“Maria, he’s here.”
She looked up, and Anthony saw that her eyes were red and moist. She pulled Anthony’s arm and grasped him into a desperate hug and wept. She wailed into his shoulder; Anthony had to hold on to her to keep her standing. He held her up as much as he could, and her weight pulled him down, but not his physical body; it felt as if his stomach was sinking and then he felt a weird rush that couldn’t be held back. Anthony began to sob. He cried hard into her shoulder, holding her closer. Maria heaved great sobs, and they held each other for what felt like a half an hour but was probably not much more than a minute.
“I’m so sorry,” Anthony apologized.
“I’m the one who’s sorry. I never got to meet you. I never knew. He just never told me anything, and I don’t know why.”
A woman placed a big plate of food in front of Anthony. He looked up in confusion. The woman yelled, “You gotta eat something, you look starved.”
“What is this?”
“Lasagna, you’ve never seen a lasagna before?”
“What is that, like a casserole?”
Maria grabbed his hands and started to laughing. “You’re sweet. I see why Julian liked you.”
ERIK
Anthony: Haven’t heard from you in a while, should we go on another date?
Erik:?
Anthony: It’s your boyfriend, Anthony.
Erik: Oh, please. This has been so messed up. I would like to discontinue service.
87558: To discontinue service from fakeboyfriend.net please type DISCONTINUE SERVICE
Erik: DISCONTINUE SERVICE
87558: Thank you, we hope you have enjoyed fakeboyfriend.net. If you would ever like to return just type RETURN SERVICE
JULIAN
The limo pulled up to his apartment. It was followed by three more limos and a line of cars behind it. When he climbed inside, he saw that Maria’s lap was filled with tissues. It was hard to see her with her body covered in long black clothing. No one spoke. The limo drove through several neighbourhoods before stopping at a small church. There were people lined up to get inside, and the crowd spilled out on to the street.
“Is this all for Julian?” Anthony asked.
“Julian was very much loved.”
They walked slowly to the church. Anthony tried to slip into a pew near the back, but Maria grabbed his hand and ushered him to the front. The service was delivered half in Italian so Anthony dropped his head and just listened to the way the entire church joined in the prayers and how the language echoed back and forth. A wave of consonants and hissing s’s rolled around Anthony’s head. When the service was over, the people lined up to visit the open casket and kiss the cheeks of everyone in the first row. He felt every soft kiss as they whispered their condolences to him. The family took turns breaking down with each kiss.
The line finally dwindled down and the churchgoers filled the streets. He and Maria returned to the limo, and it drove through the suburbs toward a large cemetery. It pulled up to an old mausoleum which looked as if it had been licked by flames. The crowd moved inside and stood against the walls. Anthony looked up to see crypts stacked from the floor to ceiling. Julian’s casket was moved into the centre of the space. With barely any room to move, the priest spoke to the mourners, praying and asking each person to come and place ashes upon Julian’s casket.
Anthony joined the line with Maria and grabbed a pinch of ashes, then sprinkled them on the casket. He started to cry; he felt the weight of his body become too much for his legs. Anthony hugged Maria and said, “I didn’t know Julian that well. I don’t belong here.”
“You belong here, you belong here,” she repeated over and over again. “I didn’t know Julian that well either,” said his mother.
When they left the mausoleum, Anthony noticed a few lit candles in a long row of candles. He stopped and stared.
“You light a candle as a prayer. In my family, we light one for each person we lost.” Maria picked up a long thin stick and lit the end on fire. “Here.”
Anthony lit a candle and thanked Maria.
“No, thank you. I would have loved to see Julian so happy with you.”
As he was leaving, Anthony heard Maria rush up quickly behind him. “You have to come to dinner next Sunday! We have a big family dinner every Sunday.”
Anthony clutched his jacket and stammered, “I, I’d love that.”
ERIK
Anthony: Glad we had such a great sushi date last night.
Erik: What the fuck are you doing? I cancelled your services. You can’t charge me for this shit.
