You

46

YOU’RE the one who snooped in my wall yet you’re acting like I’m the only one in this apartment with problems. You want to leave me, of course. You are afraid of the Box of Beck. You are judgmental, nasty. You stand in front of the hole in the wall behind my sofa—my special and private place—and my box is on my sofa, partially shredded because you tore into it like a sewer rat. There is only one good thing about any of this. In your haste to snoop through my things, you left your phone on the coffee table. I grab it while you’re burrowing through the box.

“This is a used tampon.”

“It’s in plastic.”

“Don’t you fucking move,” you order.

A lot of guys would be pissed, but not me. I know you’re out of your mind right now, Beck. Hell, you’re angry that I “stole” your Mardi Gras beads but you didn’t even know they were missing until now. You’re mad that I helped you scour your apartment for your Chanel sunglasses last week when I “clearly” knew they were in this box. But honestly, you’re better off without those fucking obnoxious glasses. They’re for people like Peach; you look silly in them and you change the subject.

“Well, what about this?” you vent. “This is my yearbook, Joe.”

“And it’s perfectly fine.”

“It’s mine, you sicko. You didn’t go to Nantucket High School. This is my book from my life and my friends and my home.”

“Beck.” You have never sounded more selfish but I will be patient.

You point at me. “No.”

You can’t be held responsible for your actions. You keep looking at the fire escape like that’s a possibility for you. You’re talking crazy, like you’d leave me after all that pie, all that talk about moving in together. I try to reach you: “Beck, calm down. You’re not climbing out the window and you’re not gonna run down the stairs when you’re out of your mind like this.”

Round and round we go, one minute you are afraid, one minute you are going to kill me, one minute you think I am going to kill you, one minute you are the victim of my evildoing (LOL) and one minute I am the victim because you are going to kill me (LOL). You snarl and call me a fucking sicko. I know you don’t mean it. If you were truly afraid, you would make a serious attempt to “escape.” But the fact is that I know you. I know you are pleased with your discovery. You like attention and devotion and that box is proof that I am attentive, devoted. If that box contained Candace’s things, you would have broken your neck trying to get out of my home. You will get on my side, but I have to be patient. You’re in shock. You scream again. My head is starting to pound and I worry about the neighbors and I snap.

“Would you please shut the fuck up already? Do you hear me calling you names? How do you think I feel when I walk in here and find you in my wall? Do you think that feels good? Do you think I like to be spied on?”

“You have a box of my shit,” you sneer. “I’m leaving.”

“Nobody’s making any decisions right now,” I say. “And let’s be honest, Beck. I could just as easily say I’m done with you for snooping around in my stuff.”

“I—I can’t believe this,” you stammer. “You’re crazy. You’re crazy.” And here you go again, with the chattering teeth and you’re pulling at your hair. “I can’t believe this is happening to me.” Don’t you get tired of your dramatics?

“Calm down, Beck,” I plead. “Why don’t you sit down on the sofa?”

Your cheeks get red and you get up on your tippy toes and you call me names—psycholoonnutjobfreakassholesickocreep—and it’s fine. I know you don’t mean it.

“Oh I mean it, Joe.” You gawk and you brandish my Figawi hat. “I don’t even want to know where this comes from.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m sure,” you say. “Fucking sicko.”

I remember last month around this time, you got violent and screamed at me for throwing away a three-day-old burrito that was stinking up your fridge. The next day, you got your period and you kissed me on the cheek.

“I’m not crazy,” you said. “I’m sorry.”

“I know, Beck.”

“I promise,” you said. “When I get nasty like that, it’s like I’m standing outside of myself and I know I’m being terrible and irrational but there’s nothing I can do about it. I have serious PMS issues sometimes.”

I forgave you and I haven’t thought about that moment until now because I know how to be in an everythingship. Anyone who walked in here right now would think you’re nuts, Beck. Anyone would try and protect me and ask you to lower your voice as you assault me with accusations. I’m a pervert and a sicko and a stalker and a hoarder and a psycho and I don’t respond.

