Love from Amanda to Zoey

by Ian Mark

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. I was grateful to her for lying. We both knew that nothing was okay, how could things be okay? I had contributed to the death of my best friend. Everyone who knew him would think of him as a cliche: the failed actor who overdosed on cocaine. All his traits, his complications and quirks, would be forgotten.

  “We are all forgotten,” I said back to her. She stared blankly at me. “Only a few people from any generation are truly remembered, and even they are forgotten eventually.” Sympathy flashed across her face, it rearranged her features and caused her to squeeze me tighter. She said nothing.

  Brian was in the ground now. His father stepped forward and, as per Jewish custom the rabbi explained, took a shovel and dumped the first pile of dirt on his grave. His face was impassive as he did so. I thought of what Brian had told me about his dad: how funny and corny he was, how much he loved his wife, how he had always been there for Brian. I thought how cruel it was that he had to do this, to bury the only son he would ever have. I took my place in the line. The world was silent. The only sounds were the chink as the shovel took a pile of dirt, and the muffled clump as the dirt and small pebbles landed on the mahogany coffin.

  I got to the front of the line. How interesting, that the same mechanism we use to maintain order at McDonald’s or the DMV is used to make sure everyone gets a turn to pour dirt on a young man. I took the shovel from a man I had never seen before. He was portly, in his early forties but looking much older. His yarmulke covered a bald spot. A flash of anger shot through me. Who was this man to take his turn before me? Surely he didn’t know Brian like I knew Brian. I grabbed more forcefully than I should have. He stumbled a little, caught himself, and shot me a look. I looked back. He backed down, a habit of a lifetime of small conflicts with people that were stronger than him, physically and mentally.

  I scooped a large pile of dirt onto my shovel, making sure it included the largest rock I could see. I rotated and glanced down into the grave. All eyes were on me. I still couldn’t believe Brian was dead. It seemed like only a week ago we had gone to the gym, and passed hours pretending to exercise while scoping out girls and making fun of the muscle-bound men who could have crushed us if they wanted to. It seemed that way because it was that way. I looked at the rabbi. He gestured for me to dump dirt on my best friend. I resisted the urge to ask if he was late for his next funeral.

  Amanda placed her hand on the small of my back. I sighed. I buried my best friend. The rock clunked against the wood. I was done. My involvement in his life was over, but his involvement in mine would last forever. I resolved to never forget him.

  I read a quote from someone somewhere that said something. I don’t remember the exact words, but the gist of it was that you die twice: once when you actually die, and once when someone says your name for the last time. The saddest lives, I thought when I heard that, were those where the second death came first. I promised myself, as I stood there holding the shovel, prolonging a funeral that no one wanted to be at longer than they had to, that Brian’s second death would come moments before my first, when I whispered his name on my deathbed. I placed the shovel in the dirt. I dropped my arms to my sides. I told myself I was being dramatic. I shot back that I didn’t care. I had no response. Amanda bent over and I watched the curve of her back. She scooped a tiny pile of dirt and leaned as close to the coffin as she could. I crossed my arms. Her pile made a small pfff as it hit. It sounded like Brian snorting cocaine. As she straightened, I was struck by an intense desire to feel something else, anything other than the depression and hopelessness that had gripped me. She gently placed her hand on my tensed bicep and guided me away from the grave.

  “I need you.” I looked into her big blue eyes. She was on the verge of tears.

  “I’m here for you, you know that.” She hugged me. I whispered in her ear.

  “No, I mean, like I need you. I have to feel something.” She leaned back, her arms still around me, and searched my face. She found what she was looking for.

  “Oh.” She kissed me and I kissed back.

  We fucked in the backseat of the rented Buick I had gotten to drive out to Westchester, where Brian was born and lived and would be for the rest of eternity. I lasted about forty-five seconds. We drove to the reception. Brian’s father told me I was his son’s best friend. I wanted to tell him he was Brian’s father. I drank and drank and drank. I couldn’t get drunk.

