Love Creeps

Nine

That evening, Lynn received another call from Roland. He sounded softer, contrite. He apologized for the way he had treated her, and said, “Come on now, hop on a bus and come home.”

“No.”

“Fine, but don’t come crawling back in two days then!” He hung up.

Lynn attended three more days of filming. And then it was over. It was time for Alan to get back to work at the accounting firm. When Lynn made little hints that she’d be depressed without his company to fill her days, he just chuckled and didn’t know what to say — he couldn’t very well invite her to the office to watch him work. Little did he suspect that she probably would have accepted the invitation, so fascinated was she by his new self. Since he had not extended the invitation, she settled for secretly following him to his job and “accidentally” bumping into him when he came out for lunch. She then suggested they have lunch, but he couldn’t because he had to have lunch with a client. He added, “You can walk with me there, if you want.” So they walked together, and when they arrived at the restaurant and he said good-bye to her, she said, “Well, I’ve got to have lunch, too. This looks like a nice place. I often come here myself. I’ll just sit at another table, if you don’t mind.”

He couldn’t very well say no. So they both went in, he a bit puzzled, and she picking out a table with a good view of him. During lunch, she watched him while pretending to read a fashion magazine. It was hard for her to pinpoint what enchanted her so much about him. Maybe it was simply the contrast between what he had been and what he was now. She remembered having been seduced by contrast before — the contrast between Roland and the hotel manager, and contrast within the same person was even more provocative.

As for Alan, he was dismayed, not only that Lynn had come into the same restaurant, but that she was sitting there, staring at him. What was wrong with her? He wondered why he found her so puzzling, having himself engaged in her type of behavior once or twice. He recognized the symptoms. She was stalking him! It broke his heart.

He was still nice to her when she called him on the phone, knowing too well the anguish of stalkers.

As Lynn did not come crawling back in two days, nor in six, Roland called again, sounding sorrier. For the first time, she was a mystery to him.

“I miss you,” he said. “Let me come and get you. I could drive in, right now, and pick you up, and we could drive back and start things over.”

“I’m sorry, Roland, I’m not interested anymore. I’m in love with Alan.”

“What! The bastard! What has he said to you? What has he promised you?”

“Nothing. He doesn’t even know I love him. Or maybe he suspects, but not because I told him. Good-bye now, Roland. Take care.” She hung up.

He called back. “You little bitch! You get your ass on a bus this second and come back, do you hear? Or I’ll come and get you myself, and you don’t want that!”

“Please leave me alone. Get on with your life.” She hung up.

Oh! Indignation and outrage burned the roots of Roland’s recently thinning hair.

He called back. “You were the one stalking me! You were the one humiliating yourself, degrading yourself, like a little whore, following me down the street, panting, and now you have the gall to—” She hung up on him. He slammed down the receiver and screamed. He picked up the phone with both hands and shook it, and squeezed it hard. “Putain d’bordel de merde!” he said. He placed the phone down and redialed her number, breathing deeply.

“Please do not hang up on me,” he said to her. “Please let me finish my sentence, that’s all I ask. As I was saying, you were the one following me down the street, and now you have the gall to play Miss Hard-to-get, Miss I’m-gonna-go-and-be-a-whore-for-someone-else-now!” he screamed. “You are a fucking slut!”

“I’m going to hang up now.”

“Don’t you dare! Don’t — you — dare.”

He was silent. She hung up.

He did not call back. He drove to New York and checked into a hotel. He bought her flowers. He bought her a ring. He followed her down the street, dropping a penny.

“I’m sorry. I love you,” he said, walking next to her, holding out the little black box.

She eyed it without moving her head. “It’s over, Roland. I don’t want anything from you.”

“Oh, please just take this gift. Then my heart will be at ease.”

She stopped, opened the box. Inside was a diamond ring, as she had expected. She snapped the box shut, handed it back to him, and resumed walking. “Thanks. Lovely gesture. But I’m finished with you, Roland.”

