How Should a Person Be?

by Sheila Heti

MARGAUX

  Yeah, Manet is very funny.

  SHEILA

  And Kierkegaard is really funny.

  MARGAUX

  Really? I see him as so sweet. I see him so much more like poetry.

  SHEILA

  Do you think Nietz­sche’s funny?

  MARGAUX

  I ­haven’t read him much. Baudrillard?

  SHEILA

  ­Haven’t read him enou—­hmm. Richard Serra’s not funny.

  MARGAUX

  No. He seems to take himself and art very seriously. It’s nice to take it seriously while also leaving your back door open. I mean, your pants down.

  SHEILA

  (laughing) You mean slipping on a banana peel.

  MARGAUX

  You know, I didn’t realize that you—­you ­can’t really slip on a banana peel unless it’s rotten. Which is what happened to me.

  SHEILA

  Was the buttery side down?

  MARGAUX

  It was all black, so it was hard to tell.

  SHEILA

  (laughs) How about Jackson Pollock?

  MARGAUX

  Not funny.

  SHEILA

  Mark Rothko?

  MARGAUX

  I mean, all those guys are—­I mean, one of them would have been enough for me.

  After finishing our dinner, we returned to Scope and arrived just as it was closing. A tall, aloofly handsome Asian man blithely dragged behind him a cabbage on a leash, making his way into and out of the rooms. People noticed, but no one cared. Since the lights ­were going down, we walked superfast through all the booths: like it . . . hate it . . . don’t like it . . . don’t care . . . then walked out through the doors and into the night after pausing briefly to say hello to a pale, thin, blond Chelsea dealer we both knew.

  Leaving the tent, Margaux began to rage. “Of course! She leans in to kiss you, but she ­doesn’t kiss me. Connecticut! All the Connecticut bitches hate me!” To calm her from the slight, I asked her to recite what I knew to be her favorite American poem—Matt Cook’s poem.

  “Okay. ‘James Joyce . . .’ ” I prompted.

  MARGAUX

  (sighs)

  James Joyce

  He was stupid

  He didn’t know as much as me

  I’d rather throw dead batteries at cows

  Than read him

  Everything was going fine

  Before he came along

  He started the Civil War

  He tried to get the French involved

  But they ­wouldn’t listen

  They filled him up with desserts

  He talked about all the great boxers

  That came from Ireland

  Like he trained ’em or something

  Then he started reading some of his stuff

  Right as we told him to get lost

  He brought up the potato famine

  We said “Your potatoes are plenty good.

  Deal with it! Work it out somehow.”

  Then he said “America must adopt the metric system.

  It’s much more logical.” We said “No!

  We like our rulers! Go away!”

  Thomas Jefferson said, “You always get the rulers you deserve.”

  SHEILA

  Do you know any other poems by heart?

  MARGAUX

  No.

  We sat down on the pavement and waited forty-­five minutes for a cab to take us to the beach where the city was hosting a Peaches concert. I pulled out my tape recorder—Margaux glanced down at it—­and we began to discuss Margaux’s hopes for the fair. I ­couldn’t understand how anyone could get famous in a place like this, where there ­were thousands of artists and so many galleries, and all of the art just laid out to speak for itself like cereal boxes on supermarket shelves, but without even the words. The art and the artists had started blurring together for me, and I suggested that as yet we had seen nobody truly great.

  MARGAUX

  Well, of course there are people ­here that are really truly great! But how could you see that? Like, for instance, if Takashi Murakami had just one of his sculptures ­here, you ­wouldn’t know how good it was.

  SHEILA

  You don’t think?

  MARGAUX

  No! But both of us have read these extensive articles about him. Like, of course if you saw one piece by Takashi Murakami—­but we have such nuances because of articles and context and because ­we’ve seen his past work and, you know. But this is so many young artists trying to show all of that in one go.

  SHEILA

  So the point ­here is not to decide who’s the greatest artist?

