Nobodies Read online

  Max, on the other hand, is still panting, despite his efforts to cease. Fair enough, she thinks. He’s not exactly an athlete, and he did most of the work. Three and a half minutes of work, but work nonetheless. She shouldn’t have tickled his ear. That’s what put him over the top.

  Suddenly calm and secure, she imagines what she might write for today’s entry, after Max has left. She goes through drafts on the ceiling: scribbling, erasing, refining.

  After numerous rewrites and revisions, she settles on the following:

  Tuesday, April the goddamn 11th.

  Losing your virginity is not what it used to be. At least that’s what people keep telling me. Old people, mostly. People who lost their virginity in the early 1920s. Like Mom and Dad.

  Bullshit. It’s exactly what it used to be. Just as awkward, just as traumatic. But no one wants to admit it. Our parents and our parents’ parents (and probably their parents) would like us to believe that sex— along with everything else—was better in their day. More noble, more elegant, more efficient. Before the age of dildos and vibrators, when virginity and marriage went hand-in-hand, sex meant something. It was beautiful and poetic and life-changing.

  Bullshit, I say again. Bullshit. Each generation is as clumsy as the last, as clueless as the next. And Max, the poor, deluded fellow, is no exception. [frowny face]

  P.S. Maybe the rumour’s true. Maybe he tried to tickle her lobe and poked her drum by accident. (Maybe.)

  Max finally breaks the silence: “Sorry, could you pass my glasses?”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  She reaches for their thick, black glasses on the bedside table. She hands Max his and puts on her own.

  Max looks under the covers, then at Mel. “What should I do with the . . .”

  She furrows her brow, confused.

  He nods to his crotch.

  “Oh.” She plucks a tissue from her bedside table and hands it to him.

  “Thanks,” he says, reaching under the covers. He takes off his condom, wraps it in the tissue, and places it beside the bed. He notices something dark on the tips of his fingers. “Can I grab another? There’s some blood on my hands.”

  “Oh. Sure.” She hands him a couple of tissues, then looks under the covers, self-consciously. “Should’ve used a towel or something.”

  “It’s okay. It’ll wash out.”

  “Yeah.”

  They stare at the ceiling, hoping the other will make the first move.

  Suddenly, Max says, “Sorry about all the hair, by the way.”

  “Hmm?”

  “The hair.” He points. “I didn’t get a chance to trim.”

  “Oh, that’s okay.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to . . . you know . . .”

  “That’s all right. I wasn’t either.”

  “But you’re glad you did?”

  “Of course. And I’m glad it was with you instead of . . . some jerk.”

  “Me too.”

  They trade smiles and look away.

  “Just for the record,” Max says, “you’re looking good down there. Hair-wise.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  “It’s well-landscaped.”

  She grins. “Well-landscaped, you say?”

  “Well-landscaped, well-groomed, well-crafted.You have sub-lime shrubbery.”

  She laughs.

  “A bodacious bush.”

  She laughs harder.

  “It smells nice too.”

  She stops laughing. “What?”

  “Is that not a compliment? I thought it was a compliment.”

  “It’s a weird compliment.”

  “But it’s true.You have a nice-smelling . . . lady part.”

  “You can’t even say vagina?”

  “A nice-smelling vagina. There.”

  “‘Nice-smelling’ . . .”

  “Yeah. Like sushi or something.”

  “Sushi?! Sushi doesn’t smell good!”

  “I love the smell of sushi.”

  Mel lets out a sigh of frustration.

  “What? It’s not a bad smell. It’s not like . . . sewer fish, or roasted—”

  “Sewer fish?”

  “It’s a nice smell!”

  “What the fuck is a sewer fish?”

  “You know, one of those radioactive . . . the one on The Simpsons. Or Spider-Man.” He scratches his head and squints at the ceiling. “I think there was a sewer fish in Spider-Man—”

  “There’s no such thing as sewer fish.”

  “Okay. A) Yes, there is. B) I was just trying to give you a compliment.”

  “A creepy compliment.”

  “Still a compliment.”

  She scoffs.

  He turns away, crossing his arms into the sheet and pulling it tighter.

  She stares at his back, spotted with pimples and patches of hair. She takes a deep breath. “Sorry.”

  His back doesn’t budge.

  She reaches for his shoulder, half-covered by the pink of her sheets. “Hey. I’m sorry.” When her fingers find their target, it twitches, and her fingers retreat.

  MAX SR. & RUTH

  Ruth is still on the couch, watching the home movie. She spots a fly on the wall above the TV screen. The wall’s only decoration, the room’s only patch of life. The kitchen and bedrooms are no less bare, no more inviting. They have lived here for nearly a year, but they only unpacked the essentials. No posters, no pictures, no star-spangled ceilings. They don’t want this place—this “cave with no leg room,” as Ruth calls it—to feel like home, because it isn’t and never will be. In fact, two of its three tenants are planning to move.One, to college; the other, as far from the third as humanly possible. Even the third had moved in expecting to leave (though not in the same sense as the others) and refused to fully unpack. As a result, the apartment feels anonymous, like a hotel room that spends most of its time waiting for visitors. Maids go in and out, dusting tables, fluffing pillows, but no one lingers if they can help it. Eleven-hundred square feet devoid of anything human, filled to the brim with nothing in particular. Like a shopping mall. Or an unmarked grave.

