Now he should go.
The apartment is given a final once-over. Unarticulated boxes cramp the floor like a bivouac for the at-home homeless. This weekend he and Sally were to tackle the majority of the packing. She won't be pleased, especially about these abandoned books. But the coffeepot has been cleaned, and the cereal bowl has been washed, dried, and restacked, and the New York Times has been folded so that her hands might feel like the first that have touched this day, Friday, August 20, 1999.
The note on the coffee table shouts ten recriminations against a shoddy existence.
Jerk, asshole, how can you leave like this?
Billy slips back on the sunglasses, the baseball cap.
He closes the front door and double locks. As usual, the stairs seem near collapse. In the vestibule he opens the mailbox—S. Hu—and nestles the keys inside. His name was never needed here. Inside for the most part are her postcards, her letters, her magazines and catalogs, her attention on all the bills, on the lease, on the security intercom.
B. Schine is nowhere to be seen.
2
THE CATS T-shirt might've been a mistake in this weather. The black color absorbs the already overburdened air, the never-before-washed fabric itchy on the skin, the whole touristy intent turning into a glib hair shirt woven with humidity. The yellow titty eyes weep with the beginnings of sweat.
He must look absurd. Like one of those hipsters who wear irony on their sleeve. Hopefully his deodorant will hold.
The subway is eight blocks away. There's still no sign of a potential Ragnar hiding among the Judy Garlands and Mickey Rooneys of the Lower East Side, a locale where everybody under thirty puts on a show. The crucible for the melting pot has been covered with a dross in the arts. Echoes of a better life, of opportunity, have been refined into blatant ambition for fame, as second- and third-generation Americans bankroll their sons and daughters who return to these tenements and pursue their dreams fresh from college. They're the nouveau poor—if not actors, artists, writers, musicians, filmmakers, then obsessed with actors, artists, writers, musicians, filmmakers. They applaud art with a series of self-reflective sighs.
Billy is glad to be leaving.
Why did he ever arrive?
Maybe because his mother and father have roots here, a nineteenth-century famine and a twentieth-century pogrom bringing their respective families through Beekman pier and into this neighborhood. But today's Ludlow Street holds saloons with velvet ropes, and the synagogue, the oldest in the city, has been converted into a private party space where cantors have a techno beat. Mirages from earlier times—bakeries and butchers mostly—float between handbag boutiques and restaurants. Apartments in old settlement houses now sell for half a million dollars, their doorways bearing holes instead of mezuzahs. Long forgotten are the Moskowitzes and the Smiths of the Fourth Ward. Tammany Hall has been renovated into a megastore.
On Delancey, on Rivington, on Stanton, Billy pictures himself in the crosshairs as Ragnar trains his scope on the levanter Schine, right in the cheesy pictographic of his cap. Billy is ready for the bullet, definitely hollow-tipped. Each step seems maintained by a metronome of trigger squeeze and exploding brain—Boom!-Splat! Boom!-Splat! Boom!-Splat!—a dirge from a one-man marching band. Before finding purchase, the laser sight will ideally cross his vision and give him the clarity reserved for the soon-to-be fucked. The Oh, —moment. Then slug will slam into skull, rip through memory and function, and leave behind only tissue. A champagne celebration of blood will geyser into the air. You're dead! Eternal darkness, his only concept of the afterlife, will close in around him, like the bath emptying while Billy stays sprawled in the tub, and slowly nothingness will tingle every pore until finally he can breathe. But nothing happens, over and over again, nothing—wait—nope, nothing, which leaves Billy with the weird inverse of relief.
He exhales noisily (never sighing, no way, not for him). You could say Billy suffers from survivor guilt along with pre-traumatic strees coupled with the Stockholm syndrome where this city acts as his captor. Seasonal affective disorder might be an issue as well. Billy hates the summer—fall, winter, spring, fine, but summer, sorry, summer sucks. Summer is for people with no imagination who think deep tans can make all the difference in the world.