  MARGAUX

  Not at all. Not at all. But it is a chance to let the younger artists in. It is a chance to let the smaller galleries in. I don’t know what it is. It’s not everything.

  SHEILA

  If you think that going to an art fair and having your pictures in a booth will make you famous, it won’t.

  MARGAUX

  But no one’s thinking that at all!

  SHEILA

  Hmm. I would be thinking that if I was an artist ­here.

  Then we went to the concert and got into a fight after I told Margaux, “All the art you like is only almost good.” In bad moods, we met up with her dealer and walked in the rain to get some food, and went into a pizza place and sat by the window. Margaux ordered a Hawaiian slice. As we ­were eating, a boy and girl in their early twenties who ­were obviously part of the art crowd came in and addressed Margaux directly.

  “Are you Margaux Williamson?” the girl asked excitedly.

  “Yes,” Margaux replied.

  “Oh my God, I love your paintings! I’ve seen them on the internet!”

  We looked at each other, wide-eyed.

  The boy added, “I met you at an art fair in Los Angeles! I’m a paint­er too.”

  As they went on to talk about her work, my mind went to a video Margaux had made of our friend Ryan’s per­for­mance of a song he had written for his band, Tomboyfriend. She put it on YouTube, and one viewer listed himself as a fan; a man, supposedly, from Af­ghan­i­stan. Planning the band’s first concert, Margaux had carefully chosen the title: Big in Af­ghan­i­stan.

  That night, back at the hotel, Margaux and I lay in one of the beds and watched as, on my computer, an heiress gave her boyfriend a hand job. She seemed really into it; there was no reason to doubt it. Then her cell phone rang, and she let go of his dick and threw her body across the bed and answered with a far more convincing show of enthusiasm than she had shown while jiggling his cock. Her boyfriend was scowling now. After fifteen seconds, he said, “Get off your fucking phone.” She talked a moment more, then hung up and returned to where she had left off.

  She was an eerie figure who appeared in the pale gray outlines of night vision. Her eyes glowed like the eyes of a cat. Watching her, I felt a kinship; she was just another white girl going through life with her clothes off. I told myself quietly, Consider all the warriors down through time, without great brains—­like you!—­who nevertheless struck the enemy right through the breast. They just kept their wrists steady and struck.

  Then I glanced at the painting of the Statue of Liberty on the wall behind us and wondered, Where would all of America be—­and ­wouldn’t the flame long be extinguished in the sea—­if not for that tall girl’s steady wrist?

  MARGAUX

  You know, this video totally reminds me of once when I was at a party in Texas. I was about thirteen years old, and there was this girl there who was getting pissed on by these two guys. And she really was the most lost girl.

  SHEILA

  Oh.

  MARGAUX

  I just wish that she had
a bit of what this girl has—­her freedom, her shamelessness.

  Pause.

  You know, sometimes I get really excited thinking about autism. I think, Oh! Over there in Silicon Valley there are all these kids with autism . . . and I think maybe it’s an advantageous human trait. Maybe it’s sort of wonderful to—

  SHEILA

  —to lack feelings?

  MARGAUX

  To lack an overwhelming empathy. I sometimes feel pretty paralyzed by my own feelings of empathy. And it’s still such a problem—­shame. Maybe what I want in my life is to cut out a bit of the empathy and a bit of the shame.

  The next morning, we lay on the beach for several hours, then swam so far out to sea that a lifeguard in his motorized vehicle had to drive onto the beach and blow his whistle to get us to come back to shore, while everyone stared. We dried ourselves off in the sand and went to see our final fair of the trip, Art Basel, which we had to line up for and pay twenty dollars to get into. Standing in the cold, cavernous, convention-center air, we picked up a full-­color map to help find our way around. There ­were coffee kiosks everywhere in case visitors grew weary, and it was at Art Basel that we found the wealthiest patrons and the most expensive art. The fair was being sponsored by a bank. On the banners hung outside the building and in the corridors leading into the rooms where the panel discussions and the temporary bookstores ­were, was this message: USB welcomes you to Art Basel Miami Beach. Below it was a quote from Andy Warhol: Everybody’s sense of beauty is different from everybody ­else’s.

