by Rachel Hulin
Mom once told me I was a delightful baby, full of energy. “What happened?” she said. My brain on fucking progesterone happened, Mom—thanks for the heads-up.
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Matilda,
I don’t recommend being a writer, it’s awfully stressful.
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Harry,
Is it? Because Mom seems to think you defecate gold, whereas she told me, “There’s no shame in a blue-collar job”—referring to wedding photography.
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Matilda,
That’s just because she’s still paying your grad school loans and resents it.
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Harry,
Well, there are no fully paid PhDs for artists. They want you to be poor. It’s part of the experience.
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Matilda,
I don’t think you should give up on being an artist quite yet.
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Harry,
But I have a writer’s mind! I have ideas all the time. I currently have a wonderful idea for a screenplay.
It’s like Fight Club, but it’s about women who resent the aching need to have children that your brain foists on you from twenty to forty. So, in order to keep the child-demanding demons at bay, they develop a hormone pill that just knocks that shit out. It cuts down their estrogen, ups their testosterone. They are more aggressive. They get promotions at work.
Everything is chemical, Harry. Everything is run by hormones. There is no free will. Don’t feel sad about being babyless. Instead, rearrange your hormones. Take charge!
They should have all sorts of formulas for women—I mean, screw the birth control pill. Where is the postovulation pill? The “feel like a man today” pill, the “fuck bleeding all the time, are you fucking kidding me??” pill?
What would be a good name for such a pill? Happtiva? Vag-ex? Estro-NO-va?
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Harry,
If you send me to voicemail one more time, I am going to lose my mind. And you truly need to rerecord your message. You cannot start with “Um, you’ve reached Harry Goodman?”
Yes, I have reached Harry Goodman. Or at least his inept voicemail! Why the hell are you asking me?
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Harry,
Holy shit I just got The New Yorker. I thought it was Vera who was being published? But it’s you, OMG CONGRATULATIONS, surprise!!!
Did you write a poem inspired by hers that you told me about? Flight or invisibility? (Obviously flight, as we discussed.)
I think I like it, I do. It sounds new for you. Tenure now should be no problem, right?
CALL ME, MOTHERFUCKER. Ima put champagne into my mouth to celebrate.
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Harry,
Why won’t you answer me? Harry, something isn’t right. I couldn’t place it at first, but I figured it out. Harry, this is Vera’s poem? The one you told me about?
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Matilda,
Sorry for the radio silence. The thing is: I made a really big mistake. I continually feel that I might vomit. She hasn’t seen it yet. I never thought they’d accept it. They don’t accept anything.
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Harry,
It’s true—I heard someone sent The New Yorker a poem that it had ALREADY PUBLISHED a few years back, and that got rejected, too. Not sure how you managed this! The universe is playing a trick on you.
Holy shit! Holy shit, Harry, what are you going to do? How are we going to fix this?! I think you might just have to tell her. Be honest. Better to tell her than to tell the magazine, right? God, this is bad. What about when the English department finds out? Oh god, Harry. Harry! How the fuck did this happen?! Fuckckkkk.
There must be a way out.
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Matilda,
I don’t know! I’ve been avoiding her all week, but The New Yorker finally comes to the boonies in forty-eight hours. She reads it religiously, and of course the department does, too. I think I’m going to leave town.
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Harry,
Normally I would tell you to face the music, but now I think hiding might be a good idea. God, unless you can talk to her. Yes, I think you have to talk to her. I mean, forget tenure! This could ruin your writing career forever. This could ruin YOU.
Jesus, Harry, and I thought I was the fucked-up one, driving into traffic and almost dying, but that was nothing. You’re in a goddamned pickle, friend. Come to me in Brooklyn. We’ll dye your hair black, too, while we hide from the law. We’ll have us a time, Harry.
Had any other professors seen the poem?
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Matilda,
I don’t think so. I have to talk to her. Fuck, Matilda, I think I love her. What have I done?
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Harry,
I’ll fetch you in Grand Central and protect you from those awful literary wolves and aggressive undergrads. It will be like when we were tiny, like when I pretended you were a puppy and called you “runt” and wrapped you in a blanket and fed you warm milk. I could have kept you forever like that, if you’d have let me.
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Matilda,
I don’t think so. I have to figure this out first. I need to stay here, or go somewhere by myself.
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Matilda,
Remember how Dad called us jerk-offs when we were bad in the ’80s?
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Harry,
I know. No wonder Mom hated that guy. Ha-ha-ha it’s funny, though. A little.
