Hot Pink (22 page)

Ignore Geoff. Continue on as if he hadn't said anything.

What if Geoff sasses Rick?

If Geoff sasses Rick, Steve should move half a step in Geoff's direction, and Rick, from behind, should wrap his arms tightly around Steve's shoulders and say quietly, “Cool out, man,” and then loudly, “We'll get his ass soon enough.” And Steve should say, “Okay, Rick,” and go limp in Rick's arms and half-step back into Tableau. Once the team gets within two feet of Geoff, Rick should push Geoff's forehead back with his jabbing finger twice: once when he says, “You're the guy,” and again when he says, “Lucky for you, guy.”

What if Geoff sasses Steve?

If Geoff sasses Steve, Steve should affect a neck-and-shoulder tick while Jenny and Rick pretend Geoff didn't say anything, unless what Geoff says is pretty funny. If what Geoff says is pretty funny, then Rick should let a single chuckle escape and Jenny should bat him lightly on the shoulder, in a tsking manner.

What if Geoff sasses Jenny?

If Geoff sasses Jenny, there is no other option but for Jenny to follow Rick's “You're the guy” with “Ohmygod, he
is
the guy,” at which point Rick and Steve should commit acts of imaginative violence on Geoff, while chanting, “That's what you get, guy. That's what you get for messing with Jenny.”

What happens if Rick chooses a Geoff who actually did something brutal to Jenny in real life?

There is no such thing as a Geoff who actually did something brutal to Jenny in real life. Jenny doesn't exist in real life any more so than Rick, Steve, or Geoff. However, the girl who plays Jenny (i.e., Jenny's person) does exist, and if whoever's playing Geoff (Geoff's person) did something brutal to Jenny's person, then he should be treated the same as if he had sassed Jenny, except that during the chant, the word
Jenny
should be replaced with the girl's given name. If, for example, the given name of the girl who plays Jenny is Samantha, then Rick and Steve should chant, “That's what you get, guy. That's what you get for messing with
Samantha
.” Jenny should at no point after the violence feel obligated to describe the brutal thing the guy did to her person.

What happens if Jenny says Geoff is the guy and Rick doesn't believe her?

It doesn't matter what Rick believes. The guy is whoever Jenny says he is. It is fundamental. Where Rick chooses Geoff, Jenny chooses the guy, and Steve… does what is required of him.

What happens if Rick chooses a Geoff who thinks he (Geoff's person) actually did something brutal to Jenny's person, when really he did something brutal to someone else?

If Geoff's person did something brutal to someone else, but Geoff thinks that his person did something brutal to Jenny's person, then Geoff should be treated as if he sassed Jenny. If Geoff apologizes prior to the acts of imaginative violence, and in so doing addresses Jenny by the name that belongs to the girl whom Geoff thinks Jenny is, then the chant should incorporate that name. For example, if Geoff says, “I'm sorry, Nadine,” then Rick and Steve, while they perform imaginative violence on him, should chant, “That's what you get, guy. That's what you get for messing with
Nadine
.”

What happens if, after Rick tells Geoff, “Lucky for you, guy,” Geoff offers to help look for the guy?

If Geoff offers to help look for the guy, Rick should say, “Thanks for the offer, but this is our thing, guy.” It should be noted that this is another opportunity for Rick to make Steve feel important, thus engendering group cohesion. If Rick wants to make Steve feel important, he should wink at Steve while voicing the second clause (“but this is our thing”).

What happens if Geoff, in the course of playing
The Guy
, beats Rick and Steve into submission?

In this case, Geoff will have become the man
.
Steve will be the first to admit it. He will say to the man (formerly Geoff), “You are the man.” And Rick will apologize to Steve and Jenny. He will say, “I'm sorry.” And then he will say the same to the man, and add, “I mistook you for someone else, and I have failed my friends. I hope you will take my place by their side in this noble search for justice we have undertaken.” Then Rick will slink off, never to be seen by Steve or Jenny again, lest he risk becoming Geoff, or worse, the guy
,
and Jenny will ask the man to be Rick, and so will Steve. If the man accepts, he will be taken to the men's room to practice Tableau. If the man refuses, then he will be pleaded with by Steve and, if he still refuses, he will be bid peace and farewell, and Jenny and Steve will bid one another peace and farewell and go away from one another forever, or a very long time, long enough to heal and to acquire the hope that is necessary to found a new team.

Can the guy be the man?

Yes. Whether or not Geoff remains Geoff or becomes the guy (whether by sassing Jenny or having, as his person, done something brutal to her person or to someone he thinks she is), he gets to be the man if he beats Rick and Steve into submission. It is only fair.

