Sorry You're Lost (16 page)

“Denny, I can't—please stop pretending. You don't need to pretend around me.”

I stop in mid-breakdance, which, you should know, is difficult. “Pretend? I'm not a pretender, I'm a contender. Been training for the Golden Gloves for months.”

“Denny, come on—”

“Don't believe me? Here, check this out.” I nod toward the mirror. “Watch my shadowboxing skills.” I throw playful punches at my reflection. Jab, jab, right cross, uppercut. “Check out these stellar combinations.”

She stands up. “Denny, I saw you at the restaurant. I saw the whole thing.”

“What thing?” Jab, uppercut.

“Dinner. Chinese. Hunan Palace. Your dad…”

“Oh, that? Psshh, doesn't everyone's dad do that?”

“Mine doesn't.”

“Well, mine does. Yes, he certainly is very passionate about Chinese cuisine.”

“Will you stop boxing for a second. Does that happen a lot?”

“Well, ever since—I mean, ever since he discovered the flavorings of the Orient.”

“Flavorings of the Orient?”
she mouths. “Sounds like something Manny'd say.”

“Who?” Better to distance myself now.

“Your friend, Manny. You know, Mr. Perfect.”

“I don't know anyone by either name.”

“Denny, stop. Can't we have a five-second conversation without you pretending?”

“I told you, Sabrina. I'm a contender, not a pretender. Been working on my jab a lot lately, though it makes my left shoulder sore. Should probably get it checked out.”

She leans closer and puts her hand on my arm. “That must have been hard for you, what happened at the restaurant,” she says. “Seeing your dad get so—”

“It's no biggie, really. I mean,
he's
a biggie. But it's no big deal. My mom would've come but she—was at home, rapping to a rap song by a rapper on MTV.”

She doesn't dignify that with a response and I don't blame her. There's something about the softness in her eyes and the soft teddy bear on her bed and her soft touch on my arm. “She died,” I say.

“I remember, Denny … I was so sorry to hear. I still am really sorry. My mom said she was a wonderful lady, said she loved working with her on the PTA. I'm so, so sorry.” And you can tell she means it.

“It's okay,” I tell her. “My dad's got a real good handle on things. As you saw, he knows where and how to receive the best food in town.”

She rubs her forehead. “I remember the whole class wrote you notes after she passed away. I wish I could've done more.”

“You don't have to do anything. I don't need a pity party or anything.”

“It's not—it's just, I wanted to help.”

“It's okay, really, it is. I'm sorry. And with our project, don't worry. I know more about
Death of a Salesman
than I let on in class.”

She grins. “I know you're smart, Denny. You just play too much.”

“But if you knew I was smart, why didn't you want to work with me?”

“Because you play too much.”

“Right.”

Behind her, there's a poster with a girl and the words “
Les Misérables
” behind it.

“So what's the secret?” I ask.

“Secret to what?”

I point at the poster. “How do I become less miserable?”

She grins. “It's a play. My favorite one. But it's not about becoming less miserable. It's about how miserable
everyone
is, at least at some point.
Les
is the plural word in French for ‘the.' Like,
all
of the miserable people.”

I shrug. “Makes sense.”

“It does, actually,” she says. “Misery loves company, you know?”

“That's why I like this book,” I explain, suddenly oozing with confidence. “Willy Loman is miserable and so is his family. They sort of sleepwalk through life until it's over. For Willy. The whole play feels like a dream that nobody wakes up from until Willy's asleep for good. So what if we … hold on, we're supposed to act out at least one scene with rewritten dialogue, right?”

“Right.”

“In some ways, it's similar to your less miserable play. We could film it as a dream or as a mashup of the miserable play and
Salesman.
”

My ideas may not make any sense to Sabrina, or even to me, but it's the clearest I've felt in a while, talking to her, being honest, not wanting to hibernate. It feels … I don't know how to explain it. It feels nice.

“But you haven't even seen
Les Misérables
,” she protests.

