Love Creeps

by Amanda Filipacchi

  During those same several months, Lynn and Roland sublet their apartments in the city and moved into Roland’s country house.

  Lynn was taking a break from managing her gallery full-time, leaving it to Patricia, except on Tuesdays and Fridays, when she drove in with Roland, who commuted every day. Patricia would update her on everything, including the recent rejections Lynn had received in the mail.

  Lynn had diligently gotten the five follow-up shots against rabies and had been fortunate to get no side effects.

  She spent most of her week in the country, painting, not because she had a passion for it or any ambition to develop as an artist, but because she found it enjoyable.

  As long as there was still uncertainty about whether Lynn’s desire for Roland would remain, the excitement and chemistry continued. Things changed the day Lynn finally felt confident enough to say, “Your appeal and my desire are here to stay. I know it. I can feel it.”

  A few days later, Roland told Lynn, “Listen, I think you should have your weekend with Alan.”

  She just stared at him, stunned, and finally said, “Are you insane?”

  Roland sighed. “For my sake. I just feel that it wasn’t right, what I did. It wasn’t right what we did.”

  “Forget it. It’s out of the question.” She got up and left the room.

  He followed her. “I believe it’s important to act decently.”

  “Why now? What’s going on?” she asked.

  He threw up his hands and went outside to his lounge chair to tan. He liked to get tan, she didn’t, said it was dangerous, that he might develop a melanoma. The more she urged him not to tan, the more he did, until his face was all crispy.

  The truth was that now that Lynn’s desire for Roland appeared permanent, their romance was less appealing to him. Alan’s no longer wanting Lynn also made it hard for Roland to keep wanting her. The couple fought all the time. Roland became verbally abusive, frequently putting Lynn down.

  To make matters worse, Lynn got a call from Patricia saying that Judy had been run over by a truck and died. Patricia and Lynn speculated whether Judy had done it on purpose, to “refreshen her zest,” as she had put it, all those months ago. In any case, the news hit Lynn hard.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Roland said, “all her friends should feel responsible for her death.”

  “I’m one of her friends,” Lynn said, staring at him.

  “I know,” he said, staring back at her.

  “You think it was my fault?”

  “Absolutely. But no use crying over spilt milk.”

  “You call the death of a friend spilt milk?”

  “I call it what it must have been to you. If she had meant more to you, you wouldn’t have let her get to this state.”

  He knew he wasn’t being nice, but he couldn’t stop. He wasn’t happy and didn’t want her to be either. Anytime she seemed happy, it irritated him.

  She told him she was thinking of ending their relationship. He said she couldn’t because he had booked a surprise weekend for them at a pleasure camp he had read about in Hedonism magazine.

  They went to the retreat. They were pampered, washed, and groomed by three staff members. Their room had a giant crib filled with pillows for lovemaking, which enhanced the delights of sex. But sex was one of the few things they had no problems with. Lynn had always been impressed by Roland as a lover.

  After the weekend, Lynn tried being nice, bought Roland attractive buttons.

  When Roland unwrapped the package, he said, “Oh, good, I was out of buttons.”

  “You were? But you bought some the other day.”

  “If you thought I still had those, then why did you buy me these?”

  “For your collection.”

  “What collection? I don’t collect buttons. I lose them. I told you that already. If you expect me to collect these, you’re going to be disappointed, because I’m going to lose them. You better return them. They look expensive.”

  “Maybe you don’t sew them on well enough. Maybe next time I should try sewing them on.”

  “It doesn’t matter how tightly you’ll sew them on. I’ll still lose them.”

  “Why?”

  “I would give much to know that. I guess I can’t help it.”

  Roland made efforts to be a better boyfriend. He tried to show concern and give compliments. The concern came in the form of—

  “Does it bother you that your friends don’t really like you?”

  “What are you talking about?” she said. “My friends love me.”

  “No, not really. I’m good at sensing these things.”

  The compliments came in the form of—

  “It’s really great that you often read fashion magazines.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it shows you’re interested in the outside world. It’s better than sitting on the couch, staring at the wall.”

  Roland would play pranks on Lynn. Mean jokes. He’d tell her to meet him at a restaurant, and he’d be waiting at another restaurant.

  They fought about orange juice.

  Occasionally, when he was annoyed, his hand would fly up, as if to slap her, but then it would stay frozen in the air. One time, after his hand had been frozen in the air for a second, it came down against his own face. He slapped himself instead.

  Lynn’s self-esteem started to suffer. When she expressed doubts about their relationship, Roland said that despite all her weaknesses and shortcomings, he loved her. He was helpless in his love for her.

  Lynn hung on, hoping things would get better.

  They discussed the problems in their relationship, tried to come up with solutions. As they talked, Lynn was painting his portrait while he ate grapes and dangled his leg off the arm of his chair.

  “We are discontent,” he announced. “We find no pleasure in our life or in each other.”

  “Yes, I know,” Lynn said, mixing black with blue to get just the right shade for his eyes—a blue she loved, a blue so black his eyes looked almost dead.

  “The reason we’re not happy,” Roland said, “is that in leaving the city, we lost perspective.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, adding a little more black.

