She was there again that night, in the back row, although only the first three rows were taken. I watched her from under the skull. She had her hand pressed against her ultraviolet heart, and I could hear her saying, “That’s sad. That’s so sad.” I thought about the unfinished scarf, and the rock she carried across Broadway, and how she had lived so much life but still needed imaginary friends, and the one thousand thumb wars.
MARGIE CARSON. Hey, Hamlet, where’s Polonius?
JIMMY SNYDER. At supper.
MARGIE CARSON. At supper! Where?
JIMMY SNYDER. Not where he eats, but where he’s eaten.
MARGIE CARSON. Wow!
JIMMY SNYDER. A king can end up going through the guts of a beggar.
I felt, that night, on that stage, under that skull, incredibly close to everything in the universe, but also extremely alone. I wondered, for the first time in my life, if life was worth all the work it took to live. What exactly made it worth it? What’s so horrible about being dead forever, and not feeling anything, and not even dreaming? What’s so great about feeling and dreaming?
Jimmy put his hand under my face. “This is where his lips were that I used to kiss a lot. Where are your jokes now, your games, your songs?”
Maybe it was because of everything that had happened in those twelve weeks. Or maybe it was because I felt so close and alone that night. I just couldn’t be dead any longer.
ME. Alas, poor Hamlet [I take JIMMY SNYDER’s face into my hand]; I knew him, Horatio.
JIMMY SNYDER. But Yorick… you’re only… a skull.
ME. So what? I don’t care. Screw you.
JIMMY SNYDER. [whispers] This is not in the play. [He looks for help from MRS. RIGLEY, who is in the front row, flipping through the script. She draws circles in the air with her right hand, which is the universal sign for “improvise.”]
ME. I knew him, Horatio; a jerk of infinite stupidity, a most excellent masturbator in the second-floor boys’ bathroom—I have proof. Also, he’s dyslexic.
JIMMY SNYDER. [Can’t think of anything to say]
ME. Where be your gibes now, your gambols, your songs?
JIMMY SNYDER. What are you talking about?
ME. [Raises hand to scoreboard] Succotash my cocker spaniel, you fudging crevasse-hole dipshiitake!
JIMMY SNYDER.Huh?
ME. You are guilty of having abused those less strong than you: of making the lives of nerds like me and Toothpaste and The Minch almost impossible, of imitating mental retards, of prank-calling people who get almost no phone calls anyway, of terrorizing domesticated animals and old people — who, by the way, are smarter and more knowledgeable than you — of making fun of me just because I have a pussy… And I’ve seen you litter, too.
JIMMY SNYDER. I never prank-called any retards.
ME. You were adopted.
JIMMY SNYDER. [Searches audience for his parents]
ME. And nobody loves you.
JIMMY SNYDER. [His eyes fill with tears]
ME. And you have amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.
JIMMY SNYDER. Huh?
ME. On behalf of the dead… [I pull the skull off my head. Even though it’s made of papier-mâché it’s really hard. I smash it against JIMMY SNYDER’s head, and I smash it again. He falls to the ground, because he is unconscious, and I can’t believe how strong I actually am. I smash his head again with all my force and blood starts to come out of his nose and ears. But I still don’t feel any sympathy for him. I want him to bleed, because he deserves it. And nothing else makes any sense. DAD doesn’t make sense. MOM doesn’t make sense. THE AUDIENCE doesn’t make sense. The folding chairs and fog-machine fog don’t make sense. Shakespeare doesn’t make sense. The stars that I know are on the other side of the gym ceiling don’t make sense. The only thing that makes any sense right then is my smashing JIMMY SNYDER’s face. His blood. I knock a bunch of his teeth into his mouth, and I think they go down his throat. There is blood everywhere, covering everything. I keep smashing the skull against his skull, which is also RON’s skull (for letting MOM get on with life) and MOM’s skull (for getting on with life) and DAD’S skull (for dying) and GRANDMA’s skull (for embarrassing me so much) and DR. FEIN’s skull (for asking if any good could come out of DAD’s death) and the skulls of everyone else I know. THE AUDIENCE is applauding, all of them, because I am making so much sense. They are giving me a standing ovation as I hit him again and again. I hear them call]
THE AUDIENCE. Thank you! Thank you, Oskar! We love you so much! We’ll protect you!