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Matilda,
I remember feeling like “No, I’m a good guy, Dad!” I had an obsession with good guys and bad guys. And I was just so offended. But now, look—I’m a bad guy after all.
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Harry,
Please, that is bullshit. You are the goodest person I know. You are good to a fault. It’s unfortunate that your one fuckup might have lifelong consequences. But I’m sure I can think of something to get you out of this.
For now, you need to sit Vera down and have her see reason. She needs to cover your back.
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Matilda,
She has no reason to want to do that.
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Harry,
Sure she does. She doesn’t want scandal. She doesn’t want to tarnish her good name.
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Matilda,
What do you mean? How would this tarnish her? This is my career we’re talking about.
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Harry,
You are thinking about this incorrectly. You are feeling lost and defensive. You are that guy on the message asking if you are Harry Goodman. I, however, am Anjelica fucking Huston.
You must give Vera a view of the future. Her future after she helps you in this unfortunate slip up? Or her future after she throws you to the wolves? It is her choice, her fork in the road.
She thinks you’re swell, and she likes lobsters, so there must be true wisdom deep in her sophisticated four-name hippie heart.
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Matilda,
You mean threaten her? I love her! I’ve done something terrible to her! I would never forgive me if I were in her position, and now I threaten her to cover my fuckup? It doesn’t make any sense. And what leverage do I even have? I give her a bad grade? Jesus. She could tell them anything. Matilda, we’re sleeping together.
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Harry,
Oh, Harry! I’m so shocked! Tell me another!
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Harry,
Calm, please. Ice water in veins, please. We have forty-four hours until shit on fan. Something will come to light.
BTW, I just read an excellent piece about artists and creating in The New York Times:
In the popular imagination, artists tend to exist either at the pinnacle of fame and luxury or in the depths of penury and obscurity—rarely in the middle, where most of the rest of us toil and dream. They are subject to admiration, envy, resentment and contempt, but it is odd how seldom their efforts are understood as work.
Harry, I think troubled times like these are what we should e
mbrace: envy, resentment, contempt. These are our lot. Let us use this in our favor. Remember, Vera is an artist, too. She has dreams, too. I’m sure she has great big dreams, in fact. Perhaps you’ve discussed them with her?
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Matilda,
I don’t know.
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Harry,
Please have more testicles. Do not be the twelve-year-old boy who votes for his opponent for student council.
You’re not going down this easy, and certainly not because of her.
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Harry,
Things sometimes appear differently in our minds than they do in actuality. Take, for example, the jackalope. Lore had it that these mythical creatures were a fantastical cross between a jack rabbit and an antelope. But, in fact, they were simply BUNNIES WITH CANCER. They had tumors spurred by the Shope papilloma virus, which causes horn- and antlerlike growths on the head.
So not magical, just sad.
Here’s a visual. This bunny has cancer.
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Matilda,
What are you talking about?
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Harry,
We are all primarily spiritual beings; we are just having a temporary physical experience. A French philosopher said that.
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Matilda,
Please stop. I’m not in the mood to try to follow you.
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Harry,
When all is well and you are a famous writer in ten years, you must start using your full name. Harrison Angus Goodman. Writers have three names if they’re any good. If you fail at writing and become a lawyer, you may use just the middle initial. Harry A. Goodman. If you fail the bar and are forced to become a pop star, you may simple go by: Harrison.
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Matilda,
Enough.
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Harry,
Just giving you some options.
TTYL8r.
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Matilda,
I can barely sleep next to Vera at night. I feel like I’m living a complete lie. I wake up in a panic, my heart beating through my chest, and I swear she must be able to hear its beating, to smell my lie, my very ungoodness. I can’t stand this feeling, Matilda! I feel like I am losing my mind.
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Harry,
Huh. I feel that way all the time. Once a month, in fact. Maybe that’s why men are less good at emotions—women are literally trained by being hormonally whiplashed all fucking month long.
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Matilda,
I have to talk to her soon. And I have a voicemail on my phone from the head of the English department, congratulating me. I think the new issue is out online. Vera’s going to see it any minute.
“What a delightful surprise, Mr. Goodman! I would have thought you’d have informed us of this accomplishment weeks ago. Looking forward to discussing your future in the department! Unless you’re too big for us now, ha-ha-ha.”
Oh god. This guy just wants to bury me. When he finds out the truth he is going to be absolutely pumped. I once heard him talking about me at an interdepartmental cocktail party with the philosophers after too many whiskeys: “Pseudointellectual, overambitious, pretentious…McSweeney’s reading, something something.” It couldn’t have been positive.
