You (You #1)(20)

“Joe,” he says, which is dumb because every time he says my name I’m reminded of the fact that he knows my name, an obvious complication going forward. I compose myself and I write to you:

Morning, sleepyhead. Hope you had sweet dreams. See you at 8:30 on the steps at Union Square. When it gets dark we’ll go somewhere else.

I hit SEND and I can’t wait to see you and I pick up the list of Benji’s five favorite books because we’ve got work to do:

Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon. He’s a pretentious fuck and a liar.

Underworld by Don DeLillo. He’s a snob.

On the Road by Jack Kerouac. He’s a spoiled passport-carrying fuck stunted in eighth grade.

Brief Interviews with Hideous Men by David Foster Wallace. Enough already.

The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. He’s got Mayflowers in his blood.

Benji has already failed tests on Gravity’s Rainbow (duh) and Underworld. He keeps saying he would have made a different list of books if he knew there was a test coming. That’s how privileged people think: Lie unless you know that you can’t get away with lying. You’re nothing like him and you write again:



There’s no fucking way I’m responding to a smiley face and I can’t anyway because Princess Benji wants a soy latte and a New York Times and some Kiehl’s and his fucking Evian and his Tom’s toothpaste. I tell him to make do with what I gave him: coffee from the Greek diner, a New York Post, a small tub of Vaseline, and a scoop of baking soda from the centuries-old box in our employee restroom.

You write again:

Where are we gonna go after it gets dark?

I can’t be mad at you because you’re obviously just hot for me. You wouldn’t be mirroring my words if you weren’t excited and I write back to you:

You’ll know when you need to know. Wink-wink.

The wink-wink might have been a mistake and I feel sick.

“Look, Joe, I can’t take a test on a book I haven’t picked up since high school without being amply caffeinated.”

I make an executive decision because I can’t listen to him anymore. “Forget On the Road. Tear up the test. We’re done today.”

He lifts his head up and looks at me like I’m God. “Thank you, Joe. I never read On the Road and, well, thank you.”

He’s thanking me for making him admit to being a complete, total liar. Even while fighting for his life, he’s lying. I want this kid to understand and I try.

“You didn’t read On the Road?”

“Not exactly.”

“But you put it on your list.”

“I know.”

“I told you to make a list of your favorite books.”

“I know.”

“Unbelievable. Don’t you realize you’re in the bottom of a bookstore? That you’re in a cage? You don’t come in my store and lie. You don’t do that.”

“Don’t be mad.”

His eyes shift for just a second. He’s aware of the machete. There’s no choice. I gotta pick it up. I cross over, slowly. I reach for it. And I hold it. And I don’t face him.

“You don’t wanna do this,” he whimpers.

Before I speak, I spread my feet a little bit farther apart. I occupy as much space as I can. “I spend my time making tests for you to take, tests on books that you say you read. And you didn’t read any of these fucking books. Which means you wasted my time. And you don’t want me to be mad. You think the world works like that?”

“I’m a fraud, okay?”

I turn around. He crosses his legs and hangs his head and runs his hand through his too-long blond hair. He is nimble and weak and he might disintegrate at any moment. I’m still holding the machete, which feels so unnecessary, given his condition. I nod at him, like: Go on, shithead. Go on.

It’s amazing how you can see money in people. His chick-smooth hands have been softening for centuries before he was born and his thick hair never thinned from nights in the wind, days bent over shoveling snow or sand or ash. Something about that hair, something about the slope of his nose proves that life is unfair.

“In my defense, I love the book in a postmodern kind of way where I’ve always sensed that it contains something that I relate to. I think it’s the kind of book that echoes my beliefs and my sentiments and I’ve always related well to people who have read the book and I’ve written about the book. You know, I majored in comp lit and it’s possible, it’s very possible to read a book without reading it in the traditional straightforward manner. You can read about a book, Joe. Do you know what I mean? Do you understand?”

“Yeah, Benji. I understand.”

“See, I thought you might, Joe.”

“Yeah, I don’t have a Yale degree but my bullshit detector is excellent. Top drawer, even.”

I start to walk up the stairs and he rants about what an asshole I am and what his father’s gonna do to me and then he’s begging, “Gimme a copy of the David Foster Wallace! I’ll read it! I’ll read it and then you can make a test I swear! Joe! Joe!” The basement is insulated. Mr. Mooney put his money into making this place a private place. Benji can scream all he wants and nobody’s gonna hear him, just like nobody heard me, and you text:

You’re funny, Joe.