It would have been great.
I looked out across the audience from underneath the skull, with Jimmy’s hand under my chin. “Alas, poor Yorick.” I saw Abe Black, and he saw me. I knew that we were sharing something with our eyes, but I didn’t know what, and I didn’t know if it mattered.
It was twelve weekends earlier that I’d gone to visit Abe Black in Coney Island. I’m very idealistic, but I knew I couldn’t walk that far, so I took a cab. Even before we were out of Manhattan, I realized that the $7.68 in my wallet wasn’t going to be enough. I don’t know if you’d count it as a lie or not that I didn’t say anything. It’s just that I knew I had to get there, and there was no alternative. When the cab driver pulled over in front of the building, the meter said $76.50. I said, “Mr. Mahaltra, are you an optimist or a pessimist?” He said, “What?” I said, “Because unfortunately I only have seven dollars and sixty-eight cents.” “Seven dollars?” “And sixty-eight cents.” “This is not happening.” “Unfortunately, it is. But if you give me your address, I promise I’ll send you the rest.” He put his head down on the steering wheel. I asked if he was OK. He said, “Keep your seven dollars and sixty-eight cents.” I said, “I promise I’ll send you the money. I promise.” He handed me his card, which was actually the card of a dentist, but he had written his address on the other side. Then he said something in some other language that wasn’t French. “Are you mad at me?”
Obviously I’m incredibly panicky about roller coasters, but Abe convinced me to ride one with him. “It would be a shame to die without riding the Cyclone,” he told me. “It would be a shame to die,” I told him. “Yeah,” he said, “but with the Cyclone you can choose.” We sat in the front car, and Abe lifted his hands in the air on the downhill parts. I kept wondering if what I was feeling was at all like falling.
In my head, I tried to calculate all of the forces that kept the car on the tracks and me in the car. There was gravity, obviously. And centrifugal force. And momentum. And the friction between the wheels and the tracks. And wind resistance, I think, or something. Dad used to teach me physics with crayons on paper tablecloths while we waited for our pancakes. He would have been able to explain everything.
The ocean smelled weird, and so did the food they were selling on the boardwalk, like funnel cakes and cotton candy and hot dogs. It was an almost perfect day, except that Abe didn’t know anything about the key or about Dad. He said he was driving into Manhattan and could give me a ride if I wanted one. I told him, “I don’t get in cars with strangers, and how did you know I was going to Manhattan?” He said, “We’re not strangers, and I don’t know how I knew.” “Do you have an SUV?” “No.” “Good. Do you have a gas-electric hybrid car?” “No.” “Bad.”
While we were in the car I told him all about how I was going to meet everyone in New York with the last name Black. He said, “I can relate, in my own way, because I had a dog run away once. She was the best dog in the world. I couldn’t have loved her more or treated her better. She didn’t want to run away. She just got confused, and followed one thing and then another.” “But my dad didn’t run away,” I said. “He was killed in a terrorist attack.” Abe said, “I was thinking of you.” He went up with me to the door of Ada Black’s apartment, even though I told him I could do it myself. “I’ll feel better knowing you made it here safely,” he said, which sounded like Mom.
Ada Black owned two Picasso paintings. She didn’t know anything
about the key, so the paintings meant nothing to me, even if I knew they were famous. She said I could have a seat on the couch if I wanted to, but I told her I didn’t believe in leather, so I stood. Her apartment was the most amazing apartment I’d ever been in. The floors were like marble chessboards, and the ceilings were like cakes. Everything seemed like it belonged in a museum, so I took some pictures with Grandpa’s camera. “This might be a rude question, but are you the richest person in the world?” She touched a lampshade and said, “I’m the 467th-richest person in the world.”
