cigarette. He looked all shaky. I waved to him but he didn’t seem to notice me, just flicked the butt over the railing and went inside.
“When I got up there, Kent’s door was open a crack and I could see him on his couch, lying facedown and sobbing into a cushion, holding it all squished up around his face. On the floor was a spilled bowl of dog food and a chew toy. I let myself in and sat down next to him and laid a hand on his heaving, sweaty back, but it was a good five minutes before he spoke.
“‘Twist,’ he kept saying. ‘We tried. We did our best. We’re coming back. We won’t give up, I promise.’
“I made him a toaster waffle and some green tea and then sat back down and massaged him while he ate and told me that until he got the dog he hadn’t known what love was, or devotion, but now he knew and was sorry that he did. He talked a lot about justice—how there was none—and admitted to me that he was bad once, irresponsible, and used to stay awake for days on drugs and hallucinate that there were trolls inside his walls writing his thoughts down and peeping through the cracks and creeping out at night to steal his T-shirts and tear them up into rags to build their nests. To stop them, he’d stab a steak knife through the Sheetrock and wiggle the blade until he heard them curse him, and then he’d shove the knife deeper until they quit.
“We ended up down on the floor together, kissing, and it was the closest I’d ever felt to anyone, and even better than our first time together. The problem was, there was dog food on the rug, and pellets of it kept sticking to Kent’s damp back. When I’d roll over, they’d crunch under my hips. It was a mess. It smelled like lamb and beef. Kent’s bedroom door was open across the way, and I kept begging him to take me there so we’d have a mattress and pillows to make things cozier, but he was holding on to me like death. When we were finished I looked into his eyes and I thought I could see his actual brain behind them, all gray and curled up tight and glistening. It didn’t scare me, though. It reassured me. When you finally let someone in, completely, wholly, it’s nice to know that he has insides, too.
“Afterward, I toasted two more waffles and we ate them with butter and jelly at his table, which was covered with dice and tarot cards that he told me he fools with sometimes when he can’t sleep and feels like he might need guidance with ‘inner conflicts.’ We talked about whether we wanted kids someday or if we should just fly to Thailand and adopt, since the world was already overpopulated. Then Kent started crying about the dog again. He said he’d stolen it to save its life but that he’d been betrayed by someone and might never find out whom. He’d have to live without friends now, trusting no one. ‘Except for me,’ I told him. He shook his head. ‘Including you,’ he said. Then I cried, too. He stood up and went to his bedroom and shut the door and wouldn’t open it for fifteen minutes, until I threatened to kick it in.
“His computer was turned on and open on his desk, and he let me lie down and watch TV while he typed in what had happened to him that night and stored it in what he called his ‘archive,’ where he said his words would outlive both of us. I asked him what good that would do. He said he didn’t know yet. He said that what people learned from his experiences was up to them, not him.
“Then he asked me if you could get Tom Cruise’s address.” (Unintelligible)
17.
[DHL]
Dear Mr. Cruise,
You don’t know me. You don’t know most of us. I assume, though, that you imagine us sometimes. I assume that when you’re in your office or in your house, protected by your alarm systems and guards, shielded by layers of bulletproof smoked glass and surrounded by video cameras and panic buttons, you occasionally find yourself picturing the faces of those whose obscurity supports your fame. The faces aren’t actual
“When I got up there, Kent’s door was open a crack and I could see him on his couch, lying facedown and sobbing into a cushion, holding it all squished up around his face. On the floor was a spilled bowl of dog food and a chew toy. I let myself in and sat down next to him and laid a hand on his heaving, sweaty back, but it was a good five minutes before he spoke.
“‘Twist,’ he kept saying. ‘We tried. We did our best. We’re coming back. We won’t give up, I promise.’
“I made him a toaster waffle and some green tea and then sat back down and massaged him while he ate and told me that until he got the dog he hadn’t known what love was, or devotion, but now he knew and was sorry that he did. He talked a lot about justice—how there was none—and admitted to me that he was bad once, irresponsible, and used to stay awake for days on drugs and hallucinate that there were trolls inside his walls writing his thoughts down and peeping through the cracks and creeping out at night to steal his T-shirts and tear them up into rags to build their nests. To stop them, he’d stab a steak knife through the Sheetrock and wiggle the blade until he heard them curse him, and then he’d shove the knife deeper until they quit.
“We ended up down on the floor together, kissing, and it was the closest I’d ever felt to anyone, and even better than our first time together. The problem was, there was dog food on the rug, and pellets of it kept sticking to Kent’s damp back. When I’d roll over, they’d crunch under my hips. It was a mess. It smelled like lamb and beef. Kent’s bedroom door was open across the way, and I kept begging him to take me there so we’d have a mattress and pillows to make things cozier, but he was holding on to me like death. When we were finished I looked into his eyes and I thought I could see his actual brain behind them, all gray and curled up tight and glistening. It didn’t scare me, though. It reassured me. When you finally let someone in, completely, wholly, it’s nice to know that he has insides, too.
“Afterward, I toasted two more waffles and we ate them with butter and jelly at his table, which was covered with dice and tarot cards that he told me he fools with sometimes when he can’t sleep and feels like he might need guidance with ‘inner conflicts.’ We talked about whether we wanted kids someday or if we should just fly to Thailand and adopt, since the world was already overpopulated. Then Kent started crying about the dog again. He said he’d stolen it to save its life but that he’d been betrayed by someone and might never find out whom. He’d have to live without friends now, trusting no one. ‘Except for me,’ I told him. He shook his head. ‘Including you,’ he said. Then I cried, too. He stood up and went to his bedroom and shut the door and wouldn’t open it for fifteen minutes, until I threatened to kick it in.
“His computer was turned on and open on his desk, and he let me lie down and watch TV while he typed in what had happened to him that night and stored it in what he called his ‘archive,’ where he said his words would outlive both of us. I asked him what good that would do. He said he didn’t know yet. He said that what people learned from his experiences was up to them, not him.
“Then he asked me if you could get Tom Cruise’s address.” (Unintelligible)
17.
[DHL]
Dear Mr. Cruise,
You don’t know me. You don’t know most of us. I assume, though, that you imagine us sometimes. I assume that when you’re in your office or in your house, protected by your alarm systems and guards, shielded by layers of bulletproof smoked glass and surrounded by video cameras and panic buttons, you occasionally find yourself picturing the faces of those whose obscurity supports your fame. The faces aren’t actual
Similar Books
