My dad was angry, but I was used to that. He was angry a lot. And whenever he got angry, he ended up breaking something. Just things, though. Never people. “It’s only stuff,” he would say, right after putting his foot through a door or smashing a plate against a wall. Maybe we were at IKEA that day replacing something he’d broken. That would make a lot of sense, actually.
Anyway, you must know what it’s like driving with someone who’s pissed off. They accelerate too quickly. They steer in these angry little jerks. They swear at every other car on the road—like the one that had just pulled up alongside us. Six teenagers were packed into this shitty red Jetta, and we were trying to get over into their lane so we could take the off-ramp, only this other car kept changing speed to match us, and the driver was laughing his head off because he knew exactly what he was doing (turns out he’d had just enough to put him over the limit). My dad put his foot to the floor, but we were in the old Tercel, which accelerated like a fucking turtle on NyQuil. I guess he thought he was clear, or that the asshole kid would back off. But when he changed lanes, we caught the other car’s front bumper, and suddenly we were swerving to the right, and then there was this huge crash and everything started spinning.
I don’t know if I blacked out or what, but when I was aware of being a person again, I felt this weird weight in my head, kinda like when you’ve got a bad cold. It took me a while to realize it was because I was hanging upside down from my seat belt. My door looked like crumpled-up tinfoil. I looked over at my dad and his eyes were fluttering, and there was blood running down his seat belt toward the roof of the car. The windows were all shattered, but I could see the shadows of cars rushing by, and I remember thinking how weird it was that the world wasn’t just stopping in its tracks for us. We were flipped over in the middle of the highway and my dad was dripping onto the fucking roof, you know? But I think life is a little like one of those special memory-foam mattresses that they advertise on TV, where you can drop a bowling ball on one side and the person sleeping a few inches away doesn’t feel a thing. Our biggest tragedies are still just ours. There’s this short story by Ursula K. Le Guin called “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas.” It’s about this city where everyone is super happy and healthy and smart, but when the citizens reach a certain age, they’re told that the perfect awesomeness of their city depends on one kid being kept in a dirty cellar, all alone, fed just enough crappy food not to starve. Everyone knows he’s down there, but they also know that if they ever help him out, if they ever give him so much as a single chicken nugget, their whole society will collapse. It’s one of those parable things, about all the unhappy people we ignore so that we can be happy. All the overturned cars we drive past without giving even a tiny bit of a shit about what’s going on inside.
I wasn’t sure if I was done or not, but when Zelda came back, I handed her the journal and pretty much ran away, because I didn’t want to see her read it. And as I walked around the park again, I had this really strong urge to just leave her and the journal behind, because I knew that when I got back, things would be different between us. She would know me in a way that nobody but my mom and Dr. Milton really knew me. I stood at the entrance to the tea garden, staring out at the street, and about 49 percent of me was ready to bolt. Luckily, 51 percent of me wasn’t a total idiot.
When I got back, Zelda was sitting on the bench with the journal closed on her lap, watching a couple canoodle on the grass down by the stream.
She looked up at me. “That was the deep stuff, Parker. Thank you.”
I took the journal back. Why is it that the bad shit in our lives always seems to take up so much more mental space than the good stuff? I wrote. Is that part of being a person, or just part of being me?
“I think about that question all the time.”
Do you have an answer?
“I don’t think questions like that have answers. An optimistic person would probably say the bad things stick out because they’re not as common as the good things.”
Are you an optimistic person?
“No.”
But you’re not serious about the Golden Gate Bridge, are you?
“We had a deal, Parker. You were going to believe everything I said.”
But why would you want to kill yourself? I mean, I hate pretty much everyone and everything, and I’m still not suicidal.
“I’m not suicidal. I’m just”—she struggled to find the words—“tired out.”
With what?
“Life.”
How can you be tired out with all of life?