Roland sniffed. Tears were running down his high cheekbones. “I love you, Lynn. I need you. I need you for now at least. I don’t think I can live without you. If you’re sure you don’t want to spend the rest of your life with me, can’t you at least wean me gradually, not so abruptly? Please. It’s too cruel otherwise.”

Lynn rolled her eyes. “You are ridiculous. Why don’t you look into Stalkaholics Anonymous? Alan said it was very helpful.” She hailed a cab, hopped in, and left him standing on the sidewalk with his flowers and ring.

Lynn was headed for the restaurant where she knew Alan was having dinner with his girlfriend.

When she got there she sat at a table away from theirs, and watched them.

The next day, Lynn followed Alan down the street. He went to have a massage. When he came out, forty-five minutes later, she went in and asked to be massaged by the same person who had just massaged Alan.

She asked the masseuse to massage her exactly the way she had massaged Alan with all of Alan’s preferences. Lynn tried to imagine being Alan, receiving the massage.

Following Alan and being near him made Lynn feel warm and comfortable. Watching him gave her pleasure. She wondered if Alan had truly changed as much as she thought he had, or if the change had taken place in her, instead. To find out, she dragged Patricia on one of her stalking outings.

They sat at a table with a good view of Alan while he was having lunch with someone.

Lynn asked her assistant, “So, is it me or is it him? Do you see a big difference in him or not?”

Under her bushy eyebrows, Patricia gazed at Alan. “Yes,” she said, “the difference is that he’s not stalking you anymore.”

“No! I’m not talking about that. Doesn’t he seem … normal?”

“Yes, but why does that excite you so much? You know a lot of normal people. Or maybe you don’t, actually. Maybe you’ve been hanging out too long in the art world. Perhaps you should frequent some bankers or lawyers or something.”

“But isn’t it impressive how normal he seems now, considering how weird he was before?”

“Lynn, what are you doing with yourself, with your life?” Patricia said, leaning toward her boss emphatically, her long hair dangerously close to dipping in the olive oil. “You can’t go around following this guy. What do you want from him? Do you want to date him? If so, ask him out on a date. Don’t follow him.”

“I can’t, he has a girlfriend.” Lynn paused. “Look at him, it’s not a change in superficial things like clothes or even body weight or muscle tone or hairdo. It’s a change in the core, and it radiates outward. The people I’ve seen him with seem to like him more. No one used to like him. Now, even his clothes like him. They embrace him in a more loving way, as if they’re proud to be associated with such a great guy. Their pride is evident in the way they hang on him.”

Patricia was no longer observing Alan, but Lynn. “Why have you become obsessed with him?”

Lynn thought about it. “I guess because I assume that if someone can change that much, he must be an extraordinary person.”

Day after day, Lynn followed Alan down the street, and Roland followed her. Ray the homeless man was becoming tormented, tempted. He had noticed the change in the stalking direction, the stalking order. His curiosity twitched. He was afraid he might lose his faculties. He still wanted to resist the lure and tried to downplay the situation in his mind. They’re always enticing at first, but I shouldn’t be fooled. Sure, they do things like change their stalking order, but it doesn’t mean anything. They inevitably disappoint.

The summer semester was approaching, and Alan tried to decide what classes he would take. He was drawn to a class called How to Say No Without Feeling Guilty (And Yes! to More Time). He marveled at how far he had come, because two semesters ago he considered signing up for practically the opposite class, called How to Get Anyone to Return Your Phone Call.

In the end he signed up for map-reading, swimming, and beading.

Alan went to the first class of his map-reading course in high spirits. He arrived at 6:45 P.M., fifteen minutes early. To his horror, Lynn followed him into the classroom. She sat two chairs away, and he stared at her in amazement.

“You can’t take this class,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because this is my class.”

“But you’re sharing it with these other people,” she said, motioning toward the seated students.

“You’re not interested in this class,” Alan said.

“Yes I am.”

At that moment, Roland entered the classroom and sat between them.