“Are you deaf, Joe?”

“You know I’m not deaf.”

You’re screaming again and do I scream at you? Never. When I text you and you don’t respond right away, I let it go. And now it’s your turn to let it go. It’s not like I stole anything that you need. Who looks at their high school yearbook? You’re moving on with your life; I never once saw you look at that thing. You don’t miss those people. And a lot of girls would apologize for invading my privacy. You’re ungrateful right now. You’re still calling me names: depraved, twisted panty-hoarding creep.

You will settle down and I will get through this and I pretend you are a lion at the zoo. I am the zookeeper and I guard the door and I pray that I don’t have to use my fist on you but if I do, you will recover, probably. For now, my job as the zookeeper is to stand by and wait. You’ll wear yourself out soon enough, the same way you wear yourself out on my dick.

“How long has this been going on?”

“There’s no need to raise your voice.”

“How long?” you say and you obey. You use an indoor voice.

“As you know, I was quite taken with you when we met,” I say and maybe there is hope. “You flirted with me and we had a connection and I didn’t want to spring myself on you, you know, ask you right there. So I waited.”

“Uh-huh,” you say and you cross your arms and tap your foot.

“And then I learned about you, Beck,” and I feel like the guy in The Princess Bride and you are as stubborn as Buttercup. “I was enchanted, Beck. I still am. There’s nothing in that box for you to be afraid of.”

You look at the box and you look at me. I don’t know what to do and I feel inadequately prepared for my job as a zookeeper. I want you to see it all, I want you to know the depth of my passion, the power of my grasp, and the certainty of my love. But then again, you’re PMSing, you’re probably still scared from being in the wall, and every once in a while you mumble something about missing that asshole Peach.

“Go ahead,” I say, because there’s no turning back. You can’t put your panties back in the box. Literally and figuratively, the box is scratched and torn; you’ve wrecked it. This is not what I imagined. I want to lead you away from the splayed box, but as a zookeeper, I know I need to keep a safe distance from the animal for the animal’s sake and my own. You burrow through my things that you think of as your things and now you find my pièce de résistance, The Book of Beck. It’s beautiful. You should be flattered that a stand-up guy like me who’s smarter than most guys is creating a tribute to you.

“It’s not done,” I say. “I’m going to have it bound.”

“My stories,” you say and you are you again.

“They’re all there,” I say. We are fine, now, we are.

Any second now, you will run across the room and hug me. I am wrong. Your mouth contorts. You bark, “This is my e-mail.”

“Beck, please,” I say. “It’s a tribute.”

“You hacked my fucking e-mail.”

“I didn’t hack anything,” I snap, because again, you let me down. And you could have told your mother to cancel your fucking phone. That’s on you.

You close the book and drop it in the box. The sun is setting and it’s almost time to turn on the lights. I step toward you. You flinch and you are hateful and here we go again. Now you have new mean names for me like murderer and killer and liar. I remain tough, focused like a zookeeper must when the animals turn violent.

“You don’t mean that,” I say, calm.

“You’re a twisted fucking stalker and you don’t know what I mean.”

“No I’m not,” I say. “No I’m not.”

I chase you. I deflect your barbs and I block you when you come at me. It’s so easy to grab both of your wrists because you’re so little and I’m so strong and I have no trouble forcing you onto the sofa. You can’t fight and when you promise to be good, which you always do, I let go of you and return to my post at the door.

You are panting. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I love you.”

“This isn’t love. This is sick.”

“This is our everythingship,” I say. Our word.

“You need help,” you say. You are deaf. “You’re a sicko.”

I would like to be a bigger person, but you call me names and then I think about your crimes.

“You should be locked up, Joe. Okay? Do you understand that? This is all bad.”

You don’t close the refrigerator all the way and twice in your place we’ve had to toss out all the food.

“You’re a sick person and sick people need help, Joe.”

I am healthy and you are a trollop; you threw yourself at Nicky. You’re incapable of admitting that you’re jealous of Blythe.

