I'm Thinking of Ending Things

~ ~ ~

“We still have a while to go, right?”

“Yeah, a bit longer.”

“How about a story?”

“A story?”

“Yeah, to pass the time,” I say. “I’ll tell you a story. A true one. One you’ve never heard. It’s your kind of story. I think you’ll like it.”

I turn the music down a little.

“Sure,” he says.

“It’s about when I was younger, a teenager.”

I look over at him. At a table, he often looks slouchy and uncomfortable. Driving, he looks too long to fit comfortably behind the wheel, but his posture is good. I’m attracted to Jake’s physical stature through his intellect. His sharpness of mind makes his lankiness appealing. They’re connected. At least to me.

“Ready,” he says. “For story time.”

I clear my throat super dramatically.

“Okay. I’d been sheltering my head with some newspaper. Seriously. What? Why are you smiling? It was pouring. I’d grabbed the paper from an empty seat on the bus. My instructions had been simple: arrive at the house at ten thirty and you will be greeted in the driveway. I was told I didn’t need to ring the bell. You’re listening, right?”

He nods, still looking out the windshield at the road ahead.

“When I got there, I had to wait for a while — minutes, not seconds. When the door finally opened, a man I’d never met poked his head out. He looked up at the sky and then said something like he hoped I hadn’t been waiting long. He held out a hand palm up. He looked exhausted, as if he’d been awake for days. Big dark bags under both eyes. Stubble on his cheeks and chin. Bedhead. I tried to glance past him. The door was open slightly, a crack.

“He said: ‘I’m Doug. Gimme a minute, take the keys,’ and he flipped me the keys, which I caught like a punch, both my hands against my stomach. The door slammed shut.

“I didn’t move, not at first. I was stunned. Who was this guy? I really didn’t know anything about him. We’d talked on the phone, that’s it. I looked down at the metal key chain in my hands, which was just a large letter J.”

I stop. I glance at Jake. “You look bored,” I say. “I know I’m including lots of details, but I remember them, and I’m trying to tell a proper story. Is it weird that I remember these details? Is it boring because I’m telling you everything?”

“Just tell your story. Pretty much all memory is fiction and heavily edited. So just keep going.”

“I’m not sure I agree with that, about memory. But I know what you mean,” I say.

“Keep going,” he says. “I’m listening.”

“It was another eight minutes, at least two watch checks, before Doug reappeared. He fell into the passenger seat with a big exhale. He’d changed into worn blue jeans with holes in the knees and a plaid shirt. The seats in his car were mottled with orange cat hair. There was cat hair everywhere.”

“Mottled.”

“Yes, mottled to the nth degree. He was also wearing a black baseball cap, tipped back on his head, with the word Nucleus embroidered on the front in white cursive lettering. He seemed better suited to sitting than standing or walking.

“He didn’t say anything, so I started into the routine I’d been practicing with Dad. Slid the seat forward, adjusted the rearview mirror three times, and ensured the parking brake was released. I placed my hands at ten and two on the steering wheel and straightened my posture.

“ ‘I never like the rain,’ Doug said. It was the first thing he said in the car. Nothing about instruction or how long I’d been practicing. I could tell how shy and almost nervous he was now that we were in the car together. His knee bobbed up and down. ‘Is there somewhere you want me to start?’ I asked. ‘It’s this rain,’ he said, ‘sort of throws things off. I think we’ll have to wait it out.’ Through the use of hand signals alone, Doug directed me to pull into the first lot on our left. It was a coffee shop parking lot. He asked if I wanted anything, a coffee or tea, and I told him I was fine. For a while we just sat there without talking, listening to the rain on the car. The engine was still on to keep the windows from fogging up, and I had the wipers set to a low speed. ‘So how old are you?’ he asked. He thought maybe seventeen or eighteen. I told him sixteen.

“ ‘That’s pretty old,’ was what he said. His nails were like mini surfboards; long, narrow, dirty mini surfboards. His hands were those of an artist, a writer, not a driving instructor.”

“If you need to take a break from the story to swallow or blink or breathe, go ahead,” says Jake. “You’re like Meryl Streep, fully committed to your role.”