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Harry,
I think you need to channel brave, baller (word we should use more), future Harry. Imagine exactly who you want to be in ten years—head of the department yourself, perhaps? Routinely featured in The New Yorker? On a book tour? And speak to Vera as that person.
You need to do this today, Harry. You need to own the situation. I’ve seen this on TV. You write the story before they write it.
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Matilda,
OK, I’m going to talk to Vera today. I’m going to take a beta-blocker and go for a run and then pull her aside after class. At least then I will still have the air of authority on me, if I have any left. She always seems most affectionate right after class.
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Harry,
Do it. Do it now. Believe me—this part here, this is the hardest part. The waiting.
Wow! Maybe that’s why I had a plane crash dream last night—to relay that message to you.
I think the dream was symbolic of the scariest thing to me—knowing that you’re going to die, and knowing When, and then having to wait for it. The waiting is always the hardest part. I can’t tell you how many waiting rooms/vestibules/coffee shops I’ve had to pop Xanaxes in.
(Dying in a plane probably isn’t the worst way to go. You have a hell of a ride, you pass out, you disintegrate on impact. But gin would definitely help. Dad had some Ativan with him, too—he was on the plane with me, god bless him. Ativan always just makes me sleepy.)
Hierarchy of antipanic drugs, best to worst:
KLONOPIN—blue ribbon
XANAX—red ribbon
ATIVAN—yellow ribbon
Don’t you find ribbons and their corresponding colors fascinating? How did they decide blue is best?
Anyway! Go talk to her, Harry. Just tell her what you did, and that you are so sorry.
Actually, WAIT—maybe the dream was meant to convey the good news that AT LEAST YOU’RE NOT DYING! What’s the worst thing that could happen here?
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Matilda,
I could lose my job, my career, my good name, and my girlfriend. I mean, fuck tenure.
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Harry,
Talking Points
You sent the poem in during a fit of insanity (her poem was so brilliant!) and didn’t imagine they’d ever take it. Tell her you will make it up to her, and that it is important that she not ruin your career over this. It is important for both of your careers, in fact.
Stress that if she goes to the head of the department, your relationship will come to light, and you will both be quite embarrassed. She will likely have to leave the university as a student. The scandal might light up the internet. The intellectual elite will cream its jeans over a college professor stealing a student’s work and getting it into The New Yorker. CREAM ITS JEANS.
Do this now and then I will give you further instructions.
DO it. Waiting is the hardest part.
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Mat,
Fuck.
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Harry,
I am sending you brave thoughts right now. Just like when 10,000 people send healing thoughts to a child with cancer and the child recovers.
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Harry,
Still thinking of you. I have my prayer beads out, the ones I got in Greece when I went there to build a road for a poor town during the summer with thirteen fellow upper-middle-class youths who just wanted to give each other hand jobs under blankets in tour buses outside the Parthenon while high on ouzo.
I believe we built a road to nowhere solely to satisfy our parents’ do-gooder requirement that justified sending us on such a trip; I remember looking at this fifty-yard cement runway that led from the outskirts of town down to the river and thinking it was entirely useless to anyone. It took us six weeks to build.
The Gypsies lived in a kind of tent city down by the river. I didn’t really understand that “Gypsy” was a real thing; Mom let me be a gypsy with a crystal ball three Halloweens in row, which may have been accidentally quite racist.
Speaking of racist, the GREEKS! Holy shit. On the other side of the river was a small cohort of Albanian folks, apparently quite off their luck. Boy, do the Greeks not like Albanians. They were 100% open with their anti-Albanian vitriol. It was the worst kind of slur, to be called an Albanian. The townspeople were very clear with all their preferences. They deemed me and a horsey girl named Georgia the prettiest girls on the trip. I felt very proud and cocky about it.
Georgia and I were regularly given the best seats at town dinners. Extra ouzo.
There was also a black kid on the trip. His name was Thomas. He was very handsome, with amazing green eyes. Two weeks in we find out he goes to the toniest sch
ool in England. OK, so he’s rich. Two weeks after that, he has too much ouzo and spills that he’s the son of the leader of a prominent African nation. This dude was basically a real prince.
But the thing is, Greek people (the ones in this town, to be fair—who knows, it could have been Greek rednecks I was surrounded by, but I feel comfortable generalizing) really don’t like black people. Thomas had to move houses four times that summer, because he was being threatened during home stays. He ended up with sort of an unofficial bodyguard, who I think may have been Albanian, which didn’t help matters.