  Afterwards, Kevin and Murph and I stood outside in the cold smoking cigarettes. We only had two, so we passed them around as if we were smoking weed. I wanted weed. Kevin wore what he always wore. I laughed in my head at the fact that he wore the same thing to pick up girls as he did to mourn the loss of a friend. Murph wore a grey suit.

  “You don’t have a black suit?” I was slightly offended by his cheapness. Brian would have bought a new suit for Murph’s funeral. I pictured Brian in Murph’s place.

  “You’re not really going to do this, are you?” Murph-Brian said. I frowned. What was happening?

  “Do what?” Brian disappeared. Murph regarded me as if he were seeing me for the first time. I did my best to avoid the cliché of hallucinating my best friend.

  “Criticize my outfit. No, I don’t have a black suit. You always do this.” I was confused. Was he really criticizing me? Today? On the day of my best friend’s funeral?

  “You can’t be serious.” Fuck him if he didn’t feel sorry for me.

  “What is your obsession with clothes man? You’re always so obsessed with what you’re wearing and what everyone else is wearing. It’s Brian’s funeral, for God’s sakes, can’t you take a day off?” I was taken aback. I tucked my hands into the pockets of my brand-new Armani suit and looked at Kevin. He was staring off into the distance.

  “Are you really attacking me? My best friend just died.” I waited for Murph to back down, to be ashamed. He didn’t.

  “Your best friend? Fine, yeah, he probably was. But do you not realize we were all friends with him? Don’t you think we are all sad?” He dropped the cigarette on the ground. He put it out with one of his clearance-rack loafers.

  “Well, I--”

  “Or are you stuck so far inside your own mind that you think Brian only meant something to you? You don’t have some exclusive right to be angry at the world for what happened. If anything, you have less of a right. You were there.” Murph stopped. Kevin looked at him. The elephant in the room looked up when it heard its name called.

  “Is that what this is about? You think it’s my fault, don’t you? Go ahead, tell me I’m wrong.” I waited for them to say something. Murph bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet.

  “I don’t blame you for him overdosing. But you sat there for so many months while he did more and more cocaine and you didn’t say anything.”

  “Neither did you!” I stepped towards Murph. Kevin stepped forward as if to grab me. I made an I’m Fine gesture with my hands. He relaxed.

  “Yes we did, Zach.” Kevin spoke softly. He wouldn’t look at me. “We all tried to stop him. But he never listened to any of us. You’re the only one who was ever able to change his mind. You’re the only one who could be more stubborn than he was.”

  I thought back. How happy Brian was whenever I did coke with him. I realized that by joining him occasionally I had inadvertently validated all the other times he did it. I could see the logic he had used to rationalize his behavior. I had a good job, and I did coke. So it must have been fine for him to do coke, even if he did it in amounts that vastly exceeded anything I did. Amanda had come outside and walked over to us. I wondered how much she had heard.

  “I, well,” I stammered. What could I have said to that? Murph had made me realized that I was an integral part in the death of my best friend. I crossed my arms. I folded inside myself. I hunched over and wanted nothing more than to break down crying. Amanda put an arm around me and a hand on my chest. Kevin looked at Murph. They walked away. I turned and embraced Amanda.

  Whe
n I got home from Westchester, I went to my closet. I tore out all my nice clothes and dumped them in a pile. I ripped my jacket off and tried to tear it. I couldn’t. I pulled off the pants threw them into a corner. I kicked off my shoes. I wanted to scream, yell, to punch something, to feel pain. I didn’t. I went to the kitchen. There was a half-bottle of bourbon left. Sitting in the rickety old chair that Amanda had always bugged me to replace and staring up at the peeling ceiling, I drank until I passed out.