  “We need to expose ourselves to people whose lives suck more than ours, to remind us of how lucky we are. In brief, I think we need a meeting with Alan.”

  She thought about it. It was true that exposing themselves to such a grand degree of wretchedness as Alan’s could be nothing but beneficial. They would no longer take for granted what little good was in their relationship.

  And perhaps they could also, while they were at it, try to help Alan, thereby filling their hearts with a pleasant feeling of benevolence.

  Roland decided to call Alan immediately and request a meeting.

  Seven

  At the same moment, Alan had a painful erection, as he had had every afternoon that week, because an excessively sexy woman at whose apartment a film was being made in which Alan was acting, was doing everything she could to seduce him.

  Alan was taking a few days off from his job to do a favor for one of his new friends, Bob, who had begged him to play a part in a highbrow independent feature film he was making. It was quite a big favor indeed, because it was tax season, and Alan had on average forty tax returns to prepare each week. Bob had succeeded in luring Alan by being very honest with him, telling him that even though he knew Alan was not a professional actor, he had wanted someone exactly like him—someone with a noble air. Flattered, Alan modestly proclaimed that was not him, even though he knew it was now, and acquiesced.

  The filming was taking place in a luxurious apartment on Fifth Avenue and Eleventh Street. Alan tried to take advantage of the time between takes to prepare tax returns, but the seductive owner of the apartment had taken a liking to him and was driving him to distraction. His penis was annoyingly erect, a condition that shocked him and of which he disapproved, since he had a wonderful girlfriend, Jessica
, and would never cheat on her. A month earlier, they had officially decided to make their relationship monogamous, not that it had not always been.

  The day before, Alan had discovered a fun-filled solution to his tormenting lust. The apartment had very large, very private, comically lush bathrooms, and when his erection got in the way of his concentration, he would politely excuse himself with his cell phone, retreat to one of the far bathrooms, and call his girlfriend, who fortunately was spending her afternoons in his apartment, which made it convenient for them to engage in phone sex. They had done this before, on occasion, but it was particularly helpful this week.

  “Why are you out of breath?” he asked, when she answered the phone.

  “I’m exercising for you,” she said, and suddenly he heard an exercise video in the background.

  Alan asked her to take off her clothes. She was always up for phone sex. As well as real sex.

  “I’m taking off my underwear now,” she said, while moving up and down over a man, who had his penis in her.

  “Are they off?” Alan asked, lying on the floor, on a giant, plump, pink mat, his own underwear and pants lowered to his thighs.

  “Yeah, oops, hang on, they’re caught on my heel. There,” she said, easing herself down more slowly onto the penis of her afternoon lover, who knew not to say a word when Alan called. His hands were on her butt, trying to speed up the pace, but she liked it slow, particularly during phone sex with Alan, which she had engaged in before while cheating on him. The afternoon lover was not averse to this. He was sprawled on Alan’s white easy chair, the chair with no arms, which made it ideal for Jessica to straddle him in the way they both liked. The white chair had gotten gradually more stained with each passing day, but Jessica diligently scrubbed the stains after each ride, succeeding only, of course, in making them paler and larger.

  Midway through the phone sex, which was even more real than Alan imagined, Jessica’s call waiting beeped. Not wanting to miss a call from her morning lover, she checked, but it was some guy with a French accent, asking for Alan, claiming to be an old friend. He said his name was Roland. She gave him Alan’s cell phone number, and added, “But I’m actually talking with him on the other line right now, so please wait a bit before calling.”

  Thirty seconds back into the phone sex, it was Alan’s turn to announce he had another call coming in.

  “Fuck that guy, I told him to wait,” Jessica said.

  “Fuck who?” Alan asked.

  “This jerk who just called and interrupted us. Just don’t answer it.”

  “I have to. It could be my friend John, who’s in a terrible mess.”

  “No, that wasn’t the name he gave me. I can’t remember it, but it wasn’t John.”

  “It could be someone else in need. Hang on.”

  Alan switched lines, and this time it was indeed his friend John, sounding very depressed.

  Alan apologized to Jessica for having to stop things in the middle like this.

  “Suit yourself, honey. It’ll be harder for you than for me,” she said.

  Alan laughed. “Why?”

  “Because I can finish. And you have to talk to John.”

  “Have fun.” Alan zipped up his pants and switched back to his friend in need: a full-fledged stalkaholic from an SA meeting.

  John was crying, saying he was on the verge of following the woman he had been trying not to follow for months.

  Alan attempted yet again to persuade him to forget about the dumb woman. And he added, “Did you use the gift certificate I gave you for that massage?”

  “No.”

  “Well, use it, man, please. It helps.”

  “I want to follow her.”

  “She’s gonna call the cops on you again.”

  John sniffled.

  “Or just come here,” Alan said. “Come to the set. There’s a nice woman here, who owns this apartment. She’s very sexy, very hot. I’ll introduce you.”

  “No one else interests me.”

  “I know what it’s like. You don’t have to tell me. Go get the massage.”

  There was a loud knock on the bathroom door. It was the director, calling him for the scene. Alan was sorry to have to make the crew wait, but he felt it was his responsibility to talk to his friend until his obsession to stalk passed.

