I'm with Stupid (35 page)

When he begins to beg, Libby reaches into her purse, removes pen and paper, and writes down her phone number. She hands it to Manuel. “Babe, you can call me when you turn twenty-one,” she says. He takes the paper and kisses it. “Remember,” she sternly adds. “Twenty-one, you’re too young for me now.”

He leaps into the air with joy. “Only one thousand ninety-five nights to go!” he excitedly proclaims. “Expectation whirls me ’round!”

Libby shrugs as he runs off with the digits. “He’ll forget about me by then,” she reasons. “He’s so silly.”

I give her a disbelieving look. We’ll see if he forgets.

I call to William. We’re out of here. Max reaches his hand out to Phillip. “Well,” he says, “thank you for the date and good luck at the library and”—he gives him a once-over—“with everything else you have going on.”

Phillip does not take the hand. He shakes his head. “This wasn’t a date.”

“What are you talking about?” Max asks.

Phillip repeats that this was not a date.

“But you groped me like an octopus!” Max protests. “What do you mean?”

“You invited me to see a play,” Phillip says. “So I went. But this wasn’t a date. Our date is on Friday. We’re going to Lone Star Bar for line dancing.”

“What!” Max shouts. “We had a deal!”

Phillip grabs Max’s wrist. “And the deal was that I could take you out. A play is not a date.” Max protests: He’s not going; this was supposed to be one date. “Yes, and it’s on Friday,” Phillip tells him. “And if not then I’m going to get you in some trouble.” He lets go of the wrist and gives Max an open-mouth kiss. Max is too stunned to move. “See you Friday at nine. Don’t be late.” Phillip moseys out. Waaa-Waaa-Waaa.

As Max stands there, looking like he might vomit, yo-yo boy Teddy, who was sitting behind William during the play, wanders over. “Are you in a circus?” he asks Max. Max silently studies him. He’s clearly had enough. “No,” he answers, bending toward him. “Are you?” The little boy shakes his head and sticks his tongue through the front gap in his teeth. His mother walks over and tugs at his arm. “Mom said you look like a circus rodeo clown.” The horrified mother picks the boy up. “That’s enough, Teddy,” she says, now embarrassed. “Oh,” Max says. “She did, huh?” He straightens up and looks at the mother. He covers the boy’s ears with his hands. “Let me give you some advice,” he tells her. “Before you come knocking on my door with insults, go buy poor junior here a full set of front teeth. You’re no winner yourself.” He uncovers the boy’s ears and walks away, mumbling something about Phillip and books and line dancing.

We are enthusiastically invited back to my parents’ house for drinks and snacks after the play. While my parents are in the kitchen, Max tips back a couple of rum and Cokes to help him forget his woes. His mood improves and before long he calls Henryk over. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a driver’s license, and hands it to my brother. “There it is, friend,” he says and pats him on the back. “Your very own fake ID. According to this you’re twenty-two.” Henryk grins from ear to ear as he takes it. I cover my mouth with my hand. Henryk can’t . . . Max tells me that Henryk certainly can. “From what I hear most great writers are alcoholics,” he explains. “Henryk is going to need to step up his game.”

Henryk continues to beam. “Word,” he says. “Thanks so much, dude.”

My parents emerge from the kitchen and my mother sets down some food. We gather to toast my brother. Everyone picks up a glass except for William, who can’t be bothered to even look up. He’s busy in front of the computer, composing his Morse code. Max proceeds to give a convoluted, indulgent speech that recalls all the good times he’s shared with the author. He couldn’t be more proud of the boy, not if he were gay. Mazel tov. Of course my mother won’t let Henryk touch a glass of alcohol during this monologue—More milk? she periodically asks. If she only knew about the fake ID, or caught wind of the fact that he’ll be ditching third period tomorrow to come see me at the office.

After the toast my father takes us into the backyard for a tour of his still-barren garden. My mother points to a clump of dirt that represents the bounty. I’m told my father spent a lot of money on seeds, which is saying something considering that he argues over the price of screwdrivers at hardware stores. He patiently explains that there are some things—like his cherished garden—that he is willing to drop cash on, which of course means that when all those delicious vegetables and herbs start growing he’ll be charging market rate, no exceptions. He tells my mother with a straight face that she can watch him eat them all if she doesn’t have the cash. He won’t feel sorry for her even if it breaks up the marriage. She laughs: “What are you saying? I’m going back inside.” If I’m not mistaken she seems more carefree in her movements. It’s like she’s levitating. I guess telling the truth for once will do that to a deceitful mother of two. My father follows close behind: “Keep laughing, Estie, but don’t ever say you weren’t warned. I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.” He turns and gives me a wink.

