Start Without Me

by Joshua Max Feldman

  “Um,” Adam said, trying without success to force his gaze up to the smear of color in her hair.

  She shrugged and her breasts shrugged, too. “It’s okay. I know it sounds corny. But I think about it. So does Robbie. You’re willing to back burner your own needs, your own freedom, because . . . well, ’cause it’s the right thing to do!” She rolled her eyes at herself. “Trust me, it’s not easy being the child of State Senator Leonard Russell Jr. The granddaughter of the Reverend Leonard Russell. My dad says there are places in Alabama where they still wouldn’t let black folks vote if it weren’t for my granddad. I did the research, it’s actually kind of true. And then I think about what I’m doing . . . I know it’s important. I think it’s important. But the reality is, my work consists mainly of going to conferences and smiling at fund-raisers. That’s not exactly marching into a cordon of baton-wielding cops. And then with the whole mixed thing. It can all feel a little . . .” She bounced the vaporizer in her palm, seemed to consider another hit, decided against it. “Bitches made comments in college about my white mom. Believe me. And then Robbie with Marissa. Whom I adore, by the way. But do I feel an obligation sometimes to end up with a black guy? Yeah, I do. But it’s like, is my body really the latest frontier in the fight for racial justice? Aren’t there obligations I owe to my self? Whatever the fuck that is. Or is it all just a waste of time? I’m chasing my own tail of self-acceptance, and no matter what I do, I’ll never be black enough, or Jewish enough, or anybody enough . . .” She looked Adam in the eyes, her expression earnest, stoned. “You get it. You’re gay in a family that privileges hetero norms.”

  “My family’s pretty cool, for the most part,” he told her guiltily, because whatever complaints he might have about his parents and siblings, they were nothing if not tolerant. When they hassled him about voting, it was always for Democrats.

  “But don’t you ever feel like you’re just gonna drown in everyone’s expectations for you?”

  He was relieved he could be truthful. “All the fucking time.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “You ever been with a woman?” She laughed at herself, an easy, charming, THC-floating laugh. “Sorry to drop the rhetorical level down to an episode of Gossip Girl. Seriously, though. Have you?”

  “Been with a chick? Uh, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, kinda often.”

  She nodded gravely. “So you’re mixed, too, right? Gay, straight, bi . . . Mixed is the new black. Mixed is the new everything! Sexuality is a matter of degrees on a spectrum. The gay-straight dichotomy didn’t even exist before the Victorians. It certainly didn’t exist the eight weeks I was getting my pussy eaten out by Elissa Finkelstein. My poor subconscious! Doing whatever she could to obey my mother’s implied directive to seek out a nice Jewish doctor!”

  It was getting harder for Adam to follow this, what with the jargon and the breasts and the pot. But as far as the sexuality spectrum, or whatever, went—given a few ecstasy-fueled nights he’d wound up in bed with the Deployers’ bassist, he could be truthful again, saying, “That’s a good point.”

  “I mean, who’s black? Is Barack black? Is Beyoncé black? Her mom is part Irish, for Christ’s sake! Her weave is blond. And bitches talk shit about the struggle and my white mom?” She lay back on the bed, and tucked her hands loosely into the waistband of her sweatpants. “Black and white, gay and straight. They’re just labels, they’re just boxes, and soon we’ll be free of them altogether. In one more generation, birth won’t obligate us to anyone or to anything: family, race, nationality, religion. Friendship will become the only authentic form of human connection, because it’s the one connection you choose. Did I mention I had my eggs frozen?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s one less thing to worry about. Got my eggs frozen and an IUD put in. What about you? You’re pretty careful, right? I swear I’m not asking because you’re gay.”

  “You mean, careful like with condoms? Uh yeah, totally, no doubt, uh, no question . . .”

  “Well, then, either you’re gonna fuck me, or I’m going to need some time alone.” Her hands disappeared beneath her waistband.