  Roland paced, unsure how long he was supposed to wait before calling Alan’s cell phone. Sitting on their bed, Lynn was watching him.

  “I think this is going to be good,” he said. “A chick answered the phone at his apartment. It could be a friend or relative, but even if it’s a girlfriend, it doesn’t mean his life is good. She was panting, and I could hear an exercise video in the background, which probably means she’s fat, trying to burn calories, which would explain why she’s going out with a guy like Alan: She couldn’t find anyone better.”

  Lynn flipped through a magazine.

  Roland glanced at his watch. Half an hour had passed. Enough. He dialed Alan’s cell phone. Alan himself, once again, did not answer. It was a man, asking Roland to hold on. Roland listened, straining his ear for signs of pathos. Suddenly he heard “Cut!” He frowned. Then he heard people clapping and saying, “Wow, that was great, Alan,” and a sexy female voice, “Alan, that was amazing,” then someone else, “There’s a call for you, Alan!”

  Four days later, Alan was sitting with Lynn and Roland in a coffee shop. Roland had not said much about their reason for inviting him, claiming only that it would be nice to see him. When Alan had lightly pressed him for a more plausible explanation, mentioning he had forty-two tax returns to prepare that week plus a movie role, Roland had replied, enigmatically, “It would be good for all of us.”

  Sensing Alan’s hesitation, Roland had handed the phone to Lynn, urging her to say something encouraging. Not knowing what to say, she blurted that she was from Long Island, too, and asked him what town he was from. He said Cross. She said she was from Stanton, the next town over. They chuckled politely.

  After taking a day to think about it, Alan had accepted their invitation.

  He was starting to wonder if he had not made a mistake, because their questions were getting strange. At first they had asked him simple things, like the plot of the movie he was in.

  “A married woman falls in love with another man,” Alan had replied.

  “What’s your part?”

  “The other man.”

  They asked him how he was doing, and he answered, “I’m doing well, thanks,” and they said, “It must have been hard for you, what we did.”

  Alan couldn’t quite figure out what their intention was—to revive his murderous thoughts?

  “Yes, it was hard.”

  “Oh, boy, I can just imagine,” Lynn said. “Did you have to go into therapy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm,” Roland said. “Did you ever have suicidal thoughts?”

  “Yes.” Alan saw a twinkle in their eyes. So he added, “I also had murderous thoughts.”

  They were visibly less interested in those. Misery seemed to be what they wanted to hear about. Less so the anger.

  “And now? How is your life now? Are you lonely? Depressed? Unmotivated?” they asked, with an air of hopeful concern.

  “No,” Alan said.

  Roland scratched his cheek. After a time, Lynn said, “It must be hard for you to see us now. I mean, painful.”

  “No. It’s almost the opposite. It helps me realize how much better I feel now. How much better my life is. You know, in a way, I should even be grateful to you both for what you did to me. If you hadn’t helped me reach bottom, I might not have kicked back up.”

  It was nauseating how he was going on and on about himself, the little self-centered prick, Roland thought.

  “That’s a very generous way of looking at it,” Lynn muttered. She was watching Alan closely. Within a few months, his body language had completely changed. He was calm, that was a big part of it. And he didn’t seem to hold a grudge, which was
remarkable. He had risen above it. Wait. Was he on Prozac, or something?

  “How’s your job?” Roland asked.

  “Good.”

  “Have you made partner yet?”

  “No.”

  “Supervisor?”

  “No.”

  “Still doing all the grunt work, huh?”

  “Yes, but it’s fine.”

  “Are you on any antidepressants?” Lynn asked.

  “No.”

  “But you’ve changed so much!” she said. “You don’t even move the same way. You seem less agitated, and you no longer make those silly facial expressions that were too drastic and too frequent.”

  Alan was so well-adjusted that he barely felt the sting of that remark. Nevertheless, he did flag down the waiter, knowing there was a 25 percent chance of getting the result he wanted.

  “Could you bring me a beer?” he said to the waiter.

  “Could I see some ID?” the waiter asked.

  Bingo. Alan glanced at Roland slyly, who already had a beer in front of him and hadn’t gotten carded.

  Roland said to the waiter, “You think he looks under twenty-one?”

  “You never know,” the waiter said.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve lost my driver’s license,” Alan said. “Can I have the beer anyway? I’m thirty-four, a year older than this man, and you didn’t ask him for his ID.”

  “I’m instructed to follow my judgment,” the waiter said. “I shouldn’t sell you the beer without ID.”

  “That’s fine, no problem,” Alan said. “I’ll have a Coke.”

  When the waiter had left, Roland asked Alan, “Do you still have that rat?”

  Alan smiled. “Yes, Pancake is a wonderful pet.”

  “You know,” Roland said, smiling and stroking Lynn’s hand resting on the table, “I was telling Lynn the other day that I thought perhaps we should let you have that weekend with her.”

  Lynn stared at Roland in shock.

  “I’m … flattered,” Alan said, looking uncomfortable, “but I’m in a relationship now.”

  “Lucky her. Or him?” Roland said.