I'm with Stupid (19 page)

Libby is brave enough to ask William if he’d like to change before we leave. I hope she means into a tarp. That would be an improvement. Max takes a moment to squeeze William’s bicep before grabbing him by the arm. “It’s the Village,” he casually offers. “As long as he’s not wearing an
I LOVE NEW YORK
T-shirt he’ll fit right in. He wouldn’t stand out if he got electrocuted in the street, which I’ve actually seen happen.” He rubs the tracksuit for the second time. “William,” he says, “I bet your costume conducts some major electricity. We could probably get phone reception out of the zipper. You may not need a cell. These garments are saving us money already. The more I see them, the more I like them. Come along, I’ll let you buy me a bottle of booze to celebrate.”

William turns to me. “Is it true that New York is the city that never sleeps?” he asks out of nowhere. I put my hand on my hip and tilt my head to the right. I don’t even know how to answer that. It strikes me as one of the most random things ever uttered. It’s like waking someone from a sound sleep to ask if they like peppermint. I could tell him what a friend of mine once said, that New Yorkers never sleep because they are too busy trying to afford to live here. I could say this, but where would it get us?

Max answers for me: “Yes, it’s true. New Yorkers never sleep. Always believe everything you read and hear.”

William nods.

Now, see, here’s the problem: There’s no telling if William knows my friend is kidding, now or ever. Even when it’s something as obvious as that, I can’t be sure. Max, Libby, and I are just similar: We get one another. We’re like girls who hang out so much our periods come at the same time. William does not get our humor. Even in South Africa our banter soared over his head like a great American eagle. At the time it didn’t matter. I have to point this out to Max before he accidentally convinces William to throw himself off the Brooklyn Bridge.

We take the 6 local train to the East Village. William is mesmerized by the sights and smells of the New York subway system, the only place where you can mingle with a thousand nationalities simultaneously passing gas. Our ride is rather like the Noah’s Ark of this scenario. I wish I had nose plugs—and maybe sunglasses to take the glare off William. Every time I look at his clothes I feel like I’m forcing my eyes open during a solar eclipse.

As soon as we get out of the subway William notices the little stores and booths lining St. Mark’s Place. “What’s all that?” he asks excitedly and veers left. I call after him: “It’s just a bunch of junk! Your typical tourist trap.” He turns around: “Looks cool. Can we see?” His face is amazing. I do not have the power to resist. I tell him to be my guest. “Great!” he says and bolts toward a display of hats, bracelets, and sunglasses. I turn to Max and shake my head disapprovingly. “What?” he responds. “Take it easy, let him look at the crap.” I whisper that I don’t want William to stay with me and that this is already incredibly stressful. He sees that I’m being dead serious. “Here’s what will happen . . . ,” he begins. He repeats his earlier promise: William can stay with him; he has plenty of room. He tells me that when—if—I am feeling truly overwhelmed, all I need to do is give him a signal. I should touch my finger to my nose. When I do, he will jump in and invite William to stay with him. I nod, then point my finger at his chest and warn that I will take him up on this if need be. He raises his hands over his head like he’s the victim of a stickup. “Fine, go ahead,” he says. “I think it would be fun!” He pauses. “But I have to admit, he feels like a whole different person to me now that he’s in New York.”

I stare at him. “Really?” I sarcastically ask. “You think?”

We stroll over to Libby and William, who is turning over the useless loot like an enchanted magpie. Libby asks what he likes. “Everything!” he exclaims while examining a knit cap with the letters
CIA
printed on it. Max takes the
CIA
cap from him and puts it back on the table. “You don’t want that,” he says disapprovingly. “Let’s keep it moving, hot pants.” William moves to the next bin and picks up a necklace of oversize white stones with gold accents. I suspect it was stolen from Elton John’s 1973 garage sale. The only thing it would go well with is a broken piano. Max touches one of the stones: “That actually matches your outfit a little more,” he says to William. “You’d be making a very bold statement. I’ll write up the press release tonight.” William holds out the necklace for me to see. What kind of idiot would be caught dead wearing something like that? I wouldn’t use that clunker to prop up a door at the Little Rock, Arkansas, county jail. “I’m going to buy this for you,” he says.

