The Future for Curious People: A Novel (22 page)

I knock at Bart and Amy’s door and no one answers. I’m about to walk away, but then I hear Bart arguing with Amy through their door, which is thick—the kind that can support three heavy bolt locks, so I know the argument is loud. I think again about leaving. I could crawl back to my parents’ house, but that just seems even more pathetic than this. I could sleep in the hallway. But aren’t nights like these exactly what best friends are for?

I finally hear a deadbolt unlocking, then the slight turn of the handle. The door doesn’t open all the way. I’m not surprised. I can still hear Amy yelling in the background. “That shit-turd” rings loudly.

Bart pops his head out of the half-open door. “This isn’t really a good time,” he says, clearing his throat, trying to mask the noise that’s going on behind him.

I want to tell him,
Save your throat.
I could hear the two of you bitch for the last five minutes.
He’s not wearing the boat shoes, but he’s still decked out in pleated chinos and a white linen button-down that’s only buttoned up halfway. The strands of his chest hair make him look like a little boy dressing up as a sexy Ernst & Young accountant for Halloween.

“Madge locked me out,” I tell him.

“I know,” he says. “She went hysterical after you stormed out last night. DEFCON 5.” His voice hushes, which only magnifies Amy in the background. She’s dropping plates in the sink.

“You mean DEFCON 1,” I tell him.

“No,” Bart says, “she’s got the crazy eyes.”

“Exactly. One is like nuclear fucking explosion. Five is Switzerland.”

“Whatever, Godfrey, I’m too tired to argue about stupid stuff.” Bart quickly glances behind himself before turning back to me. He opens the front door a little farther. A pan hits the floor. “That was probably what was left of the lasagna.”

Bart lets his head fall against the doorframe. He looks exhausted. In moments I go from slight contempt to heavy pity. I don’t even know my best friend anymore. In a year or two would I even be able to recognize him in a police lineup?
Th
at’s my friend!
I’ll tell the cop, and the cop will say,
No, that’s a war lord being burned in effigy,
and I’ll go,
Oh.
“You’ve aged like ten years,” I tell him. “Like those before and after pictures of two-term presidents.”

“Dude, I have aged. It’s crazy.”

I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve lost Bart. Was it my fault? Was Bart this way last week? Last month? “Have I just been too self-absorbed to notice anything around me?”

“Well, you noticed the boat shoes.”

“Sorry about that. What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m dying inside.” He looks over his shoulder. “I can’t talk about it now.”

I ruffle through the pockets of my wrinkled khakis and run my fingers around the winning receipt from Fontana’s, then the Thigpen letter, given to me just hours ago by my mother. Will she still die? “Everyone dies. I just happen to want to live a little first.” I want my fingers to be ruffling Evelyn’s hair, wringing the chlorine out of her dress after we jump into the pool. My mother would be buried by then, but we will survive the grief caused by the cycle of life and death and life. Everything really is like
Th
e Lion King.

“No philosophy lessons now, okay? What do you want, Godfrey?”

“A shower. A pillow. Maybe some clothes.” I smell myself. “Hell, we can look like a GAP ad together.”

“You’re an asshole,” he says, “And it’s Banana Republic, not GAP.” He’s smiling some—not a lot but enough.

I recognize
that
Bart! The one with the smile—my old roommate. Hi, Bart.

“Look Bart, where is she?”

“Madge? I wouldn’t rush in.”

“I have to rush in. For one thing, she has my phone. I’m nothing without a phone. I’m standing before you completely amputated by a lack of technology—amputated, Bart! Also, she could be sabotaging me with my own phone at this very moment. I could be hoisted by my own petard, here, Bart. And no man wants that!”

“I don’t know what that means. Hoisted by your petard? Is that a dick reference?”

“No! God, no! Look.” I growl a little with frustration. “I’m trying to mitigate the damage with a grand gesture.” I’m kind of rambling now, full-head-of-steam variety. “Maybe you can steal the phone back for me. If you can get Amy to let you talk to Madge, you know, on my behalf or something, and then you can get in close and you can steal the phone back. You know? It’s not really stealing because the phone is actually mine to begin with and—”

“I’m not stealing your phone back! My God, Madge could bite my arm off ! Amy would amputate me somehow, too—for real!”

