“That’s not … I said it wrong because you’re making me nervous. I feel like I have to say everything fast or you’ll run away.”
She glared at me another few seconds and then her lip twisted up a little, like it might be considering smiling. “Okay. I’m not running. Slow down and say it right.”
I started over, slowly. “I mean, I’m not looking for a girlfriend. I just want to talk to you. About writing. About your zine. We could get coffee if you don’t want ice cream.” I hated coffee, but it seemed like the kind of thing a Puerto Rican Cuban Yankee lesbian writer would order at eleven o’clock in the morning.
Marisol shrugged again. “Well, I got a little time, I guess. As long as you’re not some crazy person who thinks he could turn me straight.”
“No, really,” I assured her. “I’m not crazy. I’m not a rapist. I’m not anything really.”
Then she gave me this sort of half smile, one side of her mouth working only, and pointed her finger at my chest. “Actually, I suspect you are pretty damn crazy, Gio, but probably not dangerous crazy. Come on, I know a place.”
I felt as if I’d been released from a trap, a little shaky and kind of scraped up, but really thankful. I wasn’t John anymore. I was Gio. And I was probably pretty damn crazy.
“You spent half the morning in Tower Records and you didn’t get a copy of Factsheet 5?” Marisol said, banging her coffee cup down onto its saucer. She was almost through with her refill while I played with my original cup, now stone cold and way too milky. It was a cool place she’d taken me to, a bookstore café where you could read the shelves from your tiny table. We’d spent an hour discussing the technical aspects of zine production. She knew so much I started writing things down.
“I never heard of Factsheet 5,” I said. “It’s a zine?”
“No, no. It’s not a freebie. You get it inside on the magazine racks. You actually have to spend a few bucks, but let me tell you, if you plan to keep making zines, you have to get a Factsheet 5.”
“How come?”
Marisol leaned back in her chair and laid one heavy-booted foot on top of the other knee. It seemed so amazing to me that I was sitting in the Trident Bookstore Café on Newbury Street talking to this unusual person—at least I’d never met anybody like her—and having this great, weird time. I even liked the people at the other tables. There were two women with long gray hair, older than my mother probably, wearing long Indian skirts and hiking boots, discussing their acupuncturists. And at another table a group of college students, their clothes spattered with paint, argued about which galleries showed the most innovative work and which brand of veggie-burgers was the tastiest. (Toto, we’re not in Darlington anymore.)
“It’s a damn good thing you met me, Giovanni Italian. You don’t know squat about the zine business,” Marisol continued.
I took another sip of my chilly brew. God, you can feel the stuff eating away at your stomach. “I don’t really think of it as a business. I just like writing, and I thought it would be fun to make a zine. I’m not trying to get rich on it or anything.”
“Well, that’s good, because you won’t. None of us will. On the other hand, the closer you can come to breaking even on it, the more zines you’ll be able to produce, right?”
“It didn’t cost me that much. Just the copying and the cover stock.”
“It adds up. Listen, Factsheet 5 tells you how to do stuff cheaply, how to get a subscription list started, and the best thing is they review all the zines that are sent to them, which means people will write to you from all over the country and ask you to send them a copy of Bananafish. You wouldn’t like that? Go back to Tower and get an F5 and send a copy of your zine there right away.” She was so serious about the whole thing.
“Well, okay, but really it’s not that big a deal for me. I mean, it’s not like what I have to say is going to change the world.”
Marisol sat up straight and her face got tight. “So why bother then, if it’s just some half-assed way to waste your time? If you’re not committed to having people read what you’ve written? What have we been talking about all morning?”
“It’s not half-assed …”
“Because I really hate that … people who don’t take things seriously, who think everything is a big joke.”
“It’s not a joke. I worked hard on it.”
But she wasn’t even listening anymore. She was on a crusade or something. “It’s a lie, you know, to pretend that nothing is important to you. It’s hiding. Believe me, I know, because I hid for a long time. But now I won’t do it anymore. The truth is bioluminescent. I don’t lie, and I don’t waste time on people who do.” She pulled her backpack off the floor and started rummaging around in it for money to pay the bill.
