Recycler

by Lauren McLaughlin

  S.O.S. Jck

  He doesn’t text back.

  Oh, don’t go spilling any tears for me. This has been a life of hard knocks. Believe me, I never thought it would be easy. I just have to toughen up is all. I’m Jack McTeague, remember? I survived the Evil Snow Queen of Winterhead. It’s going to take more than the wrongheadedness of a temporarily insane girlfriend to plunge me into the mopey hole for good. I just need to buck up and be a man or whatever.

  Oddly, it’s when I stop to think about Jill that I’m able to envision a way out of the gloom. Jill would put a strict time limit on her marination in self-pity. After that she’d hatch some harebrained scheme like tarting herself up to go shag some skeletal hipster or changing her hairstyle. She’d do something. That’s one thing I respect about Jill. She’s a doer. A vilely manipulative one at times. But a doer, nonetheless.

  So on day four, while trying to hatch a gloom-defeating scheme of my own, I find myself standing outside the dog run at the perimeter of McCarren Park. I like watching the dogs, the way they sniff each other and zigzag around. Every once in a while one dog climbs onto another dog and either gets bucked off or welcomed aboard. I respect the directness of that.

  “You up for a bit?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  This gives me an idea.

  Yes, I know it’s potentially unwise to get ideas from dogs. But look, it’s not like I’m surrounded by a council of wise beings. The dogs are what I have.

  I take out my cell phone and text:

  I’m single now FYI.

  You know who I send it to?

  Natalie.

  After I send it, I lean against the fence and wait to see if she calls back. Meanwhile, there’s this little greyhound chasing the crap out of a much larger husky. When the husky stops to bark at it, the greyhound backs off for a second, then resumes the chase. They repeat this little game over and over again with no dilution of fervor.

  Eventually my cell phone rings.

  “Jill?” Natalie says.

  “It’s Jack,” I say.

  “Oh,” she says. “Hi. Why do you guys share a cell phone? Is that a twins thing?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Did you get my text?”

  “Uh-huh,” she says.

  “So?”

  “So?” she says.

  “Want to hang out or something?”

  “Or something?” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Come on, meet me somewhere. I’m bored. And single. Did I mention that I was single?”

  I can hear the hesitation on the other end. I don’t know Natalie well enough to say whether it’s nervous excitement or true ambivalence, but all of a sudden I’m desperate for her to invite me aboard. Oh please oh please oh please, invite me aboard, I think.

  “Menesale’s,” she says finally. “North Eleventh and Berry.”

  When we hang up, I stare at the dogs for a few more minutes. The greyhound is still chasing the husky, and the husky is still tolerating it. Or flirting. It’s hard to tell. Maybe the husky just had its heart stomped by a careless girlfriend who loves her career more than him. Maybe that husky is hoping for a little affection from the greyhound to take its mind off its sorrows. It doesn’t mean the husky doesn’t love its girlfriend. It would take its girlfriend back in a heartbeat. But sometimes a dog needs a little TLC.

  Menesale’s is an empty Italian wine bar. I find a booth in the back and wave off the waiter because I know nothing about wine and am not even sure he’ll serve me. I’m not here for the wine.

  When Natalie enters, she speaks with the bartender, who nods eagerly. Then she comes over and joins me.

  “Do you even drink wine?” she says. “I figured you didn’t, so I ordered you a glass of Montepulciano. I know the bartender, so he won’t card you. Just try not to look eighteen.”

  “Eighteen and a half,” I say.

  “You look awful,” she says. “What happened?”

  “Long story,” I say. “Ramie sort of dumped me. What do you mean by awful?”

  “What do you mean by sort of?”

  I shrug in an effort to be nonchalant.

  “You look tired,” she says. “That’s all.”

  “But still devastatingly handsome?”

  Natalie doesn’t answer, though she seems amused by me, which is a start at least.

