The Mere Future

by Sarah Schulman

  What Bond had learned was: He wanted never to become the lonely old Master. He did not want to be the wishful neophyte with all that suffering before him. So far, he had avoided both those fates. He was a young Master. If he slid even one step back, they would do a revisionism and decide that he no longer mattered. He would never climb back on. So that slide could NOT take place. The facts were in. Bond had to stay on top.

  Loneliness was Harrison’s enemy, like imminent cancer waving hello from every cigarette. He had to be very, very vigilant. Once you get Loneliness, it never goes away permanently. It always lurks and threatens to re-approach.

  Right now he had a classically marketable personal conundrum that both deflected loneliness and provided good material. He was in love with two women and would soon have to choose. Bond checked his watch. He’d have to choose in three months.

  Who were these two women? What were their attributes?

  Well, each of them owned a television set.

  Ginette had a color set with remote mind control, satellite, cable, and airborne. It had fifty-thousand channels. It had VCR, DVD, digital, laser, and molecular attachments. She could watch live or archivally, and she could also watch shows that hadn’t been broadcast yet. Whenever Harrison was at Ginette’s house, they lay in bed together eating Madagascarian take-out food, giggling in the soft shag and vinyl cushions, and watching future programming from Utah, Maui, and Taipei. It was fun.

  The other love, Claire, had a small black-and-white box. It was vintage, displaying her eccentricities. There were five snowy channels showing programs from the 1960s. These programs were: The Defenders, Flip Wilson, The Smothers Brothers, Playhouse Ninety, and I Love Lucy. Apparently these were all that anyone actually needs. The two lovers would stretch out on the hand-made quilt and eat cheese and crackers and drink Fresca and giggle.

  Whichever woman he chose, that was the set that he would be watching. He could live without the comfort and hip knowledge of the color/mind remote/nuclear set, and he could live without the bohemian currency of having something fetishistically in the know, but he could not live without the giggling.

  Claire, the black-and-white girl, had soft luxuriant breasts with musty nipples, like perfectly warmed stewed apples. If he chose her, the day would inevitably come when he would no longer be fixated on her breasts and would then turn to the TV. That would mean night after night of marveling at the superiority of the past. A weird proposition for a creator of contemporary culture.

  Ginette’s breasts were not as intoxicating, but her living room was sexier. Ultimately, it provided many provocations to fuck. And when sex wore off, he could spend a lot time just changing the channels.

  How to make this decision?

  These were his true feelings. Did that make him a bad person? After all, he admitted it. Wasn’t that enough?

  In many ways, the question before Harrison came down to this:

  If he could easily find yet another girlfriend as soon as the sweetness wore off, he would chose Claire and her black and white. But if the threat of age was soon to be upon him, and his desire/ability to attract would suddenly tatter like yesterday’s newspaper, he’d better choose Ginette—the lass with comfy designer cushions. The wrong decision could be fatal. How to maximize and judge?

  Harrison had fallen in love many times before. He knew what love was. Ultimately, each of the many women he had fallen in love with, he had loved with the same sincerity, fear, ardor, and detachment. Frankly, he had not loved a single one of them more than any other. He was familiar with love. In a way, it was not special. It was essential, regular, sublime like the morning, and equally available. It was not, and it was snot. Could he be deceiving himself, or perhaps he was just lucky? Would his luck continue? If he was just lucky, why had this goodness befallen him? Was he going to get away with life?

  He knew that escaping punishment made him despicable in the minds of many, not the least of all—Feminists. The gross dullards of the planet. But it was still true. Why was the truth so shameful to those sows?

  Harrison looked out his window at the vast blue tops, people, points, and clock towers, feelings, iron, and brick. He saw brink. He saw clink. He imagined the future with both Claire and Ginette.

