by Steve Toltz
Things weren’t perfect, of course. She hated it that I’d not yet dropped the habit of mentally noting all the famous actresses I’d like to sleep with when my ship came in.
I hated it that she was too open-minded and half believed in a creationist theory that had God go “Ta-da!”
She hated it that I didn’t hate fake breasts.
I hated the way when she was mad or upset, she’d kiss me with her lips closed.
She hated the way I’d try everything to open them—lips, tongue, thumb and forefinger.
Whenever I’d heard anyone say “Relationships are work,” I’d always scoffed, because I thought relationships should grow wild like untended gardens, but now I knew they were work, and unpaid work too—volunteer work.
One morning a couple of weeks into the relationship, Dad ran into my hut as if he were taking refuge from a storm.
“Haven’t seen you in a while. Love must be pretty time-consuming, eh?”
“It is.”
He looked to be bursting with bad news that he couldn’t hold in much longer.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. You enjoy it while it lasts.”
“I will.”
He stood there like stagnant water and said, “Jasper, we’ve never talked about sex.”
“And thank God for that.”
“I just want to say one thing.”
“Get it over with.”
“Even though using a condom is as insulting to the senses as putting a windsock on your tongue before eating chocolate, use one anyway.”
“A windsock.”
“A condom.”
“OK.”
“To avoid paternity suits.”
“OK,” I said, although I didn’t need a sex talk. Nobody does. A beaver can make a dam, a bird can build a nest, a spider can spin its web at the first attempt without even fumbling. Fucking is like that. We’re born to do it.
“Want to read anything on love?” Dad asked.
“No, I just want to do it.”
“Suit yourself. Plato’s Symposium won’t be much use to you anyway, unless your girlfriend is a thirteen-year-old Greek boy. I’d avoid Schopenhauer too. He wants you to believe you’ve been had by the unconscious desire to propagate the species.”
“I don’t want to propagate anything. Least of all the species.”
“Attaboy.” Dad put his hands in the tattered pockets of his old tracksuit pants and went right on nodding at me with a half-open mouth.
“Dad,” I said, “remember how you said love is a pleasure, a stimulant, and a distraction?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, there’s something else you didn’t mention. And that’s that if you could save the person from ever having another splinter in her finger, you’d run around the world laminating all the wood with a fine, transparent surface, just to save her from that splinter. That’s love.”
Dad said, “Huh. I’ll make a note of that.”
The next night when I got into bed, I found something bulky under the pillow. It was thirteen books, from Shakespeare to Freud, and after staying up all night and skim-reading at least half of them, I learned that, according to the experts, you cannot be “in love” without fear, but love without fear is sincere, mature love.
I realized I’d completely idealized the Towering Inferno, but so what if I had? Sooner or later we have to idealize something—being lukewarm to everything is inhuman. So I idealized her. But did I love her or not? Was it a mature love or an immature love? Well, I had my own method of working it out. I decided: I know that I love and am in love when suddenly I fear her death as sharply as I fear my own. It would be lovely and romantic to say I fear hers more than mine, but that would be a lie, and anyway, if you knew how deep and complete is my desire to perpetuate through the eons with every particle intact, you’d agree it was a romantic enough fear, this terror of the death of the beloved.
So I called her sort-of-ex-boyfriend, Brian.
“It’s Jasper Dean here,” I said when he answered the phone.
“Jasper! Thanks for calling.”
“What’s this about?”
“I was wondering if we could meet for a drink.”
“What for?”
“Just for a chat. Do you know the Royal Batsman, near Central Station? We could meet tomorrow at five?”
“Five twenty-three,” I said, to exert some control over the situation.
“Done.”
“What’s this about me helping you get your job back?” I asked.
“I’d rather tell you face-to-face,” he said, and I hung up the phone thinking he must have either a low opinion of his voice or a high opinion of his face.
