You (You #1)(35)

You wrote back:

Not broken, just old and creaky. I figure some dude is more likely to help me if it’s broken, right? Would you want to help if I made you dinner or something?

Chana didn’t respond. You e-mailed a few guys on Craigslist who assemble furniture for cash:

Do you go to IKEA and bring stuff back to NYC or do you only assemble stuff?

Upon learning that assemblymen do not double as slaves, you reached out to me:

Do you like Ikea? Hint hint.

It goes without saying that I don’t like IKEA. But of course I wrote back:

Love it actually. Go there every day. Why?

It’s not romantic and it’s a daylight date but I understand that your attraction to me is so intense that you need to keep a safe distance. That’s why you wrote back:

Want to get on the boat with me? There will be meatballs.

Meatballs is a sexless word and the boat is actually a ferry that goes to IKEA. Furniture shopping is a thankless task but you murmured I like you about a thousand times in the cab after Peach’s party and those murmurings trump whatever bullshit you spew to your friends on Twitter. I wrote back:

No meatballs required, but I’ll get on a boat with you.

So this afternoon, you and I will go to IKEA, where there will be no chance of us having sex. I know how you girls operate and I know the three-date rule and all that shit. But I also know for a fact that we have a bigger obstacle between us: Benji. After you invited me to IKEA, you e-mailed Lynn and Chana and told them to look at Benji’s Twitter:

Scary, right? I’m worried about him.

I’m obviously not doing a good job with the Benji tweets. They’re supposed to turn you off but you still care and Lynn and Chana tell you to stop:

Lynn: Beck . . . it’s okay to get dumped. It happens.

Chana: I’m sure he’s on a yacht in St. Barts with some art whore telling her how worried he is about you. Honestly, B, you’re starting to make me think that Peach is right. And it’s awful to think that Peach is right. But you need to let. Him. Go.

They’re right, but you love hard and it’s my fault that you’re jammed up like this and I promise to do better with the tweets. You deserve to cut the cord with Benji. And you can’t very well fall for me if you’re worrying about him.

I have a heart just like you, so I splurge. I gather some of Princess Benji’s favorite things: a vegan burrito, a soy latte, a pint of fake ice cream, and the New York Observer. He responds well, grateful, and he’s inhaling that burrito like an animal and mourning the loss of Lou Reed.

“He’s the reason I did so many good things and so many bad things.”

“What’s your favorite song?”

“They’re all equally vital, Joe,” he lectures. “You can’t break down an artist’s impact on the culture by citing specific songs or lyrics. It isn’t about favorites. It’s about the value of his entire oeuvre.”

Typical, and I’m ready to send his last tweet as he licks the lid of the pint. He’s perpetually ravenous. There’s emptiness in him that can never be filled, emptiness that dresses up well at prep school, where a lack of willpower is called creativity. I tune him out and tweet for him:

Smoked it to the filter, licked it to the bone. #gotcrack #gotmeth #aintgotnothingatall #LouReedRIP

I hit TWEET. It’s too quiet. I look into the cage and fuck me if Benji didn’t get into his stash while I had my head buried in his phone. His packets are on the floor next to his card. I call out, “Benji.”

Nothing. This isn’t a part of my plan. I walk up to the cage. I call again but he doesn’t move. There’s powder on his upper lip and drugs have never looked so unglamorous. I know he’s been taking a line here and there. But I’ve ignored it all because I hate drugs. I have never done drugs. Is this my punishment for being drug free? I wish I could take a picture and send it to you so that you could see what Benji boils down to, but I can’t. Finally, he comes to and I’m so relieved that he’s alive that I could kill him, which feels clichéd as all fuck and I raise a fist.

“Okay,” he says and he shakes. “Benji out. Kill Benji.”

“Quit the dramatics,” I say. “I’m not in the mood.”

And I’m not. It’s not like I enjoy having to put somebody to sleep, even when said somebody is so lacking in courage and imagination that he needs to fill himself up with drugs at the very moment when he should be fighting for his life.

“Did you kill me yet?”

“Eat your fucking ice cream.”

“It’s not ice cream.” He laughs. “It’s nondairy.”

I roar, “Shut up and eat!”

He laughs and it’s called smack because I want to smack him, with his arms flailing. He’s licking the pint of not-ice-cream like the junkie he is. And this is what you love, Beck? He picks up the Observer and tries to tear it in half but he’s too fucked up and he staggers to his feet.

“Sit down, Benji.”

“Did you kill me yet?”

He is a zombie and a cripple and he is talking again. “Joe, my man. Come on. You don’t think it’s funny? This girl stalks me for like a hundred years and now here I sit. Dead! Because you’re stalking her!”

“Nobody’s a stalker.”