I'm with Stupid (25 page)

I open my mouth and put out my hand. Who are these people? It’s all so surreal. I’m parched, my lips are chapped. Is that the sun? No, it’s the living room light. “You have to . . . ,” I try again but stall. If someone would just dampen my tongue with a Q-tip soaked in water . . . “you have to . . . return this. It’s . . .”

“Final sale,” William says excitedly.

NOOOOOOOOOOO!

“The man told me that ten times,” he continues. “I don’t know if he thought I was hard of hearing or what. But the money isn’t an issue, I got a great deal on it. I had to call almost everyone in the phone book to find it, too.” He pats me on the shoulder: “Don’t worry, I used a phone card.” I nod. “Finally, after calling all these places I found a company in Long Island . . . It’s pronounced Long Island, right?” he asks. I nod again. “Yeah, in Long Island. The man I spoke with was so excited. He said he hadn’t had an order in years. He was just about to go out of business. He delivered it right after we got off the phone. Isn’t this exciting?” William starts shaking the bed.

I plead with him to stop it. I’m seasick. “Oh, yeah”—he nods—“I forgot you don’t know how to swim. I guess this will be your big introduction! Now you can be a beautiful mermaid.” I knit my brow to the best of my ability. Right. That makes a whole lot of sense. William joins me on the water bed and tells me he loves me. That makes a whole lot of sense, too. As much sense as saying that a water bed is the same thing as a swimming lesson. Okay. “Before I forget,” he adds, “the man told me it’s best to be nude when lying on the bed. They’ve had a lot of complaints about leaks and stuff.”

I don’t want to be nude ever again. Not even in the shower. I need a prescription for Dramamine. “Do you want to make love on the water bed?” he shyly inquires. I smell the sea air and catch a whiff of cologne. That same cologne William wore in South Africa. I
hate it
! I tell him I just got my period. I’m going to have it for a very long time. I try to get off the bed but can’t because I’m stuck. William gets up in a flash and gives me his hand. He hoists me out like an anchor covered in seaweed. I catch my breath. I still have liquid in my lungs, I have it up my nose, in my ears. Are my clothes raggedy? Am I sunburned? Where are the palm trees? Who goes there? I’m mixing metaphors. I’m delirious. The phone rings. I turn. I pick up. I ask what. “Hey, it’s me,” Max says. “Do you happen to have a whoopee cushion?” I hang up. No I do not.

I walk stiffly across the apartment to look for my cigarettes. I push a few credit card bills aside. These things will be the end of me, I’m down so much money. During those fifteen days of waiting for Richard to call I conducted some major shopping therapy. On day twelve I bought four pairs of $150 jeans and five $75 T-shirts in an array of colors. Who buys $75 T-shirts? This fool does. Why? No clue. It just made me feel good in the moment. It’s a clichéd move for a reason—it works. In my defense, I like very expensive jeans that look cheap and slightly less expensive T-shirts that look even cheaper, jeans and T-shirts are pretty much all I wear (and my mother can’t stand it), but buying four pairs of jeans in under fifteen minutes? I think I set the land speed record. I couldn’t have done it faster on a luge.

I push many white envelopes aside before finally finding my salvation. William sees me walking toward the door and asks where I’m off to. “I need a cigarette,” I say, still trying to catch my breath. “You stay right here and don’t play with anything sharp. I’m going on the stoop.”

“Did you get my e-mails about that? I really want you to quit.”

“I got your e-mails. I do not want any more of those,” I mumble and close the door. Call me a romantic but that water bed needs to be taken out back and shot.

The next day is like a blank piece of white paper, and I walk across it like a zombie with black rotating swirls where the eyeballs should be. I have no idea what happened. When I get home that evening, while taking off my coat, I again see the mouse, the one that first plagued me days before William’s arrival. The mouse runs over my foot and I scream, properly waking myself from the daze I was in all day. Like a baseball player stealing home, William dives across the floor in an effort to catch it. But the mouse is too fast. It bolts through the crack underneath the door. I am too shaken to point out that he would not have to throw himself against the floorboards if he would just let me leave some glue traps out. As he volunteers that traps are inhumane, evidently reading my mind (for once), I notice the flashing red light of the answering machine. I press play. “We have to talk. It’s urgent.” Richard. Shit. I press delete.

