Dash & Lily's Book of Dares (4 page)

The note was a passage from my mother’s favorite of Marie Howe’s poems, too, and it was a poem I had always
liked because it contained a passage about the poet seeing herself in the window glass of a corner video store, which never failed to strike me as funny, imagining some mad poet wandering the streets and spying herself in a video store window reflected next to, perhaps, posters of Jackie Chan or Sandra Bullock or someone super-famous and probably not at all poet-y. I liked Moody Boy even more when I saw that he’d underlined my favorite part of the poem:

I am living. I remember you
.

I had no idea how Marie Howe and Two Boots Pizza and
The Godfather
could possibly be connected. I tried calling Langston again. Still no answer.

I read and re-read the passage.
I am living. I remember you
. I don’t really get poetry, but I had to give the poetess credit: nice.

Two people sat in the booth next to me, setting down some rental videos on their table. That’s when I realized the connection:
say the window of the corner video store
. This particular Two Boots location also had a video store attached to it.

I dashed over to the video section like it was the bathroom after I’d accidentally ingested some Louisiana hot sauce on top of my calzone. I immediately went to where
The Godfather
was. The movie wasn’t there. I asked the clerk where I’d find it. “Checked out,” she said.

I returned to the
G
section anyway and found, mis-shelved,
The Godfather III
. I opened up the case and—
yes!—
another Post-it note, in Snarl’s scrawl:

Nobody ever checks out Godfather III. Especially when it’s misfiled. Do you want another clue? If so, find Clueless. Also misfiled, where sorrow meets pity
.

I returned to the clerk’s counter. “Where does sorrow meet pity?” I asked, fully expecting an existential answer.

The clerk didn’t look up from the comic book she was reading under the counter. “Foreign documentaries.”

Oh.

I went to the foreign documentaries section. And yes, next to a film called
The Sorrow and the Pity
was a copy of
Clueless
! Inside the case for
Clueless
was another note:

I didn’t expect you to make it this far. Are you also a fan of depressing French films about mass murder? If so, I like you already. If not, why not? Do you also despise les films de Woody Allen? If you want your red Moleskine notebook back, I suggest you leave instructions in the film of your choice with Amanda at the front desk. Please, no Christmas movies
.

I returned to the front desk. “Are you Amanda?” I asked the clerk girl.

She looked up, raising an eyebrow. “I am.”

“May I leave something for someone with you?” I asked. I almost added,
Wink wink
, but I couldn’t bring myself to be that obvious.

“You may,” she said.

“Do you have a copy of
Miracle on 34th Street
?” I asked her.

three
–Dash–

December 22nd

“Is this a joke?” I asked Amanda. And the way she looked at me, I knew that I was the joke.

Oh, the impertinence! I should have known better than to mention Christmas movies. Clearly, no invitation was too small for Lily’s sarcasm. And the note:

5. Look for the warm woolen mittens with the reindeer on them, please
.

Could there be any doubt what my next destination was supposed to be?

Macy’s.

Two days before Christmas Eve.

She might as well have gift-wrapped my face and pumped the carbon dioxide in. Or hung me on a noose of credit card receipts. A department store two days before Christmas Eve is like a city in a state of siege—wild-eyed consumers battling in
the aisles over who gets the last sea horse snow globe to give to their respective great-aunt Marys.

I couldn’t.

I wouldn’t.

I had to.

I tried to distract myself by debating the difference between
wool
and
woolen
, then expanding it to include
wood
vs.
wooden
and
gold
vs.
golden
. But this distraction only lasted the time it took to walk the stairs from the subway, since when I emerged on Herald Square, I was nearly capsized by the throngs and their shopping bags. The knell of a Salvation Army bell ringer added to the grimness, and I had no doubt that if I didn’t escape soon, a children’s choir would pop up and carol me to death.

I walked inside Macy’s and faced the pathetic spectacle of a department store full of shoppers, none of whom were shopping for themselves. Without the instant gratification of a self-aimed purchase, everyone walked around in the tactical stupor of the financially obligated. At this late date in the season, all the fallbacks were being used. Dad was getting a tie, Mom was getting a scarf, and the kids were getting sweaters, whether they liked it or not. I had done all of my shopping online from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. on the morning of December 3; the gifts now sat at their respective houses, to be opened in the new year. My mother had left me gifts to open in her house, while my father had slipped me a hundred-dollar bill and told me to go to town with it. In fact, his exact words were, “Don’t spend it all on booze and women”—the implication being, of course, that I should spend at least
some
of it on booze and women. Had there been a way to get a gift certificate for booze and women, I was sure he would
have made his secretary run out and get me one over her lunch break.

The salespeople were so shell-shocked that a question like “Where do I find the warm woolen mittens with reindeer on them?” didn’t seem the least bit strange. Eventually, I found myself in Outer Garments, wondering what, short of an earplug, would count as an Inner Garment.

I had always felt that mittens were a few steps back on the evolutionary scale—why, I wondered, would we want to make ourselves into a less agile version of a lobster? But my disdain for mittens took on a new depth when looking at Macy’s (
Macy’s’s
?) holiday offerings. There were mittens shaped like gingerbread men and mittens decorated in tinsel. One pair of mittens simulated the thumb of a hitchhiker; the destination was, apparently, the North Pole. In front of my very eyes, a middle-aged woman took a pair off the rack and placed them in the pile she’d grown in her arms.

“Really?” I found myself saying aloud.

“Excuse me?” she said, irritated.

“Aesthetic and utilitarian considerations aside,” I said, “those mittens don’t particularly make sense. Why would you want to hitchhike to the North Pole? Isn’t the whole gimmick of Christmas that there’s home delivery? You get up there, all you’re going to find is a bunch of exhausted, grumpy elves. Assuming, of course, that you accept the mythical presence of a workshop up there, when we all know there isn’t even a pole at the North Pole, and if global warming continues, there won’t be any ice, either.”

