It Feels So Good When I Stop Page 13

  “Fucking hippies,” Jocelyn said, tapping into her mean streak. “Free Leonard Peltier, my fucking ass. These are the same assholes with No Blood for Oil bumper stickers.”

  “So?” I didn’t particularly like hippies, but I didn’t particularly hate them, either. Mostly they were invisible to me.

  “So? So doesn’t the bumper of a fucking Volvo seem like an odd place for that sentiment?”

  “It’s not like they’re actually hurting anybody.”

  “What do you mean? That’s exactly what they’re doing. It makes me sick.” She was getting heated up. I knew how little it would take for her to turn that heat directly on me.

  “Hey,” I said. “Guess who bought new sheets?”

  “WHAT KIND OF film are we talking about?” I asked Marie.

  “A documentary.”

  “Oh.”

  She laughed. “You seem disappointed. What did you think I meant, porn?”

  “No.”

  Marie was loosening up. How loose remained to be seen. The waiter took his time placing two fresh drinks near the hub of the table. He was eavesdropping. I waited until he was gone before I spoke.

  “I don’t know if I have the head for any kind of work right now,” I said. “I’m in the middle of some heavy personal stuff.”

  “Who isn’t? ”

  “I don’t know. Lots of people?”

  “I’ve never met any of them.” Marie got to work on the new drink. “I’m not going to try too hard to convince you of what you’re up for. You know better than anyone.”

  “What’s the movie about? Cape Cod surf culture and tattoos? Shit like that?”

  Marie’s eyes were the color of a drunk-friendly Jack and Coke. Two lovely crow’s-feet appeared at their corners when she smiled. “It’s about my son. He drowned four years ago.”

  JOCELYN WAS IN the bathroom, caulking the edges around her diaphragm with spermicidal jelly. We had an understanding that her inserting it in front of me would have had the opposite effect of a good Degas painting of a peasant woman washing herself. Nothing like a lot of real-life bending, reaching, and determined lower-lip biting to empty the sails of all wind.

  “What a pain in the fucking balls,” she said, climbing into bed. “I should go back on the pill.”

  “Why don’t you? Seems like it would be a lot easier.”

  She got annoyed with me, like going back on the pill was my callous and uninformed idea. “Because the pill fucks up your body. That’s why. They don’t even know what it does to you long-term. I might never be able to get pregnant.”

  “So?”

  She gave me a dirty look.

  “Fine,” I said. “Let’s keep doing what we’re doing.”

  Jocelyn rolled onto her back in a huff and slapped the comforter with both hands. “Because I don’t want to get pregnant now.”

  I went cold. “Did something go wrong in there?”

  “No. Not any more than usual. It’s not like I can stick my head up my twat to check the fit.”

  “I can go back to wearing a rubber, too, if that makes you feel any better.”

  She pooh-poohed that idea like I was, for the umpteenth time, overlooking the obvious. “I can’t feel anything with a condom. I have to be able to feel you. You, not an inner tube—or it doesn’t work for me.”

  I could have put on three rubbers after a dip in hot paraffin and still would have been able to bust a quality nut. I moved into the fetal position and faced her side. “I know,” I said. “It’s a drag for me, too, if I can’t feel you.”

  “GOD, THAT’S really horrible,” I said.

  “The worst,” Marie said.

  “How old was he?”

  “Almost three.”

  “What was his name?” I instantly felt bad for referring to her son in the past tense.

  “Sidney. After my father.”

  “Man, that sucks.”

  Marie took a drag off her smoke and blew extra hard at the ceiling. She ground the butt to death in an ashtray fashioned after a ship’s steering wheel.

  I searched the compost of my past. No one really close to me had died. “My ex had a miscarriage.”

  Marie winced. “That’s so sad.”

  “It was a lot harder on her than it was on me, to be honest.”

  “It’s hard on everyone. Was she far along?”