“Okay, okay, just let me spend the night. You can dust off the PlayStation,” I say. “We can be in college again, even if it’s just for a night.”

Behind Bart, another pan hits the floor. We both cringe.

I continue. “Or forever. I found a time machine in a Dumpster behind Fontana’s.” Another loud clang. We don’t cringe this time; we were ready for it. “I’ll take us there right now.”

“You really fucked up, man.” Bart’s voice is lower than a whisper. “And now I’m paying for it. She’s been so pissed off; everything got burned to shit. Half of it is still stuck to the pan that’s now on the floor.”

“I didn’t do anything to Amy.”

“That speech! That comment about her ass getting fat?”

“I incriminated all of our asses,” I say, wagging my head. “That was democratic.”

“You screwed up the abstract art lesson,” he says. “We weren’t there to celebrate. Madge called and told us before we showed up that you’d fucked it up.”

“If you weren’t there to celebrate, then what were you there for?”

“Moral support!”

“For me?”

He wiggles the knob.

“Wait. Moral support is for someone who has to do something hard. Were you there to support Madge? Was she going to break up with me?”

Bart just keeps fiddling.

“Bart.”

Was Madge really going to end this first? I can’t decide if I’m offended or relieved. On one hand, it makes everything easier. With Madge gone, and by her choice, things with Evelyn can fall into place. It’ll be like I did nothing wrong. Everything wiped clean—a Windex relationship moment. I think about Evelyn’s envisioning, the hand-holding, the proposal. Still, something sinks inside of me.

I take his nonanswer as confirmation, but I still need to hear him say it. “Bart,” I say again.

“She said the art session was your last shot. But you can’t say anything. Seriously, forget I mentioned anything. She might not want to break up with you now. She might want to . . .”

“What? Torture me?”

“I’ve heard some talk,” he says ominously. “Look, Godfrey, I’m not fucking around. If Amy finds out I even mentioned this, she’ll smother me in my sleep. I’m serious. The rhetoric in this house has gotten really dark.”

“Bart,” I say. “I just need a place to crash tonight.”

“Give me a sec,” he tells me, holding his hand out before shutting the door in my face.

Madge was going to break up with me? Is that possible? Maybe we can broker a clean breakup. Something mutual. I mean, she won’t want to torture me forever, right? That’s heat-of-the-moment talk. I’m feeling almost free—almost.

When he opens the front door this time, he opens it all the way and gestures me inside. We stop in the hallway.

“The rules,” he says.

“Rules?”

“You have to sleep on the couch.”

“But you have a guest room, and it’s so aptly named.”

“We keep things in there,” he says.

“Things?”

“Yes, things.”

“What kind of things?”

“I don’t know, Godfrey. We have things. We keep them in the guest room. The things.”

“Yes, you said that. The things.”

“Yes or no?” Bart says.

“Okay,” I say. “The couch. I’ll sleep on the fucking couch. Do I get a pillow?”

Bart actually has to think about this, like I’m asking for a kidney or a wife swap. “I didn’t ask.”

“You’re not kidding, are you?”

“No.” He looks at me like I just asked to fuck his sister. “Kidding? I’m not kidding. This is no joke, Godfrey. Nothing about this is funny.”

“You said rules. Plural. That was only one.”

“You’re not allowed to eat anything. Amy threatened to lock the pantry. I guess we have locks; I didn’t know we have locks, but I assure you, we do. And if you want some water, it has to come from the tap. Amy says you can’t use the Brita pitcher.”

Baltimore tap water. Jesus. “You’re really not kidding, are you?”

“Don’t. I already said no.”

We’re still in the hallway. Amy drops one more plate in the sink before finally huffing off into the bedroom.

Bart exhales. “You know I’m not getting laid tonight because of this,” he says.

“Were you anyway?”

“If I did the dishes . . .” His voice trails off. He pauses. “Maybe.”

“I’m sorry for cock-blocking you,” I say. And I mean it. I feel bad. He seems so stressed, so wound up.

“It’s okay,” Bart says, and then we’re just standing there. This quiet awkward—the pregnant pause of our voices, the slight hum of the heater, the lack of pans and dishes banging.

