War of the Encyclopaedists (16 page)

Corderoy shot a leg forward and righted himself, stepping back from her palm. “Okay. Well, that was fun.”

“You know Newton and the apple, right? Sorry, I forgot your name.”

“I never told you. But it's Hal. Yeah, I know Newton and the apple, though I'm pretty sure that story's apocryphal.”

“Newton overlooked the question of how it feels to be the apple. We can transcend the law of gravity with the swinging, circulating attraction of the centrifugal force.”

Even the hippies in Boston had an academic patois.

“Try to be attuned to how gravity acts on your body, how your momentum carries you. Slip your shoes off. And roll up those wet pant legs.”

Corderoy did, then Tanya took him by the hand and led him into the slow circus of undulating leotards. “Do you know the five rhythms?” she asked. “Flowing, staccato, chaos, lyrical, and stillness. Just think about flowing. Put your hand on my shoulder.”

He obeyed, and she began swaying and dipping, and Corderoy stumbled to follow her, then he leaned back and she drew forward as if attached by a length of elastic; her hand found his, and their fingers whispered back and forth, palms never quite aligning, fluttering, then she jerked forward—staccato—stumbled into him, causing him to stumble back until they collapsed into a muddle of too many limbs and faces, and Corderoy found himself torso to torso with the tall, skinny man who had been wobbling atop Turtleneck. Embarrassment flashed through his nervous system but vanished as soon as he recognized it. Following Skinny's lead, he felt his joints tighten while his body became more fluid and he gave way to the inebriation of momentum and gravity. They interlocked their arms, bent, pivoted, and countered like robots with limited end-range movement—then Skinny went stiff as a beam and fell backward on Corderoy, his head landing in the crook of Corderoy's shoulder, and as they stepped backward in a circle, Corderoy realized that this skinny, mulletted hippie had given him his entire weight, had entrusted a stranger with the job of directing his momentum and with keeping gravity from smashing his only and irreplaceable body into the earth.

• • •

When the class ended, Corderoy asked Tanya and Skinny, whose name was Gregg, if they wanted to get a drink. They agreed, and the three of them went down to Harpers Ferry. It was typical of the rock venues and bars found in the Allston-Brighton area: dark, divey, manned by rude, tubby bouncers, and overpriced, given its aesthetic. They sat at a small table, and before Tanya or Gregg had a chance to speak, Cor­deroy announced he was buying the first round. He went up to the bar and ordered three beers and three shots. When he returned, Tanya and Gregg were examining his Tupperware.

“Are these Funfetti?” Tanya asked.

Corderoy nodded and said, “Help yourself.”

“My God, I haven't had these since I was a kid,” she said. She and Gregg each took a cupcake, and Gregg took a beer. “Not much of a whiskey drinker,” he said, pushing his shot toward Corderoy. “You have it.”

“It's you and me, then, Tanya,” Corderoy said, holding up his shot.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Tanya said. “I tried to tell you earlier, but I can't. I'm allergic to alcohol,” and she slid her beer and her shot over to Corderoy. What the fuck.

“Shit,” Corderoy said. “Sorry. I'll get you a Coke or something.”

“I'm okay for now, thanks. Cheers?” she said, holding up her cupcake.

Corderoy laughed. Sure, whatever. “Cheers,” and he knocked his shot glass against her cupcake and Gregg's beer.

Corderoy had been hoping to extend the intimacy he'd felt with these two new friends, but by the time he'd finished his beer and shot, they'd exhausted their conversational topics of mutual interest—whatever connection they'd had was a bodily one, and he didn't know how to keep it alive outside the yoga studio. He downed Gregg's shot and started working on Tanya's beer.

“How long have you two been friends?” Corderoy asked.

“Oh, we're married,” Gregg said.

“Oh. Congratulations,” Corderoy said. He tossed back the last shot.

