"Absolutely brilliant!" says Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire, about Lambda finalist M. Christian's controversial manlove horror/thriller.
He looks just like you. He acts exactly like you. He takes away your job. He steals your friends. He seduces your male lover. None of them can tell the difference. Every day he becomes more and more like you, pushing you out of your own life, taking away what was yours … until there’s nothing left. Where did he come from? Robot? Alien? Clone? Doppelganger? Evil twin? Long lost brother? Then you discover there are still more "yous." Can you be sure you are the real you? And how do you fight to take your own life back?
An absorbing new approach to the question of identity, Me2 is a groundbreaking gay chiller you’ll remember for a long time – no matter who you are, or who you think you may be.
(Despite rumors that this book was written by an impostor - but, rest assured, this is the real 'M.Christian.' Accept no substitutes!)
Chapter
VI
Me6
"Like, for instance, yesterday I thought about going to the movies
to see that new Hugh Jackman thing.
But instead I, like, went down to mall to Sharona and Liselle, 'cause
you know that Liselle used to work down the Gap – I know, can you believe it? Talk about being a loser – and so she knows all the people who work
down there and when the good stuff is supposed to come in. Not that she really does but sometimes
you can still find something really cute or hot.
"But I didn't go to the movies, see? I went to the mall instead. But Bobby also called when we were walking to my car but I
didn't talk to him 'cause I saw it was him and 'cause he was such a fucking
asshole last Saturday, so maybe I'd talk to him and maybe he'd, like, majorly
apologize and do something really cute which you know he can do sometimes. So maybe we I would have not gone to
the movies or the mall and instead, like, have gone out with Bobby.
"But Bobby's an asshole – most of the time. So I didn't pick up. But maybe I did, somewhere, right? Like today I came to but I also thought
about not, you know? Just called
Betty and said that I was, like, sick or something. Just stayed home, or gone to the movies, or even to the mall
even though Sharona doesn't get out of work until five and Liselle's got school
till four. But I could have. Maybe I would have called Bobby, just
to chew his ass out or something, and maybe he would have said the right things
and made it all better, or maybe he would still be an asshole and that would be
it, right? I mean he's nice and
all but there's lots of other guys out there who are a LOT less asshole that
Bobby. It's just that he's there,
you know?
"The girl who works from eight-thirty to noon, Tammara I think her
name is. Her mother, like, died a
week ago. Just fell down the
stairs. Sad, yeah, but it makes
you think, you know? Like the next
time you go down the stairs you could be like her mother, you know? One wrong step and you fall down and
break something, or just drop dead just like that. Alive and then you're not, right? Could happen at any
time. Like maybe today or tomorrow or this weekend. Or maybe it did, you know? Somewhere you step on the wrong fucking
stair and down you go. Just not
here, you know?
"Sometimes you might want pancakes – like from Ihop, you know? Other days you might want a McMuffin,
'kay? But maybe one day there's a
bunch of old people in the Ihop, or a lot of cars at McDonalds so you can't
have either of them so instead you gotta get something from Starbucks, right? But not here, you know? Somewhere maybe the Ihop was empty, or
you could real easy get into McDonalds.
It's not a biggie, right? But
there you did get the breakfast you wanted – but not here. There you did, but not here, you know?
"Like somewhere the planes never hit New York. Like that. Here they did, but somewhere maybe they didn't. That kind of thing. I don't know why or any of that shit,
but it could be that way – somewhere, right? Maybe it would be better but ... what the fuck do I know? I just think about it sometimes. Like that I do something here but maybe
there's another me out there who did something else instead. Like going to the movies or going to
the movies or fucking dropped dead.
Maybe she's out there or maybe I'm just fucking nuts. But I think about that sometimes, like
if maybe she's a bitch or something or maybe even really cool and all – or if
I'd even like her if I met her or something. Shit like that, you know?"
* * * *
Unfamiliar territory. Good. Heard about it, of course, but never went: it was one of
those places, for those kinds of people, who liked to do those kinds of things.
A Lexus place, a Gap place, a Borders place, a Starbucks place, a Lane
Bryant place... okay, everyplace
was a Starbucks place, but there it
was upscale, a sign of progress, instead of just being there.