“Why don’t you just fuck off?” the woman replied. Then she took her mittens and got out of there.

This was the miracle of the season, the way it put the
fuck off
so loud in our hearts. You could snap at strangers, or snap at the people closest to you. It could be a
fuck off
for a slight reason—
You took my parking space
or
You questioned my choice of mittens
or
I spent sixteen hours tracking down the golf club you wanted and you gave me a McDonald’s gift certificate in return
. Or it could bring out the
fuck off
that’d been lying in wait for years.
You always insist on cutting the turkey even though I’m the one who spent hours cooking it
or
I can’t spend one more holiday pretending to be in love with you
or
You want me to inherit your love for booze and women, in that order, but you’re more of a role anti-model than a father
.

This was why I shouldn’t have been allowed in Macy’s. Because when you turn a short span of time into a “season,” you create an echo chamber for all of its associations. Once you step in, it’s hard to escape.

I started shaking hands with all the reindeer mittens, certain that Lily had hidden something inside one of them. Sure enough, the fifth shake brought a crumple. I pulled out the slip of paper.

6. I left something under the pillow for you
.

Next stop: bedding. Personally, I preferred the word
bedding
when it was a verb, not a noun.
Can you show me the bedding section?
could not compare to
Are you bedding me? Seriously, are we going to bed each other?
In truth, I knew these sentences worked better in my head than anywhere else—Sofia never really understood what I was saying, although I usually chalked that up to her not being a native speaker. I even encouraged her to throw some obscure Spanish wordplay my way, but she
never knew what I was talking about when I talked about that, either.

She was pretty, though. Like a flower. I missed that.

When I got to the bedding section, I wondered if Lily appreciated how many beds there were for me to probe. They could house a whole orphanage in here, with a few extra beds for the nuns to fool around in. (
Pull my wimple! PULL MY WIMPLE!
) The only way I was going to be able to do this was to divide the floor into quadrants and move clockwise from north.

The first bed was a paisley print with four pillows propped up on it. I immediately launched my hand underneath them, looking for the next note.

“Sir? Can I help you?”

I turned and saw a bed salesman, his look half amused and half alarmed. He looked a lot like Barney Rubble, only with the remnants of a spray tan that would have been unavailable in the prehistoric age. I sympathized. Not because of the spray tan—I’d never do shit like that—but because I figured being a bed salesman was a job of biblically bad paradox. I mean, here he was, forced to stand for eight or nine hours a day, and the whole time he’s surrounded by beds. And not only that, he’s surrounded by shoppers who see the beds and can’t help but think,
Man, I’d love to lie down on that bed for a second
. So not only does he have to stop himself from lying down, but he has to stop everyone else from doing it, too. I knew if I were him, I would be desperate for human company. So I decided to take him into my confidence.

“I’m looking for something,” I said. I glanced at his ring finger. Bingo. “You’re a married man, right?”

He nodded.

“Well, here’s the thing,” I said. “My mother? She was looking at bedding and she totally dropped her shopping list under one of the pillows. So now she’s upstairs in cutlery, upset that she can’t remember what to get anyone, and my dad is about to blow his last fuse, because he likes shopping about as much as he likes terrorism and the estate tax. So he sent me down here to find the list, and if I don’t find it quick, there’s going to be a major meltdown on floor five.”

Super-tan Barney Rubble actually put his finger on his temple to help him think.

“I might remember her,” he said. “I’ll go look under those pillows if you want to look under these. Just
please
be careful to put the pillows back in their place and avoid mussing the sheets.”

“Oh, I will!” I assured him.

I decided if I were ever to get into booze and women, my line would be
Excuse me, madam, but I would really love to bed and muss you.… Are you perchance free this evening?

Now, at the risk of saying something legally actionable, I have to remark: It was amazing the things I found underneath the pillows at Macy’s. Half-eaten candy bars. Baby chew toys. Business cards. There was one thing that could have been either a dead jellyfish or a condom, but I pulled my fingers back before I found out for sure. Poor Barney actually let out a little scream when he found a decomposed rodent; it was only after he ran away for a quick burial and thorough disinfecting that I found the slip of paper I was looking for.

7. I dare you to ask Santa for your next message
.

No. No fucking no no no.

If I hadn’t appreciated her sadism, I would’ve headed straight for the hills.

But instead, I headed straight for Santa.

It wasn’t as easy as that, though. I got down to the main floor and Santa’s Wonderland, and the line was at least ten classrooms long. Children lolled and fidgeted while parents talked on cell phones or fussed with strollers or teetered like the living dead.

Luckily, I always travel with a book, just in case I have to wait on line for Santa, or some such inconvenience. More than a few of the parents—especially the dads—gave me strange looks. I could see them doing the mental math—I was way too old to believe in Santa, but I was too young to be after their children. So I was safe, if suspicious.

It took me forty-five minutes to get to the front of the line. Kids were whipping out lists and cookies and digital cameras, while I just had
Vile Bodies
. Finally, it was my turn. I saw the girl in front of me wrapping up, and I started to move forward.

“One second!” a dictatorial rasp commanded.

I looked down to find the least satisfying cliché in Christmas history: a power-mad elf.

“HOW OLD ARE YOU?” he barked.

“Thirteen,” I lied.

His eyes were as pointy as his stupid green hat.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice not sorry at all, “but twelve is the limit.”

“I promise I won’t take long,” I said.

“TWELVE IS THE LIMIT!”

The girl had finished her stint with Santa. It was my turn. By all rights, it was my turn.

“I just have to ask Santa one thing,” I said. “That’s all.”

The elf body-blocked me. “Get out of the line now,” he demanded.