  The bartender comes over and deposits two glasses of red wine on our table. Suddenly, getting drunk seems like an excellent idea. If Natalie turns me down, I’m not sure what I’ll do. I can’t be alone anymore. Alone is off the table, a nonstarter. I’m through with alone. While Natalie swirls the wine gracefully in her glass, I take a big gulp.

  “Should I get you a straw?” she says.

  I swallow the mouthful. “No, I’m good.”

  Natalie clinks her glass against mine.

  “To singlehood,” she says.

  “Right,” I say.

  We both drink.

  “I have this book on wine,” she says. “And Montepulciano is supposed to taste like cherry. Do you taste cherry?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Me neither.”

  “I taste wine, though.”

  She puts her glass down and pulls a laptop from the bag at her side. She opens it and taps the space bar to wake it up. “So what’s your plan? Mope around for a week, then hit the streets in search of new blood?”

  “Is that what people do?” I say. “I’ve never been dumped before.”

  She stares at me for a second, then returns to her keyboard. “Read this.” She turns her laptop toward me.

  On the screen is the girl-trader article, “Sleeping with the Enemy.” It’s only a paragraph long.

  “It’s short,” I tell her.

  “Yeah, Ian’s not very quotable,” she says. “Anyway, I wanted to lead with the visuals.” She reaches over and taps the keyboard, revealing a mock-up of the infamous chart, with labels describing its lurid components.

  “It looks great,” I tell her. “Very damning.”

  She pulls the laptop back. “I know. Next time you can do the interview.”

  “Cool.”

  “Throw yourself into work,” she says. “That’s the best way to get over someone.”

  “I can think of another way.”

  She laughs. “I’m sure you can.” She starts typing again.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  She holds up her finger to tell me to wait; then she finishes typing and turns the laptop toward me.

  It’s opened to the casual encounters section on craigslist. In a new listings window, she’s typed:

  Hot M4W 18 “sort of” dumped by gf seeks consolation/revenge sex

  “Do you have a photo?” she says. “You get more traffic with a photo.”

  “Very funny.”

  She pulls the laptop back to her side of the table. “Cheer up,” she says. “You picked the right city to be single in. You have math on your side. Six to one, I think.”

  “Six to one what?”

  “Single straight girls to single straight guys. It’s a total conspiracy.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But I don’t need six girls.”

  “Uh-huh.” She keeps typing. “Here’s one for you.” She reads from the screen. “‘Curvaceous w4m looking for fun in Brooklyn.’” She presses her lips together. “Curvaceous means fat. Do you like fat?”

  I shrug.

  What ensues is a tour of the slutty and desperate of craigslist with Natalie as my tour guide. She focuses mainly on Brooklynites in search of instant gratification, but to my surprise and hers, none of it appeals to me. I am, however, beginning to feel warm and light-headed from the wine, which does appeal to me.

  “Okay, what about her?” Natalie says.

  She shows me a snapshot of a blond girl licking a lollipop, with the caption “Candy 4 U. Candy 4 me.”

  It leaves me cold. “No thanks,” I say.

  “Man, you’re picky. My guy friends are always complaining about
how hard it is to get laid. Like girls have it easier or something. It’s so not true. You just have to know where to look.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I’m trying to help,” she says.

  “But I don’t want that kind of help.”

  “I know.” She keeps typing. “You want me to be your backboard.”

  “My backboard?”

  “For rebounding,” she says. “But it’s not in the cards. Sorry.”

  “Why not?” I say. “I know you’re interested.”

  She stares at me coldly.

  “Jill told me,” I say.

  “Bitch.”

  “It’s cool,” I say. “I like you too.” I take a big sip of wine.

  “Don’t chug it,” she says.

  I take another big sip. “Let’s get drunk together.”

  “Jack,” she says. “I’m not having revenge sex with you.”

  “Why not?”

  She narrows her eyes at me, so I lean back in the booth to let her have a good look. “We’re both single. We both want it. What’s the big deal?”

  She has a small sip of wine. “It’s not happening,” she says.

  “Oh, come on!”