“Wait a minute. Who says I tell lies?”
She looked me straight in the eye. “Tell me you don’t.”
Jesus. “Well, I can’t say I never lie. I mean I don’t always tell my parents the whole truth, but nobody does that. I don’t lie to my friends.” As I said it I was actually picturing this large group of people to whom I am forever honest and loyal, instead of lonely old Brian, to whom I’ll say almost anything. Even my imagination lies.
She was counting out dollar bills now, so I reached in my pocket for a few of my own. “Do you know what ‘coming out’ really means?” she asked, looking me square in the face again. “It means you stop lying. You tell the truth even if it’s painful, especially if it’s painful. To everybody, your parents included.”
“I’m not gay,” I told her, though I really had no strong evidence for saying so. “At least I don’t think I am.”
“There are other closets.”
“Actually, I suppose I could be gay.” I was getting into the spirit of this truth-telling.
“Let me know when you decide.”
“Anyway, I’m not lying in my zine, and I’m not lying to you.” Much.
“You better not lie to me, Gio.”
Gio. Well, that wasn’t really fair. I mean, it was an innocent lie, and I’d told it before I knew she was such a truth zealot. It didn’t seem like a good time to fess up, though.
“I’m not. I wouldn’t,” I said. I scanned the nearby shelves quickly and lucked out. The perfect thing. I grabbed a copy of Nine Stories, by J.D. Salinger, and slapped it down on the table, put my left hand on top of it and raised my right palm in the air. “I swear on my bible,” I said as seriously as possible.
I guess Marisol appreciated luck too. She laughed. Not a big belly laugh, of course. Just a small explosion of air, but a definite yielding to mirth.
“You think you’re pretty smart, Mr. Bananafish,” she said.
“You know the book?” I asked.
“Of course I know the book. The best story is “Just Before …”
“Just Before the War with the Eskimos!” I yelled. “I knew you were going to say that!”
“You did not,” she said, and slapped her money on the table. “You’re funny, though. I appreciate that.”
She stood up and tried to disappear into thin air again, but I followed her out the door. “I’m here every week. At my dad’s place on Marlborough Street. I never have anything to do, so maybe we could—”
“As long as you’re alive, there’s always plenty to do. You know John Berryman, the poet? He says people who are bored have no inner resources. Check it out: “Dream Song #14.” Meet me here at eleven next Saturday morning. With a copy of Factsheet 5.”
I watched her walk away down Newbury Street for just a minute (wondering what the hell a dream song was), but I had the feeling she wouldn’t want me watching her, so I turned around and headed back to Tower Records. I was alive; there was plenty to do.
Chapter Three
It just wasn’t funny. The idea was good: Memoirs from Hell. Things like where you slept (in dormitories where everybody else snored), who you had to sit next to at meals (people with runny noses and hacking coughs), what you had for breakfast eve
ry morning (liverwurst with aerosol cheese sprayed on top), where you shopped (only in warehouse superstores), the only recreational item you were allowed to own (a Barbie doll), the only book you were allowed to read (Paradise Lost). Stuff like that. Only it wasn’t really working. They were giggles, but they weren’t hitting home. They weren’t deeply, evilly funny. I was just about to give up and peruse the book of John Berryman poems I got from the school library when Mom called upstairs.
“Johnny. Guess who I picked up on my way home from school?”
Damn it. Your best friend in hell (a dork nobody else notices who depends on you for the entirety of his social interaction).
“Come down and have a snack with Brian. He’s hungry.”
That was code for: Come down here and fix Brian something to eat because after teaching fifth graders all day I’m too tired to wait on your friends.
“Just a sec,” I called back. I stuck Memoirs from Hell into the computer’s memory, the better to remove it from mine. Maybe later it would work.
“Where’d you disappear after school?” Brian demanded to know as I came down the stairs.
“I wanted to get home. I didn’t see you. I’m working on something.”
“I told you to meet me at the Drama Club bulletin board. They put the cast list up!”
