What?
That it was right. That I found it. That I was going to do it. So I kept going. Wrote the fucking book. I remember when I finished it. It was the middle of the night. I had been working on it for a year. I was alone and tired and it was dark, probably 4 a.m. I wrote the last word and I stared at it and I burst into tears. Just sobbed. Face in my hands, for probably an hour, just sat and sobbed. I was the only one who cared, the only one who believed, and after all those years, I had done it, I had written a book that I wasn’t going to light on fire or throw in a river. From there I found an agent, and we submitted it to publishers as a novel, a novel that told a version of the story of part of my life. At some point someone thought it would sell as a memoir, they asked me if I was okay with it as a memoir. I didn’t give a shit, just wanted it to come out, just wanted the dream to finally come true. The publisher knew what they were buying. When it came out I asked what I should do about the fact that not all of it was true, they said no memoir is, just do the interviews. I was cocky and proud and believed in the book, and I went along with it, I lied, got swept up in it, and the book became hugely successful, and I kept lying. I hated doing it, and hated myself every time I did, but I didn’t know how to stop.
I’m sorry.
Don’t be. It was my own fault. I fucked up.
Still.
Still nothing. It was my own fault. I fucked up.
And the talk show?
A great gift and a complete fucking nightmare.
I can only imagine.
I remember when I found out. The producers had called my publisher, said they wanted me to be on a show about addiction, to which I said no. I considered myself a writer, not an addiction specialist. I wanted the book to be seen as a work of art, not a self-help book. So they requested a chance to talk, I figured why not. The book club had been shut down a long time. I didn’t really think about it being a possibility. About two minutes into the call, the host of the show got on told me she wanted to restart the club, that she was waiting for a book she thought good enough to do it with, asked me if I wanted to do it with her. I laughed and said yes. I thought it would sell an extra million copies. My wife and I had just had our first kid and she had stopped working and the extra dough would be a great blessing. I went on the show. I fucking lied. The book went crazy. Sold five million copies in America in 3 months, five million more outside America. I couldn’t walk down a street without someone wanting my autograph or my picture, I got thousands and thousands of letters and e-mails, became some kind of poster boy for recovery, I fucking hated it. The book wasn’t a book. It was some kind of gospel. People thought I had answers and I didn’t. I’m just a writer. I wrote a book. Simple as that.
Until.
Until.
Until.
It blew the fuck up. In a way it was a relief, in a way it was a nightmare, in a way a dream come true. I didn’t have to lie anymore, which was a relief. The media hated me and stalked me, the talk-show host screamed at me, I got five hundred death threats, and had nineteen lawsuits filed against me, which was all kind of a nightmare. I became the most divisive, most controversial, most polarizing writer in the world, which was the dream. And the book kept selling. Millions more copies, people didn’t seem to give a fuck what was true or what wasn’t. It was all surreal and weird and frightening and thrilling. And it reduced the book to what it was intended to be. A fucking book. Read it as it is. Love it or hate it. Cherish it or throw it in the fucking garbage can. Judge it as a work of art designed to break rules and conventions and traditions, judge it however you please. And it freed me to do and write whatever I want. And I did, and the books all sold shitloads of copies and got shitloads of attention and they were all divisive and controversial and polarizing. But the freedom to do them came at a cost. It was painful and embarrassing and stupid. And I never realized how much it hurt to have people hate you and hate what you did, how much it hurt to have them call you names and say you’re a piece of shit. I never realized that the dream had a second side, which was the nightmare. I never imagined the toll it would take. And the wreckage it would cause. With the publisher, people who were going to make it into a movie, people who had believed in it and believed in me, with the talk-show host. And it was all avoidable. I didn’t need to lie. I shouldn’t have lied. I was wrong to have lied. It was a huge fucking dumbass mistake. One I deeply regret. One I would change if I could. One that haunts me every day.
You ever see the talk-show host again?
I’ve bumped into her a few times over the years. She smiles and she’s very gracious, but I can tell she fucking hates me, and I can tell she regrets having ever fucking met me, and I can’t really blame her.
We all make mistakes, Jay.
And we all wish we could go back in time and fix them.
Maybe you’ll get the chance.
Nice to think about, but it doesn’t happen. And that’s what sucks about getting older. The mistakes pile up, the regrets pile up, the wreckage piles up. And my piles are all pretty big. And I can’t do a fucking thing about any of it.
You never know.
I do, though, I do.
You don’t.
Your turn.
My turn what?
Write the end of your life.
Ha.
Ha?
No.
Why?
Not today.
Why?
I’m tired.
Tell me.
Soon, Jay. Soon.
