by Joe Meno
“I live a few blocks from here,” and Odile says, “What about our bikes?” and he says, “We can get them on the way,” and she nods and says okay. And then they wander off in silence, both of them slightly starry-eyed.
BACK TO HIS APARTMENT.
But it does not happen the way it does in the movies, maybe because it is winter and they have to take off their hats and coats. Once their shoes and jackets are off, he sits there as Odile looks around the apartment, wide-eyed, taking in all the shoe boxes arranged in tall angular stacks everywhere, and she says, “This is pretty weird. What are all the shoe boxes for?” and Jack is looking at her, at her dark hair, at her soft mouth, at her long neck, and how she is walking around inspecting everything in her black-stockinged feet, and she points to a box and asks, “What’s this one?” and then another, “And this one?” and Jack stands too, leaning beside her, reading the small labels he has made. “Birds,” he says, or, “Airplanes,” and she is squinting, looking at them all, and then he does not know why but he says, “I’d like to show you something. Sometime. Whenever.”
“Really? What?”
“It’s supposed to be a secret, and … well, it’s not finished yet but I’d like to show it to somebody. If you want to, I mean.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not entirely ready but …”
“You’re so gay.”
“Sorry. I’m just nervous. I’ve never showed it to anybody.”
“When you talk like that, it makes you sound like a virgin.”
“I’m not,” he says. And then once again, “I’m not.”
“Whatever. Are you going to show it to me or what?”
Jack smiles and asks Odile to please sit on the sofa. She folds her legs underneath her and does so.
“Okay, I’m almost ready. Like I said, it’s not really finished yet but … Okay, this is it. Are you ready?”
Odile blinks. “I guess so.”
Jack gathers his tape recorders, four of them altogether. “Okay, it’s probably better if you close your eyes.”
Odile smiles and then slowly closes her eyes. She tilts her chin up as she does this.
“Okay. Imagine you are stepping off a bus.”
Jack hits play on the first tape recorder and the noisy exhaust of a bus rises in the air.
“And as you’re walking, you can hear the birds chirping and feel the sun shining.”
And here he hits play on the second tape recorder, the sound of a string of sparrows singing on a low telephone wire.
“Up ahead, there’s a gigantic silver fountain, with statues of all kinds of fantastic mythical creatures on it. And a skyscraper in the shape of a castle is being built beside it.”
And here Jack hits play on a tape and the sound of a public fountain quickly rushes to life. He then hits fast forward, and then play again, and the rattletrap of construction shortly begins.
“To your left is the city zoo. What kind of animals would you like to visit there?”
“I dunno. The seals?”
“Anything but the seals.”
“Okay, the lion.”
“How about the tiger?”
“Okay. The tiger,” she says with a smile.
“The tiger. Okay,” he says, searching through his shoe boxes of sounds. He finds the one he is looking for, slips it inside the fourth tape recorder, and the noisy roar of a tiger rings out. “As you keep walking, you find yourself in the middle of a wonderful atrium. And there are some bumblebees darting about.”
Play and rewind.
“And there is also a lovely breeze blowing through the giant flowers.”
Fast forward, play, rewind, play.
“Wow. This is pretty amazing,” she says.
And Jack smiles, looking at her with her eyes shut, the shape of her lips, her teeth parted in a half-cocked grimace.
“Okay, well, that’s it,” he says, touching Odile’s hand. She immediately opens her eyes. She looks up at Jack, raising her eyebrows. Neither of them seem to know what to say or do next.
“That was … I don’t even know what to say. Wow. It was really amazing. Really.”
“Thanks. I’ve been working on it for a while. Four years, actually. I still have some other stuff to record, but, well, you get the idea.”
Odile and Jack stare at each other for another long moment.
And there are their eyes, their noses, their mouths, all of them only inches apart.
