The Postmortal (14 page)

I showed the flyer to my friend Scott. “Oh, man,” he said. “Collectivists. Those people are losers. I once dated a girl who was into this. She took me to a service. Everyone held hands and ran in circles, like it was
The Sound of Music
or something. And they make you hug people all the time. It’s creepy as hell. And you have to confess to your sins against your fellow man—like cutting him off in traffic. They consider that a sin. I’m surprised they’re opening a church here. It’s the most anti–New Yorker set of policies on earth. You ever see the top of one of their churches?”

“Yeah, it’s got a big capital
T
on it.”

“Did you know it stands for ‘teamwork’?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Swear to God. It’s a goddamn hippie day camp. Those people are nuts.”

Last night I was out at a restaurant bar with Callie, a friend from work, to celebrate her positive pregnancy test. She brought twelve female friends with her. They were all jumping and screaming and crying and poking her in the stomach and asking her if she was throwing up yet. I drifted away from the pre-baby shower and sat alone, happily absorbed in drinking my drink and pleased that, unlike Callie, I was medically cleared to have as many as I wished.

I tried to chat up the bartender, but he was the only one on duty that night, and the crowd was three or four deep. I’m convinced that fancy new bars are understaffed on purpose. An establishment isn’t truly trendy unless it pisses you off. My barstool became a little island. People swarmed around me without paying me much heed, leaving me to survey the bar and peoplewatch with impunity. I could stare at other people for minutes at a time and not be noticed because so many bodies were obscuring me. I could watch the first date unfold at a nearby table in real time and all its spectacular, awkward splendor. I could also check out good-looking women if I wanted to, even though I would creep myself out when I stared for too long.

In the middle of this mess, I spied a girl quietly walking in with a friend and waiting for a table. I knew this girl. Her name was Alison. I knew her because twenty-seven years ago I loved her more than I’ve loved anything, anywhere, ever.

She was a classmate of mine in middle school, and she looked then like she did now. Tall, with long arms. Simple brown hair. You could even call her gawky, though I’d never dare. It was as if she was somewhat embarrassed by her natural beauty and did what she could to not call attention to it. This only made her more attractive. I remember in school she wore very plain clothes, and she was still the best-looking girl I’d ever seen. Occasionally, an event would come along where she’d have to dress up—an eighth-grade dance or something like that. And she’d dress up just a touch, just a little bit better than she usually did, and then she was not only the best-looking girl I’d ever seen but the best-looking girl I’d ever seen by an overwhelming margin.

I was no one in eighth grade. I was terrible at sports, and I was already tall, which only accentuated my glaring lack of athleticism. I wasn’t unpopular, I guess. I had some friends. But I occupied the periphery of the school’s social structure. I was just another forgettable kid who was trying to get by, the kind of kid who never turns up in any of the candid yearbook photos.

I made friends with Alison in Spanish class. She was nice to me. She was nice to everyone. Sometimes I got to sit next to her, which was both ecstasy and agony. I’d get to see her in full, and smell her. If she was wearing a skirt, I’d get to see that little crease running up the side of her thigh that made every neuron in my body flare. It took everything in my power to not grab her in the middle of class and consume her entirely. This is the problem with eighth-grade boys.

As the year went on, I began calling her at home and having the occasional half-hour chat, which is pretty much all I lived for back then. I was her friend, and I assumed this was the best way to become something more. Hindsight makes it clear that this was the wrong angle to take. I stayed friends with her even as she dated the captain of the hockey team (who was a bastard) and even went so far as to give her relationship advice, despite having no relationships of any kind on my résumé, and despite internally rooting for her relationships with other men to fail miserably.

Whenever Alison was without a boyfriend, I’d pull her aside at a dance and ask her to go out with me. On more than one occasion I told her I loved her. She’d reject me, but such was her kindness and good nature that she could never reject me entirely. She’d give me a hug after turning me down, which was torture. And any time I asked if I’d ever have a chance with her, she’d tell me that things can always change, that she couldn’t predict the future. It was her way of easing my pain, but it was ten times crueler because I always imagined that fortunate turn of events would soon be on the horizon.

