What We Are (24 page)

At nine going on ten, I began the process of forgetting them together, as husband and wife, as mother and father conjoined forever. Tali is right. And if I lived up to the catechism of honoring thy mother and father by refusing to judge or indict either, I failed as a citizen of this nation by blaming the place that brought them together, the land where all things—good and bad—are possible. He wanted a strong-minded American beauty he could show off to his friends; she wanted a brown-skinned savage she could show off to her friends. They both paid for the simplicity of this sin, because that's what they got. Their circles never came together.

No one but the child figured out what had to be done, what needed to be conceded, what could be endured. The adult world said all should be abandoned, and so the story died. The father returned to Samoa to be with his people and never came back. The mother remarried for the first of who really knows how many times.

I was groomed for unfulfilled promises in the land of broken dreams.

T
HE INTERVIEW COMMENCES
with a Mickey Mouse nightlight on in the kitchen. The price for my bed tonight. I don't mind. McLaughlin and Toby are both knocked out and Tali, sitting at the table with me, says, “So what have you been doing for the last two months?”

She's gonna ignore seeing me on television in chains. She won't lower herself to discuss such uncouth events. She's full of shit, that's what she is, but she
is
my sister and she does love me.

I say, “Just kicking it.”

“Kicking it?”

“Well,” I say, trying to think of something productive that I've done which doesn't offend her sensibilities, “I was working on a poetry manuscript.”

“Poetry?”

The wrong topic. “Yeah.”

“Manuscript?”

“Yeah.”

“So how much will you make?”

“Make?”

“Money.”

“None. I don't have it.”

“You lost the money?”

“No. I used the money, lost the manuscript.”

“So there was money?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Where is it?”

“The manuscript or the money?”

“The money.”

“Oh. It's gone.”

“The money's gone?”

“Yes.”

“How can you get money out of a manuscript?”

“It was a fellowship.”

“So it's unpublished then?”

“The money or the manuscript?”

“Don't screw around, Paul. Where is the manuscript?”

It's best to leave La Dulce unmentioned. Somehow, opening up the absurdities of our fuckship is more embarrassing than being slapped with a hate crime when half the blood nurturing your system is brown. Plus, Tali will automatically put the lucky one into the position of poor victim swept up by my aimlessness. From a certain vantage where you've removed La Dulce's eccentricities, I'm not so sure it's untrue.

I lie. “At a Motel Six.”

“A Motel Six?”

A stupid lie. “Yeah.”

“And do you have a title?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what is it?”

The truth: “
Beatrice
.”

“Beatrice?”

A stupid truth. “Yeah.”

She's digging into her purse for her keys. She wants the manuscript. For me. “Can't you think of a better title than
Beatrice
?”

“Fuck that book. I officially disown it as a fraud. It was built on stilts. Toothpicks. I should have called it
Against Virtue
or
On Phoniness
.”

“So you're just going to forget all about it then. Isn't that just like you?”

The final truth: “It doesn't matter.”

“Does anything matter to you?”

“I mean it doesn't matter because I wouldn't have made money off it anyway.” She looks up, puts the keys back into her purse. “Which is what you're talking about. I mean, it's poetry, man. Only Billy Collins, Billy Corgan, President Carter, and Jewel make money off their lines.”

“Leave it to you to go into a profession that makes no money.”

“It's not a profession. That's the point. And I don't care if it ain't lucrative.”

“Is there anything you care about?”

“I think I care about people so much I don't care about myself.”

“That's bullshit and you know it.”

“You may be right. Let me rephrase that: I love our story so much that I almost detest the story's characters. You know, like they're not living up to the narrative.”

“Whatever, Paul. Violence follows you around like a shadow. Everyone you meet you either fight or assault or castigate or undercut. Is there anyone you haven't gone after on this planet?”

“Yeah. Everyone underground before September 2, 1977.”

“You have more confrontations in a week than I've had in my life.”

“That's because you spend your time with handshakers.”

“Paul. In a room of a hundred happy people, you still couldn't shake hands. You'd say they were all on Paxil or Prozac.”

“No, I wouldn't. I'd just say they were handshakers. Only the ones who don't blink during the handshake are on Paxil or Prozac.”

“Jesus Christ, Paul.”

“And the ones who are stuck in the smile had their faces hijacked by Botox.”

She puts a hand over her eyebrow. It hasn't once moved since yesterday. “Is this necessary, Paul?”

“And the ones who don't look you in the eye are either arrogant assholes or spoiled bitches.”

“You're a misanthrope.”

“I don't know. I don't think so.”

“Why can't you just leave people alone?”

“Look, I have no intention of getting into it with anyone again. Ever.
Okay?
That's how it's always been. Seems like things just happen that way. Often.”

“What about that girl?”

“Sharon?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“I haven't seen her in years.”

“Just like everyone else: ex-girlfriend, mother, father.”

“You left out
sister
. Why was that?”

“You just do your own thing.”

“Not just me. People don't spend time together anymore. They skip out before it matters. They just dress themselves up better.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Paulie.”

“You dress it up the best.”

“You have no right to say that.”

“Okay. Well, how's this? Now that I think it over, you're right. Yes. I'd like to show how much I agree with you, how's that? Yes. I want to stay with you and McLaughlin, stay for a year, spend some real time with little Toby. Get him to talk, breathe.”

She looks down into her lap, just barely, but just enough.

“Yeah,” I say. “That's what I thought.”

“We were talking about Sharon,” she says. “The girl you didn't deserve.”

“Deserve is such a cruel verb, but you may be right there.”

“I am right. She was so pretty and nice. So giving.”

“Well, that's about right, too: she gave too much. She gave it up too much.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Her life on the isle of Lesbos. “Who cares?”

“Well, what about the others? You always have some different girl you're courting.”

