First You Try Everything (12 page)

Ben

I
n the
Squirrel Cage, Ben sat in a booth with Paul, who was home from Chicago for a
week, staying with his mother. Paul, in a black sweater, his head shaved, his
skin ruddier, and his large, dark eyes calmer than they used to be, sat drinking
his nonalcoholic beer. He'd told Ben about getting fired from the prison where
he'd been head of a choir, the venture he'd been most proud of in his life. A
guard had decided he was gay and began to hound him, poking him in the chest
whenever he could, asking him all kinds of profane questions, demanding answers,
until one day, after a month of this harassment, Paul punched him in the face,
and that was that. “I hadn't punched anyone since I was a kid. And I'd never
punched anyone in the face. And the guy was a lot smaller than me.”

“And this happened?”

“Last month.” Paul sighed. His eyes traveled around
the bar for a moment. “I miss those guys. Prisoners can sing like nobody
else.”

Ben sat digesting this story. It was strange how
big his friend's life was now, that something like this could happen and take
its place alongside other events—who knows what they were—and not be worthy of
mention in a phone call to Ben. For years they'd spoken on the phone at least a
few times a month, but life had changed. Paul had a large circle of recovering
addict friends out in Chicago, and their bond surpassed, Ben imagined, Paul's
bond with him.

“You seeing anyone?” Ben asked, changing the
subject to banish a wave of jealousy, a feeling of being suddenly stranded.

“I'm seeing someone. But it's so new I don't want
to say much.”

“What's her name?”

Paul shook his head. “Not yet.” Ben would normally
enjoy this display; he understood Paul's need to be mysterious, to guard what
still felt fragile, but right now he felt strangely bereft.

“All right. Linda. Her first name is Linda.”

“OK. Linda. How'd you meet her?”

“She's the sister of one of the prisoners. The
sister of the guy who had the best voice. Sang like, I don't know, Al Green. But
I won't be hearing him anymore. Thanks to an asshole I'd like to kill. But I'm
called to forgive that asshole. And I'm going to.” Paul smiled like a
maniac.

“Impressive,” Ben said. “I don't think I'd have it
in me.”

“It won't be me doing the forgiving. It'll be him.”
He pointed up to the ceiling. “He works with anyone.”

Ben recoiled, having had enough God talk. A dull
anger rose to the surface. “I was surprised you came to town and visited Evvie
first, Paul. That stung me.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sting you. It's just,
she's the one who's devastated.” Paul's long fingers spread out against the
table now. “I've been devastated three times before, as you know. I know where
she's at. And you, luckily, do not.”

“I just hope you know where I am too. I've tried to
tell you. If you think this is easy—”

“But you seem to be doing really well, dude. And
you look great. Better than ever.”

Paul's eyes held a complex expression that changed
before Ben could say what it was.

“It's not been a joyride. Believe me. It's not like
that.”

“I know. I'm sorry. Anyhow, I like Lauren,” Paul
said.

“You met her for only ten seconds. How can you like
her?”

“I got a good feel. You know that's how I am. I
either get a good feel, or I don't. Lauren's solid. I can see that. And
obviously loves you. I mean, really. And very pretty. What's not to like?” Paul
drummed the edge of the table with his index fingers. His legs were moving up
and down too.

“It's still incredibly hard.” Ben looked out of the
booth toward the bar, where an old man sat alone with his head in his hands. “I
don't recommend the experience at all,” he said, and wanted to be out of the
booth now. Wanted to be as alone as he felt. Taking a walk somewhere. Paul had
never had to leave anyone; he'd never understand this pain, how heavy it could
be, how entwined with guilt and confusion.

“I'm sorry. I'm not unsympathetic,” Paul said.
“Maybe I'm even a little jealous.”

“But you've met someone.”

“You know how that goes. I'll fuck it up. Give me a
month or two.”

“That was the old you. You're no longer Eeyore on a
binge, pal. This is you meeting someone as a sober guy who has all this hope at
your disposal. You have a life.”

“I hope so. I hope I have hope.”

Ben softened. He was lucky to have this friend of
twenty years.

“I'm sorry it's been hard, Ben. I don't mean—”

“I know you don't.”

“Why do you think that guard thought I was
gay?”

“Uh, because you're nicer than most men? And better
looking?”

“That's exactly what Evvie said. Anyhow, it wasn't
a great visit with her. I got her to sit down with me at the computer to check
out Match dot com
.
I was trying to do you a favor
and convince her that the world was teeming with great guys and that she really
needed to move on. But it was a bad Match dot com night or something. We kept
coming up with guys named Beefcake and Hornytoad
.
Guys who forgot to put their shirts on.”

Ben laughed, but this gave him a pang. “God.”