“I won't tell Mr. Morgan if you don't tell.”

“But you really should see the play, it's fantastic.”

“Remember, Sabrina, homey don't play that. I am homey and plays are that.”

“And to think we were making progress…” She smiles. Her lips look smooth, nice. I don't get near them, nor am I a betting man, but I bet they feel nice.

 

GONE

The phone is warm and greasy. “Hello?”

“Donuts, report your problems.”

I think that's what he says. My dad is blasting the TV down the hall so loudly it's hard to hear. “Dad, turn it down!” I shout, and he shouts back, “
You
turn it down!” which makes about as much sense as Chad telling me my meat is sour. “You're not making sense!” I holler. “I don't have the remote for the TV, Dad, and I can't turn the volume on a phone down. There's no volume switch on a phone!”

I realize after I say it that there
is
a volume switch on the phone, but that's not the point. Since his Chinese meltdown last week, the point of our conversations (or lack thereof) has escaped me even more than usual. Sometimes I think one of us is actually speaking Chinese. Hopefully it's me. Everyone knows the ladies dig a bilingual man.

Manny is once again in my ear. “Donuts, you do know there is indeed a volume button on the telephone, right?”

“Yeah, I know. But honestly, Manny, I don't want to report my problems to you.”

A pause, and then, “Huh? Do I sound like the school social worker?”

“No, but you told me to report my—”

“Profits, Donuts. I told you to report your profits.”

I feel my face go hot. “Right, uh—hold on.” As I reach inside my backpack for the latest tally, I notice my dad has turned the volume down a smidge. What a trouper. “As of this afternoon, Manny, including sales on the way home, I've made $414.”

Silence.

“Manny?”

No answer.

“Manny, you there?”

“Flabbergasting…” He clears his throat. “It seems you have bested me thus far, Donuts, but we are a team. My profit is only
slightly
less than yours—$359—but still an impressive sum between us—$773—especially given the time constraints. And remember, the idea for the company was mine.”

“It's not a competition. Your sales are very impressive, Manny.” Having to massage his ego is such hard work, but like most things that are hard work, it's necessary. “You are the king of candy sales. All hail King Manny, Master of Perfection.”

“Indeed. Indeed.” Manny pauses. I hear him take a deep breath and then ask, in a softer voice, a timid one that sounds of sadness: “Is it working?”

“Is what working?”

“Our scheme.”

“Well, we have made over seven hundred dollars.”

He sighs. “No, I mean is it working
?
Has—has it been a distraction?”

I take a moment before answering him: “It doesn't bring her back.”

“Yeah, but it
has
been a distraction, has it not?”

I give him the same answer.

“I wish I could bring her back,” he says.

“But you can't.”

“No, I cannot.”

We both don't speak for a few seconds, which feels like a few minutes and then a few hours. Silence hangs between us like a heavy curtain until I mercifully, mostly for his benefit, say: “We are so deep in the money that people may nickname us money: Money Manny and Money Donuts.”

I can hear him smiling. “Can you believe that in one week we have raised more than seven hundred dollars? At this rate, we shall reach our goal in ten days, which cannot arrive fast enough, given the dwindling number of available babesicles on the market.”

“Babesicles? Tell me you didn't just say that word.”

“I did. Now back to the issue at hand. I think we need to get a handle on the market. Perhaps my—
our
—monetary goal was too high, or heaven forbid, too low. That would be quite a travesty. That is why we must do some market research.”

Whatever he's talking about, it doesn't sound good.

“Not it,” I tell him.

“Au contraire, mon frère.”

“Manny, I don't speak French. I only speak Chinese.”

“In your dreams.”

“Actually I speak English in my dreams. With a thick Jersey accent. Hey, Manny, I'm from Joisey. I like to wawk my dawg to the mawl.”

He sighs into the phone and sounds like Darth Vader.
Haw. Ha. Haw. Ha.
“You are such a bundle of joy to talk to.”

