by Adam Wilson
“Please stop,” his dream-self said.
Stop what? Excess of familial responsibility? Butt-spanking bogeyman? Nocturnal ball gag and ass-banditry (Pulp Fiction, Miramax, 1994)?
We were different that way. I woke sweaty and foul-smelling. He slept shittily. Even in dreams he bore the brunt with bit lip. Like a grunt on the front lines of some hellish nothing war. He took pride in his ability to survive without complaint.
Behind Benjy the sun strode from clouds, tentatively, out of annoyed necessity, like some dude emerging from fuck-bed, late for work, still admiring his conquest’s sleeping body, awaiting toaster waffles. Clouds went pink, then cleared. Boston skyline into view, temporarily inflamed by sun-love, twisted with diminishing beauty. In a matter of minutes it would all be gone, gray. Reminded me of coming down from mushrooms, lamenting my dwindling visions, but comforted by the coming concreteness. We were out of coffee.
Also out of cereal, bagels, waffles, bananas, grapefruit, oatmeal, all forms of prenoon nourishment. Couldn’t turn on the TV; didn’t want to wake Benjy, incite sleep-deprived wrath. No newspaper anymore—Mom had canceled our subscription. Nothing to do but watch daylight emerge, urge myself into daylight. Strapped on a pair of beaten boots. Needed to walk and think, escape condo confinement.
Walked the breakdown lane, slowly, smoking, freezing. Took off my headphones to hear the world: light purr of engines, fragments of music coming out the partially open windows of wind-bearing smokers, wind. Thought it would be funny if Dad saw me on his way to work, took me for a derelict. Considered hitchhiking, catching a ride up the coast, down the coast, west—anywhere. What was the use? Had no money, was wearing a bathrobe. No one picked up hitchhikers these days. Maybe some cannibal molester passing through (Seat Belt Meat Belt, Universal, 1984).
Sat at Dunkin’ with coffee and the Globe, taking in the familiar smells of by-the-dozen doughnuts, coffee en mass, chemically diluted urine, and stale gas that filtered up through the heating vents into the mostly empty dining area.
Read about the war, football. Skimmed the obits, looking for worthwhile lives: people who’d traveled, broken the restraints this town invisibly slid over our cold-sick selves. Other news: Quinosset Cinema West showing a retrospective—a dead Frenchie auteur whose films took on the legitimacy of history, whose own history hissed with black, pedophilic asterisks. Metro police blotter: A woman had stolen five hundies worth of housewares from Bloomingdale’s. Claimed temporary insanity; her Amex was overdrawn. She wanted to serve with shining silverware. Opened the classifieds, quickly closed them.
A woman sobbed at the next table. Mrs. Sacks, my old Whole Foods friend. Small town, etc.
“Eli,” she managed.
Gave a slight wave, stood as if to walk over. She held out her hand to stop me.
“I’m okay,” she said, blew her nose.
Went to the bathroom instead.
When I came out, Mrs. Sacks was sitting at my table, fixing smudged eye shadow in a hand mirror. Still crying a bit, so she wasn’t having much success. Black Lycra shirt bore the word “Superstar,” embossed in sequins across her well-proportioned chest. Sequins mocked her tears and dark eyes with their luster.
“Eli.”
“Mrs. Sacks. Hi.”
“You doing okay?” she said, as if I had been the one crying, as if she sensed I was still drying my own damp face. A maternal voice—at once forgiving and resolute, like the safety net beneath a tightrope walker—a voice I’d never heard her use. This was how she’d spoken to Sherri as a child, how she’d bred the confidence Sherri expelled with every ass-wiggly step.
“I guess,” I said, wanting to please her, to not let her down.
“That’s good. Everything will work out fine.”
“I hope so.”
Tears were gone and she smiled, amused by the absurdity of her own public outburst. Some trauma had sent her here. More cheating from Mark? Problems with Chef Barash? Bad luck breast exam or Pap smear? Her face said: “The world comes down on all of us. Money and healthy sex lives can’t save us. But we persevere; we are from Quinosset, home of the QHS She-Devils, second-ranked women’s tennis team east of the Mississippi.”