And then they begin kissing again. It’s good, a very soft, dramatic kiss, their mouths forcing themselves together. And then their hands start to go wild. And then they fall back onto the sofa, Odile folding her arm around Jack’s neck, pulling him close. And he is pressing his body against hers. And his hand goes up beneath her sweater. And they both begin to undress each other. And then she says, “Once I fall for someone,” but does not finish her sentence. And they start to kiss again and he is startled by how soft her skin is, the skin on her face, her stomach, her neck. And her legs are around his waist. And they are kissing hard. And he makes a soft noise and she says, “What’s wrong?” and he says, “I have a bad tooth.” And she says, “Sorry,” and they start kissing again, this time more softly. And then she is unbuckling his pants. And he is pulling off her blue jeans and laughing as the leg gets stuck on her left foot. And then he has his hand between her legs, and he can feel the soft fabric of her pink underwear there. And then he has his hand under the hem of the underwear and his finger is inside, up inside. And he’s doing what he thinks he’s supposed to, what he wants to do, what he hopes she will like. And it’s going pretty great. And her mouth is beside his ear and he can almost hear her breathing but not quite. And their foreheads are pressed together, eyes closed, the heat unmistakable. It’s the nicest thing in the world, having his forehead pressed up against someone else’s like that. And then he is reaching over to get her soft pink underwear down and she is making a surprised expression with her eyes and then she is sitting up, saying: “Hold on.”
“Sorry,” and it’s like he’s out of breath and so he sits up too.
And she brushes her bangs with her fingers and sits up straight and says, “Okay. Wow. Just give me a second.”
“Okay,” he says. “Are you okay?”
And then she nods and says, “Okay,” as if she has made an important decision about something. “Do you have any protection?”
“What?”
“A condom?”
“I think so.”
“Okay,” she says.
And he hurries off to the bedroom, and then hurries back, and lies beside her. And after he comes back, Odile pulls a crocheted orange afghan over them, although he can still see her bare shoulders. And Jack is on top and it’s all elbows and knees at first. It’s pretty awkward going. “I don’t think I’m wet yet,” she says, and he nods, feeling embarrassed for some reason, and she says, “Okay, just slow down,” and she takes his hand and places it between her thighs, and she begins rocking back and forth, and a few moments later, he does it, putting himself between her legs, and he tries to touch her small breasts but she says, “Don’t touch my tits. I hate them,” and he nods and holds himself up on his elbows and she has her eyes closed and is wrapping her bare legs around his waist, although she still has her black socks on, which look pretty funny. There’s something goofy and sexy about it all at the same time. And he comes before he would like, too soon, too soon, and they lie together like that for a while before she says, “Excuse me,” and waddles off to the bathroom, knees pressed together, the bare crescents of the backs of her legs disappearing behind the closed door. And he thinks he has to say something great, something really nice, and he is standing beside the bathroom and hears the toilet flush, and then they pass each other, smiling, and Jack gets rid of the condom, dropping it in the toilet, and Odile is already getting dressed, and he looks up at her as he searches for his pants and says, “I really like you,” and she says, “Thanks. I really like you too,” and they begin kissi
ng again. In bed, on the sofa, in front of the sink. They kiss everywhere, again and again, over the next few hours, so much so that it scares the cat.
ON THAT MONDAY AROUND NINE A.M.