“After a quarter of a millennia, the real question would be how could I not be tired out. It’s just too much time, Parker. Why else do you think elderly people aren’t constantly complaining about their imminent deaths? It’s because they’re ready, just like I am. Can’t you understand that? Have you ever really thought about what it would be like to live forever?”
I hesitated, pen over the paper. Sure I’d thought about it, the same way I’d thought about being invisible or telepathic or able to fly. And I’d concluded that it would be awesome. All the things you could see and the people you could meet and the places you could go. All the time you’d have to learn how to play the guitar and to break dance, to act up and fuck up and hook up. All the days and months and years and decades, stretching out in front of you, like a highway running through an endless, desolate city . . .
You’re right, I wrote. It sounds kinda shitty.
Zelda smiled. “Why?”
How to say it? Because life sucked a lot of the time. Because it already seemed long enough. Because I could remember visiting my dad’s mom when she was dying of throat cancer in a hospital bed in a town outside of Bogotá, surrounded by dirty orange tiles and all those flickering fluorescent lights humming like bored orderlies, and how she kept saying ya basta whenever anyone asked how she was. Sometimes it was a joke, and sometimes it was so serious it made her cry. Ya basta. No doy más.
So we shared a popcorn yesterday, I wrote.
“That’s true,” Zelda said. “And your point is . . . ?”
The funny thing about popcorn is that you’ve really only got two options. There’s the small, which has about six kernels of popcorn in it and costs $6.49 or something. And then you’ve got the medium and the large, which are both just ridiculously huge. A starving family couldn’t eat that much popcorn in a week. But they only cost a few cents more than the small. I guess the theater is hoping you’ll just think, like, fuck it, right? Fifty cents for a shit-ton more popcorn? Might as well. But the problem is that if you get the massive popcorn, you end up feeling gross, because it’s too much. It doesn’t leave you wanting more. And you can really only enjoy something if it leaves you wanting more, don’t you think?
When Zelda finished reading my little essay, she let her head fall onto my shoulder. “I do, Parker. I really do.”
We sat there in silence for a while, and I figured it didn’t really matter if she was crazy, or depressed, or a compulsive liar, or all three at once. Something was wrong with her. Something was eating away at her from the inside. And I was going to save her from it. Like Mario saved Princess Peach. Like Link saved Zelda.
Okay, immortal girl, I wrote, you say you’re tired out with life, right? Well, I’m going to untire you. I’m going to make you want to live.
“That’s a tall order, Parker Santé.”
I’m a tall guy.
She laughed, probably because I’m actually not very tall, and then I kissed her, the first time I’d initiated a kiss in my whole life. We kept on kissing for a long time, making everyone else in the Japanese Tea Garden jealous, or at the very least, super uncomfortable.
LIQUID-NITROGEN-FROZEN ICE CREAM
IT WASN’T THE RIGHT SEASON for it, but so what? Smitten Ice Cream was definitely one of the best reasons I could think of to remain on this big, stupid scoop of a planet. They made it on-site, using some super-complicated piece of technology that had probably been inve
nted when someone up at Stanford had been trying to find a way to cryogenically freeze the human brain. Instead they ended up developing the creamiest, most delicious ice cream of all time. The seasonal flavor was cinnamon apple crisp; it tasted like a Pop-Tart.
The plastic tables around the truck were filled up with San Francisco techsters, all silly mustaches and plaid shirts and phablets. In the last few years, these guys had pretty much taken over the city, turning wood and brick to glass and steel, forcing us natives farther and farther out, like one of those forest fires that sets all the animals running until they end up falling off a cliff. My mom always said San Francisco was a city of good intentions, but even if that was true, who gave a shit about intentions? What mattered were results. And the results here were not looking good. Half the city looked like an iPad, and the other half looked like a slum. The rich folks tooled around in their Tesla Roadsters and their Uber town cars, while stepping onto a public bus was like buying a ticket to the crazy museum.
We walked away from the packed tables and took a seat on the bars of this little metal dome that kids were meant to play on. Zelda dipped her pink spoon into the ice cream, then raised it to her perfect rosebud mouth. Lucky spoon.
