Read Online I Am No One You Know by Joyce Carol Oates - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
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Jesus. The Gaza Strip footage breaks off and an antic SUV ad comes on. Steven laughs.
There’s a shocked silence. Then Owen says, in a small, hurt voice, “I’m sorry if I’m amusing you, Steve.”
Steven will recall how easily he spoke, with no premeditation: “Owen, why be sorry to be amusing? I’d say, from you, that was a good thing.”
Owen is silent for so long, Steven thinks he must have laid down the phone receiver. Steven has switched to NBC news, there’s an exposé of deplorable conditions in the New Orleans Parish Prison which detains Asian and Haitian immigrants for the federal Immigration and Naturalization Service, interviews with visibly scarred, injured men, protestations and denials from prison authorities. Steven listens appalled as Owen resumes his monologue of complaints with renewed fervor, how hurt he’s been, how depressed, the past six months have been hell, his thirtieth birthday is imminent and sometimes he wonders, with so much pain, his paintings rejected that are “every bit as strong” as Lucien Freud’s nudes, Philip Pearlstein’s overrated nudes, and friends letting him down, and the world so vicious, sometimes he wonders whether it’s worth it to keep going. Steven, listening to the testimony of a hospitalized Asian detainee who’d been beaten nearly to death by Caucasian prison guards, says vaguely, “I suppose so, Owen.” Owen says, “What?” Steven says, “Or—maybe it isn’t. It’s your call.” Again there’s shocked silence.
Then Owen says quietly, “You’re saying, Steve, I should—give up?”
“From your perspective? Maybe.”
There. Steven has said it.
Breathlessly, almost eagerly Owen says, “You think—? In my place—? You’d—”
“Owen, yes. Frankly, I would.”
Steven switches back to CNN. The President stepping out of Air Force One somewhere in Europe. Steven’s heart is beating quickly, as after an invigorating sprint. But he’s frightened, too. Uttering words he has only fantasized. Die, why don’t you. You pathetic loser. Put yourself out of your misery. Give us a break.
Of course, in the next moment Steven regrets what he’s said. He’s been blunt, cruel. Owen must be crushed. Quickly, he says, lowering the TV volume, “Owen? Maybe not. No. I’m sorry I said that.”
He can hear Owen’s humid-sounding breathing. Then Owen says, in a strange, elated voice, “Steve, thanks! You’re the only person in my entire life who has ever spoken to me the truth. ”
This forced, phony circumlocution. Steven perceives that his brother-in-law is posturing, taking on a role. He hates Owen with a pure scintillant savage hatred.
Owen is saying, “—the only one who has ever done me the honor of taking me seriously, not humoring me. Taking me as a man and not a, a cripple. Thank you. ”
Steven has turned away from the TV. He’s on his feet, suddenly sober, repentant. “Owen, hey: I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I was just—”
“—speaking from the heart, Steve! Yes. And I appreciate it. From you—I know you hate my guts, I admire you for that!—from you, my sister’s husband and the daddy of her children, I’ve just had the best f-fucking advice of my life.”
“I only meant—”
“Believe me, Steve, I’ve been thinking of killing myself for a long time. I mean seriously. I mean—the real thing. Not bullshitting.” Owen pauses dramatically. He too is breathing hard as after a fast hard sprint. “I can’t discuss anything serious with Holly, she’s too emotional. She’s too close to the edge herself. She tried some little-girl stuff, in high school, ‘slashing’ her wrists—but not too deep. Bet she never told ya, Steve! What I need to decide is how.”
Steven is stunned. “How—what?”
“Not pills, not carbon monoxide,” Owen snorts in derision, vastly amused, “not a razor blade—ugh! I was thinking of—in my car? Driving?”
Steven says in a lowered voice, “Driving—would be good. An
There’s a shocked silence. Then Owen says, in a small, hurt voice, “I’m sorry if I’m amusing you, Steve.”
Steven will recall how easily he spoke, with no premeditation: “Owen, why be sorry to be amusing? I’d say, from you, that was a good thing.”
Owen is silent for so long, Steven thinks he must have laid down the phone receiver. Steven has switched to NBC news, there’s an exposé of deplorable conditions in the New Orleans Parish Prison which detains Asian and Haitian immigrants for the federal Immigration and Naturalization Service, interviews with visibly scarred, injured men, protestations and denials from prison authorities. Steven listens appalled as Owen resumes his monologue of complaints with renewed fervor, how hurt he’s been, how depressed, the past six months have been hell, his thirtieth birthday is imminent and sometimes he wonders, with so much pain, his paintings rejected that are “every bit as strong” as Lucien Freud’s nudes, Philip Pearlstein’s overrated nudes, and friends letting him down, and the world so vicious, sometimes he wonders whether it’s worth it to keep going. Steven, listening to the testimony of a hospitalized Asian detainee who’d been beaten nearly to death by Caucasian prison guards, says vaguely, “I suppose so, Owen.” Owen says, “What?” Steven says, “Or—maybe it isn’t. It’s your call.” Again there’s shocked silence.
Then Owen says quietly, “You’re saying, Steve, I should—give up?”
“From your perspective? Maybe.”
There. Steven has said it.
Breathlessly, almost eagerly Owen says, “You think—? In my place—? You’d—”
“Owen, yes. Frankly, I would.”
Steven switches back to CNN. The President stepping out of Air Force One somewhere in Europe. Steven’s heart is beating quickly, as after an invigorating sprint. But he’s frightened, too. Uttering words he has only fantasized. Die, why don’t you. You pathetic loser. Put yourself out of your misery. Give us a break.
Of course, in the next moment Steven regrets what he’s said. He’s been blunt, cruel. Owen must be crushed. Quickly, he says, lowering the TV volume, “Owen? Maybe not. No. I’m sorry I said that.”
He can hear Owen’s humid-sounding breathing. Then Owen says, in a strange, elated voice, “Steve, thanks! You’re the only person in my entire life who has ever spoken to me the truth. ”
This forced, phony circumlocution. Steven perceives that his brother-in-law is posturing, taking on a role. He hates Owen with a pure scintillant savage hatred.
Owen is saying, “—the only one who has ever done me the honor of taking me seriously, not humoring me. Taking me as a man and not a, a cripple. Thank you. ”
Steven has turned away from the TV. He’s on his feet, suddenly sober, repentant. “Owen, hey: I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I was just—”
“—speaking from the heart, Steve! Yes. And I appreciate it. From you—I know you hate my guts, I admire you for that!—from you, my sister’s husband and the daddy of her children, I’ve just had the best f-fucking advice of my life.”
“I only meant—”
“Believe me, Steve, I’ve been thinking of killing myself for a long time. I mean seriously. I mean—the real thing. Not bullshitting.” Owen pauses dramatically. He too is breathing hard as after a fast hard sprint. “I can’t discuss anything serious with Holly, she’s too emotional. She’s too close to the edge herself. She tried some little-girl stuff, in high school, ‘slashing’ her wrists—but not too deep. Bet she never told ya, Steve! What I need to decide is how.”
Steven is stunned. “How—what?”
“Not pills, not carbon monoxide,” Owen snorts in derision, vastly amused, “not a razor blade—ugh! I was thinking of—in my car? Driving?”
Steven says in a lowered voice, “Driving—would be good. An
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