Alan and Lynn looked at him, horrified. Alan said, “You guys should not take this class. It’s very bad for you.”

“Why?” they both asked.

“You don’t even know what class this is, do you?”

“No, what class is it?” Roland asked, suddenly alarmed.

“It’s called Lost in Space: Map-reading for the Geographically Bewildered.”

Roland laughed and blushed on Alan’s behalf. His laugh, this time, came out as a long “Nnnn” sound, with only a little bit of jiggling and wavering to indicate it was a laugh. “I see what you mean. We might die of boredom or embarrassment.”

“No. You guys are stalkers. Not even in recovery, like me. This class is just going to stimulate your stalking urges even more.” Alan was trying to speak in a low voice, which a quick look at the other students assured him was not low enough. They were glancing at each other with curious expressions on their faces.

“Why would it stimulate our stalking urges?” Lynn asked, like a rapt student.

“Because this class has to do with space, geography, destination, traveling, which are all elements of stalking. Not to mention the element of following. Following a map.”

Roland was midway through an eye roll when the teacher walked in, saying loudly, “What is a map? A map is an overview of something. It allows you to see things in perspective. Don’t you wish everything in life were as easy as following a map?”

“No,” Alan said. “I wish following a map was as easy as everything else in life, or I wouldn’t be in this class.” There were some chuckles.

“I want each of you to tell us about a time when you were lost. If you cannot recall a time when you were lost, I want you out of this class.”

When it was Alan’s turn to speak, he said, “It’s hard for me to recall a time when I was not lost. I’ve been lost my whole life. I’m a recovered stalker, you see, and most stalkers become stalkers because of what psychologists call an ‘attachment disorder,’ stemming from the childhood absence of a caring and consistent parent or guardian, usually in the first six years of life. But that wasn’t the case with me. What caused me to become a stalker was my poor sense of direction. The first time I was lost, as a young child, was traumatizing. It was in Central Park, and I finally just started following someone, hoping she knew where she was going and that her knowledge would rub off on me. Well, it didn’t, but it introduced me to the sick pleasure of following. Ironically, having a poor sense of direction is very inconvenient for a stalker, because it makes it hard for him to find his way home.”

The teacher raised his eyebrows and turned his attention to Roland. “What about you?”

Roland decided to call the teacher’s bluff. “I’ve never been lost.”

“Think harder,” the teacher said. “I’m sure there was a time when you were lost. Otherwise, I want you out of this class.”

“Well,” Roland said, softly dropping a paper clip under his desk, “I don’t know if it counts, but I’m lost now. I’m lost as to what I’m doing in this class.”

The teacher stared hard at Roland and suddenly turned away, saying, “Yeah, it counts.” He paused. “Now, let’s talk about the map-reading personality, people who have an easy time reading maps versus those who don’t, and what it means. As one may suspect, people who have a hard time reading maps are often more creative.”

Alan realized he must be the exception to that rule.

“And the ones who are good at reading maps,” resumed the teacher, looking at Roland and Lynn, “are often more analytical, more orderly, more anal, everything you would expect.”

“Less loved?” Alan asked.

“No, not less loved,” the teacher said.

“More loved?” Roland asked.

“No, I wouldn’t say that either,” the teacher said. He then opened a small suitcase and took out various maps. He placed them on his desk one by one, saying, “I’ve brought a lot of maps. Here’s a map of a department store. And this is one of your psyche. And this one helps you find your way around in life. This little green map helps you find out what you really want.”

Alan stood up, relieved that he had an excuse not to take this class with his stalker and his stalker’s stalker. “I’m sorry,” he said to the teacher, picking up his shoulder bag, “I made a mistake. I thought this was going to be a class about how to read real maps.”

“Oh no, please don’t leave,” the instructor said. “I can teach you to read any kind of map you want. I have astrological maps, cooking maps, maps of the heart, body, and soul. Sexual maps, athletic maps, morality maps, antique maps.”

Alan shook his head. “I’m sorry, that’s not at all what I had in mind when I signed up for this class.”

