It Feels So Good When I Stop Page 7

  The song cross-faded into a commercial for East Falmouth’s only authorized dealer of Dittler Aquatic machined stainless steel crankshafts, camshafts, and valve lifters.

  “I don’t buy it,” James said.

  “Buy what?” Dogshit was already taking it personally.

  “The whole thing.”

  “What? You think Mel Tormé doesn’t mean it?”

  “I think Mel Tormé means it. You can tell. He’s really putting his dick into the song. It’s the song itself.” They had cigarettes going, like French cafe intellectuals.

  “What’s wrong with the song?” Dogshit asked.

  “It’s supposed to be about love, right?”

  “You think? The word love is in the fucking title.”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Dogshit turned and high-fived me. James started over. “It’s about love, and how it lasts forever and all that shit. Well, maybe, but it’s not all fucking and flowers like the tune says. It’s a grind. It’s a second, low-paying job.” He reloaded. “Mel says he’d break his balls at work all day for the rest of his life just to be able to come home to what’s-her-face—”

  “Monique.”

  “Whatever. Maybe when you first start screwing you feel like that. But that shit goes. Get married and have a kid, Mel. We’ll see how fast you race home after work.” Our eyes met for an instant in the rearview mirror.

  “Okay,” Dogshit said. “But did you ever think—and I don’t mean anything by it . . . I’m just saying . . . did you ever think that maybe what you and Pamela had wasn’t love?”

  “Listen to Mr. Fucking Romance Novel here. I was there, asshole. And for what—two-plus years, maybe—it was love.”

  “Fine.” Dogshit let it go.

  I started thinking about getting Jocelyn pregnant. We were in Ray’s Pizza in SoHo—not for the actual conception, but when we found out. I was so anxious I couldn’t wait until we got back to Brooklyn for her to take the test. She didn’t want to do it in Ray’s Pizza, but I wore her down. She came out of the restroom looking too calm for it to be positive. I honestly thought I was off the hook until she formed a cross with her two index fingers. I made her say the words. Even then I didn’t believe her. Did I want her to go dig the stick out of the trash? You’re goddamn right I did. I grabbed her by the wrist when she got up. She told me to face the facts. I felt condemned to death. I said “Holy shit” about a hundred times. She told me to stop saying that. There was plenty of time to figure it out. Figure it out? What was there to figure out? The paisan behind the counter came over to our table and gave us free slices. Time to figure what out?

  That night Jocelyn was especially worked up, which got me going. She said it was the hormones. She begged me to fuck her without protection. I went at her pretty hard. In my wildest, desperate dreams, I thought I might dislodge whatever it was clinging to the inside of her uterus. I resented her for getting us into this situation, though I was as much to blame, if not more. I made her come twice. I had to look away from her face or I wouldn’t have lasted as long as I did. I pulled out at the last second. Afterward, she mopped herself with my Teenage Fanclub T-shirt. I didn’t care. We fell asleep without talking.

  The next morning she shook me awake. Her face was sapped of some color. She said she’d just miscarried. I sobered up. Was she sure? Definitely. Did she want me to call an ambulance? No, she just wanted to sleep. A drink of water? A cup of coffee? No, just sleep. Another blanket? Please, no more questions. She curled up like a fetal pig on the beige top sheet. I combed her scalp with my fingers. It looked like someone else’s scalp. The sharp edges of the Brooklyn street noise were rounded over some by the apartment walls. Jocelyn drifted off. I sat up in bed, chewing my nails. I didn’t exactly feel like I’d dodged a bullet. It was more like the bullet had passed through me without damaging any vital organs. The next time I might not be so lucky. I wondered how long I’d have to wait before I broke up with her.

  “I’D JUST LIKE IT BETTER,” James said, “if the guy who wrote the song wasn’t trying to put one over me.”

  “You know that’s Cole Porter you’re talking about? ”

  “I don’t care if it’s Peter Fucking Frampton.”

  I CAME IN through the back door. Richie was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the Valley Advocate.

  “Dude,” he said, “guess who’s playing the Metro? ”

  “GodheadSilo? ” I asked excitedly.

  “Even better. Frampton.”

  “Peter Frampton? Get the fuck out of here.”

  “I’m not shitting you. Playing with Bowie must have given him the touring bug.”

  “That is fucking awesome.”

  We absolutely had to go. We were big fans. We had four-tracked an acoustic medley of “Baby, I Love Your Way” into ELO’s “It’s a Living Thing.” We were not being ironic. Richie and I both agreed that irony was for chumps, and that irony in music was the worst kind of irony. That was one of the things that bummed us out most about the Amherst music scene: every time you turned around there was a new band of little Ivy Leaguers with Cinderella or Quiet Riot tunes strategically placed in their über-intellectual math rock sets.

  The first time we played an acoustic open mic night in town, Richie conjured his best Bill Hicks: “Nice fucking irony-on T-shirt,” he said to some dude wearing a new Kiss T-shirt. “There’s absolutely zero room for ironicomic relief in music. ‘Cum On Feel The Noize’ motherfuckers. Come on and suck my ass. Fucking palate cleansers. Fucking melon balls. Fuck off.” He tapped the mic. “Is this thing on? ”

  “Unfortunately,” someone in the lean audience said.