  “Not at all.” I said it a little too easy-come-easy-go.

  Marie thought I was trying to appear strong. “You shouldn’t downplay your feelings. It’s still devastating.”

  “It’s nowhere near as bad as what you went through.”

  She couldn’t bring herself to disagree with that. She treaded lightly. “Is that why it didn’t work out with you and—”

  “Jocelyn.”

  “Is that why?”

  “Not exactly, but it didn’t help, you know?”

  Marie shook her head. She knew. But what she knew and what I knew were like apples and orangutans. “Were you guys married?” she asked.

  “Mm.”

  “How long?”

  “We were together for about three years.”

  “After Sidney died, Jason and I tried to hang on.” She stared into her drink as she stirred.

  “That sucks. How long’s it been since you guys split up?”

  “Two years ago July.”

  “What happened?”

  “What do you mean, what happened?” I think she was having second thoughts about me.

  “I mean, did it just—” I was going to say “die.” “Did you stop loving each other?”

  “No, but if we had a hundred years we wouldn’t have been able to work back to zero.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to dig stuff up.”

  “You didn’t. And anyway, I’d better be able to dig stuff up, right? Or this film is going to suck.” She laughed like she’d just cracked a joke from her hospice bed. “Hey, at least I don’t feel like killing myself anymore.”

  “That’s good.”

  She scared me.

  I HAD A terrifying flash of Roy falling off the back of a boat and flailing in the ocean during his last minute of life. I shook my head like it was an Etch A Sketch I was trying to erase. In reality, Roy was kicking up a storm in the car seat because he didn’t want to leave me.

  “More, more, more,” he cried. It sounded like “Moe, moe, moe.”

  “It’s okay, pal,” I said through the driver’s-side window. I’d walked James and Roy to the car without first putting on a coat. “You’ll be back on Friday.”

  James corrected me. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow and Friday.”

  Two pinecones flammed against the hood of the Suburban like sparrows in a suicide pact.

  “What time tomorrow?”

  “Regular time, why?”

  “I kind of have to be somewhere at eleven.”

  “Where?”

  “I might have a job.”

  “You’re shitting me? ”

  “No I’m not.”

  “Sonovabitch.” James said. “Doing fucking what? ”

  “I don’t want to say yet because I’m not sure if I have it, or if I even want it.”

  “Fucking fuck.” He glanced in the rearview mirror to confirm that, yes, Roy existed. James was like a billion-dollar enterprise jeopardized by the failure of the three-dollar part. “Well, I hope you don’t get the job.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry, but if you can’t watch the kid, I’m screwed. For real.”

  “I’ll still watch Roy for you. It’s only for a couple weeks, part-time.”

  “Is it close by? Can you tell me that much or is that some big fucking secret, too?”

  “Yes, very close by.”

  “Hmm,” he said, trying to reconcile numbers in his head.

  “I swear, James, if the job starts to get in the way—”

  “You’re watching someone else’s kid for money, aren’t you?”

  “Are you out of your mind? Look at me.
I can barely keep myself clean.”

  He wasn’t completely convinced.

  “Dude,” I said. “Me having a job is not going to be a problem. I give you my word.”

  “Well, I still hope you don’t get it. These kind of things never go smooth.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Well, they don’t.”

  “I’ll see you later. I’m freezing.” I gave Roy two thumbs up, and started for the house.

  “But what about tomorrow?”

  I took a few more steps. I felt like sticking it to him a little bit. “What about it?”

  “We on or what?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I thought we were on.”

  “We’re still on.”

  “And don’t forget, tonight’s trash night.”

  THAT NIGHT I collected my garbage. It all fit easily into a white plastic convenience-store bag that said Thank You three times in red.

  “No, thank you. Really, I appreciate it.” I tied a knot in the package. It looked like Johnny Appleseed’s do-rag luggage. I should have been wearing a fucking pot on my head as I ran across the front lawn in my bare feet. The grass felt wet, but it was only cold. I put the bag at the curb. It looked like a widower’s trash.