For the next twenty-four hours my whole body pulsated with curiosity; this idea that I could help him get back his job confounded me. Even if it was somehow possible, why assume I’d want to? The worst thing you can say about someone in a society like ours is that they can’t hold down a job. It conjures images of unshaven losers with weak grips watching sadly as the jobs slip free and float away. There’s nothing we respect more than work, and there’s nothing we denigrate more than the unwillingness to work, and if someone wants to dedicate himself to painting or writing poetry, he’d better be holding down a job at a hamburger restaurant if he knows what’s good for him.
I only just got through the doors of the Royal Batsman when I saw a middle-aged man with silver hair waving me over. He was in his late forties and wore a flashy pin-striped suit, almost as flashy as his hair. He smiled at me. That was flashy too.
“Sorry, do I know you?”
“I’m Brian.”
“You’re the ex-boyfriend?”
“Yeah.”
“But you’re old!”
That made him smile unpleasantly. “I guess she has a little something for celebrities.”
“Celebrities? Who’s a celebrity?”
“Don’t you know who I am?”
“No.”
“Don’t you watch television?”
“No.”
He looked at me, puzzled, as if I’d actually said no to the question “Don’t you eat, shit, and breathe?”
“My name’s Brian Sinclair. I was on Channel Nine television for a couple of years. As a current affairs journalist. I’m taking a hiatus now.”
“Well so what?”
“Beer?” he asked.
“Thanks.”
He went to the bar and fetched me a beer and I was swept up in a sort of panic, dazzled by his silver hair and matching suit. I had to remind myself that he needed my help, and that put me in a position of power which I was free to abuse at any given time.
“Did you see the game last night?” I asked when he returned.
“No. What game?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what game—I was just making conversation. And he had to ask what game? Who cares what game? Any game. There’s always a game.
“So what can I do for you?” I asked.
“Well, Jasper, as I said, I used to be a current affairs journalist for Channel Nine. And I was fired.”
“What for?”
“Are you sure you don’t know about this? It was big news for a while. I was interviewing a twenty-six-year-old father of two who was not only not meeting his child-support payments but living off the dole so he could maintain his obsession with daytime television. I was just asking him a few simple questions, and right in the middle of the interview—”
“He pulled out a gun and shot himself.”
“Hey—I thought you didn’t watch television.”
“It’s the only way it could have gone down,” I said, although the truth was, I do sometimes watch television and I suddenly recalled seeing a repeat of that suicide in slow motion. “This is all very interesting,” I said, “but what’s it got to do with me?”
“Well, if I had a news story that no one else had, that could make me a valuable commodity again.”
“And?”
&
nbsp; “And your father has never given an extensive interview about his brother.”
“Jesus.”
“If I could get the inside scoop on the Terry Dean story—”
“What are you doing now? Are you working?”
“In telesales.”
Ouch. “That’s a job as good as any other, isn’t it?”
“I’m a journalist, Jasper.”
“Listen, Brian. If there’s one thing my father doesn’t want to talk about, it’s his brother.”
“But can’t you—”
“No. I can’t.”
Brian suddenly looked as though life had worn him down, literally, with an enormous nail file. “All right.” He sighed. “What about you? You probably know a few things about the story that the rest of us don’t.”
“Probably.”
“Would you agree to an interview?”
“Sorry.”
“Give me something. The Handbook of Crime.”
“What about it?”
“There’s a theory your uncle didn’t write it.”
“I really wouldn’t know,” I said, and watched his face tighten into a fist.
When I got home, Dad was curled up on the couch, reading and breathing heavily. Instead of saying “Hello, son, how’s life?” he held up the book he was reading: it was called A History of Consciousness. Instead of saying “Hi, Dad, I love you,” I sneered and started searching the bookshelf for something to read myself.
As I browsed, I could detect the sweet, sickly odor of clove cigarettes. Was Eddie here? I heard muffled voices from the kitchen. I opened the door to see Anouk and Eddie huddled together, speaking in low tones. They looked surprised to see me, and while Eddie hit me with one of his dazzling smiles, Anouk beckoned me over with one finger over her lips.