  Ruth looks over at her husband, pouring another whiskey, and wonders how much longer she can tolerate this charade. Junior is about to graduate—thank God—but he won’t be moving out until he starts college in the fall. Which leaves five months, give or take, of imprisonment.

  Unlike most spouses, Ruth doesn’t wonder how her marriage unraveled. She knows. She could write a book about it. Ten Simple Steps to an Awful Marriage. Five Easy Ways to Ruin Your Life. And unlike most spouses, she didn’t watch her partner become a stranger or morph into a monster. She saw the monster on their very first date, when he grabbed her butt in the park. And on the second, when he grabbed her breast. And on the third, fourth, and fifth, when he grabbed everything else. On the sixth, she learned that the monster didn’t like condoms, and by the seventh, she had unwrapped the monster’s present. A present that could not be exchanged or returned and would cost eighteen years of her life.

  She knows what her husband thinks but doesn’t have the courage to say. She knows that, behind his macho veneer of indifference, he’s wondering what happened to his beloved Ruthie. When they started dating, she was fun and alive and exciting. In a word, happy. (Wrong.) Then Junior came along, and everything changed. (Wrong.) She became uptight and moody. (Wrong.) When they started dating, she never disagreed with her beloved Maxy. (Wrong.) But these days, a fight-free day was a rarity, not to mention a blessing. (Less wrong.) And he honestly doesn’t know why. (Right.)

  Correction Number One: She wasn’t happy. She was somewhat content for a month or so, until he knocked her up and convinced her, for propriety’s sake, to marry him.

  Correction Number Two: Nothing changed when Junior came along. Ruth was still R
uth and always would be. She simply developed a new set of goals and priorities, none of which included her husband.

  Correction Number Three: She did not become uptight and moody. She had always been uptight and moody. She just stopped caring if anyone noticed.

  Correction Number Four: She always disagreed with her beloved Maxy. She just didn’t bother to tell him.

  Max is right, however, on a couple of points: Ruth was, is, and always will be fun, as well as alive and exciting—just not around him. She has lots of vitality saved up; she simply refuses to spend it on inferior products.

  Max is also right, to a certain extent, about Junior. When Ruth became pregnant, she considered having an abortion—in fact, she even made an appointment and drove to the clinic—but she couldn’t bring herself to go through with it. She felt, rightly or wrongly, that things happened for a reason, and that she was meant to have this child, with this man. Whenever she found herself fantasizing about leaving Max, she thought of her father (from whom she had not heard in over thirty-five years) and reminded herself that a weak male presence was better than a strong male absence. She hoped, against all odds, that Max would teach his son to be a decent member of society—in other words, to be the Anti-Max—and, over the years, as her hopes diminished, she found herself frequently frustrated but rarely disappointed.

  Two incomes were better than one, she told herself, and Junior deserved a proper family. Max, for all his limitations, was at least well-intentioned, not to mention loyal. “Like a golden retriever,” her girlfriends said. “A golden retriever with anger problems.” Ruth knew that her rationalizations were rationalizations, but she didn’t care. She was determined to stay with Max until Junior left for college. Every few months, she’d pack a suitcase, get in the car, and drive until she no longer recognized the names on the signs, but after an hour or two, she’d calm down and remind herself why she was doing what she was doing. Like a recovering alcoholic counting days of sobriety, she carried Junior’s class photos in her purse to mark her achievement and to help her stay focused. Each one meant another year of hardship overcome, another year closer to freedom. Not surprisingly, her girlfriends disapproved of her plan. Womanhood, to them, was about making choices, and although they never overtly disowned her, their interactions became less and less frequent, until Ruth stopped seeing them altogether. Her prison, she argued, was self-imposed. She had made a choice. It just wasn’t the choice they wanted.

  Ruth watches the young Junior stuff a burnt marshmallow into his mouth and lick his fingers. She turns up the volume when she sees him turn to his father.

  Daddy, how do you get girls?

  Uh oh, says Ruth, playfully, from behind the camera. I think someone has a crush.

  The blonde or the redhead? asks Max, grinning his infamous grin.

  They have names, you know.

  Max ignores his wife’s comment and wraps his arm around his son, pulling him closer. You get girls, he says, by being a man.

  I am a man! his son exclaims, flexing his stringy biceps.

  Max laughs and pats his back. You’re getting there. First, we need to put some meat on those bones. Toughen you up a bit. He hands the boy a freshly burnt wiener and a stale bun. Here. Have a hot dog.

  He’s fine, Ruth says, as he is.

  Max glares at the woman behind the camera.

  Ruth looks over at the man behind the counter, pouring himself another drink. “What was the name of that lake called? Okachobee? Okachibee? “Oka” something . . .”

  “Will you turn that shit off? I’m trying to have a conversation here.”

  “A conversation . . .” Ruth mutes the TV.

