You (You #1)(17)

Which takes all of about thirty-five seconds.

Benjamin “Benji” Baird Keyes III is a friggin’ joke. He’s been to rehab, which is a travesty; you can tell by his smug face that he’s not capable of genuine addiction. He owns an organic club soda company that symbolizes everything bad about right now. His business is called Home Soda, a superior alternative to commonplace club soda because “while a club is exclusive, a home is the most exclusive place in the world. You can get into a club if you pay a cover. The same cannot be said of a home.”

Beck, you can’t tell me you buy into this, not really. Benji’s little start-up is a runaway, underground Whole Foods–style success, and his pastel-laden website includes a diatribe on Monsanto (as if this kid’s parents don’t profit directly from Monsanto, as if this kid wasn’t fucking raised on Monsanto—literally, his dad worked for fucking Nestlé when Benji was a kid), and yet Benji rants. A photo essay (otherwise known as a fucking slide show) reveals that Benji came up with Home Soda while camping with friends on Nantucket. Camping is a bullshit term; Nantucket is not New Hampshire and Benji was staying at a friend’s waterfront summer home. I blow up the photo and see the untagged girl from your Facebook profile. Aha. So you know Benji through that miserable odd girl, who does have a legitimate smile, reserved for wealthy friends in staged propaganda photos. But did you go camping with them? Nope. You probably weren’t invited. Your friend probably fed you some bullshit excuse about there not being enough room on the beach. You are the townie and Benji is the tourist who literally enters you and uses you as a vacation from the wear and tear of the artisanal club soda business only to dump you before Labor Day. He is the daddy you try desperately to please, the daddy who leaves, no matter what you do.

Your emotional livelihood is a demented seasonal economy where Labor Day is every other fucking day. He rents you out, the same way he rents loft space in SoBro (South Bronx to those of us who don’t need to make up bullshit pet names for neighborhoods where we’re not wanted). And he cheats on you, Beck. A lot. Compulsively. He is in intense pursuit of a performance artist who fucks with his head the way he fucks with yours. It has been six minutes and three hours and one day when you e-mail me: This is random, but I am in Greenpoint. Are you maybe bartending right now?

I respond:

I’m not, but I could meet you at Lulu’s.

You respond:

IT IS ON BABY! Sorry for all caps. I am just excited!

I wait twelve seconds nine minutes and no hours before writing back: Haha. On my way. 5?

You don’t write back but I have to take two trains to get there and the Hannah and Her Sisters soundtrack is playing in my head, all the songs at once, so loud that I can’t listen to the music on my phone or the music on your phone and all I can think about is our first kiss, which will likely take place in eighteen seconds nineteen minutes and three hours when we are both drunk in a cab on Bank Street and I get it now, why dudes jerk off on trains sometimes. But I don’t. I have you in my future. The train can’t go fast enough and engine engine number nine and look how much we share already and we haven’t even fucked and I got you a present too. I’m bringing you The Western Coast. And it’s inscribed: Engine, Engine, Number Nine

On the New York transit line

If you go in a nursing home

This here book will be your tome

It’s not perfect but it’s close and I had to buy you something, reward you for stepping up, and the train is here and I hope that Prince eventually got to be where I am, pounding up the sixteen steps and two blocks and one avenue toward the rest of his life. But I’m only halfway up the subway stop stairs when your phone beeps. There is a lot of information to process and I have to sit down and I do. Things have changed. Quickly, too quickly. Nearly two weeks after your mass e-mail announcing your new phone number, Benji has e-mailed you back: Hi.

And you wrote back:

Come over.

And he wrote back:



And then you e-mailed me:

Ack, I had to go to a school thing. Reschedule for next week? Sorry. Sorry!

And then Benji wrote to you:

Give me an hour, work thing came up.

And you wrote back:



You’re smiling because you want life to be like it was before your father messed up on Nantucket, without secrets, without danger. You write about how safe it is there, how claustrophobia and comfort go hand in hand. Your family never locked the doors to the house or the cars and they left the car keys in the ignition but come March, you’d give anything to see a stranger. You tweeted a few weeks ago: The island of #Manhattan is like the island of #Nantucket: Groceries are expensive, drinks are expensive & in winter, everyone goes nuts.

That’s cute, Beck, but the island of Manhattan is nothing like your precious Nantucket. Let me tell you what I did last Tuesday.

On the island of Manhattan, you have to lock your shit up or some streetwise guy might just stop by a friggin’ club soda factory for a tour on a Tuesday when he knows the boss isn’t around (special thanks to Benji’s Twitter feed) and excuse himself to use the bathroom and bypass the bathroom for Benji’s office (which is unlocked), and bypass the rest of the club soda tour for a private tour of Benji’s computer (which is also unlocked), and learn that Benji keeps a calendar with links to @lotsamonica’s performance schedule. She’s on today, live-doodling at a converted fire station in Astoria (bite me). As a verified fan of hers on all social media platforms (oh the things I do for you, Beck), I am granted access to the live coverage and though I don’t see Benji the man (the place is too crowded), I see bottles of Home Soda in all the filtered pictures. He’s there. A comment from some chick with bangs and pink glasses proves it: Benji rocks for bringing club soda. #organicforlife #homesoda #drinkfreeordie So there it is. Your precious Benji doesn’t show up at your reading but he treks all the way to Astoria in the middle of the day because he thinks Monica is superior, because she’s tall and blond and he mistakes her doodles for art. I have to calm down. You don’t know about this. You’re not a fan of Monica’s because you’re not an imbecile. But you need to know and I can’t get out of that bloated factory fast enough. I need to save you.