My mouth drops open. “Oh, no, please don’t,” I plead. “I don’t need it. I have enough jewelry. I’m begging you not to do this thing, William.”

“No, I insist.” He grins. “I want to buy my girlfriend a present.”

Girlfriend?

“How romantic,” Libby coos. I step on her foot. Shut it.

William pays for the necklace and makes me try it on. I put it around me and immediately get a headache, possibly whiplash. It’s so heavy I wonder if my kneecaps will crack under the pressure. I take a look at myself in the little mirror near the display. I bear a strong resemblance to a sick dog who’s been made to don one of those preventive plastic cones around its neck. It’s completely humiliating.

“It looks beautiful on you!” William exclaims.

Max touches my cheek. “It’s certainly a striking ornament,” he says with mock sincerity. “It’s like you’re wearing a grand ruffled collar. You look like Shakespeare and Queen Elizabeth on their first and only date—right before they had a one-night stand.”

I widen my eyes. I’m really going to kill Max, talking about one-night stands like that. Now he’s stepping over the line. No more. I stare him down then touch my finger to my nose. I repeat the move five times. That’s right, pal, he’s all yours now. Bet you didn’t think I’d take you up on it.

William doesn’t seem concerned that I’m touching my nose. He throws his arms around me. “You remind me of a princess in that necklace,” he says with pride. “I love you so much, and I’m so glad I gave up my virginity to you.”

I begin to feel the blood draining from my face. I pull back. I’m sorry, what was what? He’s a virgin? Or was a virgin? Max lets out a deep whistle. “No way,” I hear him say.

I look at William to see if he is being serious. When he said he’s only had two relationships I obviously assumed . . . oh sweet, sweet and precious angels of mercy, what kind of shit have I stepped into here? I thought Salt-N-Pepa was bad but this. All eyes are now on William. “You’ve never had sex?” I finally ask.

William smiles: “I have now!” I respond that I had no idea he was a virgin. (My God, if I had known that I never would have slept with him.) “Yes, you did,” he tells me. “I told you the same night that I lost my virginity.” I shake my head. No, he did not. I’m positive I would not have missed that one. He continues: “We were in bed. I started to say that I had never made love before but you put your finger to my lips and said, ‘I know.’ ” I smile weakly. I remember it now. I thought he was going to tell me he had never met anyone like me. I was trying to spare myself the line; it was the same bullshit Richard had fed me. William affectionately squeezes my hand. “What’s a one-night stand?” he innocently asks. “Is that when people stay up all night drinking?”

Ohmygod.

Max covers his face with his hands. He slowly splays two fingers and peeks through. “Uh-huh,” he confirms, still keeping his face covered. “That’s exactly what a one-night stand is. You and I are going to have one tonight.” William smiles. “New York is the city that never sleeps!” he says.

Oh-my-God.

Max brings down his hands. “William,” he tentatively says, “how would you like to stay with . . .” I mouth the word
No
and bow my head. I can’t pawn William off now. Consider the finger removed from the nose. This is a huge development.

William continues perusing the merchandise. He buys several Big Apple–themed knickknacks, including a Giants pendant that my colleague Barbara would adore and a shot glass with a picture of the Statue of Liberty. He informs me that he loves the Statue of Liberty and asks if it’s made of wood. It isn’t, but your head is, I want to suggest. How is it that he knew so much in South Africa? Now he’s just an unsocialized mess. Damn! I had no idea that there were any twenty-three-year-old virgins anywhere. I really didn’t. Yes, I’ve been using the
I’m a virgin
line on my mother since I turned eighteen, but I’m still surprised that she falls for it. Now I know why she does: It’s not unfathomable.

Before long William is offering to buy me a shot glass or two of my own. Max intervenes, informing him that I don’t need any because I already have a collection of shot glasses from my travels to Rio de Janeiro. I have never been to Rio de Janeiro and Max knows it. He’s just saying this to torture me. Isn’t the fact that my apartment will soon resemble a gift shop torture enough?

