Nobodies Page 9

  Max had described his first time to classmates as “epic” and “immensely satisfying for both parties,” but, in reality, it was just as awkward and short-lived as 99 percent of all virginity losses. First, he had trouble putting on the condom, which sprung off the tip of his penis and hit the girl’s nipple. Then, after forty-six seconds of clueless humping, he moaned—or, more accurately, shouted—in her ear and nearly caused permanent damage. Her doctor prescribed pills and covered the ear in a bandage, which she had to wear for over a month. Her official excuse was an infection, but a few days after the incident, her closest friends began to point and giggle whenever Max would walk by in the cafeteria. At this stage in his life, girls had many reasons to giggle at him, so he didn’t jump to conclusions. But he couldn’t deny that the timing was suspicious.

  For weeks he wanted to apologize, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak to her—or even look her in the eye—until the bandage came off. It was a constant reminder of his impotence, his shameful lack of masculinity. High school graduation was only a few months away, and—excluding hand jobs, blow jobs, and other job-like activities—he’d only had three sexual encounters, none of which gave him reasons to brag. (In fact, each one gave him new reasons to lie.)

  Max decided to enhance his expertise by watching instructional sex videos online. He found it hard, however, to focus on the instructional aspects of the videos when the sex aspects were so captivating. In fact, he’d usually only last a few minutes before he felt compelled to put aside his notebook and retrieve the lotion and tissue box from the bathroom. When he finally realized how little he’d gained and how much he could potentially lose, he stopped browsing the internet for carnal advice. As far as he knew, Mom and Dad didn’t monitor his search history, but they were bound to discover his research materials eventually.

  So he went to the public library instead. He didn’t have the courage to borrow books, but he glanced at them when the librarian wasn’t looking. In a book on Kama Sutra, he learned (among other things) that the ear was an erogenous zone, and that licking, tickling, and massaging the ear could provide erotic pleasure. Intrigued and inspired, he put the book aside and marched into the bathroom to tickle his ears. He quickly realized, however, that it was impossible to tickle himself, so he tried massaging his ears instead. No reaction. He would need someone else’s touch—preferably, someone with a vagina—so he vowed to ask the next girl with whom he hooked up to tickle, lick, and/or massage his ears.

  That girl, for better or worse, turned out to be Mel, an old friend whom he had always liked but never enough to tell her. They had known each other for nearly a decade, and although they came close a few times, they never quite connected. What the hell, he thought, one day in biology, when he noticed Mel’s new hair cut. She wasn’t exactly a 10—or even an 8 or a 9— but neither was he. And that was okay. After four years of high school, he was tired of 9s and 10s. He had learned to reel in his expectations and settle for substance over shape. He wanted cute, not hot; the girl next door instead of the porn star. After all, his “dream girl” would probably be nothing like the girl of his dreams.

  (His dad had always taught him to punch his weight. “10s date 10s,” he said, “and 7s date 7s.” He never assigned a number to Max, but Max guessed that 7 was not arbitrarily chosen. Nor was it entirely accurate. His father probably thought he was a 6— maybe even a 5—but he just didn’t want to admit it. Max’s mom, on the other hand, thought that anyone, regardless of rank, could date anyone. “You’re living proof of that,” she’d tell her husband, after calling his system a “pile of reductionist bullshit.” “Bullshit that helps guys get girls,” he’d reply, fully aware of how much she resented his theory that girls were something to “get,” like DVDs and groceries. Max Sr. had a zero-sum approach to relationships: “Either you get girls,” he’d say, “or girls get you.”)

  So, during the ten minute break between biology and calculus, Max asked her out. And weeks later, after hours of hand-holding, making-out, and exploratory petting, he found himself beguiled. Mel was supposed to be a placeholder, a chance to gain experience and build confidence. He had expected to like her, want her, maybe even admire her. But he hadn’t expected to fall in love with her.

  Yet here he is. And there she is. Side by side, refusing to talk.

  “FYI . . .” she says, breaking the silence. “You have a nice . . . you know . . .”

  “Hmm?”

  “It’s nice. It’s . . . long . . . and straight.”

  He allows himself a laugh, barely audible.

  “I’m serious,” she says. “A lot of them are all crooked and curvy.”

  “How many have you seen?”

  “Uh . . . Not too many. Not in person, at least.”

  He turns to her and scans her face, confused.

  “Yours is nice,” she continues. “It’s not too veiny. And the top is nice and round. Like a helmet.”

  “What kind of helmet?”

  “I don’t know. Just a helmet. An army helmet.”

  Max does not seem satisfied.

  “Some of them look angry, you know, like they’re going to mug you or something . . . But yours looks happy.”

  “I have a very well-adjusted penis.”

  “I know you do.” She kisses him on the cheek.

  “You’re pretty good, by the way. You know, for a beginner.”

  She scoffs. “I’m a pro. You’re a beginner.”

  “I’ll have you know, I’ve had four times as much sex as you’ve had.”

  “It shows.”

  He grins proudly, then as the ambiguity sinks in he furrows his brow, perplexed.

  “Tell me, Casanova: were these four separate ladies or four separate incidents? Or four separate ladies and four separate incidents?”

