Flatscreen (13 page)

Wife Three let me in, confident in workout clothes. Everyone wore workout clothes. Maybe in case of al-Qaeda: ready to run.

“Your friend is having a party.”

“Isn’t it a bit early?”

“You wasted no time getting here, you’re still in your pj’s.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“Go.”

Pointed to the basement, smiled sluttily. Wondered if Wife Three would become Mrs. Sacks one day; if Dan’s dad would cheat, and she would have an affair but stay with Dan’s dad because of the house, screw some twentysomething while tears smudged her eyeliner. Doubted it. Things were different these days with these third wives. They knew what they were getting into. Divorced in five years, what did she care? Get a nice payoff, marry another rich guy.

Walked down the stairs. Lights dim. Dan in boxers cutting huge lines of coke on the coffee table. Nikki next to him in her Whole Foods getup, hair-drying with a towel.

“Nice bathrobe,” she said.

“It’s L.L. Bean,” I said, then felt stupid for saying it, and for wearing it.

“Chanukah?” Dan said.

“Twelfth birthday.”

“Taste?” Dan said.

Stuck a finger in.

Nikki lit a cig, took two drags, put it out.

“I gotta go to work.”

“One for the road?”

Passed her the hollowed pen. She sucked one up the non-nose-ringed side.

“I’ll call you later,” she said, left.

“You two seem to have hit it off.”

“Love them redheads.”

“She’s not a true redhead.”

“She’s a hip, hip lady.”

“Can’t you say something that’s not from
Dazed and Confused?
”

“Relax,” Dan said. “Chill.”

Potheads were always telling other people to relax.

“Stepmom’s in a good mood today.”

“She joined the party.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“She likes the yips. The whites. The coke-ay-eenay. The snow. The blow. The blizzle. The izzle.”

“What’s the izzle?”

“The kizzoke.”

“Oh.”

Handed me the pen, cut me one.

“Cool.”

“Fifty.”

“For a gram?”

“One fifty an eighth.”

“I’m broke. My father cut me off.”

“Good for him. It’s about time he taught you some responsibility.
Drugs don’t come cheap, you know.”

“Wait. Can you give me a ride somewhere? I think I can get money.”

“Word.”

Benjy was helping Mom zip an overstuffed suitcase. I’d forgotten she was leaving for Florida.

“Oh, good. You boys can help me carry stuff to the cab.”

Four suitcases laid out.

“You’re bringing a lot of stuff?”

“You never know what the weather will be like there.”

She was preoccupied with packing, didn’t notice how out of it I was. I was sleep-needy, mildly coked, didn’t notice quite how excessively she’d packed.

“I thought you were still asleep in your room. I was just going to wake you up to say goodbye.”

Mom looked distinguished in a beige pantsuit, like an ex-newscaster, not an ex-wife.

“You okay?” Benjy said, gave Dan the once-over. They’d been in the same grade.

“Schwartz,” Dan said, nodded at Benjy. Never friends. Benjy was in AP classes. Dan wasn’t in any classes.

“Everyone’s okay,” Mom said. “We’re all okay.”

“I’m not okay,” I said, real soft, so no one could hear.

Carried the bags down in the elevator, wheeled them to the waiting cab. Mom hugged us goodbye. Tried to pull her close, instigate maternal embrace. She was in a rush, pecked my cheek, escaped my grip.

“Don’t forget to bring the apple cake to your father’s.”

Back upstairs, fished through the boxes in my room I’d never unpacked. Dan watched
The Surreal Life
in the living room. Benjy knocked on my door, came in without waiting for my response.

“What are you looking for?”

“Nothing.”

Continued digging.

“You’re totally fucked.”

“I’m fine.”

“You realize it’s eleven in the morning?”

“I thought it was earlier.”

“What you got, hidden stash in there?”

“I’m not looking for drugs.”

He didn’t believe me.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Here it is.”

Pulled out the ’61 Maris I’d stolen from Mark Sacks years before I’d had sex with his wife.

“Baseball cards?”

“This is a ’61 Maris.”

Kept digging, pulling out other cards I thought might be worth something. No time for sentiment.

“You’re broke.”

“It’s business. Baseball cards are kid stuff. I’m just trying to grow up, make responsible financial decisions.”

“Dad cut you off.”

“You knew about it?”

“He mentioned it.”

“Since when do you talk to Dad?”

“I talk to Dad all the time.”

“Well, next time, tell him to give me some fucking money.”

Walked out of the room with my cards.

“Let’s go,” I said to Dan, who was wholly engrossed in the goings on of the
Surreal Life
house.

Dan said, “I always thought Vanilla Ice was a total loser, but he actually seems like a pretty cool guy.”

Did a couple key bumps, set off for the card shop.

Facts About My Mother:

Money:

Amy’s Baseball Card Heaven was still standing, tucked between the Verizon store and Starbucks on the Grande Street drag. Back in the day, Grande Street was mom-and-pop central, center of Q-town social life, semi-quaint, filled with indie shops run by locals, mostly South American and Middle Eastern men who spent their days chatting up stay-at-home stroller moms and watching staticky soccer on bunny-eared portables.

