Friends of the museum, p.5
Friends of the Museum, page 5
—No, it hasn’t been a problem since. Thank you.
—I report to people, you know. I got a boss, not just me out here.
—I’ve put you in a terrible position. I’m so sorry.
—Tomorrow. First thing.
—How’s next week?
—Don’t push me, Benjamin.
—You’re right, you’re right. Tomorrow it is.
Ruben presses his lips together, harassing the change in his front pocket. Benjamin has always mostly liked the super despite his compulsion of touching up flat-white walls with semi-gloss paint, leaving behind blotches and spots that flare in the sun.
—End of the day, I promise.
—What flavor?
—What flavor what?
—Granola bar you got.
—Oats and honey, I think?
—Fine. No walnuts or coconut in there, okay?
—No.
—Give me two. And half the rent by tomorrow. No more excuses, nothing.
—You got it.
Benjamin goes to the kitchen cabinet, finds the box and takes out the last two granola bars. Ruben is leaning against the doorframe, skimming the living room with a practiced eye as if he’s calculating the manpower needed to drag the couch to the curb.
—Breakfast!… brandishing the cereal bars as if he’s escorting a plane to its gate, skirting piled shoes and a puddle of bills, striding toward Ruben like a person accustomed to locating a thousand dollars overnight.
7:09 a.m.
Coffee in hand, towel around his waist, Clive is in the kitchen staring at the note Danish Blue left on the counter weighed down by a corkscrew. No words, just ten digits. The idea that Clive would ever telephone this person, the confidence of it! Swanning about in that lamentable henley, not at gunpoint, no one forced him. The man went to a shop and selected it. Deliberately! Sorted through piles of presumably acceptable shirts to land on that faux-faded red ribbed atrocity. Clive crumples the note, bins it. No, it was unforgivable.
Quick slug of coffee, he scrolls recent calls until he reaches Lucy’s number. She’ll be awake by now, wrapped in a towel, spackling on the makeup. A month ago she took it into her head she has acne scars. It’s one of Lucy’s hobbies, finding new things to hate about herself.
—What is it, Clive?
—Don’t be angry… walking down the hall to the bedroom… —I’m calling to apologize.
—Six days later.
—I’m a cunt… in the mirror, proof of last night’s vodka is etched into his face… —Forgive me.
—For what? Do you even know?
—I’m sorry for… massaging the alcohol out of his skin… —Embarrassing you in front of Juan DeSoulas?
—That was nothing but sabotage.
Lucy must be well into her second coffee. Her words dart out in little jabs.
—I had, a minute earlier, confessed I was dying to work for him. That’s why we were there! Why did I bring you? I should’ve known.
—But the work, you know his work is dreadful. I was saving you—
—You’re the one who, the Times gushed about him a week ago, the whole show is sold out, okay? Anyway, it doesn’t matter who thinks what, I love what he does and Micky had talked me up… the sound of Lucy pacing… —Micky had made me out to be like the second coming. All I had to do was shake his hand and smile and then you go and.
—The man needs a healthier ego if a fucking stranger can dismantle him.
—For the last six days I’ve been trying to figure out why you would deliberately insult DeSoulas. Why wouldn’t Clive want me to have this job? And then I realized that what you hated, the thing you had to stomp to death, wasn’t the job thing at all. It was before Juan came up to us when we were standing in front of his orange-and-yellow painting—
—To be clear, the Agnes Martin rip-off?
—And I was telling you why I loved it and you were scowling and rolling your eyes. At the time I thought, well that’s Clive and contemporary art, but thinking about it later I realized that your face, it wasn’t your, god I hate this painting look, it was a sour reaction to my excitement. You couldn’t take it. I was too happy. You felt left out or, I don’t know what, but you had to shit all over it. Because that’s what you do. You shit on joy.
—That’s a little much.
—You’re a joy-shitter.
—Killjoy.
—Don’t correct my insults. I’ll hang up.
