But not right away. I tabled the issue by closing my eyes and attempting to go back to sleep.
This worked for about thirty seconds, during which time I remembered not only Amy’s message but also my crazed and desperate response to it. The uncomfortable lump of plastic underneath my right shoulder was, I realized, the telephone. On what must have been my thirty-fifth day of waking up alone, I finally surrendered to the reality of it: to the unconscionable ache, the tsunami of sadness and regret. I raised my hand to my face to block the tears that wouldn’t come but should have and managed to smash the splinter farther into my skin. The pain was so severe and specific that my eyes actually watered. “You’re a wreck,” I said out loud. And slowly—very slowly—I pulled myself out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom.
I hadn’t shaved in days, and my hair was a Ph.D. dissertation on scatter art. There were purplish circles under both of my eyes, and my pupils were swimming in a white sea flecked with blood. But I recognized myself in the mirror. That was a start.
I pulled open the medicine cabinet and let my eyes adjust to the chaos. There were shelves of facial creams and facial washes. Exfoliating agents and defoliating agents. Toothbrushes, tooth flossers, and toothpastes. Prescription bottles that had expired years before and small blocks of foam whose purposes were obscure even to me. This was the realm of Amy, and I was utterly lost in it. But these were desperate times. I had a splinter—an injury that I had assumed disappeared after puberty like loose teeth, skinned knees, and chicken pox—and if there was an instrument in the house to cure me of it, it was lurking somewhere in this cabinet. I took a breath and dove in.
Five minutes later, I had overturned a box of Q-tips, knocked tampons all over the sink, and found a pair of sunglasses I thought I had lost back in college. But no tweezers. Amy had eight different brushes, and even now hair scrunchies were scattered on every table and every counter in the house, but she didn’t have tweezers? I looked at the splinter, embedded in me and throbbing, redder and angrier by the moment. My God, I thought, I really am helpless.
I took a step back and considered my options:
The emergency room. Pros: effective, hygienic, responsible. Cons: public-humiliation factor quite high.
Calling a female friend. Pros: unusually sociable! Cons: public humiliation guaranteed.
Ignoring the injury. Pros: consistent with recent behavior, would increase the chance of eating something large, greasy, and hangover-killing within the hour. Cons: eventual death by gangrene.
Dissatisfied with the options before me, I opted to go with number four: Make do with what you’ve got and gouge the motherfucker out of there. Reaching underneath a box of butterfly bandages, I chose my weapon: a pocket fingernail trimmer. Lacking the traditional bullet to bite down on, I steeled myself, armed the trimmer, and went in for the kill. Using my left hand, I managed to get the splinter between the teeth of the trimmer, and, bracing myself for the pain, I squeezed. Snap. I opened my eyes. The trimmer had done the job it was created for: It had trimmed the splinter, leaving the rest of it tucked comfortably inside my epidermis. Fuck!
I sat down on the toilet and took another deep breath. Focus, I said to myself. Just do something right. Try again. And ever so carefully, I positioned the trimmer for another strike, squeezing gently this time and pulling away from my pierced hand. Slowly but surely, I felt the splinter leave my body. I looked down. I was free. I had done it.
I’d like to blame the wildly fluctuating levels of serotonin in my brain for the ecstatic rapture I felt in that moment, but that would probably be inaccurate. What I felt then, more than anything else, was a supremely satisfying sense of competence. I hadn’t run. I hadn’t hid. And I most definitely hadn’t gone to the emergency room.
Today truly was Independence Day.
After a shower, four Tylenol, and a gargantuan egg-and-cheese sandwich from the bagel store, I was once again feeling close to human. There was still an odd hollow echo in the back of my head and a rough patch at the back of my throat to remind me of the night before—but it wasn’t like I needed reminding.
