Feral Boy Meets Girl

by William Jablonsky

  “Hi,” he says.

  “I’m calling because we’d like you to come teach for us in the fall.”

  She goes over the details: start date, orientation, salary. It all sounds good.

  “So can we expect to see you in the fall?” the dean asks.

  He sighs.

  Five minutes later Kaylee emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, water still glistening on her pale neck and shoulders. “Who called?” she asks.

  “That school.”

  Her eyes widen and she breaks into a smile. “Did you get the job?”

  He is silent for a moment.

  “You didn’t,” she says, the smile fading from her face.

  “I said no.”

  Kaylee’s skin goes white and her face loses all expression. Her voice is a strained whisper. “Why?”

  “I can’t do it,” he says. “This life you’re planning for us... I just can’t.”

  “I thought this is what you wanted,” she says.

  “It’s what you wanted, baby,” he says flatly.

  “Oh my God,” she says, and locks herself in the bedroom. He does not knock or try to speak to her. He throws on last night’s clothes and takes a walk so as not to be there when she comes out; a few blocks away he sits on a bus-stop bench. He stays there, watching the cars and joggers and cyclists, until he sees her car screech out of the parking lot and head in the opposite direction.

  Earth-1

  Park Ridge, IL

  March 5, 2014

  5:35 p.m.

  The coffee table in the apartment of Mr. Delgado and Kaylee is strewn with beer bottles; Mr. Delgado has been staring at the Weather Channel for the last three hours. Kaylee is running slightly late, which is not helping anything.

  When he hears her key turn in the door, he turns off the TV and stands up.

  She looks at the mess on the coffee table. “What the hell happened here?” she says, setting her purse down. She looks up at him again; he is ashen, seemingly unable to exhale. “What’s wrong?” she says.

  “Kaylee,” he says, “You’re gonna want to sit down.” He rarely uses her actual name, so she sits immediately. “We need to talk.”

  Earth-1

  Chicago, IL

  March 5, 2014

  8:47 p.m.

  Mr. Delgado’s Nova is cruising at dangerous speeds down Interstate 90, darting in and out of traffic as if being chased, coming dangerously close to clipping several cars. Finally, he sees his exit, crosses three lanes of traffic in a single motion, and heads up the ramp, nearly sideswiping a Ford pickup in the process. He screeches to a stop in front of a brown brick triplex on Wilson, races up the steps, knocks frantically on the middle door.

  Ruth, a short, rail-thin woman with a blonde bob and cat’s-eye glasses, answers the door. “Mitch? What’s up?” Then she sees his red swollen eyes. “Oh,” she says. “Better come on in.” She sits him down at the bistro table in the dining room and calls for Martha, who appears a few seconds later in a white terry robe, her black hair damp.

  “What’s wrong, Mitchie?” she says, but when she sees him sitting with his head buried in his arms, she knows. She sits beside him, holding his hand as his body tenses and his shoulders start to shake.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says, stroking his black hair. “It’ll be okay. It will. I promise.”

  Earth-2

  Chicago, Illinois

  March 16, 2014

  6:33 p.m.

  The apartment on Cumberland is empty but for the card table, sans lace covering, and the old leather couch. The kitchen counter is strewn with empty beer bottles and microwave dinner boxes. Mr. Delgado is face-down on the couch in his underwear.

  He is awakened by a knock on the door. He rolls off the couch, wraps an afghan around his body, opens the door. It is Kaylee. His half-closed eyes open.

  “Oh, hey,” he mutters. “Let me put something on.”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “I just came to tell you something. I thought you’d be up.”

  “Yeah, I should be,” he says. “Do you wanna sit down?”

  She looks around the apartment, raises her eyebrows, but does not comment.

  He remains standing as she sits. “So, um...how have you been?”

  She begins to tremble. “Remember that night you proposed?”

  He sighs. “I know. I’m sorry. I told you that.”

  She raises her hand, shakes her head. “It’s not about that. Remember when I said I didn’t want to use protection?”

  He nods.

  “Well,” she says, “that was pretty stupid.”

  Earth-1

  Chicago, Illinois

  March 18, 2014

  7:37 p.m.

