I'm with Stupid (17 page)

“Shut up,” I call after him.

“Oh loosen up,” he responds and bites into the apple. “It’s just William.” He makes a face, sticks out his tongue, and scrapes it with his finger. “I just ate tape,” he mumbles.

I consider Max’s words: It’s just William. And then I realize something extremely important for the first time, something that I had until now completely overlooked: I have no idea who William is.

I

don’t

know

anything

about

him.

None of us does.

The next few days are a little hectic. For one thing, there’s the mouse. Mouse, you say? Yeah. Allow me to share: I was sitting on the couch, minding my own business, when I saw it, moving across the floor like a lone shadow across a sun-drenched sidewalk. Except it was not that romantic. My toes curled involuntarily. I picked up a penny off my coffee table and threw it at the mouse, which began to run toward me. I performed some sort of tribal rhythm dance as it zigzagged between my legs. It bolted past me and escaped through a jagged crack underneath my door that I never noticed was there. Rent-stabilized buildings are great, but they are old as shit, and they have squatters. That night I picked up every couch cushion, every ashtray, every magazine in the apartment expecting to find it hiding underneath. Since then I’ve purchased two dozen glue traps and placed them around the apartment. I even put one on the spare pillow on my bed, like a hotel mint, because you never know. So there’s the mouse, which continues to haunt me. And now, when I’m not wondering whether the mouse is going to crawl into my mouth while I sleep, I’m checking e-mail. I am spending way too much time online, deleting William’s messages, which pile up like snow in my inbox. It’s a blizzard of nonsense, basically. Apparently he is taking full advantage of his last days of Internet access. Having been sacked/fired, he has nothing better to do. I am now the proud owner of about thirty e-mails regarding his thoughts on the political situation in Monaco, which seems to be worsening (it getin wors!!). I don’t even bother reading the e-mails, which are not exactly lucid. In addition to the Monaco e-mails I have received approximately forty or so forwarded mass e-mails—from everyone William has ever made contact with, it seems—on an array of topics including diet pills and horse tranquilizers. An e-mail about the benefits of Viagra was also sent. Twice. As was a link to a Web site where one can buy pocket-size remote-control blimps (Subject: i wan 1!!!!!). And right below the link, six characters: “I luv yu.” I can’t even count the number of e-mails received with links to various humanitarian organizations. Save the whales, save the trees, save the planet . . . I saved none of them. I pressed delete.

Max and Libby insist that William’s visit is going to be great, but it’s a little hard to ignore the fact that he can’t compose a clear sentence. No one, least of all me, is pretending to be a genius, but William’s recent displays of madness have made me wonder if I should. After all, no matter how shallow and superficial I am, no matter how many dumb things I do or say—and it happens all the time—I at least understand my place in life: I am here to make fun of the world. It’s usually no more complicated than that. It is entirely weird to be confronted with someone who does not seem aware of his limitations—someone with career goals and dreams that, pardon me, seem beyond his reach. It is surreal to think that in a few days that person will be sharing my four hundred square feet of rental property. The reality of the situation is ever apparent: I’m screwed. How did I get myself into this?

“You are not screwed, babe,” Libby tells me.

“You will get screwed soon enough, if you’re lucky,” Max laughs.

“I am screwed,” I answer. “I don’t need this in my life. I mean I feel sorry for him.” Max reminds me that I need to relax. “Relax?” I repeat. “Yes, maybe I should go on vacation again. Maybe take your advice and sleep with another park ranger and let him follow me to New York so I can fulfill his dreams. It really worked out well the first time. Very relaxing. I mean is this guy trying to use me? He thinks I can hook him up with some kind of book deal?”

He waves me off: “Listen, no one put your hand on his gigantic penis. You keep trying to pin this on me. It’s not my fault.”

“Max, you were practically on your knees begging me to sleep with him!” I shout. I get on my knees and inch toward him to illustrate the point.

He takes in my pitiful display before helping me up. “He’s not even here yet and look how you’re acting,” he says. “How can you possibly know what is going to happen? Get up already and enjoy the ride. If it’s the book thing you’re worried about, don’t. It’ll work itself out. I’m sure of it. He’ll be gone in a day or two.”

