I'm with Stupid (2 page)

I light a cigarette just as my apartment door flies open. In walks Max holding a
DON’T CALL RICHARD
sign. Max, that red bouncing ball in the otherwise static world. He thinks fast, he talks fast, he moves fast. “That cigarette smells,” he informs me and fans his nose. “You might as well crap on yourself.” I ash my cigarette. He gestures in my direction with the
DON’T CALL RICHARD
sign. “Why was this thing taped to your front door?” I shrug and sheepishly explain that sometimes I need a reminder not to call Richard before entering the house. Dignity! It’s called dignity! I can’t call a fourth time! He tears it in half and looks around the kitchen. I cringe. I hope he doesn’t notice . . .

He points up at the light fixture. There’s a sign tied to it instructing me not to call Richard (ever again) ((because I’m the asshole who already called three times)). “What’s that up there for?” he asks with a frown. I give him a look. He slams the door and drops his gym bag on the floor. “Get up, fatty-back-fat,” he says. “We’re out of here in ten.” Max, whose ass is so firm it could double as a regulation Olympic gymnastics mat for the Bulgarian team, has many flattering nicknames for me: triple XL, chunky chuck, muffin man, hog-gone-wild. I’ve heard them all. He claims that because I don’t work out I should prepare myself for the verbal humiliation that will one day come with a soft midsection. I think he might be trying to motivate me and, you know what? It’s not working. I’m a tremendous fan of banana crème pies. And you know what else I’m a fan of? The crispy skin on fried chicken. I want to find a restaurant that sells just that and then I want to live under the counter.

He drags a chair into the center of the kitchen, stands on it, and unties the
DON’T CALL RICHARD
sign. He tosses it on the table. “You have nine minutes to get up and get dressed, chop, chop,” he orders. When I hesitate he impatiently runs a hand through closely cropped brown hair (Max has had the same military haircut since college; it suits him, and he knows it), then walks over to the bed. He widens his green eyes, which are framed by his best feature, long curly lashes (I think he has twice as many as anyone else), and leans in until our noses bump: “It’s Valentine’s Day. I have tickets to a concert. You’re not staying in, we’re going, it’s not an option.” It’s never an option with Max. The man wears confidence like a tuxedo. The fact that he’s short, that his nose is a bit too pointy (don’t tell him I said that), that he has a crooked smile, doesn’t prevent him from hooking better-looking men than anyone I know. Because with Max, you’ll never be sure where the day will take you, and everyone wants to be around that kind of promise.

When I don’t move he pulls something out of his back pocket and sticks it in my face. I lean back. What the hell? It’s the brochure for South Africa he’s been flashing at me at every opportunity, on the front of which is a lion frolicking in tall grass. “Are you packed yet?” he asks. I take the brochure and open it. Three park rangers wave at me from a safari truck; one of them is exceptionally good looking. I gaze at the ranger for a moment then hand back the brochure. I’ve never been on a South African vacation, much less one I didn’t have to pay for. Max got the trip—three days on safari inside Kruger National Park, three more sightseeing in Cape Town—for free from his father. Max’s father originally planned to take the trip with business partners. When scheduling conflicts intervened, he simply gave Max the tickets, the way I might pass someone a Kleenex. I guess rich people can do that.

As I reluctantly get up, Max plops down on the couch, which emits a long groan, followed by a longer yawn. “Babe, get off me,” says Libby. “You’re sitting on me.” Ah, Libby. She’s Max’s cousin on his mother’s side. They are both only children and bicker like siblings. Max introduced us during our sophomore year of college, and she’s just been around ever since.

Libby has been on that couch all day, lying facedown on the cushions, arms and legs splayed like a skydiver whose chute never opened. She came by this morning to offer moral support in the form of baked goods and never left, which is just as well. Libby lives directly across the hall. “Babe, get off,” she again pleads. Max doesn’t budge. She begins struggling under him, contorting her body this way and that as if she were being electrocuted. He looks over his shoulder: “Oh, you again,” he says, pretending to be surprised. “I thought you died last November in a tragic car accident.”

“You saw me last night,” Libby reminds him. Her mouth is pressed against the cushions. The words are slightly muffled. Max starts bouncing up and down on her like he’s test-driving a mattress. “I thought that was your ghost,” he informs her as she groans.