  The Manhattan Project is doing soundcheck on the stage at Yellowjacket’s. The club is mostly empty but for a couple of middle-aged men in suits sipping at cocktails. The band dives into an impromptu rendition of “The Girl from Impanema.” The two patrons laugh and begin to sing along.

  Kaylee enters and stands at the door until they are finished. At first Mr. Delgado does not notice her, but when his eyes finally fall on her she smiles nervously. He lays his saxophone on the stage and goes to her. Charlie and the rest of his bandmates turn their backs and pretend not to notice.

  “Hi,” he says, embracing her. She doesn’t hug him back.

  “Hi,” she says, eyes downcast.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you,” he says. “Let me get you a drink.” He starts to turn to Dwayne, but she stops him.

  “Nothing for me.” Her face is drained of color.

  “Okay.” He stares at her for a long while, and when she doesn’t say anything, he finally breaks the silence. “So what’s up? You need something?”

  She takes a deep breath and tells him.

  He moves to embrace her, pulls back, instead rests his right hand on her hip. She lets him. “So what do we do now?”

  She shrugs. They stare at one another, and do not speak.

  Earth-1.5

  Park Ridge, IL

  October 21, 2016

  6:30 p.m.

  The reality of Earth-1.5 is practically a duplicate of our own, so close on the string that the ethereoscope almost missed it. Everything here is almost exactly the same, except that the chronology is slightly ahead of our own. Such knowledge, of course, is dangerous, and thus for the moment we limit ourselves to our subjects. The Manhattan Project’s first record hit the stores a few months ago and has received much critical acclaim, and is selling well since being featured on NPR’s “All Things Considered.”

  We find ourselves at a gray stone house on Cumberland Avenue, its cobblestone walkways lined with carefully trimmed white and purple lilac bushes. It is quite elegant. White and blue balloons are tied to the light posts and snow-route signs, and in the bay window is a sign that reads, “Happy 1st Birthday Joey!”

  Mr. Delgado pulls up to the curb and parks behind the BMW of Kaylee’s parents. He gets out of his Nova, followed by a mocha-skinned woman in a white silk dress who moves like a runway model. Her name, as far as we can tell, is Gabriela. Martha and Ruth pull up behind him on the curb; the couples share a quick embrace before Mr. Delgado rings the doorbell.

  Kaylee answers, greets them with a wide smile and hugs. Inside, a small boy with blue eyes and curly black hair is playing with blocks in the middle of a parquet floor as a man with red hair and beard hair looks on—perhaps one of the doctors in the hospital where Kaylee works. Mr. Delgado shakes his hand and they exchange smiles. The child looks up at everyone and smiles crookedly.

  Everyone seems happy.

  Later, when the party has ended, Mr. Delgado is between sets at Yellowjacket’s, having a quick drink with Gabriela, Martha, Ruth, and Charlie. After a few minutes he excuses himself to wander outside for a cigarette; under the pink and blue glow of the neon signs, he looks off into nothing for a while, and seems to be in some sadder place than this. Then Martha comes outside without her coat. She starts to shiv
er in the cool evening; this seems to rouse him, and he drapes his leather jacket around her shoulders.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  He bows his head, looks down at his feet as if he really has to think about it. “I think so,” he finally says. Martha puts her arm around his waist and rests her head on his shoulder.

  They stay that way for a minute, cast in blue neon, until finally he lifts his head. “I’m fine now,” he says, lifting his head. “Let’s go in.”

  They go back inside, to the noise and smoke and dim orange lights and the smell of bourbon; he pauses in the doorway for just a minute, as if he is taking it all in, and finally he smiles.

  Do Not Break The Heart Of Charles Nelson Bereiter

  I. Meeting

  You will first encounter Charles Nelson Bereiter at the home of the CEO of a role-playing game developer called DarkDesigns. Obviously, you have no interest in role-playing games, these being the playground of lost, sad people, and have clearly been dragged there by a friend or prospective boyfriend. Mr. Bereiter will be seated in a leather chair in the corner of the sunroom, concealing himself behind a tall, leafy ficas while pretending to be enthralled by the salsa band the CEO has hired. Mr. Bereiter was invited because he designed the company’s website, and was coerced into attending by his only friends, Mr. Gregory Almanza and his girlfriend Gwen, on the promise of a subsequent visit to the International House of Pancakes. IHop is his favorite restaurant, his only happy memories from childhood eating there with his now-deceased grandfather on Sundays after church.