I asked her how it made her feel to know that there were homeless people and millionaires living in the same city. She said, “I give a lot to charity, if that’s what you’re getting at.” I told her that I wasn’t getting at anything, and that I just wanted to know how she felt. “I feel fine,” she said, and she asked me if I wanted something to drink. I asked her for a coffee, and she asked someone in another room for a coffee, and then I asked her if she thought that maybe no one should have more than a certain amount of money until everyone had that amount of money. That was an idea Dad had once suggested to me. She said, “The Upper West Side isn’t free, you know.” I asked her how she knew that I lived on the Upper West Side. “Do you have things that you don’t need?” “Not really.” “You collect coins?” “How did you know I collect coins?” “Lots of young people collect coins.” I told her, “I need them.” “Do you need them as much as a homeless person needs food?” The conversation was beginning to make me feel self-conscious. She said, “Do you have more things that you need, or more that you don’t need?” I said, “It depends on what it means to need.”
She said, “Believe it or not, I used to be idealistic.” I asked her what “idealistic” meant. “It means you live by what you think is right.” “You don’t do that anymore?” “There are questions I don’t ask anymore.” An African-American woman brought me coffee on a silver tray. I told her, “Your uniform is incredibly beautiful.” She looked at Ada. “Really,” I said. “I think light blue is a very, very beautiful color on you.” She was still looking at Ada, who said, “Thanks, Gail.” As she walked back to the kitchen I told her, “Gail is a beautiful name.”
When it was just the two of us again, Ada told me, “Oskar, I think you made Gail feel quite uncomfortable.” “What do you mean?” “I could tell that she felt embarrassed.” “I was just trying to be nice.” “You might have tried too hard.” “How can you try too hard to be nice?” “You were being condescending.” “What’s that?” “You were talking to her like she was a child.” “No I wasn’t.” “There’s no shame in being a maid. She does a serious job, and I pay her well.” I said, “I was just trying to be nice.” And then I wondered, Did I tell her my name was Oskar?
We sat there for a while. She stared out the window, like she was waiting for something to happen in Central Park. I asked, “Would it be OK if I snooped around your apartment?” She laughed and said, “Finally someone says what he’s thinking.” I looked around a bit, and there were so many rooms that I wondered if the apartment’s inside was bigger than its outside. But I didn’t find any clues. When I came back she asked if I wanted a finger sandwich, which freaked me out, but I was very polite and just said, “Jose.” “Pardon?” “Jose.” “I’m sorry. I don’t understand what that means.” “Jose. As in, ‘No way…’” She said, “I know what I am.” I nodded my head, even though I didn’t know what she was talking about or what it had to do with anything. “Even if I don’t like what I am, I know what I am. My children like what they are, but they don’t know what they are. So tell me which is worse.” “What are the options again?” She cracked up and said, “I like you.”
I showed her the key, but she had never seen it, and couldn’t tell me anything about it.
Even though I told her I didn’t need any help, she made the doorman promise to put me in a cab. I told her I couldn’t afford a cab. She said, “I can.” I gave her my card. She said, “Good luck,” and put her hands on my cheeks, and kissed the top of my head.
That was Saturday, and it was depressing.
Dear Oskar Schell,
Thank you for your contribution to the
American Diabetes Foundation. Every
dollar — or, in your case, fifty cents — counts.
I have enclosed some additional literature
about the Foundation, including our mission
statement, a brochure featuring past activities
and successes, as well as some information about
our future goals, both short- and long-term.
Thank you, once more, for contributing to
this urgent cause. You are saving lives.
With gratitude,
Patricia Roxbury
President, New York Chapter
This might be hard to believe, but the next Black lived in our building, just one floor above us. If it weren’t my life, I wouldn’t have believed it. I went to the lobby and asked Stan what he knew about the person who lived in 6A. He said, “Never seen anyone go in or come out. Just a lot of deliveries and a lot of trash.” “Cool.” He leaned down and whispered, “Haunted.” I whispered back, “I don’t believe in the paranormal.” He said, “Ghosts don’t care if you believe in them,” and even though I was an atheist, I knew he wasn’t right.
I walked back up the steps, this time past our floor and to the sixth. There was a mat in front of the door which said Welcome in twelve different languages. That didn’t seem like something a ghost would put in front of his apartment. I tried the key in the lock, but it didn’t work, so I rang the buzzer, which was exactly where our buzzer was. I heard some noise inside, and maybe even some creepy music, but I was brave and just stood there.