I nodded in agreement. Mrs. Sacks looked around the empty Dunkin’.
“It’s silly, really,” she said, sipped her coffee, checked out her own gigantic, sparkling chest, then met my eyes, as if to accuse me of staring at her breasts, which I was. “This town.”
“I know what you mean,” I said, because I did, if not specifically.
“Do you like it here, Eli? It’s not a bad place, is it?”
“Not so bad.”
“There are worse places in the world.”
“Certainly.”
“A lot worse,” she said, motioning to my newspaper. Then, looking again at the empty tables, “I guess it doesn’t fill up for a couple hours. That’s when people go to work.”
She took a stick of lip gloss, applied it without looking in the mirror. Mirror rested like a paperweight on my newspaper. Radio wasn’t on, but you could hear the morning patter—Spanglish—from the two cashiers.
“Now they’re all asleep. It’s like we’re the only people in the world.”
“There are other people,” I said, nodded toward the cashiers.
Mrs. Sacks smiled.
“You’re funny.”
“Why does everyone think I’m funny?”
“There’s something Dutch about your face.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Holland,” she said. “My kinda town,” winked.
Her car was shiny, stiff with factory smell. ZLX played the acoustic adult-contemp version of Eric Clapton’s “Layla.” Mrs. Sacks sang along. Never occurred to me that women like her listened to music.
“What are you doing today?” she said.
“No plans.”
“Want some breakfast? I’ll make you eggs.”
“Okay.”
Kitchen was like the others, like my old kitchen. Fridge stocked with fresh produce from Whole Foods. Walls covered in prom pics, bar mitzvah pics. One poster-sized glamour shot of Sherri wearing a bikini, holding a lollipop in her mouth. She’d done a Club Med ad when we were seniors; this was the winning shot. Everyone acted like she’d won a Pulitzer, when all she’d done was be herself: large breasted, well moisturized and exfoliated, seventeen years old.
“I’m a terrible cook,” Mrs. Sacks said. “Eddie used to cook for me, amazing things.”
Used to?
“I’ll make the eggs,” I said.
Found smoked salmon in the fridge, made lox scramble. Felt good cooking in her cast-iron skillet. Ate next to each other on stools at her center counter.
“This is delicious,” Mrs. Sacks said, leaned over, touched my shoulder.
“You’re a sweet kid.” She sounded drunk.
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
Mrs. Sacks brushed my cheek with her hair. I put a hand on her waist, rubbed the soft velour of her pastel-pink yoga pants. Kissed, closed-mouthed, divots in chapped lips interlocking.
“Come to the bedroom.”
Followed her up the stairs. No one mentioned The Graduate. May-December bone-jobs were common these days. All those female teachers sucking face with prematurely mustached son-surrogates.
The house smelled like potpourri. Reminded me of my other grandmother, who was dead.
Mrs. Sacks stripped naked, sat on the bed, stared out the window. Great shape for her age. Wondered how much work she’d had done. Tan but no tanline. Pictured her in the tanning salon, in that space-pod-like tube: naked, blindfolded, basting in artificial sun.
I was still wearing a bathrobe. She tugged it.
“Hefner,” she said, grown-up-giggling.
Removed the robe. Lifted my shirt, unzipped my pants. Pulled them down, hovered over her, looked in her narrow, bloodshot eyes. Put a finger on her nipple, watched it harden.
“Feels nice,” she said, rubbed th
e down on my shoulders. “I want to feel you inside me.”
“Really?” I said. “Me?”
Kissed me again, warmly, open-mouthed. Didn’t use my tongue. Didn’t seem the thing to do with an older woman. She smelled like my mother’s perfume. Bit my earlobe, guided me inside with her hand. Sheets were soft. I estimated the thread count, ejaculated immediately.
“Sorry.”
Mrs. Sacks recoiled.
“I thought you were supposed to be good at this. Young and strong.”
“I thought so too,” I said. “Guess not.”
She looked out the window again, away from me. Tried to hide the fact that she was crying.
“This is all wrong.”
Reached for my boxers.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated.