What happens if Rick says that Steve is Geoff?

If Rick says that Steve is Geoff, then Steve has to go away forever, never to be replaced, thus dissolving the team, unless Jenny rebuts by stating that Rick is the guy, in which case Steve can:

      
a. tell Jenny to keep her mouth shut about Rick, because Rick is the man, at which point Rick has the chance to revoke Steve's Geoffness by stating, “I made a mistake. I'm sorry,” and thus re-cohere the team,

or

      
b. agree with Jenny that Rick is the guy and state that he (Steve) is in love with Jenny, effectively dissolving the team, then move forward to attack Rick for being the guy
,
and then:

            
i. get beaten into submission by Rick, and left there by both Rick and Jenny, who will have gone their separate ways,

or

            
ii. beat Rick into submission, thus exposing the lies upon which the team and all its many games were predicated.

My friend Joe Cojotejk and myself were on our way to Nancy and Tina Christamesta's, to see if they could drive us to Sensei Mike's housewarming barbecue in Glen Ellyn. Cojo's cousin Niles was supposed to take us, but last minute he got in his head it was better to drink and use fireworks with his girlfriend. He called to back out while we were in the basement with the heavy bag. We'd just finished drawing targets on the canvas with marker. I wanted small red bull's-eyes, but Joe thought it would be better to represent the targets like the things they stood for. He'd covered a shift for me at the lot that week, so I let him have his way—a triangle for a nose, a circle for an Adam's apple, a space for the solar plexus, and for the sack a saggy-looking shape. The bag didn't hang low enough to have realistic knees.

When my mom yelled down the stairs that Niles was on the phone, I was deep into roundhouse kicks—I wanted to land one on each target, consecutively, without pausing to look at them or breathe, and I was getting there; I was up to three out of four (I kept missing the circle)—so I told Cojo to take the call, and it was a mistake. Cojo won't argue with his family. Everyone else, but not them. He gets guilty with them. When he came back down to the basement and told me Niles was ditching out, I bolted upstairs to call him myself, but all I got was his machine with the dumbass message: “You've reached Niles Cojotejk, NC-17. Do you love me? Are you a very sexy lady? Speak post-beep, baby.”

I hung up.

My mom coughed.

I said, “Eat a vitamin.” I took two zincs from the jar on the tray and lobbed one to her. She caught it in her lap by pushing her legs together. It was the opposite of what a woman does, according to the old lady in
Huckleberry Finn
who throws the apple in Huck's lap to blow his fake-out. Maybe it was Tom Sawyer and a pear, or a matchbox. Either way, he was cross-dressed.

The other zinc I swallowed myself. For immunity. The pill trailed grit down my throat and I put my tongue under the faucet.

“What happened to cups?” my mom said. That's how she accuses people. With questions.

I shut the tap. I said, “Did something happen to cups?”

“Baloney,” she said.

Then I got an inspiration. I asked her, “Can you make your voice low and slutty?”

“Like this?” she said, in a low, slutty voice.

“Will you leave a message on Niles's machine?”

“No,” she said.

“Then I'm going away forever,” I said. “Picture all you got left is bingo and that fat-ass Doberman chewing dead things in the gangway. Plus I'll give you a dollar if you do it,” I said. “You can smoke two cigarettes on that dollar. Or else I'll murder you, violently.” I picked up the nearest thing. It was a mortar or a pestle. It was the empty part. I waved it in the air at her. “I'll murder you with
this
.”

“Gimme a kiss!” she sang. That's how she is. A pushover. All she wants is to share a performance. To riff with you. It's one kind of person. Makes noise when there's noise, and the more noise the better. The other kind's a soloist, who only starts up when it's quiet, then holds his turn like it'll never come again. Cojo's that kind. I don't know who's better to have around. Some noise gets wrecked by quiet and some quiet gets wrecked by noise. So sometimes you want a riffer and other times a soloist. I can't decide which kind I am.

I dialed the number. For the message, I had my mother say, “You're rated G for
gypsy
, baby.” Niles is very sensitive about getting called a gypsy. I don't know what inspired me with the idea to have my mom say it to him in a low, slutty voice, but then I got a clearer idea.

I dialed the number again and got her to say the same thing in her regular voice. Then I called four more times, myself, and I said it in four different voices: I did a G, a homo, a Paki, and a dago. I'm good at those. I thought I was done, but I wasn't. I did it once more in my own voice, so Niles would know it was me telling people he's a gypsy.

My mom said, “You're a real goof-off, Jack.”

