I'm with Stupid (18 page)

Libby gets a pained look on her face. “This particular outfit, Willy?” she asks.

Please don’t call him Willy. No one call him Willy.

William mentions that he has a bunch of them in an array of colors. Max sizes him up. “It’s got a funky urban street feel to it, doesn’t it?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” William answers. “It’s just comfortable.”

Max touches William’s arm and rubs his hand back and forth across the shiny fabric like a DJ scratching a record. “Check one, check two,” he looks up and says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask annoyed.

“I have no idea,” Max admits, “but that experience warranted some kind of comment. You should try it.” Libby asks William if his ranger khakis were uncomfortable. “Good point,” Max chimes in, “you should put the uniform back on and give it another shot. If you wait right here I’ll run out and buy a Japanese changing screen so you have some privacy.” William shakes his head. He doesn’t have the uniform anymore. Helga took it all away. Max offers to sew him a new one and asks if anyone has needle and thread. William smiles. He says that now that he doesn’t have to wear the park ranger uniform all the time he feels liberated. I wait for Max to tell him that liberty is overrated and that we’d all be more comfortable in a totalitarian regime but he doesn’t. Instead the three of us nod in silence as William reveals that he is actively building his tracksuit collection: He has so many great colors, more than could fit in a box of Crayola crayons. The Crayola hues he mentions: Hot Magenta, Electric Lime, Magic Mint, Radical Red, Macaroni and Cheese, Wild Strawberry, Laser Lemon, Razzmatazz, Timber Wolf, Dandelion, Purple Mountains’ Majesty, Purple Heart, Orchid, Shamrock, and Asparagus.

William puts his arm around my waist: “I didn’t realize how great I’d feel when I got here. I feel great! I’m in love, I’m in a new city. It’s a fresh start. I’m already happy.”

He’s in love.

“Good,” says Libby cheerfully. “It’s so nice to be happy.”

“I am happy,” William insists.

“We believe you,” I flatly assure him as he pulls me closer.

Max can’t get over the tracksuit. He asks if the material breathes. Does William have any rashes to report? “Oh no,” William says. “This thing has treated me well!” Max nods. He was just wondering; it was a long flight. William laughs: “I’ll check it out when I get home.” Home. He means my home. I’m not laughing.

Libby looks down at William’s shoes. “I like your high-tops,” she offers. “I think I had a pair of those exact ones in the fifth grade. Except mine weren’t purple. I didn’t know they still made those.”

I loved those damn ranger boots!

William informs Libby that she was “already styling back then.” I think of Terry McMillan, author of
How Stella Got Her Groove Back
, that godforsaken book on which the movie was based. If I ever see Terry McMillan on the street I’m going to trip her.

We pick up William’s luggage from baggage claim and take a taxi back to my apartment. The ride home—to my very small home—involves a lot of gawking and explaining. Max and Libby interrogate William about his plans. This time I pay attention. He informs them that he is here to live out a dream and help Monaco in the process. He reminds me that I am the generous girl who made it all possible and assures me that he will not be staying with me forever. (He actually uses the word
forever
.) He is eager to point out that he can access his life’s savings using any ATM machine and tells me that he will be helping to pay rent.

The first thing William does when he walks into the apartment is step on a glue trap. I peel it off the bottom of his high-top like a wad of gum. I feel like his mother. Not cool. He furrows his still-adorable brow: “What is that thing?” he asks. A part of me wants to tell him that my home is overrun with vermin and that I eat beans out of a tin can and don’t brush my teeth. Anything to get him to change his mind about staying here. But I don’t. I’m embarrassed to tell the stranger I slept with that I saw a mouse. I choose to lie. I begin to explain that it’s a glue trap. I don’t have mice, he needn’t worry, it’s a precautionary thing. “It’s for mice!” William shouts. I take a step back. What’s he shouting for? Maybe he thought it was a stick of gum. Eat it if you want. “That’s so inhumane,” he tells me, shaking his head. William looks startled and wounded. He’s acting like he uncovered an electric chair and black hood in my kitchen. I try to explain the necessity of mousetraps. William informs me that mice are living creatures that deserve to be treated with respect. He collects the traps and puts them on the counter, next to the sink.

Max sighs: “This is New York, William,” he tells him. “No one gets treated with respect. You’ll be lucky if you don’t get punched in the stomach when you go out for a bagel in the morning.”