“I’ll breathe when I’m done,” I say. “He mentioned again that sixteen wasn’t young, and that age was a strange, inaccurate umpire for maturity. Then he opened the glove box and took out a small book. ‘I want to read you something,’ he said, ‘if you don’t mind, since we’re waiting and all.’ He asked if I knew anything about Jung. I said, ‘Not really,’ which wasn’t entirely true.”

“Your driving instructor was a Jungian?”

“Just hold on. It took him a moment to find the place in the book. He cleared his throat and then read this line to me: ‘The meaning of my existence is that life has addressed a question to me. Or, conversely, I myself am a question which is addressed to the world, and I must communicate my answer, for otherwise I am dependent upon the world’s answer.’ ”

“Do you have that memorized?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“He gave me the book. I kept it. I still have it somewhere. He was in a giving mood that day. He said experience wasn’t just good for driving but for everything. ‘Experience trumps age,’ he said. ‘We have to find ways to experience because that’s how we learn, that’s how we know.’ ”

“Such a weird lesson.”

“I asked why he liked to teach driving. He said it wasn’t his first choice for a job but that he had to do it for practical reasons. He said he’d grown to appreciate sitting in a car and talking to others. He said he liked puzzles. He said he liked driving and navigating with another person as a metaphor. He reminded me of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland, except he was a shy version of the cat.”

“It’s funny,” says Jake.

“What?”

“I was into Jung for a bit there, too. To really know ourselves we have to question ourselves. I always liked that idea. Anyway, sorry. Go on.”

“Right. As we were waiting, he reached into his pocket and fished out two strange-looking candies. ‘You keep that one,’ he said, pointing to one of them. ‘Save it for another rainy day.’ He took the other candy and twisted open the shiny paper. He snapped it between his fingers, breaking it in two. He handed me the larger piece.”

“Did you eat it?” asks Jake. “Wasn’t it weird that this guy was offering you candy? And didn’t it gross you out that he touched it?”

“I’m getting to all that. But yes, it was weird. And yes, I was grossed out. But I ate it.”

“Continue.”

“It didn’t taste like anything. I moved the candy back and forth over my tongue, trying to decide if it was sweet at all. I couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. He told me he got the candies from one of his students. He told me she’d been traveling somewhere in Asia, and that they were one of the most popular candies there. He said his student loved them but he didn’t think they were anything special. He was chewing his candy, crunching it.

“Suddenly, I started to taste it. An unexpected tang, a tartness. It wasn’t bad. I started to like it. He told me, ‘You still don’t know the most interesting part.’ He said, ‘All the wrappers on these candies print a few lines in English on the label. They’ve been directly translated, so they don’t make much sense.’ He took the wrapper back out of his pocket and unfolded it for me.

“I read aloud the words that were printed on the inside. I remember them word for word: ‘You are the new man. How delicious cannot forget, special taste. Return the turn flavor.’

“I reread those lines a few times, to myself, then once more aloud. He told me he unwrapped candies every now and then, not to eat, but just because he liked reading the verses, to think about them, trying to understand them. He said he wasn’t a poetry man but these lines were as good as any poem he’d ever read. He said, ‘There are certain things in life, not very many, that are real, confirmed cures for rainy days, for loneliness. Puzzles are like that. We each have to solve our own.’ I’ll never forget him saying that.”

“It’s memorable. I wouldn’t forget it, either.”

“By this point, we’d been in the parking lot for more than twenty minutes, and we still hadn’t done any real driving. He told me that the student who’d given him the candies was unique, that she was hopeless behind the wheel, a terrible driver. He said it didn’t matter what tips he gave or that he repeated all the pointers over and over, she just couldn’t get it. He said he knew from the first lesson that she was never going to pass her driver’s test, that she was the worst driver in the world. Giving her lessons was pointless and borderline dangerous.

“He went on to say that regardless, he really looked forward to those lessons, and that he would have long, long chats with this girl, full-on discussions. He’d tell her about some of the things he’d been reading, and she’d tell him the same. It was a back-and-forth. He said she would sometimes say things that blew him away.”

