Miss Misery (17 page)

“What?” She turned red. “Are you high?”

“Maybe!” I yanked on her arm. “Come on! We've got like two whole minutes before we need another song.”

I pulled her close to me and started dancing. She was shy at first, barely acknowledging the rhythm, just watching me, shaking her head. Then, slowly but surely, she started swaying. She danced precisely, almost behind the beat, with no wasted motion. Moving her waist and shoulders in different directions. Lifting her arms high above her head.

And I've never met anyone quite like you before…

She grabbed my hip and twisted her body into me. I ran my hands through my hair, then rested them on her hips. We slid into each other, mouthing the words. Her hair tickled my nose. Her face was resting on my shoulder. I felt her small breasts against my chest. We were dancing way too slowly now, our bodies tangled up tight. I felt a stirring in my lap. Her hand was on my thigh.

No, I've never met anyone quite like you before…

Her mouth moved up to my ear. “Hey,” she said.

Then she stopped dancing altogether.

“Hey!” She pulled back. “When did you change your shirt?”

“I didn't,” I stammered. “I didn't.”

She looked confused. “Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn't.” I grabbed her by her bony shoulders. “Cath, it's me. David.”

She shook her head. “I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about your shirt.”

“No,” I said. “It's me, David. The real one.”

She slapped me in the chest, pushing me backward. “Oh fuck, not this
Freaky Friday
shit again.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Shazam.”

Then the song ended and the entire bar fell silent.

All around us, people stopped dancing. Bottles rattled and clinked. Someone coughed. The quiet was punishing.

“Shit!” Cath squeaked. “Shit!”

She scrambled away from me, behind the DJ booth, and began flipping through a large book of CDs. Someone nudged me from behind. “Hey,” said a voice. “Aren't
you
, like, the DJ?”

Oh yeah,
I said to myself.
I guess I am.

I walked quickly over to Cath, who was, quite literally, freaking out. “Fuck,” she chirped. “Shit!”

“Just put something on,” I whispered, feeling strangely calm. “Anything.”

She flipped through more pages of discs. “You're going to get him fired. He's going to kill me.”

“Don't worry about him,” I said. “Here, play something off this.” I handed her my iPod.

“Music!” yelled someone on the dance floor.

“One second!” I yelled back. “Technical difficulties!”

Cath was furiously spinning the click wheel. “Jesus,” she said. “How much Fleetwood Mac can one person have?”

“You'd be surprised,” I said, smiling.

“Here,” she said. “Thank God.” She jammed the connection wire into the headphone jack and suddenly the opening notes of Bloc Party's “She's Hearing Voices” filled the Madrox. The beat was thundering, paranoid, and inescapable. A sarcastic cheer went up from the crowd; then people began dancing again, quite unsarcastically.

Cath let out a deep breath. Then she punched me in the chest again. “Your battery better not fucking die, creepo.”

“Don't worry,” I said, my smile bigger. “I get all charged up before I see you.”

She hit me again.

“What?” I started laughing again. I couldn't help myself. This time, this excitement, this music, this girl—it was all exciting and electrifying and there was a taste in my mouth like biting through steel.

Cath's lips were frowning, but her eyes weren't. I kept laughing and watched her face melt like an ice cube. Soon she was laughing too.

“See?” I said, wiping tears from my eyes. “It's funny.”

“Fuck you,” she said, but she didn't mean it.

I gestured toward the dance floor. “The secret is, you've got to make them wait for it. That way they want it more.”

“What the hell has gotten into you, creepo?” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I thought you were the responsible one.”

“Yeah, well,” I said. “Nobody's perfect.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Maybe he won't come back,” I said, more to myself than to her.

“Oh,” she said, “he'll be back.”

“Yeah?”

“You think he'd let
you
steal his night?”

“Cath,” I said. “Where did he go?”

She shrugged. “He said something about going off to score some drugs. I told him it wouldn't be that hard in this place.”

“I think you're right.”

Cath cocked her head to the side. “There's really something different about you tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” She grabbed my chin in her hand and turned my head left and right, inspecting me like she was on an archeological dig. “You look more like…him.”

“Him.”

“Yeah.”

“I look more like him.”

“That's what I'm saying!”

“Cath, we're supposed to look alike. He's a doppelgänger.”

“He's German?”

“No…no. He's—never mind.”

She let her hand fall down to my chest. I tensed for another smack—one more and it'd definitely leave a mark. “It's weird, but it suits you.”

“Cath, you have to stop seeing him. We have to make him go away.” I heard the words come out of my mouth, equally sanctimonious and desperate, and I would have done anything then to have grabbed them and shoved them back in my mouth. To have grabbed her and just started dancing again. But I couldn't. I was still me. And I was strangely jealous. “We have to do something.”

“Mmmm.”

“Cath.”