Finally I say, “Are there any rules stipulating whether I can borrow some clean, dry clothes?”

“Maybe I can have some say over that. They’re my clothes. I’ll see.”

“I really appreciate this, and I’m sorry about what I said last night. All of that shit about your shoes and all.”

“Godfrey.” His eyes get nervous. He glances back over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I’m on your side.”

“What?”

“I can’t talk about it now. Just know that I’m with you, man.”

BART WON THE CLOTHING
argument and he lent me a pair of pajamas. Since I’ve got almost four inches over him, his pajama pants fall short of my ankles. But they’re flannel and warm, so I can’t complain. My old clothes are balled into a clump next to my bed, the couch. The letter from my father is still in my chinos. I pull it out.

Once I start reading it, I can’t stop. I read well past complete memorization, but it still feels fresh each time. I want to tell Bart about the letter, how most of my life has been a lie and how I’ve accepted the love I’ve accepted because of that lie. But it’s time to say,
I’m a
Th
igpen and it is
okay that I’m a
Th
igpen
.
It has been written. And on the seventh day God did not rest. He made the
Th
igpens and He was pleased.

Bart walks in and says, “You all right?”

“I’m fine. You don’t understand the urgency of this situation. I really need to talk to Madge.”

“What’s there to understand? You want to win her back and you’ve got to let it breathe a little.”

“I don’t want to win her back.”

“What?”

“I’m in love with someone else.” I can’t believe I’ve said this out loud.

“Are you insane?”

“I have to break up with Madge. I have to.”

“Ho, God. Ho, God,” Bart says. “This is bad. This is so much worse than I thought.” Bart sits down on the arm of the couch closest to the hallway. He props one foot on one knee and cradles his head, rocking. Then he pops his head up. “Who is she? Tell me.”

“Evelyn Shriner.”

“I don’t know that name.”

“No, you do not.”

“Godfrey, this is ape shit.”

“I know.”

Bart slides off the arm and into the chair itself. His body is now slack. “I don’t like change. I have a hard time with it. You know that.”

I prop myself on one elbow. “What did you mean you’re on my side?”

“Shhh,” Bart says. “Jesus.”

“Okay, settle down,” I say. “How long have we known each other, Bart?”

He thinks about this for a minute. “Twelve years,” he finally says.

“Since eighth grade.”

“Ms. Maloney’s class.”

Algebra. Honors, I think, but it’s hard to remember exact logistics from that long ago. What I do remember: the size of Evelyn’s bed. Her ass in her bikini bottoms when she got of her giant bed. “We both sat in the front row because we didn’t want to wear our glasses because we thought the girls wouldn’t like us if they knew we had to wear glasses.”

“The girls didn’t like us anyway.”

“Took us a while to figure that out.”

“Too long,” he says. “We were never the smartest.”

“Actually I don’t know how we got into Honors Algebra.”

“Everything works out,” Bart says. “Eventually.”

“Is this working out, Bart? I mean it, is this part of your definition of working out?”

“Look, man,” he whispers. “I’m worried. Deeply worried.”

“About what?”

“I think seeing my future messed me up.”

“How?”

“I’m old.”

“You don’t look any older.”

He points to his sternum. “Inside. I aged. I can’t explain, but I think I’m headed for a midlife crisis.” He kneels beside me and grabs my arm. “I’m about to have some kind of fucking crisis.”

I sit up. I’m a little scared he’s going to start crying or throw up. I’m not sure which scares me more. “It’s okay, Bart. It’s okay. I’m here. You’re going to be okay. Okay?”

“Am I?”

“We all are,” I say, though I don’t really believe myself.

“I’m sorry I told Amy that story about you getting lost and being too embarrassed to call that girl back.”

“It wasn’t meant to be, you know?”

“I’m going to be okay,” he says. “Okay.” He stands up and starts to skulk off. But then he stops and says, “You should try to slip out in the morning before we’re up. It’s not going to be pretty.” It’s too dark to watch him walk away, but I can hear his feet plodding against the hardwood floor as he makes his way down the hall.

