan shark beating he suffered a few months ago form a crescent-shaped penumbra from the corner of his ear to his temple. Yes, my little brother’s been into some shit: drugs, debt, dealing. If it involves any form of self-destruction, Matt will usually be up for it. Sitting on the floor, he looks so small and wasted, and I just want to throw my arms around him, like when we were little kids, and feel like I can protect him, tell him that it’s okay to let go and get some rest, that I’ll be here to watch over him. “You look like shit,” I say.

“It’s only rock and roll,” he says with a smirk, his tongue darting out to lick his desiccated lips. “But I like it. What are you doing here?”

“I actually live here.”

He nods. “I mean now, in the middle of the day.”

I sit down on the floor, my back against the couch. “I am either on the cusp of what may very well be a grand epiphany or else a minor nervous breakdown.”

He looks up at me appraisingly and nods his head, his brief smile revealing the jagged line of his cigarette-stained teeth. “Zack, my brother,” he says with a yawn. “Welcome to the monkey house.”

By the time Norm shows up later, the three of us are good and stoned on some stale joints Matt produced from the depths of his cargo pants, watching The Terminator on the Sci Fi network, while Jed passionately holds forth on the inherent contradictions and liabilities of fucking with the space-time continuum. When Norm walks into the room, a wet duffel bag slung over his shoulder like Santa Claus, we all stare up at him as if he might be a clever group hallucination.

“Hello, boys,” Norm says, dropping his duffel onto the carpet with a thud. He’s wearing jeans and a faded red sweatshirt, his hair plastered against his scalp from the rain.

“Hey, Norm,” Jed says agreeably.

“What are you doing here?” I say, too stoned to get up.

“The door was open.” He looks over to Matt, who is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the television, his bent silhouette framed by the large screen. “Hello, Matt,” he says formally.

“Norm,” Matt says with an exaggeratedly formal nod.

“Great show the other night,” Norm addresses him gingerly. “I was really very proud of you.”

“Thank you, Norm,” Matt says, staggering to his feet. “That makes it all worthwhile.”

Norm nods and looks at me. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“I’m taking some time off,” I say. “A mental health day.”

“And you’re accomplishing that by getting high?”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

“Where are you going?” Norm says to Matt, who is making a show of throwing on his worn jacket.

“I’ve got somewhere I need to be.”

“Where’s that?”

“Anywhere but here.”

“Can’t we just talk, son?” Norm says plaintively.

Matt stares at him, eyes wide and angry, then storms over to him with so much force that for an instant I’m certain he’s going to hit him. Instead, he stops right in front of him, fists clenched at his sides, his face contorted in rage. “Fuck you, Norm,” Matt spits at him. “Fuck you. My life is shit and it’s your fault. It’s your fault I had to deal drugs to buy a goddamn guitar, it’s your fault I can’t keep a girlfriend for more than a month, it’s your fault I can’t look people in the eye or say what I really feel.”

“Matt,” I say.

“Shut up, Zack. You know I’m right.”

“I’m still the only father you’ll ever have,” Norm says weakly, holding his hands up defensively.

Matt’s smile cuts his face like a razor. “You’re just the sperm donor, Norm,” he says, heading for the door. “That’s all you were ever good for. Fucking sperm.”

Matt storms out the door and Norm looks at us, red-faced with chagrin. “Jesus,” he says. “If I’d have known I was going to get beat up on like this, I would have worn a helmet.” He looks at the door and makes a snap decision. “Matt!” he calls, and tears out the door after him. We listen to the two sets of footsteps running down the stairs, and then Jed leans back on the couch, craning his neck to see out the window. “Wow,” he says to me, collapsing back on the couch. “For a heavy guy, your old man sure can move.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I say, heaving myself off the floor and heading for the stairs. I’m still woozy from Matt’s stale ganja, and when I trip over my father’s discarded duffel bag, it’s all I can do to keep from falling on my face.

It’s eight p.m., which means it’s one a.m. in England, a fact that only occurs to me after they’ve put me through to Hope’s hotel room. “Hey, baby,” I say.

