Wherein I Lie My Ass Off
Home, I silently thanked God or the devil or whomever was responsible that I had not neglected to take my keys with me. I slipped the key into the lock as quietly as I could, then minced the door open a centimeter at a time, only to find that Manda was already awake, standing just inside the apartment, wearing my bathrobe.
"Randall!" she shrieked, and threw herself at me, making me aware not only of the curve of her under the robe, but also the smell of Gym Girl that must have still clung to me. Would it be similar enough to her own scent to go unrecognized? Or was that just a pipe-dream?
"Whoa!" I told her. "Whoa!" I separated us, as though overwhelmed by her emotion, when in reality I needed the distance solely for olfactory purposes. "Let me get in the door!"
The fact that she'd thrown herself at me rather than screamed at me led me to believe that she'd only been awake a short time, and so didn't know exactly how long I'd been gone. I ransacked my brain for an excuse and readily found one. Thank God (or, again, the devil) for a novelist's innate ability to make shit up.
"I went out to surprise you with some bagels for breakfast," I told her, "but like an idiot I forgot my wallet."
"And your phone!" she wailed, gesturing with both hands, each of which, I realized now, held a cellphone. "I tried calling you, but it just rang from the sofa and then--"
"Hey," I told her, aware that a comforting embrace was well-due at this point, but not being willing to risk it, "it's OK. I'm sorry. I just went out for a sec to surprise you and I was trying so hard to be quiet that I totally forgot my wallet and phone." I shook my head and put on my best expression of male self-reproachment. "I'm just an idiot, is all."
She deflated a bit and slumped against the kitchen counter...then grinned and laughed self-deprecatingly. "God. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to freak out. That was stupid. You can do whatever. Obviously. It just-- It was just the first time I'd woken up here alone and it was weird, you know, and I didn't know what to--"
"It's fine," I said as smoothly as I knew how. "Look, why don't we go out for breakfast? You need to grab a shower first?" Slipping the thought in there.
"A shower?" She looked puzzled. "No."
"Well, go get dressed," I said airily, "and I'm just gonna grab a quick shower before we go, OK?"
Without waiting for her to acquiesce or demur, I headed into the bathroom and turned on the faucet.
The devil sat on the toilet, pants around his ankles, a copy of Rolling Stone open on his lap to cover his underworldly junk. "Man," he said, grinning, "you missed getting your dick cut off by about this much." He held his thumb and forefinger a centimeter or two apart. "Which probably wouldn't be a bad thing. Go out on a high note, you know?"
"Were you there?" I asked him, covering my speech with the sound of the running shower. "Were you watching me with her all night?"
"Told you before: That's not my thing. Besides, I didn't have to. I told you before -- I can smell guilt. Sin. I don't need to witness it, dude -- I relive it every time you think of it. Emotional sensory transfer." He shrugged. "Comes in handy."
"Do you have to take a shit in my bathroom?"
"Well, I have to do it somewhere!"
"You have your own place. I've been there."
"Your seat is more comfortable," the devil said, and shimmied side-to-side as though to prove it.
"Well, could you wrap it up and leave so that I can take a shower?"
"That was a pretty slick move," the devil confessed. "No pun intended. I mean, vis-a-vis your slick moves earlier."
"Yeah, I got it. And hey, thanks for stranding me in Brooklyn Heights."
The devil shrugged. "I wouldn't be the devil if I wasn't at least inconvenient every now and then, right? Besides, I picked up a fare to Queens."
"Please leave," I groaned. "I just want to get a shower."
The devil waved at me as if I were a bad smell. "Dude, I've seen it all before."
I remembered him describing my inaugural masturbation session, age ten. He had seen it all before. I stripped off my clothes and hopped in the shower without comment.
"Don't drop the soap!" the devil chortled, and then flushed the toilet. I bit back a scream.