Anthony: It was, uh, a joke. Thought I would try again. Maybe we can have Italian? It would be as friends.
I kind of need someone to talk to.
Erik: …
Erik: Fine. But JUST a coffee.
Anthony: That’s perfect. I promise it won’t be anything more than a friendly chat. I’m kind of dating someone. He’s nice. His name is Julian.
i talked to you again on the phone. you were in the hospital and could only have one more visitor. i was confused. my sisters had made it clear that you were dead, but i could hear your voice on the phone. someone said i could visit tomorrow because it was getting bad, but i would get just one more visit. i was begging you to hold on for one more day so i could see you again. the day slowed down infinitely so that the next day never came. you waited in the hospital bed, and i waited for tomorrow.
NICE SHORTS, BRO
Kevin looked down, focusing on his steps, making sure he was walking a straight line, each step, neatly in front of the other. His hair was slightly matted and parted to the side, his shirt perfectly ironed, tucked into his shorts with a skinny belt that matched his shoes. His shorts, a light Easter blue, were rolled up twice because they were a bit too long for his short legs. Kevin checked the crease on his shorts to make sure they weren’t bunching up awkwardly, as they tended to. He looked up to see an older woman walking in his direct path on the left side of the sidewalk. He quickly shuffled to the other side, apologized to her, then shuffled back.
He walked into the coffee shop, ordered his sandwich, and quietly waited for his soy latte. He stared down at the floor between the condiments table and the counter where they would usually place his coffee. As people came to get sugar for their coffee, he awkwardly slipped to the side, saying, “sorry.”
“Latte and sandwich to go!”
“That’s for me, thanks.” He took a sip, noticed it was milk, and continued to smile. He grabbed his sandwich and walked out the door.
His face began to sweat as he sipped the latte. He noticed someone coming toward him but didn’t recognize the man’s face, so went back to staring at the ground. Kevin didn’t want to be rude to someone he might know, but he also didn’t want to make eye contact with someone he didn’t know. He wasn’t certain if he knew him, so he looked up again: no, it wasn’t someone he knew. He looked down again in case they made eye contact.
“Nice shorts, bro,” he heard the man say.
He looked up again to see if he knew the guy, but it was a stranger. A young jock, smiling. “Thank you,” was all he could mumble out. He began to replay the interaction over and over again, each time losing his certainty that he was wearing nice shorts. He certainly wasn’t a bro. He looked at his shorts. Plain blue shorts, rolled twice. Not too short to be offensive. Definitely not the shorts of a bro. Maybe the shorts were a little too tight. He had gained weight since he bought them, maybe a few pounds, but he also knew he wasn’t that noticeably bigger than usual. Maybe they were too fancy. He did feel uncomfortable that he’d purchased them from a popular store. He could feel sweat dripping down his lower back. He felt pretty fucking stupid in these shorts right now.
When he arrived back at the office, he was covered in sweat. His coworker stopped him to ask a question, but Kevin mumbled something and ran to the bathroom.
“You got another milk latte didn’t you?” his co-worker yelled after him.
; An uncomfortably long moment later, he went back to his desk. He typed out the words, “nice shorts bro.” He placed a comma between the nice shorts and bro, then added an exclamation mark. “nice shorts, bro!” Or maybe it was, “nice, shorts bro.”
Stevie looked over. “Kevin can you send me the databa—”
“If someone said ‘nice shorts, bro,’ would you think they were making fun of your shorts or liked your shorts?”
“Uh, I’m not sure. Your shorts seem fine. I doubt they were making fun of you.”
“But … he was ‘straight,’ you know.”
“Kevin, no one’s making fun of your shorts.”
“But he was like a jock guy.”
“Kevin, can you just send me that database?”
