Transsexuals. Bikers. Investment bankers. In short, the usual Saturday night crowd. We drank. She drank more. She danced on the bar with the other exhibitionists. Flirted with the bartender, a blonde named Erika. I watched. Attractive women all around. I wished I knew how to flirt.
I stood against the wall. I smoked a whole pack of cigarettes.
It was a lot like high school.
Dorita started talking to a muscular guy with a deep tan and a leather jacket. She stood very close to him. He put his hand on her waist, leaned in to whisper something in her ear. His teeth sparkled. She laughed.
Time for me to leave.
I left.
Dorita didn’t seem to notice.
I didn’t mind. I knew that she’d say sorry later. That she’d mean it. That it didn’t matter, in the end.
Outside it had begun to rain. I hailed a cab. The back seat smelled of wet newspapers and stale chewing gum.
At home, the lights were out. I groped my way upstairs. I didn’t want to turn on any lights. Wake Melissa up. Have to deal.
Let Steiglitz deal.
15.
MONDAY MORNING MY TEETH HURT . Why should today be different from any other day? I asked myself. Every day they hurt. I grind them in the night.
Two hours of tossing and grinding hadn’t rested me. I smoothed my suit. I’d slept in it. It would have to do.
I unlocked the pill drawer. Paxil, 30 milligrams, to bring the anxiety down. Wellbutrin, 150 milligrams, to jack the initiative back up. Another 75, slow release, to keep it going. Valium, unprescribed, to take the edge off. Prilosec, 30 milligrams, for the reflux.
None of these had any perceptible effect. It was only when I didn’t take them that I felt it. In spades. Bricks on my shoulders. Pains in my gut. Darkness all over.
Thank God for chemistry. I was a walking talking lab rat, but at least I wasn’t miserable. Well. At least I wasn’t as miserable as I used to be.
I went downstairs. Melissa was on the couch. Face up, mouth open. She looked dead. I was used to that. It was the dry skin, I think, that created the effect. The first few times I’d noticed it, I’d been afraid. I’d woken her up. But it was no longer fear I felt, when I saw her this way. A mild dread, perhaps. Curiosity.
In the kitchen, Kelly was eating breakfast. Scrambled eggs and toast. Maple syrup. Too much of it.
Kelly was my consolation.
I worried about her weight, though. Much more than she did. In fact, she professed not to care. I didn’t believe it. Though knowing Kelly, I should have. She wasn’t given to mendacity.
She was on the wrestling team. The boys’ team. There was no girls’ wrestling team.
She was very strong. I’d noticed it years before, when she was young. I’d told her so.
You’re so strong, I’d said, it’s amazing.
I knew, as a father will, that it was my remark, so long ago, that had inspired her to test her strength against the boys. I was proud of it. And afraid. Proud that my daughter would think my opinion so important as to manifest it in her life. Afraid at the power I wielded. That I might wield it badly.
Curious to think of the childless few. Their simple lives.
What are you up to today, love? I asked.
Nothing.
It was endemic, this nothing thing. What are you doing? Nothing. What are you thinking? Nothing. What are you reading? Nothing.
Take all these nothings, I said, put them in a big brown bag. What have you got?
Nothing in a bag, she replied, deadpan.
I laughed so hard I dropped the milk.
Jesus Weinstein! said Kelly.
Jesus Weinstein? I asked, grabbing paper towels.
Yes?
What the heck is that?
Mr. Weinstein. He’s my Tech teacher.
I think I knew that. And?
Well, the other day in class he’s writing on the blackboard. He writes down a bunch of stuff. Circuit diagrams and stuff. And thenhe says—You know how his hair is red and sits on top of his head like roadkill?
I remember that. At least, I remember you telling me that.
Well, now it looks like bad-fitting roadkill.
Okay.
And he says, this is your
I stood against the wall. I smoked a whole pack of cigarettes.
It was a lot like high school.
Dorita started talking to a muscular guy with a deep tan and a leather jacket. She stood very close to him. He put his hand on her waist, leaned in to whisper something in her ear. His teeth sparkled. She laughed.
Time for me to leave.
I left.
Dorita didn’t seem to notice.
I didn’t mind. I knew that she’d say sorry later. That she’d mean it. That it didn’t matter, in the end.
Outside it had begun to rain. I hailed a cab. The back seat smelled of wet newspapers and stale chewing gum.
At home, the lights were out. I groped my way upstairs. I didn’t want to turn on any lights. Wake Melissa up. Have to deal.
Let Steiglitz deal.
15.
MONDAY MORNING MY TEETH HURT . Why should today be different from any other day? I asked myself. Every day they hurt. I grind them in the night.
Two hours of tossing and grinding hadn’t rested me. I smoothed my suit. I’d slept in it. It would have to do.
I unlocked the pill drawer. Paxil, 30 milligrams, to bring the anxiety down. Wellbutrin, 150 milligrams, to jack the initiative back up. Another 75, slow release, to keep it going. Valium, unprescribed, to take the edge off. Prilosec, 30 milligrams, for the reflux.
None of these had any perceptible effect. It was only when I didn’t take them that I felt it. In spades. Bricks on my shoulders. Pains in my gut. Darkness all over.
Thank God for chemistry. I was a walking talking lab rat, but at least I wasn’t miserable. Well. At least I wasn’t as miserable as I used to be.
I went downstairs. Melissa was on the couch. Face up, mouth open. She looked dead. I was used to that. It was the dry skin, I think, that created the effect. The first few times I’d noticed it, I’d been afraid. I’d woken her up. But it was no longer fear I felt, when I saw her this way. A mild dread, perhaps. Curiosity.
In the kitchen, Kelly was eating breakfast. Scrambled eggs and toast. Maple syrup. Too much of it.
Kelly was my consolation.
I worried about her weight, though. Much more than she did. In fact, she professed not to care. I didn’t believe it. Though knowing Kelly, I should have. She wasn’t given to mendacity.
She was on the wrestling team. The boys’ team. There was no girls’ wrestling team.
She was very strong. I’d noticed it years before, when she was young. I’d told her so.
You’re so strong, I’d said, it’s amazing.
I knew, as a father will, that it was my remark, so long ago, that had inspired her to test her strength against the boys. I was proud of it. And afraid. Proud that my daughter would think my opinion so important as to manifest it in her life. Afraid at the power I wielded. That I might wield it badly.
Curious to think of the childless few. Their simple lives.
What are you up to today, love? I asked.
Nothing.
It was endemic, this nothing thing. What are you doing? Nothing. What are you thinking? Nothing. What are you reading? Nothing.
Take all these nothings, I said, put them in a big brown bag. What have you got?
Nothing in a bag, she replied, deadpan.
I laughed so hard I dropped the milk.
Jesus Weinstein! said Kelly.
Jesus Weinstein? I asked, grabbing paper towels.
Yes?
What the heck is that?
Mr. Weinstein. He’s my Tech teacher.
I think I knew that. And?
Well, the other day in class he’s writing on the blackboard. He writes down a bunch of stuff. Circuit diagrams and stuff. And thenhe says—You know how his hair is red and sits on top of his head like roadkill?
I remember that. At least, I remember you telling me that.
Well, now it looks like bad-fitting roadkill.
Okay.
And he says, this is your
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