and puts an arm around my shoulder.
‘That was an awesome story, Mal. I really don’t think he was bothered by it.’
I think of Artie’s big, still face, unbidden. Those eyes of his like something seen through fogged over glass, his gaze always sliding and sliding away from me.
‘Did he say that to you? That he wasn’t bothered, I mean?’
James shrugs.
‘Well … no. But then, he doesn’t really say much about anything.’
Which is definitely the understatement of the year. If someone stabbed Artie in the guts, I doubt he could work up the wherewithal to say ow. It’s like he’s not even really a human being, sometimes, and though that thought is more comforting than “he secretly hates me”, it’s not exactly the best thing in the world, either.
Few people want to go on holiday with a robot from Mars.
‘So you’re sure,’ I say, even though I know what I’m really doing. I’m trying to convince myself, before I unpack all of the clothes I’ve just stuffed into a case, and change my mind entirely. ‘You’re certain he doesn’t hate me?’
James nods, once.
‘Fucking A, baby.’
Of course, a blind fool would have known James was lying. Even I knew he was lying, the second the words came out of his mouth. And yet here’s the thing about Artie … even through third parties, he lures you into a false sense of security. He’s just there, minding his own business, being as quiet and weird as usual. Occasionally making a polite comment, about something like the weather or our current location, as we drive our way down to Silver Lake.
And then bam.
‘I don’t enjoy popular music.’
And OK – that’s not a terrible comment, all on its own. It could be perceived as a little snooty, I suppose, coming from someone who looks like he just fell out of an Ivy League school yesterday, but it’s not the worst thing in the world.
It’s only the worst thing when he says it in some random, nonchalant sort of way a second after I’ve told Lucy to turn the radio up, because I love this song. And of course the song I love is “popular music”.
It just isn’t my imagination, this thing. I’m sure it isn’t. I mean, who else could that comment be directed at? I was the one who mentioned music, and though he’s framed his comment as though it’s entirely detached from anything anyone’s said, I know it’s not.
He hates me. And worse, he can’t even be upfront about it. He just lets words drift out of his mouth in that purring, half-American accent of his, and if it nails me to the wall, well … that’s just an added bonus.
He doesn’t even look at me as he says these things. He’s sat a foot from me in Lucy’s little car, arms folded over his massive chest. That smoky gaze of his running all over non-interesting things he’s probably not even paying attention to, through the passenger side window. But he doesn’t look.
He just waits until I’m mortally wounded, then changes the subject. Speaks to James or Lucy in the front, as though I don’t even exist.
‘We’ve got about an hour more to go, right?’ he asks, though of course once he’s done it I have to wonder – is that really a subject change? Or is it just another chapter in his Big Book of Hating Me?
Because that’s how it looks when I glance out of my own window, those words turning over and over in my head. He wants out of the car, quick, due to my presence so close to his. I’m probably giving him plebeian cooties, through all the tension and silence that’s suddenly sprung up between us – and I don’t even have to be paranoid or neurotic, to recognise that the latter is there.
It just is, always. It’s like a wall between us, 70 feet tall and 200 feet wide. And the more I try to smile painfully and say things I think he’ll like, the higher and harder and more oppressive that wall gets. It’s like the wall recognises my pathetic efforts, and hates me for them.
So I decide then: I’m just not going to
‘That was an awesome story, Mal. I really don’t think he was bothered by it.’
I think of Artie’s big, still face, unbidden. Those eyes of his like something seen through fogged over glass, his gaze always sliding and sliding away from me.
‘Did he say that to you? That he wasn’t bothered, I mean?’
James shrugs.
‘Well … no. But then, he doesn’t really say much about anything.’
Which is definitely the understatement of the year. If someone stabbed Artie in the guts, I doubt he could work up the wherewithal to say ow. It’s like he’s not even really a human being, sometimes, and though that thought is more comforting than “he secretly hates me”, it’s not exactly the best thing in the world, either.
Few people want to go on holiday with a robot from Mars.
‘So you’re sure,’ I say, even though I know what I’m really doing. I’m trying to convince myself, before I unpack all of the clothes I’ve just stuffed into a case, and change my mind entirely. ‘You’re certain he doesn’t hate me?’
James nods, once.
‘Fucking A, baby.’
Of course, a blind fool would have known James was lying. Even I knew he was lying, the second the words came out of his mouth. And yet here’s the thing about Artie … even through third parties, he lures you into a false sense of security. He’s just there, minding his own business, being as quiet and weird as usual. Occasionally making a polite comment, about something like the weather or our current location, as we drive our way down to Silver Lake.
And then bam.
‘I don’t enjoy popular music.’
And OK – that’s not a terrible comment, all on its own. It could be perceived as a little snooty, I suppose, coming from someone who looks like he just fell out of an Ivy League school yesterday, but it’s not the worst thing in the world.
It’s only the worst thing when he says it in some random, nonchalant sort of way a second after I’ve told Lucy to turn the radio up, because I love this song. And of course the song I love is “popular music”.
It just isn’t my imagination, this thing. I’m sure it isn’t. I mean, who else could that comment be directed at? I was the one who mentioned music, and though he’s framed his comment as though it’s entirely detached from anything anyone’s said, I know it’s not.
He hates me. And worse, he can’t even be upfront about it. He just lets words drift out of his mouth in that purring, half-American accent of his, and if it nails me to the wall, well … that’s just an added bonus.
He doesn’t even look at me as he says these things. He’s sat a foot from me in Lucy’s little car, arms folded over his massive chest. That smoky gaze of his running all over non-interesting things he’s probably not even paying attention to, through the passenger side window. But he doesn’t look.
He just waits until I’m mortally wounded, then changes the subject. Speaks to James or Lucy in the front, as though I don’t even exist.
‘We’ve got about an hour more to go, right?’ he asks, though of course once he’s done it I have to wonder – is that really a subject change? Or is it just another chapter in his Big Book of Hating Me?
Because that’s how it looks when I glance out of my own window, those words turning over and over in my head. He wants out of the car, quick, due to my presence so close to his. I’m probably giving him plebeian cooties, through all the tension and silence that’s suddenly sprung up between us – and I don’t even have to be paranoid or neurotic, to recognise that the latter is there.
It just is, always. It’s like a wall between us, 70 feet tall and 200 feet wide. And the more I try to smile painfully and say things I think he’ll like, the higher and harder and more oppressive that wall gets. It’s like the wall recognises my pathetic efforts, and hates me for them.
So I decide then: I’m just not going to
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