Delightfully uncorporate: Five Alive Pizza, Tom’s Deli, I Scream (for Ice Cream and Soy-Based Ice Cream Alternatives), Espresso Express, Hair and Nails by Patricia, Video-rama, Magazine Bistro, Grande Street Hardware, Homer’s Oddities.

Mothers sat on benches pushing strollers, comparing dye jobs, complaining about au pairs. Little League went down in the park: kids in oversized caps, eager dads looking on in collarless linen shirts, mandals.

Teenagers smoked butts by the T stop. Set off stink bombs, cherry bombs, assessed each other with scrupulous eyes, imagining hidden treasures under folds of fat; got stoned, wore homemade tee shirts emblazoned with declarative
ironed-on statements like “I Brake for Retards,” “Jesus Hates Me!” and “Jesus Breaks Retards.”

Kids hung at Amy’s. She sold Italian ice, cards, comics. A local girl with blond bangs, stonewashed jeans. Liked the Dead and Zeppelin, still dropped acid once or twice a year. Seemed like someone who could have been a schoolteacher, but was too distracted by shapes in the lava lamp. Amy liked me because I stood alone, away from the other kids, examining the
Beckett Baseball Card Monthly
price guide with academic rigor. Same rigor, applied to my schoolwork, would have made me a B student at least, might have saved me from the very journey I was about to make.

I eventually transitioned from the card store to the teen smoking area. Amy wasn’t doing much business anymore. Baseball cards were over. Rest of Grande Street was changing too. Same guy owned all the lots, increased rents in conjunction with rising property values in the area. Shops were pushed out by high-end restaurants, spas, boutiques, etc. Blockbuster underpriced and outstocked Video-rama. Espresso Express couldn’t compete with Starbucks. Little League took a loss; soccer was the new sport.

Amy’s survived because Amy, surprisingly, had good economic sense. Cards were over, true, but video games were a whole new market, as yet untapped in Quinosset. Nostalgic Amy still sold a few cards and comics, but rent money came from the first-person shooters, the high-megabit outlets for adolescent aggression.

Dan and I pulled up.

“I can’t go in,” I said. “You have to do it for me.”

Suddenly overwhelmed by the prospect of facing Amy. Didn’t want to let her down. She’d watched me all those years. How could I explain the bathrobe, unshaven face, bloodshot eyes? How can one apologize for not living up
to expectations you might have only imagined they’d had for you?

“What?”

“I can’t see Amy.”

“Don’t be a pussy.”

“She’ll know I’m all fucked up.”

“Who cares?”

“Can’t you just go in and sell the cards?”

“Fuck that. I won’t even know what they’re worth, if she’s ripping me off or not.”

“She’s a fair woman.”

“She likes you. She’ll give you a better deal.”

“I used to be in love with her.”

“Don’t be a fag.”

“I just said I was in love with a woman. How can I be a fag?”

“You said you
used
to be in love with her. Now you’re a fag because you won’t go in.”

His logic was sound.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

Walked in, stood to the side while Amy scraped fluorescent ice. Mothers took me for a potential pedophile, stared me down. I grinned, flicked a comic book.

Store was different. Not just the display, but the store itself: depth of counters, length of walls, brightness of overhead lights. She’d expanded, taken over the lot next door. Extra space was filled by beanbag chairs and gaming consoles, eyes-wide preteens hooked in, headphoned.

Could have been a TV studio set—a space remade to resemble a rich kid’s basement, but out of context—no accompanying hallways leading to kitchens where maids mope before ovens, mothers lean in—hand-over-receiver—listen to fathers sugar-croon to future wife twos, threes. Here everything
sounded like bam, tweet, bing. Kid heaven.

But the kids didn’t look happy. More like overworked employees: angry, beyond focus, dreaming digital fires, flames flaring up on their flatscreens. Trade the consoles for laptops, Italian ice for espresso, you got a de-stubbled version of the Wi-Fi Starbucks, where out-of-work office dads spent afternoons rewording resumes, cruising job sites.

“Can I get watermelon, sour apple, honey vanilla, green tea, banana, and black cherry,” one of the kids said.

“I can’t fit all those flavors in one cup,” Amy said. “I can only do two at a time.”

“Better give me a bigger cup.”

His mother—black-clad, booty-less, attractive—texted on her cell phone and talked to another kid’s mom at the same time.

“That’s soooo Marni.”

“Can you believe it? I mean, O-M-G.”

Wondered how old they were, if they’d gone to QHS, class of ’89, married twin varsity wrestlers who were now accountants, never left. Did they IM bored from home each day:

Were they into bisexual furry porn? Did they write Martha Stewart in jail? Take pole-dancing classes? Watch
The Hills
? Like to have sex during their periods with the lights on so they could watch the blood cover their husbands’ bodies, imagine it was his, warm and dark, a sign of both life and impending death?

“I want them all,” the kid said. “The healthy ones and the good ones. I need a balanced diet.”

At “balanced diet” his mother snapped into action.

“What’s going on?”

Gave Amy a look similar to the one she’d given me so I wouldn’t molest her son.

“Your kid wants like ten flavors in his ice. Some are flavors I don’t have.”

“She doesn’t have all the flavors,” mom said to the kid.