It Feels So Good When I Stop (21 page)

A man with an elfin voice yelled, “Hey, Jimbo!”

James was literally head and shoulders above most people standing. He scanned the crowd until he located the person attached to the voice. “Swainer! ” James yelled. “You haven’t been up this early since you were in high school.”

People laughed.

“What do you mean ‘up’?” Swainer said. “I ain’t been to frickin’ bed yet.”

More laughs.

“Outstanding!” James said.

Another disembodied voice cheered for Swainer.

“Beers at the Nail after we KICK BARNSTABLE’S ASS!” Swainer yelled.

A cheer rose.

“We’ll see, buddy,” James said. “Now get a job.” He gave Swainer a wide-handed wave. We worked our way close to the bleachers. Two kids standing on a scaffolding flipped the numbers on the scoreboard. We had missed most of the first quarter. East Falmouth was up, eight-zip. I couldn’t give a fuck.

“How’d we score? ” James asked a guy in front of us.

“Whitman, who else? Took it in from the eighteen. Then he got the conversion.”

“Outstanding. Kid’s on his way.”

“If he can stay healthy,” the guy said.

“And out of jail,” someone else said.

“Harsh.”

“Very harsh.”

 

NEAR THE END of the second quarter I had to take a leak.

“I told you you should have used the can at Dunkin’s. The Porta-Johns are horrible.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Dogshit said. “They’re fine.”

“If I’m not back in a week . . .”

“Shit,” James said. “I might as well go now and avoid the rush.”

We walked under the bleachers. Kids were having a three-on-three touch football game.

“Someone’s going to get mangled on all this glass,” I said.

“That shit never happens.”

As we passed the kids, James hijacked the play in motion by blocking the pass intended for a kid who was wide open.

“Down over!” the offended kid yelled. The two pip-squeak teams started arguing over whether or not the play counted.

“Fair’s fair,” James told them. “The play stands.”

The kids screamed. People in the bleachers looked down to see what was up. Women closed their legs.

“Hey, it’s Pay Phone.” Ricky’s upside-down head was looking at me from between his legs. So was Tommy the cop’s.

“Couldn’t stay away, could you? ” Tommy asked.

“Guess not,” I said.

“Where you sitting? ”

I threw a thumb back over my shoulder.

“There’s room up here,” Ricky said.

“Squeeze down,” Tommy told the people on the other side of Ricky.

“No, that’s cool,” I said. “I’m with some people.”

“How many? ” Tommy asked.

“Two.”

“Gotcha,” he said, like me giving my companions the slip and joining him was what I really wanted to do. “Next time we’ll plan it out better.” He saluted me and got back into the game. Ricky waved. James and I found the end of the shortest Porta-John line.

“How do you know that fuckwad? ”

I knew he meant Tommy because James wouldn’t make jokes about retarded people—mildly or otherwise. The story was sketchy, but someone in his family—a first or second cousin—had Down’s syndrome. “Why’s he a fuckwad? ”

“Because I went to high school with his older brother. And that guy was a complete fuckwad.”

“ I CAN’T UNDERSTAND why you’re friends with him,” Jocelyn said. “Never mind live with him. That brings it to a whole other level of perplexing.” She removed a cookie pan from the oven. On it were two small brown bowls of onion soup. A scab of mozzarella covered each.

“I could give you shit about some of your friends, but I don’t because I don’t let them bother me.”

“You do give me shit about my friends.”

“Like who? ”

“Like Stephanie.”

“Because she’s a pain in the ass.”

“Stephanie’s nice.”

“I can’t fucking stand being around her.”

“Because she’s too New Agey for you. But she’s a good person.”

“I hate nurturers.”

“She’s helped me through a lot of stuff.” Jocelyn made a face like it should be understood by both of us that I was to blame for a good deal of that “a lot of stuff ” Stephanie had helped her through.

I mocked the look. “And Richie’s helped me through a lot.”

“You don’t like Stephanie because she thinks crystals are magical. I don’t like Richie because he’s a dick.” Jocelyn popped the tab on her can of diet Sprite. “Stephanie’s a little out there. I’ll give you that. She’s not hurting anyone, though.”

“Richie can be a very good guy.”

“I’m sure. Even Hitler loved his dog.”

“You’re putting Richie and Hitler in the same group? ”

She didn’t answer.

“Give me a fucking break,” I said. “You’ll never like him because of Josie.”

She swallowed her soda. “This is true. But I wouldn’t have liked him anyway.”

“You might if you got to know him.” I peeled the cheese off the top of my soup. “If you saw his good side.”

“You know what I can’t fucking stand? That whole ‘Such-and-such treats people like shit, but he’s always been a good guy to me’ mentality. It’s fucking bullshit.”

“God, you’re really hard on people.”

“I have to be. I’m sick of letting crap drift into my life.”

“He likes you.”

“Richie? ”

“Yes.”

“That’s because I’m a good person.”

“I mean he
likes
you.”

“God help us.”

MARIE FIXED A Fisher-Price pixel movie camera to a tripod in the middle of the bedroom. “I bought four of these right as they stopped making them.”

“Is that a toy? ”

“It was meant to be, but filmmakers discovered them.”

“That’s what you’re going to film with? ”

“Record with, technically.” She opened the camera’s cartridge bay, and slipped in a new Maxell audiocassette. “Pretty cool, huh? ”

“How’s it look? ”

“Scrappy and beautiful.”