After a series of database inputs in several Excel documents, Kevin looked up to see that it was 4:45, so there were only fifteen minutes left of work. He began to close down his applications. He needed to be at dinner with his mother by eight. This left him three hours to get to the gym, shower, and take a bus so he’d be early for dinner. He repeated the plan: gym, shower, bus, dinner. He began thinking about the gym. The lineups to get to the cardio machines. The extensive amount of men in the weight room. The gym didn’t normally die down until seven. He thought: shower, light gym, bus, dinner. No, he couldn’t shower before the gym; he would go to the gym, but just use the broken treadmill no one ever used and skip the weights. He thought of the clicking noise the treadmill made when he ran. He thought about his upper body muscles withering away from not doing any weights. He thought about going to the gym and everyone noticing that he was only there for ten minutes and how they would think, “That’s weird. Why did he work out for only ten minutes?” He looked up at the clock. It was now 5:05. He had to make a decision. He could bring his clothes to the gym and shower there. He thought of the shower floors, how busy the shower always are, and being naked in front of strangers. He thought about how he would have to bring a big bottle of soap to the shower. Everyone would look at him and think, “Why does he have such a large bottle of soap?” He looked up again, 5:15. Who would make fun of someone’s shorts? It had to be a compliment. Gym, no shower, bus, then dinner. 5:20. Today was a gym day; if he didn’t go today it would mean that he would have to go tomorrow, and then his whole schedule would shift. Bus, dinner, gym, shower. He clicked between his personal email and his work emails, not really reading either of them. The click of the treadmill. Click. The soap bottle. Click. 5:30. The office lights turned off. He looked up to see his co-worker waiting at the door to let him out. He quickly packed up.
“Sorry,” Kevin said.
“You know, you really need to tell those baristas you’re lactose intolerant.”
The gym was busy. Busier than usual. He quickly shuffled to the locker room and changed in the corner. He tripped over his shorts trying to get them on as quickly as possible. He wandered over to the treadmill section. Busy. There was the broken treadmill. It worked perfectly fine, except for that clicking. He thought about just changing and leaving again. He shook his head and walked over to the treadmill. He started it slow, so that it only clicked about every second or so. The click wasn’t too noticeable today. He thought maybe they’d fixed it. He relaxed and turned the speed up. The clicking increased slightly. It was clicking more than once per second. He tried to drown it out by playing music. Click. He fumbled with his earphones. Click. Someone looked toward him. Click. He pressed stop. He looked around; it felt as though the treadmill was still clicking. He ran toward the locker room, grabbed his things, and texted his mother. “I can’t make it today, I’m not feeling well.”
///
He was aware of the handcuffs he’d placed on himself and the handkerchief with which he’d covered his eyes. His bedroom door opened, and he felt him slide into him quickly. A searing pain rose from his spine.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
///
Kevin’s office opened at nine, but he always waited patiently at 8:45 for the first person with a key to come and open the doors. He had been adamant that he did not want a key to the office, worried that would lead to more responsibility.
When Stevie arrived and let him in, Kevin rushed into the bathroom, locked the doors, and began to unpeel a section of wallpaper under a poster showing a group of business people smiling and raising their hands. He found his spot and doodled with a black felt pen for thirteen minutes—enough time to make the office think he was having his morning movement, but not long enough to question if he was wasting time jerking off. When his phone vibrated, he put the wallpaper back, taped the poster back up, flushed the toilet, and sprayed the bathroom with berry-scented air freshener.
Back at his desk, he asked Stevie, “Do you think he was making fun of me?”
“Oh god, for saying you have nice shorts?”
“Who just compliments someone’s shorts?”
“Someone who likes shorts.”
He looked at Stevie for a long time without saying anything.
“You have to stop staring at me now,” said Stevie.
Kevin opened a new Excel document, and as he did so he noticed a weird yellowish bruise on his finger. It was small, but he felt a slight pain when he pressed hard against it. He Googled, “yellow bruise on finger,” found eight diseases for finger bruises, and clicked through to “blood infection” and then to “gonorrhea.” He called his doctor to schedule an appointment.
