Well Read online

  What are you looking at? his wife said.

  The game.

  Can you see their faces?

  Yeah.

  Let me try.

  Raymond handed the binoculars to his wife. The crowd cheered loudly. The man to his right knocked his knee against Raymond’s. Someone had been fouled. He looked down at the redhead. From up here without the glasses you could barely see anything. You couldn’t tell she was so beautiful, so perfect. He guessed that everyone seated this high must just assume that about her and the rest of them. Well, none of the others were anything close.

  Let me see them again, he said.

  Just a minute, his wife said. Wow, you really can see everything! She dropped the binoculars to her lap and turned to him—You can see their lips move, she said, and put them to her eyes again.

  Raymond looked at his wife and sighed. She’d never looked anything like the redhead, not even close, but there had been a time… He guessed he couldn’t fault her for aging. He couldn’t fault her for having kids, menopause. Still, he wished she’d go to the gym, try to work off some of that extra padding, try to get at least some of what she’d had back, as much as possible, maybe dye her hair a new color. Wear some tighter outfits. Squeeze that extra weight in. Look at her. She was always wearing those baggy basketball T-shirts. And what kind of a woman wears a baseball cap? The next time he made love to her he would remember the redhead.

  The whistle blew. The announcer said: Timeout SuperSonics. There were only a few seconds left in the third quarter.

  All right. My turn. Let me see. Raymond grabbed the glasses from his wife’s hand as the redhead hopped her way onto the court along with the other girls. A song was playing on the sound system that he faintly recalled hearing somewhere, possibly blasting from behind his daughter’s door. He focused on the redhead. She had a great smile, perfect teeth. Her hair couldn’t be that curly naturally, could it? Maybe she had it permed. Wouldn’t it be something to walk into a barbershop and see her in the chair getting a perm? Wow, she had great rhythm. She bounced up and down to the music, running in place, kicking her legs up high behind her. She clapped her hands above her head. Her breasts bobbed in tandem, barely restrained by the tight fabric of her shirt; they seemed to be smiling too. And those legs… He imagined rubbing his dick along one. She was lying on her side on his down comforter. She was wearing that outfit, smiling. One breast had popped out and she held it in her hand, twiddling the nipple between two fingers. First he felt her leg with his hand and then he rubbed his face up her thigh and then it became too much for him and he just had to whip it out and rub it across her lustrous, silky—

  What the hell are you doing? His wife grabbed at the binoculars—Put those away!—knocking him on the side of the nose.

  Ow! he said. What?

  Don’t be a pervert!

  What? His right eye began to tear up from the blow.

  God! And right in front of all these people! Shameless!

  What are you talking about?

  You were staring at those girls!

  I wasn’t staring at them! I thought I saw someone I recognized down there. I was trying to see if it was him.

  Right.

  I was! It wasn’t him although it looked like him. He cleared his throat. You thought I was staring at those girls? He chuckled, cleared his throat again. I can see how it might have looked that way, but believe me… He rubbed his nose. Geez, that really hurt.

  She appeared to not want to hear it.

  Raymond had first seen her back at college and he set about recollecting that now. She’d been sitting under a tree reading a book. She was so beautiful… What was it that had attracted him to her? The backlighting of the sun that set her hair aglow? The wind blowing it across her face, the way she’d gently sweep it out of her eyes with two fingers, turning the page, that forlorn expression on her face?

  Was this how it really had been? Or had he seen it in a movie?

  Now that he thought about it he was pretty sure he’d seen it in a movie. That’s what it was—Catherine Deneuve. They’d gone to a Catherine Deneuve movie on one of their first dates. The story had made his wife cry and afterwards when she had wanted to discuss it, he couldn’t remember anything about the movie because he’d been awestruck by Catherine Deneuve, he’d watched her the entire movie without listening or paying any attention to what was happening around her. When she wasn’t in a scene, he’d be thinking about her in the previous scene, recalling a particular image, then freezing it in his brain so that he would be able to call it up later. His wife had long straight hair then and she looked a little like Catherine Deneuve; around the mouth, maybe. Where had he first seen her? When was it? Could he even remember?