“Mmm,” she said, closing her eyes. “That’s amazing.”
Life-affirmingly amazing? I wrote in my journal.
She took another bite, savored, then slowly shook her head.
But this is the best ice cream on earth!
“That is arguable, Parker Santé. But even if it were, you’re forgetting that I’ve been alive for two and a half centuries. I’ve eaten a lot of ice cream.”
Liquid-nitrogen-frozen ice cream?
“Well, admittedly no. But have you ever heard of the law of diminishing returns?”
I shook my head.
“It’s a dictum of economics that says there will always be an eventual decrease in the marginal output of a production process as one aspect of the production is increased.”
I shook my head again, though this time it was to try and wring some semblance of sense from what she’d just said.
“Think about it like this. Can you remember the first time you were in an airplane?”
Sure. We went to visit my mom’s sister in Seattle. I was six years old, I think.
“Now tell me about the last time you were on a plane.”
Last summer. Exact same trip. Which sucked, by the way. My aunt is a bitch.
“Well, I can’t comment on that. But the odds are good that that first plane ride was pretty exciting. You were thirty-five thousand feet in the air, looking down on the clouds, and you managed to survive, right? That’s amazing! But I bet the last time you were on a plane, you weren’t remotely amazed. In fact, you were probably actively annoyed about having to sit still for hours on end and eat a bunch of mediocre food. That’s the law of diminishing returns. You always need a little bit more to reach the same high. It’s the fly in the ointment of immortality.”
God damn that was depressing. And hadn’t I been thinking the same thing just last night, remembering how awesome Halloween had been when I was younger, and how lame it was now?
It’s no different for non-immortal people, I wrote.
“Sure it is.”
I don’t think so. Like, take my dad. His most successful book was his first one. And my mom hasn’t remarried because she doesn’t think she could ever love anyone as much as she loved my dad. And it’s true for me, too. When I was in elementary school, I loved going to school. I was seriously psyched to learn shit. Now I can barely stay awake through second period. I’ve just done it all too many times.
“Huh,” Zelda said, “maybe you’re right.”
We finished our ice cream, which now seemed to get a little less delicious with each bite. Zelda sucked on her fingers. “So what’s our next activity, Mr. I’m-going-to-convince-you-to-live?”
Shit. I hadn’t actually thought beyond my ice cream gambit.
I’ll tell you when I get back from the bathroom, I wrote.
“I’ll be waiting.”
As soon as I was out of Zelda’s line of sight, I took out my phone.
Hey, Alana, I typed, I need your help. I’m looking for shit to do with Zelda. Like, romantic shit.
I was lucky; Alana started typing a response only a few seconds later.
You guys are still hanging out? Must’ve been a good night. You wanna share the details? Or maybe some pics?
I’m in a hurry.
Sorry. Take her to the Golden Gate Bridge. Gets ’em every time.
I don’t think that’s going to work here. Long story. Next idea.
How about a museum? Zelda seemed like the artsy type. You ever been to the Legion of Honor?
No, but she probably has. I’m looking for something she hasn’t done before.
Museums don’t work that way, Santé. Great art rewards repeated viewings. It gets deeper every time, like that scotch she gave us. By the way, you think she has any more of that shit?
Was Alana right? Could art be the exception to the law of diminishing returns?
Gotta run, I texted. I’ll try the Legion. Thanks.
No worries, player. Lemme know how it goes.
When I got back to the dome, Zelda was just pulling her phone out of her purse. I jogged over and plucked it out of her hand.
“You took forever,” she said.
S-o-r-r-y, I finger spelled.
“And did you figure out where we’re headed?”
M-u-s-e-u-m.
“Museum,” she translated. “Hey, I’m getting pretty good at that, aren’t I?”
With one hand, I gave her a thumbs-up. With the other, I casually slipped her phone—still set to “Do Not Disturb”—back into her purse.