I began envisioning all the ways in which she could be mine. I daydreamed of a nuclear attack that left us the only two people alive. I daydreamed of rescuing her from being raped by an overaggressive suitor. I daydreamed of mastering the guitar, becoming a rock star, and having her fall in love with me after spotting her in the audience and playing my greatest song for her and her alone, our eyes locked the entire time. I even took guitar lessons to see if that fantasy could be realized. I’m a fucking train wreck with that instrument.

My daydreams soared far beyond initial courtship. I dreamed of her growing to love me with equal intensity. I pictured going off to war, fighting in the Middle East, and returning home to her to make love on the staircase. You name an insane fantasy, and I indulged in it with her. Alien invasions, riots, earthquakes, floods, hurricanes, rogue dinosaur cyborgs—all of it. I spent every waking moment thinking of her in alternate dimensions, well past the point of mere pitiful obsession. I even abstained from full-blown sexual fantasies about her because I viewed her as too virtuous for them. Again, this is the problem with eighth-grade boys.

We moved from Buffalo when I was in tenth grade. I begged my parents to let me stay behind and live with a friend so that I could still go to the same school. So that I could see Alison. I was that hell-bent on torturing myself. My parents refused, we left, and life went on. I grew. I somehow managed to kiss other girls, even have sex with them. The pain of that extreme and sad crush eventually went away, worn down by generous helpings of time.

Then I saw her again last night, and a feeling that had lain dormant for so long burst up through me in an instant. I assumed I was too old for raging-hormone teenage love, but I was wrong. And that screwed with my head, because if I couldn’t chalk up that love to teenage hormones, it meant I was still vulnerable to it. I was still weak.

I wasn’t going to make the same mistakes I made before. I’m older and presumably wiser. I hatched a plan. I’d stalked this poor girl for three solid years. I wasn’t going to do that again. Instead, I finished my drink, ordered another, and headed back Callie’s way. When Callie is at a bar, you notice her. All I had to do was stand in her general vicinity, do a shot with her (lemonade for the pregnant gal), and Alison would easily notice me
not
noticing her.

It worked. I am a genius. Alison quickly spotted me.

“John?” she said. “John Farrell?”

“Jennifer?” I did that on purpose.

“You don’t remember me?”

“Wait. Alison? Oh man, of course! Alison. How are you? It’s great to see you!”

I gave her a cursory kiss on the cheek. I could smell her hair, same as it was the first time I caught a whiff of it. I nearly died on the spot.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked.

“Friend of mine got herself pregnant. Throwing a little party.”

“Are you the father?”

“No, no. Thankfully not.”

“Are all these girls your friends?”

“Not particularly. In fact, I’ve dated a couple of them, so if you could perhaps save me from this little coven . . .”

“Well, we were just stopping in for drinks and maybe some appetizers. You’re free to join us.”

And I did. I ordered wine. I feigned having as much interest in Alison’s friend as I did in Alison. I told stories. I made Alison laugh, to the point where she playfully punched me in the shoulder. She never did that in school. As we talked, the thirteen-year-old boy still very much alive within me tried to crawl out of my body and expose himself in all his stupid, awkward glory. I violently beat him back with equal parts courage and scotch. The friend got up to use the bathroom. Alison took a sip of her drink and began digging deeper.

“So . . . Married?”

“Me? No,” I said. “Almost was.”

“But you backed out of it.”

“No no. We never got engaged. But we had a son, see.”

“Ah. Does he live here?”

“He does. He lives with his mother and his mother’s fiancé.”

“Oof. Is that awkward?”

“Not as much as you’d think. What about you? Married?”

“Divorced.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “He was a jerk. Don’t tell me you’re a jerk now too.”

“Little bit, I’m afraid. I’m a divorce lawyer. Tends to coarsen a man.”

At this point the conversation paused. When I was younger, a moment of silence with a woman would cause me to panic, and I’d desperately attempt to fill the vacuum by saying anything. Usually something pointless. Something dumb. I didn’t do that this time. I let the moment breathe.