  This wasn’t the first time a woman had thrown herself at Adam. You wouldn’t get rich playing music, and you wouldn’t get famous—but if fucking total strangers appealed to you, it just might be the profession for you. When Kiss and Kill was at its peak, he couldn’t make it from the stage to whatever passed for a green room without some woman or other groping him, propositioning him, making death-eyes behind Johanna’s back and winking at him. But a woman demanding sex and starting to masturbate in her parents’ house on Thanksgiving—this was something new, even for him. He understood she was probably just bored, and mad at her dad, and horny and stoned out of her gourd. But did he really care why this was happening? his cock seemed to ask by way of chafing against his jeans. Nope, he decided, he did not.

  “Say more bullshit to me,” he said as he unbuttoned his pants.

  “Be more specific,” she exhaled, her wrists flexing and unflexing above her waistband.

  “Just say a bunch of words.”

  “Oh, ah, objectivist, epistemology . . . normative, dichotomy . . .” She seemed to be getting off on this, too, pausing to gasp for breath between terms. “Semiotic . . . appropriation . . . hegemonic . . . ontological,” she gasped, “despair . . . masculinity . . . teleological collapse, osnos. . . .”

  “I’m not gay,” he told her as he yanked her sweatpants to her knees, saw her fingers working frantically on her clitoris, like a DJ scratching out the same two-note drop again and again and again. “I’m not a flight attendant.”

  “I’m not mixed,” she cried. “I’m neither. I’m a fat nobody. Somebody’s daughter. I’m a pure nihilistic bitch.”

  He pulled her by the ankles to the end of the bed. “I’m a stupid alcoholic loser.” He pushed her hands away, and she brought them to her face, shoved half her fingers in her mouth, bit down. She lifted her head when she noticed he’d paused. “’S th’onny way ih cah cum,” she explained. Then she bit down again.

  It was at that moment—far too late, like always—that it occurred to Adam that this was not a good idea: that beyond whatever passing pleasure they’d get out of the next couple minutes, fucking Laila would not do her any good, and it would not do him any good. At least when you fucked a stranger, you could imagine it to be whatever you wanted. But he knew Laila just well enough to recognize the solitude they wouldn’t be fighting here, but affirming. They’d fuck and they’d never have anything to say to each other again. And what about the promise he’d made to Marissa? Wouldn’t fucking her sister-in-law be on the short list of things she would explicitly instruct him not to do? Unfortunately, though, by now his erection was only a quarter inch away from Laila’s pussy. So what choice did he have? He glanced for a moment at the shelf with the little glass sculptures—red, milky, blue. Then he looked back at Laila, diligently crushing her fingers between her teeth. “I had one friend left,” he said as he began to fuck her.

  “Ih nu-uh ehh uh ove oo!” I’ve never said I love you? I know one thing that’s true? It was like trying to decipher screamed metal lyrics. Then, “Ihh, ihh, ehhhh,” loudly, as she came. She lay still for a bit, and he could hear the light squeak of the bedsprings as he went on. Then she patted him on the thigh. “You should finish up. I need to shower.”

  [ 4 ]

  Thanksgiving Dinner

  The photographer had a storklike appearance: a long, pliable neck, slender legs extending from a round torso. She wore black pants and a black sweatshirt, had pale, unblinking eyes, reminiscent to Marissa of quarters, and took photographs like she had five other jobs that afternoon. Fred had been pressed into her service, was holding up the silver light-reflector disc wherever she told him. As Marissa came into the dining room, Laila was posed with her mother at the far end of the table. The dog clutched to Laila’s chest only added to the pec
uliar formality of the scene: Laila dressed in a knee-length green dress with cap sleeves, her fixed smile broad enough to expose the slender gap between her front teeth, her neck and shoulders stiff as she held one hand on her mother’s lower back, the other hand clutching Mash, crammed for the occasion into a Red Sox sweater. Roz, meanwhile, grinned thinly, her forehead coming up no higher than her daughter’s shoulder. The table before them was set with such polished and scrupulous splendor—china, silver, crystal, linen—Marissa was afraid to get within five feet of it. She had never felt less a part of this family in her life.

