Cannibals in Love (18 page)

But there was, in fact, a stage. And Lauren couldn't help herself from climbing up on it. Leaping and pirhouetting, as she performed to the empty house. Tom and Derek scaled a ladder hidden behind the curtain, and all at once they were standing over top of her. Bounding across a narrow iron catwalk. They called out, with their voices ringing off the ceiling, entreating Lauren to follow.

But as she put her hand up to shield against the glare of the lights, she thought better of this. Sitting down on the stage, she told them she would wait where she was. There was an echo of footfalls, and the whoosh of a metal door, before the room went silent. Lauren looked up at the ceiling again, noticing the frescoes in the arches for the first time. And, in this moment, she thought of me, thinking how excited she would be to bring me back here.

This was the exact moment when the lights cut out.

Lauren froze in the vibrating darkness, listening for something, anything, before calling out for Tom and Derek. Getting no response, she hurried up the seatless aisle, under the dim light of her cell phone. Down a hallway and past a concessions stand. Into the lobby and out the front doors. Lauren suddenly found herself standing below the once-grand marquee, staring at an empty police car. As she gathered herself to run, a second cruiser came barreling in on top of her. She froze as the goateed cop jumped out, demanding to know if she had come from inside the theater. Lauren looked at him blankly and answered no. The man paused before pushing past her and rattling the heavy door himself. Finding it locked, he turned back to Lauren.

“This was the cop who drove you home?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing. I don't know. He was actually trying to help me,” she said. “It was the other cops who were assholes. They dragged Tom and Derek out of the building and made them lie facedown in the street.”

This was criminal mischief in the age of the Patriot Act. This was misdemeanor trespassing in our proud National Seat. Because misdemeanors weren't misdemeanors; they were felonies. And felonies weren't felonies, either; they were veiled acts of terrorism. But all of this was just bluster, too. Intimidation was an instrument of control. And Lauren's cop told her this as he moved her back, away from the scene, urging her to stop cursing the other police.

Technically, Lauren was free to go at this point. But she made the decision to follow Tom and Derek to the police station, to see if she could help. It was there that she found the goateed cop suddenly doting on her. Offering his assistance in any way he could. And, quite frankly, Lauren was in no position to reject a friend. This good-natured authority figure doing everything in his power to get a decision made on bail. But it was no use. Tom and Derek were spending this night in jail.

“Why didn't you call me?” I asked.

“Because you were asleep. It wasn't like I was being arrested. You couldn't have done anything anyway.”

I couldn't help but bristle at this. I didn't like hearing these kinds of things after the fact. I wanted to do something
now
. I was ready to hold somebody accountable.

“Why would you get in his car?”

“Because he was a cop. And he'd been there the whole time. I thought he was trying to help me. What did you want me to do,
walk
from Northeast?”

“No,” I said. “I'm not saying that.”

The Metro stopped running at midnight, and Lauren didn't have the money for a taxi. The cop knew this, and he offered her a ride instead. But something changed. This man who had seemed so anxious and anodyne in the hallways of the police station suddenly took on a kind of looming authority in the front seat of the cruiser. Lauren felt naïve for having flirted with him so unthinkingly. It surprised her the way that he picked up this ball and started running with it. Turning almost brazen as he put his arm behind her on the seat-back. Every gesture seemed to magnify the smallness of this space now. Lauren and the cop were alone in the moving car.

“What happened?” I couldn't seem to stop asking this.

“Nothing happened. He just kept asking questions.”

“What questions?”

“It doesn't matter. Everything I told him was a lie. The first thing I said to him, coming out of the theater, was a lie. I was only trying to keep Tom and Derek out of jail. I was just trying to get everybody home.”

“But I don't understand. Did he do something to you or not?”

“No. I don't know. It was just the way that he was looking at me. The way that he was talking.” She stopped. “He wanted me to keep driving around with him.”

“What does that mean?”