You could also say Billy suffers from an unhealthy sense of drama.
You see, he owes some money, sixty thousand dollars to be exact.
Nothing like gambling or drugs or a double cross gone wrong. His problems are far from dark and brooding, almost the opposite, in fact: student loans. Billy is in the hole for a Harvard education (minus the dubious praise of a partial scholarship). For three years after graduation he was diligent. He wrote thirty-six checks, smallish sums, but the consistency was appreciated and the path ahead was clear. Soon he would be nearing his full earning potential, the promise of his future collateral enough. But around the time he learned that his mother was sick, Billy missed a month. Missed another month. Then another. If he was a morning late on the due date he might as well have been a month late, the postage launch window becoming as tight as a rendezvous in space. He'd claim forge tfulness—Oops, slipped my mind again—but like many world-class procrastinators, Billy has a great memory. Almost every hour—Shit!—a flash of willful disregard squeezed his diaphragm, a bit of physiology he mistook for his heart, and he'd mutter to himself, / really should pay. Not paying was more of a bother. But Billy continued forgetting. What would happen? he wondered. What were the consequences? Debtors prison? Would anybody even care?
First came the letters, faux personalized, with their feeble threat of a poor credit rating. "You'll never be able to secure a home mortgage." Aw shucks, Billy thought. These notices always seemed to arrive in the mail with offers from Visa or American Express or Discover, like Macbeth's witches promising him the kingdom. Soon enough, phone calls followed these letters. The representatives on the other side were from financial support services based in the Dakotas, in Nebraska, these teledunners crossing time zones and catching the East Coast during its dinner hour (Billy once temped for accounts unpaid).
"Ah, Mr. Schine," they'd start, "I'm calling on behalf of—"
Billy would interrupt with, "Excuse me, I'm having dinner."
"Ah, this is not a solicitation, sir."
"I don't care, my food is getting cold. Have the decency to call during normal business hours. This is my private time."
"But—"
"Have some shame," Billy would tell them half-naked on the couch, TV muted.
And the nice folks from Bismarck or Salem always did.
This back-and-forth went on for two years.
But in July a different variety of letter appeared. Typewritten on an old manual typewriter, the words carried an intimate hunt-and-peck quality. Wite-Out had been used. Wite-Out! Billy could practically hear the slow slap of the keys, the curse on a typo, the twist of the crusted cap, the delicate strokes of liquid paper and the blowing dry of the wet pearl. There were twelve corrections in all, including an entire sentence swept under in what seemed a frightening whisper of style and frugality.
Dear Mr. Schine,
For your information Ragnar & Sons has been contracted by your lending institution to help collect on your delinquent obligation toward Nellie Mae, which our records show as a chronic nonremittal. Ragnar & Sons specializes in the serial evader and we pride ourselves in creating the necessary environment for repayment. As a legitimate organization, we have three years of experience in the restitution field and over thirty years of practical training. Our track record is excellent. Our word is to be taken seriously. If you care for any references, we can dig some up. From now on Ragnar & Sons will be handling your account for the duration of the agreed-upon terms signed and dated July 11, 1989. Unlike many large institutions, Ragnar & Sons can provide close personal attention for our clients, as such, we demand respect, Mr. Schine, in the form of installments, a minimum five hundred dollars a month until full amortization, begi
nning this August. Please be prompt so we can be ensured of your new era of fiscal responsibility. Ragnar & Sons will do all we can to facilitate a productive relationship. We're a hands-on, old-fashioned, proactive company. You should know, Mr. Schine, we run a sensible operation, our dun well within SOP and in accordance with the bylaws of the FRS. We highly recommend you employ your expensive education before you slip behind any further. Satisfy us with a reply in no less than three weeks using the enclosed envelope.