On Thursday night Max, Libby, William, and I head to Leona’s in Brooklyn for the combo birthday/twenty-fifth-anniversary dinner. William is disguised as a yahoo. He is wearing a red tracksuit with gold piping and his fez, which he keeps saying is his favorite hat. His outfits make him look ridiculous every day, and now, with a water bed in the apartment, he looks ridiculous every night, too. Purchasing the water bed was an act of war and the sad thing is that he genuinely meant well. He hasn’t done one—not one—intentionally malicious thing since he arrived. Only a devil would wish him ill.

“Okay, Libby, listen,” I cup my hand and whisper when we are a few blocks from the restaurant. “We have to take him out. I need your cooperation. I can’t handle the tracksuit and the fez. I can’t handle the kindness or the anti-smoking leaflets.” I look over at William, who’s listening to Max talking loudly about something. I continue: “When I give the signal you grab him by the ankles so he loses his balance and falls, then I’ll chloroform him. It’s my only way out and we have to act fast. Are you in?” Libby just laughs. I look over at William. Now he’s doing the talking. I hear the word “money.” Max nods at him. I ask why she’s wasting time. She needs to shimmy under him so he falls. Libby refuses to shimmy under him. “You’re so funny,” she says. Well, I’m only 10 percent kidding, to be honest. She points out that I should be grateful to have such a nice man in my life. He buys me gifts, he cooks and does dishes, he tells me he loves me, he’s great in bed, he’s beautiful, kind, honest . . . She needs to stop it. Who needs a man like that? I never asked for a man like that. Did I? Besides, she adds, I’m William’s first love. This is a very emotional time for him. I have to be gentle. I nod. Obviously I understand that or he would not still be staying with me.

Max turns around and asks what we are whispering about back there. I smile. Certainly not chloroform, if that’s what he’s asking. “We’re just complaining about bills,” I say dismissively. “I’m broke as a joke.” (In fact, we had been talking about bills just moments before.) He and William wait for us to catch up. As soon as we do William puts his arm around me. He asks if I am having money problems. When am I not? I admit it’s the same as always: Bills pile up; sometimes I don’t know how I pay the rent. Typical New York complaint. William gives me a squeeze. “I never knew you were poor,” he says sadly. “Poverty is terrible.”

I never said I was poor, though I am, relatively speaking. Mostly I’m just an idiot who doesn’t know how to manage money. Max laughs dismissively. “Oh, she’s poor all right,” he says, pointing at my $150 jeans. When William asks how much I pay for rent, Max asks William what he can afford to pay, just out of curiosity. William mentions that he went to an ATM earlier today and opens his wallet. It’s bulging with hundreds. William thinks about Max’s question and determines that he can afford to give me three thousand dollars in rent for this month. He adds that it’s worth it if I’m poor.

“Three thousand dollars!” Max exclaims and grabs him by the arm. “William, you sure you don’t want to live with me?” William laughs—he’d rather live with his girlfriend. He turns to me and says that I should never be too proud to accept help. He wants to help me and, financially speaking, he’s more than capable. He has a great deal of savings to help advance the dream of writing a book about the political situation in Monaco. This month he wants to pay my entire rent. It’s the least he can do.

I start to tell William that I don’t pay three thousand dollars, but Max jumps in. “Come along,” he urges. “You lovebirds can work out the bills later. I wouldn’t want anyone to commit to anything without thinking it through. That mistake was already made once.”

“When?” William asks in confusion.

“It’s not important anymore,” Max answers. “Let’s just go to Leona’s and have a one-night stand like civilized people. We’re already late.”

William gives me a hug and repeats that he had no idea I was poor. I remind him that I am not technically poor. He’s not listening. As we approach the restaurant he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the necklace of white stones bought on his first day in the city. “You forgot this at home,” he says. “I know you said that you only want to wear it on very special occasions, but in my opinion there is no more special occasion than dinner with family.” William holds out the necklace. I reluctantly take it.

William gets to the door of the restaurant first. I am right behind him. When he swings it open he somehow manages to elbow me in the nose. AHHHHHHHH. I put my hand over my face as he tips his fez while holding open the door like a hotel doorman. “After you,” he says, not realizing what he’s done. When my nose begins to sting and my eyes begin to water from the lethal blow he puts his hand on my shoulder. He assures me that everything is going to be okay, I needn’t cry. Poverty is an international epidemic. I wipe my eyes dry.