After an incredibly long time the door opened. “Can I help you!” an old man asked, but he asked it extremely loudly, so it was more like a scream. “Yes, hello,” I said. “I live downstairs in 5A. May I please ask you a few questions?” “Hello, young man!” he said, and he was kind of weird-looking, because he had on a red beret, like a French person, and an eye patch, like a pirate. He said, “I’m Mr. Black!” I said, “I know.” He turned around and started walking into his apartment. I guessed I was supposed to follow him, so I did.
Another thing that was weird was that his apartment looked exactly like our apartment. The floors were the same, the windowsills were the same, even the tiles on the fireplace were the same color green. But his apartment was also incredibly different, because it was filled with different stuff. Tons of stuff. Stuff everywhere. Also, there was a huge column right in the middle of the dining room. It was as big as two refrigerators, and it made it impossible for the room to have a table or anything else in it, like ours did. “What’s that for?” I asked, but he didn’t hear me. There were a bunch of dolls and other things on the mantel, and the floors were filled with little rugs. “I got those in Iceland!” he said, pointing at the seashells on the windowsill. He pointed at a sword on the wall and said, “I got that in Japan!” I asked him if it was a samurai sword. He said, “It’s a replica!” I said, “Cool”
He led me to the kitchen table, which was where our kitchen table was, and he sat down and slapped his hand against his knee. “Well!” he said, so loudly that I wanted to cover my ears. “I’ve had a pretty amazing life!” I thought it was weird that he said that, because I didn’t ask him about his life. I didn’t even tell him why I was there. “I was born on January 1, 1900! I lived every day of the twentieth century!” “Really?” “My mother altered my birth certificate so I could fight in the First World War! That was the only lie she ever told! I was engaged to Fitzgerald’s sister!” “Who’s Fitzgerald?” “Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald, my boy! A Great Author! A Great Author!” “Oops.” “I used to sit on her porch and talk to her father while she powdered her nose upstairs! Her father and I had the most lively conversations! He was a Great Man, like Winston Churchill was a Great Man!” I decided that it would be better to Google Winston Churchill
when I got home, instead of mentioning that I didn’t know who he was. “One day, she came downstairs and was ready to go! I told her to hold on for a minute, because her father and I were right smack in the middle of a terrific conversation, and you can’t interrupt a terrific conversation, right!” “I don’t know.” “Later that night, as I was dropping her off on that same porch, she said, ‘Sometimes I wonder if you like my father more than me!’ I inherited that damn honesty from my mother, and it caught up with me again! I told her, ‘I do!’ Well, that was the last time I told her ‘I do,’ if you know what I mean!” “I don’t.” “I blew it! Boy, did I blow it!” He started cracking up extremely loudly, and he slapped his knee. I said, “That’s hilarious,” because it must have been for him to crack up so much. “Hilarious!” he said. “It is! I never heard from her again! Oh, well! So many people enter and leave your life! Hundreds of thousands of people! You have to keep the door open so they can come in! But it also means you have to let them go!”
He put a teakettle on the stove.
“You’re wise,” I told him. “I’ve had enough time to get wise! See this!” he hollered, and he flipped up his eye patch. “That’s from Nazi shrapnel! I was a war correspondent and ended up attaching myself to a British tank corps going up the Rhine! We were ambushed one afternoon, toward the end of’ 44! I bled my eye all over the page I was writing on, but those sons of bitches couldn’t stop me! I finished my sentence!” “What was the sentence?” “Ah, who can remember! The point is I wasn’t going to let those bastard Krauts stop my pen! It’s mightier than the sword, you know! And the MG34!” “Could you please put the patch back?” “See that!” he said, pointing at the kitchen floor, but I couldn’t stop thinking about his eye. “There’s oak under those rugs! Quarter-sawn oak! I should know, I laid it myself!” “Jose,” I said, and I wasn’t just saying it to be nice. I was keeping a list in my head of things I could do to be more like him. “My wife and I renovated this kitchen ourselves! With these hands!” He showed me his hands. They looked like the hands on the skeleton in the Rainier Scientific catalogue that Ron offered to buy for me, except they had skin, blotchy skin, and I didn’t want gifts from Ron. “Where’s your wife now?” The teakettle started to whistle.