by Joe Meno
Until finally, standing before the vending machine, in the quiet disarrangement of the break room, Odile leans over and whispers in Jack’s ear, “Do you know where I can get a bunch of cheap balloons?”
“What for?”
“It’s for this thing I’m working on.”
“What thing?”
“This thing.”
“I guess. There’s this one place on Chicago Avenue. It’s a party store. You can probably get a bunch there for cheap. Why, what’s it for?”
“It’s for this project I’m thinking of doing.”
“I could help. When are you going to do it?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’m not doing anything tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she says, smiling, though not looking at him. He sees her soft reflection in the plastic window of the vending machine and then looks away quick.
Before she turns to head back to her desk, Jack pipes up: “I wrote my phone number on your back.”
“What?”
“I wrote my phone number on your back.”
“You did? Why would you do that?”
“I don’t know. I thought it’d be funny.”
“I didn’t see it. And then I took a shower.”
“I kinda thought you might not. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Yeah.”
“Yep, but it really wasn’t,” he says, looking down at his feet.
“If you wanted to give me your number, why didn’t you just give it to me?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“What idea?”
“I don’t know. I just thought … I don’t know. I wanted you to have it. I mean, I like hanging out with you. But I didn’t want you to think I was a weirdo or something.”
Finally, Odile turns and faces him and says, “Too late for that,” and then winks at him and heads back to her desk. And he stands there and thinks he can still smell her powder deodorant, the oddly attractive oil of her hair, lingering there like some phantom castle.
AN ACT OF ART TERRORISM.
At nine-thirty a.m. that Thursday morning they meet up outside the party store on Chicago Avenue and Odile buys fifty silver mylar balloons for only ten bucks and Jack asks, “So what’s the big idea?” and Odile asks, “Are you in?” and he says, “Sure, why not?” and Odile holds the silver balloons as they ride downtown to a small office building with large rectangular windows, and then they lock their bicycles up out front.
“Where are we going?” Jack asks, and Odile just winks and they walk in through the revolving glass door, and the balloons get stuck at first, and then they make it past, and Odile flashes a small ID card of some kind and the overweight guard looks up at her suspiciously, and she says, “They’re for someone’s birthday,” and he nods, his jowls shaking, going back to his mangled newspaper, and Jack follows closely behind, and Odile whispers, “I used to work here, doing telephone surveys. I really hated it,” and Jack shrugs and they stand before a bank of elevators and Odile presses the up button, and together they silently wait, and when one of the elevators arrives, and the mechanical doors stagger apart, the two of them step inside, forcing the balloons to fit.
“Okay,” Odile says, and from her bag she removes two cloth ski masks: a black one and a red one.
Jack stares at them and shrugs.
“Which one do you want?” she asks.
“What are they for?”
“To be anonymous.”
“I’ll take the red one, I guess,” and he reaches out for it, removing his glasses, putting the ski mask over his face. It is a little too tight and he can feel it digging into the back of his head. Also, it’s hard to see or breathe through the narrow holes. And so he puts his eyeglasses back on over the mask and imagines how ridiculous he must look.
“Now what?” Jack asks, and Odile smiles a coy smile and then fits the black mask over her face. She actually does look like some kind of art guerilla. She takes out a silver paint pen from her parka and, on the smooth wood-paneled wall of the elevator, she writes: ALPHONSE F. WAS HERE.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s our slogan.”
“Oh.” And then: “Who the heck’s Alphonse F.?”
“He was a boy I went to elementary school with. He was this short, kinda dirty-looking kid. He used to get in trouble all the time in art class for drawing naked ladies. But he’d always put his name in the corner of the drawing, just like that. Alphonse F. And then he’d try to sell them to other boys in school. I’ve been thinking we should name our movement after him. Because he was the first great artist I ever met.”
And Jack looks at the silver writing on the wall and sees the bustling silver balloons and sees the black ski mask over Odile’s face and decides there’s little to do but agree.
Without them pressing any buttons, the elevator begins to ascend and eventually stops at the sixth floor. A matronly woman in a beige dress climbs aboard. She looks at two young people in ski masks, sees all the silver balloons, and then looks down. No one says a word. She climbs out of the elevator on the fourth floor, looking over her shoulder once more, to be sure of what she has seen, and then the mechanical doors close behind her. The two young masked people both begin to laugh. The elevator makes it to the lobby without any other stops. Once in the lobby again, they take their masks off, Odile tugging Jack by the sleeve, the two of them pacing themselves, trying to walk out as unobtrusively as possible.
Back in the cold air, the wintry snow flying before them, Jack squints over at Odile and asks, “So what was that all about?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, like what was the point of that whole thing? With the balloons and masks and everything?”
“There’s no point. It’s just something to make people think.”
“But what are they supposed to think?”
“It’s just something, like a puzzle, for people to think about. It doesn’t have some grand meaning or anything. It’s just like a moment to be surprised by something. Kind of like a daydream. But something … real.”