  Richie carried on. “In case you never noticed—which you probably haven’t—this next tune is a great fucking song.” Then we broke into a cover of “Chevy Van” by Sammy Johns.

  “Dude,” Richie said, “Frampton. I’m putting in tomorrow for the night off.”

  “Same here.”

  “Right the fuck on,” he said. We shook hands like Romans, grabbing each other’s forearm.

  “When’s the gig?” I asked.

  “Twenty-seventh. It’s a Thursday.”

  I winced. “This month?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “I can’t go.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t go?”

  “I can’t go. That’s Jocelyn’s birthday.”

  “So what?”

  “So it’s her birthday. I mean, I’m going to have to hang out with her.”

  “You make plans yet?”

  “No, but—”

  “So take her to Tanglewood for the weekend. There’s got to be a Marsalis or some shit like that playing.”

  “She won’t go for that.”

  “Make her go for it. Take her the next weekend, too. This is fucking Frampton.”

  I thought about it. “There’s no way we’re ever going to get another chance to see him, is there?”

  “It’s once in a lifetime.”

  “Fine. Get me a ticket.”

  I KNEW JOCELYN was going to shit a golden brick. We were standing on a footbridge in Prospect Park. The water was a turbid amusement-park green.

  “I did something,” I said. “And I don’t want you to be upset about it.”

  She looked worried. “Well, since you put it that way . . .”

  I told her my plan.

  She was hurt. “But that’s my birthday.”

  “I know, but we can celebrate it early, or late, or both.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Why?” I asked like she was being childish.

  She got a little pissy. “Because it isn’t, that’s why.”

  I dismissed her by acting like I couldn’t relate to such a silly belief. “That’s just”—I shook my head—“Jesus, I don’t know.”

  “It’s a real fucking shame if you can’t understand what’s so fucked up about making plans with your friend on your girlfriend’s birthday.”

  I backpedaled. “Of course I can unders
tand, I just don’t—”

  “Don’t what? Give a shit?”

  Two teenagers were crossing the bridge on skateboards. I was going to wait until they passed before continuing, but Jocelyn couldn’t wait: “You could have at least talked to me about it before making other plans.”

  One kid nudged the other to make certain he wasn’t missing any of the fireworks. They stopped close by and pretended to be looking over the other side of the bridge.

  “You didn’t even think to come and talk to me first. And I’m supposed to be your girlfriend.”

  “And what would you have said if I had asked you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “I do. Believe me.”

  “Don’t be a dick.”

  I changed courses. “Look, this is once in a lifetime.”

  “And what am I? What the fuck am I?”

  “You are, too. But Frampton’s never coming around again. Ever. It’s a big deal.”

  “And I’m not?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “But you’d rather see Peter Frampton with Richie.”

  The skateboard kids were enjoying the show. They were cramping my style. “Can we talk about this at your place?”

  “No. I want to talk about it now.”

  I lowered my voice, but made up for the decrease in volume with a boost in intensity. “Fine. Let’s fucking talk about it right here. If you postponed my birthday celebration—which I don’t even fucking want, by the way—if you postponed my birthday because something like Frampton came up, I wouldn’t have a problem with that. I wouldn’t. I just . . .” I trailed off.

  “Are you finished?”

  “For now.”

  “Fine. First of all, you’re so full of shit about not having a problem with it. And secondly, I do have a problem with it. That alone should be enough of a reason for you.”

  “I’m full of shit? Okay, when my birthday comes around, try me, and see what I say.”

  “I don’t want to try you. I just wanted to spend my birthday with you. I don’t have parents or a sister calling me all the time to tell me how fucking great I am.”

  “And that’s my fault?”

  “No, but—”

  “You make it sound like it is.”

  “It’s your fault when you treat me like I’m someone you’re just fucking. I mean, you didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go.”

  “To Frampton?”

  “Yes, to Frampton.”

  “And you’d go?”

  “Not with you and Richie.”

  “Why? It’s not like we have to stand with him.”

  “Oh, yeah, right. What are you going to do, tell him to keep away from us?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a great idea. Then he’ll think I’m a royal fucking bitch.”

  “Well, what’s he going to think when I go back and tell him to sell my ticket because I can’t go?”

  She gave me a look like she genuinely hated me. “He’ll think whatever you tell him.”

  “You know what? Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “This.”

  DOGSHIT’S GIRLFRIEND, CARRIE, was a clinician’s assistant at an HMO in Cotuit. On Wednesdays she didn’t leave for work until half past one.

  “Swing me by hers after lunch, Jimmy,” Dogshit said while shaking a bottle of hot sauce. “She said if she’s still there, she’ll give me a quick smoker.”

  “What about work?” James had a mouth full of egg salad sandwich.

  “What about it?” Dogshit pointed the hot sauce at me. “You have to take him home, right?”

  “So.”

  “So you’ll be going right by her place in both friggin’ directions. Zip-zip.”

  “And how fucking long do you think it’s going to take for me to drop him off?”