Mrs. Sacks turned back to me, wrapped her hand around my ankle.
“It’s not your fault. It’s my fault.”
“It’s nobody’s fault.”
She let go. I stood, dressed. Mrs. Sacks watched, really looked at me.
“Don’t worry,” she said. Not sure if she meant I shouldn’t worry about her, or about myself.
“I should go,” I said.
As I was walking out the door, Sherri walked in with two other girls. Surprised to see me. So surprised she screamed. Must have thought I was robbing her house.
“Relax,” I said. “I was just helping your mother fix her TV. I’m leaving now.”
Mrs. Sacks came running down the stairs. Also in a bathrobe. We didn’t look like lovers.
“Mom?”
“Eli was just looking at the leaky faucet.”
Moved out the door.
seven
American Dream:
• Maybe my American dream is sex that isn’t sad.
• Sex that isn’t sad is R-rated, culled from rom-coms (no nipples).
• She removes her shirt in slow motion, revealing her pale stomach one inch at a time.
• Twirl her hair between my fingers.
• She holds my hand over her beating heart; her face as we quietly hump like barbiturated gorillas, her eyes staring into mine, hair falling across my face, brushed back, falling again.
• My perfectly complacent face at the moment of climax. Hers too.
• “Oh,” she says, and I say, “Mmmm.”
• Afterward, in bed, she stares out the window. Watch her profile as reflected in the bureau mirror.
• She wears one of my shirts, sleeps peacefully.
• In the morning I make eggs. Smell wakes her. Saunters in, yawning. Hand her a cup of coffee. Smiles.
eight
For Mrs. Sacks, Hard Body, Soft Heart:
• 3 organic cage-free eggs
• Salt and pepper
• Capers
• Olives
• Fresh herbs
• 4 oz. Nova Scotia lox
• Wasabi powder (or paste)
• 1 bottle Tabasco
• Arugula
• Aged balsamic vinegar
• Magnum condoms
• Sexually competent man-child
• Big empty house, some Sunday in fall, wind blowing, auburn leaves falling like fiery sparks, Clapton on the radio singing about his dead son
• Maybe a second man-child just for fun
To Cook:
First make the eggs. Beat well. Salt and pepper the shit out of them. Add capers, olives, fresh herbs. Cook on medium/low heat. Add slices of salmon right before the eggs de-liquefy. Flip. Plate. Add wasabi and Tabasco until your nose runs, mouth waters, eyes well up. Purge your demons. Purge the salty pains of your life. Listen to Clapton sing about his lost child. Understand that at least you have your health, family, wealth. Eat arugula salad on the side. Head upstairs. Take a bubble bath. Shampoo yourself. Dream of a better life. A lusty, perfumed life. Get out of bath. Dry yourself. Move to bed. Better life will arrive in the form of two tongues jostling for position between your legs. Don’t forget to remember to forget about everything else. One man will eventually stand, embrace your body, stare into your silky, tired eyes. The other will lick you in the place that birthed a thousand ships.
nine
Wife Three let me in, confident in workout clothes. Everyone wore workout clothes. Maybe in case of al-Qaeda: ready to run.
“Your friend is having a party.”
“Isn’t it a bit early?”
“You wasted no time getting here, you’re still in your pj’s.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“Go.”
Pointed to the basement, smiled sluttily. Wondered if Wife Three would become Mrs. Sacks one day; if Dan’s dad would cheat, and she would have an affair but stay with Dan’s dad because of the house, screw some twentysomething while tears smudged her eyeliner. Doubted it. Things were different these days with these third wives. They knew what they were getting into. Divorced in five years, what did she care? Get a nice payoff, marry another rich guy.
Walked down the stairs. Lights dim. Dan in boxers cutting huge lines of coke on the coffee table. Nikki next to him in her Whole Foods getup, hair-drying with a towel.
“Nice bathrobe,” she said.
“It’s L.L. Bean,” I said, then felt stupid for saying it, and for wearing it.
“Chanukah?” Dan said.
“Twelfth birthday.”
“Taste?” Dan said.
Stuck a finger in.
Nikki lit a cig, took two drags, put it out.
