Nobodies Page 12

  Tucker: He said if I ever called him at midnight again, he would shove The Collected Works of Shakespeare up my—

  Todd: About the play.

  Tucker: He couldn’t give us any ‘specific ideas.’

  Todd: No, I mean, what did he say about your play?

  Tucker: Oh. He hasn’t gotten to it yet.

  Todd: What a surprise.

  Tucker: He said he’s been really busy, but he’s going to try to get to it this weekend.

  Todd: You’re being ignored, my friend.

  Tucker: No, I’m not. He’s already read part of it—

  Todd: Then you’re being rejected.

  Tucker: He’s probably only read ten pages—

  Todd: And after five he was probably suicidal. You’re lucky he even made it to ten.

  Tucker: Can we just focus on this play? The other one’s my business.

  Todd: Well, if the other play’s anything like this one . . .

  What did Mulligan say about our play?

  Tucker: Write what you know.

  Todd scoffs.

  Todd: Why don’t we write about a young aspiring playwright who can’t get his own professor to read his play?

  Tucker: He’s going to read it.

  Todd: He’s just busy.

  Tucker: Why don’t we write about you? What can we use from your perfect life?

  Todd’s grin disappears.

  Tucker: Brittney? How she broke your little heart. How she can’t fucking stand you.

  Todd: Careful, Tucker . . .

  Tucker: How I can’t fucking stand you.

  Tucker starts writing on the back of the script.

  Todd: How about that girl who texted you earlier? The laughing girl.

  Tucker: What about her?

  Todd: Let’s write about her. What it’s like to be a loser.

  Tucker: She’s not a loser.

  Todd: Okay, she’s an angel. Can we write about her now?

  Tucker: She’s not a loser.

  Todd: Yeah, I got that.

  Tucker stops scribbling and scratches out what he wrote.

  Tucker: Never mind.

  Todd: What’s wrong with it?

  Tucker: It’s too depressing.

  Todd: Life is depressing.

  Tucker: That’s not a bad title.

  Tucker starts writing.

  Tucker: Life . . . Is . . . Depressing . . .

  Todd: I’m serious. Look at us. It’s Friday night. We’re almost twenty, and look what we’re doing.

  Tucker points to the script.

  Tucker: I’m working to change that.

  Todd: You think this play will make a difference? You think a grade in a fucking drama class will change anything? It takes more than a university degree—a little piece of paper—to make you rich and famous, Tucker.

  Tucker: I don’t want to be rich and famous.

  Todd: Do you know what the success rate is for playwrights?

  Tucker: That depends on your definition of success—

  Todd: It’s very low.

  Tucker: Maybe we’ll be the lucky ones.

  Todd: Do we look like the lucky ones? We’re nobodies. We’re not models. We’re not trustfund babies. We’re not geniuses. We’re average.

  Tucker winces at the word ‘average.’

  Todd: We’ll work hard. We’ll do all the right things. We’ll keep looking for that lucky break that will always be just around the corner. And it won’t make the slightest difference. Because some people aren’t meant for success.

  Tucker responds with a long silence, almost as long as the speech that inspired it.

  Tucker: That’s not a bad speech.

  He starts scribbling on the back of the script.

  Todd: What are you doing?

  Tucker: That’s a good speech, man. Do you remember any of it?

  Todd: I don’t believe this.

  Tucker: (writing)Okay, you started with . . .Shit! What did you say? Something about . . . ‘Life is depressing.’ Great opening line . . . And then . . . Ah, what did you say after that? ‘Life is depressing’ . . . blah blah blah . . . something about a piece of paper . . . Dammit!

  Todd: What is wrong with you? Didn’t you hear anything I just said?

  Tucker: No! (pointing to the page) That’s clearly the problem!

  He drops the pen and runs his fingers through his hair. Tucker: Great . . . That’s great. One of the best speeches I’ve ever heard. Can’t remember a word of it.

  Todd: It probably wasn’t that good then.

  Tucker rubs his eyes and sighs. He examines the script.

  Tucker: This is impossible . . .

  He leans back in his chair, head slightly hung, legs sprawled out beneath the table.

