“I’m Godfrey Burkes. You said Madge and I had great potential. You said you rarely see couples with as much potential as we had. But guess what? We did one of your exercises and it all exploded!”
“Burkes,” she says, narrowing her eyes, “you, with that crack about the dead moles. Were you one of the ones to turn us in?”
I feel dizzy, flush with adrenaline. Am I hearing Dr. A. Plotnik right? “Turn you in? No, I’m thankful we exploded, Dr. A. Plotnik. What do you mean—turn you in?”
She looks around, as if afraid someone’s following her, and then she whispers, “Madge put in more effort than you, coming in on her own, you know, seeking extra counsel. In fact, I saw that she called earlier today, probably about this explosion. I just haven’t had time . . .” Again, she peers around, eyes the hostess, and glares through the glass door to the street.
“Are you okay?” I ask her. I don’t feel so good myself. Am I just projecting, or is Dr. A. Plotnik shaken by something big that’s just happened to her?
“Of course I’m not okay!” She sighs with exhaustion. “In retrospect, we all realize that a lasting relationship is work, Godfrey, no matter which one you choose! Work, work, work!”
“You’re wrong,” I tell her. I’m not an animal. I’m a man who uses words. I might even come from sensitive stock. “A lasting relationship isn’t work, Dr. A. Plotnik. It’s home.”
Evelyn Shriner is home. I just have to find my way back.
Evelyn
PSYCHOSIS
Text 1: Squeee. How great are you? I love your boobs.
Text 2: I’m in the mall with my mother buying bath salts. I don’t know if we’ll bathe in them or smoke ’em! Wish you were here!
Text 3: I really really really love my mother. You will too.
Text 4: I’m not gay. I swear. Pinky swear!!!!
Text 5: Did I mention I’m still on parole? BTW: Do you have any clean pee?
Text 6: Never mind re: pee issue. I found an 8-year-old. All’s cool.
Text 7: Oh, and it’s okay. I didn’t kill that guy. It was accidental.
Conversation in my head:
He’s joking. Right?
Of course!
He’s spoofing weird post-first-date texts.
It’s funny. It’s funny!
He’s being funny.
He’s just really funny.
I excuse myself from the Youth Services desk. “I’ll just be a second,” I say to Jill, who’s an overly earnest intern. “Family emergency.” I point to the phone.
As I head back behind circulation to find a private spot, there’s Fadra walking in through the main doors. Her hair is a little less red than when I saw it last. She’s limping.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m going home!” she says, pure joy in her voice.
“You have a home?” I know I shouldn’t have said it, but it’s already out.
“I’m from Ohio.”
I feel completely turned around. I hear myself saying in my head, Right, of course! Ohio! Where else?
“Where you were a taxidermist?”
“My whole family’s made of taxidermists.”
She’s walking toward the elevators and I find myself following her. “Can I ask why you left in the first place?”
“I don’t remember,” she says, her eyebrows lifting.
“And why are you going back now?”
“Because I finally forgot why I left.”
We step into the elevator together. She presses the third-floor button, where she’ll presumably collect her things.
We ascend in silence. She steps out and says, “Thanks for everything!”
“You’re welcome.”
The doors start to close but I shove my arm in and stop them. I reach out and hug her. I don’t know why, except I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again—or maybe I’ll see her tomorrow, but still. I say, “Keep in touch! Send postcards!”
She hugs me and says, “There are only two choices in life: to open up or shut down.”
I step back. “And you’ve chosen . . .”
“I keep opening up. It’s kept me alive so far.” She turns then and walks off past the rows of shelves.
I step back into the elevator, ride it back down, and quickly slip into an empty office—one that’s small and filled with boxes—and I stare out of the window out at the street. Fadra’s going home. Just like that. Anything can happen. Open up or shut down. Isn’t there one other option? Just one?
My phone buzzes like a convulsing hive in my hand—texts 8, 9, 10. I try to take deep breaths. I fog the glass and close my eyes.