  He will have spent most of the evening in this spot, after Mr. Almanza and Gwen have attempted to bring several women to converse with him and have finally retreated to the dance floor. Note his odd appearance: long face, deep-set blue eyes under knifelike eyebrows, Supercuts-grade spiky haircut just a bit too long, Buddy Holly glasses, eggshell linen suit and rust-orange shirt a size too big, cordovan wingtips. While he is not attractive in the conventional sense, his face is compelling: the puppy-dog eyes, the way he angles his head so as not to have to look anyone in the eye.

  He will be awkward, wobbly, having consumed two subpar mojitos in order to manage being around so many strangers. Mr. Bereiter is not accustomed to strangers, especially women, and does not know how to behave around them. Do not hold this against him.

  In the corner, hidden from view of the other guests, you will find a thin redhead with cat’s-eye glasses and a cat-ear headband, no more than fourteen, staring at him with a tiny smirk as if waiting for an opening to ridicule him. Listen to the bitch-alert in your head and come to his rescue: sit down on the Havana recliner beside him, smile as if you know him, say hello. He will be unable to speak, stunned that any woman would wish to meet him. Your intervention, however, will cause the cat-eared girl to vanish, as if she’d never been there at all.

  Ask him to dance; he will decline politely, but being asked is a small boost to his barren self-esteem. Do not pressure him, however, as this will cause him to excuse himself from the party and walk home alone, drunk and sad. This never ends well: the last time, he ended up on a Greyhound bus to Milwaukee, where he wandered along the lakeshore all night until he was held up at knifepoint.

  Discuss the lameness of the party, of the games DarkDesigns makes, the apparent lack of skill of the bartender.

  If, after a long conversation, Charles Nelson Bereiter does not disgust you, scrawl your number on the back of a glossy DarkDesigns business card, slide it into the pocket of his jacket. This is the safest method, as the ample sweat from his palms will otherwise obscure the writing.

  2. Telephone Protocol

  Mr. Bereiter will turn the card over in his palms for several days, wondering if he should call, if you made a mistake and your number was meant for someone else. Do not take this personally. Decisiveness is unknown to him. He will try to call several times without success; you will hear his faint breath on the line just before he hangs up. Finally, after a potent Manhattan, he will speak.

  3. First Date Protocol

  Mr. Bereiter will not take you dancing under any circumstances, fearful as he is that he will be made the object of ridicule. He has had enough of this in his life and has earned the right to avoid it. Also, his musical tastes range from ethereal Icelandic post-rock to Esquivellian lounge music, none of which lends itself to dance. His taste in film is similarly bizarre: sweeping sci-fi adventures, whispery indie films, Japanese psychological horror. Despite initial impressions, he understands that Japanese horror is inappropriate for a first date.

  Mostly, he likes to watch television, and to cook. Despite his many flaws, Mr. Bereiter is a superior cook, trained by the best chefs Food Network has to offer.

  Upon arrival, note that his apartment is sparse and depressing: bare beige walls, no curtains adorning the windows, 60s-era green shag carpet so deep it leaves the indentation of your footprints, dull white blinds he always keeps shut. Beyond this, his home is immaculate: Mr. Bereiter is a tidy man. Pay no mind to the smaller set of footprints in every patch of carpet.

  He will ask, several times, if you are enjoying the homemade wild mushroom ravioli with basil pesto. Say yes. He gathered the mushrooms by hand in the park, and spent most of his afternoon rolling out, folding, and stuffing the ravioli so that each piece was flawless. It is, if he may be so bold, the best ravioli you have ever tasted.

  After dinner, as you watch a vapid romantic comedy Mr. Bereiter has selected for the occasion, in the belief that for this to go well he must suppress every instinct, wait for him to make a move. It will take half an hour for him to work up the courage to hold your hand, forty-five minutes to an hour before he can put his arm around you. Bring a handi-wipe, as his palms are sweaty.

