He sips from the third cup. He gargles. “This isn’t my product.”
I ignore his calls to find out if he passed or failed and walk up the stairs. Suspense is good for people. It makes us stronger. This is why America loves Stephen King so much; he keeps us on the edge of our seats until it hurts. He also knows that all people, whether groundskeepers at Fenway or privileged young fucks, are capable of going insane if placed under the right circumstances. Stephen King would appreciate my work with Benji and I smile as I lock the door.
THE deli around the corner has salt and they have Mason jars, and I stock up on both. The guy at the deli is cool and gives me a box, which makes the walk back to the shop easier. The more time I spend on this club soda project, the less surprised I am to know that a few idiots buy into Home Soda. And the more time I spend with Benji, the more I understand why a million other rich idiots don’t buy into it. Home Soda will never be as popular as Stephen King. You win over consumers by showing you understand them. And you can’t market a product if you don’t understand the potential buyer for said product.
Benji doesn’t know shit about marketing. Coke has tried every marketing strategy known to mankind. That’s why Coke is hip and classic, original and new, and dietetic and caloric. Coke is wild-eyed J. Lo’s favorite and it’s also the whitest, blandest American drink we got. It’s a contradiction. It’s fucking genius. And Coke spent a shitload of money to be everything to everyone. Your boyfriend Benji’s got it all wrong. He thinks it’s all about being special, scientific, but you don’t get anywhere in this world unless you know how to blend in.
“Gargle,” I tell Benji when I get downstairs.
He gargles like he’s at the dentist and it’s not like I’m not trying to give him a chance. I think most pricks deserve a shot at being something other than a prick. For instance, I know that Benji was, quite literally, spoiled by his family, raised by a mother who never said no and a father who never said boo and a series of nannies who quietly let the little fucker do whatever he wanted. He told me all this shit the second night in here, the night he failed the quiz on Gravity’s Rainbow and admitted to paying for every essay he ever wrote at Yale. He said he read the first five pages of the book and loved it so much that he couldn’t read any more. He said he’s too sensitive to read, too moved, that he’s built for small doses. For someone so fucking sensitive he sure does take a long time to gargle the salt water.
“Drink it, Benji,” I command.
He pinches his nostrils and sips and I don’t know what I’m gonna do with him. This kid who was never grounded or beaten or locked up for any sin he ever committed. He cheated his way through college and he’s trying to make a living by cheating pretentious fucks with his upmarket soda. Now, for the first time in his life, Benji is being held accountable. Accountability suits him. He’s got wrinkles and he doesn’t look like such a pansy. He’s not perfect, obviously. He still crosses his legs like he’s Woody Fucking Allen. He blows his hair out of his eyes, still a pansy after all these tests.
“Which cup was Home Soda?”
“It doesn’t fucking matter because I’m selling a vibe. I’m selling health and wealth.”
“It always matters. Any idiot can tell Coke from Pepsi.”
“That’s different.”
“Which cup was Home Soda?”
“How do I even know you’re telling me the truth?”
“Because I’m not a fucking liar.”
“You’d never actually kill me,” he says, trying again to have the authority. He thinks I’m the kind of sap who wants to be seen by the all-knowing wealthy pussy.
I’m not having it. I make that clear and I continue, “Which cup was Home Soda?”
“You’re too smart to kill me,” he says, belligerent. “You know someone like me, I have parents that are gonna find out what happened. You’d never really do that to yourself.”
I don’t say anything. I know the power of silence. I remember my dad saying nothing and I remember his silences more vividly than I remember the things he said.
Benji starts to shake and he picks up Cup One again. But his hand is shaking and when he brings the cup to his mouth, most of it rolls down his chin and onto his Brooks Brothers shirt. I can’t get over how many people miss this guy, how many people love him. You should see his e-mail, Beck. He disappears for three days and everyone in the world acts like he’s Ferris Fucking Bueller. The e-mails pour in, where are you how are you are you okay, guy? I don’t respond to any of these people; they need to understand that Benji has gone off the rails. Don’t they see his tweets? In any case, it’s an indictment of our society, this outpouring of curiosity for this liar’s whereabouts. Whoever distributes love in this world is doing a bad job. The beloved Benji bites the bagel and I scroll through your phone to calm my nerves. You didn’t e-mail anyone about our night yet, which means you’re still busy with your pillow or passed out wasted, and he sips from Cup Two and he gargles and he spits.
“Definitely not Cup Two,” he says, and he’s so obviously trying to cheat, trying to get a hint out of me. I ignore him. You gotta ignore people until they get in line, especially spoiled rich kids. When I was in this cage, I was good. I didn’t fuss and shake like a little girl.
He picks up Cup Three. “Salute,” he says, and somehow that’s the most offensive thing he’s ever said. He’s not Italian. What right does he have to say salute? He takes a sip and licks his lip and strokes his chin and paces around the cage.
“Well?”
“You know these aren’t ideal circumstances for a taste test.”
“Life isn’t always ideal, not for most people.”
“The air is dank. Musty.”
“Which cup was Home Soda? One. Two. Or Three.”
He clings to the bars and shakes his head and he’s crying. Again. I check your sent mail. It’s nine in the morning after our date and you are awake. I know this because you have just written to some dude in your class about how much you liked his story. I breathe. You have to do that kind of thing. That’s just about school.
“Benji. Which fucking cup?”
He lifts his head and backs away as if he’s gonna pass out—yeah right—and he wipes his eyes and crosses his arms and spits out, “None of ’em.”
“That’s your answer?”
He grabs at his shaggy blond hair that’s darker every day—sweat.
“Wait.”
“Either that’s your answer or it’s not.”
“They all tasted like shit. Okay? They all tasted like bottom of the barrel ninety-nine cent store chemically enhanced club fucking soda. You’re setting me up to fail. This is wrong. This is injustice.”
“Is that your answer?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry, Benji,” I say and his lower lip shakes. “But you’re wrong. They’re all Home Soda.”
You get an e-mail. The asshole in your class:
Thanks, Beck. I’m reading you right now, this is your best yet, nice, very nice.
Benji flares. “No.”
And who is this pretentious asshole? I’m reading you. The fuck he is, Beck. Come on. Write to Chana. Write to Lynn. You had the best date ever and you’re gonna e-mail with some hack from class?
“Joe, there’s no way that those were mine.”
“Well, they were,” I say and now Benji isn’t just Benji, he’s everyone bad, all the educated liars. “It’s called quality control and if you knew anything about business, you’d know that if you don’t have quality control, you don’t have anything.”