  The memory had taken me all the way back to my apartment. As I entered, I looked over at where the chair used to be. Amanda had won. It was one of the last things I did to please her before we broke up. In its place was a new, much nicer chair. It’s white legs connected to a comfortable yet rigid light wooden base. It stuck out like a sore thumb at the small table which could be folded up and stored. The other two chairs were nowhere near as nice. But they were nicer than the old one, and thus they escaped Amanda’s wrath. I took off my peacoat, but I was cold so I put on the grey shapeless hoodie I had bought a week or so after Brian’s funeral. When I saw Murph for the first time since the funeral, about a month later, I was wearing that hoodie. His eyebrows raised, but he hadn’t said anything, just passed me the blunt and continued telling some story about him and Jackie buying furniture together.

  I looked in the fridge. I had no food, just empty six-packs and some old mustard. I took the three beers I could find and went to the other room. I plopped down on the recliner and drank them while I flipped through the channels. John Cusack appeared. He was talking to the camera. I hated that kind of thing. When the actors looked right at the camera and acknowledged they were in a movie. It was like the director was winking at the audience. I always felt like they were being condescending to me. I flipped the channel. Some alien movie. As the aliens land, drums pound and there is chanting. I laughed at how the music always sounded African whenever there were aliens. Good ole Hollywood racism. I flipped through the channels some more, passing by SportsCenter and some old white lady teaching people how to take frozen chicken and reheat it, finally getting to another movie. Seven Psychopaths. “Dream sequences are for fags,” Colin Farrell told Christopher Walken. Same bullshit. A movie about a guy trying to make a movie. It just irritated me. I sucked on the bottle, then blew, trying to make a note. I failed. Amanda had always been good at doing that. I liked that she drank beer, a lot of girls don’t. I reminded myself that I was over her.

  I kept watching, even though they kept referencing that they were in a movie. It’s pretentious, is what it is. It’s like when an author interrupts his own narrative to give his thoughts on it. No one cares what you think, I wanted to tell them whenever they did. I know you think you’re Vonnegut, but trust me, you’re not.

  I finished the beer well before the movie ended. I debated whether I cared enough to stay up and watch the end. I didn’t. I turned it off as Sam Rockwell drove through the streets of LA. I undressed as I walked, tossing each article of clothing onto a random piece of furniture. I collapsed onto the bed and got under the blue bedspread I’d owned since sophomore year. I lay there. I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned, replaying the dinner, every joke I made that fell flat, every comment Wanda made that irritated me. I was upset with Kevin for surprising me, especially with what it meant: he didn’t think I had the balls to go on a blind date, so he had to spring one on me. I was more upset with myself for realizing he was probably right. I checked my phone to see if Zoey had called back without me noticing. She hadn’t of course. I wondered what she looked like. Was it too much to ask for a smart, pretty girl that would love me? Besides Amanda? That was over. I amended the question. Was it too much to ask for a second chance?

  Chapter 6

  I lie in bed, unable to sleep. A purple light passes over me. I sit up and look towards the window. It is black at first, but then it morphs into something that can only be described as the absence of color. I look at the window, and see nothing beyond it. Strange music plays. I look around for the source. It is coming from inside my head. It sounds tribal, almost African.

  All of a sudden, there is a loud crash. The ceiling peels back like a banana. I have a banana in my hands. It feels smushy. I throw it away and an orange appears in my hands. I decide to hold on to it. I look up and can see the sky. Or, I would see the sky, if there weren’t a flying saucer right above me. I look at the silver circular ship and wonder if it uses Linux for its onboard computer. I then realize that my apartment is not on the top floor. I wonder what happened to the three stories above me.

  I look around for Jeff Goldblum, but he is nowhere to be found. I try to get up, but my comforter has twisted itself around my feet and is restricting me from going anywhere. A hole appears in the ship above me. I start to sweat. No cover moves, nothing slides, there is no noise, a hole just appears. The music stops. A pinging noise repeats while a ladder slides smoothly down. It touches my floor. My heart beats quickly. Nothing happens for a moment. The walls of my apartment contract and expand, matching the pulse of my heart.

  I note how far apart the rungs of the ladder are. A foot appears, then another. A being lowers itself (herself?) down the ladder. It does not look at me. When it lands, it pushes something on the ladder and the ladder retracts.

