You

21

I’M not mad. Really. I’m not mad. You’re a good friend. I know that Peach’s parents have already gone back to San Francisco. And I know that you have to be there for her. I am not going to challenge you like Lynn and Chana who throw around words like codependent and refuse to visit Peach in the hospital. I’m not mad. I’m not! I prove that I’m not mad by sending flowers to her in the hospital. I even pay extra for a big yellow balloon with a smiley face.

Does a guy who’s mad buy the balloon? No, he doesn’t.

And I’m not being a dick to customers, either. You can tell I’m not mad because I’m more patient than ever. I don’t lay into Curtis about being late and I don’t bitch him out when he forgets to order more Doctor Sleep (the only book we’re moving, aside from the prequel, of course) and watching that book settle in at the top of the Times bestseller list makes me more and more aware of the fact that we’re not progressing. Our first real date was the day that book came out and now that book’s breaking records and having its third fucking month on the bestseller list and I’m reading about the inevitable movie adaptation on the Internet for no reason at all—and I am not mad at you or at King or at the customers or Peach or anything. I am not mad she’s a liar. I feel for the poor girl. She’s obviously a product of her family’s sociopathic tendencies and she’s tragically obsessed with you and honestly, if anything, I’m just worried for you.

And I can wait. Some good shit happens fast (a bestselling book), and some good shit happens slow (love). I get it. You are busy. You got class—I get it—and you got Peach—I get it—and you’re not avoiding me—I get it—and you have pages due—I get it—and Peach just can’t deal with being around guys—I get it—and you can’t e-mail as much with all that’s going on—I get it—and you think of me when you get into your bed that I made for you—I get it. You see, Beck, I am not a narcissistic asshole who expects his needs to come first at all times. I wake up and run to the water and back and my legs are firmer all the time—you’ll see, eventually—and I sell King and I read King and I eat lunch, alone, and dinner, alone, and not once do I bitch at you about blowing me off. Not once.

The balloon, Beck, it was almost ten more dollars with the tax and when I asked you if it got there, I could hear the Peach in you.

“Yeah,” you said. “It did.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Well, Joe, forget it. I mean for her everything is wrong right now, you know?”

“Beck, what the fuck?”

And I didn’t say that in an asshole way. I just wanted you to be straight with me.

“Joe, never mind. It’s fine.”

“Obviously, it’s not.”

You let out a sigh and you’re the one who’s mad and you sound different, like you’ve been drinking the green juice delivered to Peach’s each morning, like you’re starting to like this way of life, sleeping uptown, waking up without a single piece of IKEA in the room.

“Don’t get mad.”

“I’m not mad, Beck.”

“We both just felt like the balloon was a little insensitive.”

“Insensitive.”

“I mean . . . it’s a smiley face.”

“It’s a get-well balloon.”

“Yes, but, Joe, it’s not that simple.”

“On the website it’s right there in the Get Well section.”

“Yes, but it’s not like she got hurt playing tennis.”

Tennis.

“Beck, be reasonable.”

“I am reasonable.”

“I meant no harm.”

“I know, Joe. It’s just that a giant yellow smiley face is kind of the last thing in the world you want to see when there’s some creep out there who broke into your home and attacked you. I mean, it’s a smile. This is just, like . . .”

“Jesus,” I said.

“It’s not a smiling kind of time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Beck, can we get coffee or something?”

“I really can’t right now.”

You never sounded farther away from me and I will take that balloon and stab the fuck out of it and at the same time I will take that balloon and tie it around Peach’s neck because WHO THE FUCK CAN CUNT OUT OVER A BALLOON?

WELL, it’s been seven hours and six whole days since Peach got home from the hospital. You are busy with school and busy with Peach, still living at her house. But you are not too busy to exchange e-mails with a stranger named CaptainNedAck@gmail.com.

You: Hey, can you call me??

Captain: Not right now. Are you still coming this weekend?

You: I’m really busy. Can’t you just call me?

Captain: I want to see you.

You: I don’t have a car.

Captain: Get one and I’ll take care of it. You’re still size small, right?

You: Yes.

When your plans with the Captain are finalized, you leave Peach’s place and get into a cab. I call you. I get voice mail and I do not leave a message. I am not the Captain and you ignore Peach’s call and she e-mails you, all caps:

WHERE ARE YOU?