He was about to take a step toward the door when the teacher exclaimed, “Sit down! I was kidding.”

Alan was too stunned to sit back down, so the teacher told the whole class to get up, and announced that they would all be going into the subway and begin the course by learning how to read subway maps.

The teacher locked arms with Alan, to prevent him from slipping away, and led him toward the door. As Alan passed the teacher’s desk, he glanced at the maps scattered on top of it. The titles of the maps were, “Map of the Mind,” “Map of the Heart,” “Athletic Map,” and “Sexual Map.”

Once they were down in the subway station, they stood on the platform facing a large map of New York City. The teacher, whose arm was still locked with Alan’s, said to him loudly, “Why don’t you tell us what train we should take to go to … let’s say Union Square.”

Alan felt mildly insulted at the ease of it. He told them the Number 6, they all took it, and when they came out the exit the teacher asked him which way was north and which way was south. Alan didn’t know, and when he guessed, he got it wrong.

Secretly on the verge of tears, but hiding it well, Alan said, “I’d rather we go back to reading the maps of the heart and of the mind.”

The professor seemed pleased and said, “Fine. What’s the quickest way to make someone love you?”

“Not by stalking them, that’s for sure,” Alan muttered, glaring at Lynn and Roland.

“To treat them well?” a student volunteered.

“What are you talking about? This is a map-reading class, not a psychology class. I need facts, concrete information,” the teacher said.

They were all stumped.

“Through the stomach?” Lynn ventured.

The teacher snorted and took the students back down into the subway. “We will now learn how to ask people for directions. Roland, you begin. Ask the first person who walks by how to get to Times Square.”

Roland categorically refused, saying he would never, under any circumstance, ask anyone for directions. “I always know where I’m going.”

“And where are you going now?” the teacher asked.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m sitting on this bench.”

“That’s exactly right. Your life is going nowhere, and when you do move, you are headed toward a life of misery. You gotta know where you wanna go.” He turned to Alan. “Let me ask you, Alan. Where do you want to go?”

Alan was thinking furiously, when the teacher added, “In life.”

Alan sighed with relief and said, “I want to have a well-balanced life and be completely free from stalking urges.”

The teacher nodded. “And you?” he addressed Lynn.

“I want to be loved by this man,” she said, pointing to Alan.

“And you?” the teacher asked Roland.

“I want to be loved by her,” Roland said, pointing to Lynn.

“Fine. I’ll bring you maps next week that will show you the ways to those places.”

Roland grunted.

“Do you have a problem?” the teacher asked him.

“What kind of class is this?”

“THIS IS A MAP-READING CLASS!” the teacher screamed. “Goals are in places. I will give you maps to reach your goals. I will teach you how to read those maps. What more do you want from me? Isn’t that enough?”

“That is a lot,” Roland said. “I just have a slight quibble with your notion that goals are in places.”

“In life,” the teacher explained, “you can reach your goals through various means, and one of many means is physically. There is a place for everything. Haven’t you heard that before?”

“Yes, but generally for cleaning,” someone said.

“There is a place, and time, for everything. Unfortunately, in some of your cases, the time has passed. Once the time passes, you can still get to where you want to go by knowing where it is.”

“Hi, Lynn,” Lynn heard someone say, who she feared was not from the class. Lynn was sitting on the back of the bench, her feet on the bench, with the rest of the students. She turned in the direction of the voice. It was a very competitive gallery owner with her co-owner husband.

“Hi, Tracy, hi, John,” Lynn said wearily, not getting up.

“What are you doing?” Tracy asked.

Lynn looked at them without answering right away, just nodding her head slightly. “I’m with some friends, just hangin’ out.”

“In the subway?” Tracy smiled. “Your gang?”

“Yup.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the teacher said to the couple, “but you are interrupting my class.”

“Oh. What kind of class?”

“Map-reading,” the teacher said, bowing his head slightly.

The couple tried to hide only their amusement, not their surprise. “Sorry,” they said, and waved Lynn good-bye.