“Zack?” she says, her voice groggy and slurred. “What the hell?”

“Did I wake you?”

“Of course you woke me,” she grumbles. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Sorry about that,” I say. “I thought you might be jet-lagged.”

“What’s wrong?” she demands.

“Nothing. I just missed you.”

That pisses her off. “You had plenty of time to call me earlier, if you missed me so much. Why weren’t you at work?” She has not fully committed to consciousness yet, and her voice is muted and irregular as she slides in and out her slumber.

I almost tell her about having walked out of work. About how empty and demeaned I’ve been feeling there, and about wanting to do something that will actually mean something to me, that will actually make it worth answering when people ask me what I do. Hope will be sympathetic, I have no doubt about that, but she won’t appreciate the timing of my vocational crisis, coming as it has in the midst of our engagement, at the merging of our lives. She’ll worry about my potential future earnings, about my abilities as a long-term provider, about our chances for a New York Times wedding announcement. She’ll talk around it for a while, but ultimately, the need to help me fix things will get the best of her. She’ll insist I meet with her father, and next thing you know, I’ll be a Vice President of Bedpans, walking the carpeted halls of Seacord International in suits and braces under the watchful, controlling glare of my father-in-law, bearing the hateful mark of nepotism upon my forehead, disregarded out of hand as the old man’s loser son-in-law.

“I’m just a little under the weather,” I say.

I can hear the rustling of sheets, the drag of the telephone on the nightstand. “Zack, is everything okay?”

I sigh. “It’s just been a little crazy here, with my father and all.”

“Have you been spending some time with him?”

“A little.”

“That’s nice,” she says through a long yawn. “I’m going back to sleep now, okay?”

“How’s London?” I ask, suddenly lonely.

“Call me when I’m awake and I’ll tell you.”

“Okay.”

“Good night, babe.”

I crawl under the covers much too early, flipping between various news programs and movie channels. There are brush fires in Los Angeles, car bombs in Iraq, and USA is showing a made-for-TV movie in which a lousy actress from a popular sitcom has lost her memory and is being chased through the woods by a masked assassin. Somewhere in all the excitement, I doze off.

Tamara’s voice on my answering machine awakens me an indeterminate amount of time later. I open my eyes, disoriented by the darkness that arrived unannounced during my unplanned nap. “Anyway,” Tamara’s saying. “I’m worried about you. So give me a call if you get a chance, okay?” It’s strange to hear her voice in the confines of my bedroom. I almost always speak to her from the office or on my cell. My hands search for the cordless, which is buried somewhere in the folds of my comforter. “You can call till whenever,” she continues. “I turn off the ringer when I go to sleep.” There’s a momentary pause. “Whatever,” she continues awkwardly. “I just wanted to let you know I’m thinking about you, okay? That’s all, folks. ’Bye.”

My hands locate the phone just as she hangs up. I start to dial her number, but then stop. We’re still suspended in the postkiss ether and if I call her we’ll either discuss the kiss or pretend it never happened, and either option will bring us crashing back down to reality, which isn’t an acceptable scenario to me right now. USA is now showing an old James Bond film, Connery speeding in his convertible past laughably false backdrops. I flip absently through the movie channels, waiting for something to grab me, but every movie seems to star Freddie Prinze, Jr., leading me to wonder, not for the first time, why I bother paying for premium channels. I go to the bathroom. This time there’s less pain and considerably less blood. Still, I pop three preemptive Tylenols before getting back into bed.

I lie in the dark, my thoughts flitting erratically between Hope and Tamara and my father, before settling with a thud on the dark spot on my bladder. I see it every time I close my eyes and I wonder if it’s growing inside me the way it is in my mind. I address a few tentative words to God, offering up an array of incentives for him to keep me in good health. It’s a few hours before I fall back asleep. When I do, I dream of Camille, the dark-haired physician’s assistant, once again handling my privates, but this time under considerably friendlier circumstances.