A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (45 page)

“
Now,
”
he ekes out, his lungs probably collapsed under my weight.
“
Have you.. .had.. .enough.. .punishme—
“

“
Have I had enough what?
”
I
’
m kind of bouncing on him now.

“
Puni—
“

“
What? You
’
re not making sense. You have to enunciate.
”

“
Pundim—
“

“
E-7z##-ci-ate.
”

People are watching.

I jump off, as I usually do when people notice us wrestling in
public, because now, as he
’
s getting older and bigger, and because I have creative facial hair, we do not want people to think what I might be thinking if I were watching a grown sort of man sitting on top of a young sort of boy, in the middle of a park, making grunting sounds.

When it starts getting dark, when the kite people are gone and the joggers arrive, we leave.

When we get home there is a message from Meredith.

“
Call me as soon as you
get
this,
”
she says.

I call.

“
It
’
s John,
”
she says. She
’
s just gotten off the phone with John, who she says sounds blurry, and has been talking to her about ingesting the pills he has next to him, on the table next to his couch, in his apartment in Oakland.

“
Jesus,
”
I say, closing the bedroom door.

“
Yeah.
”

“
Why
’
d he call you?
”

“
He said you weren
’
t home.
”

“
You think he
’
s serious?
”

“
Yeah. Maybe. You should
get
over there.
”

“
Should I call him?
”

“
No, just go.
”

I tell Toph to stay.

“
Lock the door.
”

I
’
m in the car.

I
’
m a hero.

John would never do it for real.

He
’
s just looking for attention.

Oh but he might. He might fuck it up.

The traffic will be murder. It
’
s five. Fuck, the traffic
’
s going to suck, fuck fuck. Take the highway? No, no, worse. I get down to
San Pablo, drive south, straight shot, but—why does it have to be five? There is the radio, it needs to be turned up, because the radio gets turned up when there is fast driving and weaving. The radio is up. This is purpose, something is happening. The window needs to be opened. The radio needs to be turned up more now that the window is open. Something is happening.

He
’
d never do it. Why would he have told Meredith about the pills if he really meant to do it?
Aha!

John has been seeing a new therapist, is on Zoloft, and has been acting more and more erratic. Meredith and I have been taking turns dealing—

“
I
’
ve been throwing up all morning,
”
he
’
ll say.

He
’
s always throwing up, dry-heaving, spitting up bile, blood, pieces of his liver. No one knows why. He calls, sounds different, his speech slow, labored.

“
Where are you?
”

“
At home.
”

“
Who
’
s there?
”

“
No one.
”

“
Then why do you sound drunk?
”

“
It
’
s the medication.
”

Down San Pablo. It
’
s almost nice here and there, just past University, all the boutiques—

Move your car, dickfuck! Yes, you, move!

San Pablo into Oakland, where the buildings are crooked and closed and vacant, look like prop buildings, two-dimensional— radio
’
s all the way up, Pat Benatar, oh Pat Benatar—

Drive your truck, dumbassdickfuck, drive! Go, go! Go, Beetle-driving cockfuck! You mother//^£er!

This is taking way too long, way too long. He could be dead by now, could be dead. He
’
s not dead. He
’
s acting. He wants my attention, he wants sympathy. The spineless—

Maybe he will do it. Maybe this is it. Cannot
believe
this is me
again. I
’
ll have a dead friend. Do I want a dead friend? Maybe I want a dead friend. There could be so many uses... No, I don
’
t want a dead friend. Maybe I want a dead friend
without having a friend who dies.

At his building I worry about getting in— Can I buzz? I can
’
t buzz. He won
’
t buzz me in, there
’
s no way— I didn
’
t think of how I
’
d
get
in— Fuck, I
’
ll have to climb the fire escape, maybe break a window, maybe— Shit, I can just buzz someone
else,
any apartment, duh— But they
’
re going to ask who it is and what will I say? I
’
m not going to tell them what
’
s happening— Why wouldn
’
t I tell them what
’
s happening?
Tell
them about dickhead with the pills! It
’
s not up to me to keep his secrets— Fuck, fuck, but then ah! here! a woman walking out! timely! perfect!— I
’
ll just go through, catch that second door in time, not a bad-looking woman, kind of elfin though, smelling like—what is that smell? Oh! Jessica Strachan, sixth grade! oh Jessica, I owe you a call, I have to remember— The elf-woman is kind of cute, actually, maybe a little old, but—

Fuck. I run up the four flights, three steps at a time, I am so quick like an Indian and goddamn it even his door is open and when I burst through and bang the door against the wall for effect I expect drama or blood or his mouth foaming or his dead cold blue-green body, maybe naked even, why naked? not naked—but he
’
s just there, on his futon-couch apparatus, drinking wine.