I shake a fist at him. I don’t have the nerves for this. I’m a very anxious person when I don’t have control over my environment.

“When is he coming?” Max asks.

“This Friday night,” I flatly answer.

He claps his hands. He’s excited.

I turn to Libby and point a finger: “As for you and your suggestion that I get my groove back like Stella?”

She looks up: “Yeah?”

“Well, I took in a screening of the movie last night—you know, the one you recommended I take a cue from but that you never actually saw—and guess what happens?”

“What?” she innocently asks.

“HE FOLLOWS HER TO THE UNITED STATES AND CRASHES A FAMILY PICNIC!”

Libby enthusiastically nods: “I think someone told me that,” she says. “How cute. I can’t wait to see William.”

At work that Friday I finish (for the second time, just to be sure) S. Konrad’s manuscript and compose a note to my boss highlighting its merits. I leave it on his office chair along with the manuscript. If this is not a “winner,” I don’t know what is. I think it’s good, and I hope he does, too.

With half a day left to kill before I have to leave for Newark International Airport, I go through a fresh stack of manuscripts submitted for consideration earlier that week. If I could just find three decent books to pass to my boss. Three. Is that too much to ask? Even though I can’t control the submissions we receive, I feel responsible for the lack of material we have to work with.

Not seeing anything suitable among the submissions, I begin sending rejection letters via e-mail. It’s standard practice. Once a week I send generic letters to authors thanking them for their submissions and wishing them luck. In an effort to de-stress I also compose a fantasy letter that thanks an author who submitted a particularly bad book for being such a talentless loser. Feels good! Wish I could really send it! Toward the end of the day Libby calls to arrange a time to meet at the airport. As we talk I send several rejection letters, cutting and pasting the same bullshit about the agency being grateful for the submissions. All in a day’s work.

“It’ll be fiiiiiiiiiiinne,” Max assures me as we wait inside Newark International Airport for William to reenter my life. “You are way too high-strung.” He checks the monitor and informs me that the flight, lucky number 13, has landed. I nod; it’ll be good to see him again. He’s absolutely gorgeous, for one thing. And he’s certainly the sweetest guy I’ve ever known . . . or at least the sweetest guy I’ve known for . . . let’s do the math . . . okay, like ten hours, that’s how much total time I spent with him—it seemed like it was longer. But this is going to be fun. This is going to be an adventure, like Max said. So what if William has displayed some weird behavior? And so what if he can’t write? I mean, who can? Honestly. Let’s think this through. Who can? You tell me that. Who really and truly knows how to write an e-mail? Who really knows how to write, come to think of it? It’s all a matter of opinion. Maybe he was so busy as a ranger that there was no time to write a complete sentence. Maybe he broke his arm when he picked up the piece of paper Max chucked out the window like a dipshit. Maybe his fingers were chewed off by a shark right after I left and he didn’t want to upset me by saying something. Maybe he needs medical attention. Maybe he’s been paralyzed. Maybe he accidentally tipped over a bottle of slow-acting poison and swallowed it, impairing both his vision and his ability to think like a human being. Maybe he’s hallucinating. Maybe he’s high on mushrooms. Maybe he’s Jerry Garcia. Maybe he’s dying and writing poorly is the only way he has of lashing out at society. Maybe he needs counseling. Maybe I do. Maybe we should go together. It could be any number of things, that’s my point. How do I know? I’m not a fortune-teller, warlock, or oracle. And, besides, who am I to judge? I don’t want to judge. I want to be open-minded. I want to open my heart. I’ve been told I’d be a better person for it. I don’t remember who told me that but someone did. And here’s a thought: Maybe his e-mails were some sort of code meant to throw Helga off his scent. He did tell me he loved me
over e-mail
—maybe he was trying to protect me so she wouldn’t find out where I live and come speak to me with a threatening accent that invades my personal space. Maybe his e-mails weren’t a bunch of mumbo-jumbo gibberish from another planet that took a team of people to translate. Maybe his e-mails to me were actually hieroglyphics. Maybe he’s versed in the ancient art. Maybe the e-mails were dictated to someone else. Maybe a secretary is to blame. (We’ve all seen Barbara in action.) Or maybe it’s a computer virus. Maybe he’s a relentless practical joker like Max. April Fools’ Day is almost here. Maybe it’s that, and maybe something else. The world is a funny place after all. Just when you think you know a person after ten hours he mixes it up a bit to keep you guessing. So who knows? But this is going to be fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine. I need to relax.