“I just got back from Thailand,” Eddie said in a whisper.
“I didn’t know you’d gone,” I whispered back.
He frowned unexpectedly—the frown surprised his own face.
“Jasper, I’ve got bad news,” Anouk said in a barely audible voice.
“Say it all at once.”
“Your dad’s depressed again.”
I looked through the door at Dad. Even when there were people in the house he still came across as a complete recluse.
“How can you tell?” I asked.
“He’s been crying. Staring into space. Talking to himself.”
“He always talks to himself.”
“Now he’s addressing himself formally as Mr. Dean.”
“Is that all?”
“You want a repeat of the last time? You want him to go back to the mental hospital?”
“The man’s depressed. What can we do?”
“I think it’s because his life is empty.”
“And?”
“And we need to help him fill it.”
“Not me,” I said.
“Jasper, you should talk to your father more,” Eddie said with surprising sternness.
“Not at this juncture,” I said, leaving the room.
My father’s depression could wait a couple of days. At present I was suddenly interested in having a look at The Handbook of Crime, by Terry Dean (Harry West). I figured that since my relationship with the Towering Inferno had begun with blackmail, maybe the book had some other relationship advice. I found it in a pile on the floor, in the middle of an unsteady igloo of printed word. With the book in hand, I wound through the labyrinth to my hut.
In bed, I flicked through the table of contents. Chapter 17 caught my eye. It was called “Love: The Ultimate Informer.” If there’s one thing a lawbreaker needs in his inventory, it’s secrets, and if there’s one enemy of secrets, it’s love, the chapter began.
The names of your informers, what backstabbing campaigns you’re embarking on, where you store your guns, your drugs, your money, the location of your hideout, the interchangeable lists of your friends and enemies, your contacts, the fences, your escape plans—all things you need to keep to yourself, and you will reveal every one if you are in love.
Love is the Ultimate Informer because of the conviction it inspires that your love is eternal and immutable—you can no more imagine the end of your love than you can imagine the end of your own head. And because love is nothing without intimacy, and intimacy is nothing without sharing, and sharing is nothing without honesty, you must inevitably spill the beans, every last bean, because dishonesty in intimacy is unworkable and will slowly poison your precious love.
When it ends—and it will end (even the most risk-embracing gambler wouldn’t touch those odds)—he or she, the love object, has your secrets. And can use them. And if the relationship ends acrimoniously, he or she will use them, viciously and maliciously—will use them against you.
Furthermore, it is highly probable that the secrets you reveal when your soul has all its clothes off will be the cause of the end of love. Your intimate revelations will be the flame that lights the fuse that ignites the dynamite that blows your love to kingdom come.
No, you say. She understands my violent ways. She understands that the end justifies the means.
Think about this. Being in love is a process of idealization. Now ask yourself, how long can a woman be expected to idealize a man who held his foot on the head of a drowning man? Not too long, believe me. And cold nights in front of the fire, when you get up and slice off another piece of cheese, you don’t think she’s dwelling on that moment of unflinching honesty when you revealed sawing off the feet of your enemy? Well, she is.
If a man could be counted on to dispose of his partner the moment the relationship is over, this chapter wouldn’t be necessary. But he can’t be counted on for that. Hope of reconciliation keeps many an ex alive who should be at the bottom of a deep gorge.
So, lawbreakers, whoever you are, you need to keep your secrets for your survival, to keep your enemies at bay and your body out of the justice system. Sadly—and this is the lonely responsibility we all have to accept—the only way to do this is to stay single. If you need sexual relief, go to a hooker. If you need an intimate embrace, go to your mother. If you need a bed warmer during cold winter months, get a dog that is not a Chihuahua or a Pekingese. But know this: to give up your secrets is to give up your security, your freedom, your life. The truth will kill your love, then it will kill you. It’s rotten, I know. But so is the sound of the judge’s gavel pounding a mahogany desk.