Odile leaves and Jack, smiling dumbly at the front door, places his fingertip to the flesh-colored Band-Aid still on his head. Everything about the apartment feels exciting, new, different, even the way the light through the windows is working. He has got it bad for this girl. Oh man. And even though she is two years younger and a little crazy, she is so unafraid of everything. It practically kills him. And as he’s dragging his bicycle down the steps and out into the snowy street on his way to work that afternoon, he sees that on a parking sign, right in front of his building, someone has written
HELLO JACK
with a bright silver paint marker, and later, riding to work, he spots another handwritten note on the side of mailbox:
HI JACK
Then another on the façade of an abandoned storefront on Milwaukee Avenue:
HELLO JACK
Everywhere she has left him these small notes and so begins the best four days of his life. It’s the beginning of the third week in February and they end up spending almost every moment of it together. On Monday, after work, they return to Jack’s apartment and lie in bed, Odile’s bicycle propped beside his, right near the front door. They begin to do things to each other like they are children and have just thought up the idea of fucking, as something to do for fun, as something to amuse themselves. Odile is quiet but then laughs suddenly, which Jack finds really, incredibly attractive. He’s never been with a girl who’s laughed like that in bed, which is great but also makes him a little self-conscious because once or twice he gets afraid she might be laughing at him, at what he’s trying to do. And after it is over, and they are lying in bed, he decides to put on one of his stepfather’s records. First he puts on some Miles Davis. Then Stan Getz. Then he puts on “The Umbrella Man” by Dizzy Gillespie, and he watches her face as he plays the song for her a second time. And then, on that Monday night, at about three in the morning, they go out to get contact lens cleaner so Odile can take her contacts out at his place, and then returning, they pull each other to the wood floor, kissing each other’s faces, neck, hair, falling back into the bed, neither of them speaking. There is a sound Odile makes which is so soft, so faint, like breathing, but faster, and also sort of like a cat, that makes it seem like they can’t get out of their clothes again quick enough. And they can’t. And they work out their questions about the world and each other through these spastic, eager breaths.
ON TUESDAY THEY DO THIS.
Following the ideas described in Odile’s small green notebook, they traverse the city doing random, interesting things.
1. Blot out a movie poster for some Brad Pitt film using her silver paint pen near the corner of North and Damen. What remains is a murky silver cloud over the actor’s face and the partial title of his latest movie.
2. Go to Odile’s roommate’s copy shop and make a large white paper banner that says, YOU WILL FORGET THIS BY TOMORROW—ALPHONSE F., which they hang at the bus stop on Division Street using silver duct tape.
3. Buy three yellow-and-green parakeets from the bird store on Chicago Avenue and turn them loose in front of the schoolyard on Wood Street, the birds becoming multicolored puffs of air disappearing above the ice-covered swings.
4. Draw a picture of two ghosts having intercourse on a stop sign near Ashland using Odile’s silver paint pen, complete with ghost boobs and a ghost dick.
5. Stop by the emergency room at Cook County Hospital, where Odile chickens out, taking Jack’s hand in her own, ditching the puppets they had spent ten minutes making in a trash receptacle outside.
6. Awkwardly kiss at the corner of Chicago Avenue.
7. Hurry inside the Museum of Contemporary Art and tape up a portrait Odile has done of the famous artist Alphonse F., right between a painting by Warhol and a photo of Cindy Sherman.
8. And then outside once again, Jack checks his calculator watch, and off they ride to work.
AFTER WORK ON TUESDAY NIGHT.
Odile says she has another plan of attack and Jack asks a plan of attack for what? but she only laughs and they ride the elevator down to the lobby and hurry outside to unlock their bicycles, and once they’re unlocked, they ride off a few blocks to the Blue Line subway station on Monroe Street, and then, following Odile’s lead, they drag both their bicycles down the icy steps. And as they’re waiting for the next train north, Jack asks, “What’s this about?” but Odile doesn’t answer, not at first. Later, ten or so minutes on, as the gleam and hum of the subway train rocks the platform, Odile leans close and shouts in his ear, “Have you ever seen the movie Breathless?”
“What?” he shouts.
“Have you ever seen the movie Breathless?”
“No.”
“What about Gone with the Wind?”
“No. Well, parts of it.”
“Okay. What about Jaws then?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen Jaws. A bunch of times. Why?”
And she winks at him and smiles, and then the subway doors are parting open, and Odile and Jack are climbing inside, wheeling their bicycles onto the train. The doors close behind them as they stand in the aisle, supporting the weight of their bikes.
“Wait until I give you the signal,” Odile says.
“Wait for the signal to do what?”