  This comes out louder than I had anticipated, which attracts the attention of the bartender. Natalie looks at him nervously, then leans over the table and whispers loudly, “Are you already drunk?”

  “Possibly.” I take the glass of wine and sink back into the booth with it. I take another throat-burning gulp.

  Natalie rolls her eyes and looks at the door.

  “Oh, what’s this?” I say. “Are you withholding your commodity? Are you inflating its value? Go ahead. Leave if you want to. It’ll drive me wild and make me want you even more.”

  “Why are you being like this?”

  “Why are you being such a tease?” I can hear my own words slurring.

  “What did you just call me?”

  “A tease.”

  Natalie stares at me in shock for a few seconds; then she takes a large sip of wine. “Okeydokey,” she says. She reaches into her bag, pulls out a twenty, and slaps it on the table. “I’m going now.” She slides the laptop into her bag.

  “Wait,” I say. “That came out wrong.”

  “Did it?”

  “Sort of,” I say. “If I said it differently, would you come home with me?”

  Natalie shakes her head in continued disbelief at what I’m saying. I’m drunk. I realize that. But I’m only being honest.

  “Teach me,” I say.

  Natalie’s eyes blink very rapidly.

  “I’ll do whatever you tell me,” I say.

  Natalie keeps staring, wide-eyed. I think I’m blowing her mind right now. But not in a good way. Not in a way that will convince her to come home with me.

  “Look,” I say. “I know I’m young, and I don’t understand the ways of the world or anything. I don’t, for example, understand about commodities and Saudi Arabia or whatever. But I’m willing to learn. So long as sex is part of it. I really need to learn about that.”

  “Did Jill relate our entire conversation to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Who cares?” I say. “All I know is that I need to have sex with you or at least lie down with you and hold you and stuff. Is that wrong? It doesn’t feel wrong. I mean I can say it differently if you want me to. How should I say it?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t work like this.”

  “Do you want me to beg?”

  “Please don’t.”

  “I can plead,” I say. “I’ll do anything. I swear. There is nothing I won’t do to have sex with you right now. Do you understand that? Nothing.”

  “No way,” she says. “It’s not happening.”

  Nevertheless, we end up at her place.

  At the kitchen counter, she pours us another two, completely unnecessary, glasses of wine while I lift the hair off the back of her neck and kiss the soft skin there.

  Natalie does not smell like Ramie. She smells like flowers, lovely spring flowers, which is fine. It is in no way necessary for a girl to smell like musk and coconut, which is what Ramie smells like.

  When Natalie turns around to hand me a glass of wine, I lean in and kiss her very softly on the lips. Her lips are nothing like Ramie’s, and my heart rebels.

  I override it.

  If Jill can do this sort of thing, so can I.

  I pull back and look at Natalie. She’s very pretty in her own way. Her eyes are pale and bright. She drinks her wine quickly.

  I’m already drunk, so I put my glass down and guide Natalie over to her couch.

  Once there, we kiss for a long time. I can feel Natalie’s hesitation giving way to desire. She slides on top of me, letting her long, flower-smelling hair fall on either side of my face.

  I close my eyes and let my arms encircle her. But her waist feels so strange. Her knees and hips and everything else fall in foreign configurations. I try to disappear into her, to let lust take over. That’s how Jill got through it with Larson—before I showed up anyway. She stopped thinking and let her body take over.

  I am a sex machine, I say to myself. If Jill can do it, so can I.

  Natalie’s lips caress my cheek.

  Let go, I tell myself. Let Natalie take over. She’s done this before. She knows what she’s doing. It in no way matters that I’m in love with someone else.

  I am a sex machine.

  Natalie kisses my neck. As I look down at her, I notice the auburn roots of her hair. Something about it makes me turn away.

  What’s wrong with me? Natalie is beautiful. Beautiful enough anyway. The smooth sensual motion of her body is the medicine I need. Surely I deserve it after all I’ve been through. Surely I deserve one moment of comfort.

  I run my fingers through her hair, but everything feels wrong.