As we wait around for William to finish up his shopping spree I begin to notice the effect he is having on passersby. Every woman and many of the men are tripping over their shoes while giving him the eye. If you’ve never seen William, looking at him for the first time is like witnessing a miracle. It’s not the hideous clothes you pay attention to, it’s the face, which is flawless perfection. But William couldn’t care less about these people. Even a pretty blonde bumping into him doesn’t make an impact. William only has eyes for trinkets, and for me. He takes my hand: “You’re wonderful. And I love that necklace!”

Yes, the necklace. I need someone to hold me upright when I have it around my throat. It’s like wearing a candelabra or an inner tube.

Late that night, after William arranges NYC souvenirs on every available surface in my apartment, we have sex for the second time. Or, as William puts it, we make love for the second time. I enjoy being with William but I don’t enjoy the feeling I have afterward. I can’t separate my thoughts from the act itself.

William means well but this is not going to work. I am not in love with him. How could I be? But the thought of telling him breaks my heart. I robbed him of his virginity and he responded by professing his love and loyalty—if I dump him now he could be fucked up for the rest of his life. He could turn into a misogynist like Richard. Introducing another Richard into the world is not something I’m interested in doing. Damn, I feel like a heel, especially when William looks me in the eye and says things like: “I want to tell you again how happy I am that you are helping me. I was really confused after getting fired. I thought I was going to amount to nothing. But you really, really helped me. You are the nicest person I know. Someday I will return your generosity. Before my uncle Dale died he told me I could do anything if I tried hard enough—all I want to do is make the people I love so much proud of me. Thank you for the opportunity. You’re not only my girlfriend, you’re my best friend.”

I put my clothes back on before returning to bed for the night. William is already asleep. Not a hint of jet lag on his sweet face, not a single care in the world. I’m going to have to learn to tolerate him for a little while. I have no choice.

I tiptoe out of bed the next morning and go into the bathroom to shower. I turn on the hot water and take a seat on the edge of the tub. I light a cigarette and watch the water run down the drain. Before long I hear what sounds like the buzzer and then, if I’m not mistaken, William saying something. I open the bathroom door to find out what’s going on. He’s supposed to be asleep. William is standing over the intercom, scratching his balls. “What are you doing?” I ask, walking toward him.

He turns around. “Good morning!”

I repeat my question.

“You have visitors,” he says. “I just buzzed them in using this intercom, just like you taught me to do last night.”

I open the door and peek into the hallway. “Who is it?” I ask suspiciously. “You can’t just let strangers into the building.”

“They’re not strangers. She said . . .”

I hear my mother’s voice. “This hallway is dirty,” she says between deep breaths. I slam the door. Oh shit! I look at William in terror. “You let my mother in?”

“I think it’s your whole family,” he explains. “She said you were expecting them.”

I take in William’s appearance. He’s practically naked in a pair of too-tight white briefs—it’s like we’re on the set of a porno. His dick is enormous.

It’s important to understand something: This is a problem. My relationship with my mother is defined by the things I choose not to reveal. She is about to see a side of me that I have never exposed—that I never planned to expose. My mother is moral, she is strict, she is a traditionalist. She thinks women should marry, be wholesome, go to church, and not have illicit sex with strangers and then invite them into their homes. I don’t talk about men with her. I would not dream of it.

I begin jumping in place, flailing my arms at William. “What are you standing there for? Hurry up!” I shout, my head spinning. Where can I hide him? A matchbox? He’s too big. The stove, the fridge, behind the flag of Monaco? Maybe I should just jump out the window . . . “Go put some clothes on. My mother is going to kill me when she sees you here.” Maybe I can stick him in the corner and put a lamp shade on his head . . .

“You didn’t tell her about me?” he asks, confused.

I open the closet. “Why would I tell her about you?” I scream.

“I told my parents all about you,” he responds, sounding rather hurt. “They love you as much as I do.”

I need a tracksuit. “It never came up,” I shout. “My mother is always the last person I tell anything. She can’t handle the truth.” Holding the cigarette between my lips, I pull a canary-yellow terry-cloth number off a hanger and toss it at William. It hits him in the face like a bucket of ice water. Wake up! “Get in the bathroom and put that on,” I order, my hands shaking. “Hurry up. Move it!” Before he can close the door I run in after him and throw my cigarette into the toilet bowl. Shit! She’s definitely going to smell that. She’s a fucking bloodhound. Fuck. I don’t smoke.