write promotional copy for his band but hadn’t mentioned it again. Paul suggested they shoplift things from Best Buy, or some other store, to sell on eBay.
Outside, walking steadily but aimlessly, they entered East River State Park and sat on grass, facing the river and Manhattan, which seemed to Paul like an enormous, unfinished cruise ship that had been disassembled and rearranged bythousands of disconnected organizations. They decided to sell books on the sidewalk, on Bedford Avenue, but continued sitting. Daniel began talking, a few minutes later, in a quiet, earnest voice about his lack of accomplishments in life, staring into the distance with a haunted, slightly puzzled expression, seeming at times like he might begin crying. Paul, grinning anxiously at Daniel’s right profile, unsure what to say, or do, shrugged more than once, thinking that tears would have a restorative effect on the seared dryness of Daniel’s eyes, which looked like they’d been baked at a low heat.
“What were we doing now?” said Paul leaving the park, around twenty minutes later.
Daniel looked distractedly in both directions after walking a few steps onto a street, then turned right on the sidewalk, staring ahead with a worried expression.
“We had a specific goal, I remember,” said Paul. “What was it?”
“I don’t know,” said Daniel after a few seconds.
“We were just talking about it.”
“I remember something,” said Daniel absently.
“Oh yeah, selling books,” said Paul.
“Let’s do that,” said Daniel.
“We just actually forgot our purpose, then regained it,” said Paul grinning. “We still kept moving at the same speed, when we had no goal.”
“Jesus,” said Daniel quietly.
On the way to Paul’s room, to get books to sell, they went in a pizza restaurant, because Daniel was hungry. Paul, rereading old texts, saw one he didn’t recognize—“sorry, how was the party”—from Laura, more than a month ago, the morning after the Cinco de Mayo party. Between then and now,maybe two weeks ago, Paul had asked her in an email if she remembered referring to him as “my boyfriend,” the night they attended two parties on Ambien. She’d said no, but was sorry if she did, but was sure she didn’t, then later emailed to say her friends who’d been there confirmed she didn’t. Paul was staring through glass at a pigeon eating specks off the sidewalk when he noticed the approach of what he briefly, with some sarcasm, began to perceive as another pigeon, inside the restaurant, but was Daniel. “Um, so, my debit card, either from cutting so much blow or being maxed out, isn’t working,” he said in a quiet, controlled voice with an earnest expression. “Could I borrow $2.75 for a slice of pizza?”
“Yeah,” said Paul thinking he wasn’t going to mention the pigeon illusion. “I’ll add it to your tab.”
Daniel stood near the center of Paul’s room quietly saying that he felt “fucked” about his financial situation and generally, in terms of his life, then kneeled to a low table to organize two lines of cocaine with the last of what he had from Mitch’s bag. Paul, stomach-down on his mattress, asked what music he should play and clicked “Heartbeats” by the Knife. They both laughed a little and Paul clicked “Last Nite” by the Strokes and said it sounded too depressing. He clicked “Such Great Heights” by The Postal Service and said “just kidding.” He clicked “The Peter Criss Jazz” by Don Caballero. He clicked “pause.”
Daniel said to put The Postal Service back on and snorted half his line. Paul moved a rolled-up page of Shawn Olive’s poetry book in his right nostril toward the cocaine and exhaled a little after snorting half his line, causing the rest and some of Daniel’s to spread in a poof on the table. Daniel lightly berated Paul, who sort of rolled toward his mattress’s center, then—liking the feeling of unimpeded motion on a
Outside, walking steadily but aimlessly, they entered East River State Park and sat on grass, facing the river and Manhattan, which seemed to Paul like an enormous, unfinished cruise ship that had been disassembled and rearranged bythousands of disconnected organizations. They decided to sell books on the sidewalk, on Bedford Avenue, but continued sitting. Daniel began talking, a few minutes later, in a quiet, earnest voice about his lack of accomplishments in life, staring into the distance with a haunted, slightly puzzled expression, seeming at times like he might begin crying. Paul, grinning anxiously at Daniel’s right profile, unsure what to say, or do, shrugged more than once, thinking that tears would have a restorative effect on the seared dryness of Daniel’s eyes, which looked like they’d been baked at a low heat.
“What were we doing now?” said Paul leaving the park, around twenty minutes later.
Daniel looked distractedly in both directions after walking a few steps onto a street, then turned right on the sidewalk, staring ahead with a worried expression.
“We had a specific goal, I remember,” said Paul. “What was it?”
“I don’t know,” said Daniel after a few seconds.
“We were just talking about it.”
“I remember something,” said Daniel absently.
“Oh yeah, selling books,” said Paul.
“Let’s do that,” said Daniel.
“We just actually forgot our purpose, then regained it,” said Paul grinning. “We still kept moving at the same speed, when we had no goal.”
“Jesus,” said Daniel quietly.
On the way to Paul’s room, to get books to sell, they went in a pizza restaurant, because Daniel was hungry. Paul, rereading old texts, saw one he didn’t recognize—“sorry, how was the party”—from Laura, more than a month ago, the morning after the Cinco de Mayo party. Between then and now,maybe two weeks ago, Paul had asked her in an email if she remembered referring to him as “my boyfriend,” the night they attended two parties on Ambien. She’d said no, but was sorry if she did, but was sure she didn’t, then later emailed to say her friends who’d been there confirmed she didn’t. Paul was staring through glass at a pigeon eating specks off the sidewalk when he noticed the approach of what he briefly, with some sarcasm, began to perceive as another pigeon, inside the restaurant, but was Daniel. “Um, so, my debit card, either from cutting so much blow or being maxed out, isn’t working,” he said in a quiet, controlled voice with an earnest expression. “Could I borrow $2.75 for a slice of pizza?”
“Yeah,” said Paul thinking he wasn’t going to mention the pigeon illusion. “I’ll add it to your tab.”
Daniel stood near the center of Paul’s room quietly saying that he felt “fucked” about his financial situation and generally, in terms of his life, then kneeled to a low table to organize two lines of cocaine with the last of what he had from Mitch’s bag. Paul, stomach-down on his mattress, asked what music he should play and clicked “Heartbeats” by the Knife. They both laughed a little and Paul clicked “Last Nite” by the Strokes and said it sounded too depressing. He clicked “Such Great Heights” by The Postal Service and said “just kidding.” He clicked “The Peter Criss Jazz” by Don Caballero. He clicked “pause.”
Daniel said to put The Postal Service back on and snorted half his line. Paul moved a rolled-up page of Shawn Olive’s poetry book in his right nostril toward the cocaine and exhaled a little after snorting half his line, causing the rest and some of Daniel’s to spread in a poof on the table. Daniel lightly berated Paul, who sort of rolled toward his mattress’s center, then—liking the feeling of unimpeded motion on a
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