—So I don’t want you to be happy, that’s the idea?… switching the phone to speaker and placing it on the credenza that stores his sweaters. The Paul McCobb credenza that’s been seared several times by Lucy’s sloppy handling of her water glass.
—As long as I keep it to myself you don’t mind.
—But I’m always doing things to cheer you up. Driving to that gruesome flea market, carrying your silly pots and vases. Massachusetts. I mean, if that’s not love I don’t know what is.
—You can’t bear that I have an easier relationship with the world.
—What have you been reading?
—I’m going to Berlin.
—That’s the title?
—Tonight. I have a ticket. I leave around six.
—Impossible… Clive picks up the phone, switching it off speaker, holding it to his ear… —You can’t afford a flight with six days’ notice.
An awful silence.
—I see. When did you book the ticket?
—A while ago.
He can tell she’s trying to be gentle, and it infuriates him.
—Terry’s taking my apartment for a month.
—Who the fuck’s Terry?
—You met at my, does it matter?
—For an entire month?
—I didn’t buy a return.
Clive pictures slinging the phone against the wall. Or climbing back in bed, curling into a tight fetal ball and not getting up for several weeks.
—So, maybe a month, maybe longer.
—How much longer?
—I don’t know. For good?
—Don’t be obscene… trying to override a rising sense of panic… —For good, really.
—I need to leave New York.
—And this is because of some job? Because of Juan DeSoulas?
—I don’t know. I looked around at the people I spend time with and I realize I sort of hate them all. Find ridiculous what they find important, loathe their kids, or at least, loathe feigning interest in their kids.
—Avoid parents. Problem solved.
—People on the street bug me. They walk in threes, they’re too loud, their ambition is disgraceful. I hate their hair and the way they sneeze. They’re not weird enough or weird in the wrong way. No, no… Lucy’s voice changes, as if she’s taking hold of herself… —It’s more that I feel a complete lack of interest in my own thoughts. Why do I care if Obama’s still smoking? At some point this week I came to understand that I deeply, deeply bore myself.
—And you’re planning to, what, find some magical version of yourself in Germany, of all places?
—I thought I might learn the language.
—God, the clichés are just endless.
—Something has to change. I need a challenge.
—We all need a challenge, and we all hate our friends, and anyone who’s lived in New York for more than five fucking minutes thinks about leaving. The reason we continue seeing our hateful friends and not shoving off and moving to, I don’t know, Coxsackie, is because normal people, sensible people, understand that outside the confines of New York City, other people and other places are even worse.
—Don’t shout.
—I’m not shouting… he stops shouting… —I’m being emphatic.
—What are you so angry about?
—Because I know exactly how this plays out. You, back in a month, unable to conjugate two verbs, lonely, dissolute, nursing a nasty infection you got from dancing on a rusty barge repurposed as a night club. And guess who’ll do the mopping up? Dry your tears and make the right noises as you describe the bore you fell for, the loser ten years your junior who treated you like shit. All because one night you picked up some lowlife as a lark and, immune to all reason, proceeded to let him annihilate you. Just as you did here in New York.
Silence.
In a softer voice… —You’re behaving like some student finding meaning in a pond.
—Well, I’m going, okay? I bought shoes I can walk in and treated myself to an inflatable pillow I’m extremely excited about. Think I care how I appear to you with my naivete and comfortable shoes? I mean, I do care but I’m going anyway. Tonight. Six forty-six.
Suddenly lightheaded, Clive goes to the bed, pulls the duvet straight with one hand, and sits down. He can hear Lucy breathing heavily, taxed by her little speech.
—Clive?
7:19 a.m.
After Ruben left with the last of the granola bars, Benjamin was shoving the empty box into the recycling bin when he noticed that underneath the words OATS AND HONEY was a tiny treacherous addendum. WITH TOASTED COCONUT. He’d been grossly misled. Instead of a helpful photo of palm trees or an actual coconut, the box showed only bundles of oat sheafs floating against a beige background. Benjamin raced to his computer, jack-hammered the words ciconut alldrgy into Google and clicked and scanned until he was sufficiently reassured that allergies to coconut only occasionally result in death.
