Y Is for Fidelity

by Logan Ryan Smith

  Benoit is a few inches taller than me, probably six-foot. His head’s shaved and he’s wearing a black tracksuit, which makes the beige suitcase even more out of place.

  Closing the door, I follow him and ask, “Did you just come from the gym?”

  “Huh?” he asks, distracted while looking over the books on my bookshelves near the windows that look out onto tree-lined Pine Grove Avenue and the brick apartment buildings across the way. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, my gym is actually not too far from here so I decided I’d pop over after.”

  He pulls out a book, The Bridge by Iain Banks, which is five-hundred pages about the fantasy world a coma patient created for himself.

  “Have you read this one?” He’s grinning, showing me the cover, and I realize his eyes aren’t dark at all, they’re crystal blue.

  “Yes. Yes, I have.”

  “What’d you think?”

  “It was… OK.”

  He shrugs, shoves the book back into its place on the shelf, and walks toward the kitchen.

  “Have you read it?” I ask, not knowing what else to say.

  “Don’t know,” he tells me, not looking over his shoulder this time.

  In the kitchen he puts his suitcase down and turns the faucet on and off and starts opening the cupboards and looking inside.

  “Do you mind?” I say, trying to put a little bit of incredulousness into my tone.

  “Just looking for a glass, Ian. I’m really thirsty after my workout.”

  “Of course.”

  Benoit finds the right cabinet, pulls out a glass and thrusts it under the gushing faucet. He takes sips from the glass, peers out the kitchen window, then says, “Not much of a view.”

  “The high-rises on the lake might be more what you’re looking for,” I tell him, hoping he doesn’t like the apartment and will just leave.

  “Nah. Always good to have a nice, nondescript back way out, anyway.” He winks and chugs the water down, exhales, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand then places the glass in the sink. The glass is stained with big greasy fingerprints. Benoit picks up his suitcase, brushes past me into the living room, and strolls into the short hallway that leads to the bedrooms.

  Maybe the accent is Ukrainian?

  I’ve left the door to the extra room open but he walks past it to my closed door and pushes it open.

  “Excuse me!” I say, stepping in front of him, grabbing the handle and pulling the door shut.

  “Just taking a look around the place,” he tells me with a faint grin.

  “My room is private.”

  “Look, Ian, if we’re going to be roommates—”

  “I haven’t said anything about—”

  “then there has to be some trust here. You have some boundary issues, apparently—”

  “I don’t have boundary issues! I just—”

  “and I’ll respect that, but I’m guessing that’s something we’ll have to fix—work around,” he finishes, seeming distracted as he walks back down the hall to the extra room.

  It’s a modest room but my apartment is one of few in this huge complex that looks directly over the street and, as any good city-goer knows, a view of the street is a prized view when one isn’t rich enough to afford lakeside housing. The floors are wood throughout the apartment and the extra room has a closet, clean walls, and a working overhead light. It’s about twelve by twelve, too, which is large for these parts. And when you consider splitting rent means the room only costs seven-hundred a month, I almost feel like I’m getting ripped off.

  “It’s not much,” he says, strutting into the room and doing a sarcastic twirl to take it all in. He peers out the window and stares straight down. “Better view in here than the kitchen though, right?”

  He grins that slight grin again.

  “It’s a great room,” I inform him. “People would line up around the block for a crack at this spot.”

  “Then why aren’t they, Ian?” he asks, opening the closet and placing his suitcase inside.

  “Well, I don’t actually know if I’m renting the space out, Benoit,” I tell him, trying to make eye contact, but mostly looking over his shoulder at the tree branches swirling in the evening wind out the window.

  “You know now, because I’m taking it. You’ll accept cash, of course.” He reaches into the front pocket of his black track-pants and pulls out a wallet then withdraws seven one-hundred-dollar bills from that, puts his wallet away, and double-checks the count before thrusting the money at me.

  I just stare at it.

  “You did say rent was seven-hundred, right?”