“We’re going to act out a scene from Jaws.”
“Why?”
“It’s tonight’s project.”
“But it’s a movie.”
“So what?”
“So isn’t that referencing pop culture? I thought you were against that.”
“It is. But it’s doing something interesting with it. It’s temporary. So it’s like a movie only the people on this train car ever get to see. So it’s better than a movie. We’re creating a moment that will never be repeated again.”
“I guess,” Jack says, still not convinced.
The train speeds past Washington and when a group of college students, eyes hazy from drinking, stumble on, Odile gives Jack a wink.
“Who am I supposed to be?” Jack whispers.
“I don’t know. You can be the police chief. Or the shark.”
And he nods in suspicious agreement.
Odile stands, straightens her green parka, and begins to cross up the aisle, pedaling her arms in a stunted butterfly stroke.
“Here I am, swimming,” Odile announces. “I am going skinny-dipping now.”
And she mimes undressing but does not bother to unzip her coat. People on the train look up, questioning, a little confused. Odile stops swimming and then screams, fighting against the imaginary water. “Something has my leg,” she says in a monotone.
A homeless man across the aisle cracks open his bleary eyes, trying to puzzle out what he is seeing. Odile now stands near the silver handrail, tipping her chin up, looking very formal.
“I am the Mayor of Amity Island. What a wonderful summer we are having. I sure hope nothing will force us to close our beaches. What’s this? A giant shark in our waters?”
And she nods at Jack.
Jack, for the life of him, has no idea why he’s doing this. But he does it. He does it because of the way she is standing there, because of the small moles on her naked back, because of the way she looks at him.
He gets to his feet and pretends to be a shark, miming the great gray fin with his left hand.
“I am a shark,” he mumbles. “And now I’m eating people.”
“Another murder! We better call in a marine biologist. And an expert shark hunter.” Here she extends her hand, shaking Jack’s. “It looks like we caught the shark we were looking for,” Odile explains.
“No,” Jack says, pointing down at the snow-covered subway floor. “There’s no body parts inside. This isn’t the shark we want.”
“We’re going to need a bigger boat!” Odile shouts, out of turn, ending the scene.
She takes Jack’s hand and bows and then, grabbing her bicycle, heads off at the next stop on Grand Avenue. Jack follows, and once they’re at street level again, he looks at her and says, “What do you think those people on the train were thinking?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think I saw a couple people laughing. But I wasn’t sure. They could have been frowning now that I think about it.”
“It’s okay. I’m used it. It’s just like in art school. Everyone there hated what I was doing because it wasn’t obvious or bleak, or because it didn’t take itself so seriously.”
“Yeah.”
“One time that guy, that one professor, the one from the gallery opening, he looked at this painting I made, and it was of an apple with a mustache lifting weights, and he said, You’re not going to be successful doing this kind of thing, and I almost spat in his face.”
“It just sounds like he was maybe a bad teacher.”
“But he was the chairperson. Of the whole department. That’s pretty much when I decided I was done with art school. There was this idea that if something was good, everybody in the class had to like it. Like it was a popularity contest or something. Like it had to be tragic. I didn’t want any part of it. And so I said forget it.”
Odile steps forward and there, a few feet from the entrance down to the Blue Line station, she grabs her silver paint pen and writes
ALPHONSE F. WILL DESTROY YOU, PROFESOR WILLS
misspelling the man’s title and then inserting a small F above her mistake. Jack nods and they stand together beneath the caustic streetlights, admiring her work.
In bed together, a half hour later, they do not undress. They fall onto the mattress and wrap themselves tightly beneath the cotton blankets and then slip off wordlessly to sleep, Odile’s fingertips sticky with the remnants of silver paint from her marker. And in the morning, at the arm’s-length of dawn, finding themselves still pressed together, they do it backward, his mouth to the back of her ear, staring at the small television on the nightstand, watching a rerun of Andy Griffith, which is actually a program for the masses, but no one complains.