  It turns towards me. It is not human, but it is distinctly feminine. I wonder if it has a name. Xyla. I don’t hear anything and the creature does not move her (I’ll go with “her,” I figure) mouth. But I know that is her name. In fact, I notice that she does not have a mouth. Her face consists of a hole in what would be a human’s forehead, and four oblong eyes. There are no pupils, only white spots.

  Her body is difficult to describe. Some parts of her are simply not visible, though they must be there. I reflect light that is beyond the visible spectrum, she informs me telepathically. I assume that’s what is happening. I start to speak, but she silences me by pointing to where her ears should be. There is nothing there. I wonder how to communicate, and then You are doing just fine appears in my mind’s eye. I realize she can read my thoughts. She shimmers as she walks towards me.

  I ask what she is doing here. She explains that her people would like me to come with them. I ask where. She does not respond. She explains that for generations her people have studied humans. They each take a turn picking who they will study. She has chosen me. I feel oddly flattered, but I don’t want to go with her. Why? I ask, why should I go with you? She explains that in addition to telepathy, members of her race can see the future. It is easy, she adds, as a fourth dimensional being, to foresee things that will happen in three dimensions. My head starts to hurt. Why does that matter? Because you end up alone, she says. Everything you fear comes true.

  * * *

  A small pile of drool had collected on the edge of the bed where my head had been. My phone was ringing. It was Zoey. I tried to shake my head awake. I mentally prepared myself to sound intriguing yet accessible, and answered the phone.

  “Hello?” Damn. I sounded way too eager.

  “Is this Zach?” She knew it was me. Her voice was even, calm. Why couldn’t I sound like that?

  “Yes. Who is this?” I decided to match her false ignorance.

  “It’s Zoey.” She waited. I waited. “You left me a message?” I got up from the bed and walked into the bathroom.

  “Yes, right, sorry.” I was too tired for this. I looked in the mirror. My hair was sticking up. I smoothed it down with my hand.

  “You wanted to ask me something?” My hair sprung back up. I rubbed my eyes.

  “Oh yeah, well, I mean, my mother wanted me to meet you, so I figured we could get coffee sometime. Or whatever.” I had an eyelash stuck to my cheekbone. I picked it off.

  “Or maybe we could go somewhere and eat a bunch of caramels.” I laughed uneasily.

  “What?” Just as I asked I got it. “My boy’s wicked smaht.” She laughed. “Alright, caramels it is.”

  “I was kidding.” Her voice was warm. I tried to picture her, but th
ere was too much I didn’t know. What color was her hair? How did she hold the phone? I didn’t even know where she was calling from. I knew how to play this game though.

  “Well, I’m gonna hold you to it. We’re getting caramels. You better pick the place though, ‘cause I don’t know anywhere you can sit down and eat just caramels.” I went to the kitchen and got out a tea bag.

  “Okay then, I’ll have to do some research. When are you free?” I could hear voices in the background. Sirens. She was walking somewhere. Probably bored and decided to call me.

  “I’ll have to look.” I took out a cup from the cabinet above the sink and looked in it. It was dirty. I put it in the sink and took out another. Dirty. I glared at my dishwasher. It had nothing to say for itself. I made a mental note to replace it.

  “How about tomorrow night?” I regretted the words as soon as I said them. It sounded like I had nothing else going on. I found a cup that wasn’t dirty.

  “Hmmm, I think that will work. I’ll look and let you know.” I filled the cup with water and dropped the tea bag in it. I put it in the microwave and set the timer to a minute and a half. The microwave made a whirring sound and I didn’t hear what she said.

  “Sorry? I didn’t catch that.” I watched the cup rotate.

  “I said I’ll look and let you know.” She sounded distracted.

  “No I meant after that.” I checked the clock. 9:48. I was running late, even for me.

  “I didn’t say anything.” She took a sip of something. “Ow.”

  “What happened?” I went into the bathroom and put toothpaste on my toothbrush.

  “My coffee’s too hot. It burned my mouth.” She had entered a building. The background noise went down considerably.