“That's a nice way to put it.”

“Paul! Will you shut up?”

“Okay,” I say, “that sounds about right. Can do.”

We sit in silence for a three count, four count, five. She can't take it. She's one of these people that lays down a law whose terms she eventually can't accept. When everyone's lined up, happily or not, to get what she wants done, she cancels the edict on a whim and throws out a new one, sometimes totally contradictory in concept. All without apology, without explanation, qualification, remorse, contrition, self-interrogation, self-bemusement, self-concern, humor, or irony. Et cetera, et cetera. The bet is she'll blurt something out before half a minute's up.

At sixteen seconds she says, “Well, don't you have any friends?”

“Yeah,” I say, “I met this guy on the bus who seemed pretty cool.”

“On a bus?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Oh. Earlier today.”

“Earlier today?”

“Around late noon.”

She looks at her watch. The shiny real diamonds are damaging my eyes. She rolls her wrist a couple of times to finalize blindness. “Five or six hours ago? So what's this friend's name?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“
Lei loa igoa i le kama?
” I pretend like I don't understand a Samoan word she's said. I know she's only using her rudimentary skills to appear not only cultural but paternal. “You don't know his name?”

“I didn't ask him.”

“Okaaay....”

“I didn't think I'd ever see him again.”

“And yet he's your friend?”

“Yes. It's one of the few things I've been dead right about in a while.”

“So where is he now?”

“Either safe in a dumpster in downtown Campbell or in jail.”

“Jesus, Paul. What am I gonna do with you? I'm calling Uncle, okay?”

“Nah,” I say. “Don't bug him. He's got enough shit to worry about.”

“He can help,” she says. “I don't know why, but he loves you.”

“All the more reason not to call.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means why ruin a good thing?”

She's dialing the digits, not looking at me any longer. “Quiet.”

“It's too late.”

“He'll be up,” she says, totally missing my meaning. “It's only eight-thirty.”

I don't say,
Well, why are there no lights on in this place?
or
Why did your hubby hit the sack before his nine o'clock bedtime?
but, “Don't worry about it. It's no big deal. I'll just bounce right now and you get can back to your life. You deserve it.”

“No. You stay. You sit right there. Yeah, Uncle. Hi, it's Tali.”

Once my sister sets her mind to something, it usually works out. Success is based as much on scope as it is on ambition, and Tali would never waste an imaginative second believing she could affect her race through poems. Tali wants to conventionalize me. Her belief is that you've got to try to get in line, just like everyone else. Why? Because there are people out there who care about you. And it's not inhibiting. It's not bourgeois, mediocre. It's fair. But my metaphorical vision of life is like a picture of packed humans, randomly assembled, all looking around scatterbrained for something they can't find, let alone comprehend. Much like a kiddie cover of the
Where's Waldo?
series. My titular metaphor extends to
Who's Waldo?, What the Hell Does Waldo Want Amongst Us?
, and
Is Waldo Maybe Hiding for a Reason?

Life, I'd once read, is a long preparation for something that never happens.

But for the first time since childhood I find myself agreeing with Tali. I feel like I've been running in a circle, chasing my own tale, a spectacle few people can stomach. I'd like to go somewhere, do something, anything worthy of my life. Gotta turn some lever of rebellion off, try to be normal, something in me has gotta die so I can live. I suspect that my only real skill is being critical. Finding the flaw in the day, the sun, its light. I could pick apart the heart of Mohandas Gandhi if you gave us thirty minutes of alone time.

Before Tali hangs up the phone, she's got a job lined up for me. Not even a second wasted on backstory. I feel grateful, I honestly do. She holds out the phone and whispers, “Don't forget to say thank you.”

I nod and say, “Hey, Uncle Rich, whatup, how ya' doin'?”

“Good, nephew. You sure you wanna do this?”

I know that's his way of saying,
You're not gonna put me in a bad way, are you?
The little white lies of business have already started. I have no clue what this is, but so be it. “Yeah. I'm sure I wanna do it. I really appreciate this.”

Tali smiles, less of joy, more of relief, and my uncle says, “Okay, old buddy. You got a place to stay?”

“Uh, not really.”

“The guesthouse is yours.”

“Nah, it's cool, Uncle. No big deal. I'll find me a vacant corner somewhere.”

“Listen. That damned thing is just collecting dust. It's like an old art museum, a used bookstore. Move in tonight, tomorrow, whenever. The place is furnished, stocked. You don't even have to stop in and say hello to your Aunt Lanell and me. Just fill it up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Now, listen. Tomorrow morning. Eight
A.M
. sharp, huh?”

“All right, Uncle.”

“That's tomorrow, Monday. Just in case you've lost track.”

“I'll be there, Uncle. I promise. See you then.” I look at Tali and she's nodding like a delirious coke addict chopping up a lump for the first time in five months. “Looks like I'm back in the world, sister woman.”

“Get some sleep,” she says. “You're gonna need it.”

I hit the sack scrunched up on a two-seat couch in the living room and lie there for an hour contemplating nothing. Then I walk down the hallway, find I am in none of the five dozen pictures decorating it, nor are my mother and father, and decide to look in on the kid to see if he's all right.

His room is empty, the bed made.

I walk a little panicky over to my sister's double-door room, slowly open it, and find the three of them asleep in the biggest bed I've ever seen. I don't dare wake my sister. Back in my nephew's room, I lie down on his bed, pull the Thomas the Tank Engine blanket to my chin, and fall asleep....

The next morning I wake and put the edge of the razor to my face. No blood: the hair of the cheek, chin, and neck comes off clean. A
good sign. Have to believe in this new deal on the horizon. There's a desperation in my faith that I'd rather not ponder right now. Self-inoculation: that's the only answer.