Don’t be a murderer, Godfrey Burkes, I whisper to myself. Don’t be a creepy freaking murderer. Please.
I open my eyes, and as if walking out of the fog on the window, there’s a human-sized duck. A person in a white duck costume, holding an American flag in one duck mitt and a pocketbook in the other duck mitt. The duck looks up at the library, as if unsure of its decision to borrow books today or not.
And then a teenager glides by on a skateboard—one of those emo kids, looking really skinny and emotive—in from the other direction and snatches the duck’s purse. Dot was right about those skateboarders!
The duck spikes the flag and starts running after the kid, but there are giant webbed feet strapped onto the duck’s shoes and she can’t really run.
The duck pulls the duck head off, drops it, and screams obscenities at the kid on the skateboard. Then, in an act of pure rage and desperation, the duck grips handfuls of feathers from her own costume and rips them out, shaking them in her fists over her head, and screams, falling dramatically to her knees.
Under my breath, I say, “We’ve got a duck down. A good duck down.”
I turn and start running. “Chuck!” I shout, running to the entrance. “Chuck!” When I get to the bright airy entranceway, he’s already through the doors and darting through traffic running down the marble steps toward the distraught duck.
A few customers are staring at me. I raise my hands. “No need for alarm! Go about your business!” And I turn on my heel and half jog, half fast walk to Gupta’s office.
I knock on his door. “Mr. Gupta! A duck just got robbed! In broad daylight!”
What’s the world coming to?
Godfrey
GODFREY IN LOVE
I knock at Bart and Amy’s door and no one answers. I’m about to walk away, but then I hear Bart arguing with Amy through their door, which is thick—the kind that can support three heavy bolt locks, so I know the argument is loud. I think again about leaving. I could crawl back to my parents’ house, but that just seems even more pathetic than this. I could sleep in the hallway. But aren’t nights like these exactly what best friends are for?
I finally hear a deadbolt unlocking, then the slight turn of the handle. The door doesn’t open all the way. I’m not surprised. I can still hear Amy yelling in the background. “That shit-turd” rings loudly.
Bart pops his head out of the half-open door. “This isn’t really a good time,” he says, clearing his throat, trying to mask the noise that’s going on behind him.
I want to tell him, Save your throat. I could hear the two of you bitch for the last five minutes. He’s not wearing the boat shoes, but he’s still decked out in pleated chinos and a white linen button-down that’s only buttoned up halfway. The strands of his chest hair make him look like a little boy dressing up as a sexy Ernst & Young accountant for Halloween.
“Madge locked me out,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says. “She went hysterical after you stormed out last night. DEFCON 5.” His voice hushes, which only magnifies Amy in the background. She’s dropping plates in the sink.
“You mean DEFCON 1,” I tell him.
“No,” Bart says, “she’s got the crazy eyes.”
“Exactly. One is like nuclear fucking explosion. Five is Switzerland.”
“Whatever, Godfrey, I’m too tired to argue about stupi
d stuff.” Bart quickly glances behind himself before turning back to me. He opens the front door a little farther. A pan hits the floor. “That was probably what was left of the lasagna.”
Bart lets his head fall against the doorframe. He looks exhausted. In moments I go from slight contempt to heavy pity. I don’t even know my best friend anymore. In a year or two would I even be able to recognize him in a police lineup? That’s my friend! I’ll tell the cop, and the cop will say, No, that’s a war lord being burned in effigy, and I’ll go, Oh. “You’ve aged like ten years,” I tell him. “Like those before and after pictures of two-term presidents.”
“Dude, I have aged. It’s crazy.”
I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve lost Bart. Was it my fault? Was Bart this way last week? Last month? “Have I just been too self-absorbed to notice anything around me?”
“Well, you noticed the boat shoes.”
“Sorry about that. What’s wrong?”
“I think I’m dying inside.” He looks over his shoulder. “I can’t talk about it now.”
