Recycler

by Lauren McLaughlin

  For a full twenty-seven minutes (I know because I keep checking the clock on my cell phone), we manage to eat and chat without stabbing each other with the cutlery. But it’s all too intense for me. It might be easy for Mom, now that the new software has kicked in, to pretend she likes me, but I find the endeavor emotionally grueling. I’m an honest person, a trait Jill ascribes to my inherent simplicity. Call it what you will, I’m against lying, and this make-believe family brunch is a fraud. I’m glad when it’s finally over.

  Once Mom’s paid and we’ve gone outside, I’m so worried Dad’s going to suggest another family outing to prolong the togetherness, I fake a text from an imaginary friend.

  “Oh crap,” I say. “I’m supposed to meet this guy in, like, an hour.”

  Mom and Dad look at each other because they don’t believe me, which makes sense, since today was supposed to be Jilltime. Luckily, they’re decent enough to let it go.

  Mom glances at her watch. “Maybe we should head back,” she says. “And avoid the weekend traffic.”

  Dad nods. “It sure was great seeing you, Jack,” he says. “I hope you know I mean that.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I know you do.” That’s all I’m willing to give him right now.

  “Do you need anything?” Mom says. “T-shirts or anything?”

  I shake my head.

  Mom reaches into her purse and produces a handful of cash. “Jill wanted some boots,” she says. “And why don’t you get yourself something.”

  I stare at the wedge of bills. There must be over a hundred dollars.

  “It’s not a bribe,” she says. “You can keep hating me if you want to.”

  “Promise?”

  She nods.

  I take the money.

  “Can we get a taxi here?” she says. “Our car’s in the hotel garage in Manhattan.”

  I look both ways down the street, but there aren’t any taxis. “Yeah, it might take a minute.”

  Dad looks pleased. “I’m in no hurry.”

  I scan the street in desperation. About a block and a half away is a car that might be a taxi. The local Williamsburg ones aren’t yellow, so it’s hard to tell. I step out into the street to flag it down. As it gets closer, however, I realize it’s just some guy in a big blue sedan.

  “You’ll call if you need anything,” Mom says. “Right?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “And tell Jill …” She stops and shakes away the thought.

  “Tell her what?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she says. “Just take care of yourself. That’s all.”

  I nod. Another big dark car approaches the intersection a block away, and I step out into the street to get a better look. I spot the Northside Car Service logo on its side. I wave my arm like a lunatic, and it flashes its lights at me. But it’s stuck at a red light.

  “This one’ll take you,” I say.

  Mom nods.

  “Well, I guess this is it,” Dad says. He punches me on the shoulder. “See you around, partner. He pauses for a second, perhaps hoping for a last-minute hug. Out of instinct, I jerk toward him, then back off.

  When the light changes, the Northside car makes its way toward us.

  “Hey, Mom?” I say.

  “Yes?” she says.

  It feels strange to say the word “Mom” without sneering. “Jill doesn’t want to go to NYU,” I tell her. “Or Columbia or Esswich Aggie.”

  “I figured,” she says. “Where does she want to go?”

  “Nowhere,” I say.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither does she,” I say.

  When the Northside car stops in front of us, I hold up my finger to the driver and he nods.

  “It’s Tommy Knutson,” I tell my mother. “Jill’s waiting to see where he ends up.”

  “Oh,” she says. “I thought they broke up.”

  “They did,” I say.

  Mom doesn’t get it. But then why would she?

  “It’s kind of a mess in here.” I tap my head as reference. “She does things without knowing why. Sometimes she rationalizes them after the fact.”

  “I see,” Mom says.

  “She’s a sensible girl for the most part,” I say. “But sometimes …” I shake my head.

  Mom smiles. “Tell me about it,” she says.

  “She needs to put Knutson behind her,” I say. “Once and for all.”

  Mom nods. “It’s not always easy.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “What ever is?”