  I continue to stare, momentarily paralyzed by something.

  “Look, you don’t have to worry. I won’t get in your way. I mostly keep to myself,” Benoit says.

  “I don’t know anything about you,” I say, placing my hands in my pockets, then taking them out and crossing my arms, then uncrossing them and letting my arms hang at my sides like a pair of dead fish.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, for starters—what is it that you do for a living, Benoit?”

  “You know that gym I told you about?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m a trainer there.”

  “Oh,” I say, thinking he looks more like a bouncer than a fitness instructor.

  “I mostly teach spin and aerobics.”

  “Spin?”

  “Yeah. You know,” he says, placing his fists out before him and pumping his knees, “stationary bikes?”

  “That’s something they have to… teach?”

  “Yeah. It’s the perfect low-impact workout—well, outside of swimming, of course. Listen, Ian, if there’s a fire in this place, what do you think the chances are of making it to the front or back exits before they’re blocked by the flames?”

  “Um… what?”

  “Low impact—it’s like… you know how running is bad for your knees?”

  “Not, um, that… you want to know what happens if the apartment catches fire?”

  “Sorry,” he says, reaching out and playfully slugging me on the upper arm, “my dad was a firefighter. These kinds of thoughts plague my mind. I guess I get a bit obsessive and my mouth starts before I can stop it.”

  “OK.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure this place is plenty safe.”

  “Yeah…”

  “Any other questions?” he says, jabbing the money at me again, anxious for me to take it.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Oh,” he says, offering his charming but slightly disarming smile, “the accent? Yeah, I don’t know how I managed to keep any accent, but, my parents, they’re from Montreal—French Canadian. They moved when I was six, though, and I mostly grew up in Buffalo, New York.”

  His eyes are black again.

  “Listen, Benoit, I don’t know if I’m ready to—”

  “Oh, come on, Ian! We’ll be great roommates! What other questions do you have? I’m totally ready to ease your mind, man. Ask away.” He folds the money up but keeps it in the palm of his right hand at his side.

  “How long have you lived in Chicago?”

  “Six years. Next question.”

  “Where were you before that?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “You don’t know where you were living before you moved to Chicago?”

  He fires off a laugh and tells me he’s kidding. “I was still in Buffalo. Buffalo most of my life before moving here. Next question.”

  “Where are you living, um, currently?”

  “Actually, I’m sort of in between places. These last few nights I stayed with a coworker—another trainer. His family’s got a house down in Bridgeport. But, he has five kids and his mother-in-law lives with them, so it’s kind of a packed house already.”

  “What do you mean in between places?”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not homeless or anything. I mean, come on, look at me,” he says, actually gesturing with his hands that
I should look him up and down. “I was living with my girlfriend, but we had a… fight, and, so, you know, here I am.”

  “And that’s why you have your suitcase on you?”

  “Well, I assumed the room was ready to be moved into right away. And, seeing as no one’s in here, it would appear I assumed correctly.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “Look, I get it. Me showing up here with suitcase in hand, rent ready to be paid and all. And I’m not even asking to have my rent prorated given it’s—what—six days into the month already? No, man, that’s fine. I’m willing to pay a full-month’s rent despite that to make up for the speed of this transaction.”

  “It’s not really about money, Benoit. I don’t even need the—”

  “Of course it’s not about the money. Of course not. Look at you! You’re doing pretty well for yourself, aren’t you, Ian? I know how it is. But, still, I want this room and I’m ready to move in tonight. So, here.”

  He shoves the bills at me again.

  “Which reminds me,” he continues. “Can I get a set of keys?”

  “I…”

  Benoit grabs my hand, slaps the cash into it, and walks out into the hallway and to the bathroom that’s directly across from my room.

  Following him to the bathroom, I try to elicit more protest, but all that comes out are clicks and half-whines.

