Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer(137)
“I did.”
“More than once?”
“Yes.”
“Not in the house.”
“No,” Jacob said, as if offended by the suggestion. “In hotels. Once in the office. It was just permission to acknowledge our unhappiness. Julia was probably even grateful that it happened.”
“Everyone is so grateful for the permission that no one wants.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s the same conversation we were just having. The same.”
“I thought it was revealed to be bullshit?”
“Some, yes, but not this part: you can’t say, ‘This is who I am.’ You can’t say, ‘I’m a married man. I have three great kids, a nice house, a good job. I don’t have everything I want, I’m not as respected as I might wish, I’m not as rich or loved or f*cked as I might wish, but this is who I am, and choose to be, and admit to being.’ You can’t say that. But neither can you admit to needing more, to wanting more. Forget about other people, you can’t even admit your unhappiness to yourself.”
“I’m unhappy. If that’s what you need to hear me say, there it is. I want more.”
“That’s just making sounds.”
“What isn’t making sounds?”
“Going to Israel. To live.”
“OK, now you’re kidding.”
“I’m saying what you already know.”
“That if I moved to Israel my marriage would improve?”
“That if you were capable of standing up and saying, ‘This is who I am,’ you’d at least be living your own life. Even if who you are is ugly to others. Even if who you are is ugly to you.”
“I’m not living my own life?”
“No.”
“Whose life am I living?”
“Maybe your grandfather’s idea of your life. Or your father’s. Or your own idea. Maybe no life at all.”
Jacob suspected he should take offense, and he had the instinct to strike back at Tamir, but he also felt humbled, and grateful.
“It was a long day,” he said, “and I don’t know that either of us is saying what he means anymore. I like having you here. It reminds me of when we were kids. Let’s cut our losses.”
Tamir took the last third of his beer down in one gulp. He placed the bottle back on the table, more gently than Jacob had seen him do anything, and said, “When do we stop cutting our losses?”
“You and I?”
“Sure.”
“As opposed to what? Losing it all?”
“Or reclaiming what’s ours.”
“Yours and mine?”
“Sure.”
He finished Jacob’s unfinished beer and tossed the two empty bottles in the garbage.
“We recycle,” Jacob said.
“I don’t.”
“You have enough towels upstairs?”
“What do you think I do with towels?”
“Just trying to be a good host.”
“Always trying to be something.”
“Yes. I’m always trying to be something. That says something good about me.”
“OK.”
“And you’re always trying to be something, too. And so is Barak. And Julia and Sam and Max and Benjy. Everybody.”
“What am I trying to be?”
Jacob paused for a beat, careful.
“You’re trying to be bigger than you actually are.”
Tamir’s smile revealed the force of the blow.
“Ah.”
“Everybody is trying to be something.”
“Your grandfather isn’t.”
What was that? A stupid joke? Some kind of lazy stab at wisdom?
“He stopped trying,” Jacob said, “and it killed him.”
“You’re wrong. He’s the only one of us who actually succeeded.”
“At what?”
“At becoming something.”
“Dead?”
“Real.”
Jacob almost said, Now you’ve lost me.
He almost said, I’m heading up.
He almost said, I don’t agree with anything you’ve said, but I understand you.
The night could end, the conversation could close, what was shared could be processed, digested, and expelled, save for the nutrients.
But instead, Jacob asked, “You want another beer? Or is that just going to get us drunk and fat?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Tamir said. “Including drunkenness and fatness.”
“And baldness.”
“No, you’re taking care of that for both of us.”
“You know,” Jacob said, “I have a bag of pot upstairs. Somewhere. It’s probably as old as Max, but pot never goes bad, does it?”
“Not any more than kids do,” Tamir said.
“Shit.”
“What’s the worst that could happen? We don’t get high?”
IN THE HINGE
It took Julia three hours to walk to Mark’s apartment. Jacob texted and called and texted and called, but she didn’t text or call ahead to see if Mark was there. Her finger was releasing the buzzer to his apartment as it was pressing it—the circuit completed for a startling instant, like a bird hitting a window.