Paris, 1993
* * *
I keep the key in my pocket come and go as I please. Katerina’s busy it’s Fashion Week she’s walking in seven shows taking meetings in between she’s up for two big campaigns she’s stressed and nervous not eating and doing blow. When I see her she’s tense speaking fast telling me about shit I don’t really understand walk-styles goody bags comp-cards exits first-looks call-sheets go-sees run-of-show dressers stylists bookers makeup artists she’s simultaneously incredibly excited and completely miserable. She runs around all day from show to meeting to appointment to fitting, at night she goes to parties with other models other fashion people they go to clubs dance, drink, snort cocaine, go crazy. I keep to myself let her do her thing I read and write and walk and wander, sit in cafés look at books at Shakespeare and Company go to Polly have a drink or two or three or four. Omer is happy to see me, the other regulars are drunk and they don’t seem to notice or care. I’m usually asleep when Katerina comes home, she’s happy and drunk and wants to make out and fool around, she tells me how much she missed me and gives me the highlights of her day, I listen and smile and try to be enthusiastic and supportive I tell her I’m stoked for her and proud of her she’s the #1 supermodel in the world as far as I’m concerned.
I dig Katerina’s apartment but miss mine, even though it’s a dump compared, she stops in during the afternoon gives me a quick kiss tells me she has a big night ahead won’t be home until very very late maybe not until morning. I tell her I’ll probably stay at my place I haven’t been there in weeks, she says cool gives me another kiss runs out the door I leave and walk home. Louis is there drinking wine with a couple of his friends, I take a shower clean up change clothes join them. They drink much better wine than I do, they know about the various regions and vineyards and producers and vintages, whatever they give me is red and delicious, all I know is if it has alcohol in it I’ll drink it. They’re going to Banana say it’s going to be a huge night Louis says that Fashion Week is like the gay French Super Bowl, except it lasts a week and happens twice a year. They want me to come with them I have nothing else to do it’s cold and sleeting we pile into a cab and cross the Seine.
There’s a huge crowd outside of Banana, people spilling out into the street, the music is loud the bass thumping, as much work as some people put into getting dressed for Banana on normal nights, they seem to have put in more tonight, sequins ball gowns Carmen Miranda hats ten-inch platform shoes it’s a feast for the eyes, for th
e senses, ridiculous and magnificent. We move through the crowd Louis says one of his friends has a table we find them, there are five of us three empty seats, bottles and glasses everywhere. Louis hands me a glass of champagne I stay standing, watch the joy and exuberance and celebration unfolding around me. There are people talking and singing, dancing hugging kissing, at tables on platforms on the bar everywhere. Louis introduces me to his friends all of them work in fashion one of them asks me if I’m Katerina’s boyfriend I laugh and say yes. He says you just missed her, she was here with a man named Jean-Luc who runs an Italian fashion brand, they were with a group of people who work for him and a bunch of other models. Jean-Luc was teasing her about her new boyfriend, a penniless American writer named Jay, Katerina was teasing him back, telling him he was just jealous. I smile, tell him I’m bummed I missed her, though I’m actually not. She’s doing her thing, with her people, I don’t want to intrude, seem like I’m trying to watch her or find her or check on her or control her. I want her to have a fun night. She’s been working incredibly hard and needs some fun, some stress relief, to blow off some steam. She’s doing her thing with her people, I’m doing mine.
I have two or three drinks do a line of blow in the bathroom it’s good, pure, finely chopped cocaine my heart rate increases, I become happy and chatty fashion people have good drugs. I see my former make-out partner Stijn he asks me if I want to make out again I laugh and say no, he’s with my other former make-out partner Melanie she asks if I want to make out and I say yes but I have a girlfriend now and would feel like a dick. She laughs and says if and when you break up come find me it was fun last time, I thank her and agree it was indeed fun, indeed fun. I see Louis he’s found a beautiful young design assistant named Karim he has dark hair and olive skin Louis is drunk and wired he tells me he’s in love. I laugh and tell him I’m happy for him he asks me if he can have the apartment, I have Katerina’s key with me I say of course. I have two or three more drinks no more blow I want to read for a while go to sleep wake up tomorrow feeling human. I thank Louis for taking me out tell him I had fun slip away into the night it’s dark and cold no moon, I slip away into the night.
Banana is near Le Marais so it’s a short walk ten minutes maybe fifteen I open the door to the building walk up the stairs open the door to Katerina’s apartment step inside. The dress she was wearing when I last saw her is sitting on the floor a few feet away, a man’s suit lying next to it. I can hear them in the bedroom. Hear her moaning, hear a man speaking French. My heart starts pounding pounding pounding, I feel immediately fucking sick, like I want to put a bullet in my brain, I want to go to sleep and never wake up. I know I should turn around and walk out, but I walk forward, toward the bedroom, I want to see whatever is happening, I’m already broken my pounding heart is broken I want to be destroyed I know I need to see I walk toward the bedroom.