  Tucker: How about . . .How about this? A play about not having a play. Writing about having nothing to say.

  Todd: Sounds great. Start writing.

  Tucker leans forward, picks up the pen, examines the back of the script, then drops the pen and leans back again.

  They remain frozen in their recumbent positions, staring intensely at nothing in particular.

  Todd’s phone starts to vibrate on the table. He makes no effort to answer it.

  Tucker: You gonna get that?

  Todd doesn’t respond.

  Tucker: It might be Julie.

  Todd remains still. Tucker reaches out and slides the phone across the table.

  Tucker: Don’t ignore people.

  Todd leans forward slowly, checks the number, then leans back.

  Todd: It’s the girl from class.

  Tucker: The laughing girl?

  Todd nods. The phone keeps vibrating.

  Tucker: I think she wants to talk to you.

  Todd doesn’t move. Tucker starts flipping through the script.

  Tucker: Is it really that bad?

  Todd: Sorry, man.

  Tucker reads a section and crosses it out. He turns the page. After scanning a few lines, he draws an X through the entire page.

  Todd: Start writing.

  Tucker: Huh?

  Todd: “Act One. A bare stage with a table in the middle, a chair on either side.”

  Tucker starts writing, confused.

  Todd: “Todd, an average-looking undergraduate wearing ripped jeans and a leather jacket, enters from stage right with a script in his hand. Todd: ‘Who’s there?’ Tucker, another average-looking undergraduate, dressed from head-to-toe in form-fitting plaid, enters from stage left, frustrated.”

  Tucker looks up at Todd and grins.

  Tucker: “Tucker: ‘Start again. This time, with passion.’” Smiling, Todd nods towards the script. Tucker starts writing.

  (MORE) INFAMOUS ENDINGS

  George Orwell: 47, tuberculosis

  Paul Celan: 49, suicide

  Novalis: 29, tuberculosis

  Margaret Laurence: 60, suicide

  Primo Levi: 58, suicide

  William Faulkner: 67, heart attack

  F. Scott Fitzgerald: 44, heart attack

  Friedrich Schiller: 46, tuberculosis

  Laurence Sterne: 55, tuberculosis

  Weldon Kees: 41, suicide

  Tennessee Williams: 71, choked on a bottle cap

  Anne Sexton: 45, suicide

  John Berryman: 57, suicide

  Vladimir Mayakovsky: 36, suicide

  Frederico Garcia Lorca: 38, killed by fascists

  Henry David Thoreau: 45, tuberculosis

  Yukio Mishima: 45, suicide

  John Kennedy Toole: 31, suicide

  Charlotte Mew: 59, suicide

  Moliere: 51, tuberculosis

  Thomas Wolfe: 38, tuberculosis

  Anne Bronte: 29
, tuberculosis

  Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 55, tuberculosis

  Petronius: 39, suicide

  Walter Benjamin: 48, suicide

  Nathaniel West: 37, car crash

  CORMAC MCCARTHY ORDERS A PIZZA

  Operator: Thank you for calling Papa Jerry’s. What can I get for you today?

  McCarthy: A pie of average size with bloodred medallions atop a lavalike layer of bubblings that reaches in vain for the stony burnt crust.

  Operator: Beg your pardon?

  McCarthy: A medium pepperoni.

  Operator: Will this be delivery or pick up?

  McCarthy: Depends on the position of the godless sun by which men have come to tell time and therefore by which time has come to tell men of that which has come to pass and may yet come to pass since time is a smokedarkened nexus of chimes and ticks that only reveals its full allotment after the fall of the final stroke.

  Operator: Uh . . .

  McCarthy: What time is it?

  Operator: 10:32.

  McCarthy: Delivery, then. I dare not venture forth into the nameless night from which nothing save wolves emerge as emissaries of a void beyond reckoning.

  Operator: Can I get your address?

  McCarthy: I live at the intersection of nihilistic despair and aesthetic idealism.

  Operator: Is that a house or an apartment?

  McCarthy: House. 343 Holden Drive.

  Operator: Can I get a name for the order?

  McCarthy: Cormac.