Cojo came upstairs, panting. “Tina and Nancy,” he said.

I thought: Nancy, if only.

Cojo said, “They might have a car.”

It was a good idea. I called. They didn't know for sure about a car but said come over and drink. I kissed my mom's head and she handed me money to buy her a carton of ultralights. I dropped the money in her lap and pulled a jersey over my T. Cojo said it was too hot out for both. It was too hot out for naked, though, so it wouldn't matter anyway. Except then I noticed Joe was also wearing a jersey and a T, and I didn't want to look like a couple who planned it
,
which Joe didn't want either, which is what he meant by too hot out, so I dumped the jersey for a Mexican wedding shirt and we split.

A couple blocks away from the Christamestas', this full-grown man walking the other way on the other side of the street looked at us and nodded. It's a small thing to do but it meant a lot. It meant we were feared. My lungs tickled at the sight of it. I got this tightness down the center of my body, like during a core-strength workout. Or trying to first-kiss someone and you can't remember where to put your hands. Even thinking about it, I get this feeling. This stranger, nodding at you from all the way across the street.

It was late in the afternoon by then, and tropical hot, but overcast with small black clouds. And the wind—it was flapping the branches. Wing-shaped seedpods rattled over the pavement and the clouds blew across the sun so fast the sky was blinking. It opened my nose up. The street got narrow compared to me. The cars looked like Hot Wheels. And in my head, my first thing was that I felt sorry for this guy who nods. It's like a salute, this kind of nod.

But then my second thing is: you better salute me, Clyde. And I get this picture of holding his ears while I slowly push his face into his brains with my forehead
.
I got massive neck muscles. I got this grill like a chimney and an ugly thing inside me to match it. I feel sorry for a person, it makes me want to hurt him. Cojo's the same way as me, but crueler-looking. It's mostly because of the way we're built. We're each around a buck-seventy, but I barrel in the trunk. Joe's lean and even, like a long Bruce Lee. He comes to all kinds of points. And plus his eyes. They're a pair of slits in shadow. I got comic-strip eyes, a couple black dimes. My eyes should be looking in opposite directions.

I ran my hands back over my skull. It's a ritual from grade school, when we used to do battle royales at the pool with our friends. We got it from a cartoon I can't remember, or a video game. You do a special gesture to flip your switch; for me it's I run my hands back over my skull and, when I get to the bottom, I tap my thumb-knuckles, once, on the highest-up button of my spine. You flip your switch and you've got a code name. We were supposed to keep our code names secret, so no one could deplete their power by speaking them, but me and Cojo told each other. Cojo's special gesture was wiping his mouth crosswise, from his elbow to the backs of his fingertips. Almost all the other special gestures had saliva in them. This one kid Winthrop would spit in his palms and fling it with karate chops. Voitek Moitek chewed grape gum, and he'd hock a sticky puddle in his elbow crooks, then flex and relax till the spit strung out between his forearms and biceps. Nick Rataczeck licked the middle of his shirt and moaned like a deaf person. I can't remember the gestures of the rest of the battle royale guys. By high school, we stopped socializing with those guys, and after we dropped out we hardly ever saw them. I don't know if they told each other their code names. They didn't tell me.

Cojo's was “War,” though. Mine was “Smith.” It's embarrassing.

I coughed the tickle from my lungs and Joe stopped walking, performed his gesture, and was War.

He said to the guy, “What,” and the guy shuddered a little. The guy was swinging a net sack filled with grapefruits and I hated how it bounced against his knee. I hated that he had them. It made everything complicated. My thoughts were too far in the background to figure out why. Something about peeling them or slicing them in halves or eighths and what someone else might prefer to do. I always liked mine in halves. A little sugar. And that jagged spoon. It's so specific.

The guy kept moving forward, like he didn't know Joe was talking to him, but he was walking slower than before. It was just like the nod. The slowness meant the exact opposite of what it looked like it meant. I'm scared of something? I don't look at it. I think: If I don't see it, it won't see me. Like how a little kid thinks. You smack its head while it's hiding in a peek-a-boo and now it believes in God, not your hand. But everyone thinks like that sometimes. I'm scared my mom's gonna die from smoking, the way her lungs whistle when she breathes fast, but if I don't think about it, I think, cancer won't think about her. It's stupid. I know this. Still: me, everyone. Joe says “What” to a guy who's scared of him, the guy pretends Joe's not talking to him. The guy pretends so hard he slows down when what he wants is to get as far the hell away from us and as fast as he can.

Joe says, “I said, ‘What.'”

“I'm sorry,” the guy says.

“Sorry for what?” Joe says, and now he's crossing the street and I'm following him.