You write back curt, swift:

Writing Emergency. Long story. I’m off to my “writing retreat” (haha) at Silver Seahorse in Bridgeport. You be good to you and lock the doors. Love love love Beck

And now Peach is mad at you, and honestly, I don’t blame her. It is a bitch to drive to Bridgeport. You rent a car because, as we all know, the Captain is paying. I am stuck in Mr. Mooney’s enormous, old Buick. I do a lot for you, Beck. You’d think I’d be the Captain by now and I don’t listen to any music for the entire drive to Bridgeport. I’m too sad for music, too sad for Elton John and my head aches.

O Captain, my Captain

I cry.

I get to Bridgeport first. The Silver Seahorse is a small motel near the water, one of those joints where all the rooms are off exposed walkways. Peach wouldn’t even set foot in a place like this but this must be the place because it’s the only Silver Seahorse in Bridgeport. I listen to local news and eat a gas station burrito. I am so scared for you, for me, for us, that I can’t finish the burrito. The Captain. Who is this Captain?

You pull into the lot and I slink down in the seat and watch you in the rearview mirror. You pop the trunk and walk around back but you don’t get out the bags because the Captain moseys out of a motel room. He’s at least forty-five, maybe fifty with Clooney gray hair—is this what you’re into?—and he flicks his cigarette out—fuck you, Captain, I hope you die of cancer—and he picks you up and spins you around and you know what, Beck?

Now I am mad.

Captain AARP Asshole gets into your car. I follow the two of you as he drives, the fucker (and you’ve never been in a car with me), and you two pull up to an ATM at a Cumberland Farms. You jump out of the car and come back with a wad of twenties. He makes you count the money (I hope he dies now), and you are angry and you count slowly, like a third grader practicing and I am reminded of your Craigslist “Casual Encounters” and I fear the worst. I follow you and the Captain back to the Silver Seahorse, and this is me, Beck. The Captain gets out first and opens the door for you and you walk around back and get your bags out of the trunk, and he already has a key and I am close enough to hear.

“Hey, can I have a smoke?”

He shakes his head. “Honey, I can’t do that.”

“So it’s fine for you but not me?”

“Did you bring a costume?”

Costume? Jesus.

“Do you think I brought a costume?” You groan. “Just one smoke, please.”

“Hell if I’m gonna give one to ya.”

“Are you kidding me right now? This is when you decide to be a fucking father?”

You said father and I might collapse as my brain waves sizzle and my heart stops. Father. You told me he was dead. You told everyone he was dead. Oh, Beck, why? I don’t know if I’m mad or sad because in the present moment I’m just so relieved that you’re not paying (or being paid?) to put on a schoolgirl outfit and get banged in a motel room. I breathe. The Captain is your father and your father has the key and you groan and follow him into Room 213. I want to know him and I want to follow you in there and I want him to shake my hand and tell me how happy he is to see that his daughter has got such a good man in her life. But you told me he is dead so maybe you’d be happier if I went in there and made that happen? I am confused and it is colder by the second.

It’s off-season in the shithole that is Bridgeport and the activity of checking into the room helps me steady myself. It’s a lot to take in, but I’m relieved. I spout off some bullshit about lucky numbers and request the room adjacent to yours. They give it to me and it smells like bleach and Newports and the walls are thin and after I shower I throw one of the extra towels on the floor and sit down and listen to you fight with your dad (something about money, kids, you sound like adults in Peanuts cartoons). He slams the door and you’re alone. After you finish crying you shower and now you’re wet and clean, like I am, and I hear the door lock. You tear the blanket off the bed—it hits the floor, it’s heavy, I hear it—and you start to work away at yourself and you moan—you’re loud, I hear it—and now I’m working and you’re working and in my mind, there is no wall because I’m fucking you on that bed and you’re bent over begging for it and we’re in Bridgeport because we want to fuck in a motel and I’m pulling your hair and you’re screaming—you are, Beck, you’re loud and there’s no green pillow for you to cry into—and when it’s all done you turn on the TV and light a cigarette. I can hear it and I can smell it and I’m so heavy from doing it with you and not doing it with you that it takes a minute before it hits me.

You know the smiley-face balloon was fine and your father isn’t a dead junkie.

You’re a fucking liar.