  Max tries to formulate an answer.

  “Or fewer than four separate ladies and four separate incidents?”

  Max sighs.

  “Or four separate men and four separate incidents?”

  “Okay. A) Gross. B) I object to the term ‘incident.’ It sounds suspicious.”

  “And are you referring to duration or to specific acts? Does your criteria differentiate between quality and quantity, and if so, how so, and if not, why not?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, sweetie. I’m just messing with you.”

  “Oh.” Max pulls the covers over his chest. “By the way, you left out four separate ladies and fewer than four separate incidents.”

  “That would imply a threesome. You haven’t have a threesome.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve known you since you wet your pants at recess. You haven’t had a threesome.”

  “A middle-aged couple online once asked me to take a well-oiled piece of—”

  “Please, don’t finish that sentence.”

  “They seemed nice to me.”

  “I’m sure they were lovely. Can we change the subject?”

  “Sure.You brought it up.”

  She opens her mouth but resists the urge to respond.

  Their eyes wander across the ceiling, searching for something to say.

  Max turns to her, smiling. “Wanna go again?”

  “Go where?” She interprets his grin. “Oh. No. No way.”

  He recoils, offended, and turns away. No middle-ground 90 this time. Full 180.

  She reaches out to comfort him. “No, I just mean right now. Not right now. Later maybe.”

  “Fine.”

  “Thanks though. For offering.”

  MAX SR. & RUTH

  Max continues working on his sandwich. Chop, chop, slice. Chop, chop, slice.

  Ruth has set the TV at a reasonable volume. Max doesn’t watch, but he listens. He recognizes the arguments, the lines of dialogue, recycled from countless fights before. In this sc
ene, Junior has wandered off, leaving Max and Ruth alone to argue about everything from tent-building techniques to parenting ideologies. Ruth impales a tent pole in the ground and walks off into the trees. Max yells something obscene, but she keeps walking.

  Ruth is clearly trying to tell him something by watching this video. But Max doesn’t care. If she has something to say, she can man-up and say it to his face. This passive aggressive shit doesn’t work on him. She knows that. And she knows that he knows that she knows that. And yet she does it anyway. Because she knows that it does work, on some level, in some way. And she knows that he knows that she knows that.

  What he doesn’t know is why she’s so hard on him. And so soft on Junior. And so hard on him for not being soft on Junior. Soft helps no one. (He has explained this many times.) Hard is a necessary evil, a required course called Growing Up 101. Max sensed early on that his son was a bit girly—“sensitive,” as Ruth called it—but he refused to let her convince Junior that it was okay to be weak.

  He needed, as a father, to teach his son the truth about girls and women: “If you work hard and do the right things, girls will come. But you have to be ready. Girls don’t want some scrawny little wimp. They want men.”When Ruth heard Max say this, just months after the camping trip, she nearly dropped a dish on the kitchen floor. “Girls,” she explained, “aren’t trophies you get if you do your homework. They’re not things to earn. They’re people.” Then Max said something about respect and how it’s earned, not given, and that nothing in life is free. “Love is free,” she said, taking her son’s hand. Max scoffed and pulled him away from his mother. “Don’t listen to that sensitive crap,” he said, walking Junior to his room.

  To this day, Max has no idea how Ruth really feels about him. From Date One, he was head-over-heels and just assumed that his feelings were mutual. If he wondered, from time to time, why his wife seemed to hate everything he did, said, and thought, he would blame the birth of Junior and the loss of his job—both results of sexual misconduct. Junior, the unlucky accident, was a walking condom commercial. His high-powered job, on the other hand, evaporated when a co-worker filed a sexual harassment complaint, claiming that Max had grabbed her “caboose.” (His term, not hers.) Naturally, he dismissed the allegation as unfounded, motivated by petty office politics; however, a few days later, six more women came forward, complaining of similar behavior. Groping in the break room. Winking as he passed their desks. Flirting at social functions. Talking too close. Touching. Brushing. Staring. Some had text messages to prove their claims; others had emails and security camera footage. By Friday, the jury was in, and Max was out. Ruth stood by him—in public and private—pretending to believe every word of his alibis, but she knew. And he knew that she knew. But neither would ever admit it.

  After Max was fired, they were forced to sell their two-storey house and move into a two-bedroom apartment. (Their house had been lavish, comfortable to a fault, as intoxicating as it was unaffordable.) Eventually, Ruth lost her job, due to the flailing economy, and Max found work—after months of fruitless searching—as a clerk. He hadn’t worked such a menial job since his first years out of business school, but with his new reputation as a sexual predator, he was lucky to find anything. He went from a corner office with a view of the park to a cubicle beside the men’s washroom. His salary dropped from six digits to five. He went from commanding respect to inspiring gossip, and instead of firing people for the hell of it, he spent most of his days fighting to stay employed. Each evening, he would come home with a new list of whiskey-fueled complaints. Bill did this. Sandra said that. Sandra did this while Bill said that. After a while, he began to sound like Junior, returning from a rough day at school. But Ruth didn’t mind. In fact, she seemed to enjoy his complaints.

