Perfect Fifths (14 page)

"I'm sorry."

"No more apologies, Jessica."

"Right. I mean, I didn't mean to sound so ignorant, but I guess I am."

"It's not your fault. I didn't know how bad it was until I went down there and saw it for myself. How else would you know? There are too many other fucked-up things in the world vying for the public's attention. New Orleans isn't newsworthy anymore. The media has lost interest, but the problems haven't gone away in the absence of attention. The poorest communities aren't much closer to reconstruction today than they were in the weeks after the hurricane hit. Entire neighborhoods are boarded up and abandoned. Families are still cramped in their FEMA trailers, with limited access to schools, doctors,
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grocery stores—the basics for survival. It's devastating to see it all firsthand, to talk to these people face-to-face."

"How did you get involved?"

"Through a class."

"Oh, really? So what's ... I mean ... uh ..."

"What's what?"

"Uh ... I was about to ask what your major is."

"And you hesitated because?"

"I'm not sure, exactly. Maybe because it's been a few years since I've asked anyone that question. I mean, in college it's kind of an icebreaker. You know, 'Where are you from? What's your major?1 You don't have any reason to ask that question when you aren't in school anymore. It changes to 'Where do you live? What do you do?1"

"I see. So you are far too mature to ask me about my major."

"I didn't mean it that way! Only that I was suddenly aware of asking you a very collegiate question, one that I haven't had any reason to ask anyone since I

graduated."

"I see."

"So?"

"So ... what?"

"You're going to make me ask it, just to make me ask it?"

"Ask what, Jessica?"

"Your major."

"Take a guess."

"I really have no idea."

"Just guess."

"I don't want to guess, Marcus."

"Why not?"

[Cough.] "I just don't."

"I'm a..."

"Philosophy. You're a philosophy major."

"Hmmm ... philosophy. That's interesting."

"Am I right?"

"Wasn't one of your college boyfriends a philosophy major?"

"Uh, yes. And for the record, I only had one college boyfriend. Not boyfriends, plural."

"Two."

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"One."

"Two."

"One!"

"One—him—plus one—me—equals ..."

"Oh! [Cough.] I wasn't counting you."

"You weren't counting me? Why don't I count?"

"You weren't a college boyfriend, Marcus."

"We were together during college."

"If together means three thousand miles apart!"

"A technicality."

"And we got together before college."

"So?"

"So that puts you in a different category."

"And what category is that?"

"Marcus, if I knew the answer to that, this conversation would be a whole hell of a lot easier, wouldn't it?"

[Pause.]

"So guess again."

"Marcus, this is silly."

"Just one more guess."

"Why?"

"I want to hear how you think I've spent the past three years."

"Women's studies."

"Now, thafs funny."

"Seriously, Marcus, it seems like something you would do, choosing a major that's ninety-nine-point-nine percent female just for the fun of being the point-one

exception."

"Tragically, Princeton offers only a minor in women's and gender studies. Which is why I went with my second choice."

"Which is?"

"Public and international affairs."

"Public and international affairs. Duh. I should have known that all along. I mean, it makes sense, considering what you said about your work in New Orleans."

"The class I referred to earlier, the one that took me there, was called Disaster, Race, and American
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Politics. After spending fifteen weeks discussing and debating all the many ways our federal government has screwed our neediest citizens, a bunch of us were inspired to take our lessons beyond the classroom. We needed to see the devastation for ourselves and do something about it."

"Good for you."

"Some of us were self-conscious about the idea of going down there at first. I know I was. Oh, how nice. A bunch of privileged Princeton students going to New Orleans to help poor black folk and unburden themselves of their liberal guilt. Oh, and won't it look nice on their grad school applications? Or when they run for public office? But then I decided that anyone who thought that way was an asshole."

"So true."

"Why should I let some closed-minded asshole stop me from helping?"

"You remember Cinthia Wallace, right? She used a multimillion-dollar inheritance to start Do Better and has had to face a lot of that kind of cynicism. Like, how dare she start up a philanthropic collective with that money? Isn't someone with her socialite credentials supposed to, I don't know, mainline that money?"

"Someone of her station avoids needles. She'd snort the cash. Or smoke it."

"Right. Anyway, people tend to be very suspicious of anyone who supports the greater good. It's assumed that you're working some angle."

"There might be some truth to that. My motivations aren't purely altruistic. There's a lot about New Orleans I identify with."

"Like what?"

"Like the idea of rebuilding a place that most people had long written off as morally corrupt and hopeless, despite its gifts."

"Uh ... you know, I actually heard a little about your volunteer work from a friend. Paul Parlipiano. But I didn't know how reliable the information was so ..."

"Paul Parlipiano. Yeah, I remember him. We were on the same house-gutting crew. It was over a year ago, I think."

"That sounds about right."

"I had no idea of his name. I knew who he was through you, but I don't know if I ever met him in person. He recognized me right away, which came as a surprise to me, considering I was elbow-deep in mold, wearing a biohazard suit and a respirator."

"I'm not surprised. Paul's, like, a savant with names and faces. There was one time when I was attending the Summer Pre-college Enrichment Curriculum in Artistic

Learning, otherwise known as SPECIAL, remember?"

"Not really. Was that the same summer I was attending the Middle-bury In-Patient Adolescent Rehabilitation for Addictions and Associated Treatment Issues?"

"Otherwise known as?"

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"MIPARAATI."

"Mi para ti. Me for you."

"Mi... para ... ti... Me ... for... you ... You're right."

"Si, sehor. No one ever pointed that out before?"

"No. Never. Most experts would frown upon it as a rehabilitative philosophy. You're supposed to clean up because you want to, not because anyone else wants you

to. Mi para mi. But it definitely works as a personal philosophy, the idea of giving yourself over to others."