“It was a while ago,” Tanya said, patting Gregg's leg under the table. “So, Hal, I'm guessing you didn't bring these cupcakes for us. What's her name? When do we get to meet her?”

“Sylvie,” Corderoy said. “And probably never, seeing as how . . .” He took a few big swigs of Tanya's beer. Fuck it. Why not? “She's gonna die soon. Cystic fibrosis.”

“That's awful,” Tanya said.

“If only all relationships were like that,” Corderoy said. “With a pre-set termination. No awkward breakups.”

Tanya and Gregg shared the nervous look of a couple cornered by a mentally ill person on a city bus.

Now would be the time to apologize, reverse course. But that would be boring. After the rush of unearned physical intimacy in the yoga studio, he needed intensity, drama, and if the only way to get that was by being an asshole, well . . . “She's nineteen,” Corderoy said. “Met her on the Internet. Cystic fibrosis. And Crohn's disease. You gotta admit. Pretty funny.”

Tanya blinked her big anime eyes in disbelief, then stood and put her coat on. “Come on, Gregg.”

They left. Just as well. It was hard to drink alone with other people. Corderoy checked his phone: no missed calls, no messages. He ordered another shot, downed it. Some people at the next table over leaned in and inquired about the cupcakes, and he offered them up, then ordered another shot. By nine, he had only two Funfetti cupcakes left, and he hadn't so much as dipped his own finger in the frosting. He hid the Tupperware under his coat again, ordered one last shot, knocked it back, then stumbled outside. He sat down on the wet curb and checked his phone: no missed calls, no text messages. He opened up the Tupperware and bit into one of the Funfetti cupcakes. It was delicious. He took one more bite, then shoved the entire thing in his mouth; before he'd finished chewing, he did the same with the second, prying the paper cup off the back as he crammed it in. He swallowed, bit by bit at the back of his throat, until he was able to chew, and then he chewed and chewed until his mouth was empty.

Standing up was not a good idea. He doubled over puking, splashing his lower legs and shoes. He had only eight dollars, so he hailed a cab, got in, and told the driver to take him seven dollars toward Central Square. They stopped at the bridge, and Corderoy walked home in the moonlight. The cat shit was still on his bed.

He was famished and hungover when he awoke the next morning on the couch. He needed grease. He fried up some bacon and ate it with his fingers.

Tricia came into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of milk, then stood near the counter drinking it. It sickened Corderoy to see the opaque film clinging to the glass after she tipped it back. Neither of them said anything for a moment.

Then, without thinking how awkwardness would swoop down upon them, Corderoy said, “Sorry I walked in on you yesterday.”

Tricia said nothing.

Corderoy overcompensated. “You know, the good ol' sock-on-the-doorknob trick actually works. And it's refreshing to be that comfortable about it. My buddies back in Seattle used to say, ‘I'm gonna go
masturbate the penis now. You wanna order a pizza in a bit?' It was like, this is a thing I need to do, like taking a shit. Natural.”

“Right. I'm not really comfortable with that system.”

“What system do you suggest, then?”

“How about not barging into other people's rooms?”

“Of course. Sorry. I was just upset. Because of Smokey.”

“What?”

“Shitting on my bed.”

“No . . .”

Corderoy nodded.

“Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I'll buy you new sheets. Why didn't you tell me earlier?”

Corderoy bit his lip.

“Right,” Tricia said. “Sock on the doorknob.”

• • •

After eating, Corderoy felt better, less hungover. He sat down on the couch with his laptop and checked his instant messenger.
Sylvie
's icon was inactive. He logged in to MySpace and checked her profile. It was one hundred percent gone. Deleted. Her picture next to her comments on his page had been replaced with a question mark. Orphaned sentences, no longer attached to a person. There was a sense of wonder at the feeling, like finding graffiti under the ash of Pompeii, and also a sense of devastating betrayal, as if letters from an ex-lover had lost their
XOXO, Mani
or
Love, M
and been replaced with
XOXO, Error 404
,
Person not found
.
Sylvie
hadn't left. She wasn't somewhere else. She had disappeared. From everywhere.