Next, Kevin began to compose an email to himself, a tactic his therapist had asked him to use whenever he was feeling anxious or angry. It was now a daily routine. He would write whatever he was feeling in an email, send it to himself, then read it again.
Dear Kevin,
Nice shorts bro! Nice, shorts bro. Nice shorts, bro. Nice shorts bro?! Nice, shorts, bro. Nice. Shorts bro! NICE SHORTS BRO. Nice. Shorts. Bro. Nice shorts bro. Nice shorts bro. Nice shorts, bro? Nice? Shorts. Bro?
Nice shorts bro,
Kevin.
ps. Nice shorts bro.
pps. Nice shorts, bro.
ppps. Fuck you Stevie.
He hit send.
He clicked the “get mail” button, waiting for his email to pop up. He figured there must be a server problem holding the email back. He clicked “get mail” again. He began to click it several times, with increased intensity. His face was soon covered with a cold film of sweat. “Get mail.” Click, click, click, “get mail.” He went into the sent email folder and found the problem. He had emailed Stevie instead of himself. He looked over to her computer, but she was in the bathroom. He shifted over to her seat. The computer was locked. He could hear her coming back. He pushed the computer off her desk onto the ground. It landed with a gentle thud on the carpet.
“Fuck.” A long moan slipped from his mouth.
He put the computer back, rushed over to his computer, and typed furiously.
Dear Stevie,
Did you like my joke? So funny. Nice shorts bro? Hahahaha. LOLOLOLOLOLOL
Kevin
And another email.
HA-HA STEVIE, SO FUNNY! LOL Fuck you. HAHAHA
Kevin
And another.
What are you doing for lunch? We should go get coffee. Ha ha, fuck you. HAHAHA.
Kevin
He turned off his computer screen and quietly slipped outside.
///
Kevin looked up to see the young man who had complimented his shorts. He ducked behind a tree as the man passed him. He slowly came from behind the tree and followed him. He was wearing a Whole Foods employee polo and heading toward the store. Kevin slinked behind him, making sure he wasn’t noticed.
Kevin quickly lined up at the coffee station, so as not to appear like he was following the man. Nice Shorts Bro had gone through a door, probably to the back of the building.
“Soy latte, please.”
He ordered without looking at the server, still focusing on the door that Nice Shorts Bro had gone into. He wasn’t coming back out.
He grabbed the coffee and rushed back to work. As he sipped the searing hot coffee, he could taste the dairy.
///
The gym. Click. The milk. Click. His face was paralyzed. Nice shorts, bro. Click. The door opened and closed. The lock, click.
“Tell me what to do.”
He felt strong hands under his waist, gripping his ass, and pulling him forward.
“Tell me what to do,” he repeated.
“Hold your ankles while I tie them.”
His mind cleared. He could see clouds. Soy milk being frothed like the sky. His chest opened up. His body became warm.
///
“Can we talk about the emails you sent Stevie?”
Kevin was sitting in a small office with his boss and two computers showing two people he had never met before on the screens.
“I meant them as a joke.”
“And we understand that, but as a rule, we have to meet with you about it.”
Kevin’s shirt was covered in sweat. He nodded.
One of the people on the computers said, “Kevin, we need to ask you a few standard questions. First, do you have any thoughts of hurting your fellow employees?”
Kevin shook his head.
“Sorry, Kevin, we are going to need you to state your answers for HR purposes.”
“No.”
“Have you ever had any negative thoughts toward one of your fellow employees?”
“No.”
Kevin could feel the dairy from the latte hit him. His stomach and his bowels felt like they were stretching apart. He turned pale.
“Kevin, are you okay?”
Kevin nodded.
“Okay, have you ever thought of physically assaulting any of your fellow employees?”
“No.”
“Have you ever physically hurt another human being?”
“No.”
“Have you ever physically hurt an animal?”
“No, well, no. But …?” Kevin was now visibly sweaty.
Everything Is Awful and You're a Terrible Person Page 9