  “Long enough. Trust me. I got chowder backed up to here.” Dogshit touched an imaginary waterline on his forehead.

  James stopped chewing. “Please. I’m trying to eat here. I don’t need to picture that.”

  Dogshit laughed. “What can I say? I’ve been in dry-dock for a week.”

  “Okay, so you pop in three seconds. Aren’t you going to have to pay her back?”

  “Not this time. I gots me a credit.” Dogshit stuck out his fat tongue. It looked like an inverted seal hide curing in a cave of petrified guano. James took a bite of sandwich. “I swear to Christ, if you’re not waiting for me in the driveway, I’m going right by. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Don’t you worry. I’ll be the sleepy one with the shit-eating grin.”

  “What the fuck else is new?”

  Even Dogshit laughed.

  CARRIE’S WHITE CHEVY Citation was parked in the driveway.

  “Game on,” Dogshit said. He stuck his hand in his pants. “Do I need a whore’s bath first?” He raised the hand to James’s face. James swatted it away.

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  We jettisoned Dogshit without coming to a complete stop. He flipped us the bird. I climbed into the front seat. James sighed. “At least someone’s getting laid,” He merged back onto Plymouth Street. He was flummoxed. “What I don’t understand is how can someone like Carrie, who’s so . . .”

  “Normal?”

  “And Dogshit’s so . . . whatever, man.”

  “Someone for everyone, right?”

  “At least for a little while.”

  James turned on the radio. A station I.D. segued into “That’s How I Got to Memphis” by Tom T. Hall. I liked that song, but James groaned and turned the radio off without scanning for anything better. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about what I was saying earlier.” He could have been referencing any number of things.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The stuff about the Mel Tormé tune.”

  “Right.”

  “I mean, Pamela’s your sister and everything. And just because she and me got shit-canned, well, that doesn’t mean, I don’t know. I just don’t want you to think I think she’s a total bitch. She can act like one—they all can—but she’s not one. You know what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “It just didn’t work out with us. That’s all. And we’re better off for killing it when we did instead of hanging around watching it rot. You follow me?”

  “I can tell you don’t hate each other.”

  “Hate? Jesus Christ. She’s my only kid’s mother. I’ll always love her.” I could feel him looking over at me, but I didn’t face him. “And as far as Roy goes, shit. The little bastard runs me ragged, but I couldn’t imagine the life I’d have without him. Just because I bitch a lot doesn’t mean shit. The toughest thing about splitting up is not seeing Roy every day.”

  “But you get him half the week?”

  “It’s not enough. You think I like letting you watch him?” I was touched. It was like James had stripped out of his asshole suit right before my eyes. “I’d take a kid over a wife any day of the week,” he said. “It’s fucked up, I know. But having a kid changes you like that. You’ll see.”

  “The fuck I will.”

  “What? You think you’re never going to want a kid?”

  “Never.”

  “We’ll see. You’re still young.” He let it go at that.

  “I got Jocelyn pregnant. That’s as close as I ever want to get.”

  “She’s not still pregnant, is she? Is that why you got married?”

  “God, no.” I told him the whole story.

  “And she definitely didn’t want it?”

  “She said she didn’t, but it was over so fast. Who knows if she would have changed her mind?”

  “I did. I didn’t want Roy at first, either.”

  “No?”

  “Fuck no. But people change.” Hearing that made me feel worse. James was insane over Roy.

  “Maybe I would have changed. I just know there’s no way
I could have handled having a kid.”

  James thought about it. “I guess if both people don’t want to have the kid, miscarriage is the way to go.”

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  “It’s like having an abortion without having to have an abortion.”

  I shuddered. “I can’t even imagine what going through that would have been like.”

  “It’s a fucking nightmare. I’ve been through a couple of them.”

  “A couple?”

  “Well, one, really. The second time, so help me God, we were pulling into the clinic lot—right into the spot they reserve for you—and she tells me she made the whole thing up. Just like that. ‘I made the whole thing up.’ ”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Oh, no. I’m dead serious.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Not your sister.”

  That was good to know. “God, you must have been floored.”

  “I didn’t make me feel too good.” He rolled his window down a crack. “After the first abortion I didn’t doubt her when she said she was pregnant again.”

  “Same person? ”

  “Correct.”

  “Why’d she do it?”

  “To get back at me.”

  “For what?”

  “For fucking around on her with your sister.” I knew Pamela and James’s relationship was the surviving line segment of a love triangle, but as I’d understood it, Pamela had been there first. “It’s was a shit maneuver, when you think about it,” James said. “Her pretending she was pregnant.”

  THE BOURNE BRIDGE was ten miles away from East Falmouth. I wasn’t going to do anything stupid when I got there. I just wanted to stand on it and think and watch the canal slide out to sea. Maybe get whacked by an epiphany. You always hear stories like that. Some successful yet empty-hearted commodities broker decides to give it all up and sculpt full-time while witnessing the sun sinking beyond the Grand Canyon. If something like that happened to me, or if some angel-in-training came down to guide me, like in It’s a Wonderful Life, so be it.