At the next class, the professor said he had found the maps they wanted.

On Lynn’s map was an arrow pointing to a town in Westchester, with a handwritten street address and the words, “Intersection of Alan’s love” written underneath.

On Roland’s map was an arrow pointing to a town in Long Island and a handwritten name of a road and of a field called Simple Plain Field, followed by the words, “Deserted field of Lynn’s love,” in parenthesis.

On Alan’s map was an arrow pointing to a town in New Jersey with a handwritten street address followed by the words, “Restaurant of balance and freedom from stalking urges for Alan.”

The teacher said, “All you have to do is go to these places, and you will have those things you want.”

“What is this, some kind of magic?” Roland asked.

“No. Have you ever noticed in life how sometimes you get what you want unexpectedly, for no apparent reason, and long after you’ve given up hope of getting that thing you wanted? Well, that’s usually because you’ve accidentally, unwittingly, stumbled upon the place where that thing can be gotten. For example, if you want a great job that has always eluded you, and let’s say your getting that job happens to be located under a certain tree in Central Park, and one day you’re strolling about, and by chance you happen to pass under that tree, well, you know what happens next.”

“You get the job?” a student asked.

“Yeah,” the teacher said. “I’m sure none of you believes me. And if you ever go to those places, and you don’t get what you want, it doesn’t mean this method is wrong, it just means the maps are wrong, or inaccurate. You can’t always trust your sources.”

Despite their passionate desire to get what they wanted, neither Lynn, Alan, nor Roland believed in the maps one bit or had any intention of going to those locations.

Alan was upset that Lynn and Roland were admitted into his Deep-Water Confidence class. They swam extremely well. It wasn’t fair they got in.

The previous semester, Alan had taken the class called Petrified People Don’t Sink. The course catalog had described it as “A special class for those with a deep-seated fear of water. Talk about the cause of your fear and gently make the necessary adjustments and acclimation to the water.” When it had been Alan’s turn to talk about the cause of his fear, he had said he was afraid of what might be in the deep, to which someone had answered, “More chlorine.”

Alan’s dream was to eventually pass the Lifeguard Training Pretest, the description of which was: “500-yard continuous swim using front crawl, sidestroke, and breaststroke. Surface dive and retrieve a ten-pound brick, return to surface. Tread water for two minutes using legs only. Must be 15 years of age on or before course end.” Ahh. Self-improvement was wonderful, but passing the Lifeguard Training Pretest was a long way away. Alan still could barely swim, and he was starting to suspect that what kept people afloat was not doing the right strokes but having the right personality.

He followed the strokes very precisely, like people who followed cooking recipes more closely than was necessary. One, two, three. As he swam, he was much more concerned with moving upward than forward. The result was that he didn’t advance very rapidly. He felt like a bug in a toilet and had the uneasy sensation someone was about to flush. He could feel himself sweating in the water. It didn’t help that Roland was swimming next to him, taunting him, trying to make him seem ridiculous in Lynn’s eyes, or that Lynn was swimming on his other side, staring at him lovingly, telling him to relax.

“You’re sinking,” said Roland.

“No, you’re not,” Lynn said. “I’ll save you if you are.”

A Japanese woman in the class told him he might be a hammer, that in Japan people whose bones were so heavy that they had trouble staying afloat were called hammers. Alan loved that concept; he was undoubtedly a hammer. He hoped she would tell the swimming instructor.

“So, Alan, let me ask you a question,” Roland said.

Alan scowled, trying not to be distracted from the strokes.

“Why didn’t you learn how to swim before now?”

“Just never did,” Alan said.

“Did you have some traumatic experience as a child, drifting in shark-infested waters for days, clinging to an inner tube?” Roland said, flipping onto his back and leisurely doing the backstroke alongside Alan. “I mean, you must have some pretty bad water memories, right?”

“Wrong. I have just one, and it’s fond.”

“Really. What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Aw, come on, tell me.”