“I gotta go to work.”
“One for the road?”
Passed her the hollowed pen. She sucked one up the non-nose-ringed side.
“I’ll call you later,” she said, left.
“You two seem to have hit it off.”
“Love them redheads.”
“She’s not a true redhead.”
“She’s a hip, hip lady.”
“Can’t you say something that’s not from Dazed and Confused?”
“Relax,” Dan said. “Chill.”
Potheads were always telling other people to relax.
“Stepmom’s in a good mood today.”
“She joined the party.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“She likes the yips. The whites. The coke-ay-eenay. The snow. The blow. The blizzle. The izzle.”
“What’s the izzle?”
“The kizzoke.”
“Oh.”
Handed me the pen, cut me one.
“Cool.”
“Fifty.”
“For a gram?”
“One fifty an eighth.”
“I’m broke. My father cut me off.”
“Good for him. It’s about time he taught you some responsibility. Drugs don’t come cheap, you know.”
“Wait. Can you give me a ride somewhere? I think I can get money.”
“Word.”
Benjy was helping Mom zip an overstuffed suitcase. I’d forgotten she was leaving for Florida.
“Oh, good. You boys can help me carry stuff to the cab.”
Four suitcases laid out.
“You’re bringing a lot of stuff?”
“You never know what the weather will be like there.”
She was preoccupied with packing, didn’t notice how out of it I was. I was sleep-needy, mildly coked, didn’t notice quite how excessively she’d packed.
“I thought you were still asleep in your room. I was just going to wake you up to say goodbye.”
Mom looked distinguished in a beige pantsuit, like an ex-newscaster, not an ex-wife.
“You okay?” Benjy said, gave Dan the once-over. They’d been in the same grade.
“Schwartz,” Dan said, nodded at Benjy. Never friends. Benjy was in AP classes. Dan wasn’t in any classes.
“Everyone’s okay,” Mom said. “We’re all okay.”
“I’m not okay,” I said, real soft, so no one could hear.
Carried the bags down in the elevator, wheeled them to the waiting cab. Mom hugged us g
oodbye. Tried to pull her close, instigate maternal embrace. She was in a rush, pecked my cheek, escaped my grip.
“Don’t forget to bring the apple cake to your father’s.”
Back upstairs, fished through the boxes in my room I’d never unpacked. Dan watched The Surreal Life in the living room. Benjy knocked on my door, came in without waiting for my response.
“What are you looking for?”
“Nothing.”
Continued digging.
“You’re totally fucked.”
“I’m fine.”
“You realize it’s eleven in the morning?”
“I thought it was earlier.”
“What you got, hidden stash in there?”
“I’m not looking for drugs.”
He didn’t believe me.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Here it is.”
Pulled out the ’61 Maris I’d stolen from Mark Sacks years before I’d had sex with his wife.
“Baseball cards?”
“This is a ’61 Maris.”
Kept digging, pulling out other cards I thought might be worth something. No time for sentiment.
“You’re broke.”
“It’s business. Baseball cards are kid stuff. I’m just trying to grow up, make responsible financial decisions.”
“Dad cut you off.”
“You knew about it?”
“He mentioned it.”
“Since when do you talk to Dad?”
“I talk to Dad all the time.”
“Well, next time, tell him to give me some fucking money.”
Walked out of the room with my cards.
“Let’s go,” I said to Dan, who was wholly engrossed in the goings on of the Surreal Life house.
Dan said, “I always thought Vanilla Ice was a total loser, but he actually seems like a pretty cool guy.”
Did a couple key bumps, set off for the card shop.
ten
Facts About My Mother:
• Mom hasn’t worked since I’ve been alive.
• Before marriage she was a secretary. Picture her in an old seventies skirt-suit, sun orange, gingko green. Sprightly in a conical bra, heels. Bends down to pick up a dropped pen. Men pretend not to notice. But they notice. Mom raises an eyebrow. Cute guy raises both eyebrows. Mom laughs, shakes her head, touches her hair. Sits back at her desk, types in sweet staccato, falling into rhythm, toe-tapping, punctuated by imagined hand-clapping.