“Evvie was going right down the tubes, and I kept
saying, ‘Wait! Stay with me here. We'll find a gentleman or two. You gotta weed
through frogs on Match.' First I put on the Byrds to protect us from
despair.”

“Good thinking.”

“I cranked up ‘Eight Miles High.' She loved
it.”

“Good.”

“Then we sat on the floor with her laptop and
zeroed in on Made4luv. And Sugar-man. And Lance No Pants, and The Abomination.
What kind of guy would call himself The Abomination? We got hysterical laughing.
It was great, actually, we were laughing so hard. Finally I found Keith, who
looked sort of like he was freaked out by the whole game, but Keith, who liked
sitting by the fire, long walks on the beach, was spiritual, not religious, and
was looking for hot babes in their forties, had to go and list his favorite
foods.” Paul paused, his eyebrows raised before he delivered the verdict. “Rocky
Mountain oysters and cow tongue.”

Ben laughed. “You're making that up.”

“Evvie laughed so hard she cried.”

Ben laughed a tight laugh, his chest
constricted.

“I was trying to make it easier for you, dude. If
she could meet someone, someone she really liked, everything would settle down,
and you'd be off the hook.”

Ben ordered another beer. “Here's to Rocky Mountain
oysters,” he said.

“And cow tongue,” Paul added.

A silence fell into the booth as Paul peeled the
label off of his bottle. He had long, strong piano-player fingers. His eyes were
narrowed, as if the peeling took all his concentration.

“You know,” he said, when he looked up, “I tried to
tell Evvie she'd made you into an idol. That nobody should come before God. That
she has all this ability for ecstatic love, but only God deserves it.”

“OK. And what'd she say to that?”

“She said that would probably ring true if only she
could believe in God.”

“She's still claiming she doesn't believe?”

“She doesn't.”

“Sure she does. She's just in some kind of holding
pattern.”

Paul looked at him, confused, then raised his
bottle. “Someday you'll believe, brother.”

“Maybe in hell.”

“Here's to one very befuddling life, my friend.”
Paul set the bottle down. “Did I mention that nonalcoholic beer is another name
for horseshit?”

“I thought meeting in the bar was a bad idea. We
should go out and walk.”

“It's a way to get stronger, Ben. If I can be sober
here, I can be sober anywhere.”

But Paul's face was shadowed by a sudden exhaustion
that made him seem, for the first time, seriously middle-aged.

O
n the
way home from the bar, Ben saw Evvie and Ruth out front of the mini-mart gas
station. He pulled his car over alongside the air pump, turned off his lights,
and watched Evvie walk with Ruth toward the door of the convenience store. She
told Ruth to stay put and entered the place. Ben got out of the car and ran
toward Ruth. Maybe it was the beer, but he felt he could sob, just seeing the
dog. Ruth jumped up the way she hadn't in years, and licked his face. Ben needed
to get some joint custody deal going soon. He hadn't had the heart for it
yet.

Evvie was looking better. He stood by the door,
petting Ruth, watching her move around under the assault of soul-sucking lights,
loud colors, and abundant junk food. The place was a little sickening. He
watched her like she was the star of this show. A peculiarly compelling actress.
He almost knocked on the glass.

She had her video camera with her. She was probably
here to get some footage of the convenience store saint, as she'd once called
him. Was it that Indian guy behind the counter?

Evvie walked over to where a plastic case of
cinnamon buns sat next to the coffee and grabbed herself a snack. Ben watched
her approach the guy at the counter, who smiled in his cage of bulletproof
glass. Then Ben went and opened the door to the store, just a crack, so he could
hear what she was saying. He stood there in the dark, waiting, but she said
nothing at all.

And then, “So, you're the star of my next movie.
I'm a documentarian.”

The clerk took a step back, and an exaggerated look
of shock spread over his face. “Who, me?” He'd spoken into a mike. He was
already acting! Evvie knew how to pick 'em. Ben watched the clerk step forward,
one arm across his waist. “And what is this movie's name?”

“
The Man Behind the
Counter
, or maybe,
The Counter Man
.”

He laughed. It was both a soft and full-bodied
laugh, unexpectedly rich. Evvie loved people with rich laughs. A customer behind
Evvie said he wanted a lottery ticket; he was gruff, with a bashed-in-looking
face under a green cap, and he pushed Evvie to the side. This pissed Ben off, an
old habit that made him want to walk into the place and tell the man off, but he
steeled himself. Then Evvie must have sensed him. There she was, looking right
at him. But somehow, she didn't see him. She looked right through the glass, in
his direction, and didn't see him at all.

A shudder went through him; he was invisible to her
out here in the dark. Ben put his face down into Ruth's head, breathed the scent
of her coat, and turned to go.