Parking, I walked across
asphalt steaming from an early morning light rain, blinking at hard sunlight,
exhaustion a crushing weight, and then up to and inside the mall. Hotdog on a Stick, Orange Julius, Panda
Express, Star of India – all of them under the heat lamp of huge, high windows.
Noon on a weekday, it was a
geriatric institution. Wrinkled
eaters sitting at tables, finishing by wrinkling napkins, but not getting up,
not leaving: nowhere better to go.
Hotdog on a Stick, Orange
Julius, Panda Express, Star of India behind me, Warehouse, Sanrio, Container
Store in front of me, Lenscrafters, Sunset Video next to me. I stopped at the directory while
giggling schoolgirls, professional hooky players, walked by.
Finding it wasn't that hard. It stood out: an oddity that the place
had one. Theories abounded, at
least inside my own bubbling brain: a sign of approaching progress? A last vestige of status before
submerging into mediocrity?
Lenscrafters, Sunset Video
behind me; Warehouse, Sanrio, Container Store next to me, I stopped and turned
hard right, into the coolly air-conditioned mouth of a two-storey Borders: a
sign of approaching progress or a last vestige of status before submerging into
mediocrity.
No GQ, no Men, no Architectural Digest, no "Boys of
Summer." The other magazines made me dizzy, bright cover stocks making my
head bob in a hurricane of smiling faces, sun-splashed beaches, and smoldering
good looks. Then one was in my
hands – not there one second, there and open to a spread the next without
reaching out, being even aware of picking it up. Um, interesting: Tom Cruise's mortgage-expensive dentistry
alongside tight columns of serif-text.
"You may think you know him, but you'd be surprised..." the
article began.
It went back on the stand,
Cruise's false happiness vanishing among the other so-bright, so-fake colors. Details. That sounded right. A Details
kind of guy. A guy who reads Details. A guy who goes to malls like this, who buys Details in
places like Borders.
No GQ, no Men, no Architectural Digest, no "Boys of Summer." Not anymore. That wasn't working out. Especially after last night. "You may think you know him, but
you'd be surprised." I certainly was.
From the magazine section, the
newest Details rolled into a tight
club in my left hand, I strolled as carefully, cautiously, as possible back
toward the front. Yes, that felt
right: I was a slow and careful guy, a thoughtful and controlled fellow. A Details
kind of guy. A guy who reads Details. A guy who goes to malls like this, who buys Details in places like Borders, and when it comes time to buy
his newest issue he's the kind of guy who walks carefully, cautiously toward
the front.
Maybe I was an art fag? Was that the kind of guy who reads Details? I used to have a Keith Haring print, so maybe art fag was
too close to what I'd been. But
then again maybe a guy who reads Details
should be even more of an art fag.
Maybe I was a foodie? Was that the kind of guy who read Details? I used to like to eat – nothing fancy mind you – so maybe
foodie was too close to what I'd been.
But then again maybe a guy who reads Details
should be even more of a foodie.
Maybe I'd be ... better. Couldn't be worse, eh? This could be a chance, the magazine
rolled up in one hand. An
opportunity to be more than I could have been before. A potential to be great, good, successful, praised, and – there's
the sting, the ache, all coming as I rolled the magazine even tighter in my
hand – desired.
A lot can happen in a few
days, a lot of thinking can go on in a few steps. During the last few days he'd shown up, strolled through my
life, stealing at first little bits then huge hunks then parts I didn't know I
had. Part of my thinking as I
walked toward the register: flattering, really. He was somehow an extrusion of me (image of black pasta
oozing out of a deep mind, id-manufactured piece of cranial machinery). A sense of pride had come with that
image: that there had been something wonderful and nice and special and grand
and great about me, something I'd missed even myself. A wonderful and nice and special and grand and greatness
that'd been so wonderful and nice and special and grand and great that anything
sour and nasty and evil and horrible and bad had been squeezed out.