“Joe, let me call the doctors. Please, let me help you.”

I don’t need doctors and you lie, even now you are looking around for a weapon. You try to return clothes you’ve already worn and even though you’re my girlfriend, you let me go to voice mail when I call you sometimes. You’re not always attentive with your razor and sometimes I think the lady who waxes you doesn’t have a license to wax anyone because your thighs are often coated in little red dots that don’t feel good against my nice, clean legs.

“Joe, you need to let me go now.”

And you need to stop judging me. You’re a slob, and not in the way you think you are. You leave used tampons in your trash and you don’t take the garbage out frequently enough and for a week last month, your apartment reeked of moon-blood. You still masturbate even though you have the honor of access to my cock. That silk blouse you’re wearing? You look slutty, Beck. I thought so this morning, but in an everythingship you have to let things roll off of you and focus on the positive.

“I’m leaving,” you say. Ha.

“You don’t want to do that right now.” I remain calm because someone has to remain calm. “People always regret what they do in emotional moments like this.”

You don’t even bother trying to get past me. You respect my strength. But I see you looking around. You are an animal and you run into my bedroom. Mine. You reach onto my shelf. Mine. You pick up the Italian Dan Brown. You throw it at me.

“Where’s my phone, Joe?”

“In good hands,” I promise. And I pull it out of my pocket. “You left it on the table.”

You call me a sick fuck and you groan and you’re a slob and slobs suffer.

“Stop imagining things, Beck.” I would be a great zookeeper. I am good at this, slowly closing in on the animal as it works itself into a tizzy.

“I’ll scream. You don’t know how I can scream. Your neighbors will come. They’ll know.”

I don’t mean it but I say it: “I’ll kill you if you scream.”

And it’s over. You begin to yelp and spring at me and I don’t like you right now. You make me do terrible things like hold you down and clap my hand over your mouth. You make me twist your arms and bear down on you, and this is our bed. You kick.

“You scream and it’s over.”

You just kick.

“Beck, stop fighting me.”

You squirm but I’m stronger. You’re a danger to yourself, to the world. You don’t know what you’re saying and you need me now more than ever and eventually, your anger transforms into sadness. Again. Your muffled blubbering heats the palm of my hand and I don’t loosen my grip. “You’re gonna wind up with nodes like your friend in Pitch Perfect if you keep yelling like that.”

You stop, finally. I make a proposal. “Beck, blink your eyes if you promise not to scream anymore. If you promise, I’ll take my hand away.”

You blink. I am a man of my word and I take my hand off your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you say. You are hoarse and you flash your eyes at me. “Joe, we can talk about this.”

I can’t help but laugh. Ha! You think we’re gonna talk while you’re in the middle of a PMS explosion? We can’t talk now! Your mood swings are psychotic! My goodness, Beck, do you think I’m that stupid? But you beg.

Please, Joe, please.

I love the sound of your voice and that would have been my #10:

Beck has a beautiful voice.

Unfortunately, you were lying and you kick once more, trying to escape. The worst part of being a zookeeper is the moment when I have to save the animal from its emotions, from its wild, illogical nature. You kick and scream. You bite. But your Portman-sized body is no match for mine, Beck. I count to three. I give you the chance to shut up. But you don’t shut up and after three, I take your little head in my hand—sorry—and smash it against the wall—sorry. You are going to be so sorry too when you calm down and realize what you made me do.

I am lonely in the silence and I kiss your forehead. Clearly, you have problems and your menstrual cycle issues are just the tip of the iceberg. What kind of a girl climbs into a wall? You can’t accept my love when you’re this messed up. And you’ve got one hell of a way of asking for help. I move fast. You won’t be asleep for long. I pack supplies and sling my messenger bag over my shoulder and lift you up and carry you down the stairs and hail a cab.

The driver sizes you up and wants to know which hospital. But we’re not going to the hospital, Beck. We’re going to my shop. This is New York. The driver doesn’t ask questions. Animals know you don’t fuck with a zookeeper.