Charmed Thirds

  And I said, “Okay.”

  And she said, “He's going to come back and track mud all over the floor.”

  And I said, “Probably.”

  And she left, leaving a mist of Chanel No. 5 in her wake.

  5 DOWN: OUR FRANK

  Not two minutes later, my father came in, still wearing his bike helmet, smearing muddy footprints all over the floor.

  “Have you seen your mother?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “She wants you to put out the Christmas tree.”

  “It doesn't need to go out until tomorrow,” he said. “Did she buy my deodorant?”

  “I don't know,” I said. “But she did say something about how you track mud all over the floor, so you should probably clean it up.”

  He shot a derisive look at the floor before grabbing a paper towel and rubbing the dirt into the ceramic tile.

  “If you see her, tell her I need my deodorant. She never remembers to buy my deodorant.”

  And then he went into his office and shut the door.

  41 ACROSS: HOW SOON IS NOW?

  Later, in two separate incidents, my mother congratulated herself for knowing that my father would muddy up the floor, and my father congratulated himself for knowing that my mother would forget to buy his deodorant. This is what thirty-two years of marriage gets you: the utter satisfaction of predicting precisely how your life mate will annoy the hell out of you.

  I can't imagine that they were always this way with each other, bickering about recycled Christmas trees and Right Guard—and through a proxy, no less. They should be arguing about more important things, like how it was completely certifiable of my mother to design a bedroom for the dead baby boy she never got to see grow up, or how it was almost equally certifiable that my dad didn't even know she had done it until I showed it to him, because he's off riding his bikes for hours and then holes himself up in his office “working” whenever he's home.

  I'm sure that in their youth they felt as passionate toward each other as Marcus and I do. (Did? What tense are we in?)

  So my point is this: Whether on the way to the altar or after, all relationships are doomed.

  And yet . . .

  3 ACROSS: PANIC

  46 DOWN: GIRL AFRAID

  10 ACROSS: WILL NEVER MARRY

  40 ACROSS: WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE?

  17 DOWN: LAST NIGHT I DREAMT THAT SOMEBODY LOVED ME

  47 ACROSS: NOW MY HEART IS FULL

  34 ACROSS: THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT

  8 DOWN: THE MORE YOU IGNORE ME, THE CLOSER I GET

  12 DOWN: THIS CHARMING MAN

  2 ACROSS: THE BOY WITH THE THORN IN HIS SIDE

  6 ACROSS: FOUND, FOUND, FOUND

  22 ACROSS: DISAPPOINTED

  9 DOWN: HEAVEN KNOWS I'M MISERABLE NOW

  1 DOWN: PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE (LET ME GET WHAT I WANT)

  the fifteenth

  A Final Conversation

  Me: I wasn't sure if I'd see you before I left.

  Marcus: I wouldn't let you go without saying good-bye.

  Me: When I didn't hear from you, I thought the worst.

  Marcus: I needed time away to think.

  Me: I'm so sorry, Marcus. You have no idea . . .

  Marcus: You did what you wanted to do.

  Me: But I didn't really . . .

  Marcus: Part of you must have, or you wouldn't have done it.

  Me: But . . .

  Marcus: I didn't come here to make you feel bad about what happened.

  Me: You're breaking up with me.

  Marcus: I'm not breaking up with you.

  Me: You're not?

  Marcus: No.

  Me: But . . .

  Marcus: Please.

  Me: Okay.

  Marcus: We didn't talk much last semester. And now that I know it was because you thought you were pregnant, and were worried that it would change our relationship, as it ineluctably would, I don't blame you for your distance.

  Me: But . . .

  Marcus: The Buddhists believe that desiring begets suffering. That every pleasure itself consists as a continual striving that ends as soon as it's reached. I've spent my whole life craving something. Attention. The next high. Girls in general. Then one girl in particular.

  Me: Me?

  Marcus: Yes, you. But none of it has helped me feel truly at peace. Not even my love for you, which is as pure and real and true as anything I've ever known.

  Me: But what does this have to do with . . . ?

  Marcus: I was at unrest because I knew, deep down, that love, though a beautiful beginning, isn't enough. It's the practice of honoring and caring for another that's noble, not the emotion of love itself. The emotion is the easy part.