I step inside her bedroom, my entire body is shaking, my hands legs arms shoulders, I can feel my thighs shaking my lips shaking my heart is shaking, my broken heart is beating out of my chest. I step inside her bedroom. She’s lying on her bed her legs spread. There is a man on top of her he’s facing me his face is between her legs I can see his lips and tongue on her and in her. Her face is between his legs I can see her mouth moving up and down taking him into her mouth licking and sucking. I stare I can’t move I’m shaking my entire body is shaking I can’t believe what I’m seeing but I know it’s real, I’m shaking my entire body is shaking. The man senses me, looks up and smiles at me. He knows who I am. I have seen him before. However many months ago he was at the Musée d’Orsay with her I made fun of him because he didn’t know shit about Olympia, I have seen him before. He smiles at me I’m shaking. I want to kill him but I’m too hurt to move, too broken too shocked and too destroyed he smiles at me I shake. I reach into my pocket take out Katerina’s key, the key she gave, the key I thought meant she loved me, I take out her key. As he moves down looks me in the eye and licks her I hear her moan I want to kill him. I drop the key on the floor. She hears it hit the metallic clink I see her look around and see me as I turn and walk out of her bedroom, I hear her call my name as I walk through the living room, I hear it again as I walk out the door I hear her call my name as I walk out her fucking door. I move quickly down the stairs I don’t want to see her or talk to her none of it matters anymore nothing fucking matters I hear her door open behind me I hear my name Jay Jay Jay.
I step out of the building Jay I step into the night Jay it’s dark and cold no moon I hear my name Jay I slip away.
It’s dark and cold.
No moon.
None of it matters anymore nothing fucking matters.
I hear my name.
Jay.
I slip away.
Into the darkness.
Into the night.
Los Angeles, 2017
* * *
Sitting alone in my little barn, or cottage, or studio, whatever you want to call it, on the back of our property, away from the house, away from the noise, away from people, away from the world, staring at the blank screen. I can feel something it’s there though not as it usually is or how it has been before. I have always waited, waited until it was all there, until I knew or felt and could sense everything, beginning to end, the entirety of it, I have always waited. I open a browser go to Facebook pull up Messenger click the name. I didn’t recognize it the first time. Jente Paenbenk. Didn’t know what it meant, or who it was, or why they were writing to me. Jente Paenbenk. I read everything every message every conversation beginning to end I read everything. It makes me laugh, smile, it hurts me, I feel sadness joy regret elation. I read all of it. It makes me think, smile and remember, think and smile and remember.
I normally wait until I feel all of it. Beginning to end. I have always waited until I felt all of it, beginning to end. This time I don’t know. But I want to do it. I want to start. I want to fill the blank screen with words. I want to tell a story. A story from life. To write a book. To think and smile and remember. And to put those thoughts and that joy and those memories on paper. I take a Sharpie from a cup filled with pencils and pens and markers I take off the cap I can smell the ink I lean forward toward the white wall in front of me. In large black letters I write Bare Your Soul on the wall. I smile. I think. I remember. And I start. With two fingers I type.
Los Angeles, 2017
It started with a message request on Facebook. Someone named Jente Paenbenk. No picture, no friends. A blank profile. It started again. After twenty-five years.
Do you ever think of me?
I responded:
Maybe.
And so it went.
I think of you every day.
Good.
Sometimes it is, sometimes it’s not.
That’s life, right? Sometimes it is, sometimes not.
Yes, Jay, that has certainly been the case. For both of us.
Who is this?
I want you to think of me every day.
And so it went.
And so.
It.
Went.
Paris, 1993
* * *
I go to Philippe’s apartment in the 8th arrondissement. It’s a long walk I stop in a liquor store and buy a half-gallon bottle of cheap whiskey I drink it as I go. I replay everything in my mind, the images stay. Walking up the stairs, opening the door, seeing the clothing on the floor. Walking into the room seeing them together seeing her with another man seeing his lips and tongue seeing her head moving up and down. I’m still shaking. Shaking as I walk shaking as I bring the bottle to my lips shaking as I light and smoke cigarette after cigarette shaking. I see him look up at me and smile and go back down. I watch the key drop I see her look around at me I hear her calling my name I’m still shaking.
I think about walking in front of a car or truck it would be easy to do. I think about jumping off a bridge it would be easy to do. I think about finding a knife and cutting my throat it would be easy to do. Our heart
is an organ that pumps our blood moves our blood through our body, but our heart is also an organ that fills that blood with whatever we are feeling and the blood, the blood, the blood moves through every part of us, every fiber of us, every cell. All I feel is pain. Deep overwhelming soul-destroying pain. In every part of my body in every drop of blood in every fiber in every cell. Pain. And as joy and love kept me away from alcohol, or at least allowed me to use it with some modicum of control, pain takes me back to it. In every drop of blood, in every fiber, in every cell. The whiskey burns as it goes down, burns my mouth burns my throat burns my stomach I don’t care. The physical sensation of pain takes me away from the other pain. I get drunk quickly. I had a head start at Banana a few drinks like the kindling that ignites an inferno, I was lit before now I’m fucking burning. The images stay. The pain lives in my heart, in my blood. Walking up the stairs opening the door seeing the clothing on the floor. The pain walking into the room seeing them together pain. Seeing her with another man pain seeing his lips and tongue on her and in her pain. Seeing her head moving up and down pain. I see him look up at me and smile and go back down I think about walking in front of a car or truck or jumping off a fucking bridge it would be easy to do pain. I hear the key drop and see her look around pain. I hear her calling my name pain pain pain fucking pain fuck you I’m in so much fucking pain I want to fucking die I want to make it end fucking die. My heart. My blood. In every fiber every cell. And I would rather die than feel what I feel pain.