She circled the rim of her glass with her finger. “So, this woman you had the baby with. Would you have married her if you hadn’t gotten the cure?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I would have. But I didn’t. So there you have it.”

“What’s your cure age?”

“Twenty-nine. You?”

“Ah, you beat me. Thirty-one.”

“Sorry.”

“I can’t believe I’m two years older than you now. That’s unfair.”

“Well, you don’t look a day over thirty, if that’s any consolation.”

“Oh, stop.” She surveyed the bar. “This ever get old for you?”

“Does what ever get old?” I asked.

“This. This whole process. Going to the bar. Wedging yourself between people for a drink. You ever get tired of this?”

“Every week.”

“This is what I had in my head when I went to the curist. This is what I was looking forward to, all this carousing and shit. I thought it would always be a good time, and then I got married and this scene got old, and then I got divorced and this scene got
really
old. But I still do it anyway. I think I lack imagination. No one should find themselves bored in this town. At this age. But here I am.”

“I made friends with a guy who is going to live in every country for a year, for two hundred years.”

“That’s crazy.”

“That’s what I thought. Turns out he made perfect sense.”

“Would you do it?”

“If I ever had the stones. Or maybe the right company. Seems foolish to have roots anywhere anymore. I feel like I’m supposed to go on a journey—one I’m continually putting off. I always have an excuse handy: money, work, some other bullshit. I don’t know. The longer I delay, the more daunting it seems. I look at my kid and sometimes I feel like we’re the same age.”

“Except you don’t wear diapers.”

“Not that you know of.”

She gave me a look. I’m old enough now to know when a woman likes me and when she doesn’t. It’s one of those skills you pick up later in life and wish you had had back in school when you desperately needed it. It’s a sense that grows even sharper if you’re in a committed relationship, where it’s virtually useless to you. But here I was. Free. Unencumbered. She was looking at me. Leering at me. I was a different man now. Older. Better looking. Postmortal. Things can always change. Always.

“You look good, John.”

“Thanks.” I purposely held out on returning the compliment. “Listen, I have to go meet a friend for dinner.” (Note: this was a lie.) “But this was fun. If you feel like grabbing another drink sometime, a few weeks from now or whatever . . .” If I asked Alison in eighth grade if I could take her somewhere, she’d immediately ask if she could bring forty other people with her. But not this time.

“Absolutely,” she said.

I gave her a kiss on the cheek goodbye and excused myself. I could feel her eyes trailing me as I walked out the door and waved a quick goodbye to Callie at the bar. As I passed over the threshold and stepped out onto the avenue, out of her line of vision, my face turned beet red, and I let the thirteen-year-old boy out to play for a split second. I walked ten blocks and found myself in need of a place to calm down and stuff the boy back inside my psyche. There was bar nearby, tucked away on the street, and I made a beeline for it. I called a friend and invited him to join me there to get properly drunk.

At 3:00 A.M. I stumbled out of the bar alone (my friend had left an hour earlier, and I stayed to keep drinking for reasons that escape me) and walked back toward the avenue. A bright light from a storefront hit me, and I turned to see what it was. I was in front of Derrick’s Grail Shop, which was—remarkably—still open. I had no need for a grail at 3:00 A.M., but I was drunk and unreasonable, so I moseyed inside to check out the wares for three seconds. The Swift has a new DX model. It’s made of pure imitation jade. Very classy.

When I came out of the shop, I crossed to the dark side of the street and turned to walk to the avenue. But something was off. I felt eyes on my body, like when Alison was looking at me—and nothing like when Alison was looking at me. I turned around, my back to the avenue, and there they were.

They were three men. Short. Bald. Dressed entirely in black—shoes, socks, pants, belt, and long-sleeved tunics that made it look like they were wearing sports jackets backward. Their heads were painted bright green, like the Wicked Witch of the West. Halloween wasn’t for another two days. When I saw them, they grinned at me. Maniacally. It was as if they had been waiting for me this whole time. I would have preferred they do anything but grin at me. Frown, grimace, anything. Their sickening grins made me feel like there was something they wanted to do to me that they were very much looking forward to. I froze in terror.