  Then a sound like a tsunami crashing and when Raymond looked up, he saw that everyone had jumped from their seats, including his wife. He stood too and reached for her—he had to shout over the din of the crowd:

  WHAT HAPPENED?

  She was whistling through her fingers.

  WHAT HAPPENED? I MISSED IT! WHAT HAPPENED?

  WE HIT A THREE-POINTER AT THE BUZZER!

  His wife was beaming, clapping her hands to the music coming from the PA, bouncing on her toes, exuberant. She put her arm around him and planted a long kiss on his cheek, and he bounced along with her. The cheerleaders ran onto the floor to lead the crowd in exaltation. Without the binoculars he couldn’t see her very well but he remembered…

  WE’RE COMING BACK! his wife said. I THINK WE’RE GOING TO WIN! I CAN FEEL IT!

  Mr So sighed. It was over. He leaned forward and turned the channel. The bell rang and one of the girls from next door came in and pulled a packet of No-Doz from the box on the counter, slapped it down.

  I’m in a hurry, she said.

  She said, Hello? English? Speak—ee Eng—lish? Her—o? Can—you—hear—me—I—don’t—have—for—e—ver!

  Mr So stood up. He took her seventy-five cents. The bell rang as she hurried out into the rain. There was nothing special about today.

  Len turned off the TV. Fucking shit.

  Not to mention Adda was still inside.

  He got up from the couch and went over to the door. He said, Goddamnit, when are you gonna come out?

  He could hear her turning the pages of a magazine on the other side.

  I wanna talk about it some more, he said.

  I don’t want… to talk about it…anymore, Adda said.

  Len was tired. (You need to put a stop to this shit right now, man. She was never gonna stay with you anyway. Why the fuck would she stay with you? What do you got? Dick. You got dick. All she ever wanted was to use you.

  Be a man, Len. Be a fucking MAN for once.)

  Open the door! he said.

  No. Calm down.

  Open the goddamn door! He banged on it.

  Why don’t you go out for awhile, Adda said. Go get a beer. You need to calm down.

  You can fuck that fucker for all I care! Len shouted, pulling hard against the door. Fuck him! I don’t give a shit!

  On second thought, maybe go get yourself a cup of coffee, Adda said. You’re drunk.

  I’m not going anywhere! Open the door! I wanna talk!

  Adda turned the page.

  Say something goddamnit!

  She lay back on the bed. She felt so sorry for him. (I’m sorry, Len. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to do.)

  Fucking say something! Len shouted.

  Adda cleared her throat.

  You’re just a fucking bitch, you know that? Len said. You’re a fucking bitch! You think you know but you don’t know shit! You’re just a fucking—

  Adda sang:

  Thank you! Good—night!

  I don’t give a shit about you, bitch! I don’t give a shit about you!

  Sang:

  Thank you! Good—night!

  Get out of my apartment!

  Thank you! Good—night!

  Go home!

  Thank you! Good—night!

&nbs
p; Go back home!

  Thank you! Good—night!

  Go to California, bitch! he said. Let him put his fucking hands all over you! All over your **** and *** and ***** and let him * * * * you in the * * *!

  Thank you! she sang. Good—night!

  Thank you! Good—night!

  Good—night! Good—night!

  Good—night!