A lot can happen in just a few
hours, a lot of thinking can go on in a few steps. During the last few days he'd appeared, walked through my
existence, taking small things to begin with, then bigger ones I didn't realize
had even been. Minor element of my
thoughts as I moved to the register: so fucking insulting. Bad enough he took what was mine, worse
that he'd been so much better at being me that I had. I knew now that he hadn't been dark pasta squeezed out of my
right ear, he hadn't been my personal Stalin, Manson, Hitler, or even just my
own externalized Ann Coulter.
It was now pretty damned
obvious that he wasn't bad – because he was so much better at being me than I'd
been.
And with a bitter taste on the
back of my tongue was hidden information, reclusive knowledge: I thought I
hadn't cared about being great, good, successful, praised and – a hard pain, a
belly-low and the magazine crunched in my hand – desired but it had taken him getting it for me to see that I really
had, and now it was too late for me to ever get it.
To ever get it, that is, as me. But maybe I could get my greatness, my goodness, my success,
my praise as someone else?
So I bought my magazine and,
before I knew what I was saying, I was chatting with the gum-chewing girl
behind the counter about a copy, a duplicate, a knock-off, but one far better
than any original, and she started talking about parallel realities and
alternative selves.
* * * *
You don't know me. Oh, sure, you may think you know me, but you'd be wrong. You see the stylishly cut blond hair, the blue eyes, the
tight ass, the hard (enough) chest, the good smile, the pretty-close-to-perfect
teeth, the refined dress sense, and it would no doubt cross your mind that
there he goes, here he comes: A Boy of Summer, full of Cape Cod life and
vitality, a sexy young man, a sparkling little erotic treasure, a clever
entertainer, but you'd be wrong.
No Boy of Summer am I. Was, sure, but that was a life ago. This me, the one you see coming, the
one you watch going, is still blond-haired and blue eyed, still nicely buff
without being all body and no dick, still funny without being nothing but
guffaws and stupid giggles.
I may stand on the deck of a
yacht and sip a perfect gin and tonic, or look admiringly out at a fat red sun
setting over the spires and ivy-wrapped bricks of Kennebunkport from the
polished cream boards of a cottage's deck. I may tie a cerulean sweater around my neck and playfully
twirl a racket in one hand while Buffy and Mandy smooth the mischievous pleats
of their skirts. I may stroll the
sands of Fire Island, just as happy to smile back at one of my dozen immediate
admirers as not, and simply keep walking.
I may, but not as a Boy of
Summer.
It was hard to deal with, a
change like this: from Summer to Fall, from Boy to ... well, maybe not a 'man'
but not a 'boy' either. Not a GQ, not a Men, not what I'd been.
But it was also exciting: a new chance, a fresh start, a new me – and
best of all a chance to do some shopping.
From Borders down through the
echoing canyon of the mall. Hallmark
Cards, Circuit City, Hot Topic alongside me; Gymboree, Radio Shack, Sprint
store approaching. Then, after a
few more strides over a few more minutes Gymboree, Radio Shack, Sprint store
were alongside and in the distant future was a Brookstone, a Kay Jewelers, and
the reason I'd come: the whites and colors of my new self, the outfits I'd have
to come to know and love.
Never thought I'd ever become
a Tommy Hilfiger guy – but there I was, and inside I went.
* * * *
I liked what I saw – or I
should say the person I had become liked what I saw, because the person I used
to be probably wouldn't have liked the colors, patterns, cut, design, or the
style.
The salesman, looking what I
imagined I might look like when I left, floated over. He said something – probably "Can I help you" or a
derivation thereof – but I just replied with something like "No, just
looking" or a derivation thereof.
Later, maybe, I'd need his
Tommy Hilfigerness expertise but at that moment I couldn't think, could barely
handle just wandering, looking, sampling, trying, and admiring.
You may know me, but you don't. Sure I might look like a boy who spent
the summer with GQ, but I'm not. Yeah, I might appear to be a GQ summer kind of boy, but I wasn't. I certainly might be taken to be a
summer boy from GQ, but that wasn't
correct.
The problem was that I didn't
know – at least not yet – what I was – at least not specifically. Maybe a red linen shirt and banana leaf
shorts Tommy? Perhaps a Noyo
Madras top and linen bottoms of Tommy?
Could I be a Pacific V-neck and California trunks Tommy? How about a prep above and a Manhattan
jeans Tommy?