“Thank you, Manny. You know, according to Marsha—”

“Who?”

“The lunch lady. According to her, the definition of love is the feeling you get when you appreciate another person's virtues. Do you feel the love?”

No answer.

“Of course you do, Manny. Thank you for loving me.”

Haw. Ha. Haw. Ha.

From down the hall: “Keep it down, Denny! I'm trying to watch my show.”

“Tomorrow,” Manny says, “we will ascertain exactly what it will take for us to secure company to the dance.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow. We need to figure out our angle—what will best attract the babesicles to us. Food, clothes, entertainment, a makeover … whatever it is, time is of the essence. Now remember, feel free to stress to all the lucky ladies out there that it is good clean fun we are after. No ulterior motives. We are looking for a pretty face with which to take pictures. Girls like compliments, but do not creep them out. Simply mention that we want to take pictures and dance, and if she wants a smooch or two, well, we shall oblige.”

“I hope you don't expect me to use the word ‘smooch.'”

“Au contraire, mon frère.”

“Remember, Manny, I only speak Chinese.”

“Fine, speak Chinese tomorrow. Use whatever words in whatever language you prefer, but tomorrow we move.”

“But, Manny—”

“We are done here.”

“Manny, wait—”

But he's already gone.

The only sound I hear is from down the hall, where my dad's parked by the television. I'd rather not go near him, but all that blabbering with Manny has made my throat dry. I tiptoe over to the kitchen, so as not to disturb the Natural Schmoozer, and find him in his usual position, lying across the maroon couch, face on the pillow, his eyes half-closed, saliva at the corner of his mouth. He's gone, too.

Not gone as in
gone
from this world, or
gone
out to the store, or
gone
to bed. More like
gone
, here but somewhere else, gone.

And I get it … Manny and I distracted ourselves with our candy coalition, and my dad, like the relatives at our post-funeral gathering, distracted himself in the soft glow of television and hasn't looked back since. Whole seasons on Netflix finished in one night. Action, adventure, bank robberies, prison breaks, singing competitions, comedies, comedy specials, standup comedy, thrillers. No dramas. Or trips to the gravesite, to the priest. No tears. No talks. My mom was here and then she wasn't. There was a void. And he filled it with food, a couch, and a television screen until he was gone, too.

I get it but I don't admire it, don't want to be like that. Not now, not ever.

I pour myself a cup of water and walk past the living room. Body odor, hair not washed since last week. A dusty television set, a man half-asleep and less alive.
Coward,
I say to myself. And then I say it out loud. “Coward.”

Though I don't know if I'm talking to him or myself.

 

LOSS

A week after my mom died, teachers organized poster-size sympathy cards from kids that read “I'm sorry for your loss,” and a few careless spellers wrote, “I'm sorry for your lost,” and one
really
careless speller wrote, “I'm sorry for you're lost.” Or, in other words, “I'm sorry for you are lost,” which was the most accidentally accurate thing anyone had said to me. Sorry you're lost.

I mean, you don't
lose
a relative. You don't misplace them like your keys. And it's not the opposite of winning, either. You don't
lose
them like you lose a sporting event or a card game. You don't lose them. You don't lose. The only
losing
you do is with yourself. I lost myself. For a while there (and okay, sort of still now, too), I was lost,
so
lost I acted the fool to mask the pain. And one kid—who should seriously apply to write cards at Hallmark—was sorry to hear that.

I'm sorry for you're lost. I'm sorry that you are lost. Made perfect sense for me. Then
and
now. For my dad. And for me. But making perfect sense—the feeling you get when everything comes together—is as fleeting as a breath. (Unless it's my dad's chicken breath as I'm helping him off to bed. That lingers.) When everything makes sense, it's a good sign that everything will fall apart, crumble, get blown over because life is
good
a house made of Popsicle sticks with no glue, and life is
good
a passing cloud, and life is
good
a sympathy card that only makes sense by accident.