  In his dream, Nate was standing over an enormous fishtank, pissing, but no matter how long he stood there, he would not be relieved. He pissed for what seemed like hours and then he opened his eyes. It was dark. They’d fallen asleep. Jesus, he’d missed the game. He rolled Sammie off his shoulder, stood up naked, leaned back down and pulled the blanket over her tits. She stirred but didn’t wake. Her bottom lip was fat and in the dark he could make out a bruise on the side of her mouth. She’d have to see a dentist, maybe call in sick tonight. He had a sudden urge to kiss her softly but instead he walked down the hall to the bathroom and stood over the toilet and sighed and pissed and the goddamn hole in his dick was closed up after the screw and with the first burst came two sideways streams—one that hit his left leg and the other, the new shower curtain Sammie had put up—Damnit!—he stopped quickly and, holding it in, wiped his leg off with toilet paper, wiped the toilet seat down, sat and pissed into the bowl. Relief. Then he flushed, walked back into the living room, put his boxers on, picked up the remote, sat on the edge of the couch by Sammie’s head, and hit the button. He felt her put her hand against his back. The TV made a soft popping noise and with a quick flash of blue, the picture came on. Nate picked up Sammie’s Percocet vial and swallowed a few down dry. Flicked through the channels looking for a sports wrap-up but couldn’t find one. He regretted not reminding Sammie about the cable bill. If the cable was still on he’d know who won the game. He stopped on the news, resigned to waiting.

  Who did he think had won? His team? If he was a betting man, would he have put money on it? Could he forget the disappointments of past seasons? Could he believe that they had risen to the occasion and won the game? Could he believe that they had not let him down?

  You know what I drive? I drive a minivan. I bought it last year. I got it with thirty thousand miles on it. If you would have asked me when I was your age if I’d be my age driving a mini-van with a bitch wife and two kids I’d have said you were crazy. I believed in my Purpose, my Destiny. I haven’t the foggiest idea how to get back up and running again. Maybe leave them some night late and go back to Southeast Asia.

  God, it’s so beautiful there. You haven’t seen a sunset until you’ve seen those cliffs glowing orange when the sun is almost down, and the ocean, and then as if in a dance a flock of birds rises up from the water and turns and falls and floats and is about to break apart and each bird is caught by the same force and the entire flock turns and falls and floats and each time it looks like they’re all going to break apart again, together they turn and fall and float—

  I would take a girl on a cruise and we would ride and drink from a flask and watch the sunset, the swollen orange sun over the water, I’d get the whole boat going in a song more than fifty people and we would laugh and sing all of us—All together now!—we would drink from the flask and she and I would hold each other.

  It was like the movies,

  except I don’t know any of these people and she’s only holding me because I’m paying her to hold me and no matter how hard I try to forget that fact I just can’t and my wife is at home wrapping my dinner in Saran Wrap and she’s hoping I’ve just lost track of time again: He’s always losing track of time again.

  What time is it now, anyway? Do you know? It’s dark out, isn’t it. I should be going.

  There’s always next year, Raymond said, and his wife in the passenger seat sighed, staring out the window. She’d taken off her Sonics cap and now held it in her lap. They were in bumper-to-bumper traffic, everyone trying to merge onto the freeway, having trouble in the rain. It always took so long to get back after a game. He’d wanted to stay in the arena until everyone had left, but she’d wanted to leave right away. She was despondent and he wanted to do something for her. But he didn’t know what. He loved her greatly. He loved her more than anything in the world. But there were things—too many things—that he wanted, and that desire—he couldn’t get it out of him. He understood that it occupied much too large a part of himself and it was a part that he could not share with her and because of that they could never really know each other as deeply as they should, she could never know him as deeply as she deserved. But that part—how do you give it up? Who do you give it to? In wonderment, Raymond began to think of the redheaded cheerleader, the way she had smiled, the way she’d moved her body as she had danced a number near the end of the game, each step a short, controlled spasm—he wondered if she became filled with sexual energy when she danced, if she became wet—she must be taking a shower right now, he thought, soaping her body, running the bar of soap down her arms, over and around her breasts, across her belly, between her legs, around her backside, between her cheeks, leaning back in a cloud of steam her hands stroking her face beneath the white-blue stream of water which dripped from and ran from her silky hair her legs her skin…

  His wife said, I really thought we were going to win. I thought we had it this time.

  I know.

  It’s just—you get your hopes up.

  Yes.

  You get your damn hopes up.

  Well, Raymond said, there’s always next year. He turned to her and smiled. Might as well look on the bright side of things.