“What’s a bagel?” William turns and asks.

Libby finds this question charming. “What’s a bagel!” she says. “You never had one?”

I stare at the glue traps on the counter. “It’s bread with a hole in it,” I mumble.

William says he’d like to try a bagel. Max opens an imaginary book and turns its imaginary page. “Maybe you can write a novel about it,” he suggests. He thinks he’s being funny. He’s not funny. There isn’t enough funny in the world to make William’s garments or his affection for rodents funny. Libby happily adds to the problem by asking how his book is coming. William takes the question very seriously, as I suspected he might.

William explains: “I wrote a chapter but I don’t think it’s very good. Writing is hard, you know? It’s like you think you’re going to say one thing and then on the page it looks like another. And sometimes when you reread what you wrote it can even be a little embarrassing. You thought it was better than it is, you know?”

I must confess that I completely understand. It hurts to admit how well. I tell him that I know what he means: You never get what you expected.

“Yeah, it’s hard”—William screws up his face—“but I’ll get there. I just have to keep doing it. I’m really proud just to be a writer—and to think I never attended university!” He asks if anyone would like to read the chapter he wrote: It’s not that good but it’s a start.

Max shakes his head: “That’s okay, we’ve seen enough of your talents via e-mail. We’ll just let you simmer for a while in your creative juices. Maybe you can jot down your best ideas in an invisible ink. Writing is a solitary activity. Let’s keep it that way, shall we? In fact, it might be good not to let anyone read your work until you are completely done. Maybe next year or the year after that.”

“Next year!” William says in disbelief. “I want to be done long before then. I have to be. I don’t have any other prospects. I’m counting on this book. Maybe I’ll get a big advance of four hundred thousand dollars, or even two hundred thousand. I’m willing to compromise for my dreams. Most of the proceeds will go to charity. I live modestly.”

“Modestly?” Max asks. “Did you tell your tracksuits that?”

I look up at the ceiling. I hate you, you no-good fucking ceiling. Max pulls a piece of lint off my sweater. He examines it before letting it fall to the floor. “Maybe you will get an advance and maybe you won’t,” he tells William. “In the meantime, let’s do up Manhattan right. What do you say?” William admits he’d like that and asks if he could unpack his luggage first—he doesn’t want to leave a mess on the floor. No, God forbid there should be a mess on the floor. How about the mess in your brain? Clean up the broken bottles in there first. William looks at me expectantly. I hope I didn’t just say that thing about his brain out loud.

“Can I unpack?” he asks.

I nod.

Max spreads out on the bed. “Don’t worry about making a mess,” he offers. “With Libby across the hall this apartment is usually a war zone. Concealer, hair extensions, and fake eyelashes flying like shrapnel. You’re going to have to learn to duck.” William points out that war zones are not a joking matter. Max ignores this comment and pats the mattress. “This thing is bouncy,” he says. The observation seems to overwhelm the ranger, who is blushing as he begins to unpack. Max tucks a pillow under his chin. “So whatcha got in the bag of tricks?” he asks. William pulls a long swatch of fabric out of his raggedy suitcase, which has more holes than a golf course, and explains that he only brought the essentials. Libby takes a seat on the couch. I collapse next to her. William unfurls the fabric. It’s as big as a tent, as tall as William himself. It rolls toward me. I lift my foot to stop it. “It’s the flag of Monaco,” he says, holding it out for us to see. The flag is red on top and white on the bottom. If you turned it around it would be the flag of Poland. Monaco sucks. They need a flag that isn’t the Polish flag turned upside down. Libby lifts a corner of the flag off the floor. When she marvels at its size, Max turns on his side and props up his head with his hand. He wonders aloud if it’s as big as . . . He hesitates and looks over at me. I shake my head no, then ask William what he plans to do with the flag, hoping he doesn’t want to hang it up someplace.

“I was hoping you would let me hang it,” he says. “I know I won’t be living with you forever, I am planning to rent my own apartment, but for the time being I was hoping you would let me hang it. It would mean a lot to me.”