Assuredly,
Ragnar & Sons
The return address was somewhere in Queens—Billy reckoned the professional restitution trade commuted from the outer boroughs. But within this threat was an element of care. The stationery was rich in rag, the letterhead engraved. No wonder Wite-Out had been used. Billy placed the paper against a lampshade and saw the X-ray of broken words, in particular, the fractured sentence: "Understand, Mr. Schine, you fuck, we will hurt you, we will Merrill Lynch you to the highest tree in Central Park if you're even a day late on delivery." Hmm. Their legal department must've recommended softer language. How about saying we're a sensible operation. Or perhaps this was the primary message, the subliminal advertising, the tits in ice cubes, the pricks in ultraslim cigarettes. Either way, Billy was impressed.
He filed the letter in a folder marked Fucked.
And on the first day of August the phone call came.
"May I speak with William Schine?" The voice was local and unsettingly calm.
"May I ask who's calling?" Billy asked.
"No, actually, you may not."
"No?"
"That's right, I'm not going to tell you, I refuse."
"Well—"
"Until I know whom I'm speaking with." The proper use of the interrogative was unsettling, like a grammarian diagramming your last words.
Billy sat there, frozen. He was going to lie about his name, but his mouth only thawed with the truth. "Uhm, this is him," he said. "Or is it 'he'?"
"Well, Mr. Schine, this is your account rep from Ragnar & Sons."
"I'm having dinner right now. Can I call you back?"
"I don't know, can you? I'm having my doubts."
"Mr. Ragnar, my food—"
"I'm not Ragnar. Get that straight. Lucky for you I share none of his blood."
"I'm in the middle of eating and it's rude—"
"You want rude, Mr. Schine? I sent you a letter that went without reply.
Now that is rude and not the best way to start a relationship. Ragnar & Sons expects common courtesy in these matters."
"Or what?" Billy said. "You'll repossess my education?"
"You're sounding rude again," the voice replied without pique. "But you do raise the fundamental dilemma of this line of work, and that is the lack of actual property to repossess. What do we collect on, your transcript, your degree? Not like a car or a house. Nothing concrete. This is where Ragnar & Sons has truly revolutionized the college loan collection industry. If our hand is forced, we will go after the repository of all that education. Guaranteed. Your sponge has soaked up someone else's money. If that money isn't forthcoming, then Ragnar & Sons will squeeze it dry."
"Oh please," Billy said, knowing bluster.
"We call it a King Tut."
"A King Tut?"
"We break your nose and remove your brain through the nasal cavity." Billy oohed false fear.
"It's an Egyptian embalming technique," this man from Ragnar continued. "When done correctly, the face is perfectly preserved. The old man is a sucker for open caskets."
"What a softy," Billy said.
"You think I'm kidding."
"Honestly," Billy told him, "I have no idea. It works either way in my book."
"Just pay us the money, okay. Our terms are reasonable, ridiculously reasonable, if you ask me, but now we're a ridiculously reasonable organization. But no matter what, unrequited earnest is a punishable offense. And yes, your brain is on the table."
"Your letter was great, by the way," Billy said.
"My letter?"
" 'Unrequited earnest' reminded me of it."
"You liked my letter?"
"Very much."
The voice on the phone worked a small bit of enthusiasm, like a toothpick. "That was my first written notice of nonremittal. I didn't really know what I was doing, I just sort of winged it."
"Well, it was a home run," Billy said.
"I thought maybe I went—Mr. Schine, please, let's get back to your business."
"But my business is so boring."
"Well, your business is my business now."
"But I have no business doing business with you guys."
"Is this how you always talk? Because you should really think about getting serious, Mr. Schine. You're in a serious situation. We'll get our money. We will be satisfied one way or another."
"Trust me, I'm not very satisfying."
"Shut up and listen," Mr. Ragnar man shot back. "You owe us money. Period. How you get this money, by borrowing it, kiting it, scamming it, conning it, using credit cards and mirrors, I don't care as long as you get us our monthly due. Try Wall Street. The Internet. You should be a millionaire by now. I mean you have to be a real asshole to be struggling in this economy, especially with Harvard in your sail. It's a lousy six grand a year. So get us our money."