Wherein I Tour
Sitting on the floor of SFO, en route to PDX, waiting for Sherrie to come back from the bathroom, I videochatted with Tayvon on the other side of the world. I wasn't sure what time it was in the specific part of Afghanistan from which he responded. Then again, I wasn't entirely sure what time it was in my part of the United States, either. My iPad said one thing; my wristwatch said another; my internal body clock said a third. I didn't really trust any of them.
"...so you think you'll see Gym Girl again when you get back to New York?" he asked. I had, of course, confessed all to Tayvon. I could be my best, most honest self with him. Which made sense, soul or not -- after all, I wasn't trying to fuck him.
"I don't know. I can't figure her out. She's playing it all very casual."
"What about you? How are you playing it?"
I didn't know the answer to that, either. But in the meantime, I still had Manda. Sweet in the right ways. Cool in the right ways. Maybe not a sex-bomb, but better than ending up like my father -- alone and lonesome (the two aren't always intertwined) and jerking off his last days.
"I'm cool either way, I guess."
"At least she's not crazy like Fiona was. Same for Manda, too."
"True dat," I said in my best "bitches be crazy" voice.
Tayvon gave an indulgent chuckle. "How's everything else going?"
You mean other than losing my soul to Satan? I wanted to ask. But there was no point. It was done and over with. Now was the time to reap what I'd sown, and I was determined the reap the hell out it.
"Four cities in three days so far," I told him. "Not that I'm complaining."
I waited for him to tell me to quit whining, that just yesterday he'd been under heavy Taliban gunfire. Or that his position had been rocket-attacked and two of his buddies were dead, another one Medevaced out and expected to live...less the usual number of limbs.
Instead, he said, "It's been quiet over here. Boring as hell. Keep waiting for something to happen and then keep beating myself up for wanting something to happen."
"Would it really be so horrible if you spent your tour being bored out of your skull?" I asked.
"That's not why I'm here, man. You know that."
I knew it. But I didn't understand it. Not really. The military and its culture, its strangely rigid codes, were a mystery to me. If it was as simple as "I like killing people," then I could understand -- military service could be a free ticket to shooting people and receiving not a prison sentence, but rather a medal in return. But from Tayvon and his friends I'd spoken to, it wasn't about that at all. They used words I understood -- honor, defense, protection, truth, patriotism, love, commitment -- but invested them with shades of meaning that were beyond me.
"I'm just glad you're safe for now, is all."
"Shit, so am I. No one wants to be in danger."
There again: A complete paradox, an oxymoron. If you don't want to be in danger, I yearned to say, then why the hell are you there at all? But saying that would earn me something worse than a head-shake and a comment that I "just don't understand." It would earn me one more attempt on Tayvon's part to explain it. One more opportunity for me to feel like an idiot for Not Getting It.
"No one wants to be on my tour, either," I joked weakly. Tayvon's eyes narrowed. As always, he took me way too seriously.
"You all right, bro? Are they pushing you too hard?"
"No, man. No." Just like him -- he's in a warzone and I'm being shepherded around the country on my publisher's dime and he's more worried about me than about himself. "I'm fine. They're taking good care of me. I've even been stealing a little time to write." Total lie. I hadn't done any writing since getting on the first plane at JFK.
Normally, I wouldn't lie to Tayvon about some
thing like that. Or about anything, for that matter. But considering his situation compared to mine, I just couldn't bring myself to lay more of my burdens on his shoulders. Tayvon being Tayvon, he would try to help from half a world away. Try to solve my problems, try to carry my load. And the last thing he needed was a distraction, when death could come at him from any direction and in any number of ways.
Sometimes having a best friend with a hero complex is a chore.
"Is this still the same book?" Tayvon asked, installing all manner of disapproval and angst into those two words. Afghanistan hadn't changed his opinion -- he didn't think it was worth my time and effort.
"Yeah, same book. When it's finished, you'll see. I'm right about it. People will dig it." I'd thought that even before the devil and the day of post-bagel intestinal distress. I thought it doubly now.
"I guess we'll see," he said doubtfully. "But you're looking for something special where it doesn't exist. It's gonna be a bummer."
"You've read my books -- they're all bummers."