“He said his shift was ending and he wanted me to keep him company.” I could feel the blood boiling in my head. “He just kept smiling and saying it. Telling me how I could take a shower and change my clothes first, if I wanted. He said that he would come back and pick me up.”

“
Fuck
,” I said. “Why did you give him your phone number?”

“I didn't do it on purpose. He asked me, and I said it. I don't know…”

I could feel my jaw tighten as I tried to slow myself down. “You need to file charges,” I said flatly.

“Charges of what?”

“Harassment! Sexual harassment.”

Lauren practically laughed in my face. “And who am I supposed to file them with? The police? He
is
the police!”

“That doesn't matter. He can't just do whatever he wants. He needs to be punished,” I said. “Tell me his name.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“It's not worth it,” she said in a hollow voice. “Nothing even happened to me.”

“That's not the point.”

“Of course it's the point!” she shouted. “I'm not gonna file charges against a cop. I mean, give me a fucking break! Charges of
what
? The fact that he didn't arrest me? Or that he stuck up for Tom and Derek? Or that he offered me a ride home when the subways stopped running? What? Tell me!”

I could feel my face growing hot with shame. I had no idea what I was supposed to say to her. All of my questions came out sounding wrong. Worse, it seemed like Lauren didn't even trust me. “I just want to help,” I offered meekly.

“It's fine,” she said, softening again. “It's over now anyway.” She got up off the bed and walked toward the closet.

“What are you doing?”

“I don't know,” she said, sounding empty. “I just want to take a shower and go to bed.”

I stood up and wrapped my arms around her. Stopping her and holding her there. I could smell the sweat under her arms. The stress and adrenaline that had been purged tonight. I felt her body tense, before releasing into me. Finally letting go.

*   *   *

Most of these men were harmless, most of the time, Lauren said. Everyone can't be a murderer or a monster or a rapist. They just want a reaction from a pretty girl on the street. They just want to steal a smile if they can get away with it. Getting a woman to stop and turn her head, in traffic, is just another cheap thrill. The violence is a good wet laugh.

But I knew these men wanted something else from me. Cops and civilians alike. Everyone was daring me to react. Begging me to flash my anger back at them, in all situations. Because the truth is some people actually walk around looking for a fight, or at least the pretense for one. Knowing this, understanding it, I would always take a step back. Smiling at them with my teeth and riding away, furious.

*   *   *

I didn't strike the man on the street with my U-lock. I never bashed his head open, or left him for dead. All I did was cut him off with my bicycle as he tried to run me over with his car. With the both of us flying into a rage then. Cursing and spitting and puffing ourselves up. “Fuck you, shut up, bitch, motherfucker, fuck you!” I didn't know this man, and he didn't know me, but we were about to get violent.

But as he roared forward like this, it was his girlfriend who caught his arm and pulled him back. Interrupting our moment of brutality before it could begin. She pushed him away and held me off with her curses. And, in this moment, I suddenly stopped. I picked my bike up off the ground and I left them there. Standing up on the pedals and pumping like crazy. Unscarred; unscathed; untouched.

So why did I feel so bad about it now? At home, inside the dark house, I was sweaty with panic. I was thinking of my own inaction on the street. Replaying it in my head, over and over. It made me angry that I had not cracked this man's skull and sent him reeling to the ground. I was holding the U-lock in my hand. I felt like I might need to sit down, or vomit, even. I made a vow to stop drinking, starting right then, forever. Starting tomorrow, maybe. For a whole month, or maybe just a week. And yet I couldn't stop feeling justified in my own instinct for violence. He was the one who'd stopped his car, right? He was the one who had threatened me. This man had it coming.

I paced the kitchen, in the dark, and I went into the bedroom, finally. I woke Lauren up, and I startled her because I was suddenly crying there on the edge of the bed. She put her hands up against my face and neck
. What is it? What's wrong?
she asked me, looking scared. But I just shook my head. I had no idea what was wrong.