I say, “Easy, Cojo,” and this is when I learn something new about how to intimidate people. Because even though I say “Easy, Cojo,” I'm not telling Cojo to take it easy. I'm not even talking to Cojo. I'm talking to the guy. When I say “Easy, Cojo,” I'm telling the guy he's right to be scared of my friend. And I'm also telling him that I got influence with my friend, and that means the guy should be scared of me, too. What's peculiar is when I open my mouth to say “Easy, Cojo,” I
think
I'm about to talk to Cojo, and then it turns out I'm not. And so I have to wonder how many times I've done things like that without noticing. Like when I told my mom I'd kill her and waved the empty thing at her, I wasn't really threatening her, it was more like I was saying, “Look, I'll say a stupid thing that makes me look stupid if you'll help me out.” But that was different from this, too, because my mom knew what I meant when I said I'd kill her, but this guy here doesn't know what I mean when I say “Easy, Cojo.” He gets even more scared of Joe and me, but he gets that way because he thinks I really
am
talking to Joe.

I say it again. I say, “Easy, Cojo.”

And Cojo says, “Easy what?”

And now the guy's stopped walking. He's standing there. “I'm sorry,” he says.

“Cause why?” Cojo says. “Why're you sorry? Are you sorry you nodded at me like I was your son? Like I was your boy to nod at like that? I don't know you.”

“I'm sorry,” the guy says. The guy's smiling like the situation is all lighthearted, but it's like yawning after tapping gloves on your way back to the corner. A lie you tell yourself. And I'm thinking there's nothing that's itself. I'm thinking everything is like something else that's like other something elses and it's all because I said “Easy, Cojo” and didn't mean it, or because this guy nodded.

I think like this too long, I get a headache and pissed off.

I put my arm around Cojo. I say, “Easy, Cojo.”

“Fuck easy,” Cojo says to me. And when Cojo says that, it's like the same thing as when I said “Easy, Cojo.” I know Cojo isn't really saying “Fuck easy” to me. He wouldn't say that to me. He's saying “Fear us” to the guy. But I don't know if Cojo knows that that's what he's doing with “Fuck easy.” That's the problem with everything.

“Give us your fruit,” I tell the guy.

“My—”

“What did you say?” Joe says.

“Easy, Cojo,” I tell him.

Then the guy hands his grapefruits to me.

I say to him, “Yawn.”

He can't. Cojo yawns, though. And then I do.

Then I tell the guy to get out of my sight and he does it because he's been intimidated.

Nancy Christamesta is no whore at all. And I'm no Jesus, but still I want to wash her feet. Nancy's so beautiful, my mind doesn't think about fucking her unless I'm drunk, and even then it's just an idea: I don't run the movie through my head. Usually I imagine her saying “Yes” in my ear. That's all it takes. Maybe we're on a rooftop, or in the Hancock Building Signature Room, the sixty-ninth-floor one, looking at the city lights, but the “Yes” part's what counts. It's a little hammy. I've known her since grade school, but I've only had it for her since she was fourteen. It happened suddenly, and that's hammy too. I was eighteen, and it started at the beach—sunny day and ice cream and everything. Our families went to swim at Oak Street on a church outing and I saw her sneak away to smoke a cigarette in the tunnel under the Drive. There's hypes and winos who live in there, so I followed her, but I didn't let her know. I waited at the mouth, where I could hear if anything happened, and when she came back through, she was hugging herself around the middle for warmth. A couple steps out of the tunnel, her left shoulder-strap fell down, and when she moved to put it back a bone-chill shot her posture straight and a sound came from her throat that sounded like “Hi.” I didn't know if it was “Hi” or just a pretty noise her throat made after a bone-chill. I didn't think it was “Hi,” because I was behind her and I didn't think she'd seen me. I wanted it to be “Hi,” though. I stood there a minute after she walked away, thinking it wasn't “Hi” and wishing it was. That was that. That's how I knew what I felt.

Now she's seventeen, and it's old enough, I think. But she's got this innocence, still. It's not she's stupid—she's on the honor roll, she wants to be a writer—but Joe and I were over there a couple months earlier, at the beginning of summer, right when him and Tina were starting up. They went off to buy some beer and Nancy and I waited in her room. Nancy was sitting in this shiny beanbag. She had cutoff short-shorts on, and every time she moved, her thighs made the sticking sound that you know it's leg-on-vinyl but you imagine leg-on-leg. I had it in my head it was time to finally do something. I lay down on the carpet next to her, listening, and after a little while I said, “What kind of name is Nancy for you, anyway?”