  Ginette was very social. He could take her anywhere, and she in turn would take him. She liked to schmooze and so did he. She was thin, pretty, dark. A wisp with substance. She would not be a burden, embarrassment, or obstacle to the approval of other people. She was of mixed parentage. Her father was Columbian and her mother was from the District of Columbia. Her father had gone to Columbia and her mother was born on Columbus Day. This made her interesting. She would be an asset. She’d been schooled in Romania, Moravia, Batavia, Bavaria, and L.A. Petite, attractive, slender, sharp, small, and tiny. Like many Third World aristocrats, she’d call him out in public with small intimate rebukes that would humanize him in the minds of others and telegraph hot tamale. It would reveal him as sexy and a good sport. She had friends, she could take care of herself. She was sexy like a tree, all sinew and bone. She had a fencing coach and did Thai massage three times a week. She’d never get sick. She’d never cry over something that couldn’t get fixed. She wouldn’t lose her passion because she wouldn’t settle for its diminishment without discarding all interest. When he was busy, she’d find other things to do.

  These were all good points.

  Claire, on the other hand, was very slow. She’d never send the little note, never make the spontaneous gesture within the right framework of time. She wouldn’t introduce him to anything exterior that he couldn’t find for himself. Her world was small. She had interior beauty, true. But so do many others. Hers wasn’t unique in the fact of its existence, only in its precision. Choosing her would mean a romantic retreat from the world of competition. La petite vie. And that would prove what a man he truly was. That he didn’t need the glare of the flashbulbs in his own living room. It would be true love. Just choosing Claire. No world included.

  He thought about that. Just Claire. No World. Just Claire. No World. Just Claire. No World.

  Could be ultimately dull.

  If he and Ginette fought there would still be something interesting to do. With Claire, they would have no choice but to read.

  That settled it. The choice was clear. Ginette.

  And yet the choice of Claire seemed dangerously and repulsively inevitable. He might not have to pull the wool over her eyes. Maybe she would accept him as he truly was. A scoundrel. Was it better to be known or unknown? Ginette was superficial; she would never see what was wrong. Claire would notice right away.

  Harrison Bond believed that there was one woman, somewhere on this earth, who could understand him and accept him for the bastard that he truly was. A woman from whom he would never have to hide, his equal. He could trust her and she wouldn’t go away, even if he did something wrong. That was the woman he would love forever, the one who would love him forever. Not accept with recrimination, tears, and tragic resignation. But simply accept, with pleasure.

  Perhaps neither of these gals fit that bill.

  9. THEY WERE NICE

  I FINISHED MY article with Nadine’s loving coach/touch/couch. Her fascination with Glick was bordering on insane fandom. She was doodling the words ambition and flesh and bone on our dishtowels. She was playing old Ornette Coleman music and anything else that took her back to the avant-gardish days. She even started wearing clothes that had never returned into style, like moccasins and midi-skirts, jumpsuits and sparkle socks. Anything to stand apart.

  I combed my hair, clutched my article under my arm, and set out for Mr Bond’s.

  While I was wandering through the colorful and strangely happy streets, I did not know that Bond was still thinking about the two dames in his life, and still trying to choose. The main problem was that they were both nice. He would have preferred if both of them could be happy. In fact, he knew he could keep both of them happy if they would just grow up enough to let him have
everything his way. He could win the approval of both sets of their friends.

  But in the meantime, Harrison needed a title for his second novel. My Sperm was really hard to beat. There were very few words in the English language that carried that same weight as the word “sperm.” Only “Mom.”

  The problem with “Mom” was that she wasn’t provocative. All her meanings were already known. She suffered, and—depending on your school of thought—it was her fault or someone else’s. “Sperm” was unique in its power. It still elicited a slight frisson in casual conversation. All you had to do was say it and someone would laugh. It was naturally surprising.

  Harrison had realized quite early in the title search that going for another key word was not the best approach. It would clearly be a pale imitation. The new title had to have a lot of different sounds and some overlapping images. It had to appear to be a title so foreign from his first that the content and direction of the second novel would be completely unpredictable. Like Mongol Siblings in Shreveport. Something a little gothic. Second novels shouldn’t be as easy as the first ones—not on the writer and not on the public. They should telegraph stretch, thereby showing the artist’s inevitable trajectory to the big, big leagues.