It was no accident that Benjamin had only a vague command of the ingredients in his cereal bars. He’d made a conscious decision to stop caring about food when he returned to New York from film school. The policy was hatched on the trip back East, in the wilds of Pennsylvania. He was driving, one hand on the wheel, the other messing with the window because the U-Haul’s air-conditioning had shorted out somewhere back in Ohio. “Borderline” was on the radio, a golden-oldies station, one of only two that came in relatively static-free. The sun was shining, Caroline still loved him, they were headed back to the city they adored. It was a wonderful time and, typically, a wonderful time was when Benjamin reviewed the past for confirmation of his repellent personality. As the van shuddered in the wake of passing semis it came to him that for the last two years he’d been grating, dogmatic, and absolute. No one in the film program had any doubt as to which directors Benjamin believed were geniuses and which he thought were overrated. And it was suddenly clear that this unyielding attitude was the reason nobody from school ever wanted to grab a beer or stop by for a can of ribs. A married couple came over from time to time but they clearly preferred Caroline and only tolerated Benjamin because the wife was desperate for a friend and thought the women in the program looked down on her for being pregnant. The revelation of his pig-headedness hit Benjamin as signs for Harrisburg flashed past and by the time he took the exit for crab fries, a solution was in the works. He would choose a couple of areas in which to be easygoing and opinion-free, thereby proving he was exactly as laid-back as the next person. First up: food. Anything that was placed before him, Benjamin decided, he would eat. Happily. Attitude was key. In a matter of months he ate aspic, raw beef, jackfruit duck and a dessert made from celery. He consumed cheese not legal in seventeen states. At a gas station in Trenton last year he ate an extremely suspect egg salad sandwich. This objectionable item was grabbed in a hurry by Caroline from one of those grab-and-go cases that offer rubbery chicken wraps and travel-sized hummus and are never entirely convincing as refrigeratory appliances. Benjamin could not refuse the sandwich, though the egg salad was almost certainly a week old and quite possibly salmonellic. He had committed to a flexibility around food, and he would exercise that flexibility with absolute rigidity. In the end he was only sick for a couple of days, and it was worth it to stick to his principles.
7:23 a.m.
—I know it sounds like I’m trying to change the subject, but I only found out yesterday. Then I fucked someone I found in a cheese shop.
—A broken hip, Clive, that’s serious at your dad’s age. And after fracturing his wrist this summer.
Clive takes the pillow from Danish Blue’s side of the bed, brings it up to his face and smells it.
—You should fly back, help your poor sister.
Sniffing again. Quite a nice scent. He wonders how to milk sympathy without it looking obvious and immediately hates himself.
—He’s in the hospital?
—Rehab unit… Clive drops the pillow, gets up and crosses to the closet.
—Hang up the phone this second and buy a ticket home… Lucy’s voice takes on the strict tone he loves. She’s never more caring than when she becomes bullying and strident… —What if it’s serious?
—Here’s how I look at it—
—I’ll book the ticket.
—Wait.
—Where do you fly into?
—Hear me out… swiping hangers, searching for a shirt, the correct shirt… —My life these days is quite agreeable. I have friends—
—But we’ve already established that you don’t. None you actually care about.
—Unlike you, Luce, I don’t expect to like my friends… selecting a blue-and-white striped… —I’ve got a nice apartment, a number of men and a few women who occasionally throw me a charitable fuck. Job’s not too hellish… gesturing with the hangered shirt… —Why risk all that by visiting my dad? I wouldn’t be surprised if the old man’s waited all this time to drop a bomb of some kind, that he’s got a second family stashed in Luton or that Uncle Snook’s really my father. Then I’ll have to forge on with some disgusting bit of news I was better off never knowing… Clive can hear how he sounds but is powerless to stop.