17

When Corderoy received his essay back at the end of class, there was no grade on it. Professor Flannigan had written in the margin in red pen,
Come along to my office at half-three so we can talk.
Corderoy wasn't sure what
half-three
meant. He erred on the side of being early and ended up parking himself on a plastic chair outside Professor Flannigan's office at two-thirty. He sat there for the next hour, attempting to read Defoe's
Roxana,
which he had to finish for his Friday class, The Rise of the Novel. But the book was boring, and people kept walking through the hallway, forcing him to retract his stretched-out legs, and he got through only four pages before he decided to close the book, stare into space, and ponder the curious bit of information he'd stumbled on that morning concerning
Sylvie
.

Corderoy had scoured various social networking sites looking for Sylvies and anyone with bytheseashore as their handle. He'd found squat on Friendster, Live Journal, and Xanga, but after Googling “cystic fibrosis” and “Boston,” he'd stumbled onto the Web forums at www­.dailystrength.org, a community support site for people with chronic medical conditions. Just that morning, he'd read a comment by Charlie37 regarding a community member known as Selena.

Six months ago, I, like many others, was hooked by the heartrending and chaotic narrative of Selena, a teenage girl with CF in desperate need of a double lung transplant. Her friend Brita had been providing weekly updates about her
progress on the “Pray for Selena” blog (http://prayforselena.blogspot.com), which has now been taken down. For those of you just finding out about this, here's a sample from Brita's blog:

It's been a rough week for Selena. For four days now, she's been intubated but it's not looking good. Her PaCO
2
is in the 90s, the highest it's been, and Lord knows how she's been able to handle it. Her O
2
sat was down to 84, and her temp reached 103. She's been fighting hard, but it seems like there's only one way this could go.

On Tuesday she has a meeting with the transplant committee to discuss the lengthy and complicated process of getting new lungs. Selena isn't suited to this bureaucratic hassle, especially when she's struggling so much, but it's coming down to the line now. Let's pray for her and give her the strength she needs to get through this.

Over time, Selena's condition worsened and hundreds were praying and posting supportive comments on the “Pray for Selena” blog. Then, in March, the news broke that Selena/Brita does not exist. Rather, she is a persona invented by Sandra Fernandez, and she used photos of one of Sandra's friends as our “Selena.”

Corderoy had found it odd that the “she” in that sentence referred to Selena, who did not exist, rather than to Sandra, who was supposedly behind the hoax. Charlie37 continued:

What bothers me most is the thought that someone could manipulate the hearts and prayers of hundreds of people the way Selena has without feeling the slightest remorse. It may be, as some community members have suggested, that Selena suffers from Munchausen syndrome, a mental disorder in which a person feigns illness or trauma to garner sympathy or attention. In any case, Selena has been active on many forums using many aliases. She has been linked with the names Sylvanshine and Laurie B.

Could that be
Sylvie
? The voice of those blog posts written by Brita was, on the whole, much more cogent and measured than
Sylvie
's. It couldn't be her. But to be safe, Corderoy had written to Charlie37, asking if he had seen the IM handle bytheseashore, or if there were any other
things Sandra/Brita/Selena was known for. Charlie37 had yet to respond, and Corderoy had become consumed with anticipation. He tried to pick up
Roxana
again, but Professor Flannigan arrived at 3:35, walking with brisk, short strides, wearing an argyle sweater and a cheerful grin.

“Hope you haven't been waiting long,” he said as he unlocked his office door.

“Just a few minutes,” Corderoy said. He took a seat next to Professor Flannigan's desk. After rearranging some papers, unpacking his leather satchel, and adjusting his eyeglasses, the professor sat down in his office chair, leaned back, and said, “So, tell me about your essay.”