“No.” The passion with which he uttered that word made him momentarily lose track of where he was in the stroke pattern, and the water came up to his mouth, which unnerved him. He steadied himself.

“Come on!” Roland said, loudly.

“Shh,” Alan said.

“Tell me!” Roland said, again loudly.

“Damn you. I was in the ocean, lying on a floating raft, when I was five or six, and a woman helped me pet a mangofish. Are you happy?”

Roland’s eyes opened wide. He switched to sidestroke, staring at Alan. “A mangofish.”

“Yes, it’s a gentle fish that lets people pet it sometimes.”

“And did you pet the fish?”

“Yes.”

Alan, Roland, and Lynn reached the end of the pool, turned around, and began the next lap.

“What does a mangofish look like?” Roland asked.

“I didn’t see it. It doesn’t like to be seen.”

“But it likes to be petted. Hmm. What did it feel like?”

“The way you would imagine a fish to feel.”

“Which is?”

“Soft and slippery.”

“That woman didn’t, by any chance, say, ‘This is a perfect day for mangofish,’ did she?” Roland asked.

Alan blanched, and chills coursed through his body, causing him to lose track of the stroke pattern again. The water came up to his nose, and he flailed and doggie-paddled up to the edge. Lynn was grabbing him around the waist, pressing the length of her whole body against his. She did not promptly let go of him when he was holding on to the edge. He had to push her away and say, “That’s enough, I’m fine.”

Alan turned to Roland. “There is no way you could have known that. How did you know she said that?”

“Lucky guess, I guess,” Roland said, treading water using legs only. Alan was annoyed because treading water using legs only was a feat that was attained only in the most difficult class, the class Alan was dreaming to be in one day, the Lifeguard Training Pretest class. Alan knew Roland knew that and was showing off.

Roland said, “But listen, maybe one day you should tell a therapist that little story. Even though it’s a lovely memory, I’m sure a therapist would be able to whip up some explanation as to how it might be related to your avoidance of water.” Roland arched his back and did a backward somersault under the water.

When Roland came back up, Alan repeated, “How did you know the woman said that?”

Roland glanced at Lynn to see if she was impressed by his knowledge. His face sagged when he saw she was smiling at Alan beatifically.

“Relax,” he said to Alan. “I went to Harvard, remember? Nothing beats a good education.”

Alan blinked, awed by Roland’s vast and mysterious knowledge that had endowed him with such acute psychological insight that he was able to speculate as to what someone had said thirty years ago.

“I suggest you read a short story called, ‘A Perfect Day for Bananafish,’ by J. D. Salinger,” Roland said. “You might gain some insight into why you never learned how to swim. Then again you might not.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Alan carefully let go of the edge and resumed the breaststroke. Lynn and Roland flanked him like pilot fish.

The instructor told the class that the next week they would be learning how to turn over front to back to front, and how to perform deep-water bobs, and that in three weeks they might try some beginner synchronized figures.

Two days later, Lynn was hosting an art opening at her gallery, looking at her watch. She knew Alan’s yoga class finished at seven o’clock, and she wanted to be there when it ended, so that she could stalk him for a few hours.

At ten to seven, she walked over to Patricia, who was standing with a glass of white wine, talking to two artists. Lynn told her she was leaving.

“You can’t leave now,” Patricia said. “Look who just walked in.”

It was Aaron Golding, the senior curator of contemporary painting at the Met.

“I can, and I will,” Lynn said.

Patricia grabbed her arm hysterically. “Now Aggie just got here.”

“I don’t care,” Lynn said, yanking her arm away. She walked out of her crowded gallery, avoiding eye contact with Aggie Slinger, the president of the Museum of Modern Art, and a very wealthy collector herself.

A few months ago, Lynn would have considered any gallery owner who left her opening as Aggie arrived to be completely deranged. But now, Lynn ran to the gym and got there not a minute too soon. She followed Alan down the street. She checked behind her. Roland was following her.