"I mean a bummer to you, man."
"I don't think so."
"You're wrong."
"If you say so. Take care of yourself over there."
"You, too."
I promised him I would and then -- feeling guilty for my lie -- found a less-noisy corner of the airport to set up my laptop and starting tapping away. I had an hour before my flight and convinced myself that I could get a few hundred words in.
Within a matter of minutes, though, I became aware of the devil's presence, his lurking, lingering insouciant malice. I had neither seen nor sensed him since before I'd left on tour and had become so accustomed to life without him that his sudden reappearance left me fumbling for words.
"How's it going?" the devil asked, slouching next to me with the air of a weary traveler. He wore a jaunty yellowish fedora with a black band, as well as a pair of Anti-Social jeans, the brand to which I knew only because the words "ANTI-SOCIAL" were stamped on them just above his ass.
"Where have you been?" I asked, pretending to care.
He gestured expansively. "Georgia. The state, not the country. Can you believe some kid tried to get out of giving me his soul by challenging me to a fiddle-playing contest? Of all things."
"And I suppose you play a mean fiddle."
"I do. I also cheat because I have a truly kick-ass back-up band. Hey, you gonna finish that?" At first I thought he meant the new book, but then I realized he meant the open bag of peanut M&Ms at my side.
"Probably."
"You won't miss a couple," he said with the air of a confidant, swiping a brown and a blue M&M. "Mmmmm," he moaned a bit too happily. "Peanuts, chocolate, hard candy shell..."
"Let me guess -- you invented them, too, along with oral sex and breast play."
"Your sarcasm ill suits you," he told me. "For your information, no -- I did not invent peanut M&Ms." He sniffed. "I invented plain M&Ms. The peanut addition was a human innovation and proof, BTW, that you little dust monkeys are a lot more clever than the Old Man gives you credit for. If it was up to him, you'd still be eating the natural fruits of the earth and all that crap."
"Wouldn't we be better off that way?"
"Why?" He seemed genuinely puzzled.
"Are you serious? Obesity. Heart disease. Diabetes."
"Weight Watchers. Lipitor. Insulin." He ticked them off on his fingers. "That's what I absolutely love about you people. Yeah, you fuck yourselves over, but then you fix your own problems, too. Look, yeah, you could live a life of monkish asceticism and live to a ripe old age. But what's the fun in that? You guys have figured out how to wallow in the sublime glory of fried Oreos and still make it out alive. Bravo for you. That's some ingenious shit there."
He took a yellow M&M.
"Come on."
"Keep writing," he said, and stood to go.
"Where are you going? And hey -- what's up with my soul now? Where is it? What are you doing with it?" Or to it? I wanted to ask, but didn't.
"I'm headed to Memphis. I love the blues and there's a great festival there this weekend. Have fun. Don't worry so much about your soul, Randall. You're supposed to be having the time of your life right now. Enjoy it! Enjoy that." He nodded to one side as he slipped away, and I realized he meant for me to look towards Sherrie, who was now coming my way.
Enjoy that, he said. I was offended, then abashed at my own offense, then rallied to reinforce my original offense with righteous indignation. Had I done some things I wasn't proud of, back East? Had I cheated on Manda and helped Gym Girl cheat on her boyfriend, in her roommate's bed, no less? Yes. Yes, absolutely, I'd done those things. I had done them and I couldn't undo them, even if I wanted to.
Did I want to? I couldn't tell. They were objectively wrong, I knew, but -- status of my soul notwithstanding -- I had done them of my free will. I had to "own them," a parlance that savored of pop psychology and reality TV, but echoed with truth nonetheless.
I suddenly and shiveringly felt that I now had an excellent idea of what the rest of my utterly soulless life would be. And maybe even a glimpse into my own personal hell.
Wherein I Talk to My Dad Again
Just before boarding, my phone rang. It was my father.
"How are you surviving out there without your girl?" he asked. "Managing to keep things well in hand? Get it?"
"Yeah, Dad, I got it."