  He shuffled papers at his desk, looking for a great idea. Plot clot. A murder, did it have to be a murder? Couldn’t child abuse, a nice violent rape, couldn’t that suffice? A homosexual killer who rapes his victims through their eye sockets? A woman who viciously murders prostitutes? Something unpredictable. A black jazz musician who takes drugs and the white people who learn from his mistakes? A good story.

  A doorbell awoke him from unsettling dreams.

  “Hi.”

  It was me.

  He shuddered.

  “Hi, Harrison,” I smiled insecurely. “Did you forget our appointment?”

  “Oh no,” he sneered, feigning politeness while clearly letting me know that I am nothing. In case I forgot. By using a tonal sneer while saying the right words, he would never be quoted disadvantageously, and yet the message was crystal clear. They teach you this in private school. They teach you how to be the kind of guy who could never be charged with “but you said …” because he never said it.

  I smiled again, trying to connect. He looked everywhere but here.

  “Have you got the eight words?”

  “Yes,” I said, sitting down on his leather sofa, determined to chat.

  He hated that. Harrison just could not stand the way that the wrong people would sit down next to him expecting something meaningful. It was a time waster. The pressure to get rid of them was too much. He wanted to look the other way, flip a trap door, and never think about those skanks again. He was a God. He could make scum disappear. Looking at me made him want to drink. It was all my fault.

  “What have you been doing today?” I asked, trying to make friends. I imagined our future camaraderie. Gin and tonics on his beach house porch in Venice. Me on the back of his motorcycle.

  “Thinking of a title for my second novel.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wondered why he had divulged anything. He regretted advancing the conversation because now I would want to talk about it more. And if I was sitting before him blathering, how could I disappear?

  He turned, cracked the new bottle of Bombay, and the rest of his day was shot. All because of me.

  “I’m sure you’re worried,” I said. “I am a copywriter, after all, and I know that packaging is more important than the object itself. But, that’s what a career is, an art career or any other.” I raised my hand high to illustrate. “Ups and …” I smashed my hand flat on the table. “… downs.” Then I did it again. “Ups … and … downs.” This time I smashed the table harder. “Downs are inevitable. It’s the bounce-back that counts.” I guess I was excited.

  Harrison hated that word. Downs. He despised it and anyone who used it.

  “It is not inevitable,” he said. “Look at Phillip Roth.”

  “Maybe you’ll be that lucky,” I smiled. I thought I was being reassuring, but simultaneously wise and knowing. “Sure, I’ll have a drink. Thanks!”

  We sat on his couch and stared out through his double skylights, drinking. It was the best couch I had ever been on. Comforting but not so soft it would break your back. You could sleep or read without falling asleep, make love, or chat. It was so deep that I didn’t have to hold up my own neck. Outside, shades of perfect evening mist streamed in through the urban filter. Light in front of, on top of, beside, and behind buildings, all converging like a vision at Lourdes. But this was a typical city evening now, in a New York where suddenly everything worked miracles.

  Harrison hated me so much that he could have chopped up my body with a fork. I had tried to shame him, obviously, but he was too well bred and drunk for that. I was not, however, so I didn’t notice the difference. From now on, he would simply ignore me, have another drink. No matter how long I sat there, he would shut up and suck them down. He knew that someday I would just go away. So he drank.

  “Oh well,” he said finally, when the bottle was half gone. “We’ll have to talk again soon.” Over his dead body. “You’re on the inside now—The Brand New York and all that. No more complaints.”

  “No,” I said, handing over my precious piece. “Here are the words. Z-mail me the cash.”

  When he had politely seen me to the door, and was safely back behind lock and key, Harrison had another Bombay. He was so annoyed. Why had Ginette and Claire put him in this situation? Couldn’t they take care of themselves? Why did they let him have so much control? It was humiliating. Protecting them from him was their job, not his. Everybody was driving him crazy. Harrison kicked back and put his head in his hands.