  “Stop,” I hear myself say. “Please stop.”

  Natalie looks up at me, surprised and hurt. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t,” I say. “I … I …”

  Natalie sits up, straddles my hips, and looks down at me. All I want is to run away. Even the sight of her is suddenly offensive. And that flower smell is all wrong. I start to pull myself out from underneath her, but she’s up and off the couch in one quick move.

  “Natalie?” I say.

  She puts her hand up as she walks away, then grabs her wineglass and downs it in one go.

  “It’s not you,” I say.

  She doesn’t say anything, but I see her shoulders rise suddenly in laughter. I want to say something comforting. I truly am grateful for the way she offered herself to me. I even sort of love her for it. But also, and bewilderingly, I can’t stand being in her presence right now. It feels like a moral affront just standing there. I want to be home. I want to be anywhere but there.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  She shakes her head and walks away to her room.

  I grab my coat and let myself out.

  •

  I will never do that again. I will never play with a girl’s affections or use her for consolation. It’s monstrous. Not so much for the sickening feeling it arouses in me, but for the cruel reflection of it in her eyes. Watching Natalie see my desire turn to disgust is a thing I will never forget. She didn’t deserve that. I’ve never been more ashamed of myself.

  The more you know a person, the stranger he seems.

  It’s the day before Thanksgiving, and I’m on a train heading for Boston with a head full of Jack and a broken heart.

  The memories come so easily now. All I have to do is close my eyes. There I am running half naked down the street, with Ian in hot pursuit and Jack’s thing flopping precariously between my thighs.

  Flash forward.

  Now I’m underneath Natalie, with her flower-smelling hair and Jack’s lukewarm desire coursing through me.

  Flash backward.

  My breath fogs the window at JFK whil
e I watch Ramie rest her head on Marguerite’s shoulder.

  I see it all. But I don’t understand it any more than Jack did.

  When a woman walking through the aisle bumps my foot with her suitcase, my eyes open and something drips down my cheek. I wipe my eyes. Across the aisle, a little girl stares at me, her hand stuck half into a bag of chips and her face contorted in empathic sadness. When I smile bravely, she turns away and burrows into her mother. Turning away myself, I lean my head against the window and watch the landscape blur by.

  I’m accustomed to things in my life falling apart. But Jack’s life was supposed to be stable. No matter what else was going on in our world, Jack loved Ramie and Ramie loved Jack. It was a law of the universe, unchangeable and undeniable. Like cosmic background radiation, it was always there. You could take it for granted. I know I did. I never realized how much until now.

  On the drive from Boston to Winterhead, my parents grill me on what’s happening in my life. I abridge. Heavily. I can’t bear to talk about Jack and Ramie, and the other Big Story is the mortifying denouement of my “like, dinner” with Ian. I’m not going to set that scene for them. Instead, I tell them about work, which is comfortably boring, and about how much money I’m saving, which I exaggerate slightly.

  Mom knows I’m omitting things, but being clairvoyant, she must also know that those things are of an uncomfortably sexual nature, so she doesn’t push. Nor does she pester me about college, which I find surprisingly annoying. In the scheme of things, college seems like a manageable problem now. Instead, she asks me about Jack. And not with the usual distasteful tone either. Weirdly enough, it’s as if she cares about his welfare and not just my own.

  “I’m glad you stopped hating each other,” I say.

  Mom turns around and looks at me in surprise. “I never hated him, honey. I just …” She looks out the window for a second. “I just loved you.” She reaches over and scruffs up my hair.

  Behind the wheel, Dad laughs mysteriously. “Sometimes love makes you do crazy things, kiddo. Crazy things.”

  I can’t disagree.

  Everything at home is different now. Dad’s moved back upstairs. The basement has been cleaned, sanitized, and deyogafied. All that remains of those days is Dad’s yoga mat, which hangs now in their bedroom closet. Mom says he does it in the living room now, early in the morning while she’s getting ready for work. Sometimes she does it with him, though she’s “not sure about the chanting.”