When he finally gets off she lifts her head and peers around the arm of the couch at me. Libby always looks good, even just after waking. She has pale, flawless skin, red rosy cheeks, long black curly hair wound like coils, and green eyes (like Max’s but a little brighter). She’s petite but curvy and has huge boobs. Huge. She likes to dress up in skirts and heels and won’t leave the house without makeup. She’s a girly girl, and the boys like her. In fact, guys often completely lose it around her. Last week, for example, she went on a date—bowling—and her date rolled the bowling balls for her so she wouldn’t strain herself. Pretty funny, I think, particularly considering that she won the game.

“I had the weirdest dream just now.” She pauses, then puts her head back down. “I dreamed that I swallowed a bar of soap and started flying around.” A yawn. “What day is it today, Thursday or Friday? I forget.”

Max grabs her by the wrists and pulls her off the couch. She begins to sway back and forth on three-inch red heels. “Get to your apartment and change,” he commands her. “Eight minutes and counting. We’re all getting laid tonight.” At the sound of this Libby’s eyelids begin to flutter like those of a patient emerging from a coma. Laid? Max gives her a nod as she shuffles toward the door: “By the way, it’s not Thursday or Friday, it’s Saturday.” Libby crosses the threshold and turns around. “What is, babe?” she dreamily asks. “Never mind,” he responds and slams the door. He walks back into the living room and heads toward the closet. “You know what?” he says to me, reaching for the closet door handle, “last time I was here I think I left my Puma sweatshirt. Did you happen to—” As soon as he opens the closet door ten
DON’T CALL RICHARD
signs fall from the top shelf onto him—ones I didn’t put up because I ran out of space. He looks down at the floor then back up at me. He puts his finger to his lips like he’s thinking hard about something and furrows his brow. “Um”—he points at my face—“get a life.”

We arrive at the club’s entrance an hour later. Libby, who always takes a long time to get dolled up, had to try on a dozen pairs of heels and a dozen outfits to go with them, not to mention give herself a facial and tie up her locks with a flowing pink ribbon. I take a pull off my cigarette and tell them I’ll meet them inside after I finish smoking. (I would never discard an unfinished cigarette. Unheard of!) They nod. Max opens the glass door. Libby turns to him. “So you really think I should lie on my résumé?” she asks in wonderment. “Of course!” he cheerily responds as the door closes behind them. I move several feet from the entrance, lean against the graffiti-covered brick wall, next to a pay phone, and take a long drag. While watching the crowds walk by I recall the pep talk Max gave me on the way over: It’s stupid to get hung up; there are plenty of men in this city; it’s not rejection if I don’t look at it as rejection. Max is happy to remind anyone who will listen that it’s a do-it-yourself world: No one thinks highly of a person who doesn’t think highly of himself. Be confident and fabulous no matter what. And he’s right, which is why I’m going to stop looking at my feet when I walk; I’m going to raise my head and make eye contact the way Max has always told me to do; I’m going to be more open-minded; I’m going to smile at every man that passes—oh God, not that one. Sorry, sir. Ouch, he was ugly, looked like some kind of serial killer with that greased-back black hair and pockmarked face. I hope he didn’t think I was flirting with him. Anyway, whatever! Maybe it’s better that I not be too open-minded. Still, life is okay. I have supportive friends, I have a dangerous yet satisfying smoking habit, I have sultry, smoky eyes—that’s what I was told by Richard. And just because he doesn’t want to see them anymore doesn’t make them less smoky and sultry. Hell, my eyes are so smoky and sultry there’s practically a blazing fire between my ears. And there are definitely cute guys to spy with my sultry—

Are my sultry eyes fucking with me right now?

What do I see? I’ll tell you what I see. I see Richard, walking past me, lovingly holding some ugly girl’s hand. I don’t blink. What-the-fuck? He hasn’t called in fifteen days. I can’t believe him. And why did someone hit his date with the ugly stick? Geez, on closer inspection it looks like she got crushed by the whole forest. I’m better looking than her! This is too much—and she’s too much. Look at that makeup job! And that short messy hair! And there he is. Richard, fucking Richard, wearing a gray coat and gray wool cap, looking all matchy matchy. It takes me a moment to recover. That no-good son of a . . . Hey! He never tried to hold my hand when we walked the streets.