  Here was the thing, he drunkenly realized. He did not look for fulfillment in other people. He needed women for something else far more desperate. He needed them for romance, for sex, to talk on the phone, to see at the end of the day. They were time fillers. He did not need them for a sense of self. Was that so bad? He liked to put his arm around a woman in the movies, walk home, make love, and have coffee in the morning. There was nothing in any of that that required one at a time.

  What was he going to write about? All of his favorite topics had already been grabbed: his penis, television, kids in New Jersey who don’t do anything. Software. Pollution. Maybe he should call his second novel Gilligan’s Island. That wry, glib, distanced sense of humor that stands for nothing on its own was a sure bet. He loved that way of being, it had taken him and so many like him so very far. Now, supposedly, that was over. But he had no idea of what could possibly take its place.

  10. CLAIRE’S GLEE

  CLAIRE, THE REAL One with the bad TV, Claire had something holy to write. She went to one of those new-fangled—what are they called?—stationery stores. The word “staples” now only meant tiny metal things that came in cardboard boxes. This particular shop, named Marge’s Corner Stationery Store, had just opened up where a Wendy’s used to be. A nice woman named Marge read mysteries behind the counter while she sold paper and writing instruments. There Claire found some gorgeous paper, rough-hewn. And she also found a neat pen.

  Claire sat down in a tea shop and tried to compose, but her arm didn’t wrap properly around this brand-new writing utensil. She drank down the Darjeeling, wandered outside, and landed on a stoop, laying out a sheet of gorgeous pulp flat against a book. The book was a gift from Harrison Bond. Great Short Stories of Honoré de Balzac.

  Although romantic, this pose was hard—sitting on steps, slouching over a pad. Her back would not remain straight enough, straight enough to write. Even after so many hours of yoga. Pens were not so easy to maneuver anymore; most people took classes to learn how to use them. The gorgeous succulent handwriting that she’d imagined came out crude, ugly, and vague. Finally, she gave up, scooted home, checked her mailbox, leaned back in her chair. It was perfect for watching I Love Lucy, but not very helpful when it came to using a pen. Its ba
ll did not slide. She felt every bump and grind of the paper’s weave. It was like riding your bike over backwoods underbrush. Then she tried the kitchen table, perfect for wine or oatmeal. But for writing the truest letter from her heart, it was too slick. The paper slid. Finally, Claire just stopped posing and did it. She scrawled with passion across the top of the page, knowing that the formation of her letters and their links would never be beautiful. She felt like Queen Victoria with dyslexia. Her handwriting sucked. It expressed, but did not communicate.

  Finally, Claire accepted her limitations, and turned on the computer with a clap of her hands. There she composed a missive to her secret true love. And his name was NOT Harrison Bond.

  Dear Jeff,

  Every day at the appointed times, I go to the mailbox and await each Postal Round to see if there is a letter for me from you.

  I know that Sophinisba reinstated letter writing as a way to create jobs and reverse the speedup process provoked by email, and most importantly so that we can all have better interpersonal relationships.

  I think she has a good idea there, I really do. Gee whiz, I sound like a bimbo. A really authoritative person would say, “SHE HAS AGOOD IDEA.” Not “I THINK.” I’m not the female Sambo, brains akimbo. It’s just that twenty-four hours a day of mail service and delivery, more employment, more incentive, cheaper stamps—all that seems cool. But it also means that I have five opportunities per twenty-four hours to be disappointed by your silence.

  Jeff, darling, I remember when phone-answering machines were first invented. I didn’t want to leave home because I had no way of knowing whether or not a message was waiting. I hoped that my father would call to apologize, and I didn’t want to miss it.

  Then they invented access codes and I could beep in every fifteen minutes, all day long. Whenever I felt anxiety about my father’s good-guy type of cruelty, I would call my machine and hope. It was expensive, all those quarters, but cheaper than hospitalization.