“Start laughing again, David. You're easier to deal with that way.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I. Whatever—here come your friends.”

I turned and waved to Pedro and Screwie Louie as they cut across the dance floor, drinks in hand.

“Interesting technique,” Pedro said when he arrived, cackling with glee. “DJ John Cage performs forty-five seconds of silence.”

“Shut up,” I said.

Pedro handed me a vodka. “And don't look now,” he said, “but this song's almost over too.”

“Shit,” said Cath, and resumed spinning my iPod.

Pedro leaned in. “She's hot!”

I leaned back. “She's twenty-two!”

Pedro held out his hand. “Well, then,” he said. “Congratulations.”

I stared at his hand.

“Don't be rude!” He waggled his hand in the air impatiently.

I took it to shake, then felt him slide the small plastic bag into my palm. I looked up in surprise. Cath let out a squeal of excitement as she found what she was looking for, and “This Is Our Emergency,” a song by Pretty Girls Make Graves, started up over the speakers.

Pedro winked at me. “Come on, baby,” he said. “You're in it to win it.”

I felt what was in my hand; it seemed hotter than the room, forbidden. Exciting. I was in. I did want to win. But it was more than that: I was the DJ now. This was my party. I could do what I wanted.

“Cath,” I said. “I'll be right back. I'm just going to the bathroom.”

Pedro winked again. “Don't worry about her. We'll keep her company.”

Alone in the bathroom, illuminated under the harsh light, I felt, for a moment, insane. I didn't do things like this. I didn't
want
to do things like this. And yet here I was, ready, able, and poised to do them. I was free-falling now, miles away from the comfortable life I had scripted for myself. No girlfriend. No wallet. No control.

But then I thought of that other version of me updating the diary I had started, and I remembered something else: I was the writer here. I
had
scripted this life. If not for myself, then for whom? There was graffitti written across the streaked and filthy mirror: “KILL ME DEADER.” I opened my palm, leaned back heavily against the locked door, and looked down. OK, I thought. Let's play.

 

I had just taken a bump up my left nostril when someone started pounding on the door.

“Just a second!” I yelled, fumbling with the baggie and my keys, trying to make myself presentable. My heart hammered in my chest. The person kept hammering on the door. Stupid. So stupid.

“Jesus!” I shouted, louder now. “Hold on to your…”

The door pushed inward and the lock gave way with a flimsy
click
. My doppelgänger walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

“…self,” I finished.

“Hey,” he said, taking two steps toward me.

“G-give me my wallet back,” I said, rubbing my nose.

“Is that
cocaine
in your hand, David?” The doppelgänger took another step closer. “Did you just
snort cocaine
? I'm shocked!”

The doppelgänger had changed his clothes since lunch but hadn't showered; his hair stood at angles that did not exist in nature. His T-shirt was the same color green as mine, but more form-fitting;
DETH KILLERS OF BUSHWICK
was emblazoned across the front. His jeans were skintight and artfully frayed. They were also clearly brand-new. His shoes were bright orange with an argyle pattern dotting the sides.

I put my hand out to keep him back. “How much did those shoes cost, asshole?”

He stopped. “What, these? Don't worry. They were on sale.”

“I'll bet.”

“I'll lend 'em to you sometime—something tells me we're the same size.”

“Fuck you.”

He smiled. “You really need to keep more money in our checking account, David.”

“I'll take that under advisement.”

“Testy, testy!” He reached forward and snatched the baggie out of my hand. “Where'd you get this anyway? Did Pedro come through? I've been looking for him everywhere.” He pulled the baggie open and dipped a finger into it, then ran it across his gums thoughtfully.

“I'm not going to give you my keys, if that's what you're thinking.”

The doppelgänger laughed. “I wasn't—but that would have been good, wouldn't it?”

I took a step back. “Hilarious.”

He reached into his jeans pocket and removed a silver sugar spoon. “Nice, isn't it? I stole it from the restaurant at dinner tonight.” He dipped the spoon into the baggie and scooped out enough powder to improve ski conditions in the Poconos for a week. “Well,” he said. “Bottoms up.” With a Herculean snort, he Hoovered up the contents of the spoon, then repeated the action three more times, twice in each nostril.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “You're going to give one of us a heart attack.”

The doppelgänger wavered on his feet for a second. “Hooo,” he said. “Whoa.”

I watched him warily. “Get a hold of yourself.”

The doppelgänger balled up his fists and pounded them on the sink. “Yeah!” He yelled. “I love doing what I want to do!”

“Look,” I said. “Get out of here. Get out of my life. Give me my wallet.” The drugs were in my veins now too, and I felt lightheaded and bulletproof at the same time.

He shook his head and turned to face me. “Look at yourself. You're not in your life anymore, little man. You're in
my
life. And I think it's time I asked
you
to leave.”