Corderoy explained the sense of magnitude he'd experienced. He paraphrased the most important parts of the argument he'd made in the essay, that Joyce himself was the crafty Odyssean character, not Leopold Bloom, that the seemingly triumphal ending was best read in light of this deceptive tendency, that Joyce's vision of the female consciousness was that its intensity trumped its focus.

“Brilliant. I love it,” Professor Flannigan said.

Corderoy's heart, which had been holding a difficult pose, relaxed into its natural rhythm, and a wave of warm blood spread out to his extremities.

“But I can't accept it.”

“You can't?”

“The essay prompt was very clear, Mr. Corderoy.”

Corderoy did not especially like being called Mr. Corderoy, though he admired how Professor Flannigan had managed to mold the social dynamic of the class into this more formal shape, one in which his social ascendance was more obvious and more welcome, as a benevolent philosopher king.

“Did you read the essay prompt?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know it says you are to apply three of the schools of criticism we've discussed to a text and argue which one provides the most useful lens through which to read it. I did not assign this essay without cause. This is a peer-reviewed field, Mr. Corderoy. Do you imagine we are here purely for the pursuit of knowledge?”

“Yes?” Corderoy ventured.

“I hope you've thought about life after graduate school. I don't mean to be cynical, but frankly, you are training to be an academic. This degree doesn't lead anywhere else. If you want to survive in this career, you need to learn the language upon which the grand discussion is based. When you take your orals two years from now, your thesis advisers will expect you to be intimately familiar with post-structuralism, new historicism, phenomenology, and hermeneutics. You're quite creative, Mr. Corderoy. And the insightful and unexpected thinking you demonstrated in this essay will make you an excellent critic and a great professor someday, if you take the time now to approach the field on its own terms.”

Corderoy had been nodding sheepishly through Professor Flannigan's speech, and after asking for a chance to rewrite the essay, which the professor granted without hesitation, Corderoy ducked out of the office and walked home rather than taking the train. When he crossed the Charles River into Cambridge, it began to rain. Not a Boston rainstorm but a Seattle drizzle. It reminded him of home, and it complicated his growing distaste for the city of Boston. He walked slowly as his shoulders darkened, realizing that he had a spot of violence in his heart for the world of academia. As much as he'd been moved by Professor Flannigan's speech that first day of class (
the search for truth—what could be more important?
), the whole enterprise felt like a game with no real stakes, which was fine as long as you could play loose and free, have some fun with it. But academics, he was learning, tended to take themselves quite seriously. He wasn't sure if he could play this game or if he really wanted to be a professor someday. But what else would he be? What other skills did he have?

• • •

When he got home, he found a reply from Charlie37. He didn't want to read it. He closed his laptop. He went back outside into the rain to buy beer and ramen. After eating, he distracted himself with Web comics and tech blogs. Halfway through his six-pack, he decided it was time to man up. He navigated back to the forum to read the comment.

Haven't seen that IM handle. Sorry.

Corderoy breathed a sigh of relief.

Just be on the lookout for anyone claiming to have late-stage CF, needing a transplant, asking for prayer. And Funfetti cupcakes. Selena's favorite—and in my opinion, a sick joke.

There were a few more sentences in the message, but Corderoy had to stop reading. This Selena was unmistakably
Sylvie
. This girl (
Sylvie
/Selena/Brita/Sandra?) had played him like a game of Candy Land. She could be anyone. A fat old dude. Some schizophrenic guy in a psych ward. She could even be Montauk, fucking with him—he imagined it now: Montauk lying in his bunk, reading flirtatious IM logs and laughing, showing them to all his Army friends. But that wasn't right. That was a substitute Corderoy had created to fill a void. It would be too easy, too benevolent of the universe, the gulf between him and every other human reduced to a joke, a prank by his best friend.
Sylvie
, a postcard from Montauk that said,
Hey, Dickface, I miss you
. No,
Sylvie
wasn't Montauk. She wasn't anybody. She didn't even exist.