  The source of Ruth’s resentment wasn’t Junior or the new apartment or Max’s workplace indiscretions. It was Max. A simple fact that he could neither accept nor fully understand. And Ruth liked it that way. He lived in a state of perpetual ignorance— towards the world, towards his family, towards himself—and, from Ruth’s point-of-view, it was only fair that he die in it.

  Hi, Daddy.

  Max looks up from the cutting board. The volume on the TV has increased.

  Where’s Mommy? asks the same small voice, stepping out of the trees.

  Gone.

  The camera has been left on a rock, pointed at the campfire. A thin trail of smoke rises from the black, ash-ridden wood, whose embers continue to glow and fade, gasping for breath. The flame, a mere flicker of its former size, struggles to stay lit.

  Where did she go? Junior asks, scanning his surroundings.

  She’ll be back, Maxy. Don’t worry. He enters the frame and hugs his son. She has nowhere else to go.

  “When’s Junior coming home?” asks Max.

  “You know, he looked like me back then,” Ruth mumbles. “The eyes . . . cheekbones . . .”

  “When’s he coming home?”

  “But now he looks like you.”

  Ruth mutes the TV and studies Max as he makes his sandwich, calculating her next move. She suddenly assumes a cheerful, high-energy persona. “What are ya makin’ there?”

  “What do you care?”

  “I’m just curious.”

  “A sandwich.”

  “What kind?”

  “Roast beef.”

  “Ah.”

  Max sighs impatiently. “You want one?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You sure?”

  “How about a salad?”

  “You don’t want roast beef?”

  “I feel more like a salad.”

  “A salad . . .”

  “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “No,” Max mumbles, “it’s fine.” He opens the fridge and searches for ingredients.

  Ruth watches him, grinning. “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “No. It’s just . . .”

  “What?”

  “It just takes more work, that’s all.”

  “More work? Maxy, my darling, it takes five minutes.You just chop some lettuce, chop some celery, chop some carrots—”

  “I don’t have carrots.”

  “You don’t have carrots?”

  Another sigh. “I don’t have carrots.”

  “Well, what do you have then?”

  “Broccoli.”

  “Broccoli . . .”

  “You still want the salad?”

  “Yeah, why not.”

  Max starts washing the ingredients in the sink.

  “Would’ve been better with carrots though . . .”

  Max turns off the water. “What?”

  “Nothing, Maxy. Just thinking out loud.”

  Max starts chopping the celery and the lettuce. “What were you thinking?”

  “Oh, just about carrots. How they really make a salad worth eating.”

  Max begins chopping in quick slashing motions.

  “Everything else is nice. Lettuce. Celery. Broccoli. But at the end of the day . . .”

  Max stabs the vegetables into a pile of colourful flakes.

  “ . . . carrots are the only ones that matter.”

  Max cuts his finger. “FUCK!” He slams the knife on the counter, rushes to the bathroom, and turns on the tap.

  “What happened, Maxy?”

  “What do you think?” he yells. “I cut myself!”

  “What?”

  Max marches into the living room, dripping wet.

  “I said, ‘I cut myself chopping your fucking salad!’”

  He returns to the bathroom.

  “All right,” Ruth says, smiling. “Take it easy. It’s not like it’s my fault.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not my fault.”

  Max turns off the tap and returns to the living ro
om with a bandage. “What?”

  “I said, ‘I’m sorry about your finger.’”

  “Oh. Don’t worry. It’s not your fault.” Max picks up the knife and cleans it off in the sink.

  Ruth gets up and walks into the kitchen. She takes the knife gently out of his hand and holds it, staring into his eyes. Max looks confused and scared, despite his attempts to hide his fear. She smiles and lays the knife on the counter.

  “I’ll tell you what.” She leads him by the shoulders to the couch. “You just relax, and I’ll bring you your sandwich.”

  “You don’t have to do that—”

  “It’s what I’m here for.”

  She returns to the kitchen.

  “Uh . . . thanks, hun.”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  He sighs, letting his head fall back against the wall. “I love you, Ruthie. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know.”

  “Even if I get upset sometimes . . . It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “I know, Maxy. I know.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “I’m surprised you have to ask.”

  Ruth stabs the sandwich with toothpicks, then cuts it in half and puts it on a plate. She summons the poise of a ballerina and the smile of a stripper as she brings the sandwich to Max.

  “Thanks,” he says. “You’re a doll.”

  MAX JR. & MEL

  After a brief period of absentminded stargazing, during which he finds Orion’s Belt beside an oddly-shaped Little Dipper, Max asks Mel, “Does this mean we’re dating?”

  She furrows her brow. “Aren’t we already dating?”

  “We’ve been hooking up. I wouldn’t call that dating.”

  “We haven’t been hooking up. Hooking up is sex.”

  “Hooking up is any sex-related activity involving two or more parties. I googled it.”

  “We’ve been seeing each other.”

  “Okay. A) How do you define seeing? And B) No, we haven’t.”

  “Okay. A) You’re a nerd. B) You’re a nerd. C) I won’t answer that. And D) You’re a nerd.”

  “So does that mean we’re dating?”

  “Yes, moron. That means we’re dating.”

  “I thought we were ‘seeing each other’.”