Daunted, my sight glazed over;
a too loud, too bright, too stylish glaucoma. So many types, so many kinds, so many choices. I was tempted to open my Details and choose a look, something – anything
– to push me in a direction – any direction – rather than just stand there like
a blank slate, with a blank look, in the Tommy Hilfiger store.
To occupy my mind and hands, I
reached out and grabbed the first bit of cloth. Unhooking a painfully illuminated canary shirt from a rack,
I held it in front of my chest then turned around looking for a reflection to
see how it looked on me, even though I knew the look was not good.
A steel-clad pillar was a good
enough mirror, and so I stepped over toward it. Yes, it was bad.
But at least the store and I were down one type, one kind, one choice. It went back, to be replaced by a
royally purple short-sleeve number.
At least that type, that kind, that choice wasn't as alarmingly bright a
failure. If anything it was a
darker one – but still a failure. It
went back, to be replaced in front of me, bounced back by the polished metal of
the pillar, by a beetle-green version.
Better, a closer type, kind and choice. A perhaps. A
maybe. A could be.
Eventually, I began to relax,
the knotted fibers of my back and arms releasing from the Gordian Knot stress
I'd unconsciously tied myself into.
I was shopping. Just
shopping. Only shopping. It was an ordinary thing, a common
thing, a thing I'd used to do, a thing I used to enjoy doing – and looked like
I might enjoy doing again.
Whew.
The green shirt was a
possible, then a near-certainty when I saw a plaster or plastic consumer model
wearing nearly the same thing in the front window, though no way in hell was I
going to wear it with those tangerine pants. Tres gauche! In pursuit of something shorts-like, slacks-ish,
jeans-reminiscent, I moved between the islands of other manikins and wheels of
comparable displays letting my eyes get wonderfully exhausted from looking at
everything there was to see. Those
shorts? No, they wouldn't hang
right. Those slacks? No, I didn't like the fabric. Those jeans? No, I didn't like the weight. Maybe those? Maybe
these?
"Having a good
time?"
I jerked, my finally relaxed
spine bolted tight by the shock of a human voice. "Oh, yeah," I said before doing anything, not even
trying to find out who'd done the speaking.
Turning around, I saw that it
was the salesperson again, talking from behind the register. With the same visual machine gun I'd
aimed at shorts, slacks, and jeans I shot him into my brain: young but not so
much as to bruise easily. He knew
what he had and – most importantly – what to do with it. Beneath a light cotton shirt I could
see enough of a chest to know that he also more than likely had flesh where it
should be and muscle where it was nice.
His face was a good combo of dark eyes below a skull well-defined by
close-cropped black hair, an elegantly shaped and sized Grecian nose above plum
red lips. The counter kept me from
estimating below the belt, but above it he seemed to be something worth trying
on. All in all, he was the perfect
picture of a plaything: fun for a night, delight for a weekend, but beyond that
– well, who thought that far ahead with someone like him all sweaty and naked
in the same room?
A grin at all this, almost a
laugh: I was cruising. Just
cruising. Only cruising. It was an ordinary thing, a common
thing, a thing I used to do, a thing I used to enjoy doing and looked like I
might enjoy doing again. Thank
god.
"Always like to see
someone having a good time," he said, rounding the counter – though my
view was still blocked, this time by the items under the sign: HALF OFF.
"Makes two of us," I
fenced back, letting my relaxation and perhaps happiness out in a short, but
loud, laugh. "Finding
everything you need?"
"Oh, you mean the clothes! Yes."
"Great. Well, if you need anything else just
give me a yell. That's what I'm
here for."
"I hope it's not the only
thing you're here for – in life, I mean.
Not the store." Did I say that? Shit, I was either out of practice or just out of my mind. Whichever came first.
At least this Plaything didn't
seem to mind. He fenced back with
his own laugh: a deep, gruff sound that made me feel cut adrift and floating. "Never!"
"That's good." What
else to say walked off the roof. Momentarily
floundering, I plucked a shirt from the pile in my arms. "Actually, you might be able to
help."
"Sure! What do you need?"
"Any suggestions for this? I like it but I'm not seeing any thing
I like to go with it."