I closed the book and lay in bed thinking about honesty and lies and decided that my feelings were honest but I was toes to eyeballs with secret stories and secret thoughts, none of which I had revealed to the Towering Inferno. Why had I been instinctively following the book’s advice, a book written for criminals? Well, how could I reveal all the unimpressive things I’d done, like the time I was cornered by bullies and pretended to sleep through the beating they gave me? Or the time, just a week into our relationship, I was so jealous at the thought of the Towering Inferno sneaking off and sleeping with someone else that I went off and slept with someone else just so I wouldn’t have any right to be jealous? No, I wasn’t even going to tell her the good stuff, like how some mornings I came out of the labyrinth to the main road to find the streetlights still humming above me, an early wind tickling the trees, and the familiar scent of jasmine leading to a friendly confusion of the senses so it was as if my nose were full of the soft, heady smell of a light pink eyelid. I felt so fantastic bouncing in the warm morning air, I picked up a garden gnome from someone’s lawn and put it on the lawn across the street. Then I undid a garden hose from that family’s lawn and placed it on their neighbor’s front porch. I thought: We’re sharing today, people! What’s his is yours! What’s yours is his! Only later it did seem like a strange thing to have done, so I kept the story from penetrating my lover’s inner eardrum.
And because it was apparent to me just how thoroughly I was infected by Dad’s mistrust of everything, including his own thoughts, feelings, opinions, and intuitions—leading me to mist
rust my own thoughts, feelings, opinions, and intuitions—neither could I tell her that every now and then I enter some dreamy trance state in which it’s as if all the opposing forces of the universe submit to a sudden and inexplicable ceasefire and melt together until I feel like I have a piece of creation stuck between my teeth. Maybe I’m out walking in the street or simply erasing porn site addresses from my Internet browser’s history, when suddenly it’s as if I am wrapped in a soft golden mist. What is it, exactly? A period of superconsciousness, where the I of Me becomes the Us of We, where We is either Me and a Cloud or Me and a Tree and sometimes Me and a Sunset or Me and the Horizon but rarely Me and Butter or Me and Chipped Enamel. How could I explain it to her? To attempt to communicate uncommunicable ideas is to risk oversimplifying them, and the organic thrill is just going to come off sounding like an organic cheap thrill, and what would she think of these enchanting incomprehensible hallucinations anyway? She might rush to the conclusion that I am actually at one with the universe while others are not. It’s like Dad said: moments of cosmic consciousness could simply be a natural reaction to a sudden unconscious awareness of our own mortality. For all we know, the feeling of unity might be the greatest proof of separateness there is. Who knows? Just because they feel like genuine apprehensions of Truth doesn’t mean they are. I mean, if you mistrust one sense, you must mistrust them all. There’s no reason the sixth sense might not be as misleading as smell or sight. That’s the lesson I’ve learned from my father, the headline news from the corner that he thought himself into: direct intuitions are as untrustworthy as they are potent.
So you see? How could I tell her about these things when I wasn’t sure whether I’d just put one over on myself? Neither could I tell her that sometimes I was certain I could read my father’s thoughts and other times I suspected he could read mine. Sometimes, I tried to tell him something just by thinking it, and I’d feel I could hear him respond in the negative; I sensed a “Fuck you” traveling through the ether. Nor could I tell the Inferno that more than once I’d had visions of a disembodied face. I first dreamed of the face in my childhood, a tanned, mustached, thick-lipped, wide-nosed face floating out of a dark void, his piercing eyes giving off an aura of sexual violence, his mouth contorted into a silent scream. I’m sure this has happened to everyone. Then one day you see the face even when you’re awake. You see it in the sun. You see it in the clouds. You see it in the mirror. You see it clearly, even though it’s not there. Then you feel it too. And you stand up and say, “Who’s there?” And when you receive no answer, you say, “I’m calling the police.” And what is this presence anyway if in fact it’s not a ghost? The most likely explanation: a fully exteriorized and manifested idea. There were things crawling inside my brain itching to get out, and, worse, they were getting out and I had no control over where and when.