  I went back inside and smoked in my bedroll. Marie had told me she was making the film of Sidney because every day she forgot more and more about him. I didn’t know how making a movie was going to stop her from forgetting.

  The next morning I looked out the window to see if my trash had been taken away.

  Fuck me. I was becoming part of the order of things.

  I BIKED OVER to Spunt’s because I’d just wiped my ass with a coffee filter James had been using as a makeshift container for trim nails. It was a pleasant ride. Either I was creeping toward improved physical fitness or the bike was.

  “Hey, Pay Phone,” the kid with the pomegranate head said.

  “Hey, Spunt.”

  He laughed like a three-year-old who thinks you think his name really is Tiger or Kiddo. “I’m no Spunt,” he said.

  “You sure look like one.” I was in a good mood. I made myself a Coke Slurpee, then started tossing shit into a basket.

  “Pay Phone, know what rhymes with Spunt? ”

  “I think so,” I said over the Frito-Lay rack.

  “Runt.” He laughed. “Guess what else?”

  “Well,” I looked around. I couldn’t resist. “There’s cunt.”

  “That’s what I was going to say.” He cracked up. “Cunt rhymes with Spunt.”

  I heard a toilet flush. Tommy the cop walked out of the bathroom wearing street clothes, holding an Auto Trader magazine. He was a good cop. He made me instantly.

  “Hey, hey, hey. It’s the bike nut.”

  “Only on the side roads,” I added.

  “That’s what we like to hear.” Spunt had the hiccups from laughing. “What I miss?” Tommy asked as he put the magazine back on the rack. “Must have been a good one.”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “This guy”—Spunt pointed to me—“this is a funny guy.”

  “Funny’s good. Everybody likes a funny guy.” Tommy grabbed two rival microwave burritos—one in each hand—and compared their weights. He flipped the loser back in the refrigerated case.

  “Hey, Tommy?” Spunt broke into a football fight song: “Let’s go Titans. Right? ”

  “I hear that, Ricky.” Tommy opened the microwave door. It looked like a cat puked in it. “Big game Saturday.” He pressed the start button and turned to me. “You going?”

  “Where?”

  “East Falmouth-Barnstable game.”

  “Hockey?”

  “No,” he whinnied. “Football.”

  “Yeah, I’m not much of a sports fan.” I liked baseball and hockey, but only at the pro level. I’d rather watch two rutting bucks fight over a salt lick than a high school sport.

  “Celts, Sox, Bs, Pats,” Ricky raised a finger for each of Boston’s major sports teams. “They are all awesome.”

  “Preview of the Cape Cod Conference Finals, you know,” Tommy said, trying to sweeten the deal for me.

  “Tommy, you see Bourque’s goal last night?”

  “Eff yeah, I did.” Tommy turned back to me. “You’ll be missing a primo game.”

  “Where’s it at?” I asked.

  “East Falmouth High. Less than a click from here.” Tommy pointed out the window, as if East Falmouth High School were right there on the other side of his yellow Datsun B210 pickup.

  “I don’t know,” I said, and took a pull off my Slurpee. “Maybe I’ll check it out.”

  “We got this kid,” Tommy said, “Whitman, a running back. Can move the football. Runs like, whew.” He slapped his hands together and sent the top one off like a shot. “Full boat to Notre Dame.”

  “Full boat,” I said. “Good for him.” I pictured this Whitman kid ten years down the road, divorced, two kids, installing urinating cherubs in the backyards of tacky Cape Cod Guinzos.

  Tommy checked on his burrito, then keyed in some more time. “Deserves it, too. He’s a good kid.” He lowered his voice. “Black kid. Couple of them on the team. He’s by far the best one. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t care if he’s green.”

  “Tommy, Bird would have been the best ever—better than Dr. J and Magic—if it wasn’t for his back, wouldn’t he?”