And Jack nods and suddenly thinks she is a lot smarter and more interesting than he had thought before. Odile finishes unlocking her bicycle and is pulling her pink mittens back on and she can see him staring at her, wanting to say something else, maybe wanting to kiss her, and so she puts him out of his misery and asks, “So. Do you want to get some pancakes?”
“Sure.”
Because, now, what else is he going to say?
ABOUT THESE PANCAKES.
These pancakes are served at a corner diner on Damen and Chicago, a few blocks away from her apartment. Jack gets blueberry. Odile gets chocolate chip. The pancakes are huge and perfectly circular and come with tiny butter squares. They are eaten in near silence until Jack is caught staring at Odile’s pancakes in a weird way and then she finally asks, “What? What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t like chocolate chip pancakes?”
“No.”
“Have you ever tried them?”
“Once.”
“Well, I love them.”
“Yeah. They give me a bad feeling.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s weird.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s a little too personal for pancakes.”
“What’s that mean?”
He sighs and says, “My first stepdad, David, he always used to take me and my older sister to dinner. Once a week. It was like our night out with him, and he’d try to get us to go to these fancy places, but all we ever wanted to go to was to the International House of Pancakes. And so he’d take us. But he wouldn’t ever let us order chocolate chip pancakes.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Some hang-up of his. He’s a shrink, and Jewish, so who knows? Maybe they were too unhealthy. Anyways. This one time he takes
us out and asks where we want to go, and we say, International House of Pancakes, and he takes us and we’re sitting there and we ask if we can order chocolate chip pancakes and this time he looks at us and says yes and so we go crazy. And then they come, and they’re like covered in whipped cream and there are cherries and it was all made to look like a smiley face. You know, like there were these two smiley faces sitting there and so we started eating them. And then my stepdad looks at us and coughs or something and says, Your mother and I. We’ve decided to get a divorce, and I could feel the chocolate chips get stuck in my throat, and I look over at my sister and she looks over at me, and then we look down at the pancakes and they have those stupid chocolate smiles, and neither of us wants to finish, because we feel so bad, but I kind of feel like this is my only chance, and so we keep shoveling these stupid pancakes into our mouths, but we don’t even enjoy them. That’s like my one childhood memory. Even then I guess I couldn’t finish anything.”
Odile glances down at her pancakes and frowns. “Why did you tell me that?”
“I don’t know,” he says.
Odile sets down her fork and knife. Jack shrugs and finishes his.
“What were you like when you were a kid?” he asks.
“I guess I was weird,” she says. “I used to try to break my arm all the time.”
“Really? Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s probably because I have five brothers. Almost all of them are older. So the only way anyone ever got any attention was to break an arm or a leg or something. And I guess my brother Dave broke his leg one summer and he got to sit in this lawn chair and ask for things and my mother would bring them to him, and so the rest of that summer I tried to break my arm on things. I would like fall out of trees or like slam it in a door or something.”
Jack smiles. “That’s so weird. It’s perfect.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what you remember from being a kid?”
“No. I mean there’s other things,” she says. “It seemed like it had something to do with your story but I guess it really doesn’t.”
“That’s cool.”
“It’s funny though. It’s like part of the problem I still have. Even when I was a kid, I wanted everyone to notice me. To like me. People really don’t change all that much, do they?”
“Maybe only every so often. Or if something really big happens. I still think I’m pretty much the same I was when I was ten years old. I still like the same stuff. Books and music and movies. It’s weird to think about.”
And she nods. “I’m totally that kid still trying to break her arm.”
And then the bill comes, and each of them pays exactly half.
And then they are walking down Damen Avenue, Jack pushing his bicycle, Odile tromping ahead with her own bike, following a narrow path through the ankle-deep snow which has been stamped down by other people, and Odile is about a foot ahead of him and he just then notices she has her funny white hat on, with a small ball at the end, and it looks like it might be something she crocheted herself, and then she is leaping over a murky gray puddle, and pausing before a poster announcing some new brand of jeans. And Odile already has her silver paint marker out and is writing, ALPHONSE F. IS NOT INTERESTED, and then she has capped the pen and is walking on again. Jack glances at what she has written and then follows her, feeling the cold attack his hands, and so he curls them up into his pockets. Is he following her back home? He doesn’t really know. She isn’t talking and they are walking in the cold and Jack can see his own breath and finally he says, “So are you heading back home now?”
And Odile turns, and her wide cheeks are pinkish, and she gives him an annoyed look and says, “I thought you were coming with,” but when she says this, he notices she is not looking at him, and his heart is choking him all of a sudden, and she is skipping over another puddle and then she asks, “Is that cool?” And then he says yes. Most definitely.
BACK AT HER APARTMENT.