  Me: . . .

  Marcus: But how could I honor the responsibilities that come with being in a genuine love relationship? The sort of responsibilities your pregnancy scare brought to the fore for you. How could I try to understand your needs if I'm still a mystery to myself?

  Me: . . .

  Marcus: Throughout the period when I wasn't talking to you, I found that I could go days without talking to anyone. And I realized that when I didn't talk, I became a much better listener, both when it came to other people and myself.

  Me: . . .

  Marcus: And so I've decided to embark on a silent meditation.

  Me: A silent meditation? Marcus? What?

  Marcus: It's not that complicated, Jessica. I'm just going to shut up for a while.

  Me: Are you not talking to me or not talking to everyone?

  Marcus: Everyone. Including you.

  Me: Starting when? For how long?

  Marcus: Tonight. After we say good-bye.

  Me: For how long?

  Marcus: I don't know yet. I don't want to put a limit on it before I even begin.

  Me: Do you have an idea?

  Marcus: At least a month. Or two. Maybe more.

  Me: Is this because of what I told you the other night?

  Marcus: Maybe. Yes. No. Neither. Both.

  Me: Well, that certainly clears things up.

  Marcus: See what I mean? Words make a mess of things.

  Me: So do actions . . .

  Marcus: Yes, they do, too.

  Me: I really didn't mean to hurt you . . .

  Marcus: There's something else. I've volunteered for Gakkai's World Without Web project. The concept is quite simple, really: to disconnect with the Internet and reconnect with real life. I'll be offline once classes start on January 20.

  Me: So I can't talk to you or e-mail you.

  Marcus: We can write letters . . .

  Me: I don't want to write letters! I'm already tired of writing letters to Hope. Now I have to write to you, too?

  Marcus: Then don't.

  Me: Why don't you just break up with me?

  Marcus: Because breaking up with you sounds so permanent.

  Me: How can you be with someone when you don't see or hear from that person for months at a time? How is that a relationship?

  Marcus: Our relationship is what we let it be.

  Me: I am so sick of your Buddhist wisdom! It's bumper-sticker wisdom! T-shirt wisdom! My thoughts create my world. I'm so tired of being scrutinized though your goddamn third eye.

  Marcus: I'm sorry you feel that way.

  Me: You've changed.

  Marcus: Maybe I have. I don't expect you to understand why this is so important to me. Just the idea of it helps me feel more centered and focused. For the first time in my life, I see a future where I won't need anything—T-shirts, getting high, having sex—to define who I am.

  Me: You won't need me, either.

  [Pause.]

  Marcus: I still love you, Jessica.

  Me: I . . .

  Marcus: . . . ?

  Me: Nothing. I . . . nothing. It's my turn to shut my mouth.

  [I take off the middle-finger ring and thrust it at Marcus. He takes it and puts it in his pocket. We go our separate, silent ways.]
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  The End

  * * *

  June 1st

  Dear Hope,

  You haven't been the only one to point out how my impatience with the human race might get in the way of my job as a shrink. I have to learn how to be a better listener. I'm usually too busy planning what I'll say next to focus on the person I'm supposed to be listening to. I would argue that this is because most people are boring, but my faculty adviser says that's a pretty narcissistic point of view.

  So that's why I'm working for Columbia's Storytelling Project this summer. It's an interdisciplinary study of historical narratives. Basically, I'm being paid to sit in the park all summer with a sign that says TELL ME A STORY. When a freak takes the bait, I videotape him/her telling me whatever he/she wants to tell me. Among other things, the Psychology Department will review the tapes to analyze the storytellers' gestures and facial expressions to see if there is a “universal unspoken language.” I'm just psyched that my fellowship covers my room and board for the summer and I didn't have to move in with Bethany again. Or go home. I don't know which would be worse.

  Of course, none of this is as exciting as a summer in France studying at l'École des Beaux-Arts de Saint-Étienne. Les voyages forment la jeunesse, non? The way I see it, this experience will not only improve your own global outlook, but it might even boost our entire nation's approval ratings abroad. I mean, if there's anyone who can improve the Gallic opinion of Americans, it's you. Maybe you'll realize that the French have every right to believe that we are a nation of idiotic imperialist pigs, chuck your U.S. passport, and become an expatriate.