—Are you trying to be funny? When did you get so, I mean, is this because of Joshua?
—Don’t.
—Because everyone has one relationship—
—I’ll hang up.
—I’m only saying.
—And I’m saying don’t.
—Clive, go home.
—Home?
—Don’t leave it all to Jane. Poor thing.
Clive goes to the window. The building opposite went up last summer. The apartments are astronomically priced with high ceilings and enormous windows. Inside, the residents slink around naked or in slipping-down towels. Rich people love foisting their nudity on innocent bystanders. Clive watches as a man with a furry chest juggles a coffee mug in one hand and under his arm a small squirming dog.
—Could a quick visit really be so awful?
The man sets down his mug, picks up a watering can and tries to simultaneously water a spiky dracaena and nuzzle his dog on the forehead. It’s best not to multitask while naked, Clive has found, especially around sharp objects.
—Clive? I feel like I’m hearing a cry for help.
—But you’re not… only minutes ago in the shower he had in fact screamed the word help.
—Look, I’m hanging up. I hope you’ll go see your dad. Stop by Berlin afterward, that’s where I’ll be reinventing my life.
And Clive is left with the dead air of the ended call. At one point he thought about agreeing to visit his father if Lucy promised to stay. But he was afraid she might find the offer distasteful. And it was, probably. He doesn’t feel qualified anymore to judge correct ways of being.
Yesterday, after Jane phoned with the news of their father’s terrifying plunge (off the kerb and into the street, sending his shopping flying, exposing laxatives to the neighbors, his father the most private of men), before Clive tore into the night sampling cheddar and fucking strangers, he spooned up leftover pho while trying to edit an essay that was overdue by several weeks. As he added then deleted paragraph breaks he kept saying to himself, but Clive, your father. This is your father we’re talking about. Again and again he tried to summon suitable feelings as he hit return. But nothing could shift the block of anthracite behind his ribs. Last night he wanted to feel the way he feels now. Despairing, hopeless, orphaned. It seems very wrong to feel worse about your friend heading off to Germany than your broken father withering away in some grotty National Health gulag. Beginning the slide toward his inevitable end. That seems like crossed wires. As if you’ve fucked up somewhere along the line.
7:30 a.m.
—I don’t know how else to say it, Niko. Food poisoning.
Out by the loading dock, the morning too warm for October, Nikolic can feel his lips moving as he silently parrots Marjorie’s words.
—Shrimp from Sericko’s reception yesterday.
—From the reception?
—Yup, barfing up lungs, hospital, all of it… Marjorie digs in the front pocket of her chef’s coat, drawing out a pack of cigarettes… —Spider and Celeste both called in sick.
—Both Spider and Celeste?
—You’re not an idiot, Niko, are you? Because you’re repeating everything I’m saying and it’s really, the new dishwasher, the hot one, he’s out too… holding a pack of Marlboros to her mouth, Marjorie extracts a cigarette with her teeth, shaking and sparking a plastic lighter while abstractedly offering the pack to Nikolic.
He shakes his head. A steady beeping sound comes from around the corner and the two of them watch a white cube truck appear and start backing down the driveway.
—Pay employees so little they can barely afford groceries, then set out a bunch of free food, the fuck you think’s gonna happen?
—What about Emerson?… Nikolic asks, trying to keep things on track… —Did he get sick?
A second as Marjorie takes a deep drag… —Canned.
—They fired him?
—Wake up, Niko, people are in the hospital. Who else is gonna take the fall?
—Yeah, I guess, but christ, he’s been here forever, I—
—Anyway, the director wants to… a violent inhale… —Keep the Globe open and close West, that means moving staff—
—West?
—from the café over to—
—Wait, why close West?
—To disinfect it?… gripping the cigarette between her teeth, Marjorie hoists her sagging chef pants and folds the waistband over and then over again.