"Hummm..." he said,
body in a delightful, pondering posture.
"I think I have just the thing..."
He didn't, but I didn't care. For the next few minutes I followed him
around the store, letting him make suggestions of shorts (even though they
didn't hang right), slacks (even though I didn't like the fabric) and jeans
(even though I didn't like the weight).
As he lifted each and even more from the racks to stroke his elegant
fingers across, praise with his musical voice, hold up to me with his strong
arms, I said less and less and blushed more and more. With each demonstration and recommendation my mind got
noisier and noisier, reason becoming harder and harder to maintain: he's really kind of cute broke down into
half-felt and half-thought bits and pieces like hope he's a good kisser, hope he's got a good one, hope he wants to,
really hope he wants to, please let him want to, and finally how to get him away from here...?
"I really shouldn't say
this–" but you could tell he wanted to, the tone and melody of his words
skipping from nerves "–but would you like to get some coffee or
something?"
It was old, it was dumb, it
was trite, it certainly wasn't stylish, but it was something I needed and
wanted to hear. You may not know
me, and I might not even know what I was going to become, but at least it
looked like I was going to be someone who could be needed and wanted.
But then a thought came. A bad one. The light at the end of my tunnel changing into a howling
locomotive. Coffee? Yes. Giggles and good conversation? Absolutely. A
hand touching another hand? Certainly. A kiss? Definitely. Your
place or mine – and there was the impact, the crash, the smash, the twisted
wreckage of the day before.
I didn't have a place. He
had a place – and what was worse was that this all might happen, could happen,
possibly might happen, if I was damned lucky.
But he didn't need luck.
He was better – better than I
could ever have been. In all
things, but especially where it really mattered.
* * * *
Lack of sleep was a part of it. But not all of it. Having lazy eyes drifting too often
toward closed didn't explain the whole thing. Going crazy – well, yes, that was another portion. But I couldn't say how much. A question: did being completely crazy
mean you could no longer tell how much of what you did was acting crazy?
I also didn't care. Maybe he'd be there, maybe he wouldn't. Was or wasn't, neither bothered me. The amount of emotion between opening
the door and seeing him, seeing the thief of my life right there in my
apartment, or opening the door and not seeing him, the copycat, was about the
same.
I had to do something,
anything. Even if it wasn't smart
– or, yes, sane – I couldn't be frightened all the time, couldn't run away,
couldn't hide, or fret, or panic, or scream, or cry, or shake. Anything but.
So I drove, letting my hands
and my feet weave my car down streets, avenues, boulevards, streets, drives,
and everything between any of them, until I was in my neighborhood: rows and
rows of brightly shining windows set in cream-colored, stucco-slathered
apartment blocks.
Still not thinking, still
driving with just my hands and my feet, I was turning into the dark hole of a
garage before I was even consciously aware of it. 215? Yes, slot
215. Then, with a turn of the
wheel, my Volkswagon found its home.
My home? His home? I didn't know for sure.
With a push of a 5, I rose in
the elevator past 1 then 2 then 3 then 4 and finally to my floor. Opening to cream-colored stucco walls,
a stutter of industrial fixtures overhead illuminating door after door after
door of neighbors, I was walking before I realized what I was doing. Then, with a turn of by body, I was
standing in front of my home.
My home? His home? I didn't know for sure.
Hand on the knob, cool metal –
even though it was thin, cheap brass – I had fished out my key before I was
even aware that I'd done it. Then,
as I fed gleaming steel into the lock and turned it, I realized a very certain,
powerful, fact: the knob wouldn't turn, the door wouldn't open.
His home: he'd changed the
lock.
Screw that. I knew that for sure: a blast, a bolt, a shock that made me stand up
straighter, get a bit taller, feel a bit stronger. I hoped he was in there, I prayed he was so scared of me
that he'd had to change the lock. Right
then, he had a good reason to be scared and hiding.
I was pounding on the door
before I knew what I was doing, the meaty side of my hand going from unfeeling
to sore and possibly even bruised with a few reckless full-body swings of my
arms. The door, of course, didn't
budge.
I was about to try the moves
of every private detective I'd ever seen – and no doubt break every bone in my
shoulder or foot, when a cheerful bell announced that the elevator had returned
to my floor.