I’m sleeping at Dot’s place. She insisted. “What if that effer’s a real psycho? I feel bad about letting you invite him up. I mean, that stuff he texted you about Kristen Stewart and his
Twilight
paraphernalia was just so wrong. It was some twisted shit.”

I agreed.

DOT’S MOTHER’S IN TOWN,
so I’m sharing a futon with her and Dot’s bichon frise, Fipps, an adorable dog with labored breathing, currently dressed in a hand-knit Irish fisherman’s sweater. Mrs. Fuoco is wearing a yoga outfit to bed and I’m dressed in an old-fashioned flannel nightgown. I stare up at Dot’s ceiling. Her mother says, “They’re all nut jobs, Evelyn. You just got to ask yourself, would I be better off as a lesbian? Think about it. I think you’re a really good influence on my little girl.”

“I think we’re just not lesbians, Mrs. Fuoco.”

“I don’t know why she steals stuff like that, you know?”

“You’ve done your best, Mrs. Fuoco,” I say, trying to console her. This day has been so shitty. I need someone to tell me everything’s going to be okay and I haven’t just spent the night with a psycho. “I’m for tighter gun control laws. I worry about sociopaths, don’t you?”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” Mrs. Fuoco shifts on the futon, and I realize I’m no longer making sense.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Never mind.”

“You should absolutely take this the wrong way,” Mrs. Fuoco says. “You’re a really unusual person, Evelyn. Good heart. Weird head.”

“It’s just been one of those days, you know?” Mrs. Fuoco doesn’t say anything. I bet she’s had a lot of days like this. I press on. “I had to give a witness account of an emo skateboarder robbing a duck. I don’t know what to think about anything anymore. And, well—”

“Just spit it out.”

“I need a hug,” I say. I worry I’m being too forward. I backtrack. “But I’ll settle for a hand through my hair or a pat on the back.”

“I thought we were talking about me and my daughter issues.”

“Right,” I say, but I’m thinking maybe I should become a lesbian and marry Dot in a gazebo on the edge of a lake. We’ll have a small service—just the extended family. We’ll write our own vows. Creepy Godfrey will stand on the other side of the lake, staring.

And then I think of Mrs. Fuoco. I mean, we were, in fact, talking about her and her daughter issues. I say, “Well, Mrs. Fuoco, you could play charades in a nicer manner.”

“Are you saying I don’t play charades nice?”

“You can be a little aggressive,” I say, “while playing charades.”

I wonder if Mrs. Fuoco’s going to get vicious and make mean comments about my hair. But I just hear her breathing. Fipps gets up, turns a few circles, scratches at the comforter, and flops down again.

Mrs. Fuoco says, “See, honesty. That’s what I look for in a person. Just don’t rush the nonlesbian thing. These people can get married now in the state of Maryland, you know? Free Belgian waffle makers. You get my point.”

“I do.” But I’m in love with Godfrey Burkes, a person I thought I knew, deep down and immediately, like a sudden recognition of someone you know will be with you forever. The
ah!
of
Hey, you finally showed up; I’ve been missing you.
How could I be so wrong? “Do you think there are only two options to living, Mrs. Fuoco? Either opening up or shutting down?”

“I’m Italian. Shutting down isn’t an option. So we’ve got just the one.” And then I feel this little pat-pat on my arm. “You’re going to be okay, Evie,” she says.

Evie. My parents never nicknamed me. I like Evie. But part of me knows that not so long ago, I’d have read more into it. I’d have tried to allow the nickname of Evie to fill the hole inside of me that Adrian says I can’t fill. It’s not enough—this nickname, this pat-pat. And it shouldn’t be. Still, I appreciate it. “Thank you, Mrs. Fuoco,” I whisper.

“For what?” she says, the moment having passed.

Then my phone buzzes and buzzes—more and more deranged texts.

“Can you turn that thing off ?” Mrs. Fuoco says.

“Sorry, Mrs. Fuoco. I’ve started to pretend it’s the sound of peepers,” I say. “You know, those little frogs that chirp at night.” As if one of the texts will be the right text and I’ll be able to tell by the quality of its buzz.

“Well, it’s annoying as shit. Who can sleep with that crap-noise?”

I turn it off.