Big Swiss(34)

She supposed, if worse came to worst, she could remain in the antechamber for the winter, even though it was windowless, its only light a bare bulb in the ceiling, and nothing on the wooden walls except peeling wallpaper. Someone, not her, had picked at the five layers of wallpaper like a speed freak. Whoever it was had seemed to be making some kind of map, or topography: hills striped in pink and green velvet; forests full of thorny, vaguely Asiatic foliage; valleys made up of flowering English vines; lakes floating with paisleys and lozenges. She wondered whose work it was, and what it meant.


Mom,

Please tell me this wallpaper map leads to buried treasure. There’s no key or legend, though, so I’ll likely never find it. I’ve always sucked at reading maps. Other weaknesses: puzzles, riddles, any kind of problem solving. I never tested well! Privately, I suspected I was dumb, but now I recognize it as a will-to-live thing. Death has been a goal like any other, i.e., on my vision board forever, and so I’ve never bothered to learn anything useful, thanks in part to you—no offense.

Although, to be honest, ending my life holds little interest lately. I mean, whatever, it’s winter. Suicide only occurs to me calmly and out of the blue, i.e., never on Christmas, which Sabine and I spent getting drunk at Spring Garden. It’s just a jingle that pops into my head. A few months ago, when the leaves turned and the burning bush in the backyard was engulfed in red and pink flames, I couldn’t stop myself from taking a few pictures, even though I’ve never cared about foliage. The stems, I noticed, were made of cork. In other words, cork is not man-made—it is a kind of tree bark, and I don’t know, should I kill myself this afternoon?

Sometimes I wish I still had our notes. I understand why you burned yours, but why couldn’t you leave mine alone? It’s no wonder I barely remember anything. You didn’t burn the final one, though—that’s on me. You’d think I would’ve kept that safe. You’d think I would’ve placed it, along with my other important documents, in a waterproof envelope of some sort, or perhaps a metal box. Birth certificate, social security card, your suicide note. And yet, I still have concert stubs from the nineties, a few of which I took the trouble to laminate. Still have that dumb rock I found while tripping in the woods, along with a hundred other useless souvenirs. Boxes full of carefully folded notes from people I never really cared about follow me whenever I move. But your last words? Gone, and early on.

Let’s focus on the present. I wonder what you would make of this house. Something tells me you’d hate it. You always seemed afraid of antiques. Is that why you’re not haunting me?

This house is putting me in contact with some of the more elemental aspects of survival: shelter, water, fire. I’ve never considered myself spoiled, but apparently, I’m habituated to such luxuries as insulation, thermostats, and drinking water from the tap. Here I build and maintain fires all day and all night. I de-gas the water before drinking it. If I had that incessant, insatiable impulse to thrive that I see in others, I would move out immediately, or at least find a way to fill the cracks in the walls so that I don’t see my breath at night. Instead, I sleep with a hair dryer. Or I hide in the antechamber. Sometimes I wonder why I left California for this fucked-up frontier house, why I left my comfortable relationship to transcribe other people’s relationships.

Om tells his clients that a romantic partner mirrors how you feel about yourself. Stacy was a skinny mirror. He made me look—and feel—better than I actually looked or felt, which is why breaking his heart has probably given me seven years of bad luck. My other relationships: carnival mirrors, a different kind of distortion.

Big Swiss, on the other hand? We don’t even know each other, and so she doesn’t mirror anything, really, but I wish I saw myself in her. I’ve always thought of myself as a non-wallower, as someone who isn’t particularly prone to self-pity, who’s mastered the (mostly lost) art of sucking it up, but then I wouldn’t be lying around in the antechamber, writing notes to my dead mother, would I? I’d have my shit together by now. I’d be on a clear path toward—



Greta’s phone vibrated. It was Om, texting from a bar, probably.

How’s it goin?



Well, it’s raining in my bedroom. My fire went out. I’m sleeping in a cabinet



Lmao



Are you drunk?



Three beers



Full disclosure: NEM and REP were here to buy weed and I may have told NEM that she reminded me of Jason Bateman



You didn’t



I did



Then what happened?



She invited me to the dog park



Oh ok cool



Is it?



Of course. I want you to have friends. Just don’t tell her you work for me



So, cultivate a friendship based on a lie?



Yeah



Ok!



Did you listen to FEW?



Twice



Intense, right?



Harrowing



You ok?



Is her face… disfigured?



You know I can’t tell you



Do you have another file?