Every table at Leona’s is decorated with a lazy Susan, at the center of which is a bust of a pope. I spot our table (Pope John Paul II graces our lazy Susan) and begin moving toward it, just as a woman walks briskly across the restaurant, stops in front of our group, and stares at Max. “Dr. Devereux?” she asks.

Max looks up. He does not miss a beat. “Why yes!” he says in a bad British accent. “It is indeed.” He explains to me that this is the receptionist at Richard’s office. He stopped by there the other day to drop off Richard’s medication. He gives her his hand. “Debra, right?” he asks. She takes his hand. “Susie,” she corrects him.

“Of course,” he says. “Susie. How is my patient? Any problems delivering the medicine to him?”

Susie nods. She begins to whisper conspiratorially. “Yes, just like you said there would be, Doctor. He denied it.”

“Well, I knew he would,” Dr. Devereux responds. He puts his index finger to his temple and makes a stirring motion to indicate that his patients are all cuckoo. “They always do.” Susie nods then mentions that the good doctor looks different; she hardly recognized him. Didn’t he have black hair and red glasses? “I dyed it and got contacts,” he explains. He shakes her hand again and tells her he must run. He’s late for dinner.

“Of course, Doctor,” she responds and smiles.

When she leaves I give him a shove. “Stop playing pranks on Richard,” I tell him. “He left a message at my house and he sounded pissed. I’m not getting in trouble for your bright ideas anymore.”

He tilts his head and stares at me like I’m the most boring person in the world. “Get in trouble,” he mockingly repeats. “Who is he, your dad? I would love to see him”—he makes air quotes—“get you in trouble. You just remember what he did.”

When my mother sees us she stands and immediately comments on the necklace; she’s never known me to wear anything so ladylike. Granite is feminine? William proudly informs her that it was a gift from him. “A gift,” she repeats. She tries to mask her pleasure but I can see that she approves, this gift taking her one step closer to grandchildren. William just blushes, as he’s been known to do.

I greet my father, brother, and paternal grandmother. Her long gray hair is pulled up into a bun, as always. You can depend on few things anymore, but you can always depend on that bun. I kiss her rouged cheek, wish her a happy birthday, and take a seat next to William, whose accent is going to drive her crazy. Good ol’ granny—who has a thick Polish accent herself, mind you—has a very hard time understanding people with accents. William pushes the tassel out of his eye and says he’s pleased to finally meet her. My grandmother, queen of eccentricity, looks to my father for help. I hear her ask if William is wearing a propeller hat. Here we go.

“This hat inspires me to write my book about the political situation in Monaco!” William boldly shouts across the table. My grandmother turns to my father, who is visibly preoccupied, in an effort to determine what the hell was just said. I wonder what’s wrong—he rarely loses his cool, or at least his pleasant disinterest in histrionics—but he looks annoyed. He turns to William and explains my grandmother’s issue with accents. William is instructed not to bother talking to her and to please stop shouting. She’s not deaf, people often make that mistake. My father looks around: “Where is that waiter? He walked by earlier and completely ignored us.”

Uh-oh. My father’s biggest pet peeve is bad restaurant service. I hope this joker shows up soon.

My mother looks down at her empty plate and explains that the waiter is likely getting high on cocaine. She read that it happens a lot. She reminds Henryk to watch it: If he keeps getting bad grades he’s going to be a busboy. My brother, blue baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, responds by saying nothing. He should learn sign language. “And take off that hat!” she screams at him. “It’s not appropriate! How can you see anything?”

When William makes a move to take off his fez, I tell him my mother is talking to Henryk; this is an ongoing battle between them. As I begin playing with my napkin, which is folded on my plate like a swan, my grandmother addresses William: “You’re a handsome young man. How tall are you?” William tells her how tall he is because he has short-term memory loss. My grandmother of course has no idea what he is saying, which leads us back to my father, who is called in to translate. When he does my grandmother nods. “A giant,” she says mostly to herself.

William smiles: “I’m not as tall as . . .” I cover his mouth.

“Nice teeth, too, just like my husband,” she adds, referring to my deceased grandfather. “He reminds me of my husband, the more I see him.”