  When Laila noticed Marissa lingering in the doorway, she raised her chin to grin over the photographer’s shoulder, lifting her eyebrows in an oddly conspiratorial way. “Eyes on me,” the photographer ordered. The camera or the lens or something made a hissing sound after every picture: click-flash-hiss, click-flash-hiss. The photographer inspected the shots in the digital viewer. “Nice frames. Okay, Mom, let’s move you to the other side of Daughter.”

  “I’m going to stay on this side,” Roz answered. “But they’ll want some without the dog. Marissa, honey, hold Mash for a minute?”

  “I’m allergic,” Marissa reminded her.

  “Oh, I knew that, sweetheart!” Roz turned to Fred. “Ted, can you, and hold up the thing?”

  “Yes, no problem,” Fred answered, by all appearances perfectly content to have another opportunity to be of service. He extended an arm, took Mash in the bend of his elbow, and held up the reflector with his free hand while making kissing faces at the dog.

  “Daughter, an inch closer to Mom. A little more life in the smiles. Mom, loosen up the right hand, you’re not made of stone. Good.” Click-flash-hiss. “Nice frame.”

  Adam appeared beside Marissa at the door. “Hi,” he said, not looking at her. Above his stubble his cheeks were flushed, somehow his hair had gotten matted on both sides now, giving him a crude asymmetrical fauxhawk. He put one fingernail between his lips after another, like he couldn’t decide which one to bite.

  “You okay?” she asked him.

  He dropped his hand. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” he said sharply. He glanced at her, made a grunting sound under his breath, and turned back to the scene at the head of the table. “You clean up nice.”

  She returned an annoyed glance, but in truth, she was grateful at least someone had noticed that she’d showered, paid down twenty minutes of sleep debt, changed into clean clothes: a red cashmere sweater, black pants, a silver pendant necklace Robbie had given her. Adam, however, smelled like a cheap motel room or something; she was about to ask him about this when Laila suggested, “Hey, what if we do some with all the girls?”

  “Let’s get everything on the list first,” Roz answered. “Robbie, finally,” she added as her son entered the dining room. He’d put on a V-neck sweater over a white button-down, scowled as he looked at his mother and sister arranged at the table.

  “We’re doing this for Dad, is he going to bother to show up?” he asked.

  “Do I look like your father’s secretary?” Roz snapped. “You have something to ask him, go down to his office and ask him.”

  Robbie stood by Marissa, rested his hand on her shoulder, then on her back, then dropped it to his side. “You were asleep when I got back,” he said to her.

  “Yeah, I passed out. What were you doing?”

  “Playing Gears of War.”

  “Daughter, turn your head a quarter inch to the right. Nope, to the right. Good.” Click-flash-hiss.

  “Why can’t we do some with the ladies of the family?” Laila pressed. “It’ll take ten seconds, Mom.”

  “Your father forwarded me the list from the press office,” Roz replied. “I’m trying to get us through the list. But if you want to waste some time, sure, come on in, honey.” She gestured to Marissa.

  Marissa really, really hated having her picture taken. Even in her wedding photos, she displayed the same stunned, fugitive-in-the-searchlight look. She shoved a handful of hair back behind her shoulders, took position beside Laila. “Who’s this?” the photographer asked.

  Laila began, “This is—”

  “This is my son’s wife,” Roz interrupted.

  “Son’s Wife. Okay. These are just for composition.” Click-flash-hiss, click-flash-hiss.

  “You got some rest, hallelujah,” Roz declared, surveying Marissa. “You looked like the walking dead when you got here. Honestly, sweetheart, it isn’t healthy.”

  “Cute necklace,” Laila commented. “Guess who picked it out?” Her eyebrows bounced up and down again. Marissa did wonder sometimes about Laila’s eagerness to prove her affection.

  “Okay, Son’s Wife, let’s get you on the other side of Mom.” Marissa moved around behind Laila and Roz, stood by Roz’s shoulder. “Okay, Son’s Wife, let’s turn those shoulders into Mom. These are family photos. And see if you can do something about your hair, we’re a little helter-skelter on the right.” Marissa was pulling at her curls with a kind of panic when the photographer abruptly lowered the camera. “Right, so, Daughter has a nipple situation. Can we get the heat turned up maybe?”