I had bought a copy of the Post when I was out and opened it now on the coffee table. Bryce had been reacting to something on the gossip page, “Page Six.” I scanned through the barren holiday dish: apparently Paris Hilton had slept with someone, P. Diddy had attended some sort of party, and human beings still inhaled oxygen and exhaled carbon dioxide for survival. But there, on the bottom right-hand corner of the page, underneath the headline SPOTTED! I read:
…bad-boy writer/party promoter DAVID GOULD acting awfully cozy with PATTY REX, flame-haired guitarist from Detroit rock ’n’ rollers THE ESQUIRE BABYS, at downtown hot spot the Madrox last night…
I sat back on the couch. What was more embarrassing? I wondered: to have an asshole doppelgänger hooking up with almost-famous rock stars or to be labeled a party promoter by the New York Post? Truly a modern dilemma.
I laughed a little, but it was a sick laugh, sad and tiny. I desperately hoped that the Post didn’t get picked up by a wire service in the Netherlands. I rubbed my sore right hand. What to do?
I had tried beating him. I had tried joining him. Neither had worked, and both had left me poorer—emotionally, physically, and financially—than I was when I started. What was left? Killing him? I didn’t have the stomach for that, and I had a sinking feeling that when Jack referred to his “friends” in the Russian Mafia of Sheepshead Bay he was kidding. Besides, I was opposed to assisted suicide. Rimshot. Sigh.
What about retirement? Retreat back to these safe apartment walls and let the doppelgänger live—or ruin—my life at his own pace? No one would notice I was gone, and the few friends I had would probably end up being like Pedro and prefer the new me to the old. I felt empty, hollow, and washed-up. Yes, retirement and surrender were probably my best bet. Why mess things up further?
Just when I was beginning to get some real traction in feeling sorry for myself, my cell phone beeped from the next room.
1 New Text Message From: Cath
1:37 p.m.
Dear creepo: I have your iPod. Let me know if you want it.
It seemed that her David vacation hadn’t even lasted twenty-four hours. Forcing my thumbs to do my bidding, I texted her back:
I do want it. Can I pick it up from you somehow?
A moment passed, and then:
1 New Text Message From: Cath
1:41 p.m.
Well, my roommate is sort of having a 4th of July party. You could come if you wanted…It starts at 7.
I felt strangely elated. I was back on the grid; the lights were on. But I had to be sure. I wrote:
I’d love to. You do know which one this is, right?
The answer arrived almost immediately.
1 New Text Message From: Cath
1:43 p.m.
Of course I do. I wouldn’t have invited otherwise. :-P
I leaned back on the couch and felt something strange and unfamiliar on my face: a smile. I was invited to a party—me, not the other version of me, not somebody’s misconception or bad idea brought to life. Hungover, circle-eyed, recently de-splintered me.
I should thank Cath, I thought. Really thank her. She had been put through the ringer by me—and by the other me. And for her to reach out was something special. She deserved a present. Something to show my appreciation. But what would a newly lonely, skinny, sardonic media professional in New York City give a woman as a gift?
That’s easy: a mix CD.
I brushed the crumbs off the coffee table and hummed to myself, awash in all the exciting possibilities.
With the sunlight pouring in through my windows and the air-conditioning providing a calming wave of white noise, I sat down at my desk. Self-consciously, I slid the picture of Amy under some papers so it couldn’t see what I was doing. Europe or no, she’d never approve of me making a mix CD for another woman. I put my headphones on and opened up iTunes on the computer. I felt another stra
nge rush of contentment; maybe it was chemical, but I didn’t mind. It felt good to have a task again, to be productive. I rubbed my hands together and started in earnest.
Four hours later I was done. This was the mix I made for Miss Misery:
1. “The Trial of the Century”—French Kicks(A quietly pulsing, insistent opener. Sets the mood: pensive but still vaguely groovy. Nice quasi reference in the title. Message: It’s been hard but we’ve seen it through. Subtler message: I care!)
2. “The Two Sides of Monsieur Valentine”—Spoon(Topical! Relevant! Obscure! Irresistible!)
3. “I Know I’m Not Wrong”—Fleetwood Mac(An all-time favorite, poppy and just shy of insane. She made a joke about all the Mac on my iPod at the club; little does she know what she’s in for! Sets a pleasant, workable mood.)