“Color? ”

“Better. Infinite analog shades of gray.”

I did some quick math in my head: a case of cassette tapes, a toy camera, maybe some batteries. “So this is a big-budget picture.”

She laughed. “Colossal. Actually, you’re by far my biggest expense.”

 

MY JOB WAS to interview Marie, asking her questions from a script she’d written. She wanted me to be positioned right behind the camera the whole time. She said she hated it when she watched a documentary and the person on screen wasn’t looking her in the eyes. She said that happened all the time. I’d never really noticed.

“How great would it be to have one of those contraptions Ross McElwee used in his films? ” she asked.

“That would be amazing.” I had no fucking idea what she was talking about.

Marie was sorting through a large manila envelope of colored, translucent lens filters, trying to determine which was appropriate. “Did I say Ross McElwee? I meant Errol Morris.”

“Right.”

“It’s a pretty ingenious solution to the whole eye-to-eye thing. I can’t believe it took so long for someone to come up with it.”

I didn’t say anything.

Marie stopped what she was doing and looked at me. “You have no idea who Errol Morris and Ross McElwee are, do you? ”

“Not really.”

“Why didn’t you just say so? ”

“I don’t know. It’s a bad habit.”

She could have made me feel like a shit heel, but she didn’t. “Isn’t it weird how people do that? ” she asked. “I’ve never read
The Great Gatsby
. Or
The Old Man and the Sea
. Whooptie-doo-shit.”

I laughed. “Even I’ve read those.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know who Errol Morris is.”

“Or Ross McEwen.”

“McElwee. Ross McElwee.”

“Fine. Ross McElwee.”

Marie looked at her watch. “Okay. You’re coming with me.” She took my hand and led me out of Sidney’s bedroom and into her own. She pushed me into a worn armchair next to her bed. “You stay there,” she ordered. She went into her closet and emerged with a videocassette. She fired up the large television on top of her dresser and slid the tape into the VCR. She got prostrate, with her chin resting on a two-pillow stack at the foot of the bed. “If you don’t like this, you’re fired.”

We watched
Gates of Heaven
and
Vernon, Florida
. Between films, Marie put two frozen pizzas in the oven. We drank a few beers. It was getting dark outside by the time we finished. I told Marie I thought both films were amazing. I could tell she was glad I got it.

“But if I had to choose I’d pick
Vernon, Florida
.”

“Who is asking you to choose? ”

LOU BARLOW FROM Sebadoh was headlining, playing solo acoustic, so I was okay with suffering through the four opening acts. One of them was Jocelyn’s friend Stephen’s band. They were called the Coughins. They all smoked onstage and went to great lengths to look like they couldn’t give a shit how they looked. They embraced the crappy-playing-equals-pure-art-and-unmolested-genius myth. Stephen graduated from Pratt, but was doing production at
Redbook
because it was easy money. Jocelyn said that he’d designed some nice Vera Wang bridal knockoffs, and too bad they were counterfeits. I wasn’t too impressed, since Stephen had merely copied Vera’s design. Jocelyn said it still wasn’t easy to do. She suggested I try banging out a Cézanne.

Stephen put us on the Coughins’ guest list. The whole band probably only got two guests, so I was grateful. I liked Lou Barlow’s songs a lot. I wasn’t alone. When dangerously full, Brownies held about two hundred and fifty people. All three nights sold out in about twelve seconds.

After the Coughins’ set of Game Theory B-sides, Jocelyn and I went outside to have a smoke and wait for Stephen. It was one of the first nice nights in April, when you think you might actually live to see the summer. A crowd of people kept us from venturing too far beyond the entrance. Two bouncers stood like enormous African urns on either side of the doorway

One of them got up on a milk crate and made an announcement. “People, the show is sold out. If you don’t have tickets, go somewhere else. I repeat. The show is sold out. Sorry.”

People moaned, though very few left.

“You’re not sorry,” the other bouncer joked.

“You’re right. I don’t give a flying fuck who they do or don’t let in. Let ’em all in. Let none of ’em in. I don’t care.” They laughed.

“I like these guys.” Jocelyn said about the bouncers, loud enough for them to hear.

“You catching that? ” one of the bouncers asked.

“Oh, yeah.” He called in to the guy taking tickets. “Zippy? Zip, you make sure this pretty lady and her friend get treated nice.”

“What’s that? ” Zippy was flustered, taking tickets like a madman and trying to make sense of a messy guest list. Brownies was not accustomed to crowds this size.

“Forget it, Zip. Go back to work.” The bouncer winked at Jocelyn.

“Zipper-headed Zippy,” said the other.

Two sonic youths wormed up to the front of the line. “You sure there aren’t any more tickets? ” one of them asked.

“One moment, please.” The bouncer got back up on his milk crate. “Oh, I forgot to mention,” he screamed down at the sonic youths. “The show is sold out! Go home! ”

People with tickets laughed. The bouncer stepped off the crate. The sonic youths evaporated.

Stephen finally came outside. He’d changed into a ratty white T-shirt that said “Be All You Can Be.” His hair was wet, and his face was red. He was hyper and effeminate.

“Hey, you!” He hugged Jocelyn. Then he hugged me. I wasn’t into it. I don’t like people who I’m not fucking touching me. “How were we? Be honest.”

“You looked like you were having a good time up there.” It was the most positive thing I could come up with.