  Operator: Kermit?

  McCarthy: Cormac.

  Operator: Like the frog?

  McCarthy: (sighs) Sure. Like the frog.

  Operator: Would you like to try our Spicy Garlic Fun Sticks for 3.99?

  McCarthy: Negative. Eternally negative.

  Operator: And how would you like to pay?

  McCarthy: With my soul and with the souls of all who face the icy blackness of the world in its final turning with the stubbornstoic hope of a deafmute monk who hears God’s silence and responds in kind.

  Operator: We take cash and credit.

  McCarthy: Credit.

  Operator: Okay, Kermit. The time is now 10:34. Your order is guaranteed in 30 minutes or it will be free. Thank you for calling Papa Jerry’s.

  McCarthy: Thank you for being Papa Jerry’s. I salute your courage.

  THE INCOMPREHENSIBLE HERE

  I spot Father O’Neill in the wine section, flirting with a full-bodied Pinot. No cart. No basket. No foresight. The O’Neill I know isn’t a one-bottle shopper.

  Nor is he a snazzy dresser.Yet here he is in a suit. A sleek, tailored, ungodly black suit. The kind that Satan would wear. Or Dorian Gray. The stitching never weakens; the fabric never fades. Even the folds and creases are lined with grace.

  O’Neill mumbles something to the Pinot. Something with consonants, but no vowels. As if he were speaking in tongues.

  I duck into the aisle, close enough to hear, yet far enough to keep out of sight. The shelf conceals everything below my chin; the Chardonnay selection obscures the rest. If he moves right along the back wall instead of left, I’ll be exposed, but still out of reach. If he wants to hurt me, he’ll have to throw a bottle.

  But maybe hiding is absurd. He wouldn’t recognize me with the beard, let alone the shoulder-length hair. I hardly recognize him without his costume.Or, for that matter, his comb-over. Ten years ago his hair was wispy and weak; now it’s slicked back in silver lines across his skull.

  O’Neill picks up a new bottle, hums a tune and sways, as if slow dancing. Is he drunk already? It’s not even 5:30. Perhaps he’s just giddy. Maybe he saved a confessor from suicide and is still basking in his post-priestly glow. Maybe he’s heading to a late-night prayer meeting, or a date with Sister Roberta.

  He mutters sweet nothings as he feels up the label. Then his fingers stop. Something must be wrong with the vintage.

  “Not quite my type,” he mumbles, dumping the bottle in the rack. He picks up another. “Yessss,” he says. “You’re the one I’ve been looking for.”

  * * *

  I only spoke to O’Neill on birthdays, after the Big Man gave unwanted gifts. (For my Sweet Sixteen, He sent heartbreak. For the Big Two-O, the Big C. And for my quarter-life crisis, an end-of-life crisis.) Life, I assumed, had a satisfaction guarantee, an extended warranty on all products, regardless of price, and if I was unhappy, I should visit O’Neill in the Complaints Department. At sixteen, my grievance was minor—damaged packaging, easily fixed—but at twenty, it was major: faulty wiring, defective batteries. Unfixable, but quickly exchanged. At twenty-four, I told the Big Man to go to hell. Missing parts. Irreplaceable. No refund. No exchange. Just grievance.

  Sixteen-Year-Old Me, the victim of a recent dumping, was no match for O’Neill. He may have been an intellectual lightweight, but I was only a featherweight. If I ever wanted to beat him at his own game, I would have to bulk up my brain. So I began reading books with big words and long titles, hoping to pack on pounds of knowledge, strengthen my stamina, and master the art of argumentation. Between meals of Plato and Schopenhauer, I snacked on Sudoku, and after two years of training, O’Neill and I were evenly matched. After two more—during which I discovered chess, Vitamin B, and crossword puzzles—I was a full-fledged welter-weight, if not a borderline middleweight.