  “Listen, Benoit, I appreciate the situation you’re in—”

  “I bet you do! You’ve probably had more than a few tiffs with the ladies, yourself, right? You know how it goes. Can’t live with ‘em…”

  “Yeah, but, Benoit… I really don’t want to get involved in any sort of domestic—”

  “What? Are you worried I’ll get back with her and leave you high and dry?”

  “That’s not exactly—”

  “Don’t worry. That bitch is dead to me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Figure of speech. Figure of speech,” he tells me, opening the medicine cabinet and inspecting the contents before turning the faucet on and off. Then he walks to the shower and turns that on and leaves it running, placing a hand under the spray.

  “Are you… going to shower now?” I ask from the threshold.

  “Maybe later. Just making sure the pressure’s OK and that there’s hot water.” He squeaks the shower faucet off and wipes his hands together a few times, drying them. “Seems alright.”

  “Better than the YMCA,” I scoff.

  “Hey!” he says, pointing at me. “I told you I wasn’t homeless.”

  “I wasn’t…”

  “Keys.”

  “What?”

  “Where’s my set of keys?”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Look, did I pay rent?”

  “Well…”

  He points down at my right hand. “There. In your hand. What is that?”

  “It’s…. It’s your money,” I tell him, feeling suddenly foggy.

  “No. No, Ian. That’s your money. That was my rent money. Now it’s in your hands. It’s not my money anymore.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. I paid rent and,” he stops, puts his hands on his hips, shakes his head and laughs. “Ian, I’ve paid rent. I like this place. I’m moving in. Now, let’s not start off our relationship like this. I trust you to honor the deal. I’ve paid rent, so now I’d like my keys.”

  “Benoit, I—”

  “I won’t feel comfortable until I have those keys, Ian,” he says, holding out his hand. “I mean, how’s a man supposed to feel if he has a roof over his head but no keys?”

  “I…”

  “Insecure, Ian. A man feels insecure in that kind of situation. I think you can empathize.”

  “I, um, suppose.”

  “And what does insecurity lead to, huh?”

  “I… don’t know?”

  “Instability, Ian. Instability.”

  “Yeah.”

  “See, I knew you’d understand.”

  “I’ll get those keys.” I leave him in the bathroom just as he’s flushing the toilet and lifting off the tank lid to look inside.

  When I return I hand him the keys and he tells me the toilet is wasting water and that he’ll fix it soon. Then he informs me that he has to be up early to lead a spin class and should hit the hay. Before I can ask him anymore questions he’s walked down the hall, gone into his room, and closed the door. I stand there in the hallway, dumbfounded, for maybe five minutes until I see the sliver of light beneath his door go out.

  Later, I wake up to Benoit shuffling between the bathroom and his bedroom. It’s three a.m. when I hear him leave. Pretty early for a stationary bicycle class. I wonder what my chances are of having the locks changed before he can return.

  CHAPTER 3.

  The next day at work, I’m desperate to tell somebody about my odd experience with my new roommate. When noon strikes, I decide to venture to the breakroom, as opposed to taking my egg salad sandwich and can of Lipton Ice Tea outside onto Wacker where I usually find a bench on the walkway above the river. I like to sit there and watch the sightseeing boats pass by beneath me full of families excited by Chicago’s architectural history and majesty. Sometimes I imagine being part of one of those families. We’d do the architectural tour on the Chicago River then head to Millennium Park to have a picnic on the grass in front of that metal bandshell shaped like erupting, billowing sails. We’d have goat cheese with crackers and a chilled riesling while the kiddies would get sparkling grape juice. I’m the funny, eccentric uncle in this scenario, of course. I tell math jokes that the kids don’t get, and that’s exactly why they laugh. After, we’d walk down Michigan Avenue to the Art Institute and walk through the wing of modernist paintings in a line, all holding hands, just like that scene in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Once we’ve had our fill of culture, we’d pile into a bike-pulled rickshaw and direct the driver a few blocks south where we’d debark and stroll to the Buckingham Fountain, which shoots water one-hundred-and-fifty feet into the air and was made famous by the opening credits to the show, Married with Children. Near the fountain are snack shacks, so we’d get some frozen bananas and I’d tell the kids how their chocolate bananas are actually chilled bananafish and they’d laugh and call me stupid. As the sun begins its decent, we’d be sure to stroll east of the fountain to Lake Michigan so we could roll up the bottoms of our trousers and venture into the gentle waves of the fresh-water lake. I’d kick water at everyone and that would start a splash-war and lots of giggles and screams. Exhausted, we’d find our way back to our hotel somewhere deep in The Loop, and my brother and his wife and kids would retire to their room, and me to mine, where we’d all watch the same show on HBO and text each other our witty observations throughout such as, “The sorceress on Game of Thrones is a redhead—that’s so clichéd!” followed by lots of LOLs and smiley-face emoticons. Then I’d fall asleep in the air-conditioned confines, many stories above the creaking iron and wood of the elevated train and all the traffic below that. The next day, we’d pile into the station wagon and head back to some small town in Missouri, Iowa, or Kentucky, sharing all the pictures on our phones from our fine day out in the big city.