 

CANNIBALS IN LOVE

Lauren announced that she was chopping off her hair. I laughed and told her she wasn't allowed. Lauren laughed back and then we fought. Everything was a reason to fight these days. We would keep the doors open when we pissed just to keep a fight going. We were like depraved virtuosos this way. This was art.

We'd been living together for almost a year, breathing each other's fumes. Madly in love and madly in hate. It was the claustrophobia that we refused to surrender. Lauren and I always had to be funnier. Smarter. Meaner. We needed a winner and a loser at all times, always. We knew that someone should leave the room; someone should just back down and quit; but no one ever did. I had come to understand that Lauren would eventually kill me in the way that many coupling insects go.

Lauren cut her hair off the next day, too, like I knew she would, and it gave us a reason to fight all over again. Then somewhere, in the lull of insults, I admitted I might actually like her new hair a little. She smiled and nodded, pleased. Letting me kiss her then. Letting us laugh all over again. This was the dance we did. The truth was I was devastated by how beautiful Lauren Pinkerton was with her bratty new haircut.

*   *   *

But the thing we were fighting about now was money. It could always come back to money. Money was this beautiful occult invention that allowed human beings to argue at heroic lengths. Money was loaded with deception and accusation and hurt feelings. It could be personal and emotional and irrational. It was really just too easy, almost.

I was writing and not working again. I told Lauren I had abandoned the idea of ever making any real money, years ago. This drove her crazy and she accused me of lying. She accused me of ego and ambition and sloth. Lauren was constantly worried about money. It was one of the few things she was genuinely neurotic about. She mismanaged her bills and debts. She accumulated late fees and penalties. She hedged credit cards against each other and overdrafted. And she despised me for cobbling together work from friends, and living hand-to-mouth the way I did. Something was always falling into my lap. I never missed a bill, ever.

But I couldn't help smiling now, because I'd just asked to borrow five dollars.

“What do you want it for?” she asked, sitting up.

“What does it matter what it's for? I just want it.”

“Unh-uh, no. Sorry.”

“Okay, I want a beer from the bodega. Is that all right with you?”

“Gosh, I don't think I'm interested in making an investment in that sort of thing,” Lauren said, enjoying this.

“Hey. If you give me a little smile, sweetie pie, maybe I'll even come back with a chocolate bar for you.”

“Oh, yeah? You're gonna buy me a treat with my own money? You promise?”

“Yeah, sure thing. I just need the cash first.” I held my palm out to her.

“Your drinking's getting a little out of hand lately, don't you think? I mean, what time is it right now?”

“Don't try to domesticate me, woman,” I said, shifting characters. “I'm a man, and a man drinks ice-cold beer. I'm not asking for your permission.”

“Ho-oh, but you don't have any money. So you
must
be asking for permission.”

I sat down in the armchair with a heavy sigh, losing interest in this. “Maybe I'm just stressed out and I want a beer,” I said without affect.

Lauren laughed. “What stress do you have? You don't even work!” She was glowing now, taunting me. I'd put her into this position, of course; I'd done it to myself.

“You know what, never mind. I don't want your money if you're going to be such a bitch about it.” This amused Lauren.

“Aw, c'mon. Can't I beg you to take it from me? Please.”

I just sat there, not looking at her. This is the point where a normal person gives up and cuts his losses. It's not worth going on and on this way about trivial things. It's not healthy. It doesn't do anyone any good. But I didn't care about any of that.

“You know what? You're going to make some man a great ex-wife someday,” I said, hardly able to suppress my delight.

“Yeah, someone with some fucking
money
!” she shot back, but I knew I'd already stung her. It was very much on purpose. More than I wanted her five dollars, more than I wanted a beer, I wanted Lauren to pay attention to me. And I had her up on her feet now.

“And fuck you for saying that, also. You think you understand certain things, but you don't know anything about anything.” Lauren was the product of divorce, and this was another rare sensitivity. And now we were really fighting, too, which was good.