Max calls out from his spot on the bed: “Oh, don’t be silly, William, now why hang that thing up?” For the first time since we returned from South Africa I am grateful to Max. “Seriously,” he continues and pats the mattress, “you shouldn’t hang it. You should use it as the bedspread. I mean you might want to run it through a dryer with some fabric softener but after that I bet it’ll be as soft as a kitten on a summer’s day.” He gets off the bed and snatches the flag before I can suggest a few more options, including using it as a carpet or pool cover. He drapes it across his back like a superhero and takes a few bold steps. He asks if he can borrow it for Halloween. I tell him to give it back. Now. He relinquishes the cape and lies back down on the bed. “Come on,” he sulks. “I don’t want to have to dress up as Agatha Christie two years in a row.”

“Then go as a fool who offers bad advice,” I tell him, “that way you won’t need a costume.”

William doesn’t know what to make of this exchange and says nothing. Libby asks where he wants to hang the flag. He looks at me. What, you gonna hang it on me? Haven’t I suffered enough? He answers that he was thinking of hanging it over the sofa. I glance behind me at the empty wall. I knew I should have put an eleven-by-fourteen of my family right there. Damn. I sadly answer that he can hang it if he’s sure it’s the right thing to do. “Thanks!” he shouts. “This makes me very happy. It’s going to inspire me. I can look over at this flag while I write my book about the political situation in Monaco.”

Max rolls onto his back. He stares at the ceiling. “Aren’t you done writing that book yet?” he moans. “I feel like it’s all we talk about anymore. It’s driving us apart.” William looks at me for help. I assure him that Max is just kidding. “No, I’m not,” Max protests. A confused William shakes his head. He tells us that we are a lot of fun but that he’s definitely going to have to get used to our sense of humor. Libby reminds him that there will be plenty of time for that. Yes, tremendous.

I help William hang the flag of Monaco on my wall. I can’t believe it but there it is: I am helping a former park ranger/one-night stand hang his flag of Monaco, which is the Polish flag upside down, on my wall. Once the flag is up, Max offers his unprofessional opinion. “I’m not a huge fan of those colors in this apartment,” he admits. “You should hang the flag of some other country on the wall instead. Do you have a French flag in that suitcase of yours?”

The flag looks terrible; it makes my place look like a college dorm. I say nothing; William continues to unpack. I give him a section of the closet to hang his tracksuits. By the grace of God, everything fits. “Done,” he finally announces. Libby opens her eyes. Max sits up: “I’m really, really, really, really bored right now. I can’t keep lying here or I’ll get rigor mortis. Can we leave?” I tell him to get his ass up. He jumps off the bed. “Where to first?” he asks. William turns to me. He expresses interest in buying one of those T-shirts that say
I LOVE NEW YORK
and asks if I think he can find one in New York. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I don’t think it’s appropriate to love New York that much. What would the neighbors say?

“No,” Max lies. “They stopped making those because they’re ugly. Sorry. Besides”—he points at a pair of apricot-colored nylon pants on the floor that William forgot to put away—“it looks to me like you have enough clothes.” I nod. We are not buying any dumb clothes. We have an abundance of them already. William looks disappointed. Max sighs: “Tough break but they just made those
I LOVE NEW YORK
shirts illegal, William. It was on the news. You’d be arrested if you got caught with one. There are a lot of con artists in this city so if you see those shirts spread out on a folding table or dirty towel when we are walking around just resist the urge to approach the vendor. He could be an undercover cop.” William wants to know why they are illegal. I jump in, explaining that they are not really illegal, Max was just kidding.

Max pats William on the back: “No, I’m not,” he says. “They are illegal. It’s the mayor’s fault. We’re trying to vote him out of office but we don’t vote.” The expression on William’s face is blank. We have so much in common.

In an effort to speed the party along I ask William where he would like to go on his first night in New York: Soho, Chinatown, the East Village, the West . . . “Times Square,” he says. “I want to see where they film MTV videos.” Max bows his head as if in mourning. He explains that, unfortunately, that has been made illegal, too. So has the Empire State Building in case that was going to be William’s next suggestion. “Let’s go to the East Village instead,” Max tells him. “It’s a way more fun neighborhood. Less generic.”

William nods. He walks to the door, which is when he notices the intercom and moves toward it. He wants to know what it is. It’s a bagel, of course. When Max jokes that it’s used for killing animals that don’t deserve our respect and compassion William grabs it with both hands. I hurl myself at him before he can tear it off the wall. I explain the intercom’s function. You press the talk button to talk and the door button to open the door. Now I know my ABCs next time won’t you sing with me. Come on!