4. “Cinnamon”—The Long Winters(Overlooked pop gem—nice segue from the Mac—acoustic but with a little oomph to it. Also: Lyrics about skin, marriage, honeymoons, etc. are flirtatious but in a genteel, nonthreatening way. Work that Gouldian charm!)
5. “Head Full of Steam”—The Go-Betweens(This one took a while—it’s always difficult to pick one song by a favorite band. Can’t get too obscure; can’t try to impress. Better to be safe: Pick a popular number and hope it leads to an interest to hear more. Relevant lyric: “To chase her/a fool’s dream.” Apologetic and forward at the same time—story of my life!)
6. “If You Knew Her As I Know Her”—The Mendoza Line(Who could resist the title? Goal: admitting the fact that I am kind of stalkerish but repositioning it as a POSITIVE. I am blessed with perspective! And canny musical taste! Right? Right??!?)
7. “July, July!”—The Decemberists(Helpful tempo quickener—short but sweet. Also deft reminder of when the CD was made…)
8. “Fourth of July”—Galaxie 500(Spacey and weird—total tempo change. But come on, who could resist the title? This is the sound of NYC sometimes: bizarre and droning and a little bit haunted. If Cath doesn’t recognize it by now, she will before the summer is over.)
9. “There’s Glory In Your Story”—Idlewild(Gloriously poppy B-side from underappreciated Scottish band. Choice lyric: “Independence Day comes when you’re down.”)
10. “Sympathy”—The Get Up Kids(Ashleigh turned me onto this one, actually—I’m not usually much of an emo fan. But there’s something churning and yearning about this song that gets me; I listened to it on repeat in the days after Amy left.)
11. “Y Control”—Yeah Yeah Yeahs(Purpose number one: Look! I’m hip! Purpose number two: This is what I thought nights out sounded like before I actually experienced one. Now I know that they sound noisy and sweaty and that the music sounds good no matter what it is. But I still like the way I think this makes me think I feel. Or something.)
12. “Ladyflash”—The Go! Team(This song is punky and funky and exciting and mysterious—and if I ever get the chance to dance with Miss Misery again, I want it to be to this song.)
13. “Calm Before the Storm”—The Bats(Another all-time favorite and a nice stroll back down-tempo before the close.)
14. “Look Up”—Stars(A bold move on two counts. One: It’s Canadian, so she might know it—or even worse, she might hate it. Two: It’s sappy and hopeful and romantic and all of the things that I am but try not to be. I had this song on and off the CD seven times before burning it. But if I go down, at least I go down my way.)
With the disc burned, I rifled through copies of Esquire and GQ, searching for a suitably vague and cool-seeming image to gank for a cover. I found one near the back of a year-old issue of GQ with Jake Gyllenhaal on the front. It was a two-page ad for expensive watches, but all I was interested in was the background: a moody shot of the old TWA terminal at JFK Airport, aglow with strange hues of green and gold. I snipped it out and stuck it in an empty jewel box. Looking good. All I lacked was a title. I thought for a moment, then without hesitating uncapped a Sharpie and wrote across the disc: “INDEPENDENCE, DAZE.” What girl didn’t love puns? I slammed the case shut, threw it in my bag, then went to get changed. I was feeling peppy and I had a party to go to.
When I raced out of my apartment a short time later, Mrs. Armando was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, sweeping up great clouds of nothing in the dim indoor light. The entire first floor smelled like a pine forest, and I did my best to avoid any spots she may have already tended to.
“David!” she said without looking up at me. “What time you get in last night?”
“Last night?” I said, playing dumb and charming at the same time. “I don’t know, Mrs. Armando. Late?” I smiled as broadly as I could. I was moving again. I wasn’t going to be dragged down by this.
“I don’t know where your head is at,” she said in the direction of the floor. She coughed, and I thought I was free, but then: “You gonna watch the explosions tonight?”
I paused. “The explosions?”
“You know, the flag, the lights, all lit up in the sky? Whaddya call it.”
“Fireworks?”
“That’s it, that’s it. You gonna watch?”
“I’m gonna watch, Mrs. Armando. Are you?”