Turning quick, I half expected
be see myself walking toward me, having spent another full day creeping around
behind my back, stuffing the people, places, and things of my life into his
own: taking what didn't belong to me, replacing what had been mine with his
replication.
If my hands hadn't been sore I
probably wouldn't have realized I'd curled them into fists, but they were – so
I was aware my knuckles had lifted from my joints in a tight fury.
Then they released, uncoiling
from their compression into my palm, muscles releasing furious tension. No him. Not him at all.
Breath held, breath released.
Not him at all.
Jingle, jingle, a new kind of
bell, meaning instead of possible arrival, the coming of a feature of the
building – for all buildings for that matter. "Hola,"
the Handyman said with a nod of his dark hair, his dark skin gleaming with the
perspiration of a hard day's work.
"H–hello," I said,
this and that and something else shy at his arrival: "this" being the
cheek-warming shame that he might have seen me banging my fists into puffy
bruises on my door; "that" being the embarrassed blush of my not
remembering his name; the "something else" being the humiliation of
not knowing whether I'd ever met him before – because they all looked alike to
me.
"You ... have
problem?" he said, face aglow with innocent happiness. I envied him for that grin, for the
pure averageness, everydayness, commonness behind it.
"No–" I began then
stopped. Instead, I gave him my
own smile, but with anything but happiness, without any kind of averageness,
everydayness, commonness behind it.
"Well, yeah, there kind
of is a problem. I did something
very–" how do you say stupid in
Spanish? "–silly. I forgot my keys at work. Can you let me in?"
"Sure," he said, the
word very English, obviously a word that didn't exist with a Latin accent. "I do that for you. I know you."
"Thanks," I answered
through clenched teeth. Did you
know me? Did you know me at all? Or did you just know him?
So, just like that, I was in.
He wasn't in the apartment. But that's not why it was good – so very
good. At least to start, that is.
Saying goodbye to the
handyman, hoping that he'd never know his sweet-sweet-sweet kindness was to a
pair of refisted hands that'd been ready to swing-swing-swing at anyone in the
place, I closed the door behind me.
It was odd to be home: an
oddness that made my hair bristle, run goosebumps up and down my arms, make my
breath come in ragged gasps. A lot
was the same, like I'd just stepped out, just come back: the Ikea catalog of
perfectly assembled living, the same knicks and the same knacks just as they'd
appeared in that same issue of the same catalog, the same little things here,
the same little things there that spelled each letter of HOME: Haring print on
the wall, Olberman book that'd been number one on Amazon this week,
Mapplethorpe calendar magneted to the fridge, and the Enigma CD that was number one on iTunes this week.
It was my home – but it was
still his home more than it was mine.
He'd changed the rug in the
kitchen (mine had been from the Fall Ikea catalog; he'd replaced it with one
from a different season), the pillows on the bed (mine had been Bed, Bath and
Beyond royal blue; he'd bought Bed Bath and Beyond blood red), in the kitchen
he'd thrown out my Restoration Hardware silverware for crap from Target ... I
think. In the bathroom the towels
I'd bought from Bloomingdales were gone, and instead there were some
run-of-the-mill fluffy things that could have been from Ross ... I think.
He'd started, but hadn't
finished making what had been mine into his. I had time. But
there was something else, something that was that good – so very good. At least to start, that is: In the
sink, dirty dishes. On the bed,
dirty sheets. In the living room,
dirty clothes. In the bathroom, a
dirty tub. In the window, dirty
glass.
Good – so very good. He wasn't perfect, wasn't superior. He was dirty. Wonderfully, gloriously, magnificently, excellently,
gloriously, filthy. Under his
bright, shiny lie that was my stolen life, he couldn't keep it up.
I'd show him, I decided. I couldn't punch him, couldn't slap his
mirror-face, couldn't kick him in the nuts, couldn't do anything to him – but I
could show him who was the better man, the better me.
It took at least two hours. For the first hour every sound was him
coming back, walking in. For the
first hour every sound made me want to scream, bellow, roar in rage, and go
after him for what he'd done to me.
But all during the second hour, I didn't hear anything, or if I did I
didn't notice any of it.
