Our Country Friends(54)
The road ran out of pavement and they trampled through the wet dirt beneath a cool shady scrim of pines. Once the pines ended, they came upon a clearing filled with clumsy structures that brought to mind an apocalyptic version of Senderovsky’s estate. There were little clapboard bungalows surrounding a stucco House on the Hill with its own attached covered porch (though the screens had long been torn into metallic sheets that now flapped in the wind ominously). On every abandoned building one could see the chalked scribbling of adolescent and teenaged children worldlier than one might expect in the countryside: “?mercan Güldal was here. Turkey rulz!” “Hello from NBA Future Superstar Jo?o Sousa.” “Gianni Fusco, Bunk 12, making boo-boo in your ass. Forza Italia!”
“I think this was like an international children’s camp or something,” the Actor said.
“I believe you are correct,” Dee said, pointing to a roadside sign half hidden by creeping sumac that read CAMP INTERNATIONALE. It was festooned with children’s drawings of the flags of their many countries. “Why don’t we get you out of the rain.” She took his hand and led him to an outdoor theater space smelling of moss and rotting wood. A giant globe had been painted above the stage in the same sloppy adolescent manner as the rest of the signage, along with the legend ACTORS SHOW US THE TRUE FACE OF THE WORLD.
“Well,” he said, “I can’t argue with that sentiment, can I?” His hand was still in hers and she had pressed her thumb into his palm in a way that he thought bespoke intent.
“That is exceptionally poorly phrased,” she said of the sign.
“I think English got abused a lot around these parts,” he said. “Along with the victims of Gianni Fusco. You have a pretty laugh, by the way. Could this be the first time I made you laugh? Intentionally, I mean.”
Now was not the time to kiss him. They sat down on the stage, and she leaned her back against his shoulder so that they faced away from each other. His tee was wet and he shivered profoundly and she thought of the little rabbit they had scared along the way. An empty box of condoms sat next to her; the orange price sticker told her that they were half as expensive here as in the city. The rain was getting louder against the roof of the outdoor theater, but somehow it did not leak and they both felt safe for the moment. She thought she might have to change that.
“I’m sorry,” Dee said, “about what Karen did to you.”
“If there’s an antidote, I don’t want it,” he said. “Although she did offer me first dibs for free.”
“Why wouldn’t you want it?”
“It’s no different than falling in love without it, in the end.”
“What do you mean?”
“You fall in love with yourself first. With who you want to be when interacting with the person you think you’re in love with. Sorry, my English not so good. I hope you can understand NBA Future Superstar.”
She didn’t laugh. “Go on,” she said.
“Then maybe, if you loosen up a little, you fall in love with what the other person really is, but primarily you still love them because of how they enhance you. Now you just have all these backup reasons to love them.” He was speaking very fast. He was once again onstage, in his manic state, which would win him plaudits with anyone but her. “Like when I saw you help that turtle. I thought, Oh, that’s who she is. But the project remains the same. Self-fulfillment. Ed doesn’t love you as much as he loves the closed circuit that you make out of him.”
“There are two conjectures here. One, that I am ultimately not lovable, except maybe when animals with thicker shells than your own are involved. And two, that everyone is as self-obsessed as you are. That no one else can appreciate another person on their own merits.”
“That’s three conjectures. And you’re lovable enough. And I’m not going to lie and say I’m not self-obsessed. And it didn’t used to be that way when I was unknown. That’s been foisted upon me by society.”
“So society got to you before Karen’s algorithm did?”
“See, we’re in this trap where we think that people who are fortunate, often through their own hard work, aren’t allowed to be unhappy.”
“Most of literature is about privileged people being unhappy. Anna Karenina much? Like, what the fuck does Uchi the hairdresser have to be upset about?” Uchi was a roommate on the Japanese reality show whose wooden box of prized beef, a gift from a grateful client, had been eaten by his girlfriend and other roommates without permission.
“They ate his meat! They stole a part of his identity.”
“And Karen’s algorithm stole your identity?”
“No, this is my identity.”
“?‘My identity by itself causes violence.’?”
“Huh?”
“It’s from a song. N.W.A.”
“Why do you know so much old rap?”
“Because I’m white. How is pursuing me your identity?”
“Because I’ve fallen in love—”
“Stop saying ‘in love’ so easily. It makes you sound even more programmed.”
The Actor sighed. “There’s no way I can make you look at me as something other than a cripple.”
“We’re going to fuck soon,” Dee said. “So I want you to start being more seductive or it’s going to be very lame.”