This fucking guy.

“
What the fuck are you doing?
”

He just smiles.
What am I doing here?
I hate this guy.

Or else he
’
s already done it.

“
Did you already do it?
”
I
’
m wired from the drive, the run up the stairs.
“
Did you already do it? Fuck you if you did, you fucking cocksucker.
”

There are pills on the table, loose, scattered on top of a batik tablecloth. I point to the pile, the pile just there like a little pill display, all spread out, like hard candy in a bowl.

“
What are these?
”
I ask, pointing.
“
What the fuck are these?
”

He shrugs.

I scan the apartment. I
’
m like a cop. A police dog. A robot. I
’
m scanning for bad things—clues! I
’
ll save his life. I am his only chance.

I go to the bathroom, open the medicine cabinet, dumping everything, more recklessly than I need to, throwing things. I knock over stuff in the shower even. It
’
s kind of fun. I come up with two prescription-looking bottles. Evidence! I stomp out and hover over him.

“
What are these?
”

He grins. That fucking smile.

“
What the fuck are these? Are these those?
”
I point to the table and back to the bottles. I read the labels. Zoloft. Ativan. Some other stuff. I know what Zoloft is, but have no idea what the Ativan is; it could be hemorrhoidal stuff—

“
All right, all right. Listen. You tell me right now what the fuck you took, dickwad, or I
’
m calling the cops.
”

Dickwad?
Where did I get
dickwad?
I haven
’
t said dickwad for years. Need something more forceful—

“
I didn
’
t take anything,
”
he says, chuckling, amused by me.
“
Don
’
t sweat it. Don
’
t worry,
”
he says, with what seems to be exaggerated drunkenness. Asshole.
“
It
’
s cool. It
’
s mellow.
”
He
’
s really talking like this. I want to kick him in the head.

“
Then where are the rest of these?
”
I point to the pile of pills.

He does a cute little shrug, his palms up and everything.

“
Fuck you, I
’
m calling the cops. They
’
ll figure it out.
”
I look for the phone.
“
Where
’
s your phone?
”

The phone
’
s on the wall. He
’
s always been neat. Even the empty wine bottles in his pantry are lined up in rows. I start dialing.

“
Don
’
t,
don
’
t
“
he says, excited suddenly, drawing out the second don
’
t.
“
I didn
’
t take anything. Ree-lax.
”

“
Ree-lax?
”

“
Yes, ree-laacks.
”

“
Why are you talking like an asshole?
”

He does a gesture indicating drinking, the throwing back of a shot, the kind of gesture you make when you don
’
t have a drink in your hand. But because he does have a drink in his hand, he spills the wine, the whole glass, down his shirt.

“
Dumbshit.
”

I look at the bottle, almost empty. He
’
s alone and drinking Merlot in the afternoon. I have no idea who this person is. His shins are bruised, his hair bed-headed. What kind of person drinks wine by himself in the afternoon? And that swimsuit calendar! I
’
m calling anyway.

“
Aw, fuck you, I
’
m calling anyway. I
’
m not having your blood on my hands.
”
(Too.) I dial 911 and feel a little thrill—it
’
s my first time. A few rings and boom! an operator. I
’
m in charge! I have news! I have a situation! I tell the operator about this asshole—I give John the finger while telling her—who may or may not have taken pills. He probably took something, I add, to make sure she sends someone. I hang up and throw the phone at him.

“
They
’
re coming, stupid.
”

I pace around, looking for more clues. The kitchen. I bang open the cabinets, spill a clump of silverware into the sink. It crashes, a hundred cymbals.

“
Hey! What the fuck?
”
he says.

“
What the fuck?
”
I yell from the kitchen.
“
What the fuck? Fuck you, what the fuck.
”