  Speaking of ugly Americans, when you consider how much I dislike most people and how I cringe at small talk, you can see why this will be the hardest six dollars an hour I am ever likely to earn.

  Empathetically yours,

  J.

  the second

  I was rereading the postcard that I received in the mailbox today, the second of its kind. I've pinned these messages to the wall of my otherwise unadorned dorm room. I haven't had time to unpack my stuff for the summer, yet I've had ample opportunity to obsess over his minimalist missives. It's a matter of priorities, you see.

  This is somewhat healthier than my other hobby: Google stalking. This is something everyone does but no one owns up to because it's just so pathetic. And yet, I can't stop. Every night before I go to sleep, I plug “Marcus Flutie” into the browser and pray that a new result will pop up. Unlike “Jessica Darling,” “Marcus Flutie” is alone in the Googleverse, and is therefore easy to track down, or would be, that is, if there were anything to track. (Note to anyone who wants to Google stalk me: Use the advanced option, and remove the word anal from your search.) He's got five listings, and three of them refer to his participation on Gakkai's Frisbee Golf Intramurals Squad. Another is from the Gakkai College's campus newspaper, the Mahayana Weekly, in a story about some baby fowl that were ducknapped from a petting zoo. (“All unhappiness stems from desire,” says Marcus Flutie, twenty, a first-year student. “These thieves must be miserable.”) And finally, the last listing, the most telling and most frustrating, the one I often fixate on for hours at a time, is from a mercifully short-lived blog called freetobeme.com written by none other than Butterfly the Nuddhist. A simple caption (“The infamous Marcus Flutie. ZZZZZZZ. 2–18–03.”) beneath a blurry, too-close photo of Marcus's face, unself-consciously crumpled up in a deep, deep slumber. Such a little thing, this photo, this caption, and yet it alone has inspired so many sleepless nights of tortured inquiry. (Why is he “the infamous” Marcus Flutie? I know why he's notorious around Pineville, but what had he done at Gakkai to earn such a distinction? Or was Butterfly being glib? And why was Butterfly there while he was sleeping? Had she just woken up herself? Had they been sleeping on that couch together . . . ? Etc., etc., etc.) I'm lucky that there are so few paths to search, otherwise I could find myself in an endless labyrinth of links, all yielding more questions than answers. As it is, I find myself poring over these same five listings, over and over and over again until I feel dirty and ashamed, as if I'd spent the whole night jacking off to porn, which, in a way, this has become for me. And yet I can't stop doing it. I compulsively type his name, hoping for a new connection to something, anything related to “Marcus Flutie” because even the most inane tidbit of information would be more than I already have.

  Which, I know, will never be enough.

  I imagine that I wouldn't be driven to such desperate measures if Marcus had written me letters like he said he would. Instead, he wrote postcards. The first was an old-fashioned black-and-white picture of a medical eye chart, postmarked February 22 from Nuevo Viejo, California:

  Jessica—

  I

  —Marcus

  That's it.

  Was it a roman numeral one, to signify the first in a series? Or a lowercase L to stand for . . . oh, any number of words that start with L like in that “La La La” song sung by Bert and Ernie? Lightbulb? Lemon drop? Linoleum?

  Or . . . love?

  Nope. It's none of these. Because it's a capital I, as indicated by the homonymal hint on the front of the card. By “I” was he referring to himself, as the writer of the card? Or was I to read it aloud, so the message refers to the first person “I” as in me?

  All this conjecture, you see, is exactly what he, being the Game Master, wants.

  Today's postcard is a color photograph of the sky illuminated by stars, postmarked May 31 from Nuevo Viejo, California. The message was more straightforward, yet still indecipherable.

  Jessica—

  WISH

  —Marcus

  I WISH, I WISH, I WISH . . . You know those magic photos that look like a blobby nothing, then you stare at it until your eyes cross and suddenly a dinosaur or whatever pops up and reveals itself and you can't believe you didn't see it right away? That's how I felt when I read this word, instantly realizing that these weren't one-word messages Marcus was sending me, but part of a larger message that he wanted to reveal bit by bit over time.