  “You think I should give up. Just crawl into the office tomorrow with my tail between my legs—a tail where my dick used to be. Is that your position? I just want to be clear on this.”

  “He’s going to fire you.”

  Max folds his arms and forces a condescending smile. “Thanks, hun. I can always count on you to cheer me up.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  He finishes his drink and starts pouring another. “So how was your day?”

  “My day?”

  “I told you about mine. It’s only fair you tell me about yours.”

  “Fair . . .”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “My day was fine.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Not much.”

  “Did you send out those resumes?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Did you hear back from anyone?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Did you call anyone?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then what the hell did you do?”

  “I went to the doctor.”

  “And that took the whole day?”

  “No, that took the morning. In the afternoon, I went grocery shopping and cleaned the apartment. (Thanks for noticing.) I was going to send out resumes and make some calls, but I took a break to eat lunch and turned on the TV. Ten minutes later, you came home. Is that a satisfactory account of my activities?”

  “You couldn’t find time to drop off your resumes?”

  “Nope.”

  “It takes five minutes. You walk to the fucking box and put them in the slot. I’m pretty sure you could manage it.”

  Ruth sips her tea.

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “Nothing good.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said I need more rest.”

  “More rest?! How’s that possible? That’s all you’ve been doing for six fucking months!”

  “The stress is wearing me down.”

  “What stress?”

  “The old stress. From work.”

  “You haven’t been at work in—”

  “Six months. I’m aware. I need more time.”

  “To do what exactly? Drop dead?”

  She mimics his condescending smile. “Thanks, hun. I can always count on you to cheer me up.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.” He returns to the kitchen and gathers ingredients for a sandwich. Bread. Mayo. Cold cuts. Lettuce. “So what are you going to do then?”

  “As in?”

  “As in work. You have to go back to work.”

  “I’d rather not think about that right now.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but you have to start thinking about it. Especially if that prick fires me.”

  “Don’t get fired then.”

  “You’re hilarious.”

  “I’m serious.”

  He slams the half-empty jar of mayo on the counter. “You can’t just sit there and do nothing.You can’t. I won’t let you.”

  “Oh, you won’t?”

  “That’s right. I won’t.”

  “Well then . . .” She unmutes the TV and starts watching.

  “Where’s your fucking self-respect?”

  “It’s hiding.”

  Someone on the TV squeals with joy.

  “WILL YOU TURN THAT SHIT OFF.”

  Ruth turns up the volume.

  Max bangs on the counter with his fist. “HEY!”

  Ruth smiles at him.

  “Fuck it,” he says, pulling a knife out of the drawer. “I don’t care.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  He puts down the knife and glares at her. “What was that?”

  Ruth stares at him for a moment, expressionless, then turns back to the TV.

  Max picks up the knife. “That’s what I thought.”

  MAX JR. & MEL

  Max has rotated 90 degrees, facing the star-spangled ceiling instead of her closet. He refuses to turn the full 180. That would mean facing Mel.

  Besides, he has turned enough; the rest is her responsibility. He is litera
lly meeting her halfway. If she refuses to take the bait and say something, the fault, as they say, is not in her stars but in herself. He memorized that line in 10th Grade English and cherished it ever since. In the face of biological determinism, free-will debunkers, Neo-Freudians, and overcontrolling parents, the line has become a kind of motto. He refuses to blame his stars for his condition, whether good, bad, or somewhere in between. He is the master of his fate, the captain of his soul. That was the other line he committed to memory. Though he can never remember who said it.

  Speaking of stars, Max wonders about the ceiling. He doesn’t want to ask—especially now—but he has questions. In fact, he’s tempted, if more insults come his way, to use her star-studded ceiling as fodder for comebacks. But he’s hoping things won’t come to that. Despite his wounded ego, he would like to make peace, not war. He just wants her to throw down the first rifle and wave the white flag.

  To be honest, he can’t blame her for feeling underwhelmed by his sexual prowess. He has never lied to her—and never will—but he has certainly embellished and equivocated. (How else is one supposed to get laid?) He has lied, however, to others, mostly about his sexual expertise, and mostly to people who know Mel, in hopes that the gossip machine will keep her informed.

  If he mentions the stars, will that help break the tension or merely add insult to injury? They aren’t that embarrassing. If anything, they’re cute, but chances are if he says as much, the comment will find some way to offend her. (Like his well-intentioned—and, in hindsight, ill-advised—vagina-sushi comparison.) He’d love to know how the stars got there, why they are still there, and whether she has any plans to take them down. Granted, he kept his Star Wars curtains and Iron Man bedspread until he was thirteen, but Thirteen-Year-Old Max and Eighteen-Year-Old Max were two completely different beings. One masturbated three times a day; the other, five. One liked girls for their boobies; the other, for everything else. (Brain included.)

  He wonders: Is she staring at the same stars? Is she linking one to another, forming constellations in her mind? Or is she preoccupied with something non-star-related? Maybe she’s wondering what he’s thinking. Or wondering if he’s wondering what she’s thinking. Maybe she’s replaying her first sexual experience in her head, groan by groan, thrust by thrust—savoring, critiquing, repressing.