"And if I don't?"
"You will."
"But if I don't?"
"How are your parents doing?" he asked with sleepy care. "They all right? I know Alzheimer's can be rough on a family. I sent your mother a bouquet of flowers on your behalf. Give the Whispering Pines Assisted Living Center a call and see."
"You'd go after my parents?" A curve of outrage pricked Billy's throat, like a barbless hook easily removed, quickly forgotten, his filial thoughts catch and release in a pond full of sucker trout. "That's nice. Rough up my already battered folks."
The man from Ragnar retreated. "All I'm saying is that I know you, know your whereabouts, your Asian skirt girlfriend, your possible escape routes. With computers it's virtually impossible to disappear."
Billy was unable to stop himself. "That's a pun," he said.
"You're an ass," the man muttered.
"You've got that right."
"I'm giving you two weeks and then bang, I'm in your near future and I'll put your nose to the grindstone and cut your teeth on payment schedules and, what's that other expression, oh yeah, pop your fucking kneecap with a hammer and screwdriver. Have a swell day."
On that, the line went dead.
For the next few days Billy considered getting a real job, a job with stock options and health insurance, a job with a sense of promotion. This whole temp thing was becoming a bit silly anyway. Since graduation, he's been a migrant keystroker for People Person Services—"We judge our temps by your needs"—which shills Billy as an information processor—in other words, he can read and touch type. For fifteen dollars an hour he samples potential careers without making a series of misguided commitments, without feeling stuck because he's climbed the first crappy rung and suddenly this job is his only qualification. This is who I am. But like many experiments where the investigator is also the subject (think of Spallanzani studying digestion by tying string around his food, or van Leeuwenhoek exploiting the early microscope by focusing on his own ejaculate), there's a danger of self-absorption where experience becomes an excuse for indulgence. Of late, Billy has grown all too fascinated by his own lack of purpose.
But now he has a nemesis. An enemy. A villain in the flesh.
Maybe that makes Billy a hero.
He pictures Ragnar as a family man from Flushing, his kids calling him Daddy, his wife kissing him on the cheek as he climbs into his car for another pressure-filled day. There he is, driving into the city by way of the Midtown Tunnel, riding above the necropolis of Queens, seeing all those cemeteries crowded with the borrowers of life, the tombstones reflecting the skyline in a lifeless gray lake. Of course the traffic for the tollbooths will frustrate h
im—C'mon! C'mon!—but he'll be pleased with the order and the required charge, the specific relationship between coin and passage when the gate salutes compensation.
You may proceed, good American.
But where is Ragnar now?
Billy looks around the street. A chase might be nice.
His suitcase is heavy and is shifted from hand to hand every few minutes, strain's short-term memory loss growing shorter with each swing. Billy pauses near the entrance for the F train, puts the suitcase down. He imagines a flower arrangement wilting by his mother's bedside, daisies probably, the love-me, love-me-not petals littering the table. XXOO, Billy. So sweet, the nurses might say, while Abe asks, "Why now?" A drop of water plinks the visor of Billy's baseball cap. Spit from a bitterly bored teenager? No, an air conditioner from the building above. Plink, plink, plink. Instead of condensation, Billy conjures up sweat from a hesitant jumper who stares down and wonders if the fall will finish him, if things are really so bad. Walking the streets of Manhattan, Billy is often afflicted with a peculiar form of vertigo: he fears a body landing on him and killing him, suicide as inadvertent murder. The combination of tall buildings and depression seems as deadly as booze and pills. The sidewalks, he thinks, should be a bloody mess.
Down into the subway he goes.
For most people, Ragnar & Sons would be enough to dispel any flip doomsdaying about an early death—the random crime, the failure of machines, the heart attack in a bacon cheeseburger with fries—and prove the case that, yes, you want more time, just a bit more, please, in the prayers you say and the sins you leverage in the hopes of another day. But Billy is sick and tired of the same old day. He wants something more, even if that something might be worse.
The Normals Page 2