  “Not would have been.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tommy spelled it out for him. “Larry is the best of all time.”

  “I knew it,” Ricky said. He could now scuttle off and settle a dispute. “What about the parade after they beat the Sixers?” Ricky asked. “Moses eats Bird shit,” he chanted. “Moses eats Bird shit.”

  The microwave sounded. Tommy checked his burrito. “You got to do something about this oven.” He went to straighten his cop utility belt, but he was wearing fleece sweats. They were maroon with gold piping. They looked so comfortable.

  MARIE’S LIVING ROOM was almost as spartan as my sister’s, but elegant. The floor was blond, satin-finished hardwood. The walls were yellow. There were two chrome-framed lounge chairs with painted pony-hide seats, backs, and sides. They were worth more than me. They faced each other, separated by a brass floor lamp with a green glass shade and a coffee table that had been an oxblood touring wardrobe in a previous life. That was it for furniture.

  “Mind taking your shoes off? ” Marie was wearing a white long-sleeve T-shirt. The frayed ends of her Levi’s brushed the tops of her bare feet. Her toenails were purple. I set my shoes down next to her purple Doc Martens boots on a woven palm-frond doormat. I was embarrassed because my feet smelled.

  “I used to have a pair of mustard-yellow Hush Puppies loafers that made my feet reek,” Marie said.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be. I wasn’t. They were my favorite shoes. I wore them all the time anyway until my husband threw them out.”

  I changed the subject. “This is a beautiful room,” I said, like I’d never seen it before.

  “It’s not bad.” She looked around. “I think I’m going to be ready to sell soon.”

  “Is this your house?”

  “Mm.”

  “I’ll never own a house. I just know it. I’ve never even owned a used car.”

  “You’d be surprised how fast things can fall into place. Out of place, too.”

  “Out of place I can relate to.”

  “One week I’m renting a slummy apartment in Central Square, next week I inherit a house on the Cape.”

  “That’s pretty cool.”

  “I’d rather have my mother back.”

  I COULDN’T STOP singing the line “What’s so bad about dying?” from the Plush tune “Found a Little Baby.” It was driving Jocelyn crazy.

  “Thanks,” she said, without looking up from her Harper’s. “I used to like that song.”

  “Sorry.” I clammed up for about thirty seconds and resumed s
peed-reading Emerson’s complete works from a cinder-block-sized Norton Anthology of American Literature open on my kitchen table.

  I skipped right over Emerson and many like him when I was in college. I didn’t want to go to grad school, but it was still a more appealing option than getting a job selling IRAs over the phone for Fidelity or hawking cases of fluoride treatment kits to dentists.

  “What’s so bad about dying?”

  “Okay, I mean it now,” she said sternly. “You really have to stop that.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Try and help it.”

  I gave Emerson another go. He was making me sleepy. The GRE was the next morning at eight. I’d decided at the last minute to take it. I was cramming. It felt like not-so-old times.

  I was applying to UMass and UMass only because I had some suck there with an English professor named Sanbourne. He was a middle-aged, brooding dude made of knotty pine and crooked teeth. He was the kind of guy you could easily picture cursing into John Berryman’s The Dream Songs, getting shitfaced alone in a cabin after digging a new sump.

  “What kind of suck?” Jocelyn asked, like I was full of shit.

  “He told me I should apply.”

  “Just like that? ‘You should apply’?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Hmm.”

  This was the extent of my suck: One morning before class a couple of us were smoking outside Bartlett Hall. Sanbourne didn’t just bum a smoke. He bummed a brand. I gave him a Winston. Before flicking my Bic, he pointed it at me and said I should think about grad school.

  “You’ll see,” Jocelyn said. “You will loathe grad school.” She was trying to sound like she’d given up long ago on trying to talk me out of it.

  “We’ll see.” I began to sing the melody—sans lyrics—to the Plush tune.