I ruffle through the pockets of my wrinkled khakis and run my fingers around the winning receipt from Fontana’s, then the Thigpen letter, given to me just hours ago by my mother. Will she still die? “Everyone dies. I just happen to want to live a little first.” I want my fingers to be ruffling Evelyn’s hair, wringing the chlorine out of her dress after we jump into the pool. My mother would be buried by then, but we will survive the grief caused by the cycle of life and death and life. Everything really is like The Lion King.
“No philosophy lessons now, okay? What do you want, Godfrey?”
“A shower. A pillow. Maybe some clothes.” I smell myself. “Hell, we can look like a GAP ad together.”
“You’re an asshole,” he says, “And it’s Banana Republic, not GAP.” He’s smiling some—not a lot but enough.
I recognize that Bart! The one with the smile—my old roommate. Hi, Bart.
“Look Bart, where is she?”
“Madge? I wouldn’t rush in.”
“I have to rush in. For one thing, she has my phone. I’m nothing without a phone. I’m standing before you completely amputated by a lack of technology—amputated, Bart! Also, she could be sabotaging me with my own phone at this very moment. I could be hoisted by my own petard, here, Bart. And no man wants that!”
“I don’t know what that means. Hoisted by your petard? Is that a dick reference?”
“No! God, no! Look.” I growl a little with frustration. “I’m trying to mitigate the damage with a grand gesture.” I’m kind of rambling now, full-head-of-steam variety. “Maybe you can steal the phone back for me. If you can get Amy to let you talk to Madge, you know, on my behalf or something, and then you can get in close and you can steal the phone back. You know? It’s not really stealing because the phone is actually mine to begin with and—”
“I’m not stealing your phone back! My God, Madge could bite my arm off ! Amy would amputate me somehow, too—for real!”
“Okay, okay, just let me spend the night. You can dust off the PlayStation,” I say. “We can be in college again, even if it’s just for a night.”
Behind Bart, another pan hits the floor. We both cringe.
I continue. “Or forever. I found a time machine in a Dumpster behind Fontana’s.” Another loud clang. We don’t cringe this time; we were ready for it. “I’ll take us there right now.”
“You really fucked up, man.” Bart’s voice is lower than a whisper. “And now I’m paying for it. She’s been so pissed off; everything got burned to shit. Half of it is still stuck to the pan that’s now on the floor.”
“I didn’t do anything to Amy.”
“That speech! That comment about her ass getting fat?”
“I incriminated all of our asses,” I say, wagging my head. “That was democratic.”
“You screwed up the abstract art lesson,” he says. “We weren’t there to celebrate. Madge called and told us before we showed up that you’d fucked it up.”
“If you weren’t there to celebrate, then what were you there for?”
“Moral support!”
“For me?”
He wiggles the knob.
“Wait. Moral support is for someone who has to do something hard. Were you there to support Madge? Was she going to break up with me?”
Bart just keeps fiddling.
“Bart.”
Was Madge really going to end this first? I can’t decide if I’m offended or relieved. On one hand, it makes everything easier. With Madge gone, and by her choice, things with Evelyn can fall into place. It’ll be like I did nothing wrong. Everything wiped clean—a Windex relationship moment. I think about Evelyn’s envisioning, the hand-holding, the proposal. Still, something sinks inside of me.
I take his nonanswer as confirmation, but I still need to hear him say it. “Bart,” I say again.
“She said the art session was your last shot. But you can’t say anything. Seriously, forget I mentioned anything. She might not want to break up with you now. She might want to . . .”
“What? Torture me?”
“I’ve heard some talk,” he says ominously. “Look, Godfrey, I’m not fucking around. If Amy finds out I even mentioned this, she’ll smother me in my sleep. I’m serious. The rhetoric in this house has gotten really dark.”
“Bart,” I say. “I just need a place to crash tonight.”
“Give me a sec,” he tells me, holding his hand out before shutting the door in my face.