[Pause.]

"How did we get on this subject?"

"We were talking about Paul Parlipiano, and I started telling you about the trip I took to the city when I was at SPECIAL."

"Oh, right."

"For the record, it wasn't the same summer. You were in Middlebury the summer before."

"Where was I during your SPECIAL summer?"

"I have no idea. Which was kind of the whole point of getting out of Pineville for six weeks."

"Ah, yes. I see."

"Anyway. I took a trip into the city, and I ended up standing next to Paul Parlipiano at this tiny coffee shop near the Columbia campus. He knew who I was right away, even though I hadn't seen him in, like, two years. Then again, it's probably hard to forget someone after she's puked on your shoes."

"You puked on Paul Parlipiano's shoes?"

"I was sixteen years old and drunk. I've gotten much better at holding my liquor since then."

"I hope so. You'll be happy to hear that he didn't mention the puking. He was like, 'Oh, you're Marcus Flutie, aren't you? I graduated from Pineville High a few years ahead of you. I'm Jessica's friend from Columbia.1 He seemed like a good guy. We only hung out briefly.

We went to a bar later that night, but he left the city the next day."

"Wait. What? You went to a bar?"

"Yes."

"Where people, like, go to drink alcohol?"

"Yes. That's what people usually do in bars."

"You hate bars."

"I hated bars when I was the only person not drinking in them."

"You drink now?"

"Socially."

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"Socially?"

"And in moderation."

"You drink now. Socially and in moderation. I can't believe it. Since when? Oh my God, no. Don't even say it. I know the answer already. Right around the same time you shaved off The Beard."

"I won't say it because you said it for me. But you're right. And this time I didn't bring it up."

"You sort of did. By mentioning going to a bar with Paul Parlipiano, you knew I would ask about the drinking."

"I didn't know that for sure. I thought you might ask what we talked about."

"Okay. I'll play along. What did you and Paul Parlipiano talk about?"

"Drywall. Socialism. Deregulation as the root of all financial evil."

"Sounds like Paul."

"Brad Pitt. Protesting the Beijing Olympics. Bioremediation."

"Same save-the-world Paul."

"What heterosexuals can learn through homosexual experimentation."

"Wha—? You're not serious."

"I am."

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Marcus! Paul Parlipiano ... hit on you?"

"He didn't outright proposition me. But he did spend a disproportionate amount of time trying to convince me that the research against bisexuality—the idea that you're either gay, straight, or lying—was all wrong. And you know Paul better than I do, so you're aware that he's a very persuasive debater."

"My high school crush-to-end-all-crushes almost had man sex with my ex."

"Almost?"

"Do you hear that sound? Do you? That is the sound of my heart exploding."

"Almost?!"

"Well, you are drinking again. How am I to know whether or not you've gone back to indiscriminate sex and all your other vices?"

"Indiscriminate man sex was never one of my vices. And for the record, I have not gone back to
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indiscriminate female sex, or drugs, or whatever other vices you might be referring to. I've learned to enjoy a few drinks every now and then among friends. That's it."

"Is that, you know, healthy for someone with your history?"

"I was never addicted to drugs or alcohol. Tobacco, maybe, but I kicked that habit, too. There were plenty of students at Pineville High who were far more messed up than I ever was. But I was more conspicuous, for whatever reasons."

"The same reasons that make you a conspicuous loiterer."

"Right. So my flirtation with self-destruction was harder to ignore, I guess. And I didn't do anything to dispel any myths that might have circulated around town. The less I said about myself, the easier it was for everyone else to spin their own fabulist versions of Marcus Flutie, which was fine by me. Anything to keep up the

attention-getting poet-addict-manwhore mystique that was the primary conceit of my teen years."

"Well, it sure worked."

"Too well, Jessica. It worked all too well."

[Pause.]

"I don't think Paul was really into you."

"You don't? I'll try not to be insulted."

"If he was really into you, he wouldn't have given up so easily. I'll tell you who he's really hot for: my mentor. Remember Samuel Mac-Dougall? The writer? To bring

this conversation full circle, he was the one who taught the writing class at SPECIAL that took the trip to New York City where I met up with Paul Parlipiano at the

coffee shop."

"I just saw his latest book in the airport gift shop."

"The Rainbow Parachute."

"Right. If he's selling in the airports and supermarkets, he must be doing okay for himself."

"Paul has been smitten with Mac for years. They met at my graduation party a few years back, and Paul has been semi-stalking him ever since. I mean, Paul actually signed up for one of his creative writing seminars, which I couldn't believe, because there is nothing creative about Paul in the least. My friend Dexy from college still refers to Paul as, like, the worst gay sidekick ever. So it was kind of funny to watch serious Paul turn into a giggly teenage girl. I mean, he was exactly like me at

seventeen, when I was taking Mac's summer writing program and got so obsessed and was all, like, got it bad, got it bad, got it bad ... I'm hot for teacher! It's really the first time I ever saw Paul act so irrationally, which was a refreshingly shallow change from Mr. Weight of the World."

"Did anything ever happen between them?"

"Nope. Mac rebuffed Paul's advances, citing that it was unethical and kind of shady for a teacher to have intimate relations with a student half his age."

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[Throat clearing.] "Unethical and kind of shady. Of course."

[Pause.]

"So that must have been strange, bumping into someone from Pineville in the Lower Ninth Ward."

"Stranger things have happened, Jessica."

"That's true. Give me an example."

"An example?"

"A strange-but-true story. I love strange-but-true stories."

"An example of a strange-but-true story ..."

"Come on, Marcus. There are so many to choose from."

"Don't rush me. Let's see ... all right. I've got one. Ready?"