  Bout One may have been a one-sided lecture, but Bout Two was a crossbearing debate. O’Neill began by beating out my latest grievance, even though it was written across my hair-speckled scalp. He told me to speak my mind and say what was in my heart, since the Big Man knew everything anyway. I didn’t mention that what was in my heart rarely matched what was in my head, nor did I note the redundancy of his position as a spiritual middleman. I simply asked him why God would condemn a twenty-year-old to death. I had never committed a serious crime, I went to church more often than most Christians, and I frequently treated my friends and family with respect. Even my three ex-girlfriends had nice things to say about me, generally speaking. What did I do to deserve cancer?

  Instead of answering, O’Neill lowered himself into the pew and placed a ringless hand on my shoulder. He reminded me that God was higher than we were, that He asked for love, not understanding.

  “He’d have to be pretty high,” I replied, “to ask for one without the other.”

  O’Neill’s hand fell away. He quoted Proverbs 9:10: The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.

  “Just as the fear of logic is the beginning of delusion.”

  He said I should be grateful for what I had, since things could always be worse. For most of the planet, things were worse.

  “And for that I should be grateful?”

  He didn’t respond. Probably because he agreed but could never admit it.

  Luckily, my cancer was treatable, but it caused a lot of anxiety at the time. It was as if God were teasing me, forcing me to be grateful for an illness that could have always been worse. For months—before, during, and after my treatment—I dedicated myself to hating Him, and He rewarded me with life. After all, death would have been a gift; He knew I wanted to meet Him face-to-face.

  My indignation grew as I recovered, and where others saw mercy, I saw mockery. I wouldn’t rest until I beat Him at His own game, so I practiced on my parents and turned the kitchen into a court room. They defended the Big Man more adamantly than O’Neill ever would or could, but in their few moments of weakness I managed to convince them to take up the cross against their Lord and Savior.

  For every stone I threw at the sky I expected a boulder to fall in return. But months passed, then years, and nothing happened. Eventually, I ended my crusade and turned my mind to more important matters, like girls and school. I not only forgave God, but when things went well I actually thanked Him. Genuinely. Earnestly. And that’s when the boulder fell.

&n
bsp; By then, it had been five years since my last bout with Father “Middleman” O’Neill. We didn’t speak at my parents’ funeral, but I left a note on the altar requesting a rematch. He had heard my eulogy; I had heard his sermon. For the moment, there was nothing more to say.

  * * *

  O’Neill moves along the back wall, and I move with him, hopping from aisle to aisle, crouching behind promotional displays and racks of discount Rieslings.

  Even his walk is different, a sober glide instead of a stumble. His eyebrows are longer too. They peel up and away from his face, either reaching for the heavens or fleeing their earthly constraints. But the real mystery is his suit, which O’Neill couldn’t afford even if he stole from the collection plate. Why would he want it anyway? Isn’t there some kind of after-hours dress code? Or has he retired from the Complaints Department?

  So many questions, doomed to go unanswered. If only I had the nerve to confront him.

  When I was younger, I liked to sum up my enemies in a sentence, reducing entire lives to a single subject, verb, and thought. Girls had daddy issues; boys had mommy issues; O’Neill had whiskey issues. (And daddy issues of a more metaphysical kind.) But something about O’Neill eluded my reductions. For every cliché, I found a contradiction—one that would unravel my tidy theory. The way he sighed before speaking. The way he broke the bread and poured the wine, as if dining at his own Last Supper.The length and tone of his silences, hinting at a sermon beyond speech.

  I had known O’Neill since I was five or six, when my parents decided to abandon their pagan pastimes and get cosy with God. I never quite shared their faith, but I had a hard time putting the Big Man out of my head. Even if I knew He wasn’t there, a part of me always believed He was—especially when I wished He wasn’t. In a good mood, I was an atheist; in a bad mood, a believer; in an average mood, an agnostic. Most of the time, my mood was average, which made life hard to navigate.

  “A Godless world is an indifferent world,” I once told him, “but at least it isn’t cruel.”

  O’Neill replied that the world was cruel, with or without

  God’s help.

  His fervor may have waned as his years advanced, but he drank only enough to numb the pain of his disbelief. Whenever I spoke with him, I could smell the sacrament on his breath, yet it didn’t seem to affect his performance.The parables and the platitudes were still intact, chiselled into his mind alongside the doubts and the regrets.