  Mom and I share a look, then, whose meaning is unclear but which nevertheless brims with honesty. I open the back door to the car and lean in. “They’re going to midtown,” I tell the driver.

  He nods.

  My parents get into the car with no further attempts at hugging or meaningful glances, which is a small mercy. As I watch them go, I realize this is the second time in one day that a black car has left me alone on a sidewalk in the cold.

  To my great discomfort, I find myself sort of missing them.

  What a pair of jerks! They buy me one stinking meal and it upsets everything I thought I knew about them. I’ve never felt anything but anger toward my parents. It wasn’t pretty, but at least it was manageable. I knew the contours and limitations of that anger. I could indulge it safely. What am I supposed to do with these feelings? I can’t even name them. I’d have to invent words for them.

  And what’s up with that nostalgia fest about how they met? Am I supposed to relate to them as people now? People who used to be young? Like me? It makes me sick.

  With nowhere to go but my empty apartment, I ramble toward the waterfront, eventually winding up at a dirty “park” where a bunch of people around my age smoke cigarettes and drink coffee from paper cups. I hang back and observe them, knowing that none of them will talk to me and not knowing how to talk to them. I haven’t yet learned the fine art of making friends, and I’m beginning to suspect it’s beyond my abilities. Eventually I walk to the river’s edge and stare into the green-brown water of the East River.

  What if Mom’s right about bringing cards to the table? Am I going to lose Ramie to some clove cigarette-smoking philosophy major? Or worse yet, to some assistant to the assistant to the number three stylist in the industry? I can’t just stand by and let that happen. I have to do something to prevent it.

  The green-brown water of the East River offers little in the way of inspiration, so I turn my back on it and head home. It seems so obvious now that the only way to hold on to Ramie is to do something with my life. Something interesting. And important. If I’m going to continue qualifying for a girlfriend of Ramie’s stature, I need to start bringing some friggin’ cards to the table. Because right now I’m not bringing anything.

  My pace quickens, and before long, I’m running. It feels good to run. It has direction and purpose. I promise myself that by the time I make it home, I will have some cards for the table. Good ones too. If Jill wants to waste her life waiting to see where Tommy Knutson lands, that’s fine for her. But Jack McTeague is going to be somebody.

  That’s right. I’m going to count. People will know my name. When I die, they’ll say, “Jack McTeague did that. Oddly, he had no birth certificate. Nevertheless, he did that. He really did it.”

  •

  A few minutes later I’m knocking on Natalie’s door.

  She opens it with a cup of coffee in her hand.

  “Hi,” I say. “I’m Jill’s brother, Jack. I need a job.”

  She stares at me. “You and Jill have the exact same haircut.”

  “I know,” I say. “I need a job.”

  “Are you twins?” she says. “Is that a freaky twins thing?”

  I nod. “I’ll work for free. I’m only here about four, maybe five days a month. But I’ll work hard. I promise.”

  She leans against the doorjamb and regards me appraisingly “Can you do anything?”

  The list of things I can “do” is both limitless and X-rated, but I am
not here to prostitute myself. “You have a magazine, right? I can, like, proofread it or something.”

  “I don’t need a proofreader,” she says.

  “I can type,” I say.

  “I don’t need a typist. Wait here.” She closes the door. About ten seconds later she returns and shoves a magazine in my face. “You’re eighteen, right? That’s my demo. Have a look at my mock-up and tell me if you think it’s too safe.”

  I take the magazine and flip through the pages.

  “You’re bored, right?” she says. “You think it’s boring.”

  “Um, I don’t know.” I flip through page after page of ads for sunglasses and handbags.

  She rips it out of my hands, flips through it, and shows me some fashion type pictures. “Boring, right?” She flips backward to an article about some Brooklyn-based DJ. “See? Boring.” She takes it back. “That’s what my investors said. Boring and safe.”

  “So why don’t you fix it?”

  “Great idea.”

  “I can help,” I say.

  “How?” Natalie’s eyes fix on mine.

  “I could be a model.”