Richard and Ms. Ghoul America walk past. They don’t see me. When they get to the door of the club they begin giggling like idiots about something. What’s so fucking funny? You want funny? I’ll give you funny. I’ll give you a laugh attack, just give me a second to toss this cigarette. I sneak up behind Richard as the ghoul opens the door. Richard, fucking Richard. I tap him on the shoulder. He turns and immediately goes pale. I give him my most convincing smile even though my entire body is starting to shake.

“Oh, hi,” he says tentatively as the ghoul turns to see what’s happening behind her. Richard looks back at her and then pushes, and I’m not exaggerating here, pushes her into the club, closes the door behind her, and just stands there, looking at me, while the ghoul stands inside the club, industrial-strength glass separating her from the philanderer of my dreams. “What are you doing here?” he casually asks.

“I’m going in,” I say, still smiling stiffly. “My friends are inside.”

“You’re going to this concert?” he asks. I answer with a nod: this very one. “Who are you going to see?” he asks, as if he might catch me not knowing who is playing, as if I might realize my mistake, turn around, and leave. I look at him: “I’m going to this concert. Same as you.”

“Weird,” he says.

“It’s not that weird,” I point out.

I follow Richard into the club. He has no choice but to let me. The three of us, one big, loving family, are together at last. I don’t give the girl a second look. I get my ID checked, hand over my ticket with trembling fingers, and move past them.

The club is divided into two sections: the bar on the first floor, the music venue on the second. I march upstairs to look for Libby and Max. I don’t see them. There are people milling about, all conspiring to block my view. There’s a stage loaded with instruments and musicians scrambling to tune them. I need a drink. Badly. I walk back downstairs to the bar. I stand at the very end, near the staircase. “A double whiskey on the rocks,” I hear myself say. I’ve never ordered a double whiskey on the rocks, but there’s a first time for everything. And I’m only hoping that rocks mean ice.

The bartender pours and hands me my drink. I down the thing. “I’ll have another,” I say, wiping my mouth. “Keep those rocks this time. They’re getting in my way.”

“Should I bring the bottle?” he says with a hearty laugh. I think he means to be friendly, but now’s not the time.

“Don’t smirk, just serve,” I warn him.

“Coming up,” he says with a nod. He pours again and cautiously slides the drink toward me like a zookeeper unloading raw meat at feeding time. I take a sip of my second drink. Feels good. I entertain the idea of going back upstairs. But Max and Libby can wait. Richard can’t. Something has come over me. “Hey, don’t look so down,” the bartender says. “Let me tell you a joke. Why did the lettuce blush?” I look at the other end of the bar and spot Richard. I don’t care about lettuce.

I make my way past the long line of occupied stools. Everyone has their backs to me. I need a cigarette. Richard is sitting at the front of the bar, near the door, nervously cradling a drink. The ghoul has vanished. I bet she does that on occasion so she can rob graves. I take the opportunity to reintroduce myself. Remember me, fathead? Because I remember you. Come here often?

“Wow, this is really weird,” he says. When I remind him that he already said that he apologizes for not calling me. I don’t take my eyes off him when I lie that it’s quite all right and that it’s clear to me now why he didn’t. Richard is silent.

“So where is she?” I ask, looking around for the sheriff of ghoul township.

“Oh, she’s just a woman I recently met,” he dismissively says.

I push hot air through my nostrils. This is getting old. If my competition were attractive I might be more interested. I clarify: “I didn’t ask you who she is, I don’t care who she is. I have some idea who she is. I was asking where she is. I don’t want to make a scene. Wouldn’t want to spoil your night.” (Like you spoiled mine.)

Richard informs me that she’s in the bathroom. “The bathroom,” I repeat. I picture the ghoul desperately trying to make herself more attractive. She’d need a team of technicians slaving day and night with chisels and paint thinner but whatever. Not my problem. It’s not like I’m sleeping with her. “So Richard”—I put my hand on the bar—“I wish you had told me you were dating someone new.” Richard stares at me as if I were a wall. I continue: “I mean not that it matters anymore, because obviously it doesn’t, but you fed me some serious lines, Richard. You told me you’ve never met anyone like me. And I—fuck, man, I’m a little embarrassed now—I think I believed you.”

“It’s complicated,” he says, “and this is not the best time to discuss it.” Oh, really? It isn’t? This comment strikes me as especially annoying. Who is he to dictate when the best time is? “I don’t know about you,” he continues a bit uncomfortably, “but for me this was a casual thing.”