Ruth barked in protest, but he told her to stay,
and she stayed.

Ranjeev

T
he woman
called Evvie has visited a few times before, the last time explaining that she
is interested in filming the people of the community, especially him. He had
been wondering about her. Now it's two in the morning, and other than Boris, his
coworker, they have the store to themselves. Even the gas pumps outside are
unused, the empty lot made emptier by the metallic light raining down. And she
has her video camera with her again. She takes it out of the case and holds
it.

“We could start.”

“Oh.” He flashes his smile, then looks down. She
always reminds him of someone. He can't say who.

“Is that OK?”

“It's OK.” He steals another look at her face,
looks down again. She may be drunk. Or maybe it's just insomnia making her a
wreck.

“Do they really call you Apu?”

“Oh yes. For two years, I am Apu.”

“Do you watch
The
Simpsons
?”

“Five times I am watching
The
Simpsons
.”

Ranjeev didn't really talk like this. He was
imitating Apu. People liked it. A way to please the customers. Certainly this
woman, Evvie, liked it. She couldn't get the smile off her face.

“Can you tell me what's hard about this job? I
mean, can we start there? Because you're a pro. You're the guy who makes
everyone want to come in out of the rain.”

He smiles, shaking his head; he knew how to
transmit a drastic humility.

“You are!” she says. “You're like a magnet! Is it
some kind of mystical thing? Never mind, let's slow down. I'm sorry. I'm sort of
exhausted. Have you ever not slept much for a long time? Your mind starts to
go.” She makes loops around her head. “You start to think you're someone else.
And maybe you are. Anyhow! So.”

Her dark eyes are both soft and somehow
penetrating, but she makes no sense. This evening she is wearing a black coat
and her face is too pale.

He himself is in a sky-blue jacket with a satin
sheen to it. A customer said this is like something a greaser in a gang would
wear in the 1950s. He'd had to stop himself from telling the customer to fuck
off, because the jacket had belonged to his favorite uncle. He was glad when
another customer said, That ain't no greaser coat.

“You don't mind me filming you like this? Just a
little?”

“If you must,” he says, with a sweep of his hand
and a smile he intends to be encouraging. He feels a strong urge to help. If he
can help by being in her movie, this is fine. He will be Apu for her. Why not?
It's the least he can do. She's got something in her face, some sort of
beauty

She pulls out her camera.

“The way you're looking at the camera right now,”
she says, “it's like you feel completely at ease. Am I right?”

He widens his eyes. Is she right? Is this easy?
Ease, he wants to say, is relative and hard to come by. He feels at ease
compared to what he felt when his mother had cancer. At ease compared to what he
felt when he watched a kid die on Rippey Street, thirteen and shot in the head.
At ease compared to what he feels when he stops to consider the nature of the
world.

“You are right,” he tells the camera, and the woman
named Evvie. “I am at ease.”

“What's the secret to your happiness?”

“Who is saying I am happy?” Then regrets saying it,
because the woman looks nervous.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I don't mean to assume
that. But you seem happy.”

“For me, it is privilege, to serve the people
coming in and going out. I am seeing humanity. All the humanity is coming for
candy, tobacco, the lottery ticket. I am thinking when I look at them, they are
sometimes forgetting who they are. Many have their eyes bloodshot. Still, for
me, it is privilege. Sometimes they are hating me! Hating life! Still, it is
privilege.”

He isn't sure these words are complete bullshit.
Saying them, they start to feel true. He would like to say them again.

“That's beautiful,” she says. “People must feel
that.”

He smiles at her. It is hard to resist smiling at
this woman who seems to love him. For no reason. This woman who sometimes comes
with her beautiful dog. This woman who one night last week was drunk and told
him she liked his missing tooth because it's like a tiny dark door that makes
her imagine herself as a tiny person, an almost invisible person who could walk
through the door in that mouth and disappear inside of him. He laughed when she
said that, even as it was nuts. She laughed too. He walked her home. She said
she was sorry. She lived in a room. She said he could come in. He thought that
was a very bad idea. She said she thought he was a saint. He said she was drunk
and needed to sleep and good luck in the morning when she remembered telling him
she wanted to walk through the door of his missing tooth. And she laughed and
laughed.

S
he
thinks she is making a movie. Maybe she thinks she is some kind of Hollywood
director. He isn't sure she is 100 percent crazy (like some of the customers
are—one man thinks he's a horse), but she is also not quite right. But is there
harm, he asks himself, in pretending to be a director? He sometimes enjoys
pretending to be her star.