  “No you couldn’t,” she says. “And I don’t need a model. What I need is a story. Something controversial. Something completely original. So unless you’ve got an angle on something groundbreaking, I’m afraid there’s little you can do for me.” She takes a sip of her coffee while her eyes flick around my face and hair. “It’s uncanny,” she says.

  “What?”

  “The resemblance.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

  Later that day, while I’m nursing a pumpkin smoothie at this juice bar in the neighborhood, I realize that Natalie is, unbeknownst to her, living exactly one floor beneath her groundbreaking story. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that a story about me and Jill could launch a journalist’s career. Plus we’d be famous. And rich too, because famous people are rich. Jill could give up her temp job and get invited to A-list parties where she’d eventually meet a rock guitarist or a world-renowned paleontologist who’d help her finally get over Tommy Knutson.

  Me? I’d be the desire of every woman in America. But they’d have to eat their poor little hearts out because I’m a one-woman man. Also, I could tell the whole world about how my mother locked me up. She’d be reviled, globally.

  Hmm, that doesn’t feel nearly as satisfying as it should.

  At any rate, when it comes to fame, there are cons to balance out the pros. There’d be paparazzi and intrusive medical type questions. Nosy reporters would dig through my trash.

  Plus, I don’t think Jill would appreciate it one bit. In fact, if she ever woke up to find CNN knocking on the door, it would be the end of her. She’d say something on the order of, “I deeply can’t believe Jack spilled our dirty secret when I’ve tried soooo hard to protect it. Mal!” Then she’d lock herself in the bedroom, stare into the mirror, and marinate in self-pity.

  In the end I decide, for her benefit more than my own, that the cons of fame outweigh the pros.

  I’ll have to rescue Natalie’s magazine with a different groundbreaking story. But it occurs to me while I’m slurping my smoothie that I’m not exactly in a position to find a groundbreaking story, or any story at all, since I don’t know anyone, don’t do anything, and the odds of anything groundbreaking suddenly occurring through the window of this juice bar are vanishingly small.

  Eventually, with nothing but the watery dregs left of my pumpkin smoothie, my cell phone beeps. It’s a text from Ian Larson. Check this out:

  Ur right it was stupid im thru w them and stupid chart cant stop thinking about u

  He can’t stop thinking about her? That’s an unexpected twist. I had Larson pegged for a skinny creep who spent his weekends scouring the Burg for underage girls. I figured he’d move on to the next tender morsel and forget all about Jill. Is it possible he actually likes her?

  Oh, who cares? He’s still a skinny creep. I’m about to pose as Jill and send him a blistering hate text, when all of a sudden Larson’s unexpected Jill-positiveness starts to feel like an opportunity. My mind fizzles. An idea begins to emerge. I suck back the final sip of my pumpkin smoothie and allow the idea to gestate in the fetid swamp waters of my mind. I have a good mind, you see, capable, if nourished properly, of all manner of brilliance.

  Here, perhaps, is Natalie’s story, sitting right under the bony ass of Ian Larson.

  I text him back:

  Meet me at the McCarren Park dog run in ten minutes.

  Don’t worry. I have a plan.

  Ten minutes later Larson lopes his way down Driggs Avenue, wearing this giant blue anorak with a matted fur collar that looks like ants live in it. He scans the perimeter of the dog run in search of Jill. The second he recognizes me, he stops.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” I tell him.

  He stays where he is, a good ten feet away. “Where’s Jill?” he says.

  “Out of town,” I say. “Larson, I have a proposal for you.”

  He doesn’t move.

  “I don’t bite,” I tell him. “For crud’s sake, Larson, are you going to come over here or am I going to have to yell my proposal to you?”

  Reluctantly, he lopes over to where I’m leaning against the dog fence. “Okay,” he says. “What do you want?”

  “What I want,” I say, “is justice.”

  “What?”

  “Dude,” I say. “You know who thinks justice is way impressive?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Jill,” I say.