“Like what?” asks Jake. I can tell that although he’s concentrating on driving, he is listening and alert. He’s into the story, more than I thought he’d be.

My phone rings. I grab it from my purse, which is on the floor near my feet.

“Who’s that?” asks Jake.

I see my own number displayed.

“Oh, it’s just a friend. I don’t need to answer.”

“Good. Keep going with the story.”

Why is he calling again? What does he want? “Right,” I say, putting my phone back in my bag and turning back to the story.

“Okay, so. One day, out of the blue, this student told her driving instructor she was ‘the best kisser in the world.’ She just told him, like she thought he should know. She was so sure of it, and he said she was very convincing.”

Jake readjusts his hands on the wheel, sits up even straighter. I hear my phone beep, indicating a message has been left.

“He told me he knew it seemed weird to talk about this. He may even have apologized, admitting he’d never told anyone else this detail. She swore this talent made her more powerful than money or intelligence or anything else. The fact that she was the best kisser in the world made her the center of the universe, in her words.

“He was looking for me to reply, or to say something. I didn’t know what to say. So I told him what came to mind, that kissing involves two people. You can’t be a singular person and be the best kisser. It’s an action that requires two. ‘So really,’ I said, ‘you would only be the best if the other person was also the best, which is impossible.’ I told him, ‘It’s not like playing the guitar or something, where you’re alone and you know you’re good at it. It’s not a solitary act. There needs to be two best.’

“My answer seemed to bother him. He was visibly upset. He didn’t like the idea that alone, you couldn’t be the best kisser, that one was reliant on another kisser. And then he said, ‘This is too much to overcome.’ He said that would mean we’d always need someone else. But what if there wasn’t someone else? What if we are all just alone?

“I didn’t know what to say. Then he kind of snapped, as if we’d been in an argument. He said, ‘It’s stupid to try to wait the rain out.’ He told me to take a right out of the parking lot. It was so strange. He indicated where I should go with various tilts of his head. He was quiet after that.”

“Interesting,” says Jake.

“I’m almost done.”

“Go on.”

“For the remainder of the lesson, Doug was twitchy in his seat and seemed disinterested in anything driving related. He offered some basic advice on driving technique, but mostly he looked out the windshield. This was my first and last driving lesson.

“Since it was still raining, he told me he’d drop me off at my place so I didn’t have to wait for the bus. Very little was said. When we reached my house, I pulled up in front and told him I’d keep practicing with my dad. He said that was a good idea. I left him there and ran into the house.

“About a minute later — it wasn’t long — I came back outside. He was still there in the car. He’d moved himself into the driver’s seat and had the wheel in both hands. The seat was still positioned for me, as was the mirror. He was squished in tight. I signaled for him to lower the window. He slid the seat back first before rolling the window down. It was still normal then not to have power windows.

“Before it had fully reached the bottom, I slid my head into the car and gently placed a hand on his left shoulder. My hair was soaked. I had to make a point. I told him to shut his eyes for a second. My face was close to his. He did. He shut his eyes and sort of leaned toward me. And then…”

“What? I can’t believe you did this,” says Jake. “What the hell came over you?”

It’s the most animated I’ve ever seen Jake. He’s shocked, almost angry.

“I’m not sure. It just felt like I had to.”

“This seems so unlike you. Did you ever see him after that?”

“No, I didn’t. That was it.”

“Huh,” says Jake. “Is a second person required for there to be a best kisser? It’s interesting. That’s the kind of thing that can stay with you, that you can think about and obsess over.”

Jake passes the slow-moving pickup in front of us. It’s black, old. We’ve been following that truck for a while, pretty much for the entire story. I try to see the driver as we go by but can’t make him out. There haven’t been many cars with us on the road.

“What did you mean when you said all memory is fiction?” I ask.

“A memory is its own thing each time it’s recalled. It’s not absolute. Stories based on actual events often share more with fiction than fact. Both fictions and memories are recalled and retold. They’re both forms of stories. Stories are the way we learn. Stories are how we understand each other. But reality happens only once.”

This is when I’m most attracted to Jake. Right now. When he says things like “Reality happens only once.”

“It’s just weird, when you start thinking about it. We go see a movie and understand it’s not real. We know it’s people acting, reciting lines. It still affects us.”