  These lunchtime fantasies often end with me leaning over the balustrade and winging what’s left of my egg salad sandwich at a passing double-decker ferry then turning and running away as soon as someone with egg on their face in that slow-moving boat flinches and looks around mortified and confused.

  It provides a good laugh.

  But today I have this urge to actually talk to people. It doesn’t happen often, but I have to tell someone about Benoit—how pushy and strange he was. I need someone to listen and tell me why I actually accepted the rent money and handed over a set of keys.

  Under the fluorescent lights of the breakroom, I sit at the plastic folding table nearest the refrigerator and really take my time with my egg salad sandwich. I nibble and take tiny sips from my can of Lipton Ice Tea. I’m alone at the moment, b
ut techies, accountants, and financial advisors are very schedule-oriented, and since noon is the time the world taught us to mean lunchtime, they comply. Today, however, the traffic into the breakroom is minimal.

  “Hi, Ian,” Katharine says, strutting in, her black hair shiny, her perfume emulating the season (spring), and being simply incandescent, as usual.

  A mouthful of egg salad prevents me from returning her salutations, so I nod and squint my eyes and turn my attention to my yellow can of tea and wait for her to leave after she retrieves her bagged lunch from the refrigerator.

  Damn.

  Why didn’t I just swallow down the food and say something?

  Same thing every day.

  Still, there’s plenty others that should be by soon enough.

  Some time passes and no one else comes through, so I turn on my Kindle and start reading J.G. Ballard’s Crash, which turns me squeamish with every disgusting description of sexually driven vehicular injury or of leather car seat rivulets becoming canals for pearly sperm. I don’t know why I’m reading it. Someone recommended it to me a long time ago (Dennis, I think) and it’s so easy to buy an ebook I thought why not? and pressed the button on Amazon and zoom, there it was on my Kindle. I switch that off and instead pull out my iPod and play Hall & Oates’ H20 and feel my mood brighten with each disco beat and thick-thumbed bassline.

  My mood brightens only for a few minutes when I realize no one else is coming. My panic takes its place. Where is everybody? I have something to talk about! For once! If I talked to just one coworker today—talked to one person that consisted of more than, “OK, Dennis, so your computer froze up? Let me take a look. Go ahead and take a break, this could take me some time.”—then Madelyn would be so proud of me and I’d have alleviated this anxious excitement pulling through my veins like threads of gold.

  But no, today, for some reason, the breakroom is a ghost town. Pretty sure I just saw a tumbleweed roll by.

  Then Katharine walks back in, her hands cupped before her, jingling change. I remove my earbuds and make eye contact and try, unsuccessfully, to smile. She shows me her perfect teeth and heads to the soda machine where she deposits eighty-five cents in nickels and, to my great surprise, selects a can of Lipton Ice Tea. She kneels, pulls the can from the dispenser, turns and smiles at me once more.