“Oh, right. Sorry. I forgot.” He wasn’t too offended to follow me into the kitchen. Mom was in there washing out her coffee thermos.
“I’m afraid there isn’t lots to eat. Some cheese and crackers, maybe. A few bananas. I need to go to the store.” Mom was never very big on “Hi, how are you? Did you have a good day?”
“That’s okay, we’ll find something, Mrs. Galardi. I mean, Mrs. … Ms. Van Esterhower … howsen … Van Esterhausen.” Mom’s taking her maiden name back had really thrown old Brian for a loop. I couldn’t say I was too thrilled by it either. It was weird to have to go to the high school office and change her name on all my records, like saying somebody else was my mother now, somebody whose name I barely knew how to spell.
“I know it’s a mouthful. Why don’t you just call me Anne, Brian? After all, you boys aren’t children anymore.” For some reason, I didn’t like her announcing that to us; I mean, it seemed like the kind of thing I ought to tell her. We’re not children anymore, Mother! She stuck the thermos in the dish drainer and gave us a little smile, but you could tell it was really costing her. “I’m going to disappear upstairs and take a little rest before I fix dinner. Would you answer the phone if it rings, Johnny?”
“Sure.” She had to pass close to where I was standing to get through the doorway, but I knew she wouldn’t touch me, and she didn’t. I hadn’t thought about it much lately, but for a while when I first noticed that Mom didn’t touch me anymore, back around the time of the divorce I guess, it really bothered me. I thought about it all the time. True, she was never one of those kissy-type mothers, but as a little kid I’d curl up next to her on the couch in the evenings. Or, you know, sit on her lap. And she was always pretty free with her hugs, so when it stopped all of a sudden—I was probably nine or ten—you can be sure I noticed it.
I’d go out of my way to stand where she’d be almost forced to bump into me, but she never did. She’d go out of her way to avoid it, or she’d wait me out, or she’d just plain ask me to get out of her way. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything about it, so I’d just move. What were you supposed to say anyway? Hey, Mom, am I disgusting? Am I diseased? How come all of a sudden you can’t stand to touch me? Anyway, it’s something I’ve gotten used to. Now when I see Brian’s mother kiss him or even pat his arm or something, it kind of gives me chills.
I pulled a hunk of Swiss cheese out of the refrigerator.
“Aren’t you even going to ask me whether I got a part?”
“A part of what?”
“God,” Brian exploded, “you are about the worst friend!”
He was probably right about that. “Oh, yeah, I forgot. The play. So, did you?”
Brian grabbed the cheese out of my hand and dumped it on the table. It was obvious he was dying to tell me, but now I’d kind of ruined it for him. I forced myself. “Well, did you or not? I’m asking you.”
“Of course I did. They were desperate for boys,” he said gloomily. “And I’m not Nazi Soldier Number Six. I’m the butler.”
“Sounds good. What does the butler do?” I stuck a breadboard under the cheese and handed Brian a knife, then found some crackers and rummaged in the fridge for something to drink. Not much. Enough orange juice to stretch with fizzy water.
“I’m in two scenes, and I have four lines. I mostly take people’s coats on and off.”
“Great! So you got in it! Is what’s-her-name in it?” My good nature is severely limited, I know.
“Violet, for God’s sake. Of course she’s in it. She’s Maria.” He slid the knife through his thumb and the cheese simultaneously. The cheese pinked up before I could pull it out of the way. Brian started whirling around in a circle holding his injured digit up in the air with his other hand.
“Jesus! Stick it under the water!” I yelled. I never know what to do in an emergency, but I like to give the impression I’m in complete control. “All you have to do is say that girl’s name and you’re a bumbling nitwit,” I complained.
“Ow, ow, ow,” Brian sang as the water cleaned out the cut and bloodied the sink. Finally he held it up at eye level to inspect the damage.
“It’s not that deep,” I decided, based on nothing. I took out the Band-Aid box Mom kept above the stove.
“Like you would know,” Brian said, self-pity thickening his voice.