“So you’re saying that it doesn’t matter if the story I just told you is made up or if it actually happened?”

“Every story is made up. Even the real ones.”

Another classic Jake line.

“I’ll have to think about that.”

“You know that song ‘Unforgettable’?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“How much is truly unforgettable?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure. I like the song, though.”

“Nothing. Nothing is unforgettable.”

“What?”

“That’s the thing. Part of everything will always be forgettable. No matter how good or remarkable it is. It literally has to be. To be.”

“That is the question?”

“Don’t,” says Jake.

I’m not sure what to say right then. I’m not sure how to respond.

For a while he doesn’t say anything else. He just plays with his hair, curling a piece at the back of his head around his index finger the way he does, the way I like. And then, after a while, he looks at me.

“What would you say if I told you I’m the smartest human on earth?”

“Pardon?”

“I’m serious. And this is relevant to your story. Just answer.”

I’d guess we’ve been driving for at least fifty minutes, probably longer. It’s getting darker outside. There are no lights on in the car, beyond the dash and radio.

“What would I say?”

“Yeah. Would you laugh? Would you call me a liar? Would you get mad? Or would you just question the rationality of such a bold statement?”

“I guess I would say ‘Pardon?’ ”

Jake laughs at this. Not a big laugh, but a small, sincere, ingested, Jake kind of laugh.

“Seriously. I’m saying it. You’ve heard me clearly. How do you respond?”

“Well, what you’re saying is that you’re the smartest man on earth?”

“Incorrect. The smartest human. And I’m not saying I am; I’m wondering how you would respond if I did say that. Take your time.”

“Jake, come on.”

“I’m being serious.”

“I guess I’d say you’re full of shit.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. The smartest human on earth? It’s ridiculous for so many reasons.”

“What are the reasons?”

I lift my head, which had been resting on my hands, and look around, as if there’s an audience present. Blurs of trees pass the window.

“Okay, let me ask you a question. Do you think you’re the smartest human alive?”

“That’s not an answer. That’s a question.”

“And I’m allowed to answer in the form of a question.”

I know I’m opening myself to the obvious Jeopardy! joke as I say it, but Jake doesn’t make it. Of course he doesn’t.

“Why is it impossible that I’m the smartest human on earth beyond just saying that it’s crazy?”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“That’s the whole point. You just assume it to be too far-fetched to be real. You can’t perceive that someone you know, some regular dude sitting beside you in a car, is the smartest person. But why not?”

“Because what do you even mean by smart? Are you more book-smart than me? Maybe. But what about building a fence? Or knowing when to ask someone how they’re doing or feeling compassion or knowing how to live with others, to connect with other people? Empathy is a big part of smarts.”

“Of course it is,” he says. “That’s all part of my question.”

“Fine. But still, I don’t know, I mean, how could there even be a smartest person?”

“There has to be. Whatever algorithm you create, or whatever you decide makes up intelligence, someone has to meet those criteria more than everyone else. Someone has to be the smartest in the world. And what a burden it is. It really is.”

“What does it matter? One smartest person?”

He leans a little toward me. “The most attractive thing in the world is the combination of confidence and self-consciousness. Blended together in the proper amounts. Too much of either and all is lost. And you were right, you know.”

“Right? About what?”

“About the best kisser,” he says. “Thankfully you can’t be the best kisser alone. It’s not like being the smartest.”

He leans back his way, reasserts both hands on the wheel. I look out my window.

“And anytime you want to have a fence-building contest, just let me know,” he says.

He never let me finish my story. I never kissed Doug after our lesson. Jake assumed. He assumed I kissed Doug. But a kiss needs two people who want to kiss, or it’s something else.

Here’s what really happened. I went back to the car that time. I leaned in the window and opened my hand, revealing the tiny wrinkled candy wrapper, the one Doug gave me. I uncrumpled it and read it:

My heart, my heart alone with its lapping waves of song, longs to touch this green world of the sunny day. Hello!

I still have the candy wrapper somewhere. I saved it. I don’t know why. After reading those lines to Doug, I turned and ran back into my house. I never saw him again.