Before they get their bicycles in the door, Jack is already thinking of how he can try to put his tongue in her ear. The apartment is quiet but full of light and it appears that her roommate has gone to work but has left a half-eaten bowl of cereal sitting there on the sofa, and Odile looks at it and shakes her head and says, “You can see why I’m moving out,” putting the dish in the sink which, hearing her mention moving again, makes Jack feel slightly bad. Odile unzips her coat and kicks off her boots and Jack doffs his winter hat and the two of them sit beside each other on the couch. And then Odile leaps up and puts a record on and it’s a band he’s never heard of, King Missile, and he asks who it is, and she tells him, and he nods like he knows, and they sit beside each other again, Jack staring at his wet socks and then hers, and she is singing along and Jack thinks that if he doesn’t try to kiss her something in him might explode, but instead he reaches into his coat and takes out his silver tape recorder and hits play and record and holds it before their mouths and asks, “Question Number One: what is your favorite song of all time?”
And she says, “I don’t know. I don’t think I have one. I like a lot of different types of music. It kinda depends on my mood. What about you?”
And he holds the microphone under his chin and says, “I guess I would have to say ‘The Umbrella Man’ by Dizzy Gillespie.”
“I don’t know that song.”
“Do you know who Dizzy Gillespie is?”
“Yeah, I know who he is. I just don’t know that song.”
“My stepdad, David, he loves music. He’s like an amateur record collector. He’d always play a different record during dinner: jazz, Motown, folk. We used to do this crazy dance together to that song ‘Umbrella Man.’ And then at night, he’d play a record for us as we were going to sleep, my older sister and me. Sometimes it would be a doo-wop record or maybe some jazz. But I used to love it, it made me feel safe, you know? It’s funny. Everything I know about music I learned from my stepdad.”
“That’s great.”
“Well, what about you?” he asks. “Did you come up with a song yet?”
She squints and says, “How about ‘After Hours’? By the Velvet Underground.”
“Very nice. You must have gone to art school.”
“I did. For a while anyway.”
“What did you go to school for?”
“I was in painting. And then a video major. And then painting again. I couldn’t make up my mind. I wanted to try everything. But I wasn’t really good at any of it.”
“I was the same way. I still haven’t figured out what I want to do.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s not working in an office,” she says. “I don’t think I could live with myself, doing the same thing every day. It’s okay for now. But I really think I need to move at the end of the month and try something new. I feel like if I don’t do it now, I never will.”
“I don’t know,” Jack says. “I kind of like it. Working in the office, I mean.”
“You do?”
“I really do. It’s the first time I don’t have to think at work, you know. It’s really simple. You just answer the phone and put in people’s orders. It’s pretty laid back. You don’t like it?”
“No. I feel like it’s killing my brain.”
“Maybe that’s why I like it. I don’t mind not having to think.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he says, looking down at the tape recorder. “So. Okay. Question Number Two: if someone you loved was disfigured in a car accident, would you still love them?”
“Yes, but I would hope they would leave me.”
“What?”
“I think it would be too hard on the other person, the normal person. If I was in love with someone who got disfigured, I’d hope they’d leave me.”
“Wow. All right,” he says. “Okay. Question Number Three: what’s the worst thing you ever did?”
“What?” she asks, grinning at him.
“What’s the worst thing you ever did?”
/>
“I don’t know if I want to answer that,” she says.
“It’s part of the interview. Don’t be a chicken.”
“I don’t think I really want to talk about it,” Odile says again.
“No?”
“You go first,” she says. “Then maybe I will.”
“Okay. I was maybe eight years old. I pushed this boy into a pool and he couldn’t swim. I mean, I didn’t know he couldn’t swim. I was there with my sister and my stepfather at this club. It was just before my mother divorced him. And my stepdad was excited that we’d be allowed to join the club, because he’s part Jewish, and there weren’t any Jewish people in the club. He’s only half Jewish but he considers himself Jewish because his mom was. I dunno. Anyway, we were at the pool. And this boy I didn’t know was pushing my older sister, and then he pushed me and so I pushed him back and he fell in. But he couldn’t swim because he was retarded. I didn’t know he was, I just thought he was big and mean. And I didn’t figure out what happened until after it was over. The lifeguard got him out but he was really screaming. I’ll never forget the sound of him screaming. It sounded like a baby crying. Then we were asked to leave the club. My stepdad was mad at me for the rest of the summer. And then they got divorced. I know it didn’t, but I always felt like that had something to do with that.”
“That’s pretty bad.”
“Yeah, I know. It is pretty awful.” Jack scratches his nose. “What about you?”
“What is the worst thing I ever did? I don’t know. I cheated on this really nice guy a few years ago. When I was a freshman. And then, a few months ago, I gave a handjob to this guy I worked with and he went and told everyone in the office, and so I had to quit. I don’t know. I keep doing weird stuff like that. It’s gross. I don’t really know what’s wrong with me.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t even know why I do it. I mean, I didn’t even really like the one guy. I just do dumb things sometimes so people like me.”
“Oh.”