“Oh…” She fussed with something on the corner of the rug. “You never know, you never know.”
I took that as my cue to push past her and open the door.
When I left the house for the second time that day, the quality of the sky seemed to have improved even more: Where once there had been gauzy puffs of clouds, now there was nothing but a deep, burnished blue. The sun was glaring and hot, focused down to a tight coin perched precariously above the Manhattan skyline. Everything seemed richer, more profound: the loose soil spilling onto the sidewalk in front of the house, the reggaeton blaring from the open windows of a passing Honda, the smile from the unknown bearded neighbor out walking his three-legged Great Dane. I smoothed my T-shirt out, felt the first tickle of sweat in the small of my spine. Even the air smelled decadent, like wood chips and hot dogs; thick not with humidity but with nostalgia for summer days remembered from sleepaway-camp photo books and family-vacation videotapes. Without my iPod to blanket my ears, I focused instead on smaller sounds: a baby crying, children playing catch in the middle of the street, the tinkly chime of a Mister Softee truck blocks away, and everywhere the quiet, calming hum of a thousand air conditioners at full tilt. I put my sunglasses on and stepped off the landing, staring upward for a change at the deep leafy green of the few trees that lined the street—dyed a strange golden yellow by my UV-protection lenses.
As I headed toward the avenue, I felt a spring in my step, a twittering hiccup in my chest. I felt poised for something, a strange miasma of anticipation coating my entire body as if I too were playing catch in traffic—with both the ball and an eighteen-wheeler barreling my way. It was excitement and nerves and fear and all of those things, but it was also something new: It was freedom. It was a holiday in every sense—from work, from responsibilities, from life. I felt like I was bursting out of my own skin, like I was walking quickly downhill after weeks of uphill trudgery. I clenched and unclenched my fists at my sides and imagined, as I often did on this walk, how much easier and more pleasant things would be if I could fly.
I couldn’t, of course—I was just impatient—so I kept walking until Fifth Avenue, then hung an aggressive left and headed toward the subway. The sunlight bashed itself into glass storefronts and spilled messily onto the pavement. Everywhere children were running, Super Soakers filled and dripping; pizza slices were folded over and eaten; beer was purchased; cars were double-parked and other cars were honking before slowly and grudgingly double-parking themselves. A trio of do-ragged black guys swept down the sidewalk like a wave, smoking Newports, pushing one another and throwing noisemakers down at their feet as they walked, pop-pop-pop. A pigeon flew low over my head; instinctively I ducked and then wondered if it was my old friend. No, I decided—too pale. All that greenery would have had to have improved a bird’s health.
I wondered what the sky
was like in the Netherlands—dark by then, probably—and if the expats had paid for fireworks of their own or if that was too ostentatious for Americans abroad these days, most of whom were tripping over each other pretending to be Canadian. But I didn’t like the room this thought led to in my mind, so I quietly shut that particular door and stopped thinking about it.
Instead I double-timed my steps and nearly sprinted down the hill and up the stairs to the train. My legs felt hot and claustrophobic in my jeans, but I didn’t mind. The day was well and truly spectacular.
Up on the platform again, I walked to the end as I always did and stared out over the Gowanus Canal at the shimmery image of the Statue of Liberty, as small as a tourist’s statue of it from this distance, standing stock-still and ramrod straight. It was, as always, strange to see see something so famous, so recognizable in the mundanity of public transportation. It was like coming face-to-face with a supermodel in the DMV, almost unbelievable in its reality. But it also made me calm. I turned 180 degrees and stared out over Downtown Brooklyn—the avenues and warehouses, the impossibly phallic Williamsburgh Savings Bank building forever thrusting itself into the sky—and then past it to the curve of Manhattan, as stoic as a mountain range, from the self-important skyscrapers at its southernmost tip all the way to another unreal familiar landmark, the Empire State Building, where Amy had once worked and where I would wait in endless security lines and forever elevator queues just to sneak in a wordless visit during her lunch hour. Hello city, I said silently. I wonder if you’ve changed this year too.
Miss Misery Page 15