I pulled Windex out from under
the sink, opened the front windows, leaned out, spritzed and sprayed, wiped and
rubbed until the glass was clear enough to be gone, the view out the front
obstructed only by the playful reflections of my earnestly grinning face.
I pulled Formula 409 from
under the sink, pulled aside the shower curtain, leaned in, spritzed and
sprayed, wiped and rubbed until the porcelain was white enough to be surgical,
its antiseptic appearance marred only by the mirroring of my earnestly
scrubbing face.
I pulled a Hefty garbage bag
out from under the sink, bent down and yanked, plucked, swept up, collected,
and stuffed all the socks, shorts, slacks, jeans, shirts, and sweaters that
were on the sofa, under the sofa, between the cushions of the sofa, and even
behind the sofa.
I pulled another Hefty garbage
bag out from under the sink, leaned across and yanked, pulled, stripped,
collected and stuffed the fitted and cover sheet that was twisted up, wadded
up, bunched up, and tangled up on the bed.
I pulled Dawn out from under
the sink, bent over and soaked, soaped, rinsed, dried, soaked, soaped, rinsed,
dried, soaked, soaped, rinsed, dried every last pot, pan, glass, plate, bowl,
knife, fork, and spoon, until the kitchen gleamed, shone, and dazzled with
lemon-scented, spectacular cleanliness.
Walking around my apartment,
looking at what I'd done with what was mine, admiring my handiwork, an emotion
fluttered through my bones, played a lovely tune on my tendons and muscles, and
out through my grinning lips in the form of a happy little tune: la, la, la – I'd show him – la, la, la – the fucking bastard – la, la, la – I'm better than he is – la, la, la – he's the loser – la, la, la – I'm better – la, la, la – I'm so much better – la, la, la – I'm so much better at being me – la, la,
la.
I felt very good: the best I'd
felt in days. I was the one that
was perfect, I was the one who was superior. I was wonderfully, gloriously, magnificently, excellently,
gloriously, me.
Then my walking stopped, my
humming stopped, my singing stopped.
The bedroom. It was because
of the bedroom. It was because of
the trash in the bedroom.
Because of that, he'd shown me. He wasn't there to punch me, he
couldn't slap my face, couldn't kick me in the nuts, couldn't do anything to me
– but because of the trash in the bedroom, he showed me that he was the better
man, the better me.
The apartment didn't matter. Dishes didn't matter. Sheets didn't matter. Clothes didn't matter. The tub didn't matter. Windows didn't matter.
The apartment was just a
place: rented, occupied, left behind for a new one. Dishes, sheets, clothes, tubs, windows, all of them – clean
or dirty – were just things: purchased, used, thrown away, then replaced.
There were the things that did matter. Six of them, in fact.
One: People mattered, and what
they thought of you – that's what mattered.
Two: Being wanted mattered,
being able to get it whenever you needed it – that's what mattered.
Three: Being successful was
good, being who they thought about when they were with other guys – that's what
mattered.
Four: Being able to pick up
who you wanted, to be the first one out with the best pick – that's what
mattered.
Five: Never being alone,
unless you wanted to be – that's what mattered.
Six (the most important of
all): Your dick mattered, getting it sucked or getting to fuck with it – that's
what mattered.
Each of them – one, two,
three, four, five, six – were why I walked, ran, ate, worked, drove, slept, or
earned. In fact why anyone walked,
ran, ate, worked, drove, slept, or earned.
And each of them – one, two,
three, four, five, six – were there in the trash, proof that he was better at
this, at what really mattered, than I was.
It was worth admiring, I had
to admit, even though to do so made my heart break into six irregular pieces. I should have applauded, rather than
leave to try and become someone else, but I just couldn't.
Six condoms in the trash. Six fucks in one night, three fucks on
two nights, six fucks in six days.
Whatever the math – more than I'd ever done.
That had been it: that had
finished it. That had been why I'd
left it all behind, that's why I'd walked the mall, that's why I'd bought a
copy of Details, that's why I'd
shopped at Tommy Hilfiger.
He could have my fucking life. He was obviously so much better at it
than I'd ever been.
Or maybe ever could be.
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