Alan tried to ditch his stalkers before going to his beading class. Alan was improved, but not perfect; he still had his insecurities. Last semester he hadn’t wanted his girlfriend to know he was taking a beading class, and this semester he didn’t want her to know he was continuing his beading studies. Jessica, being a detective, knew everything he did, and when he gave her some odd, beaded necklaces and said he had bought them for her, she knew he had actually made them.

Alan thought he had succeeded in derailing his stalkers before arriving at his class, but he was wrong. They joined the class.

They all got immersed in the beading and were quiet. You could hear Roland, faintly humming the song, “Ne me quitte pas.” Finally, he said to Lynn, “I’d be a lot happier if you weren’t so obsessed with Alan. I read maps better than he does. Or rather, I can read them, and he can’t. I sing better. I swim better, or rather, he can’t. And I bead better.”

Alan didn’t say anything. He nobly continued stringing his inferior bracelet.

Roland asked him, “Why did you decide to take this class, anyway?”

“I thought I would enjoy it,” Alan said.

“It’s always about you, isn’t it?” Roland said. “You thought you would enjoy it. What about us? I just don’t understand why you can’t pick more fun things to do, out of consideration for us poor stalkers who follow you. I mean, you knew we’d follow you. You know we can’t help it. If you were truly considerate, you would consult us as to which activities we could all enjoy.”

“I’m enjoying all Alan’s classes,” Lynn said to Roland.

“I think Alan does it on purpose,” Roland said, dropping a paper clip. “He chooses deadly boring activities to torture me.”

Alan ignored them and tried to concentrate on his beads. He had a feeling he had already screwed up the pattern. It was one blue, one red, one white. Or was it one red, one blue, one white? He couldn’t remember the order.

The teacher took out some new beads, made of crystals. They were all the size of small peas, and she said each type of crystal had special metaphysical properties. She described those properties as she held each one up for the class to see.

“Citrine is sometimes called the ‘success’ stone. It strengthens your willpower and lessens your mood swings.” She then held up a pale pink bead and said, “You probably all know that rose quartz is the ‘love stone.’ Dumortierite enhances organizational abilities, self-discipline, orderliness. Amethyst,” she said, holding up a translucent purple bead, “has been called the ‘addicts’ stone,’ because of its metaphysical property of diminishing addictions. Calcite helps you if you have a sense of being lost in spirit and if you have memory problems. Golden topaz increases creativity. Peridot lessens jealousy. Sugilite, also known as luvulite, helps you deal with shock and disappointment. Tourmaline enhances happiness. As for tektites, they are a type of glassy mineral believed to be of extraterrestrial origin. They increase your wisdom.”

After only fifteen minutes of beading, Alan got irritated that Roland had hoarded all the creative beads — the golden topaz. Alan had only three of them. Roland had maybe forty. Alan watched as gorgeous beaded strings trickled from Roland’s fingers. And this was only his first semester. Alan tried to trade him the love beads for the creative beads. Roland declined.

Then the teacher made the mistake of stepping out of the classroom for a few minutes. Roland still refused to trade beads. Alan’s sense of injustice mounted. In a moment of frustration, he secretly, discreetly, placed his three golden topaz beads, one by one, in his mouth, and swallowed them. He figured their creative powers would be more effective absorbed into his bloodstream.

Lynn saw what he was doing, was at first disturbed, but when she realized the logic, thought it was clever, and began swallowing the love beads.

Roland saw her, was horrified, and a moment later was doing the same, guzzling down pink quartz to win Lynn’s love, as well as golden topaz to bug Alan.

The beads were rolling around on the table, as the three bead-eaters made a grab for them.

Lynn’s cell phone rang. She was reluctant to interrupt her quest for beads, but on the third ring, she answered her phone. It was Arthur Crackalicci, one of her very rich clients. A year ago he had bought a painting for a hundred thousand dollars, which was her biggest sale.

“Patricia is being very secretive as to your whereabouts, Lynn,” he said to her now.

“That’s because she doesn’t know where I am,” Lynn said, antsily eyeing Alan, who was devouring the wisdom beads of extraterrestrial origin in hopes of improving his map-reading.