A
week
later she is back. She's out there with her camera. He leaves Boris the coworker
on the cash register and quietly steps outside for a moment, then leans back
against the wall in the darkness, spying on her. He is fairly certain she's
aware of his presence. He can't say how. It's as if he can feel her sixth sense
attending to him there. She seems not to mind. Her sixth sense seems to be the
happiest of all her senses tonight.

S
he
asks a boy, “Do you have any connection at all to the man you just bought those
chips from? You seemed to talk to him for a long time. I'm working for a local
TV station on a story about clerks in the city.”

The tall boy is wearing long shorts and enormous
white sneakers that are not tied. His black chest is strong and narrow, and his
face, handsome atop an unusually long neck, seems to hover above his body. It is
a face ready to detach and float up into the dusk like a balloon.

“Channel what?” the boy wants to know.

“Twelve,” she almost shouts.

“OK. That dude who works in there,” says the boy.
“I seen him throwing bottles against a wall one night. Dude dresses like a
frackin' freak.”

Ranjeev wants to leave his position against the
wall and defend himself. The boy is wrong. He never threw bottles. And he
doesn't dress like a frackin' freak. The boy's the one who dresses like a
freak.

“I don't think so” is all the woman, Evvie, the
director, can say.

The boy laughs. He has great presence. He throws
his shoulders back. His upper body does a sinuous, subtle dance as he speaks.
“Dude's a Hindu or a Muslim. You hear all that music he plays? That be some
Hindu shit or some Muslim shit. Put
that
in your
movie.”

The boy winks. Nods. Walks off.

“Where were you breaking bottles against a wall?”
Evvie calls, and looks over at him with a smile. She is sometimes beautiful, and
stops time.

“He is mistaken.”

“I believe you.”

Ranjeev laughs. “You believe me. That's good.”

“Why is that funny?”

He doesn't know why it's funny. He doesn't know why
she'd inspired him to come out and lean against the wall, or why for one moment
he thinks of holding her head in his hands like a lover in spring. It is
spring.

“I am going back inside,” he says.

M
any
have come to know Evvie as the strange woman with the video camera. Some have
started avoiding her, taking wide circles so they don't have to pass by her.
Ranjeev sees this. But always he'll talk with her. Something is irresistible in
her face. Maybe it's just how happy she looks when she sees him.

“How you doing tonight, Ranjeev?”

It's late. She wears a Steelers cap. Her eyes are
sleepy black beneath the rim. Almost as dark as his sister's eyes. His mother's.
But her skin looks ghost white. She is too thin, and she looks exhausted.

She repeats the question. “How are you tonight,
Counter Man?” Her long fingers cover her mouth.

“Happy.” He could add “to see you,” but no. He
mulls this over for a moment, rocking back on his heels, but now must attend to
a very hungry customer who wants to know what the
fuck
Evvie has a movie camera in here for. She doesn't answer him
because she can't see his eyes; he's wearing sunglasses. She slinks out the
glass door and sits in her car over by pump 8. Ranjeev tells the man, “She is
professional.” His heart is pounding. He can see Evvie is looking up at what he
assumes is a good bright moon.

“S
o,
do you know the man behind the counter?”

The woman Evvie's approached is middle-aged in
thick glasses and drinking a large coffee on her way back to her car. Ranjeev
again is spying on a slow, gray-skied evening at the end of April. Someone in
the distance is slamming on the brakes, screeching to a halt.

“He's a beautiful fellow. For insomniacs such as
myself, he's someone to count on.”

“Why is it you have insomnia?”

“I don't know, but if I did, I wouldn't tell it to
a stranger with a camera. I don't even know who you are.”

“I work for a cable TV station and I'm making a
film called
The Man Behind the Counter
. Are you an
artist? Not to pry, but you look—”

“Honey, good luck to you. You're going to need
it.”

Ranjeev shakes his head. People were always in such
a fucking hurry. And not so very nice to the director.

“Sir, I'm making a movie about convenience store
clerks. Would you mind telling me what you think of the man behind the
counter?”

The young man shrugs, eyes downcast.

“Does he seem especially kind to you?”

Shrugs again, staring into the camera. His white
face is scarred with acne, his hair hangs down like a dude in an old-time rock
band. He emits the don't-come-near-me spirit that Evvie ignores. Ranjeev wants
to call out,
Leave him alone
.

“Anyhow, any words about the man behind the
counter?”

“He's from Islam.”

“He's from Islam? Where's Islam?”

“Fuck you.”

Ok, sorry to bother
you.

“Evvie,” Ranjeev calls, “come over here.”

She pretends she is surprised to see him outside.
He pretends, to himself, that he isn't worried about her, and mystified by his
own deepening affection.

“You should ask only the friendly people,” he
says.

She laughs. “Hard to tell who's friendly until you
talk to them.”

“I don't want you to get hurt.”

His words hover in the air.