  I asked Margaux what she thought the quote meant. Glancing at it, she grimaced. “Oh yeah. It’s saying you can be rich and stupid about art. You’re all welcome.”

  Several hours later, growing tired from the art and the cold, we left. Out in front, at the bottom of a short flight of stairs, a young woman sat staring off into infinity, slowly winding a ball of string around her body and the handrails. We paused to glance at her, then walked off into the streets, where every one of the ­houses was painted a different pastel color: pink, yellow, orange, green, blue.

  Then I heard my friend say calmly, “I don’t care about success. I have it in my heart now.”

  After the sun went down, Margaux and I went strolling through the big, fluorescent-­lit shops. We bought the same yellow dress, then met up with Cappy, who was down with his shipping business, not with his own paintings, as in the past.

  Now the three of us ­were walking through the streets, along with all the women in their tight skirts and cleavage and tans and makeup and high heels, who ­were holding on to their big, bulky boyfriends for balance.

  Cappy led us through the baronial doors of a fancy blue hotel, and we went out to the back where there was a giant pool and very elegant people sitting at long tables, eating salmon and steak and drinking lots of wine. We sat on a half-­wall at a short distance from everyone. Cappy and Margaux began saying they ­were hungry. “Hold on,” I said, excitedly, and I pretended to be a waiter, and took the neglected plates and goblets away from the patrons and delivered them to Margaux and Cappy; we drank the half-­drunk wine and ate up all the leftovers.

  “So, Margaux,” asked Cappy, chewing, “have any of your paintings sold?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think so. Maybe. I ­haven’t asked.”

  Then we went for a stroll along the beach and ran into an old rich couple and struck up a conversation. The woman began talking about how they ­were thinking of buying a twenty-­three-­thousand-­dollar Ruscha print, having just come from dinner with the gallerist who was selling it. Their collection included a Gerhard Richter, and they had so little wall space left that what­ever they bought in Miami would end up in rotation.

  MARGAUX

  That’s all I hear from collectors.

  CAPPY

  They take something down, and then they hang the new thing.

  WOMAN

  We do that, but we don’t sell it.

  SHEILA

  Yeah, because you love it.

  WOMAN

  We rotate it.

  MARGAUX

  You know, I think it’s really good for artists to come ­here and see this.

  WOMAN

  To show that there’s a lot of great art out there?

  MARGAUX

  And to know that it’s not important.

  WOMAN

  What’s not important?

  MARGAUX

  This.

  As we ­were talking, my phone rang and I answered it. I recognized the lazy voice and at once felt faint, and I moved away from my friends. “Are you having a good time?” Israel asked. I said that I was. I tried to explain that we ­were talking to some rich people. “Would you like to have my cum in your mouth right now, talking to those rich people? That would be pretty good, ­wouldn’t it?” Not knowing what ­else to say, I stammered, “Yes.” When I got off the phone, I made a new rule for myself: that I would never again take his call—­or, anyway, not until I finished my play—­so never.

  Returning to Margaux and Cappy, feeling sensitive, I noticed Margaux’s face as she talked to the rich lady. She looked as she always did when she could find no value in a person—­an expression so apparent to me, and so painful, for I was sure the rich people could see it, too—­a hard, quick look of boredom and dismissal. I felt afraid whenever I saw it, worried that one day she would turn it on me. Coming near, I heard the woman say that it was not necessary for them to buy, but if they saw something they liked, they had the ability to buy, “though it’s not like we have zillions of dollars.”

  As we walked off, Margaux said, “Sure, she has so much money that she has to make up an amount of money that ­doesn’t exist to say how much money she ­doesn’t have.”