“Great art opening, but you disappeared before I could say hello. Of course, I can’t be offended since you did the same to Aggie. My God, Lynn, Aggie of all people. Everyone was quite impressed. Now they think you’re more mysterious than ever. Who are you fucking? Who is more important than Aggie? I can’t think of anyone. Wait, is it the White House? Is that where you went? Where are you now?”

“I’m in beading class, Arthur.”

“Say again?”

“Beading class,” she enunciated.

“Why should you be embarrassed? Beading is a fine activity, I’m sure.”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“Then why all the secrecy?”

“I didn’t know I was going to beading class until I got here.”

“Is this a new lifestyle you’re trying out? The Don’t-know-where-I’m-going-until-I-get-there lifestyle? The Walk-out-on-the-president-of-the-MoMA-for-an-unknown-destination-which-could-turn-out-to-be-beading-class lifestyle?”

“Sort of,” Lynn said.

“Well, I don’t want to keep you,” Arthur Crackalicci said, sighing. “I also wanted to know if you currently have some of Charlie Santi’s work, because a friend of mine wants to drop by your gallery next week to see some.”

“I sure do. Great stuff. You should see his recent work. Tell your friend to come over, and you should come, too. I’ll talk to you soon.” She hung up.

Interestingly, the tourmalines were left largely untouched, undoubtedly because the bead-eaters thought they could reach nirvana faster by eating specific facets of happiness. They also didn’t partake of the addicts’ beads, the memory beads, the success beads, the organizational beads, or the antijealousy beads, except one or two, by accident.

Once all the most useful beads were in their stomachs, the bead-eaters resumed their beading.

“I feel even more creative than before,” Roland said, glancing at Alan slyly. “It’s all that golden topaz I ate.”

When the teacher came back, she wondered aloud where all the rose quartz and golden topaz had gone.

One of the other students said, “They ate them.”

More of the students confirmed this, and one added, “They’re nuts.”

Roland and Lynn did not feel the need to explain or deny anything. They remained silent, staring down at the table. Alan, however, apologized, tried to make the teacher forgive him, feel sorry for him, not kick him out of the class. He gave her a sob story about being so artistically disinclined, and how he desperately wanted to try to squeeze some tiny drop of artistic ability out of himself, or into himself, or whatever, and he couldn’t stand the fact that Roland was better at it than he was.

“Do any of you see a therapist?” the teacher asked.

“I see a massage therapist,” Alan said.

That night, the bead-eaters had stomachaches, particularly Alan. Jessica asked him whether he had eaten anything bad. He wouldn’t have minded confessing to the bead-eating part, because that was merely deranged, but he didn’t want to confess to the taking-a-beading-class part, because that was embarrassing, and he’d rather seem deranged than pathetic.

So finally, he said, “I bought you a necklace, and I put it in a bag of candy I had bought for myself, and somehow the necklace broke in the bag, and all the beads were loose, mixed in with the candy, so of course, I ate many of them, thinking they were the candy.”

“You didn’t notice you were eating rocks? That’s very strange,” Jessica said, looking at him as he sat on his white easy chair holding his stomach.

“No, I didn’t notice,” Alan said. “They were round, and polished. How could I know?”

“Hmm,” Jessica said, petting Pancake. She knew very well that Alan had made the necklace and not bought it, but as to why he had eaten it, she had no idea.

“Oh, by the way,” Alan said, “they were golden topaz beads, supposed to increase creativity, according to that New Age crap. I wonder if eating them is more potent than wearing them.”

So now she knew. “Who knows. You may feel very creative later, while defecating your golden topaz.”

At the attorney general’s office, Roland’s office manager took Roland aside and said, “You know, it’s a little disturbing that you said you were going to be at a meeting at Marty Bernstein’s office, but then when we tried to reach you there, he said there was no meeting.” He paused. “Is there some problem we can help you with? You’ve been out during the day a lot lately.”