Madge was going to break up with me? Is that possible? Maybe we can broker a clean breakup. Something mutual. I mean, she won’t want to torture me forever, right? That’s heat-of-the-moment talk. I’m feeling almost free—almost.
When he opens the front door this time, he opens it all the way and gestures me inside. We stop in the hallway.
“The rules,” he says.
“Rules?”
“You have to sleep on the couch.”
“But you have a guest room, and it’s so aptly named.”
“We keep things in there,” he says.
“Things?”
“Yes, things.”
“What kind of things?”
“I don’t know, Godfrey. We have things. We keep them in the guest room. The things.”
“Yes, you said that. The things.”
“Yes or no?” Bart says.
“Okay,” I say. “The couch. I’ll sleep on the fucking couch. Do I get a pillow?”
Bart actually has to think about this, like I’m asking for a kidney or a wife swap. “I didn’t ask.”
“You’re not kidding, are you?”
“No.” He looks at me like I just asked to fuck his sister. “Kidding? I’m not kidding. This is no joke, Godfrey. Nothing about this is funny.”
“You said rules. Plural. That was only one.”
“You’re not allowed to eat anything. Amy threatened to lock the pantry. I guess we have locks; I didn’t know we have locks, but I assure you, we do. And if you want some water, it has to come from the tap. Amy says you can’t use the Brita pitcher.”
Baltimore tap water. Jesus. “You’re really not kidding, are you?”
“Don’t. I already said no.”
We’re still in the hallway. Amy drops one more plate in the sink before finally huffing off into the bedroom.
Bart exhales. “You know I’m not getting laid tonight because of this,” he says.
“Were you anyway?”
“If I did the dishes . . .” His voice trails off. He pauses. “Maybe.”
“I’m sorry for cock-blocking you,” I say. And I mean it. I feel bad. He seems so stressed, so wound up.
“It’s okay,” Bart says, and then we’re just standing there. This quiet awkward—the pregnant pause of our voices, the slight hum of the heater, the lack of pans and dishes banging.
Finally I say, “Are there any rules stipulating whether I can borrow some clean, dry clothes?”
“Maybe I can have some say over that. They’re my clothes. I’ll see.”
“I really appreciate this, and I’m sorry about what I said last night. All of that shit about your shoes and all.”
“Godfrey.” His eyes get nervous. He glances back over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I’m on your side.”
“What?”
“I can’t talk about it now. Just know that I’m with you, man.”
BART WON THE CLOTHING argument and he lent me a pair of pajamas. Since I’ve got almost four inches over him, his pajama pants fall short of my ankles. But they’re flannel and warm, so I can’t complain. My old clothes are balled into a clump next to my bed, the couch. The letter from my father is still in my chinos. I pull it out.
Once I start reading it, I can’t stop. I read well past complete memorization, but it still feels fresh each time. I want to tell Bart about the letter, how most of my life has been a lie and how I’ve accepted the love I’ve accepted because of that lie. But it’s time to say, I’m a Thigpen and it is okay that I’m a Thigpen. It has been written. And on the seventh day God did not rest. He made the Thigpens and He was pleased.
Bart walks in and says, “You all right?”
“I’m fine. You don’t understand the urgency of this situation. I really need to talk to Madge.”
“What’s there to understand? You want to win her back and you’ve got to let it breathe a little.”
“I don’t want to win her back.”
“What?”
“I’m in love with someone else.” I can’t believe I’ve said this out loud.
“Are you insane?”
“I have to break up with Madge. I have to.”
“Ho, God. Ho, God,” Bart says. “This is bad. This is so much worse than I thought.” Bart sits down on the arm of the couch closest to the hallway. He props one foot on one knee and cradles his head, rocking. Then he pops his head up. “Who is she? Tell me.”
“Evelyn Shriner.”
“I don’t know that name.”
“No, you do not.”
“Godfrey, this is ape shit.”
“I know.”
Bart slides off the arm and into the chair itself. His body is now slack. “I don’t like change. I have a hard time with it. You know that.”
The Future for Curious People Page 22