Max calls his father’s driver to pick us up when it’s time to leave. His father is out of town on business and when that happens, he gets use of the car. Beats taking the subway! I’m in. While we wait for George the driver my mother wraps up plates of food for me to take. She comes out of the kitchen with three bags. Some things never change. I hug her and say I love you. She kisses me. “I love you, too,” she says. “Don’t smoke.” I’ll take that as a compliment from now on. Max asks where his leftovers are. “Make no mistake,” he adds. “I love you most.” She responds by messing up his hair. Where did that come from? Smoking does make people cooler! I need to spread the word to grammar schools. Now that my mother smokes she’s much more fun and interesting. I want to tell her so but know she’d send me flying across the room. I take the food. “Don’t smoke,” she repeats as the best thing that’s ever happened to her gives me a kiss.

When George shows up Max teasingly tells Libby that she has to ride in the trunk. “That’s where you’re riding, babe,” she responds. My father mentions that he knew a fella once who locked himself in the trunk of his own car. Max laughs: “Is this a Polish joke, Mr. Sienkiewicz? Because Kas refuses to tell me any.” I’m pretty sure that if he keeps at it he’ll be the one in the trunk.

We say good-bye and head for the door. William is lugging the binder and computer. He has a red pen between his teeth. My mother doesn’t bring up the fact that he is still staying with me. I think she really wants those grandchildren. She wishes William luck with the book, which she’s eager to read. I take the pen out of his mouth so he can tell her it’s coming along—he’ll be finished any day now. William then asks Max if we can stop at an ATM on the way home. Max nods. “I need to withdraw a lot of money,” William says. I put the red pen back in his mouth before he can add that he needs it to pay rent, not to mention a $672 phone call to Miss Celeste. Before we can make it out of the house my mother throws out a few parting words: “Watch the speed limit because there are a lot of drunk drivers out there and wear the seat belts because they are cracking down on that and giving tickets and . . .”

Chill out, Mom. Smoke a cigarette.

“How do you declare bankruptcy?” William asks back at the apartment. “Can you just declare it?” I turn around. What is this crazy book about anyway? Does he really need a chapter on . . . “I’m broke,” he adds, scratching his head. “They just told me.” I feel my face get hot. What? I take off my jacket and throw it across the chair. It lands on the floor. I ask who told him that he’s broke; I don’t understand what he’s talking about. William hands me the ATM slip. He has four dollars in his account. I disbelievingly ask if that’s all he has left. He shakes his head no. I breathe a sigh of relief. He pulls a wrinkled five-dollar bill out of his pocket and tells me he has nine. Nine? I ask how this happened. Last week when he was buying water beds and paying me three thousand dollars in rent there was plenty of money. He informs me that he was mixing up rand and dollars and that he hadn’t been checking receipts when making withdrawals. “Keeping it all organized is hard,” he says.

I tear open a pack of cigarettes and dump the contents onto the coffee table. I light two and hold one in each hand. “You shouldn’t smoke so much,” he says. I squeeze my eyes shut. Forget about the rent for a second, I need money for the bills. William has been wasting so much electricity. He thinks the apartment is too dark and keeps all the lights on; he watches television incessantly; he even burned out the motor of my blender making thick protein shakes that he claims help him think. God knows what they help him think about.

William takes a seat on the couch. He assures me that it’s going to be okay, everything is going to be okay because tomorrow morning he is going to find an agent for his book. I exhale through my nostrils like a bull. He’s sure he’ll be able to find one. He’s positive. Miss Celeste told him that nine is his lucky number, at least he thinks she said nine. It’s going to be okay, at any rate. He’s been writing some great stuff over the last two days. The best stuff he’s written yet. The people of Monaco are going to be so happy—and relieved! He asks if I want to proofread it. I tell him no thank you. In that case, he informs me, I better get to bed because he has a lot of work to do and will be up all night. “This book is going to be better than your brother’s,” he says.

