extremely intoxicated woman once leaned herself against him and whispered, “Tell me something about yourself.” He soaked in the small, efficient bathtub, curled into a space a little larger than a child’s coffin—his knees up, filling and refilling it until the hot water was depleted.
He knew this was not what Steve and Holiday wanted to hear. They were a nice young couple, about his own age, spacey with bliss. Holiday had just had a baby, and they were both very excited and proud. Even though they’d had to drop out of college (they were both trying to take classes part-time); even though they seemingly had no more prospects for the future than Jonah did (Steve worked as a waiter at Bruzzone’s, where Jonah also worked, but he wanted to be a filmmaker); even though it seemed to Jonah that having a baby would make their lives stressful and difficult—their faces shone with optimism.
So Jonah tried to think of positive things, too. There
were
positive things he could talk about, after all, and he had them all listed in his head as he got off the el train and walked the several blocks to Steve and Holiday’s apartment. Good things, he thought. He liked his concise little apartment, and his job as a line cook at Bruzzone’s. Boring, but okay. He could mention that he’d begun to take college classes—he registered for them at least, though he didn’t always make it very far into the semester before he quit going—Composition 101, The Philosophy of Science, Introduction to Communication Studies. He could legitimately say that he’d sooner or later have a college degree; an associate’s degree, at least, anyway. “It’s a start,” he could say, and shrug. He could tell them that he was saving money, that he was paying his bills ahead of time to develop a good credit rating. He
did
have some ideas about the future: trying to get some decent plastic surgery, for one, he could say. Thinking about different careers. Some kind of normal life: getting married, buying a house. Having kids maybe?
He had these talking points planned out in his mind, but when they were actually sitting there he couldn’t bring himself to speak them. They didn’t seem like very convincing subjects, really, and he didn’t want them to get into the depressing fact that he frequently doubted the possibility of even these simple things. He didn’t want them to know that they were the only people he’d had a real conversation with in almost a year. Eventually, he ended up doing imitations of Mrs. Marina Orlova, with her hatred of smiling Americans. He showed them how she grimaced like a chimpanzee and tried out a version of Mrs. Orlova’s voice: “I smile at you! Eee! It is repulsive.” They laughed and laughed, and Holiday said, “Jonah, why are you so shy? You’re blushing. You’re so hilarious.”
——
Jonah had noticed Steve before Steve noticed him. He had gotten into the habit of watching other people whom he imagined to be about his own age, just because he was curious. He wanted to know what he should be like. He would walk behind a trim young executive, observing the short haircut, the dark blue squared-off suit and bright red tie, the brisk, purposeful stride; he would linger in a music store to examine a sloe-eyed employee, with pierced nose and tattooed forearms, an attitude of bored, pouting superiority; he would follow two grinning sailors in their anachronistic uniforms, stumbling and laughing loudly as they emerged from a bar. For a moment, he could almost imagine himself into another life. He could exist for a second inside of these people—a flash in which his own skin sloughed off and he turned down a different path, as if he could pass through the membrane of their bodies and suddenly find himself looking out through their eyes.
At first, Steve had just been another vessel he could project himself into. Steve was a waiter—one of those distant, vague figures who moved in and out of the kitchen; a blond,
He knew this was not what Steve and Holiday wanted to hear. They were a nice young couple, about his own age, spacey with bliss. Holiday had just had a baby, and they were both very excited and proud. Even though they’d had to drop out of college (they were both trying to take classes part-time); even though they seemingly had no more prospects for the future than Jonah did (Steve worked as a waiter at Bruzzone’s, where Jonah also worked, but he wanted to be a filmmaker); even though it seemed to Jonah that having a baby would make their lives stressful and difficult—their faces shone with optimism.
So Jonah tried to think of positive things, too. There
were
positive things he could talk about, after all, and he had them all listed in his head as he got off the el train and walked the several blocks to Steve and Holiday’s apartment. Good things, he thought. He liked his concise little apartment, and his job as a line cook at Bruzzone’s. Boring, but okay. He could mention that he’d begun to take college classes—he registered for them at least, though he didn’t always make it very far into the semester before he quit going—Composition 101, The Philosophy of Science, Introduction to Communication Studies. He could legitimately say that he’d sooner or later have a college degree; an associate’s degree, at least, anyway. “It’s a start,” he could say, and shrug. He could tell them that he was saving money, that he was paying his bills ahead of time to develop a good credit rating. He
did
have some ideas about the future: trying to get some decent plastic surgery, for one, he could say. Thinking about different careers. Some kind of normal life: getting married, buying a house. Having kids maybe?
He had these talking points planned out in his mind, but when they were actually sitting there he couldn’t bring himself to speak them. They didn’t seem like very convincing subjects, really, and he didn’t want them to get into the depressing fact that he frequently doubted the possibility of even these simple things. He didn’t want them to know that they were the only people he’d had a real conversation with in almost a year. Eventually, he ended up doing imitations of Mrs. Marina Orlova, with her hatred of smiling Americans. He showed them how she grimaced like a chimpanzee and tried out a version of Mrs. Orlova’s voice: “I smile at you! Eee! It is repulsive.” They laughed and laughed, and Holiday said, “Jonah, why are you so shy? You’re blushing. You’re so hilarious.”
——
Jonah had noticed Steve before Steve noticed him. He had gotten into the habit of watching other people whom he imagined to be about his own age, just because he was curious. He wanted to know what he should be like. He would walk behind a trim young executive, observing the short haircut, the dark blue squared-off suit and bright red tie, the brisk, purposeful stride; he would linger in a music store to examine a sloe-eyed employee, with pierced nose and tattooed forearms, an attitude of bored, pouting superiority; he would follow two grinning sailors in their anachronistic uniforms, stumbling and laughing loudly as they emerged from a bar. For a moment, he could almost imagine himself into another life. He could exist for a second inside of these people—a flash in which his own skin sloughed off and he turned down a different path, as if he could pass through the membrane of their bodies and suddenly find himself looking out through their eyes.
At first, Steve had just been another vessel he could project himself into. Steve was a waiter—one of those distant, vague figures who moved in and out of the kitchen; a blond,
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