  She kept staring out the window.

  Thank you, Raymond, she said. You’re too kind. You’re far too kind.

  * * * ENCORE * * *

  (Head back. Good. You look fine. Get that—wipe that—off. Deep breath. And … let it out. I know. Don’t worry. Smile.)

  I don’t want to smile.

  (You know what they say: When life hands you lemons, you go out there and make a big pitcher of lemonade.)

  I don’t even like lemonade. I need braces. I look ugly.

  (You look fine.)

  Jesus, I look a hundred years old.

  (You’re fine.)

  I don’t feel fine.

  (You are fine. You just have to remind yourself.)

  God, I hate my nipples.

  (There’s nothing wrong with your nipples. Here. Do your affirmations. There’s nobody in here. Check the stalls. Nobody.)

  I am a happy, healthy, wholesome, beautiful, positive, prosperous person.

  I am extremely well-liked and pleasing.

  I have complete and unconditional worth as a person in this universe.

  I accept and acknowledge unconditionally my individuality and unique personality.

  I am highly creative, intelligent, attractive, energetic, sexy, witty, smart, healthy, and wise.

  (OK. Now love.)

  I love myself unconditionally just as I am.

  I give and receive love easily and joyfully.

  I always have an abundant supply of love within me.

  I radiate love to all persons and places and things that I contact each day.

  People are just waiting to love me and I let them love me abundantly.

  (Now the poem. Do it without crying.)

  Perhaps love is like a resting place

  A shelter from the storm

  It exists to give you comfort

  It is there to keep you warm

  And in those times of trouble

  When you are most alone

  The memory of love will bring you home.

  (Feel better?)

  No. I look like crap. No matter what I do I still look like this. How did I get like this? When did this happen? Jesus Christ.

  (Relax. Your mascara will run.)

  I don’t care if it runs.

  (You’ll only make things worse. You’ll get blue drops all over your outfit. Just relax. You’ve got to go out there and put on a show.)

  I don’t wa
nt to go out there.

  (Yes, you do. You want to go out there and show them what you’ve got. It’s your time.)

  I look terrible.

  (No you don’t.)

  Yes I do. I look so ugly I want to be sick.

  (Take another hit.)

  God, I’m so ugly…

  … I’m so fucking ugly.

  (There. Wipe that off. Good.)

  Why am I like this? What the hell is wrong with me?

  (Nothing.)

  No, something is. Something definitely is.

  (You’re fine.)

  No. I’m not well. I’m not well.

  (You’re well.)

  I feel so damn alone.

  (Admitting you’re alone is half the battle.)

  That doesn’t even make sense.

  (You’re a star.)

  I don’t even remember what song I said.

  (Yes you do.)

  No, I don’t. I really don’t remember.

  (What do you mean, you don’t remember?)

  Shit, I don’t remember the routine!

  (How could you not remember?)

  I don’t remember what I’m supposed to do!

  (What are you, a retard?)

  Oh, man! I can’t go out there! I gotta tell Terry I can’t do it! Oh shit! I’m retarded! What am I gonna do? What the hell am I gonna do? Oh fuck, I can’t remember! What the fuck is it? I don’t remember anything!

  (Hopeless.)

  Oh Jesus help me! Help me Christ! I can’t go out there!

  (Just hopeless…)

  One night, after he’d added everything up, Jim had come home with almost fifty dollars and a camera. He’d sold the camera for twenty bucks to a friend of his, so the grand total that night had been close to seventy bucks. That had been a good night. Most nights he only found a few dollars here or there. Sometimes earrings or a wallet, once in awhile a watch. Tonight he hadn’t found a dime. And so he had stopped looking. He’d stopped looking at what he swept up, stopped looking into the trash can after he dumped the pan, stopped rooting through the ticket stubs and napkins and cups and wrappers for money or a check or credit card that might have slipped out of somebody’s wallet. It felt to him tonight, the way his luck was going, that he should go home with nothing, so he stopped looking.