PORTRAIT OF A LADY LOOKING AT A PORTRAIT
IT WAS ONLY A FIFTEEN-MINUTE cab ride from Smitten to the museum, and Zelda was onto the plan within the first five.
“I love the Legion of Honor,” she said, just as the car was turning up Divisadero. “They have this wonderful painting of Paolo and Francesca. Do you know them?”
I shook my head.
“Dante wrote about them. They were doomed to float around on the winds of the second circle of hell because they’d allowed themselves to be slaves to lust during their lives.”
H-o-t, I finger spelled.
“Isn’t it, though? Hey, what’s the sign for lust, anyway?”
I made the sign: a line drawn downward from chin to chest.
“How tame. What about sex?”
I put the sign for the letter x at the top of my cheek and slid it toward my chin.
“God, that’s so disappointing. Isn’t there slang or something?”
There was a more visually descriptive sign for sex, though it corresponded to a slightly less appropriate word. I made peace signs with both hands, simulating a couple of bunny rabbits, then bashed them together over and over again.
Zelda laughed. “Well, that’s to the point.”
The car pulled to a stop in front of a dirty stone fountain. From afar, the museum looked Greek (or maybe Roman—honestly, I have no idea what the difference is), with big stone arches and columns everywhere. A few tourists stood at the edge of the property, taking photos of the far-off Golden Gate Bridge, which didn’t look so much golden as rusty. We got out of the car and walked a long cement path that led under an archway and into a broad arcade. Dead center was a bronze sculpture that I actually recognized. It was that famous one, of the guy resting his head on his fist.
“The Thinker,” Zelda said. “The original is in France, of course, but I suppose one casting is as good as another. I’ve always found it rather insipid.”
He looks like somebody trying to solve all the world’s problems while sitting on the toilet, I wrote in my journal.
Zelda laughed. “He does, doesn’t he? And now I’ll never be able to see it any other way. Thanks for that.”
I tipped an imaginary cap.
Just insid
e the building, an old woman sat working the ticket desk. She had a flowered brooch pinned to her sweater, right next to her name tag: GLADYS.
“Are you two students?” she asked.
I looked to Zelda, but she’d buried her nose in some pamphlet describing the museum’s current exhibit.
“Hello?” Gladys said. “Are you students?”
I nodded.
“That’s a yes?”
I nodded again.
“Cat got your tongue?”
I nodded a third time.
Gladys frowned. “I don’t have to let you in, you know, if civility is beyond your capabilities. This is a private museum.”
I put my journal up on the desk and wrote: I’m not being a dick. I can’t physically speak. Then I spun it around so Gladys could read it.
I saw annoyance and pity battling it out on her face. Annoyance won. “That’s no excuse for being obscene. Eight dollars each, please.”
Zelda threw yet another hundred down onto the counter and headed into the museum without looking back.
“That was hilarious,” she said, once we were out of Gladys’s earshot. “What did you write to her, anyway?” I showed Zelda the journal. She laughed loudly, drawing stares from a couple of humorless museumgoers. “You should get that printed on a T-shirt, so you can wear it around all day. Do people often respond to you like that?”
All the time.
“But you refuse to go back to speech therapy.”
I shrugged.
“Curiouser and curiouser, Parker Santé. And you act like I’m the mysterious one.”
We entered a small, brightly lit room. A few run-of-the-mill bronze sculptures were mounted here and there, but the focal point was the enormous organ up against the wall. It had two big panels on either side of the keyboard, both of which were as dense with buttons, levers, and switches as the cockpit of a jumbo jet.
“The Skinner organ,” Zelda said. “It cost over a hundred thousand dollars to build, which would be more than a million dollars today. They bring a man to play it every weekend. In fact, he should be here any minute. You see up there?” She pointed at a section of the wall above the room’s entrance. “That’s canvas, painted to look like brick. All the pipes are hidden back there. Trompe l’oeil, it’s called. A trick of the eye.”