He had never, to my knowledge, had a long-term relationship, but he had slept with thousands of people, some of them related to me. My sister Helen, for example, as part of her “tag and release” program. She said he “wasn’t bad in the scratcher,” which was high praise indeed.
Rachel said he “has anger issues.” Other people who didn’t know about things like anger issues said, “That Joey chap would want to learn some manners.”
A few minutes later saw the arrival of Gaz and Shake, the air-guitar champ. They did their best not to stare at my scar. This they achieved by looking at some point about eighteen inches above my head when they were talking to me. But they both meant well. Gaz, a beer-bellied, balding sweetie—not the brightest, but never mind—pulled me to his squashy tummy in a tight hug. “It’s a bad scene, Anna, man.”
“Yeah,” Shake said, shaking back the shaggy head of hair of which he is justifiably proud and which gave him his name. “It sucks.” Then he, too, embraced me while not actually looking at me.
I stood and endured it. It had to be done. Now that I was back, sooner or later I would meet everyone I knew and the first encounter would always be like this.
“Hey, you know, Anna, thanks, man, for that Candy Grrrl big hair mousse,” Shake said. “It’s the gear. Volumetastic.”
“Oh, it worked, did it?” I’d given it to him a few months back. He’d been obsessed with making his hair as big as possible for the air-guitar finals.
“And that spray, man. We’re talking rock hard.”
“Well, good. Just tell me when you need more.”
“’Preciate it.”
Rachel emerged from the bathroom in a steamy cloud of lavender. She smiled sweetly at Joey as she passed; he glowered back at her. As the lads got stuck in to their Scrabble and beer, we curled on the couch in a softly lit corner and Rachel gave me a hand massage on my nongammy hand.
I was just starting to doze off when the buzzer went again. To my surprise it was Jacqui. She burst into the apartment, full of shine and sparkle and chat: she’d had her gold-plated teeth restored to normality, someone had given her a Louis Vuitton something, and she was on her way to a private view.
“Hi.” She waved at the Real Men at the table. “I can’t stay long. But as the private view is only two blocks down I thought I’d drop in and say hi. See how the Scrabble is going.”
“How honored are we?” Joey drawled. He was doing something with a matchstick in his teeth.
Jacqui rolled her eyes. “Joey, you brighten every room you leave.”
She came over to me and Rachel. “Why is he always so horrible?”
“He doesn’t like himself very much,” Rachel said.
“Don’t fucking blame him,” said Jacqui.
“And he turns that dislike outward,” Rachel continued.
“I don’t get it. Why can’t he just be normal? Well, fuck it, I’m off. I’m sorry I came. Have a good night,” she called over to the table. “Everyone except Joey.”
She left and the Scrabble kicked off again, but about half an hour later, I was seized by a strange panic: suddenly I couldn’t be with these people any longer.
“I think I’ll be off now,” I said, trying to keep the urgency from my voice.
Luke and Rachel watched me anxiously. “I’ll come down and put you in a cab,” Rachel said.
“No, you’re not dressed, I’ll do it,” Luke said.
“No, please, I’m fine.” I looked longingly at the door. If I didn’t leave soon, I’d burst.
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“What are you doing tomorrow?” Rachel asked.
“Going shopping with Jacqui in the afternoon.” I raced through the words.
“Want to go to a movie in the evening?”
“Yeah,” Luke enthused. “There’s a digitally remastered version of North by Northwest showing in the Angelika.”
“Fine, yes, fine,” I said, my breath constricted. “See you tomorrow, then.”
“’Night.”
“’Night.”
And then the door was being opened and I was free. My pulse rate slowed down, my breathing became easier. I stood on the sidewalk and felt the panic abate. Then it built back up again as I thought: God, how bad is it that I can’t even be with my own sister? And now I have to go back to my empty apartment.
What a pisser: I couldn’t be with people and I didn’t want to be alone. Suddenly my perspective whooshed and I was far out in space, watching the world. I could see millions and millions of people, all slotted into their lives; then I could see me—I’d lost my place in the universe. It had closed up and there was nowhere for me to be.
I was more lost than I had known it was possible for any human being to be.
And then I was back on the sidewalk again. What was I to do?
I started walking. I hobbled a wandering, circuitous route, but eventually I reached my building, because there was no place else for me to go. At the bottom of the steps, as I wasted a few more seconds hunting in my bag for my keys, someone yelled, “Baby cakes. Wait up.”
It was Ornesto, our upstairs neighbor, coming down the street in a bright red pimpy suit. Shite.
He caught me up and said accusingly, “I’ve been calling you. I have left you, like, eight trillion messages.”
“I know, Ornesto, I’m sorry, I’m just a little weird—”
“Whoa! Would you look at that face! Whoo-ee, baby cakes, that is bad.” He practically ran his nose along my scar, like he was hoovering up a line of coke, then pulled me to him in a painful embrace. Luckily Ornesto was very self-obsessed and it didn’t take long for his attention to snap back to him.
“I’m home for a New York minute, then I’m going right back out to look for”—he paused to yell—“HOT MEN. Come and talk to me while I get changed into my party frock.”
“Okay.”
In Ornesto’s Thai-themed apartment, right beside a gold Buddha, there was a photo stuck to the wall with a kitchen knife. It was of a man’s face and the knife went right through his open laughing mouth.
Ornesto noticed me looking. “Ohmigod, you totally missed it all. His name is Bradley. I thought it was the real thing, but you would not believe what that man did to me.”