  “Really?”

  I nod. “It’s, like, her number two turn-on.”

  “What’s number one?”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I say. “Now listen.”

  Larson’s all ears. I seem to have a strange power over him. Although he clearly thinks I’m deranged, he finds it difficult to defy me, as if I exude a natural authority. I make a mental note of this and vow always to use it for good, not ill.

  “Here’s my plan,” I tell him. “You steal the girl-trader chart from your degenerate friends, and Natalie publishes it in her magazine next to a tell-all interview with a former—no, a reformed girl-trader, a.k.a. you.”

  I pause to let him adjust to the glaring genius of it all, but he only looks at me dumbly.

  “You see, Larson, it’s both a cautionary tale and a story of redemption.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says.

  “You know who thinks redemption is unbelievably cool?”

  “Jill?”

  I nod deeply.

  “You’re nuts,” he says.

  He starts walking away, but I catch up and plant myself right in his path.

  “Larson, I’m trying to help you.”

  “Why?” he says. “What’s in it for you?”

  “Me?” I say. “I’m in it for the justice. Don’t be so cynical.”

  Larson does have the cheekbones for cynicism. Maybe that’s what Jill liked about him.

  “Anyway,” I say. “What difference does it make what I want? Do it for your own sake. Do it because you know Jill will practically throw herself at your feet for being so … courageous. Courage being, I think, number four on her list of turnons.”

  “Should you be talking about your sister like this?”

  I shrug. “We’re all adults here. Look, I’m not saying you should do it only for the hero-worship sex. Do it because it’s the right thing to do. Think of the hero-worship sex as a fringe benefit.”

  Larson shifts back and forth on his feet, which gives the impression of a badly constructed high-rise swaying in an earthquake. “You really think she’ll dig it?”

  “Call her,” I say. “See what she says.”

  With my hand in my pocket, I make sure the volume’s turned off on my cell phone; then I stand by innocently while Larson calls Jill and leaves the following Larsonian message:

  “Hey, Jill. It’s Ian. Um, this is kind of weird, but your brother’s tryi
ng to get me to, um, steal Perm’s chart for justice or something? And I was wondering … um … what you thought. I’ll do it if you think I should. I mean, I guess I kind of owe it to you.”

  “And to womankind,” I whisper.

  “And to womankind,” he says.

  I wink at him.

  “So anyway, let me know what you think. Oh and, um, call me if you want to hang out sometime.” He hangs up.

  “Not sure I would have added the last part,” I say. “She hasn’t forgiven you yet.”

  “Shoot,” he says.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay. She probably will. I mean, she defo will if you get the chart.”

  “Defo?”

  “British slang,” I say. “So, are you in?”

  He shrugs. “I’ll see what she says.”

  “Wise man.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “So, are you and Jill, like, twins?”

  I nod.

  “Do you, like, read each other’s minds and stuff?”

  I lean toward him ominously. “I’m reading her mind right now.”

  He backs away, but he keeps looking right at me.

  “Yup,” I say. “She’s thinking, I wonder if I should get that voice mail from Ian. He kind of hurt my feelings, what with being a girl-trader and all, but other than that, he seemed nice. And he was—” I have to suppress the gag reflex when I say this next part. “He was deeply, deeply cute.”

  “You’re so full of shit,” Larson says.

  “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not.”

  He backs off a few steps, then turns and walks away.

  “So are you in or what?” I yell.

  “I’ll let you know,” he yells back.

  “Well, don’t take too long, guy. This clock is ticking.”

  He shrugs and lopes his bony way down Driggs Avenue.

  Now, I know Jill’s mind better than my own, but I still can’t figure out what she ever found attractive about Larson. To me he looks like the unholy offspring of a skeleton and some garbage. Girls can be so demented.

  When he’s safely out of view, I text him the following:

  Defo snag the chart! I luv it! Justice rules. CU in few days? Xoxo Jill

  About ten minutes later Larson texts back: