Fans of the Impossible Life (5 page)

I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed any of this, but as usual I had been invisible. I touched my hand where he had kissed it, so casually flirtatious, so easy for him. Where did these people come from? I felt emboldened by the interaction, as if having their attention even for that moment had bestowed a kind of approval upon me. At least it meant that I wasn't invisible.

I walked up to the next nine people I saw and got them to sign the form.

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They had already managed to get themselves kicked out of both Victoria's Secret and Hot Topic when Mira's phone beeped with an incoming email. She and Sebby were sitting on a bench eating giant “New York style” pretzels from Mama's New York Style Pretzel Shop. Sebby was making faces at the Hot Topic salesman who had banished them from the store after catching him trying on the glittery fake eyelashes. Sebby just pocketed them on his way out. And grabbed some blue nail polish for good measure.

Mira took her phone out of her bag.

It was an email from Jeremy, the boy from her English class.

Thanks for signing the Art Club petition
, it said.
We'll meet Wednesdays right after school in the studio if you want to be a part of it.

“I guess our new friend got his signatures,” she said, handing the phone to Sebby.

“Great,” Sebby said, reading it. “I'm free on Wednesdays.”

“You're free every day.”

“You don't know my life.”

“I do, actually.”

The Hot Topic salesman was eyeing them from behind his counter display of goth jewelry and Manic Panic. He was too old to be working there for any reason other than that nowhere else would have him, with his long, greasy ponytail and fading Ramones T-shirt. And being harassed by two teenagers did not seem to be helping his sense of self-worth on this particular day. Mira recognized the look in his eyes from her many afternoons spent at the mall with Sebby. He was debating whether or not to call security.

“Let's get out of here,” she said. “This guy has it in for us.”

“Never admit defeat!” Sebby said. But he hopped off the bench and blew a kiss at the Hot Topic guy, and they set off on a stroll through the halls of commerce, passing by the chain clothing stores, from preppy to slutty and back to preppy again.

Mira stopped to look in a window promising the hottest looks of fall! and featuring tiny mannequins in skin-tight jeans and cropped cardigans.

“These clothes are like death,” she said, “and anyone who wears them is dead inside.”

“That kid was cute,” Sebby said, not interested in one of her regular rants against mass-produced clothing.

“Art boy? Jeremy?”

“Yeah. Art boy was cute, right?”

“You flirted shamelessly,” she said.

“That wasn't flirting. That's how I say hello.”

“You were shameless.”

They kept walking, away from the offensive clothing toward the less controversial chocolate-and-candy section of the mall.

“So which one of us should take him to prom?” Sebby asked.

“You can have him,” Mira said.

“Yes, but do I want him? Did he even mention me in that email?”

“Yeah, he said,
P.S. your friend is a huge flirt
.”

“He didn't!”

“No he didn't, but I think you completely terrified him. I haven't even heard him speak before today and I have class with him every day.”

“Maybe he needs some friends.”

“Well, I'm not looking for any more friends. I have my bestie, Molly Stern.”

“God, I don't even know Molly Stern and I already love her.”

“Take her. Please.”

They ma­­­­­de their way past the big fountain that hadn't worked in two years. A sign declaring the fountain will be back this spring hung crookedly off the top spigot.

“I just think you should keep an open mind about this Jeremy,” Sebby said. “He obviously has a crush on you.”

“On me?”

“Yes. He asked you to be in his club.”

“He just needed ten people to sign that paper.”

“He emailed you right away.”

“You told him to!”

“I'm intentionally changing the subject because you are getting overexcited. So, what are you going to make in Art Club? Oil painting? Bronze bust?”

“Oh lord, do I actually have to go now?”

“Why not? You have something against the arts?”

“I have something against spending any more time in that building than I have to. Seven hours a day is enough. I can barely keep my eyes open for that long.”

“Perhaps you will find energy through an expression of creativity.”

“Yeah, I doubt it.”

He stopped in front of the bulk candy store.

“Okay, number one: I need Sour Patch Kids. Number two: You're definitely going to Art Club because I'm going with you. I told Jeremy that I would and he's obviously counting on me.”

She followed him inside the store as he grabbed a bag and helped himself to samples from the large plastic bins.

“And what exactly are you going to do in Art Club?” Mira asked.

Sebby found the Sour Patch Kids and took a handful.

“I am super artistic, okay? I'll paint a mural. Children holding hands. World peace. Very tasteful.”

“Uh-huh. You got enough candy there?”

“Almost.” He opened another bin, grabbed a giant
jawbreaker, and stuck it in his pocket, making a large bulge in his pants.

“Yes, I am happy to see you,” he said.

“Lovely.”

“Okay, let's go.”

They walked out of the store, the teenager at the counter barely looking up as they left without paying.

Sebby held the bag of candy out for her to take some.

“I swear my mother has developed the ability to smell sugar on me,” she said.

“Life is short,” he said. He picked out a neon-green Sour Patch Kid and held it in front of her face. “Do you accept this little sugar man and his mission to bring you peace and fulfillment with the risk of a major sugar crash to follow?”

“I do,” she said. “I accept the terms of the tiny sugar man, and the wrath of my impossible mother.”

She ate it out of his hand, intentionally biting his finger.

“With pleasure comes pain,” he said, filling his mouth with candy.

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You took different paths when you were at the mall without Mira. You had other things to accomplish when you were alone.

It was easier to pocket things in a way because you could move more quickly. But then a teenager alone always aroused more suspicion. Easier to catch what your hands were doing on security cameras without an extra body to mask you.

On this day you managed to grab a few sets of earbuds, a pack of rechargeable batteries, and a necklace from Claire's that you thought Mira would like. You had seen it earlier and remembered it, used a group of gum-chewing twelve-year-olds carefully examining the plastic earrings to block you, and got in and out quickly. Now you stuck your hands in your pockets, feeling the satisfying jangle of the chain as you walked away from the store. The guy who lived on the corner of your block would give you a few bucks for the other stuff. And now you were feeling that adrenaline happy of seeing and taking. Desire
and consummation uninterrupted by something as crass as money changing hands.

There was no point in risking lifting anything else on this day, so it was time to go look for some company. You could usually find Sam in the record store all the way at the south end of the mall. The store was a relic, plastered with twenty years of band posters and ads for concerts long ago jammed to. They had actual LPs alongside the CDs, both a hard sell to anyone other than diehard collectors.

Sam unfortunately fit the mold of the main record-store clientele. Clothes that didn't quite fit right. Hair that had been brushed a little too vigorously. And too old to be hanging around a record store at one o'clock in the afternoon instead of at a job, which probably meant that he lived with his parents. But then you shouldn't have been there either.

He was in the jazz section on this day. Sam loved jazz. Also indie rock. And folk. “Anything but metal.”

“Hey,” you said, peering over from the perpetually uninhabited gospel section.

He looked up cautiously, as if convinced that you couldn't possibly be addressing him. There must be someone behind him, or maybe you were quietly calling to a person on the other side of the room. It seemed that he had been hurt by making assumptions about such things before.

“Oh, hey. Hey, Sebby,” he said, finally accepting that you were actually talking to him.

“Anything good?” You nodded at the LPs tucked under his
arm.

He shrugged. His eyes never quite met yours. They were always just a little to the left or right of you. Or else they were watching your lips when you talked, as if he had to look at your words to understand them.

“Want to get something to eat?” you asked. It was your job to get him out of the store. The first time he wasn't so shy, but from then on it was up to you.

“Okay,” he said. “I'll just pay for these.”

You waited for him outside the door.

“Food court?” he said.

“Sure,” you said.

He bought you a burger and himself a Coke, and you sat at a plastic table and ate while he talked about how he might get to fill in for his friend's three a.m. radio show on the local college station the next week. He had been working on the playlist all month, but then he worried that maybe he was overplanning it, and that it would be a better show if he just went with inspiration in the moment. You nodded politely, although you wished Sam wouldn't talk about his life because it just made you sad. More for yourself than for him.

You finished your burger. He hadn't touched his soda.

“You want to get out of here?” you said.

This meant going to the handicapped bathroom on the top floor of the Sears, the floor where they sold mattresses, and you couldn't help but appreciate the irony that you were so close to so many actual beds, but not quite there. One thirty in the
afternoon on a Monday, not even the salespeople could be bothered with coming up here. There was a homeless guy who liked to take naps on one of the beds sometimes. You caught him out of the corner of your eye as you and Sam made your way down the aisles. He looked comfortable.

The bathroom was mostly inoffensive. No one ever cleaned it, but no one seemed to use it either. Maybe just the homeless guy. If he did he kept it very neat.

No matter how many times you had been in there with Sam it was always awkward to start. You thought that this was why people liked to be drunk for this. Mutual unremembered fumbling would have been so much better than this very clear-eyed vision of Sam carefully lowering himself to the floor as you leaned up against the wall next to the hand dryer. His knees creaked a little and you were forced to reexamine your calculation of how old you thought he was. Twenty-five? Thirty? But then Sam was the kind of person who'd probably had creaky knees since he was ten.

But once he got your zipper open you no longer cared about the awkwardness, the total inelegance of the situation. You no longer cared about poor Sam or Sam's poor knees or yourself or anything.

One nice thing about Sam was that he didn't seem to mind you making noise. Sounding like you were actually enjoying yourself of course revealed your own attitude about this encounter. That you couldn't find shame in all of this mess like a normal person. But Sam never seemed ashamed. He was just a
guy who couldn't get a date, spent too much time in the record store, didn't get enough sunlight. It was possible that his time with you in the handicapped bathroom on the top floor of the Sears was the one thing in his life that Sam wasn't ashamed of.

So you made noise. What did you care? You wanted to get caught. You wanted them to know how nice it could be there in the handicapped bathroom. Inspire the world with your own ability to embrace pleasure in unlikely places. You accidently hit the side of the hand dryer with your fist, setting it off. You smiled as the hot air blew out next to you. Your life was absurd. You tried not to think about it.

And then you couldn't think anymore and that was the loveliest place of all. Where your head went away and there was only a cloud on top of your shoulders. A moment of suspension right before you crashed back down to earth. There. There it was.

Afterward, he kind of held you, his head resting against your leg. You wanted to touch him but you didn't want to disturb the moment he seemed to be having and anyway you would rather just stretch your arms out, hugging the wall behind you, feeling the air from the dryer which had gone off again.

When he finally got up, Sam went to the sink and washed his hands and face. You felt close to him watching him do this. Like the two of you were married, at home. Maybe you just finished brushing your teeth. Now you would get into bed together. He would spoon you and say he set the alarm for early because he had a meeting in the morning. You thought about asking him to
pretend with you. You could lie down on one of the mattresses. Ask the homeless guy to turn out the light.

The first few times you offered to reciprocate, but he shook his head and changed the subject to the release date for the new Arcade Fire album. So then you didn't ask anymore.

You said good-bye to Sam at the bottom of the escalator. Some days he offered to buy you something else, besides the food, if there was anything you needed. But on this day you made a quick getaway before he could mention it. You were anxious to get back to your block and see how much you could get for the earbuds, impatient to get the necklace to Mira. The sweet calm of the moment in the bathroom had faded and your brain was already on to the next thing. Kind, slow-moving Sam has served his purpose for the day, and you had places to be.

Sam stood where you left him at the bottom of the escalator. You looked back once and he hadn't moved. He was staring into his plastic bag as if it might contain some answers. He was a nice guy, and you always had a soft spot for nice. Next time you would think of something in advance for him to buy you. It seemed to make him happy.

You wondered if he would head back to the record store now. Maybe he didn't even like records that much. Maybe he just waited there for boys to meet him, and you were part of an elaborate network of dropouts and delinquents that turned to Sam to break up the monotony of an empty afternoon.