  I WISH . . .

  I WISH I KNEW WHAT THE HELL HE WANTED.

  “He wants me to know that he's thinking of me, but he doesn't want me to know what he's thinking.” I was sounding more and more like someone you'd cross the street to avoid. Meanwhile, my friend Dexy was rummaging through the piles of un-put-away clothes on my floor, humming a tune as inscrutable as Marcus's postcards. She was in a key that Philip Glass wouldn't even think to invent, like Q minor.

  “Am I supposed to use these as mantras for Buddhist meditation or something?”

  Dexy held a note. F bumpy.

  “At least I know he's out there somewhere.”

  Dexy stopped humming and started singing. “Somewhere out there, beneath the pale moonlight!”

  Dexy has lyrics for every occasion. She is a very enthusiastic singer. This is unfortunate because she is also a very terrible singer, which, coming from me, is saying a lot about her lack of musicianship. So, so, so painful are the sounds that assault us from the depths of musical hell, which, apparently, has a studio located directly inside Dexy's voicebox. She makes ears bleed, and yet she just loves to sing, and so she sings loudly and often and one day hopes to be good enough to make the bad singers montage on American Idol. She was rejected by every a cappella group on campus from the badly punned Uptown Vocal to the even worsely punned Clefhangers. But there were no hard feelings. Dexy is an a cappella groupie and sleeps with tenors and basses and those who “percuss.” Unless Spelling Bee bitches exist, this makes her the geekiest kind of groupie one can possibly be.

  “Wanna go to Tom's for a black-and-white?” Dexy asked, uninspired by my collection of T-shirts and jeans. This chocolate and vanilla shake is the magical elixir, the cure for any problem, be it a bombed exam or the endless aftershocks of a nonbreakup breakup. It must be nice to be such a blithe spirit.

  “We can't,” I said, glancing at my watch. “We have the hall meeting.” Dexy and I were lucky e
nough to be assigned rooms on the same floor for the summer, and we were supposed to meet with the RA.

  Dexy buzzed a loud, wet raspberry in my direction. “There's plenty of time!”

  Dexy is unmoved by such pedestrian concerns as punctuality. She's always late because she's always cramming just one more thing into a life with a staggering surfeit of places to go and people to see. That I am one of those people still surprises me. I was just one in a classroom full of students fulfilling their course requirement with a Biology class, and I'm not sure what inspired her to sit next to me. For my part, I was kind of looking for a new best friend at school after Jane proved to be less than sympathetic, I daresay enthusiastic, about the nonbreakup breakup.

  “He's so pretentious, J,” Jane had said when I told her about Marcus's departure. “And so self-absorbed! He couldn't have been less interested in getting to know me.”

  When she was unable to see that she had just effectively and unintentionally described her own heinous boyfriend, I realized I didn't have it in me to pretend I was her best friend anymore. I cowardly used “stress” (academic stress, work stress, breakup stress, terrorist stress, fill-in-the-blank stress) as a convenient, catchall excuse for not hanging out. It didn't take long—only a few weeks—before Jane finally gave up and moved on, which pretty much proves how tenuous our friendship was in the first place.

  Dexy, on the other hand, lent a supportive, albeit tone-deaf ear.

  “Breakups are the new relationships,” she said.

  “Uh . . . really?” I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Yes! Consider it an opportunity to discover yourself! To celebrate your newfound freedom!”

  And while I didn't go wild in Single de Mayo revelry, being around Dexy couldn't help but lift my spirits. While most students—myself included—throw on jeans and a T-shirt that challenge the widely held parental notion that there is always a clear demarcation between clean and dirty, Dexy wears what can only be described as costumes. For her, every day is sort of like the Glam Slam Metal Jam. For example, today she's “feeling European,” so she's wearing black Capri pants, a sleeveless striped boatneck sweater, and ballet flats. There's a beret perched atop a black bobbed wig (hiding her dirty-blond hair), and her French-manicured fingers clutch a long, lacquered cigarette holder (filled with a candy cancer stick because she doesn't smoke).