I collect my cigarettes and throw them on the water bed I’d like to puncture with a fork. William puts on his fez and starts pacing. I go to the closet and get the red earmuffs. I’ve never used anything my mother has given me this often. “I love you,” he says as I get into bed. I pretend not to hear him. I wish he were walking on quicksand. “I love you,” he repeats as I adjust my earmuffs.

When I don’t answer William walks into the bathroom. “You know millionaires don’t start with much,” he calls out. “I watched a television program yesterday about a man who made a terrific amount of money by coining phrases like
All good things come to those who wait
. I was thinking maybe I could coin others, like
Don’t wait twice for the same thing
or
Don’t wait for things that you don’t know aren’t coming
. Maybe I can think up some tonight. And maybe after I sell my book I can build up my credit and buy rental property and open a store. Do you realize how much money I could give to charity if . . .” I put a pillow over my eyes but can still see the living room and kitchen lights beyond it. I hear the toilet flush and a crash, followed by a moan. William calls my name. What now? “I just accidentally flushed the contents of your makeup bag down the toilet,” he yells from the bathroom. “The bag fell from the shelf into the bowl. I’m very sorry about that.” Pleasure. Don’t mention it. I sit up and stare at the clock as the countdown to work begins. This is going to be the longest night of . . .

I hear another moan. “The toilet is overflowing!” William shouts. “Can you help me?”

“Good morning! Isn’t it a wonderful day?” Barbara bellows when I pass her desk the next morning. I’m taken aback. I’ve never seen her smile like this. She looks like she borrowed ten sets of extra teeth from a morgue. All I can see is bone and enamel. It’s the opposite of dazzling. “Spring is in the air,” she enthusiastically offers. “Isn’t it beautiful outside?” I yawn. It hurts to open my mouth. My head feels like it’s being knocked around with a sledgehammer. Everything is blurry. My contacts are hardening, ready to pop out and shatter. William, if it needs to be said, kept his promise of staying up all night. When he wasn’t typing he was pacing, and when he wasn’t doing that he was sharpening pencils. Have you ever had someone sharpen a pencil next to your ear at 3 a.m. while you’re trying to sleep? Try it sometime. It’s not a nice sound.

“Wake up, sleepyhead! You need a pick-me-up. Do you want me to get you coffee? I can’t have any myself because I’ve started bleaching my teeth but I can get you some, just say the word.” I shake my head. Am I having a nightmare? I can’t tell but this isn’t right. I feel around for the water bed. I have never heard Barbara say the things she’s saying right now. Calling me sleepyhead? Offering to bring coffee? Labeling the outdoors beautiful? Bleaching her teeth? Maybe she’s on Prozac. Remind me never to get on Prozac. “I went shopping yesterday,” she says, smoothing her black-and-white-checkered blouse. “I absolutely splurged. I figured I deserve it.” Why isn’t she crying about the dress code? She’s not mad about the jerseys? I’ve been standing here, an open target, for a good minute and yet she has not thrown one shoe or stapler or ceramic figurine. I look down at my nails. They’re all chewed and haggard. I’ve been neglecting my appearance and it’s starting to show. I should spend the ten dollars on a manicure. I’m not going to be able to pay my bills anyway, may as well look presentable for debtors’ prison . . . “I’m in love!!!” Barbara yells out of nowhere. “And it feels so good all over.”

I look up in alarm as she runs her hands through her hair in a seductive fashion. I certainly could have lived out my days without seeing that. This is grounds for a civil suit. “Love, love, love,” she sings while whipping a pen through the air like an orchestra conductor. I ask Barbara to please explain to me what is happening to her. She bites the end of the pen. She has a glazed look on her face. “Well, I guess there’s no point keeping it a secret,” she offers. No, I guess not, megaphone mouth. She asks if I remember Fred Stewart, Buddy’s behavior manipulation coach. How could I forget him? I was assaulted with his business card. I still have the paper cut on my upper lip. I answer in one word: yeah. “Well,” she says, “he called me back! It turns out the invoice was a big misunderstanding.” He wanted more money? “Really?” I rhetorically ask. “Yes, really, silly!” she responds. Willy-nilly, frilly filly. Dillydally. Speak it, Sally. What the hell? Let’s get this over with so I can fall asleep underneath my desk. I urge her to go on.

Barbara undoes the top button of her blouse and smiles again. Does she think she’s being coy? “Freddie called to say that he meant to mail the invoice to another customer who had sought out his behavior manipulation skills,” she explains. “It wasn’t even meant for me!”