I peeled back the plastic and handed him a sticky beige strip. I certainly didn’t intend to touch the wound myself.
While he wrapped himself up, I tried to fix the cheese, but it refused to come clean. I had to amputate.
“She’s got a boyfriend,” Brian told his thumb.
“What?”
“She’s got a boyfriend,” he repeated so I could hear too.
“Violet, you mean?”
“Who else would I mean?”
“Well, fine. I mean, is this a total shock to you? I thought she went with some guy all last year.”
“I thought you hardly knew who she was.” The guy was in a really pissy mood, you could tell.
“You talk about her all the time. It’s hard to avoid a certain amount of knowledge!” I said.
Old Brian slumped back into a chair. “It’s not like I expected a miracle to happen to me. It’s just that I didn’t expect a miracle to happen to Vincent Brazwell either.”
“Vincent Brazwell? She’s going with him?” This was a pathetic story.
“He got tall. And he sings.”
“Who cares if he sings?”
“Obviously Violet cares. He’s playing the male lead. The captain guy. They get to proclaim their love in front of the whole audience. In front of the stupid butler.”
I took another look in the fridge. Too bad I couldn’t let Brian have one of Mom’s beers. She’d have a fit. But there wasn’t much else I could do for the guy. I refilled his glass with orange-flavored water. Yum.
“Look, you’ve got to stop thinking about Violet Neville. She’s not the only girl in the world.”
“She’s the only decent one in Darlington.”
“I doubt that.”
“Name me one other.”
“Brian, I don’t really pay any attention. I mean, Rapunzel could be sitting in front of me, and I probably wouldn’t notice. Girls aren’t my thing.”
Brian shook his head. “You’re so weird. No wonder you hang around with me.”
“You’re just figuring that out?”
He brightened. “I know! Next weekend let me go into Boston with you. I can look on Newbury Street!”
Whoa. Here was a real bad idea. “What’s the use of that? Even if you see somebody, you’ll never see her again. You’re not going to pick up some babe in Boston and ship her out here
to Darlington to go to the movies on Saturday night.”
“But it makes me feel good to look at them. Please!”
Damn it. “The thing is … I can’t, really.”
“Why not? I haven’t come in with you for months. Your dad doesn’t care.”
“Well, actually we’ve been sort of … doing things together. I mean, you know, spending more time … doing things.” I swear to God I had the feeling Marisol was looking over my shoulder, listening to me lie.
“You and your dad? He’s too busy to do things with you.”
“Well, we’re trying, you know. I just don’t think right now is a good time for you to come. Maybe in a few weeks or something. I’ll let you know.”
Brian glared at his taped-up finger like it was a crystal ball. “Meanwhile I’m stuck here in hell. Where my only friend thinks my life is a big joke, and the girl of my dreams is in love with a tenor.”
My eyebrows peaked. Not bad, Brian, old man. Not bad at all.
* * *
Friday night: Bertucci’s again. If I get my choice, which I usually do, I always choose Bertucci’s. Best pizza, in my opinion. Dad always orders some pasta dish. (Did you ever notice there’s no such thing as “spaghetti” anymore? It’s all “pasta” now, or some fancy Italian name that ends in chini or tini or lini.) Pizza is way too juvenile for a guy like Dad. What if he was chowing down on a big tomatoey triangle and there were stringy mozzarella hammocks swinging in the breeze when one of those famous authors he publishes came walking over to him? Famous authors, I imagine, don’t eat pizza either, at least not in public. Only takeout. Poor schmucks.
I couldn’t figure out why Dad kept clearing his throat. He wasn’t even eating the tortellini, just picking out the little broccoli trees. Then finally he got around to his subject.
“So I ran into Peter Otto the other day!” Hearty smile.
“Who?”
“Peter Otto. They used to come to dinner once in a while. Your mother works with his wife, Jane. Jane Otto. They have a little girl. …”
“Yeah. I remember.” Vaguely. Little girl wouldn’t stay home with a baby-sitter. I had to watch television with her to keep her out of the grown-ups’ hair. I think I made her cry.