"Because by 'things' I mean your Johnson and by 'in hand' I mean--"
"I said I got it, Dad. You can stop now."
"Just making sure you understand me."
"Even though I wish I didn't, I do."
"Why do you have to be like that?" he whined. "We're talking about a perfectly natural part of living. It's human nature. It's biology. If I asked how your blood pressure was, you wouldn't get all sniffy, would you? No. And speaking of which, there's scientific evidence that rubbing one out on a regular basis helps keep your blood pressure low. How do you like that?"
"My blood pressure is great, Dad." Or so I assumed. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had it checked. Would it be ironic or poetic for me to sell my soul and then stroke out in an airport?
"Well, that's good to know. High blood pressure means fewer boners."
"I'm aware."
"Look, just because you're a grown-up, big-shot, world-famous author doesn't mean you're not still my kid, Randall. I'm still concerned for you. Still worried about you."
I squeezed my eyes shut. I tried to remember the last time my dad had expressed concern for me. Tried to remember the last conversation we'd had that did not revolve around his twin loves.
Going back a few years, I could remember him calling once to bitch and moan about my first stepmother not returning his phone calls after my second stepmother's death. I hadn't gotten along with either of them -- dead for real or dead to him, it made no difference to me.
And what was I supposed to do with the concern -- much less the advice -- of a man who'd chased away two women and driven a third to an early grave? He was a cautionary tale made flesh.
It would have bothered me, once, thinking those things. But now I had no soul. And one of the benefits of having no soul was that I didn't care.
"Look, I really have to go, Dad. They're about to tell us to shut down our phones." I wasn't even on the plane yet.
"Just take care of yourself, all right?"
"I will, Dad."
"By which I mean--"
"Bye, Dad."
Wherein I Swear Not To
On the plane, they told us to power down our cellphones and electronic devices. (For real, this time.) Next to me, Sherrie dutifully shut down her phone and slipped her laptop into the seatback pocket.
She crossed her legs. She was twenty-three. I was thirty-five. Jesus. She had the body only the young have, the body designed by evolution to make us want to fuck as much as humanly possible. Or maybe designed by God. I don't know. The devil, if asked, would probably claim credit, and who was I to gainsay him? r />
I sighed heavily.
"Are you OK?" Sherrie asked. "Do you need anything?"
I couldn't tell her that the sight of her legs had initiated the sigh. "I just need some sleep, I guess," and then felt immediately abashed. Sherrie was on the same punishing schedule as I, only she had the additional task of taking care of me, waking at least an hour earlier and going to bed an hour later.
"Once we take off, you can get some sleep," she said.
"I can't sleep on planes."
"Maybe I can help," she said, and my perverted brain immediately flashed a tableau: Sherrie efficiently handjobbing me under a rust-red American Airlines blanket, the orgasmic release ferrying me off to a gentle sleep...
No, no, wait -- even better -- Sherrie contorted into a kneeling position in the plane's bathroom, my cock -- my tumescent cock; I love the word "tumescent" for some reason -- in her mouth.
But wait. An airplane bathroom floor was pretty disgusting. I didn't want to imagine Sherrie's lovely knees on that floor. Gross.
"...might help you sleep," she said, holding out a blister-packet of pills. Strictly over-the-counter. Allergy medicine. "And even if it doesn't, it'll chase away the sniffles." She smiled an adorably dimpled smile with the mouth that -- moments ago, fantastically speaking -- had been servicing me.
"I'll be OK," I told her.
She tucked the pills back in her bag and slid it under the seat in front of her. "Do you need anything else?" she asked, then yawned, her shirt pressed tight, molding to her body. I saw at least two things I needed.
"No. I'm fine. Get some sleep if you can."
"I'm all right," she assured me, and was asleep before take-off, affording me the opportunity to clap my eyes to her.
No, I told myself. Not her. She's a fucking kid, for God's sake. She's right out of college. She works for your publisher. Don't be that guy.
After take-off, the guy in front of me immediately reclined his seat all the way back. My knees touched the back of the seat. I hate that. Why do people do that?