I am optimistic until you have a separate private e-mail exchange with this Peach person. You’re different with her.
You: I sound like such a girl, but I haven’t heard from Benji. He kind of bailed on me. He’s probably just busy but what if . . .
Peach: What if you got so busy writing something awesome that you forgot about him. It’s like in yoga when you put all your energy into one sacred place: you.
You: You are soooo right. Thank you, wise one!
But it doesn’t matter what your friends think. You’re still drafting e-mails to him. And now you want to know where he is and when you’re going to see him. You want him. Still. You need my help and I forge an entry in Benji’s Home Soda blog:
Spontaneous trek to the ACK. New inspiration, new flavors with the help of a lovely companion.
He is the kind of asshole who would refer to Nantucket by its airport code, ACK, and of course he didn’t invite you. He didn’t tell you he was going. He just left. He’s no good. And he used the word lovely and you’re supposed to think he’s with Monica and write him off once and for all. Still, you send the link to Peach, and you are sad, not mad. She writes back:
Sweetie, he’s an entrepreneur. And he’s probably referring to Rascal, his family’s Lab. Don’t jump . . . to conclusions!
We are at an impasse. None of this has worked. You forgive this fucker who tweets a filtered photo of the come-fuck-me soda cunt. There were no cases of gratis Home Soda at your reading, Beck, but you still want him and I still have to fix this. I send you an e-mail from Benji:
Long story. Be well, kid.
You open the e-mail seconds after I send it. You don’t forward it to your friends and you don’t draft another violent fuck-you e-mail. Now you are still and I am not surprised when my phone alerts me that I have a new e-mail an hour later. It’s you:
Thursday instead?
I did it. Finally. I have only one word for you:
Yes.
WHEN the little pansy wakes up, I don’t know how much time has passed but he’s yawning like it’s been a century. He doesn’t seem to get it at first and he makes awkward small talk about the cage—is this mahogany?—and then he talks about parrots. Finally, it dawns on him that there are bars separating us. He reaches for the door and for the second time today, I watch this prick yank a door handle.
“You don’t need to do that,” I say. I try to keep him calm. I am kind.
“Let me out,” he snaps. “Now.”
“Benji,” I say. “You need to settle down.”
He looks at me. He is puzzled. Candace’s brother was also puzzled. The assholes are always puzzled when the order of the universe is restored, when they are held accountable for their cowardly, pretentious, loveless ways.
10
IT’S Thursday morning and our date tonight is my reward for the past three days. Babysitting Benji is no joke, Beck. I don’t even know how many times I’ve locked and unlocked and locked the basement doors as I’ve come up and down. Curtis knows he isn’t allowed in the basement and he doesn’t have a key. My hand is cramped from gripping the key like it’s my lifeline. And it is.
And I’m tired, Beck. It took me a solid hour to pry up the false-bottom floorboard where I keep my machete. I had to take a train all the way to New Haven to use his ATM without raising any flags. I’m not saying it’s not worth it and I did come up with a good plan. I decided to use Benji’s phone to construct a narrative. I know, it’s a fucking brilliant plan. Because you follow him on Twitter, you will now bear witness to his descent into drugs and idiocy. It all started in New Haven, where I got two grand out of his account and tweeted a photo of the bullshit Yale bulldog mascot:
The original #bulldog is back. #whatupnewhaven #meandmolly
So now everyone (you) will think Benji’s gone back to his alma mater for a bender. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Ivy League people, Beck, it’s that you all really like going back to school for reunions. This is a good plan and I can’t let his fancy-boy bellyaching get to me. It’s like you know I’m at my wit’s end and you text me:
Hey you. Up early. No idea why. So what are we doing tonight?
Benji barks: “Is that Beck? Joe, if that’s what you want, she’s all yours.”
We’ve been through this. About an hour after he came to, the fucker recognized me from the cab. So now he thinks he’s figured me out. He thinks I’m obsessed with you. He thinks I trapped him in here because of you. The truth is so much more complicated and self-satisfied chirpers like him don’t know that it’s always wiser to be quiet in lockup. He laid his cards out and he talks about you like you’re his. But you’re not a beat-up BMW, you’re not his to give away. I bark, “Do your test.”
“Joe,” he says, which is dumb because every time he says my name I’m reminded of the fact that he knows my name, an obvious complication going forward. I compose myself and I write to you:
Morning, sleepyhead. Hope you had sweet dreams. See you at 8:30 on the steps at Union Square. When it gets dark we’ll go somewhere else.
I hit SEND and I can’t wait to see you and I pick up the list of Benji’s five favorite books because we’ve got work to do:
Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon. He’s a pretentious fuck and a liar.
Underworld by Don DeLillo. He’s a snob.
On the Road by Jack Kerouac. He’s a spoiled passport-carrying fuck stunted in eighth grade.
Brief Interviews with Hideous Men by David Foster Wallace. Enough already.
The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. He’s got Mayflowers in his blood.
Benji has already failed tests on Gravity’s Rainbow (duh) and Underworld. He keeps saying he would have made a different list of books if he knew there was a test coming. That’s how privileged people think: Lie unless you know that you can’t get away with lying. You’re nothing like him and you write again:
There’s no fucking way I’m responding to a smiley face and I can’t anyway because Princess Benji wants a soy latte and a New York Times and some Kiehl’s and his fucking Evian and his Tom’s toothpaste. I tell him to make do with what I gave him: coffee from the Greek diner, a New York Post, a small tub of Vaseline, and a scoop of baking soda from the centuries-old box in our employee restroom.
You write again:
Where are we gonna go after it gets dark?
I can’t be mad at you because you’re obviously just hot for me. You wouldn’t be mirroring my words if you weren’t excited and I write back to you:
You’ll know when you need to know. Wink-wink.
The wink-wink might have been a mistake and I feel sick.
“Look, Joe, I can’t take a test on a book I haven’t picked up since high school without being amply caffeinated.”
I make an executive decision because I can’t listen to him anymore. “Forget On the Road. Tear up the test. We’re done today.”
He lifts his head up and looks at me like I’m God. “Thank you, Joe. I never read On the Road and, well, thank you.”
He’s thanking me for making him admit to being a complete, total liar. Even while fighting for his life, he’s lying. I want this kid to understand and I try.
“You didn’t read On the Road?”
“Not exactly.”
“But you put it on your list.”
“I know.”
“I told you to make a list of your favorite books.”
“I know.”
“Unbelievable. Don’t you realize you’re in the bottom of a bookstore? That you’re in a cage? You don’t come in my store and lie. You don’t do that.”
“Don’t be mad.”
His eyes shift for just a second. He’s aware of the machete. There’s no choice. I gotta pick it up. I cross over, slowly. I reach for it. And I hold it. And I don’t face him.
“You don’t wanna do this,” he whimpers.
Before I speak, I spread my feet a little bit farther apart. I occupy as much space as I can. “I spend my time making tests for you to take, tests on books that you say you read. And you didn’t read any of these fucking books. Which means you wasted my time. And you don’t want me to be mad. You think the world works like that?”