  Naturally, Mr. Bereiter assumes you will receive a call on your cell phone that you absolutely must take, that it may well be an emergency, that you will have to go and you’re so sorry and you will call him later. Mr. Bereiter is not a moron. Go if you feel you must. It may be years before he can do this again, but he will survive.

  Despite your good sense, let the call go to voicemail.

  Sit close to him on his brown suede couch, lean into him as if to actually snuggle. He is not well-versed in physical contact but will slowly ease into it.

  Mr. Bereiter will not touch you in any sexual way, though you have given him every indication that he is welcome to. He finds you attractive. He is simply paralyzed by anxiety, hence the bouncing knee and constant trembling. When the movie ends, allow him to take you to the second bedroom he uses as a studio; be sure to complement his many paintings of octopi attacking things with their tentacles, done in several different styles. Octopi fascinate him, as they are intelligent and wholly misunderstood. The pointillist octopus pulling off the mask of a scuba diver demonstrates much skill.

  Do not expect Mr. Bereiter to kiss you good night. Every atom of his being is crying out to do so, and once you depart, he will spend the rest of the evening on the floor, smacking his palms into his forehead. But kissing is not his strong suit, ever since he was fourteen and Katie Magnusen invited him behind the bleachers in the gym at his junior high’s Halloween party, asked him to kiss her, then took a picture of him puckering and sent it to all her friends. The humiliation caused him to miss school for a week.

  Instead, say, “I had a good time.”

  “Me too,” he will respond.

  In the hallway, perhaps ten feet from his door, the girl in cat ears will be sitting cross-legged on the floor, giggling lightly as he shows you out.

  She probably just lives here too, with her parents. Who were also at the launch party. With their fourteen-year-old daughter. In the same eye and headwear.

  Say, “Something we can help you with, little girl?”

  The girl will shake her head and smile. “Just enjoying the show.”

  On your way to the car, observe to Mr. Bereiter that his young neighbor is a bitch.

  “She’s not my neighbor,” he will mutter. Do not ask him to
explain further.

  4. Relationship-building

  Become ensconced in Mr. Bereiter’s world. This will please him. As a web designer, he is obsessed with detail. Let him show you his work, smile at the animated octopi on his personal website. Pretend to understand his obsession.

  Get to know his friends. Gather with Almanza and Gwen at a jazz club. It is quiet and dark, the house band tolerable. Mr. Bereiter does not much care for jazz, as he finds it too free and unstructured, but as this is his only social outlet, he is often forced to acquiesce. Almanza is a tall stick of a man with wayfarer spectacles, black fingernails, and curly black hair tied back into a loose ponytail, Gwen a six-foot blond in a pink sundress and combat boots.

  Listen for a while, absorb the conversation about Star Wars and late-night, adult-oriented cartoons, then Doctor Who. Mr. Bereiter loves Doctor Who and can tell you everything that happened in every single episode of its fifty-year history, down to the obscure actors who guest-starred. Mr. Bereiter will be animated, alive, his taut expression slowly melting into a faint smile. If you have no knowledge of Doctor Who, gain some. It is a highly-entertaining, character-driven romp through the cosmos.

  Allow yourself to be interrogated by Almanza and Gwendolyn, tell them all about your experiences as a special-ed teacher.

  “Hmm,” Almanza will say. “Should help you with Charlie here. He’s kind of special himself.” Gwendolyn will slap his hand, but the damage will have been done. Also, as a side note, Mr. Bereiter detests being called “Charlie.”

  Mr. Bereiter’s smile will fade. Take umbrage on his behalf. Reply, “Don’t say that. He’s a sweetheart,” and take his hand in yours. While, on the surface, he will not react, this will fill Mr. Bereiter with a warmth that will lift his soul for weeks.

  Almanza will take this with the appropriate humility. “I stand corrected.”

  When Mr. Bereiter excuses himself to go to the men’s room—Manhattans go right through him—Gwen will accost you. There is no avoiding it. It will go something like this:

  Gwen: He really fancies you, you know.

  You: I’m glad.