  I needed another drink, so we went back to the hotel and drank. Then I said, “Let’s get naked and jump in the pool.” So we stripped down to our underwear and got in the pool. We ­were the only ones swimming. Fifteen minutes later, tiring of the pool, I beckoned to a man who was sitting nearby. “We need towels!” I cried, and he waved down a hotel man and collected three fluffy towels for us. We swam to the edge, thanking him as we got out. The man smiled and replied, “No problem.” It was Keanu Reeves! Margaux moved slowly away, but I hung back and talked a bit, then Margaux and I left.

  Margaux grows very embarrassed as they walk away.

  MARGAUX

  Oh, God! I really wish we had seen a really more famous, more annoying celebrity! I wish we had seen a celebrity I don’t actually defend in public! But I like his work! I seriously have on my profile, like, Werner Herzog, Laurie Anderson, Gertrude Stein, and Keanu Reeves!

  SHEILA

  Really?

  MARGAUX

  Yes! Ugh! I just wish that all the people I liked ­were either my best friends or total strangers. As they are, of course, but . . .

  We stumbled into a cab and took it the six blocks to our hotel and went up the elevator into our room. In three hours, we would have to get up and fly home. As I stood by the sink, trying to wash from my favorite white dress the red wine we had spilled on it earlier that night, I chatted brightly.

  SHEILA

  I’m so happy with how we ­were making everyone jealous with how happy we ­were in the pool!

  MARGAUX

  What? That’s crazy! In my mind, we ­were making ourselves happy. I had no idea anyone was looking at us.

  SHEILA

  All I’m saying is: if there’s a pool and people are in the pool and you’re not in the pool, you want to be in the pool just like those people in the pool. It’s just a fact of nature.

  Sheila gets into the bed they are sharing.

  MARGAUX

  Hehe. You have no underpants on.

  SHEILA

  I don’t mind. I don’t object.

  MARGAU
X

  I thought maybe you didn’t know.

  SHEILA

  I realize.

  I immediately passed out but I forgot to shut down the tape recorder. After ten minutes, Margaux can be heard asking me, Are you awake? I ­wasn’t, but I gave a little grunt to show that I was. Then Margaux said softly, perhaps half-­asleep herself: I feel like either it’s a dream, or it’s some kid I know from Texas, like this black kid, nice kid, smart kid, and he just—­he just wanted . . . he hated all the football games, but he really liked the part when we ­were winning. And he would just make the T-shirts from whenever we ­were winning . . . and he would make everything from when we ­were winning.

  After a twenty-­second pause, she spoke again: He really ­wasn’t interested in the game.

  And after a thirty-­second pause: So everybody got mad at him.

  Then Margaux fell asleep, and after several minutes of silence, the tape recorder shut itself off.

  • chapter 10 •

  TWO DRESSES

  A week back in Toronto, Sheila receives an email from Margaux . . .

  1.i know i can be intense sometimes, and i know you have a lot going on, and this is not that big of a deal, but i wanted to say that it really startled me in miami when you bought the same yellow dress that i was buying.

  2.after we looked at a thousand dresses for you—­and the yellow dress being the first dress i was considering—­i really was surprised when you said you ­were getting it too.

  3.i suggested you try it on when i thought there was only one size, but when you said you ­were also getting it, i didn’t know what to say or think.

  4.i think it’s pretty standard that you don’t buy the dress your friend is buying, but i was trying to convince myself that maybe it was okay to buy the same dress your friend is buying. you know, trying to think about it positively, hence the “we’ll wear them in our music video” statement from me.

  5.when you said that you’d only wear it out of town and never in toronto, it sort of seemed reasonable.

  6.but not really, since of course we only exist in pictures.

  7.i should have been clearer in the store about how it made me uncomfortable, or i just shouldn’t have bought the dress.

  8.i really do need some of my own identity. and this is pretty simple and good for the head.