  “Are you not wearing a bra?” Roz said. “Thanksgiving dinner, and you’re not wearing a bra?”

  “Wow, we are so not having this conversation,” Laila answered with a high-pitched laugh.

  “No one wishes it was still 1969 more than me, but as I have been telling you since your bat mitzvah—”

  “You mean the time I hadn’t hit puberty and you wanted me to wear—”

  “You know what?” the photographer said. “Forget it. I can Photoshop out the nipples. Let’s go back to smiles. Son’s Wife, stop thinking about your hair.” Click-flash-hiss.

  So far, Adam and Robbie had been standing beside each other in silence, which Marissa managed to be grateful for even amid the photography trauma, but now she saw a big, out-of-nowhere grin break out on Adam’s face, like he’d just remembered what a terrific mood he was in. He went so far as to clap Robbie on the back. “It’s good to meet you, man,” Adam announced.

  Robbie gave him a puzzled but amiable-enough nod. “Yeah, same.”

  “Marissa says you make movies! So, like, what are they about?” Though Robbie only turned his face as though to scratch his chin, Marissa could feel his inner groan as if it were her own. He got so uncomfortable telling people about his work—even when Laila wasn’t around. “I watch a ton of movies, you’d be surprised, I bet I’ve heard of a lot of the people who influenced you,” Adam was saying. Can you please for fucking once shut up? she mentally begged him.

  “Back to Earth, Son’s Wife. Eyes here.” Click-flash-hiss. “Need to do better with these, people. Go to your happy places.”

  Gazing at the black eye in the center of the lens, her mouth pulled apart with a toothy grin she knew would never fool anyone as to her proximity to her happy place, Marissa heard Robbie answer, “The film I’m writing now is like a meta-, um, deconstructed indie horror.” He did his best to sound nonchalant, but Marissa wondered if anyone could miss the little ripples of self-consciousness and standoffishness and resentment shaking over the surface of his voice. “Not blood and guts horror, but more psychological, sociological commentary. It’s sort of a twist on, okay, think vampirism, but as an allegory for crack and gang warfare in South Central in the mid-nineties. Like subverted blaxploitation horror.”

  “Subverted blaxploitation horror?” Laila said from the head of the table. “Bro, we have got to work on your elevator pitch.”

  “I’ve read the script,” Marissa chimed in. “It’s really, really good.”

  “So if I catch you talking, it’s a wasted frame,” the photographer announced.

  “It sounds pretty cool to me,” Adam said to Robbie over the click-flash-hiss. “What’re you thinking for the soundtrack? N.W.A., obviously. Ice-T. Tupac—who was actually born in New York. You ever heard of Schoolly D?”

  “Yeah, so,” Robbie responded, clearing his throat, “a central conce
it of the film is how the black community was corrupted by these interwoven forces of addiction and fetishistic consumerism and nihilistic violence. Basically American culture itself, y’know? So I definitely plan to tell that story musically, like, how we got from ‘The Message’ to Suge Knight.”

  Laila asked, “Are you going to be able to afford the rights to any of those songs, though?”

  “Have you noticed no one’s even talking to you, Laila?” answered Robbie.

  “I’m only trying to help!” she cried.

  “Smi-i-i-i-iles,” the photographer said.

  Under his breath, but loud enough, Robbie murmured, “If I ever need help spreading Russian bukkake videos all over the planet, you’ll be the first person I call.”

  “What did you say?” Laila snapped. “What did you say? That was a cruel thing to say.”

  “Mom, help me out here,” the photographer pleaded.

  “What do you want me to do?” Roz sighed. “Their whole lives they’ve been at each other’s throats. And who suffers? I suffer.”

  “The Guardian Group is agnostic with regard to how people use their freedom of expression,” intoned Laila.

  “And I’m sure the girls in the bukkake videos really appreciate that,” answered Robbie, taking out his phone, swiping his fingers across its screen.