The heavy steel doors open and passengers begin to file out. I anxiously scan the crowd for William’s face. And there he is, towering over the competition! Ahhh, he is so cute. He is cuter than I remember. Honestly. A calm comes over me. Man, is he cute. This is going to be okay. He may not be very bright but this is going to be okay. I’m not that bright myself. If I were bright I would not have slept with a person after knowing him only a handful of seconds. The side of practically every New York bus warns against sleeping with people you don’t know. I had unsafe sex. This is what happens. I am a statistic. I must deal with it. But this is going to be just tremendous. It could be worse. It could have been herpes.

William moves a little closer. Come to mama, get your ass over here! The old couple in front of him gets out of the way. Shoo, seniors! Come on, hot stuff. Wow! He is so handsome . . . better than I remember.

Wait a minute.

Wait one minute.

What

the

hell

is

he

wearing?

“Would anyone mind telling me what he’s wearing?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“Tinfoil?” Libby suggests, bewildered.

“Looks like aluminum siding,” Max observes, “but where’s the rest of the barn?”

William is walking toward me, an enormous smile splashed across his face. He is gorgeous from the neck up but after that it’s like a boating accident. He is wearing a fitted silver tracksuit that rustles when he moves. He looks like a cross between an astronaut and an early 1990s rap star. He looks like MC Hammer by way of Vanilla Ice . . . by way of the Space Center. He looks like he dances to Salt-N-Pepa. Where’s the uniform? Where is the uniform, William! I forgot he was a human being with feelings and his own clothes. And here he comes, here he is, to remind me—with a soundtrack no less. William rustles over.

“Hey gorgeous!” He picks me up and spins me around. I realize I’m afraid of heights and hold on for dear life. He kisses me as my legs dangle several inches off the ground. (In spite of everything, he’s a great kisser.) I try regaining my composure when he puts me back down and tells me I look wonderful, just how he remembered me. I wish I could say the same. I can’t. Instead I simply say thank you. Max and Libby give him a hug next. “Hey!” he says. “Great to see you guys again.” They answer tentatively: “You, too.” The four of us stand there and nod. One of us nods out of desperation. Max opens his mouth first. He suggests we go get William’s luggage. Chop, chop. William slaps his hands together: “Let’s do it,” he says. I give him a look. Really? Because I don’t want to do it. Next time I have an urge to do it I’ll do it alone.

We begin walking through the terminal, past a row of windows, to baggage claim. “So this is New York,” William says. “Great!” Max informs him that actually this is just an airport in New Jersey. He points arbitrarily at the wall. New York is right outside there somewhere, past an expensive tollbooth. William glances out the window. “Right. I’m excited,” he says.

“We are, too, babe,” Libby concurs with an assuring smile.

He nods again, taking in the airport shops on his right: “Yeah, this is great!”

I look into William’s eyes and wonder what’s behind them: A sausage casing? A footprint? He seems normal—but he isn’t. His e-mails prove that. How does he process thought? Through a pasta machine? He says he’s excited. It sounds like English but is it? How would the words
i’m excited
look if he wrote them? Bing, bang, bong, gong, ding, dong, ring—like that? It’s shocking to imagine.

Max jumps in: “So, William, I’m noticing this ensemble—”

William cuts him off. He tells Max to call him Willy. Willy is what all his friends call him. I shake my head. Willy Johnson, I think to myself. Willy fucking Johnson. That is two dicks too many, man. Seriously.

Max gives him a look: “You know something? I’d rather not. I’m going to pass on calling you Willy Johnson. Anyway, it’s very bright, your outfit. I can’t say I’ve never seen anything like it, I’ve seen my share, but I can definitely say I never thought I’d see it on you. I almost want to tell you not to rub your legs together when you walk for fear that the material will ignite and blow you up.”

We are back on home turf. Max, who can say the most inappropriate things with a smile that makes you think he’s complimenting you, has regained his composure, and his acid tongue. William looks down in admiration at his outfit and informs us that he’s had it forever. “This is all I wear when I have time off,” he adds.